14220	----	Team. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE TALE OF THE FLOPSY BUNNIES BY BEATRIX POTTER _Author of "The Tale of Peter Rabbit," &c._ [Illustration] FREDERICK WARNE & CO., INC. NEW YORK 1909 FOR ALL LITTLE FRIENDS OF MR. MCGREGOR & PETER & BENJAMIN [Illustration] It is said that the effect of eating too much lettuce is "soporific." _I_ have never felt sleepy after eating lettuces; but then _I_ am not a rabbit. They certainly had a very soporific effect upon the Flopsy Bunnies! When Benjamin Bunny grew up, he married his Cousin Flopsy. They had a large family, and they were very improvident and cheerful. I do not remember the separate names of their children; they were generally called the "Flopsy Bunnies." [Illustration] [Illustration] As there was not always quite enough to eat,--Benjamin used to borrow cabbages from Flopsy's brother, Peter Rabbit, who kept a nursery garden. Sometimes Peter Rabbit had no cabbages to spare. [Illustration] [Illustration] When this happened, the Flopsy Bunnies went across the field to a rubbish heap, in the ditch outside Mr. McGregor's garden. Mr. McGregor's rubbish heap was a mixture. There were jam pots and paper bags, and mountains of chopped grass from the mowing machine (which always tasted oily), and some rotten vegetable marrows and an old boot or two. One day--oh joy!--there were a quantity of overgrown lettuces, which had "shot" into flower. [Illustration] The Flopsy Bunnies simply stuffed lettuces. By degrees, one after another, they were overcome with slumber, and lay down in the mown grass. Benjamin was not so much overcome as his children. Before going to sleep he was sufficiently wide awake to put a paper bag over his head to keep off the flies. The little Flopsy Bunnies slept delightfully in the warm sun. From the lawn beyond the garden came the distant clacketty sound of the mowing machine. The bluebottles buzzed about the wall, and a little old mouse picked over the rubbish among the jam pots. (I can tell you her name, she was called Thomasina Tittlemouse, a woodmouse with a long tail.) [Illustration] [Illustration] She rustled across the paper bag, and awakened Benjamin Bunny. The mouse apologized profusely, and said that she knew Peter Rabbit. While she and Benjamin were talking, close under the wall, they heard a heavy tread above their heads; and suddenly Mr. McGregor emptied out a sackful of lawn mowings right upon the top of the sleeping Flopsy Bunnies! Benjamin shrank down under his paper bag. The mouse hid in a jam pot. [Illustration] [Illustration] The little rabbits smiled sweetly in their sleep under the shower of grass; they did not awake because the lettuces had been so soporific. They dreamt that their mother Flopsy was tucking them up in a hay bed. Mr. McGregor looked down after emptying his sack. He saw some funny little brown tips of ears sticking up through the lawn mowings. He stared at them for some time. Presently a fly settled on one of them and it moved. Mr. McGregor climbed down on to the rubbish heap-- "One, two, three, four! five! six leetle rabbits!" said he as he dropped them into his sack. The Flopsy Bunnies dreamt that their mother was turning them over in bed. They stirred a little in their sleep, but still they did not wake up. [Illustration] [Illustration] Mr. McGregor tied up the sack and left it on the wall. He went to put away the mowing machine. While he was gone, Mrs. Flopsy Bunny (who had remained at home) came across the field. She looked suspiciously at the sack and wondered where everybody was? [Illustration] Then the mouse came out of her jam pot, and Benjamin took the paper bag off his head, and they told the doleful tale. Benjamin and Flopsy were in despair, they could not undo the string. But Mrs. Tittlemouse was a resourceful person. She nibbled a hole in the bottom corner of the sack. [Illustration] The little rabbits were pulled out and pinched to wake them. Their parents stuffed the empty sack with three rotten vegetable marrows, an old blacking-brush and two decayed turnips. [Illustration] Then they all hid under a bush and watched for Mr. McGregor. [Illustration] Mr. McGregor came back and picked up the sack, and carried it off. He carried it hanging down, as if it were rather heavy. The Flopsy Bunnies followed at a safe distance. [Illustration] They watched him go into his house. And then they crept up to the window to listen. [Illustration] Mr. McGregor threw down the sack on the stone floor in a way that would have been extremely painful to the Flopsy Bunnies, if they had happened to have been inside it. They could hear him drag his chair on the flags, and chuckle-- "One, two, three, four, five, six leetle rabbits!" said Mr. McGregor. [Illustration] [Illustration] "Eh? What's that? What have they been spoiling now?" enquired Mrs. McGregor. "One, two, three, four, five, six leetle fat rabbits!" repeated Mr. McGregor, counting on his fingers--"one, two, three--" "Don't you be silly; what do you mean, you silly old man?" "In the sack! one, two, three, four, five, six!" replied Mr. McGregor. (The youngest Flopsy Bunny got upon the window-sill.) Mrs. McGregor took hold of the sack and felt it. She said she could feel six, but they must be _old_ rabbits, because they were so hard and all different shapes. "Not fit to eat; but the skins will do fine to line my old cloak." "Line your old cloak?" shouted Mr. McGregor--"I shall sell them and buy myself baccy!" "Rabbit tobacco! I shall skin them and cut off their heads." [Illustration] Mrs. McGregor untied the sack and put her hand inside. When she felt the vegetables she became very very angry. She said that Mr. McGregor had "done it a purpose." [Illustration] And Mr. McGregor was very angry too. One of the rotten marrows came flying through the kitchen window, and hit the youngest Flopsy Bunny. It was rather hurt. [Illustration] Then Benjamin and Flopsy thought that it was time to go home. [Illustration] So Mr. McGregor did not get his tobacco, and Mrs. McGregor did not get her rabbit skins. [Illustration] But next Christmas Thomasina Tittlemouse got a present of enough rabbit-wool to make herself a cloak and a hood, and a handsome muff and a pair of warm mittens. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE TALE OF THE FLOPSY BUNNIES BY BEATRIX POTTER F. WARNE & Co 
15575	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. See 15575-h.htm or 15575-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/5/7/15575/15575-h/15575-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/5/7/15575/15575-h.zip) THE TALE OF SAMUEL WHISKERS Or, The Roly-Poly Pudding by BEATRIX POTTER Author of "The Tale of Peter Rabbit" etc. [Illustration] IN REMEMBRANCE OF "SAMMY," THE INTELLIGENT PINK-EYED REPRESENTATIVE OF A PERSECUTED (BUT IRREPRESSIBLE) RACE AN AFFECTIONATE LITTLE FRIEND, AND MOST ACCOMPLISHED THIEF [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] FREDERICK WARNE First published 1908 (Originally published in U.S.A. as _The Roly-Poly Pudding_) [Illustration] [Illustration] Once upon a time there was an old cat, called Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit, who was an anxious parent. She used to lose her kittens continually, and whenever they were lost they were always in mischief! On baking day she determined to shut them up in a cupboard. She caught Moppet and Mittens, but she could not find Tom. Mrs. Tabitha went up and down all over the house, mewing for Tom Kitten. She looked in the pantry under the staircase, and she searched the best spare bedroom that was all covered up with dust sheets. She went right upstairs and looked into the attics, but she could not find him anywhere. It was an old, old house, full of cupboards and passages. Some of the walls were four feet thick, and there used to be queer noises inside them, as if there might be a little secret staircase. Certainly there were odd little jagged doorways in the wainscot, and things disappeared at night--especially cheese and bacon. Mrs. Tabitha became more and more distracted, and mewed dreadfully. [Illustration] [Illustration] While their mother was searching the house, Moppet and Mittens had got into mischief. The cupboard door was not locked, so they pushed it open and came out. [Illustration] They went straight to the dough which was set to rise in a pan before the fire. They patted it with their little soft paws--"Shall we make dear little muffins?" said Mittens to Moppet. [Illustration] But just at that moment somebody knocked at the front door, and Moppet jumped into the flour barrel in a fright. [Illustration] Mittens ran away to the dairy, and hid in an empty jar on the stone shelf where the milk pans stand. The visitor was a neighbour, Mrs. Ribby; she had called to borrow some yeast. Mrs. Tabitha came downstairs mewing dreadfully--"Come in, Cousin Ribby, come in, and sit ye down! I'm in sad trouble, Cousin Ribby," said Tabitha, shedding tears. "I've lost my dear son Thomas; I'm afraid the rats have got him." She wiped her eyes with her apron. "He's a bad kitten, Cousin Tabitha; he made a cat's cradle of my best bonnet last time I came to tea. Where have you looked for him?" "All over the house! The rats are too many for me. What a thing it is to have an unruly family!" said Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit. [Illustration] [Illustration] "I'm not afraid of rats; I will help you to find him; and whip him too! What is all that soot in the fender?" [Illustration] "The chimney wants sweeping--Oh, dear me, Cousin Ribby--now Moppet and Mittens are gone!" "They have both got out of the cupboard!" [Illustration] Ribby and Tabitha set to work to search the house thoroughly again. They poked under the beds with Ribby's umbrella, and they rummaged in cupboards. They even fetched a candle, and looked inside a clothes chest in one of the attics. They could not find anything, but once they heard a door bang and somebody scuttered downstairs. "Yes, it is infested with rats," said Tabitha tearfully. "I caught seven young ones out of one hole in the back kitchen, and we had them for dinner last Saturday. And once I saw the old father rat--an enormous old rat, Cousin Ribby. I was just going to jump upon him, when he showed his yellow teeth at me and whisked down the hole." "The rats get upon my nerves, Cousin Ribby," said Tabitha. [Illustration] Ribby and Tabitha searched and searched. They both heard a curious roly-poly noise under the attic floor. But there was nothing to be seen. [Illustration] They returned to the kitchen. "Here's one of your kittens at least," said Ribby, dragging Moppet out of the flour barrel. They shook the flour off her and set her down on the kitchen floor. She seemed to be in a terrible fright. "Oh! Mother, Mother," said Moppet, "there's been an old woman rat in the kitchen, and she's stolen some of the dough!" The two cats ran to look at the dough pan. Sure enough there were marks of little scratching fingers, and a lump of dough was gone! "Which way did she go, Moppet?" But Moppet had been too much frightened to peep out of the barrel again. Ribby and Tabitha took her with them to keep her safely in sight, while they went on with their search. [Illustration] [Illustration] They went into the dairy. The first thing they found was Mittens, hiding in an empty jar. [Illustration] They tipped up the jar, and she scrambled out. "Oh, Mother, Mother!" said Mittens-- [Illustration] "Oh! Mother, Mother, there has been an old man rat in the dairy--a dreadful 'normous big rat, mother; and he's stolen a pat of butter and the rolling-pin." Ribby and Tabitha looked at one another. "A rolling-pin and butter! Oh, my poor son Thomas!" exclaimed Tabitha, wringing her paws. "A rolling-pin?" said Ribby. "Did we not hear a roly-poly noise in the attic when we were looking into that chest?" Ribby and Tabitha rushed upstairs again. Sure enough the roly-poly noise was still going on quite distinctly under the attic floor. [Illustration] "This is serious, Cousin Tabitha," said Ribby. "We must send for John Joiner at once, with a saw." * * * * * [Illustration] Now this is what had been happening to Tom Kitten, and it shows how very unwise it is to go up a chimney in a very old house, where a person does not know his way, and where there are enormous rats. Tom Kitten did not want to be shut up in a cupboard. When he saw that his mother was going to bake, he determined to hide. He looked about for a nice convenient place, and he fixed upon the chimney. The fire had only just been lighted, and it was not hot; but there was a white choky smoke from the green sticks. Tom Kitten got upon the fender and looked up. It was a big old-fashioned fire-place. The chimney itself was wide enough inside for a man to stand up and walk about. So there was plenty of room for a little Tom Cat. [Illustration] [Illustration] He jumped right up into the fire-place, balancing himself upon the iron bar where the kettle hangs. [Illustration] Tom Kitten took another big jump off the bar, and landed on a ledge high up inside the chimney, knocking down some soot into the fender. [Illustration] Tom Kitten coughed and choked with the smoke; and he could hear the sticks beginning to crackle and burn in the fire-place down below. He made up his mind to climb right to the top, and get out on the slates, and try to catch sparrows. "I cannot go back. If I slipped I might fall in the fire and singe my beautiful tail and my little blue jacket." The chimney was a very big old-fashioned one. It was built in the days when people burnt logs of wood upon the hearth. The chimney stack stood up above the roof like a little stone tower, and the daylight shone down from the top, under the slanting slates that kept out the rain. [Illustration] Tom Kitten was getting very frightened! He climbed up, and up, and up. [Illustration] Then he waded sideways through inches of soot. He was like a little sweep himself. It was most confusing in the dark. One flue seemed to lead into another. There was less smoke, but Tom Kitten felt quite lost. He scrambled up and up; but before he reached the chimney top he came to a place where somebody had loosened a stone in the wall. There were some mutton bones lying about-- "This seems funny," said Tom Kitten. "Who has been gnawing bones up here in the chimney? I wish I had never come! And what a funny smell? It is something like mouse; only dreadfully strong. It makes me sneeze," said Tom Kitten. [Illustration] [Illustration] He squeezed through the hole in the wall, and dragged himself along a most uncomfortably tight passage where there was scarcely any light. [Illustration] He groped his way carefully for several yards; he was at the back of the skirting-board in the attic, where there is a little mark * in the picture. [Illustration] All at once he fell head over heels in the dark, down a hole, and landed on a heap of very dirty rags. When Tom Kitten picked himself up and looked about him--he found himself in a place that he had never seen before, although he had lived all his life in the house. It was a very small stuffy fusty room, with boards, and rafters, and cobwebs, and lath and plaster. Opposite to him--as far away as he could sit--was an enormous rat. "What do you mean by tumbling into my bed all covered with smuts?" said the rat, chattering his teeth. [Illustration] "Please sir, the chimney wants sweeping," said poor Tom Kitten. [Illustration] "Anna Maria! Anna Maria!" squeaked the rat. There was a pattering noise and an old woman rat poked her head round a rafter. All in a minute she rushed upon Tom Kitten, and before he knew what was happening-- His coat was pulled off, and he was rolled up in a bundle, and tied with string in very hard knots. Anna Maria did the tying. The old rat watched her and took snuff. When she had finished, they both sat staring at him with their mouths open. "Anna Maria," said the old man rat (whose name was Samuel Whiskers),--"Anna Maria, make me a kitten dumpling roly-poly pudding for my dinner." "It requires dough and a pat of butter, and a rolling-pin," said Anna Maria, considering Tom Kitten with her head on one side. [Illustration] [Illustration] "No," said Samuel Whiskers, "make it properly, Anna Maria, with breadcrumbs." [Illustration] "Nonsense! Butter and dough," replied Anna Maria. [Illustration] The two rats consulted together for a few minutes and then went away. Samuel Whiskers got through a hole in the wainscot, and went boldly down the front staircase to the dairy to get the butter. He did not meet anybody. He made a second journey for the rolling-pin. He pushed it in front of him with his paws, like a brewer's man trundling a barrel. He could hear Ribby and Tabitha talking, but they were busy lighting the candle to look into the chest. They did not see him. [Illustration] Anna Maria went down by way of the skirting-board and a window shutter to the kitchen to steal the dough. [Illustration] She borrowed a small saucer, and scooped up the dough with her paws. She did not observe Moppet. While Tom Kitten was left alone under the floor of the attic, he wriggled about and tried to mew for help. But his mouth was full of soot and cobwebs, and he was tied up in such very tight knots, he could not make anybody hear him. Except a spider, which came out of a crack in the ceiling and examined the knots critically, from a safe distance. It was a judge of knots because it had a habit of tying up unfortunate blue-bottles. It did not offer to assist him. Tom Kitten wriggled and squirmed until he was quite exhausted. [Illustration] [Illustration] Presently the rats came back and set to work to make him into a dumpling. First they smeared him with butter, and then they rolled him in the dough. "Will not the string be very indigestible, Anna Maria?" inquired Samuel Whiskers. [Illustration] Anna Maria said she thought that it was of no consequence; but she wished that Tom Kitten would hold his head still, as it disarranged the pastry. She laid hold of his ears. [Illustration] Tom Kitten bit and spat, and mewed and wriggled; and the rolling-pin went roly-poly, roly; roly, poly, roly. The rats each held an end. "His tail is sticking out! You did not fetch enough dough, Anna Maria." "I fetched as much as I could carry," replied Anna Maria. "I do not think"--said Samuel Whiskers, pausing to take a look at Tom Kitten--"I do _not_ think it will be a good pudding. It smells sooty." Anna Maria was about to argue the point, when all at once there began to be other sounds up above--the rasping noise of a saw; and the noise of a little dog, scratching and yelping! [Illustration] The rats dropped the rolling-pin, and listened attentively. "We are discovered and interrupted, Anna Maria; let us collect our property--and other people's,--and depart at once." "I fear that we shall be obliged to leave this pudding." [Illustration] "But I am persuaded that the knots would have proved indigestible, whatever you may urge to the contrary." "Come away at once and help me to tie up some mutton bones in a counterpane," said Anna Maria. "I have got half a smoked ham hidden in the chimney." [Illustration] So it happened that by the time John Joiner had got the plank up--there was nobody under the floor except the rolling-pin and Tom Kitten in a very dirty dumpling! [Illustration] But there was a strong smell of rats; and John Joiner spent the rest of the morning sniffing and whining, and wagging his tail, and going round and round with his head in the hole like a gimlet. [Illustration] Then he nailed the plank down again and put his tools in his bag, and came downstairs. The cat family had quite recovered. They invited him to stay to dinner. The dumpling had been peeled off Tom Kitten, and made separately into a bag pudding, with currants in it to hide the smuts. They had been obliged to put Tom Kitten into a hot bath to get the butter off. John Joiner smelt the pudding; but he regretted that he had not time to stay to dinner, because he had just finished making a wheel-barrow for Miss Potter, and she had ordered two hen-coops. And when I was going to the post late in the afternoon--I looked up the lane from the corner, and I saw Mr. Samuel Whiskers and his wife on the run, with big bundles on a little wheel-barrow, which looked very like mine. They were just turning in at the gate to the barn of Farmer Potatoes. Samuel Whiskers was puffing and out of breath. Anna Maria was still arguing in shrill tones. She seemed to know her way, and she seemed to have a quantity of luggage. I am sure _I_ never gave her leave to borrow my wheel-barrow! [Illustration] [Illustration] They went into the barn, and hauled their parcels with a bit of string to the top of the hay mow. [Illustration] After that, there were no more rats for a long time at Tabitha Twitchit's. [Illustration] As for Farmer Potatoes, he has been driven nearly distracted. There are rats, and rats, and rats in his barn! They eat up the chicken food, and steal the oats and bran, and make holes in the meal bags. And they are all descended from Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Whiskers--children and grand-children and great great grand-children. There is no end to them! Moppet and Mittens have grown up into very good rat-catchers. They go out rat-catching in the village, and they find plenty of employment. They charge so much a dozen, and earn their living very comfortably. [Illustration] [Illustration] They hang up the rats' tails in a row on the barn door, to show how many they have caught--dozens and dozens of them. [Illustration] But Tom Kitten has always been afraid of a rat; he never durst face anything that is bigger than-- [Illustration] A Mouse. 
18859	----	CROSS PURPOSES by George MacDonald CONTENTS. CROSS PURPOSES THE SHADOWS CROSS PURPOSES CHAPTER I. Once upon a time, the Queen of Fairyland, finding her own subjects far too well-behaved to be amusing, took a sudden longing to have a mortal or two at her Court. So, after looking about her for some time, she fixed upon two to bring to Fairyland. But how were they to be brought? "Please your majesty," said at last the daughter of the prime-minister, "I will bring the girl." The speaker, whose name was Peaseblossom, after her great-great-grandmother, looked so graceful, and hung her head so apologetically, that the Queen said at once,-- "How will you manage it, Peaseblossom?" "I will open the road before her, and close it behind her." "I have heard that you have pretty ways of doing things; so you may try." The court happened to be held in an open forest-glade of smooth turf, upon which there was just one mole-heap. As soon as the Queen had given her permission to Peaseblossom, up through the mole-heap came the head of a goblin, which cried out,-- "Please your majesty, I will bring the boy." "You!" exclaimed the Queen. "How will you do it?" The goblin began to wriggle himself out of the earth, as if he had been a snake, and the whole world his skin, till the court was convulsed with laughter. As soon as he got free, he began to roll over and over, in every possible manner, rotatory and cylindrical, all at once, until he reached the wood. The courtiers followed, holding their sides, so that the Queen was left sitting upon her throne in solitary state. When they reached the wood, the goblin, whose name was Toadstool, was nowhere to be seen. While they were looking for him, out popped his head from the mole-heap again, with the words,-- "So, your majesty." "You have taken your own time to answer," said the Queen, laughing. "And my own way too, eh! your majesty?" rejoined Toadstool, grinning. "No doubt. Well, you may try." And the goblin, making as much of a bow as he could with only half his neck above ground, disappeared under it. CHAPTER II. No mortal, or fairy either, can tell where Fairyland begins and where it ends. But somewhere on the borders of Fairyland there was a nice country village, in which lived some nice country people. Alice was the daughter of the squire, a pretty, good-natured girl, whom her friends called fairy-like, and others called silly. One rosy summer evening, when the wall opposite her window was flaked all over with rosiness, she threw herself down on her bed, and lay gazing at the wall. The rose-colour sank through her eyes and dyed her brain, and she began to feel as if she were reading a story-book. She thought she was looking at a western sea, with the waves all red with sunset. But when the colour died out, Alice gave a sigh to see how commonplace the wall grew. "I wish it was always sunset!" she said, half aloud. "I don't like gray things." "I will take you where the sun is always setting, if you like, Alice," said a sweet, tiny voice near her. She looked down on the coverlet of the bed, and there, looking up at her, stood a lovely little creature. It seemed quite natural that the little lady should be there; for many things we never could believe, have only to happen, and then there is nothing strange about them. She was dressed in white, with a cloak of sunset-red--the colours of the sweetest of sweet-peas. On her head was a crown of twisted tendrils, with a little gold beetle in front. "Are you a fairy?" said Alice. "Yes. Will you go with me to the sunset?" "Yes, I will." When Alice proceeded to rise, she found that she was no bigger than the fairy; and when she stood up on the counterpane, the bed looked like a great hall with a painted ceiling. As she walked towards Peaseblossom, she stumbled several times over the tufts that made the pattern. But the fairy took her by the hand and led her towards the foot of the bed. Long before they reached it, however, Alice saw that the fairy was a tall, slender lady, and that she herself was quite her own size. What she had taken for tufts on the counterpane were really bushes of furze, and broom, and heather, on the side of a slope. "Where are we?" asked Alice. "Going on," answered the fairy. Alice, not liking the reply, said,-- "I want to go home." "Good-bye, then!" answered the fairy. Alice looked round. A wide, hilly country lay all about them. She could not even tell from what quarter they had come. "I must go with you, I see," she said. Before they reached the bottom, they were walking over the loveliest meadow-grass. A little stream went cantering down beside them, without channel or bank, sometimes running between the blades, sometimes sweeping the grass all one way under it. And it made a great babbling for such a little stream and such a smooth course. Gradually the slope grew gentler, and the stream flowed more softly and spread out wider. At length they came to a wood of long, straight poplars, growing out of the water, for the stream ran into the wood, and there stretched out into a lake. Alice thought they could go no farther; but Peaseblossom led her straight on, and they walked through. It was now dark; but everything under the water gave out a pale, quiet light. There were deep pools here and there, but there was no mud, or frogs, or water-lizards, or eels. All the bottom was pure, lovely grass, brilliantly green. Down the banks of the pools she saw, all under water, primroses and violets and pimpernels. Any flower she wished to see she had only to look for, and she was sure to find it. When a pool came in their way, the fairy swam, and Alice swam by her; and when they got out they were quite dry, though the water was as delightfully wet as water should be. Besides the trees, tall, splendid lilies grew out of it, and hollyhocks and irises and sword-plants, and many other long-stemmed flowers. From every leaf and petal of these, from every branch-tip and tendril, dropped bright water. It gathered slowly at each point, but the points were so many that there was a constant musical plashing of diamond rain upon the still surface of the lake. As they went on, the moon rose and threw a pale mist of light over the whole, and the diamond drops turned to half-liquid pearls, and round every tree-top was a halo of moonlight, and the water went to sleep, and the flowers began to dream. "Look," said the fairy; "those lilies are just dreaming themselves into a child's sleep. I can see them smiling. This is the place out of which go the things that appear to children every night." "Is this dreamland, then?" asked Alice. "If you like," answered the fairy. "How far am I from home?" "The farther you go, the nearer home you are." Then the fairy lady gathered a bundle of poppies and gave it to Alice. The next deep pool that they came to, she told her to throw it in. Alice did so, and following it, laid her head upon it. That moment she began to sink. Down and down she went, till at last she felt herself lying on the long, thick grass at the bottom of the pool, with the poppies under her head and the clear water high over it. Up through it she saw the moon, whose bright face looked sleepy too, disturbed only by the little ripples of the rain from the tall flowers on the edges of the pool. She fell fast asleep, and all night dreamed about home. CHAPTER III. Richard--which is name enough for a fairy story--was the son of a widow in Alice's village. He was so poor that he did not find himself generally welcome; so he hardly went anywhere, but read books at home, and waited upon his mother. His manners, therefore, were shy, and sufficiently awkward to give an unfavourable impression to those who looked at outsides. Alice would have despised him; but he never came near enough for that. Now Richard had been saving up his few pence in order to buy an umbrella for his mother; for the winter would come, and the one she had was almost torn to ribands. One bright summer evening, when he thought umbrellas must be cheap, he was walking across the market-place to buy one: there, in the middle of it, stood an odd-looking little man, actually selling umbrellas. Here was a chance for him! When he drew nearer, he found that the little man, while vaunting his umbrellas to the skies, was asking such absurdly small prices for them, that no one would venture to buy one. He had opened and laid them all out at full stretch on the market-place--about five-and-twenty of them, stick downwards, like little tents--and he stood beside, haranguing the people. But he would not allow one of the crowd to touch his umbrellas. As soon as his eye fell upon Richard, he changed his tone, and said, "Well, as nobody seems inclined to buy, I think, my dear umbrellas, we had better be going home." Whereupon the umbrellas got up, with some difficulty, and began hobbling away. The people stared at each other with open mouths, for they saw that what they had taken for a lot of umbrellas, was in reality a flock of black geese. A great turkey-cock went gobbling behind them, driving them all down a lane towards the forest. Richard thought with himself, "There is more in this than I can account for. But an umbrella that could lay eggs would be a very jolly umbrella." So by the time the people were beginning to laugh at each other, Richard was half-way down the lane at the heels of the geese. There he stooped and caught one of them, but instead of a goose he had a huge hedgehog in his hands, which he dropped in dismay; whereupon it waddled away a goose as before, and the whole of them began cackling and hissing in a way that he could not mistake. For the turkey-cock, he gobbled and gabbled and choked himself and got right again in the most ridiculous manner. In fact, he seemed sometimes to forget that he was a turkey, and laughed like a fool. All at once, with a simultaneous long-necked hiss, they flew into the wood, and the turkey after them. But Richard soon got up with them again, and found them all hanging by their feet from the trees, in two rows, one on each side of the path, while the turkey was walking on. Him Richard followed; but the moment he reached the middle of the suspended geese, from every side arose the most frightful hisses, and their necks grew longer and longer, till there were nearly thirty broad bills close to his head, blowing in his face, in his ears, and at the back of his neck. But the turkey, looking round and seeing what was going on, turned and walked back. When he reached the place, he looked up at the first and gobbled at him in the wildest manner. That goose grew silent and dropped from the tree. Then he went to the next, and the next, and so on, till he had gobbled them all off the trees, one after another. But when Richard expected to see them go after the turkey, there was nothing there but a flock of huge mushrooms and puff-balls. "I have had enough of this," thought Richard. "I will go home again." "Go home, Richard," said a voice close to him. Looking down, he saw, instead of the turkey, the most comical-looking little man he had ever seen. "Go home, Master Richard," repeated he, grinning. "Not for your bidding," answered Richard. "Come on, then, Master Richard." "Nor that either, without a good reason." "I will give you _such_ an umbrella for your mother." "I don't take presents from strangers." "Bless you, I'm no stranger here! Oh, no! not at all." And he set off in the manner usual with him, rolling every way at once. Richard could not help laughing and following. At length Toadstool plumped into a great hole full of water. "Served him right!" thought Richard. "Served him right!" bawled the goblin, crawling out again, and shaking the water from him like a spaniel. "This is the very place I wanted, only I rolled too fast." However, he went on rolling again faster than before, though it was now uphill, till he came to the top of a considerable height, on which grew a number of palm-trees. "Have you a knife, Richard?" said the goblin, stopping all at once, as if he had been walking quietly along, just like other people. Richard pulled out a pocket-knife and gave it to the creature, who instantly cut a deep gash in one of the trees. Then he bounded to another and did the same, and so on till he had gashed them all. Richard, following him, saw that a little stream, clearer than the clearest water, began to flow from each, increasing in size the longer it flowed. Before he had reached the last there was quite a tinkling and rustling of the little rills that ran down the stems of the palms. This grew and grew, till Richard saw that a full rivulet was flowing down the side of the hill. "Here is your knife, Richard," said the goblin; but by the time he had put it in his pocket, the rivulet had grown to a small torrent. "Now, Richard, come along," said Toadstool, and threw himself into the torrent. "I would rather have a boat," returned Richard. "Oh, you stupid!" cried Toadstool crawling up the side of the hill, down which the stream had already carried him some distance. With every contortion that labour and difficulty could suggest, yet with incredible rapidity, he crawled to the very top of one of the trees, and tore down a huge leaf, which he threw on the ground, and himself after it, rebounding like a ball. He then laid the leaf on the water, held it by the stem, and told Richard to get upon it. He did so. It went down deep in the middle with his weight. Toadstool let it go, and it shot down the stream like an arrow. This began the strangest and most delightful voyage. The stream rushed careering and curveting down the hill-side, bright as a diamond, and soon reached a meadow plain. The goblin rolled alongside of the boat like a bundle of weeds; but Richard rode in triumph through the low grassy country upon the back of his watery steed. It went straight as an arrow, and, strange to tell, was heaped up on the ground, like a ridge of water or a wave, only rushing on endways. It needed no channel, and turned aside for no opposition. It flowed over everything that crossed its path, like a great serpent of water, with folds fitting into all the ups and downs of the way. If a wall came in its course it flowed against it, heaping itself up on itself till it reached the top, whence it plunged to the foot on the other side, and flowed on. Soon he found that it was running gently up a grassy hill. The waves kept curling back as if the wind blew them, or as if they could hardly keep from running down again. But still the stream mounted and flowed, and the waves with it. It found it difficult, but it could do it. When they reached the top, it bore them across a heathy country, rolling over purple heather, and blue harebells, and delicate ferns, and tall foxgloves crowded with bells purple and white. All the time the palm-leaf curled its edges away from the water, and made a delightful boat for Richard, while Toadstool tumbled along in the stream like a porpoise. At length the water began to run very fast, and went faster and faster, till suddenly it plunged them into a deep lake, with a great splash, and stopped there. Toadstool went out of sight, and came up gasping and grinning, while Richard's boat tossed and heaved like a vessel in a storm at sea; but not a drop of water came in. Then the goblin began to swim, and pushed and tugged the boat along. But the lake was so still, and the motion so pleasant, that Richard fell fast asleep. CHAPTER IV. When he woke he found himself still afloat upon the broad palm-leaf. He was alone in the middle of a lake, with flowers and trees growing in and out of it everywhere. The sun was just over the tree-tops. A drip of water from the flowers greeted him with music; the mists were dissolving away, and where the sunlight fell on the lake the water was clear as glass. Casting his eyes downward, he saw, just beneath him, far down at the bottom, Alice drowned, as he thought. He was in the act of plunging in, when he saw her open her eyes, and at the same moment begin to float up. He held out his hand, but she repelled it with disdain, and swimming to a tree, sat down on a low branch, wondering how ever the poor widow's son could have found his way into Fairyland. She did not like it. It was an invasion of privilege. "How did you come here, young Richard?" she asked, from six yards off. "A goblin brought me." "Ah! I thought so. A fairy brought me." "Where is your fairy?" "Here I am," said Peaseblossom, rising slowly to the surface just by the tree on which Alice was seated. "Where is your goblin?" retorted Alice. "Here I am," bawled Toadstool, rushing out of the water like a salmon, and casting a summersault in the air before he fell in again with a tremendous splash. His head rose again close beside Peaseblossom, who being used to such creatures only laughed. "Isn't he handsome?" he grinned. "Yes, very. He wants polishing, though." "You could do that for yourself, you know. Shall we change?" "I don't mind. You'll find her rather silly." "That's nothing. The boy's too sensible for me." He dived, and rose at Alice's feet. She shrieked with terror. The fairy floated away like a water-lily towards Richard. "What a lovely creature!" thought he; but hearing Alice shriek again, he said, "Don't leave Alice; she's frightened at that queer creature.--I don't think there's any harm in him, though, Alice." "Oh, no! He won't hurt her," said Peaseblossom. "I'm tired of her. He's going to take her to the court, and I will take you." "I don't want to go." "But you must. You can't go home again. You don't know the way." "Richard! Richard!" cried Alice, in an agony. Richard sprang from his boat, and was by her side in a moment. "He pinched me," cried Alice. Richard hit the goblin a terrible blow on the head; but it took no more effect upon him than if his head had been a round ball of india-rubber. He gave Richard a furious look, however, and bawling out, "You'll repent that, Dick!" vanished under the water. "Come along, Richard; make haste; he will murder you," cried the fairy. "It is all your fault," said Richard. "I won't leave Alice." Then the fairy saw it was all over with her and Toadstool; for they can do nothing with mortals against their will. So she floated away across the water in Richard's boat, holding her robe for a sail, and vanished, leaving the two alone in the lake. "You have driven away my fairy!" cried Alice. "I shall never get home now. It is all your fault, you naughty young man." "I drove away the goblin," remonstrated Richard. "Will you please to sit on the other side of the tree? I wonder what my papa would say if he saw me talking to you!" "Will you come to the next tree, Alice?" said Richard, after a pause. Alice, who had been crying all the time that Richard was thinking, said "I won't." Richard, therefore, plunged into the water without her, and swam for the tree. Before he had got half-way, however, he heard Alice crying "Richard! Richard!" This was just what he wanted. So he turned back, and Alice threw herself into the water. With Richard's help she swam pretty well, and they reached the tree. "Now for the next!" said Richard; and they swam to the next, and then to the third. Every tree they reached was larger than the last, and every tree before them was larger still. So they swam from tree to tree, till they came to one that was so large that they could not see round it. What was to be done? Clearly to climb this tree. It was a dreadful prospect for Alice, but Richard proceeded to climb; and by putting her feet where he put his, and now and then getting hold of his ankle, she managed to make her way up. There were a great many stumps where branches had withered off, and the bark was nearly as rough as a hill-side, so there was plenty of foothold for them. When they had climbed a long time, and were getting very tired indeed, Alice cried out, "Richard, I shall drop--I shall. Why did you come this way?" And she began once more to cry. But at that moment Richard caught hold of a branch above his head, and reaching down his other hand got hold of Alice, and held her till she had recovered a little. In a few moments more they reached the fork of the tree, and there they sat and rested. "This is capital!" said Richard, cheerily. "What is?" asked Alice, sulkily. "Why, we have room to rest, and there's no hurry for a minute or two. I'm tired." "You selfish creature!" said Alice. "If you are tired, what must I be!" "Tired too," answered Richard. "But we've got on bravely. And look! what's that?" By this time the day was gone, and the night so near, that in the shadows of the tree all was dusky and dim. But there was still light enough to discover that in a niche of the tree sat a huge horned owl, with green spectacles on his beak, and a book in one foot. He took no heed of the intruders, but kept muttering to himself. And what do you think the owl was saying? I will tell you. He was talking about the book that he held upside down in his foot. "Stupid book this-s-s-s! Nothing in it at all! Everything upside down! Stupid ass-s-s-s! Says owls can't read! _I_ can read backwards!" "I think that is the goblin again," said Richard, in a whisper. "However, if you ask a plain question, he must give you a plain answer, for they are not allowed to tell downright lies in Fairyland." "Don't ask him, Richard; you know you gave him a dreadful blow." "I gave him what he deserved, and he owes me the same.--Hallo! which is the way out?" He wouldn't say _if you please_, because then it would not have been a plain question. "Down-stairs," hissed the owl, without ever lifting his eyes from the book, which all the time he read upside down, so learned was he. "On your honour, as a respectable old owl?" asked Richard. "No," hissed the owl; and Richard was almost sure that he was not really an owl. So he stood staring at him for a few moments, when all at once, without lifting his eyes from the book, the owl said, "I will sing a song," and began:-- "Nobody knows the world but me. When they're all in bed, I sit up to see I'm a better student than students all, For I never read till the darkness fall; And I never read without my glasses, And that is how my wisdom passes. Howlowlwhoolhoolwoolool. "I can see the wind. Now who can do that? I see the dreams that he has in his hat; I see him snorting them out as he goes-- Out at his stupid old trumpet-nose. Ten thousand things that you couldn't think I write them down with pen and ink. Howlowlwhooloolwhitit that's wit. "You may call it learning--'tis mother-wit. No one else sees the lady-moon sit On the sea, her nest, all night, but the owl, Hatching the boats and the long-legged fowl. When the oysters gape to sing by rote, She crams a pearl down each stupid throat. Howlowlwhitit that's wit, there's a fowl!" And so singing, he threw the book in Richard's face, spread out his great, silent, soft wings, and sped away into the depths of the tree. When the book struck Richard, he found that it was only a lump of wet moss. While talking to the owl he had spied a hollow behind one of the branches. Judging this to be the way the owl meant, he went to see, and found a rude, ill-defined staircase going down into the very heart of the trunk. But so large was the tree that this could not have hurt it in the least. Down this stair, then, Richard scrambled as best he could, followed by Alice--not of her own will, she gave him clearly to understand, but because she could do no better. Down, down they went, slipping and falling sometimes, but never very far, because the stair went round and round. It caught Richard when he slipped, and he caught Alice when she did. They had begun to fear that there was no end to the stair, it went round and round so steadily, when, creeping through a crack, they found themselves in a great hall, supported by thousands of pillars of gray stone. Where the little light came from they could not tell. This hall they began to cross in a straight line, hoping to reach one side, and intending to walk along it till they came to some opening. They kept straight by going from pillar to pillar, as they had done before by the trees. Any honest plan will do in Fairyland, if you only stick to it. And no plan will do if you do not stick to it. It was very silent, and Alice disliked the silence more than the dimness,--so much, indeed, that she longed to hear Richard's voice. But she had always been so cross to him when he had spoken, that he thought it better to let her speak first; and she was too proud to do that. She would not even let him walk alongside of her, but always went slower when he wanted to wait for her; so that at last he strode on alone. And Alice followed. But by degrees the horror of silence grew upon her, and she felt at last as if there was no one in the universe but herself. The hall went on widening around her; their footsteps made no noise; the silence grew so intense that it seemed on the point of taking shape. At last she could bear it no longer. She ran after Richard, got up with him, and laid hold of his arm. He had been thinking for some time what an obstinate, disagreeable girl Alice was, and wishing he had her safe home to be rid of her, when, feeling a hand, and looking round, he saw that it was the disagreeable girl. She soon began to be companionable after a fashion, for she began to think, putting everything together, that Richard must have been several times in Fairyland before now. "It is very strange," she said to herself; "for he is quite a poor boy, I am sure of that. His arms stick out beyond his jacket like the ribs of his mother's umbrella. And to think of me wandering about Fairyland with _him_!" The moment she touched his arm, they saw an arch of blackness before them. They had walked straight to a door--not a very inviting one, for it opened upon an utterly dark passage. Where there was only one door, however, there was no difficulty about choosing. Richard walked straight through it; and from the greater fear of being left behind, Alice faced the lesser fear of going on. In a moment they were in total darkness. Alice clung to Richard's arm, and murmured, almost against her will, "Dear Richard!" It was strange that fear should speak like love; but it was in Fairyland. It was strange, too, that as soon as she spoke thus, Richard should fall in love with her all at once. But what was more curious still was, that, at the same moment, Richard saw her face. In spite of her fear, which had made her pale, she looked very lovely. "Dear Alice!" said Richard, "how pale you look!" "How can you tell that, Richard, when all is as black as pitch?" "I can see your face. It gives out light. Now I see your hands. Now I can see your feet. Yes, I can see every spot where you are going to--No, don't put your foot there. There is an ugly toad just there." The fact was, that the moment he began to love Alice, his eyes began to send forth light. What he thought came from Alice's face, really came from his eyes. All about her and her path he could see, and every minute saw better; but to his own path he was blind. He could not see his hand when he held it straight before his face, so dark was it. But he could see Alice, and that was better than seeing the way--ever so much. At length Alice too began to see a face dawning through the darkness. It was Richard's face; but it was far handsomer than when she saw it last. Her eyes had begun to give light too. And she said to herself--"Can it be that I love the poor widow's son?--I suppose that must be it," she answered herself, with a smile; for she was not disgusted with herself at all. Richard saw the smile, and was glad. Her paleness had gone, and a sweet rosiness had taken its place. And now she saw Richard's path as he saw hers, and between the two sights they got on well. They were now walking on a path betwixt two deep waters, which never moved, shining as black as ebony where the eyelight fell. But they saw ere long that this path kept growing narrower and narrower. At last, to Alice's dismay, the black waters met in front of them. "What is to be done now, Richard?" she said. When they fixed their eyes on the water before them, they saw that it was swarming with lizards, and frogs, and black snakes, and all kinds of strange and ugly creatures, especially some that had neither heads, nor tails, nor legs, nor fins, nor feelers, being, in fact, only living lumps. These kept jumping out and in, and sprawling upon the path. Richard thought for a few moments before replying to Alice's question, as, indeed, well he might. But he came to the conclusion that the path could not have gone on for the sake of stopping there; and that it must be a kind of finger that pointed on where it was not allowed to go itself. So he caught up Alice in his strong arms, and jumped into the middle of the horrid swarm. And just as minnows vanish if you throw anything amongst them, just so these wretched creatures vanished, right and left and every way. He found the water broader than he had expected; and before he got over, he found Alice heavier than he could have believed; but upon a firm, rocky bottom, Richard waded through in safety. When he reached the other side, he found that the bank was a lofty, smooth, perpendicular rock, with some rough steps cut in it. By and by the steps led them right into the rock, and they were in a narrow passage once more, but, this time, leading up. It wound round and round, like the thread of a great screw. At last, Richard knocked his head against something, and could go no farther. The place was close and hot. He put up his hands, and pushed what felt like a warm stone: it moved a little. "Go down, you brutes!" growled a voice above, quivering with anger. "You'll upset my pot and my cat, and my temper too, if you push that way. Go down!" Richard knocked very gently, and said: "Please let us out." "Oh, yes, I dare say! Very fine and soft-spoken! Go down, you goblin brutes! I've had enough of you. I'll scald the hair off your ugly heads if you do that again. Go down, I say!" Seeing fair speech was of no avail, Richard told Alice to go down a little, out of the way; and, setting his shoulders to one end of the stone, heaved it up; whereupon down came the other end, with a pot, and a fire, and a cat which had been asleep beside it. She frightened Alice dreadfully as she rushed past her, showing nothing but her green lamping eyes. Richard, peeping up, found that he had turned a hearth-stone upside down. On the edge of the hole stood a little crooked old man, brandishing a mop-stick in a tremendous rage, and hesitating only where to strike him. But Richard put him out of his difficulty by springing up and taking the stick from him. Then, having lifted Alice out, he returned it with a bow, and, heedless of the maledictions of the old man, proceeded to get the stone and the pot up again. For puss, she got out of herself. Then the old man became a little more friendly, and said: "I beg your pardon, I thought you were goblins. They never will let me alone. But you must allow, it was rather an unusual way of paying a morning call." And the creature bowed conciliatingly. "It was, indeed," answered Richard. "I wish you had turned the door to us instead of the hearth-stone." For he did not trust the old man. "But," he added, "I hope you will forgive us." "Oh, certainly, certainly, my dear young people! Use your freedom. But such young people have no business to be out alone. It is against the rules." "But what is one to do--I mean two to do--when they can't help it?" "Yes, yes, of course; but now, you know, I must take charge of you. So you sit there, young gentleman; and you sit there, young lady." He put a chair for one at one side of the hearth, and for the other at the other side, and then drew his chair between them. The cat got upon his hump, and then set up her own. So here was a wall that would let through no moonshine. But although both Richard and Alice were very much amused, they did not like to be parted in this peremptory manner. Still they thought it better not to anger the old man any more--in his own house, too. But he had been once angered, and that was once too often, for he had made it a rule never to forgive without taking it out in humiliation. It was so disagreeable to have him sitting there between them, that they felt as if they were far asunder. In order to get the better of the fancy, they wanted to hold each other's hand behind the dwarf's back. But the moment their hands began to approach, the back of the cat began to grow long, and its hump to grow high; and, in a moment more, Richard found himself crawling wearily up a steep hill, whose ridge rose against the stars, while a cold wind blew drearily over it. Not a habitation was in sight; and Alice had vanished from his eyes. He felt, however, that she must be somewhere on the other side, and so climbed and climbed to get over the brow of the hill, and down to where he thought she must be. But the longer he climbed, the farther off the top of the hill seemed; till at last he sank quite exhausted, and--must I confess it?--very nearly began to cry. To think of being separated from Alice all at once, and in such a disagreeable way! But he fell a-thinking instead, and soon said to himself: "This must be some trick of that wretched old man. Either this mountain is a cat or it is not. If it is a mountain, this won't hurt it; if it is a cat, I hope it will." With that, he pulled out his pocket-knife, and feeling for a soft place, drove it at one blow up to the handle in the side of the mountain. A terrific shriek was the first result; and the second, that Alice and he sat looking at each other across the old man's hump, from which the cat-a-mountain had vanished. Their host sat staring at the blank fireplace, without ever turning round, pretending to know nothing of what had taken place. "Come along, Alice," said Richard, rising. "This won't do. We won't stop here." Alice rose at once, and put her hand in his. They walked towards the door. The old man took no notice of them. The moon was shining brightly through the window; but instead of stepping out into the moonlight when they opened the door, they stepped into a great beautiful hall, through the high gothic windows of which the same moon was shining. Out of this hall they could find no way, except by a staircase of stone which led upwards. They ascended it together. At the top Alice let go Richard's hand to peep into a little room, which looked all the colours of the rainbow, just like the inside of a diamond. Richard went a step or two along a corridor, but finding she had left him, turned and looked into the chamber. He could see her nowhere. The room was full of doors; and she must have mistaken the door. He heard her voice calling him, and hurried in the direction of the sound. But he could see nothing of her. "More tricks," he said to himself. "It is of no use to stab this one. I must wait till I see what can be done." Still he heard Alice calling him, and still he followed, as well as he could. At length he came to a doorway, open to the air, through which the moonlight fell. But when he reached it, he found that it was high up in the side of a tower, the wall of which went straight down from his feet, without stair or descent of any kind. Again he heard Alice call him, and lifting his eyes, saw her, across a wide castle-court, standing at another door just like the one he was at, with the moon shining full upon her. "All right, Alice!" he cried. "Can you hear me?" "Yes," answered she. "Then listen. This is all a trick. It is all a lie of that old wretch in the kitchen. Just reach out your hand, Alice dear." Alice did as Richard asked her; and, although they saw each other many yards off across the court, their hands met. "There! I thought so!" exclaimed Richard triumphantly. "Now, Alice, I don't believe it is more than a foot or two down to the court below, though it looks like a hundred feet. Keep fast hold of my hand, and jump when I count three." But Alice drew her hand from him in sudden dismay; whereupon Richard said, "Well, I will try first," and jumped. The same moment his cheery laugh came to Alice's ears, and she saw him standing safe on the ground, far below. "Jump, dear Alice, and I will catch you," said he. "I can't; I am afraid," answered she. "The old man is somewhere near you. You had better jump," said Richard. Alice sprang from the wall in terror, and only fell a foot or two into Richard's arms. The moment she touched the ground, they found themselves outside the door of a little cottage which they knew very well, for it was only just within the wood that bordered on their village. Hand in hand they ran home as fast as they could. When they reached a little gate that led into her father's grounds, Richard bade Alice good-bye. The tears came in her eyes. Richard and she seemed to have grown quite man and woman in Fairyland, and they did not want to part now. But they felt that they must. So Alice ran in the back way, and reached her own room before anyone had missed her. Indeed, the last of the red had not quite faded from the west. As Richard crossed the market-place on his way home, he saw an umbrella-man just selling the last of his umbrellas. He thought the man gave him a queer look as he passed, and felt very much inclined to punch his head. But remembering how useless it had been to punch the goblin's head, he thought it better not. In reward of their courage, the Fairy Queen sent them permission to visit Fairyland as often as they pleased; and no goblin or fairy was allowed to interfere with them. For Peaseblossom and Toadstool, they were both banished from court, and compelled to live together, for seven years, in an old tree that had just one green leaf upon it. Toadstool did not mind it much, but Peaseblossom did. THE SHADOWS Old Ralph Rinkelmann made his living by comic sketches, and all but lost it again by tragic poems. So he was just the man to be chosen king of the fairies, for in Fairyland the sovereignty is elective. It is no doubt very strange that fairies should desire to have a mortal king; but the fact is, that with all their knowledge and power, they cannot get rid of the feeling that some men are greater than they are, though they can neither fly nor play tricks. So at such times as there happens to be twice the usual number of sensible electors, such a man as Ralph Rinkelmann gets to be chosen. They did not mean to insist on his residence; for they needed his presence only on special occasions. But they must get hold of him somehow, first of all, in order to make him king. Once he was crowned, they could get him as often as they pleased; but before this ceremony there was a difficulty. For it is only between life and death that the fairies have power over grown-up mortals, and can carry them off to their country. So they had to watch for an opportunity. Nor had they to wait long. For old Ralph was taken dreadfully ill; and while hovering between life and death, they carried him off, and crowned him king of Fairyland. But after he was crowned, it was no wonder, considering the state of his health, that he should not be able to sit quite upright on the throne of Fairyland; or that, in consequence, all the gnomes and goblins, and ugly, cruel things that live in the holes and corners of the kingdom, should take advantage of his condition, and run quite wild, playing him, king as he was, all sorts of tricks; crowding about his throne, climbing up the steps, and actually scrambling and quarrelling like mice about his ears and eyes, so that he could see and think of nothing else. But I am not going to tell anything more about this part of his adventures just at present. By strong and sustained efforts, he succeeded, after much trouble and suffering, in reducing his rebellious subjects to order. They all vanished to their respective holes and corners; and King Ralph, coming to himself, found himself in his bed, half propped up with pillows. But the room was full of dark creatures, which gambolled about in the firelight in such a strange, huge, though noiseless fashion, that he thought at first that some of his rebellious goblins had not been subdued with the rest, but had followed him beyond the bounds of Fairyland into his own private house in London. How else could these mad, grotesque hippopotamus-calves make their ugly appearance in Ralph Rinkelmann's bed-room? But he soon found out that although they were like the underground goblins, they were very different as well, and would require quite different treatment. He felt convinced that they were his subjects too, but that he must have overlooked them somehow at his late coronation--if indeed they had been present; for he could not recollect that he had seen anything just like them before. He resolved, therefore, to pay particular attention to their habits, ways, and characters; else he saw plainly that they would soon be too much for him; as indeed this intrusion into his chamber, where Mrs. Rinkelmann, who must be queen if he was king, sat taking some tea by the fireside, evidently foreshadowed. But she, perceiving that he was looking about him with a more composed expression than his face had worn for many days, started up, and came quickly and quietly to his side, and her face was bright with gladness. Whereupon the fire burned up more cheerily; and the figures became more composed and respectful in their behaviour, retreating towards the wall like well-trained attendants. Then the king of Fairyland had some tea and dry toast, and leaning back on his pillows, nearly fell asleep; but not quite, for he still watched the intruders. Presently the queen left the room to give some of the young princes and princesses their tea; and the fire burned lower, and behold, the figures grew as black and as mad in their gambols as ever! Their favourite games seemed to be _Hide and Seek_; _Touch and Go_; _Grin and Vanish_; and many other such; and all in the king's bed-chamber, too; so that it was quite alarming. It was almost as bad as if the house had been haunted by certain creatures which shall be nameless in a fairy story, because with them Fairyland will not willingly have much to do. "But it is a mercy that they have their slippers on!" said the king to himself; for his head ached. As he lay back, with his eyes half shut and half open, too tired to pay longer attention to their games, but, on the whole, considerably more amused than offended with the liberties they took, for they seemed good-natured creatures, and more frolicsome than positively ill-mannered, he became suddenly aware that two of them had stepped forward from the walls, upon which, after the manner of great spiders, most of them preferred sprawling, and now stood in the middle of the floor at the foot of his majesty's bed, becking and bowing and ducking in the most grotesquely obsequious manner; while every now and then they turned solemnly round upon one heel, evidently considering that motion the highest token of homage they could show. "What do you want?" said the king. "That it may please your majesty to be better acquainted with us," answered they. "We are your majesty's subjects." "I know you are. I shall be most happy," answered the king. "We are not what your majesty takes us for, though. We are not so foolish as your majesty thinks us." "It is impossible to take you for anything that I know of," rejoined the king, who wished to make them talk, and said whatever came uppermost;--"for soldiers, sailors, or anything: you will not stand still long enough. I suppose you really belong to the fire brigade; at least, you keep putting its light out." "Don't jest, please your majesty." And as they said the words--for they both spoke at once throughout the interview--they performed a grave somerset towards the king. "Not jest!" retorted he; "and with you? Why, you do nothing but jest. What are you?" "The Shadows, sire. And when we do jest, sire, we always jest in earnest. But perhaps your majesty does not see us distinctly." "I see you perfectly well," returned the king. "Permit me, however," rejoined one of the Shadows; and as he spoke he approached the king; and lifting a dark forefinger, he drew it lightly but carefully across the ridge of his forehead, from temple to temple. The king felt the soft gliding touch go, like water, into every hollow, and over the top of every height of that mountain-chain of thought. He had involuntarily closed his eyes during the operation, and when he unclosed them again, as soon as the finger was withdrawn, he found that they were opened in more senses than one. The room appeared to have extended itself on all sides, till he could not exactly see where the walls were; and all about it stood the Shadows motionless. They were tall and solemn; rather awful, indeed, in their appearance, notwithstanding many remarkable traits of grotesqueness, for they looked just like the pictures of Puritans drawn by Cavaliers, with long arms, and very long, thin legs, from which hung large loose feet, while in their countenances length of chin and nose predominated. The solemnity of their mien, however, overcame all the oddity of their form, so that they were very _eerie_ indeed to look at, dressed as they all were in funereal black. But a single glance was all that the king was allowed to have; for the former operator waved his dusky palm across his vision, and once more the king saw only the fire-lighted walls, and dark shapes flickering about upon them. The two who had spoken for the rest seemed likewise to have vanished. But at last the king discovered them, standing one on each side of the fireplace. They kept close to the chimney-wall, and talked to each other across the length of the chimney-piece; thus avoiding the direct rays of the fire, which, though light is necessary to their appearing to human eyes, do not agree with them at all--much less give birth to them, as the king was soon to learn. After a few minutes they again approached the bed, and spoke thus:-- "It is now getting dark, please your majesty. We mean, out of doors in the snow. Your majesty may see, from where he is lying, the cold light of its great winding-sheet--a famous carpet for the Shadows to dance upon, your majesty. All our brothers and sisters will be at church now, before going to their night's work." "Do they always go to church before they go to work?" "They always go to church first." "Where is the church?" "In Iceland. Would your majesty like to see it?" "How can I go and see it, when, as you know very well, I am ill in bed? Besides, I should be sure to take cold in a frosty night like this, even if I put on the blankets, and took the feather-bed for a muff." A sort of quivering passed over their faces, which seemed to be their mode of laughing. The whole shape of the face shook and fluctuated as if it had been some dark fluid; till by slow degrees of gathering calm, it settled into its former rest. Then one of them drew aside the curtains of the bed, and the window-curtains not having been yet drawn, the king beheld the white glimmering night outside, struggling with the heaps of darkness that tried to quench it; and the heavens full of stars, flashing and sparkling like live jewels. The other Shadow went towards the fire and vanished in it. Scores of Shadows immediately began an insane dance all about the room; disappearing, one after the other, through the uncovered window, and gliding darkly away over the face of the white snow; for the window looked at once on a field of snow. In a few moments, the room was quite cleared of them; but instead of being relieved by their absence, the king felt immediately as if he were in a dead-house, and could hardly breathe for the sense of emptiness and desolation that fell upon him. But as he lay looking out on the snow, which stretched blank and wide before him, he spied in the distance a long dark line which drew nearer and nearer, and showed itself at last to be all the Shadows, walking in a double row, and carrying in the midst of them something like a bier. They vanished under the window, but soon reappeared, having somehow climbed up the wall of the house; for they entered in perfect order by the window, as if melting through the transparency of the glass. They still carried the bier or litter. It was covered with richest furs, and skins of gorgeous wild beasts, whose eyes were replaced by sapphires and emeralds, that glittered and gleamed in the fire and snow light. The outermost skin sparkled with frost, but the inside ones were soft and warm and dry as the down under a swan's wing. The Shadows approached the bed, and set the litter upon it. Then a number of them brought a huge fur robe, and wrapping it round the king, laid him on the litter in the midst of the furs. Nothing could be more gentle and respectful than the way in which they moved him; and he never thought of refusing to go. Then they put something on his head, and, lifting the litter, carried him once round the room, to fall into order. As he passed the mirror he saw that he was covered with royal ermine, and that his head wore a wonderful crown of gold, set with none but red stones: rubies and carbuncles and garnets, and others whose names he could not tell, glowed gloriously around his head, like the salamandrine essence of all the Christmas fires over the world. A sceptre lay beside him--a rod of ebony, surmounted by a cone-shaped diamond, which, cut in a hundred facets, flashed all the hues of the rainbow, and threw coloured gleams on every side, that looked like Shadows too, but more ethereal than those that bore him. Then the Shadows rose gently to the window, passed through it, and sinking slowing upon the field of outstretched snow, commenced an orderly gliding rather than march along the frozen surface. They took it by turns to bear the king, as they sped with the swiftness of thought, in a straight line towards the north. The pole-star rose above their heads with visible rapidity; for indeed they moved quite as fast as sad thoughts, though not with all the speed of happy desires. England and Scotland slid past the litter of the king of the Shadows. Over rivers and lakes they skimmed and glided. They climbed the high mountains, and crossed the valleys with a fearless bound; till they came to John-o'-Groat's house and the Northern Sea. The sea was not frozen; for all the stars shone as clear out of the deeps below as they shone out of the deeps above; and as the bearers slid along the blue-gray surface, with never a furrow in their track, so pure was the water beneath that the king saw neither surface, bottom, nor substance to it, and seemed to be gliding only through the blue sphere of heaven, with the stars above him, and the stars below him, and between the stars and him nothing but an emptiness, where, for the first time in his life, his soul felt that it had room enough. At length they reached the rocky shores of Iceland. There they landed, still pursuing their journey. All this time the king felt no cold; for the red stones in his crown kept him warm, and the emerald and sapphire eyes of the wild beasts kept the frosts from settling upon his litter. Oftentimes upon their way they had to pass through forests, caverns, and rock-shadowed paths, where it was so dark that at first the king feared he should lose his Shadows altogether. But as soon as they entered such places, the diamond in his sceptre began to shine and glow, and flash, sending out streams of light of all the colours that painter's soul could dream of; in which light the Shadows grew livelier and stronger than ever, speeding through the dark ways with an all but blinding swiftness. In the light of the diamond, too, some of their forms became more simple and human, while others seemed only to break out into a yet more untamable absurdity. Once, as they passed through a cave, the king actually saw some of their eyes--strange shadow-eyes; he had never seen any of their eyes before. But at the same moment when he saw their eyes, he knew their faces too, for they turned them full upon him for an instant; and the other Shadows, catching sight of these, shrank and shivered, and nearly vanished. Lovely faces they were; but the king was very thoughtful after he saw them, and continued rather troubled all the rest of the journey. He could not account for those faces being there, and the faces of Shadows, too, with living eyes. But he soon found that amongst the Shgadows a man must learn never to be surprised at anything; for if he does not, he will soon grow quite stupid, in consequence of the endless recurrence of surprises. At last they climbed up the bed of a little stream, and then, passing through a narrow rocky defile, came out suddenly upon the side of a mountain, overlooking a blue frozen lake in the very heart of mighty hills. Overhead, the _aurora borealis_ was shivering and flashing like a battle of ten thousand spears. Underneath, its beams passed faintly over the blue ice and the sides of the snow-clad mountains, whose tops shot up like huge icicles all about, with here and there a star sparkling on the very tip of one. But as the northern lights in the sky above, so wavered and quivered, and shot hither and thither, the Shadows on the surface of the lake below; now gathering in groups, and now shivering asunder; now covering the whole surface of the lake, and anon condensed into one dark knot in the centre. Every here and there on the white mountains might be seen two or three shooting away towards the tops, to vanish beyond them, so that their number was gradually, though not visibly, diminishing. "Please your majesty," said the Shadows, "this is our church--the Church of the Shadows." And so saying, the king's body-guard set down the litter upon a rock, and plunged into the multitudes below. They soon returned, however, and bore the king down into the middle of the lake. All the Shadows came crowding round him, respectfully but fearlessly; and sure never such a grotesque assembly revealed itself before to mortal eyes. The king had seen all kind of gnomes, goblins, and kobolds at his coronation; but they were quite rectilinear figures compared with the insane lawlessness of form in which the Shadows rejoiced; and the wildest gambols of the former were orderly dances of ceremony beside the apparently aimless and wilful contortions of figure, and metamorphoses of shape, in which the latter indulged. They retained, however, all the time, to the surprise of the king, an identity, each of his own type, inexplicably perceptible through every change. Indeed this preservation of the primary idea of each form was more wonderful than the bewildering and ridiculous alterations to which the form itself was every moment subjected. "What are you?" said the king, leaning on his elbow, and looking around him. "The Shadows, your majesty," answered several voices at once. "What Shadows?" "The human Shadows. The Shadows of men, and women, and their children." "Are you not the shadows of chairs and tables, and pokers and tongs, just as well?" At this question a strange jarring commotion went through the assembly with a shock. Several of the figures shot up as high as the aurora, but instantly settled down again to human size, as if overmastering their feelings, out of respect to him who had roused them. One who had bounded to the highest visible icy peak, and as suddenly returned, now elbowed his way through the rest, and made himself spokesman for them during the remaining part of the dialogue. "Excuse our agitation, your majesty," said he. "I see your majesty has not yet thought proper to make himself acquainted with our nature and habits." "I wish to do so now," replied the king. "We are the Shadows," repeated the Shadow solemnly. "Well?" said the king. "We do not often appear to men." "Ha!" said the king. "We do not belong to the sunshine at all. We go through it unseen, and only by a passing chill do men recognize an unknown presence." "Ha!" said the king again. "It is only in the twilight of the fire, or when one man or woman is alone with a single candle, or when any number of people are all feeling the same thing at once, making them one, that we show ourselves, and the truth of things." "Can that be true that loves the night?" said the king. "The darkness is the nurse of light," answered the Shadow. "Can that be true which mocks at forms?" said the king. "Truth rides abroad in shapeless storms," answered the Shadow. "Ha! ha!" thought Ralph Rinkelmann, "it rhymes. The Shadow caps my questions with his answers. Very strange!" And he grew thoughtful again. The Shadow was the first to resume. "Please your majesty, may we present our petition?" "By all means," replied the king. "I am not well enough to receive it in proper state." "Never mind, your majesty. We do not care for much ceremony; and indeed none of us are quite well at present. The subject of our petition weighs upon us." "Go on," said the king. "Sire," began the Shadow, "our very existence is in danger. The various sorts of artificial light, both in houses and in men, women, and children, threaten to end our being. The use and the disposition of gaslights, especially high in the centres, blind the eyes by which alone we can be perceived. We are all but banished from towns. We are driven into villages and lonely houses, chiefly old farm-houses, out of which, even, our friends the fairies are fast disappearing. We therefore petition our king, by the power of his art, to restore us to our rights in the house itself, and in the hearts of its inhabitants." "But," said the king, "you frighten the children." "Very seldom, your majesty; and then only for their good. We seldom seek to frighten anybody. We mostly want to make people silent and thoughtful; to awe them a little, your majesty." "You are much more likely to make them laugh," said the king. "Are we?" said the Shadow. And approaching the king one step, he stood quite still for a moment. The diamond of the king's sceptre shot out a vivid flame of violet light, and the king stared at the Shadow in silence, and his lip quivered. He never told what he saw then; but he would say: "Just fancy what it might be if _some_ flitting thoughts were to persist in staying to be looked at." "It is only," resumed the Shadow, "when our thoughts are not fixed upon any particular object, that our bodies are subject to all the vagaries of elemental influences. Generally, amongst worldly men and frivolous women, we only attach ourselves to some article of furniture or of dress; and they never doubt that we are mere foolish and vague results of the dashing of the waves of the light against the solid forms of which their houses are full. We do not care to tell them the truth, for they would never see it. But let the worldly man--or the frivolous woman--and then--" At each of the pauses indicated, the mass of Shadows throbbed and heaved with emotion; but they soon settled again into comparative stillness. Once more the Shadow addressed himself to speak. But suddenly they all looked up, and the king, following their gaze, saw that the aurora had begun to pale. "The moon is rising," said the Shadow. "As soon as she looks over the mountains into the valley, we must be gone, for we have plenty to do by the moon; we are powerful in her light. But if your majesty will come here to-morrow night, your majesty may learn a great deal more about us, and judge for himself whether it be fit to accord our petition; for then will be our grand annual assembly, in which we report to our chiefs the things we have attempted, and the good or bad success we have had." "If you send for me," returned the king, "I will come." Ere the Shadow could reply, the tip of the moon's crescent horn peeped up from behind an icy pinnacle, and one slender ray fell on the lake. It shone upon no Shadows. Ere the eye of the king could again seek the earth after beholding the first brightness of the moon's resurrection, they had vanished; and the surface of the lake glittered gold and blue in the pale moonlight. There the king lay, alone in the midst of the frozen lake, with the moon staring at him. But at length he heard from somewhere a voice that he knew. "Will you take another cup of tea, dear?" said Mrs. Rinkelmann. And Ralph, coming slowly to himself, found that he was lying in his own bed. "Yes, I will," he answered; "and rather a large piece of toast, if you please; for I have been a long journey since I saw you last." "He has not come to himself quite," said Mrs. Rinkelmann, between her and herself. "You would be rather surprised," continued Ralph, "if I told you where I had been." "I dare say I should," responded his wife. "Then I will tell you," rejoined Ralph. But at that moment, a great Shadow bounced out of the fire with a single huge leap, and covered the whole room. Then it settled in one corner, and Ralph saw it shaking its fist at him from the end of a preposterous arm. So he took the hint, and held his peace. And it was as well for him. For I happen to know something about the Shadows too; and I know that if he had told his wife all about it just then, they would not have sent for him the following evening. But as the king, after finishing his tea and toast, lay and looked about him, the Shadows dancing in his room seemed to him odder and more inexplicable than ever. The whole chamber was full of mystery. So it generally was, but now it was more mysterious than ever. After all that he had seen in the Shadow-church, his own room and its Shadows were yet more wonderful and unintelligible than those. This made it the more likely that he had seen a true vision; for instead of making common things look commonplace, as a false vision would have done, it had made common things disclose the wonderful that was in them. "The same applies to all arts as well," thought Ralph Rinkelmann. The next afternoon, as the twilight was growing dusky, the king lay wondering whether or not the Shadows would fetch him again. He wanted very much to go, for he had enjoyed the journey exceedingly, and he longed, besides, to hear some of the Shadows tell their stories. But the darkness grew deeper and deeper, and the shadows did not come. The cause was, that Mrs. Rinkelmann sat by the fire in the gloaming; and they could not carry off the king while she was there. Some of them tried to frighten her away by playing the oddest pranks on the walls, and floor, and ceiling; but altogether without effect; the queen only smiled, for she had a good conscience. Suddenly, however, a dreadful scream was heard from the nursery, and Mrs. Rinkelmann rushed upstairs to see what was the matter. No sooner had she gone than the two warders of the chimney-corners stepped out into the middle of the room, and said, in a low voice,-- "Is your majesty ready?" "Have you no hearts?" said the king; "or are they as black as your faces? Did you not hear the child scream? I must know what is the matter with her before I go." "Your majesty may keep his mind easy on that point," replied the warders. "We had tried everything we could think of to get rid of her majesty the queen, but without effect. So a young madcap Shadow, half against the will of the older ones of us, slipped upstairs into the nursery; and has, no doubt, succeeded in appalling the baby, for he is very lithe and long-legged.--Now, your majesty." "I will have no such tricks played in my nursery," said the king, rather angrily. "You might put the child beside itself." "Then there would be twins, your majesty. And we rather like twins." "None of your miserable jesting! You might put the child out of her wits." "Impossible, sire; for she has not got into them yet." "Go away," said the king. "Forgive us, your majesty. Really, it will do the child good; for that Shadow will, all her life, be to her a symbol of what is ugly and bad. When she feels in danger of hating or envying anyone, that Shadow will come back to her mind and make her shudder." "Very well," said the king. "I like that. Let us go." The Shadows went through the same ceremonies and preparations as before; during which, the young Shadow before-mentioned contrived to make such grimaces as kept the baby in terror, and the queen in the nursery, till all was ready. Then with a bound that doubled him up against the ceiling, and a kick of his legs six feet out behind him, he vanished through the nursery door, and reached the king's bed-chamber just in time to take his place with the last who were melting through the window in the rear of the litter, and settling down upon the snow beneath. Away they went as before, a gliding blackness over the white carpet. And it was Christmas-eve. When they came in sight of the mountain-lake, the king saw that it was crowded over its whole surface with a changeful intermingling of Shadows. They were all talking and listening alternately, in pairs, trios, and groups of every size. Here and there large companies were absorbed in attention to one elevated above the rest, not in a pulpit, or on a platform, but on the stilts of his own legs, elongated for the nonce. The aurora, right overhead, lighted up the lake and the sides of the mountains, by sending down from the zenith, nearly to the surface of the lake, great folded vapours, luminous with all the colours of a faint rainbow. Many, however, as the words were that passed on all sides, not a shadow of a sound reached the ears of the king: the shadow-speech could not enter his corporeal organs. One of his guides, however, seeing that the king wanted to hear and could not, went through a strange manipulation of his head and ears; after which he could hear perfectly, though still only the voice to which, for the time, he directed his attention. This, however, was a great advantage, and one which the king longed to carry back with him to the world of men. The king now discovered that this was not merely the church of the Shadows, but their news exchange at the same time. For, as the shadows have no writing or printing, the only way in which they can make each other acquainted with their doings and thinkings, is to meet and talk at this word-mart and parliament of shades. And as, in the world, people read their favourite authors, and listen to their favourite speakers, so here the Shadows seek their favourite Shadows, listen to their adventures, and hear generally what they have to say. Feeling quite strong, the king rose and walked about amongst them, wrapped in his ermine robe, with his red crown on his head, and his diamond sceptre in his hand. Every group of Shadows to which he drew near, ceased talking as soon as they saw him approach; but at a nod they went on again directly, conversing and relating and commenting, as if no one was there of other kind or of higher rank than themselves. So the king heard a good many stories. At some of them he laughed, and at some of them he cried. But if the stories that the Shadows told were printed, they would make a book that no publisher could produce fast enough to satisfy the buyers. I will record some of the things that the king heard, for he told them to me soon after. In fact, I was for some time his private secretary. "I made him confess before a week was over," said a gloomy old Shadow. "But what was the good of that?" rejoined a pert young one. "That could not undo what was done." "Yes, it could." "What! bring the dead to life?" "No; but comfort the murderer. I could not bear to see the pitiable misery he was in. He was far happier with the rope round his neck, than he was with the purse in his pocket. I saved him from killing himself too." "How did you make him confess?" "Only by wallowing on the wall a little." "How could that make him tell?" "_He_ knows." The Shadow was silent; and the king turned to another, who was preparing to speak. "I made a fashionable mother repent." "How?" broke from several voices, in whose sound was mingled a touch of incredulity. "Only by making a little coffin on the wall," was the reply. "Did the fashionable mother confess too?" "She had nothing more to confess than everybody knew." "What did everybody know then?" "That she might have been kissing a living child, when she followed a dead one to the grave.--The next will fare better." "I put a stop to a wedding," said another. "Horrid shade!" remarked a poetic imp. "How?" said others. "Tell us how." "Only by throwing a darkness, as if from the branch of a sconce, over the forehead of a fair girl.--They are not married yet, and I do not think they will be. But I loved the youth who loved her. How he started! It was a revelation to him." "But did it not deceive him?" "Quite the contrary." "But it was only a shadow from the outside, not a shadow coming through from the soul of the girl." "Yes. You may say so. But it was all that was wanted to make the meaning of her forehead manifest--yes, of her whole face, which had now and then, in the pauses of his passion, perplexed the youth. All of it, curled nostrils, pouting lips, projecting chin, instantly fell into harmony with that darkness between her eyebrows. The youth understood it in a moment, and went home miserable. And they're not married _yet_." "I caught a toper alone, over his magnum of port," said a very dark Shadow; "and didn't I give it him! I made _delirium tremens_ first; and then I settled into a funeral, passing slowly along the length of the opposite wall. I gave him plenty of plumes and mourning coaches. And then I gave him a funeral service, but I could not manage to make the surplice white, which was all the better for such a sinner. The wretch stared till his face passed from purple to grey, and actually left his fifth glass only, unfinished, and took refuge with his wife and children in the drawing-room, much to their surprise. I believe he actually drank a cup of tea; and although I have often looked in since, I have never caught him again, drinking alone at least." "But does he drink less? Have you done him any good?" "I hope so; but I am sorry to say I can't feel sure about it." "Humph! Humph! Humph!" grunted various shadow throats. "I had such fun once!" cried another. "I made such game of a young clergyman!" "You have no right to make game of anyone." "Oh yes, I have--when it is for his good. He used to study his sermons--where do you think?" "In his study, of course. Where else should it be?" "Yes and no. Guess again." "Out amongst the faces in the streets." "Guess again." "In still green places in the country?" "Guess again." "In old books?" "Guess again." "No, no. Tell us." "In the looking glass. Ha! ha! ha!" "He was fair game; fair shadow game." "I thought so. And I made such fun of him one night on the wall! He had sense enough to see that it was himself, and very like an ape. So he got ashamed, turned the mirror with its face to the wall, and thought a little more about his people, and a little less about himself. I was very glad; for, please your majesty,"--and here the speaker turned towards the king--"we don't like the creatures that live in the mirrors. You call them ghosts, don't you?" Before the king could reply, another had commenced. But the story about the clergyman had made the king wish to hear one of the shadow-sermons. So he turned him towards a long Shadow, who was preaching to a very quiet and listening crowd. He was just concluding his sermon. "Therefore, dear Shadows, it is the more needful that we love one another as much as we can, because that is not much. We have no such excuse for not loving as mortals have, for we do not die like them. I suppose it is the thought of that death that makes them hate so much. Then again, we go to sleep all day, most of us, and not in the night, as men do. And you know that we forget everything that happened the night before; therefore, we ought to love well, for the love is short. Ah! dear Shadow, whom I love now with all my shadowy soul, I shall not love thee to-morrow eve, I shall not know thee; I shall pass thee in the crowd and never dream that the Shadow whom I now love is near me then. Happy Shades! for we only remember our tales until we have told them here, and then they vanish in the shadow-churchyard, where we bury only our dead selves. Ah! brethren, who would be a man and remember? Who would be a man and weep? We ought indeed to love one another, for we alone inherit oblivion; we alone are renewed with eternal birth; we alone have no gathered weight of years. I will tell you the awful fate of one Shadow who rebelled against his nature, and sought to remember the past. He said, 'I _will_ remember this eve.' He fought with the genial influences of kindly sleep when the sun rose on the awful dead day of light; and although he could not keep quite awake, he dreamed of the foregone eve, and he never forgot his dream. Then he tried again the next night, and the next, and the next; and he tempted another Shadow to try it with him. But at last their awful fate overtook them; for, instead of continuing to be Shadows, they began to cast shadows, as foolish men say; and so they thickened and thickened till they vanished out of our world. They are now condemned to walk the earth, a man and a woman, with death behind them, and memories within them. Ah, brother Shades! let us love one another, for we shall soon forget. We are not men, but Shadows." The king turned away, and pitied the poor Shadows far more than they pitied men. "Oh! how we played with a musician one night!" exclaimed a Shadow in another group, to which the king had first directed a passing thought, and then had stopped to listen.--"Up and down we went, like the hammers and dampers on his piano. But he took his revenge on us. For after he had watched us for half an hour in the twilight, he rose and went to his instrument, and played a shadow-dance that fixed us all in sound for ever. Each could tell the very notes meant for him; and as long as he played, we could not stop, but went on dancing and dancing after the music, just as the magician--I mean the musician--pleased. And he punished us well; for he nearly danced us all off our legs and out of shape into tired heaps of collapsed and palpitating darkness. We won't go near him for some time again, if we can only remember it. He had been very miserable all day, he was so poor; and we could not think of any way of comforting him except making him laugh. We did not succeed, with our wildest efforts; but it turned out better than we had expected, after all; for his shadow-dance got him into notice, and he is quite popular now, and making money fast.--If he does not take care, we shall have other work to do with him by and by, poor fellow!" "I and some others did the same for a poor play-writer once. He had a Christmas piece to write, and [not] being an original genius, it was not so easy for him to find a subject as it is for most of his class. I saw the trouble he was in, and collecting a few stray Shadows, we acted, in dumb-show of course, the funniest bit of nonsense we could think of; and it was quite successful. The poor fellow watched every motion, roaring with laughter at us, and delight at the ideas we put into his head. He turned it all into words, and scenes, and actions; and the piece came off with a splendid success." "But how long we have to look for a chance of doing anything worth doing," said a long, thin, especially lugubrious Shadow. "I have only done one thing worth telling ever since we met last. But I am proud of that." "What was it? What was it?" rose from twenty voices. "I crept into a dining-room, one twilight, soon after Christmas-day. I had been drawn thither by the glow of a bright fire shining through red window-curtains. At first I thought there was no one there, and was on the point of leaving the room, and going out again into the snowy street, when I suddenly caught the sparkle of eyes. I found that they belonged to a little boy who lay very still on a sofa. I crept into a dark corner by the sideboard, and watched him. He seemed very sad, and did nothing but stare into the fire. At last he sighed out,--'I wish mamma would come home.' 'Poor boy!' thought I, 'there is no help for that but mamma.' Yet I would try to while away the time for him. So out of my corner I stretched a long shadow arm, reaching all across the ceiling, and pretended to make a grab at him. He was rather frightened at first; but he was a brave boy, and soon saw that it was all a joke. So when I did it again, he made a clutch at me; and then we had such fun! For though he often sighed and wished mamma would come home, he always began again with me; and on we went with the wildest games. At last his mother's knock came to the door, and starting up in delight, he rushed into the hall to meet her, and forgot all about poor black me. But I did not mind that in the least; for when I glided out after him into the hall, I was well repaid for my trouble by hearing his mother say to him,--'Why, Charlie, my dear, you look ever so much better since I left you!' At that moment I slipped through the closing door, and as I ran across the snow, I heard the mother say,--'What shadow can that be, passing so quickly?' And Charlie answered with a merry laugh,--'Oh! mamma, I suppose it must be the funny shadow that has been playing such games with me all the time you were out.' As soon as the door was shut, I crept along the wall and looked in at the dining-room window. And I heard his mamma say, as she led him into the room, 'What an imagination the boy has!' Ha! ha! ha! Then she looked at him, and the tears came in her eyes; and she stooped down over him, and I heard the sounds of a mingling kiss and sob." "I always look for nurseries full of children," said another; "and this winter I have been very fortunate. I am sure children belong especially to us. One evening, looking about in a great city, I saw through the window into a large nursery, where the odious gas had not yet been lighted. Round the fire sat a company of the most delightful children I had ever seen. They were waiting patiently for their tea. It was too good an opportunity to be lost. I hurried away, and gathering together twenty of the best Shadows I could find, returned in a few moments; and entering the nursery, we danced on the walls one of our best dances. To be sure it was mostly extemporized; but I managed to keep it in harmony by singing this song, which I made as we went on. Of course the children could not hear it; they only saw the motions that answered to it; but with them they seemed to be very much delighted indeed, as I shall presently prove to you. This was the song:-- 'Swing, swang, swingle, swuff, Flicker, flacker, fling, fluff! Thus we go, To and fro; Here and there, Everywhere, Born and bred; Never dead, Only gone. 'On! Come on. Looming, glooming, Spreading, fuming, Shattering, scattering, Parting, darting, Settling, starting, All our life Is a strife, And a wearying for rest On the darkness' friendly breast. 'Joining, splitting, Rising, sitting, Laughing, shaking, Sides all aching, Grumbling, grim, and gruff. Swingle, swangle, swuff! 'Now a knot of darkness; Now dissolved gloom; Now a pall of blackness Hiding all the room. Flicker, flacker, fluff! Black, and black enough! 'Dancing now like demons; Lying like the dead; Gladly would we stop it, And go down to bed! But our work we still must do, Shadow men, as well as you. 'Rooting, rising, shooting, Heaving, sinking, creeping; Hid in corners crooning; Splitting, poking, leaping, Gathering, towering, swooning. When we're lurking, Yet we're working, For our labour we must do, Shadow men, as well as you. Flicker, flacker, fling, fluff! Swing, swang, swingle, swuff!' "'How thick the Shadows are!' said one of the children--a thoughtful little girl. "'I wonder where they come from,' said a dreamy little boy. "'I think they grow out of the wall,' answered the little girl; 'for I have been watching them come; first one and then another, and then a whole lot of them. I am sure they grow out of the walls.' "'Perhaps they have papas and mammas,' said an older boy, with a smile. "'Yes, yes; and the doctor brings them in his pocket,' said another, a consequential little maiden. "'No; I'll tell you,' said the older boy: 'they're ghosts.' "'But ghosts are white.' "'Oh! but these have got black coming down the chimney.' "'No,' said a curious-looking, white-faced boy of fourteen, who had been reading by the firelight, and had stopped to hear the little ones talk; 'they're body ghosts; they're not soul ghosts.' "'A silence followed, broken by the first, the dreamy-eyed boy, who said,-- "'I hope they didn't make me;' at which they all burst out laughing. Just then the nurse brought in their tea, and when she proceeded to light the gas, we vanished." "I stopped a murder," cried another. "How? How? How?" "I will tell you. I had been lurking about a sick-room for some time, where a miser lay, apparently dying. I did not like the place at all, but I felt as if I should be wanted there. There were plenty of lurking-places about, for the room was full of all sorts of old furniture, especially cabinets, chests, and presses. I believe he had in that room every bit of the property he had spent a long life in gathering. I found that he had gold and gold in those places; for one night, when his nurse was away, he crept out of bed, mumbling and shaking, and managed to open one of his chests, though he nearly fell down with the effort. I was peeping over his shoulder, and such a gleam of gold fell upon me, that it nearly killed me. But hearing his nurse coming, he slammed the lid down, and I recovered. "I tried very hard, but I could not do him any good. For although I made all sorts of shapes on the walls and ceiling, representing evil deeds that he had done, of which there were plenty to choose from, I could make no shapes on his brain or conscience. He had no eyes for anything but gold. And it so happened that his nurse had neither eyes nor heart for anything else either. "'One day, as she was seated beside his bed, but where he could not see her, stirring some gruel in a basin, to cool it from him, I saw her take a little phial from her bosom, and I knew by the expression of her face both what it was and what she was going to do with it. Fortunately the cork was a little hard to get out, and this gave me one moment to think. "The room was so crowded with all sorts of things, that although there were no curtains on the four-post bed to hide from the miser the sight of his precious treasures, there was yet but one small part of the ceiling suitable for casting myself upon in the shape I wished to assume. And this spot was hard to reach. But having discovered that upon this very place lay a dull gleam of firelight thrown from a strange old dusty mirror that stood away in some corner, I got in front of the fire, spied where the mirror was, threw myself upon it, and bounded from its face upon the oval pool of dim light on the ceiling, assuming, as I passed, the shape of an old stooping hag, who poured something from a phial into a basin. I made the handle of the spoon with my own nose, ha! ha!" And the shadow-hand caressed the shadow-tip of the shadow-nose, before the shadow-tongue resumed. "The old miser saw me: he would not taste the gruel that night, although his nurse coaxed and scolded till they were both weary. She pretended to taste it herself, and to think it very good; but at last retired into a corner, and after making as if she were eating it, took good care to pour it all out into the ashes." "But she must either succeed, or starve him, at last," interposed a Shadow. "I will tell you." "And," interposed a third, "he was not worth saving." "He might repent," suggested another who was more benevolent. "No chance of that," returned the former. "Misers never do. The love of money has less in it to cure itself than any other wickedness into which wretched men can fall. What a mercy it is to be born a Shadow! Wickedness does not stick to us. What do we care for gold!--Rubbish!" "Amen! Amen! Amen!" came from a hundred shadow-voices. "You should have let her murder him, and so you would have been quit of him." "And besides, how was he to escape at last? He could never get rid of her, you know." "I was going to tell you," resumed the narrator, "only you had so many shadow-remarks to make, that you would not let me." "Go on; go on." "There was a little grandchild who used to come and see him sometimes--the only creature the miser cared for. Her mother was his daughter; but the old man would never see her, because she had married against his will. Her husband was now dead, but he had not forgiven her yet. After the shadow he had seen, however, he said to himself, as he lay awake that night--I saw the words on his face--'How shall I get rid of that old devil? If I don't eat I shall die; and if I do eat I shall be poisoned. I wish little Mary would come. Ah! her mother would never have served me so.' He lay awake, thinking such things over and over again, all night long, and I stood watching him from a dark corner, till the dayspring came and shook me out. When I came back next night, the room was tidy and clean. His own daughter, a sad-faced but beautiful woman, sat by his bedside; and little Mary was curled up on the floor by the fire, imitating us, by making queer shadows on the ceiling with her twisted hands. But she could not think how ever they got there. And no wonder, for I helped her to some very unaccountable ones." "I have a story about a granddaughter, too," said another, the moment that speaker ceased. "Tell it. Tell it." "Last Christmas-day," he began, "I and a troop of us set out in the twilight to find some house where we could all have something to do; for we had made up our minds to act together. We tried several, but found objections to them all. At last we espied a large lonely country-house, and hastening to it, we found great preparations making for the Christmas dinner. We rushed into it, scampered all over it, and made up our minds in a moment that it would do. We amused ourselves in the nursery first, where there were several children being dressed for dinner. We generally do go to the nursery first, your majesty. This time we were especially charmed with a little girl about five years old, who clapped her hands and danced about with delight at the antics we performed; and we said we would do something for her if we had a chance. The company began to arrive; and at every arrival we rushed to the hall, and cut wonderful capers of welcome. Between times we scudded away to see how the dressing went on. One girl about eighteen was delightful. She dressed herself as if she did not care much about it, but could not help doing it prettily. When she took her last look at the phantom in the glass, she half smiled to it.--But _we_ do not like those creatures that come into the mirrors at all, your majesty. We don't understand them. They are dreadful to us.--She looked rather sad and pale, but very sweet and hopeful. So we wanted to know all about her, and soon found out that she was a distant relation and a great favourite of the gentleman of the house, an old man, in whose face benevolence was mingled with obstinacy and a deep shade of the tyrannical. We could not admire him much; but we would not make up our minds all at once: Shadows never do. "The dinner-bell rang, and down we hurried. The children all looked happy, and we were merry. But there was one cross fellow among the servants, and didn't we plague him! and didn't we get fun out of him! When he was bringing up dishes, we lay in wait for him at every corner, and sprang upon him from the floor, and from over the banisters, and down from the cornices. He started and stumbled and blundered so in consequence, that his fellow-servants thought he was tipsy. Once he dropped a plate, and had to pick up the pieces, and hurry away with them; and didn't we pursue him as he went! It was lucky for him his master did not see how he went on; but we took care not to let him get into any real scrape, though he was quite dazed with the dodging of the unaccountable shadows. Sometimes he thought the walls were coming down upon him; sometimes that the floor was gaping to swallow him; sometimes that he would be knocked to pieces by the hurrying to and fro, or be smothered in the black crowd. "When the blazing plum-pudding was carried in we made a perfect shadow-carnival about it, dancing and mumming in the blue flames, like mad demons. And how the children screamed with delight! "The old gentleman, who was very fond of children, was laughing his heartiest laugh, when a loud knock came to the hall-door. The fair maiden started, turned paler, and then red as the Christmas fire. I saw it, and flung my hands across her face. She was very glad, and I know she said in her heart, 'You kind Shadow!' which paid me well. Then I followed the rest into the hall, and found there a jolly, handsome, brown-faced sailor, evidently a son of the house. The old man received him with tears in his eyes, and the children with shouts of joy. The maiden escaped in the confusion, just in time to save herself from fainting. We crowded about the lamp to hide her retreat, and nearly put it out; and the butler could not get it to burn up before she had glided into her place again, relieved to find the room so dark. The sailor only had seen her go, and now he sat down beside her, and, without a word, got hold of her hand in the gloom. When we all scattered to the walls and the corners, and the lamp blazed up again, he let her hand go. "During the rest of the dinner the old man watched the two, and saw that there was something between them, and was very angry. For he was an important man in his own estimation, and they had never consulted him. The fact was, they had never known their own minds till the sailor had gone upon his last voyage, and had learned each other's only this moment.--We found out all this by watching them, and then talking together about it afterwards.--The old gentleman saw, too, that his favourite, who was under such obligation to him for loving her so much, loved his son better than him; and he grew by degrees so jealous that he overshadowed the whole table with his morose looks and short answers. That kind of shadowing is very different from ours; and the Christmas dessert grew so gloomy that we Shadows could not bear it, and were delighted when the ladies rose to go to the drawing-room. The gentlemen would not stay behind the ladies, even for the sake of the well-known wine. So the moody host, notwithstanding his hospitality, was left alone at the table in the great silent room. We followed the company upstairs to the drawing-room, and thence to the nursery for snap-dragon; but while they were busy with this most shadowy of games, nearly all the Shadows crept downstairs again to the dining-room, where the old man still sat, gnawing the bone of his own selfishness. They crowded into the room, and by using every kind of expansion--blowing themselves out like soap-bubbles--they succeeded in heaping up the whole room with shade upon shade. They clustered thickest about the fire and the lamp, till at last they almost drowned them in hills of darkness. "Before they had accomplished so much, the children, tired with fun and frolic, had been put to bed. But the little girl of five years old, with whom we had been so pleased when first we arrived, could not go to sleep. She had a little room of her own; and I had watched her to bed, and now kept her awake by gambolling in the rays of the night-light. When her eyes were once fixed upon me, I took the shape of her grandfather, representing him on the wall as he sat in his chair, with his head bent down and his arms hanging listlessly by his sides. And the child remembered that that was just as she had seen him last; for she had happened to peep in at the dining-room door after all the rest had gone upstairs. 'What if he should be sitting there still,' thought she, 'all alone in the dark!' She scrambled out of bed and crept down. "Meantime the others had made the room below so dark, that only the face and white hair of the old man could be dimly discerned in the shadowy crowd. For he had filled his own mind with shadows, which we Shadows wanted to draw out of him. Those shadows are very different from us, your majesty knows. He was thinking of all the disappointments he had had in life, and of all the ingratitude he had met with. And he thought far more of the good he had done, than the good others had got. 'After all I have done for them,' said he, with a sigh of bitterness, 'not one of them cares a straw for me. My own children will be glad when I am gone!'--At that instant he lifted up his eyes and saw, standing close by the door, a tiny figure in a long night-gown. The door behind her was shut. It was my little friend, who had crept in noiselessly. A pang of icy fear shot to the old man's heart, but it melted away as fast, for we made a lane through us for a single ray from the fire to fall on the face of the little sprite; and he thought it was a child of his own that had died when just the age of her child-niece, who now stood looking for her grandfather among the Shadows. He thought she had come out of her grave in the cold darkness to ask why her father was sitting alone on Christmas-day. And he felt he had no answer to give his little ghost, but one he would be ashamed for her to hear. But his grandchild saw him now, and walked up to him with a childish stateliness, stumbling once or twice on what seemed her long shroud. Pushing through the crowded shadows, she reached him, climbed upon his knee, laid her little long-haired head on his shoulders, and said,--'Ganpa! you goomy? Isn't it your Kissy-Day too, ganpa?' "A new fount of love seemed to burst from the clay of the old man's heart. He clasped the child to his bosom, and wept. Then, without a word, he rose with her in his arms, carried her up to her room, and laying her down in her bed, covered her up, kissed her sweet little mouth unconscious of reproof, and then went to the drawing-room. "As soon as he entered, he saw the culprits in a quiet corner alone. He went up to them, took a hand of each, and joining them in both his, said, 'God bless you!' Then he turned to the rest of the company, and 'Now,' said he, 'let's have a Christmas carol.'--And well he might; for though I have paid many visits to the house, I have never seen him cross since; and I am sure that must cost him a good deal of trouble." "We have just come from a great palace," said another, "where we knew there were many children, and where we thought to hear glad voices, and see royally merry looks. But as soon as we entered, we became aware that one mighty Shadow shrouded the whole; and that Shadow deepened and deepened, till it gathered in darkness about the reposing form of a wise prince. When we saw him, we could move no more, but clung heavily to the walls, and by our stillness added to the sorrow of the hour. And when we saw the mother of her people weeping with bowed head for the loss of him in whom she had trusted, we were seized with such a longing to be Shadows no more, but winged angels, which are the white shadows cast in heaven from the Light of Light, so as to gather around her, and hover over her with comforting, that we vanished from the walls, and found ourselves floating high above the towers of the palace, where we met the angels on their way, and knew that our service was not needed." By this time there was a glimmer of approaching moonlight, and the king began to see several of those stranger Shadows, with human faces and eyes, moving about amongst the crowd. He knew at once that they did not belong to his dominion. They looked at him, and came near him, and passed slowly, but they never made any obeisance, or gave sign of homage. And what their eyes said to him, the king only could tell. And he did not tell. "What are those other Shadows that move through the crowd?" said he to one of his subjects near him. The Shadow started, looked round, shivered slightly, and laid his finger on his lips. Then leading the king a little aside, and looking carefully about him once more,-- "I do not know," said he in a low tone, "what they are. I have heard of them often, but only once did I ever see any of them before. That was when some of us one night paid a visit to a man who sat much alone, and was said to think a great deal. We saw two of those sitting in the room with him, and he was as pale as they were. We could not cross the threshold, but shivered and shook, and felt ready to melt away. Is not your majesty afraid of them too?" But the king made no answer; and before he could speak again, the moon had climbed above the mighty pillars of the church of the Shadows, and looked in at the great window of the sky. The shapes had all vanished; and the king, again lifting up his eyes, saw but the wall of his own chamber, on which flickered the Shadow of a Little Child. He looked down, and there, sitting on a stool by the fire, he saw one of his own little ones, waiting to say good-night to his father, and go to bed early, that he might rise early too, and be very good and happy all Christmas-day. And Ralph Rinkelmann rejoiced that he was a man, and not a Shadow. But as the Shadows vanished they left the sense of song in the king's brain. And the words of their song must have been something like these:-- "Shadows, Shadows, Shadows all! Shadow birth and funeral! Shadow moons gleam overhead; Over shadow-graves we tread. Shadow-hope lives, grows, and dies. Shadow-love from shadow-eyes Shadow-ward entices on To shadow-words on shadow-stone, Closing up the shadow-tale With a shadow-shadow-wail. "Shadow-man, thou art a gloom Cast upon a shadow-tomb Through the endless shadow air, From the shadow sitting there, On a moveless shadow-throne, Glooming through the ages gone; North and south, and in and out, East and west, and all about, Flinging Shadows everywhere On the shadow-painted air Shadow-man, thou hast no story; Nothing but a shadow-glory." But Ralph Rinkelmann said to himself,-- "They are but Shadows that sing thus; for a Shadow can see but Shadows. A man sees a man where a Shadow sees only a Shadow." And he was comforted in himself. 
23112	----	The Kitchen Cat, and other stories, by Amy Walton. ________________________________________________________________________ There are three short stories in this little book, of which the first is by far the longest. Ruth is a poor little rich girl. Her mother had died some time before, and she lives with her father, a lawyer, and an incredibly stupid, though outwardly competent, Nurse. One day she discovers that there is a thin, unfed cat also living in the house. She befriends it, despite Nurse. She becomes very ill for a week or so. Her father discovers her love for the cat, and it is elevated to being the House Cat. In the second story, a "toy" dog is missing. When the dog, Sarah, is found, she tells her young mistress of her adventures. In the third and last story, two young girls are seeing what they can find near a pond. A toad is discovered, and he explains to them that he lives in a hole, which is well covered up, so that he cannot see out. He says that some toads' holes are uncomfortable while some are nice and snug. The girls' attendant, Miss Grey, points out the moral, that we all live in holes of our own making, some of which are comfortable, and some not, but out of which we cannot easily see how other people are living. ________________________________________________________________ THE KITCHEN CAT, AND OTHER STORIES, BY AMY WALTON. CHAPTER ONE. THE VISITOR FROM THE CELLAR. The whole house in London was dull and gloomy, its lofty rooms and staircases were filled with a sort of misty twilight all day, and the sun very seldom looked in at its windows. Ruth Lorimer thought, however, that the very dullest room of all was the nursery, in which she had to pass so much of her time. It was so high up that the people and carts and horses in the street below looked like toys. She could not even see these properly, because there were iron bars to prevent her from stretching her head out too far, so that all she could do was to look straight across to the row of tall houses opposite, or up at the sky between the chimney-pots. How she longed for something different to look at! The houses always looked the same, and though the sky changed sometimes, it was often of a dirty grey colour, and then Ruth gave a little sigh and looked back from the window-seat where she was kneeling, into the nursery, for something to amuse her. It was full of all sorts of toys-- dolls, and dolls' houses elegantly furnished, pictures and books and many pretty things; but in spite of all these she often found nothing to please her, for what she wanted more than anything else was a companion of her own age, and she had no brothers or sisters. The dolls, however much she pretended, were never glad, or sorry, or happy, or miserable--they could not answer her when she talked to them, and their beautiful bright eyes had a hard unfeeling look which became very tiring, for it never changed. There was certainly Nurse Smith. She was alive and real enough; there was no necessity to "pretend" anything about her. She was always there, sitting upright and flat-backed beside her work-basket, frowning a little, not because she was cross, but because she was rather near-sighted. She had come when Ruth was quite a baby, after Mrs Lorimer's death, and Aunt Clarkson often spoke of her as "a treasure." However that might be, she was not an amusing companion; though she did her best to answer all Ruth's questions, and was always careful of her comfort, and particular about her being neatly dressed. Perhaps it was not her fault that she did not understand games, and was quite unable to act the part of any other character than her own. If she did make the attempt, she failed so miserably that Ruth had to tell her what to say, which made it so flat and uninteresting that she found it better to play alone. But she often became weary of this; and there were times when she was tired of her toys, and tired of Nurse Smith, and did not know what in the world to do with herself. Each day passed much in the same way. Ruth's governess came to teach her for an hour every morning, and then after her early dinner there was a walk with Nurse, generally in one direction. And after tea it was time to go and see her father--quite a long journey, through the silent house, down the long stairs to the dining-room where he sat alone at his dessert. Ruth could not remember her mother, and she saw so little of her father that he seemed almost a stranger to her. He was so wonderfully busy, and the world he lived in was such a great way off from hers in the nursery. In the morning he hurried away just as she was at her breakfast, and all she knew of him was the resounding slam of the hall door, which came echoing up the staircase. Very often in the evening he came hastily into the nursery to say good-bye on his way out to some dinner-party, and at night she woke up to hear his step on the stairs as he came back late. But when he dined at home Ruth always went downstairs to dessert. Then, as she entered the large sombre dining-room, where there were great oil paintings on the walls and heavy hangings to the windows, and serious-looking ponderous furniture, her father would look up from his book, or from papers spread on the table, and nod kindly to her: "Ah! It's you, Ruth. Quite well, eh? There's a good child. Have an orange? That's right." Then he would plunge into his reading again, and Ruth would climb slowly on to a great mahogany chair placed ready for her, and watch him as she cut up her orange. She wondered very much why people wrote him such long, long letters, all on blue paper and tied up with pink tape. She felt sure they were not nice letters, for his face always looked worried over them; and when he had finished he threw them on the floor, as though he were glad. This made her so curious that she once ventured to ask him what they were. They were called "briefs", he told her. But she was not much wiser; for, hearing from Nurse Smith that "brief" was another word for short, she felt sure there must be some mistake. Exactly as the clock struck eight Nurse's knock came at the door, Ruth got down from her chair and said good-night. Sometimes her father was so deeply engaged in his reading that he stared at her with a faraway look in his eyes, as if he scarcely knew who she was. After a minute he said absently: "Bed-time, eh? Good-night. Good-night, my dear." Sometimes when he was a little less absorbed he put a sixpence or a shilling into her hand as he kissed her, and added: "There's something to spend at the toy-shop." Ruth received these presents without much surprise or joy. She was used to buying things, and did not find it very interesting; for she could not hope for any sign of pleasure from her dolls when she brought them new clothes or furniture. It is a little dull when all one's efforts for people are received with a perfectly unmoved face. She had once brought Nurse Smith a small china image, hoping that it would be an agreeable surprise; but that had not been successful either. "Lor', my dear, don't you go spending your money on me," she said. "Chany ornaments ain't much good for anything, to my thinking, 'cept to ketch the dust." Thus it came to pass that Ruth never talked much about what interested her either to her father or to Nurse Smith, and as she had no brothers and sisters she was obliged to amuse herself with fancied conversations. Sometimes these were carried on with her dolls, but her chief friend was a picture which she passed every night on the staircase. It was of a man in a flat cap and a fur robe, and he had a pointed smooth chin and narrow eyes, which seemed to follow her slyly on her way. She did not like him and she did not actually fear him, but she had a feeling that he listened to what she said, and that she must tell him any news she had. There was never much except on "Aunt Clarkson's day", as she called it. Aunt Clarkson was her father's sister. She lived in the country, and had many little boys and girls whom Ruth had seldom seen, though she heard a great deal about them. Once every month this aunt came up to London for the day, had long conversations with Nurse, and looked carefully at all Ruth's clothes. She was a sharp-eyed lady, and her visits made a stir in the house which was like a cold wind blowing, so that Ruth was glad when they were over, though her aunt always spoke kindly to her, and said: "Some day you must come and see your little cousins in the country." She had said this so often without its having happened, however, that Ruth had come to look upon it as a mere form of speech--part of Aunt Clarkson's visit, like saying "How d'ye do?" or "Good-bye." It was shortly after one of these occasions that quite by chance Ruth found a new friend, who was better than either the dolls or the man in the picture, because, though it could not answer her, it was really alive. She discovered it in this way. One afternoon she and Nurse Smith had come in from their usual walk, and were toiling slowly up from the hall to the nursery. The stairs got steeper at the last flight, and Nurse went more slowly still, and panted a good deal, for she was stouter than she need have been, though Ruth would never have dreamed of saying so. Ruth was in front, and she had nearly reached the top when something came hurrying towards her which surprised her very much. It was a long, lean, grey cat. It had a guilty look, as though it knew it had been trespassing, and squeezed itself as close as it could against the wall as it passed. "Pretty puss!" said Ruth softly, and put out her hand to stop it. The cat at once arched up its back and gave a friendly little answering mew. Ruth wondered where it came from. It was ugly, she thought, but it seemed a pleasant cat and glad to be noticed. She rubbed its head gently. It felt hard and rough like Nurse's old velvet bonnet; there was indeed no sleekness about it anywhere, and it was so thin that its sides nearly met. "Poor puss!" said Ruth stroking it tenderly. The cat replied by pushing its head gently against her arm, and presently began a low purring song. Delighted, Ruth bent her ear to listen. "Whoosh! Shish! Get along! Scat!" suddenly sounded from a few steps below. Nurse's umbrella was violently flourished, the cat flew downstairs with a spit like an angry firework, and Ruth turned round indignantly. "You _shouldn't_ have done that," she said, stamping her foot; "I wanted to talk to it. Whose is it?" "It's that nasty kitchen cat," said Nurse, much excited, and grasping her umbrella spitefully. "I'm not going to have it prowling about on my landing. An ugly thieving thing, as has no business above stairs at all." Ruth pressed her face against the balusters. In the distance below she could see the small grey form of the kitchen cat making its way swiftly and silently downstairs. It went so fast that it seemed to float rather than to run, and was soon out of sight. "I should like to have played with it up in the nursery," she said, with a sigh, as she continued her way. "I wish you hadn't frightened it away." "Lor', Miss Ruth, my dear," answered Nurse, "what can a little lady like you want with a nasty, low, kitchen cat! Come up and play with some of your beautiful toys, there's a dear! Do." Nevertheless Ruth thought about the cat a great deal that afternoon, and the toys seemed even less interesting than usual. When tea was over, and Nurse had taken up her sewing again, she began to make a few inquiries. "Where does that cat live?" she asked. "In the kitchen, to be sure," said Nurse; "and the cellar, and coal-hole, and such like. Alonger the rats and mice--and the beadles," she added, as an after-thought. "The beadles!" repeated Ruth doubtfully. "_What_ beadles?" "Why, the _black_ beadles, to be sure," replied Nurse cheerfully. Ruth was silent. It seemed dismal company for the kitchen cat. Then she said: "Are there many of them?" "Swarms!" said Nurse, breaking off her thread with a snap. "The kitchen's black with 'em at night." What a dreadful picture! "Who feeds the cat?" asked Ruth again. "Oh, I don't suppose nobody _feeds_ it," answered Nurse. "It lives on what it ketches every now and then." No wonder it looked thin! Poor kitchen cat! How very miserable and lonely it must be with no one to take care of it, and how dreadful for it to have such nasty things to eat! And the supply even of these must be short sometimes, Ruth went on to consider. What did it do when it could find no more mice or rats? Of the beetles she could not bear even to think. As she turned these things seriously over in her mind she began to wish she could do something to alter them, to make the cat's life more comfortable and pleasant. If she could have it to _live_ with her in the nursery for instance, she could give it some of her own bread and milk, and part of her own dinner; then it would get fatter and perhaps prettier too. She would tie a ribbon round its neck, and it should sleep in a basket lined with red flannel, and never be scolded or chased about or hungry any more. All these pictures were suddenly destroyed by Nurse's voice: "But I hope you'll not encourage it up here, Miss Ruth, for I couldn't abide it, and I'm sure your Aunt Clarkson wouldn't approve of it neither. I've had a horror of cats myself from a gal. They're that stealthy and treacherous, you never know where they mayn't be hiding, or when they won't spring out at you. If ever I catch it up here I shall bannock it down again." There was evidently no sympathy to be looked for from Nurse Smith; but Ruth was used to keeping her thoughts and plans to herself, and did not miss it much. As she could not talk about it, however, she thought of her new acquaintance all the more; it was indeed seldom out of her mind, and while she seemed to be quietly amusing herself in her usual way, she was occupied with all sorts of plans and arrangements for the cat when it should come to live in the nursery. Meanwhile it was widely separated from her; how could she let it know that she wanted to see it again? When she went up and down stairs she peered and peeped about to see if she could catch a glimpse of its hurrying grey figure, and she never came in from a walk without expecting to meet it on her way to the nursery. But she never did. The kitchen cat kept to its own quarters and its own society. Perhaps it had been too often "bannocked" down again to venture forth. And yet Ruth felt sure that it had been glad when she had spoken kindly to it. What a pity that Nurse did not like cats! She confided all this as usual to the man in the picture, who received it with his narrow observant glance and seemed to give it serious consideration. Perhaps it was he who at last gave her a splendid idea, which she hastened to carry out as well as she could, though remembering Nurse's strong expression of dislike she felt obliged to do so with the greatest secrecy. As a first step, she examined the contents of her little red purse. A whole shilling, a sixpence, and a threepenny bit. That would be more than enough. Might they go to some shops that afternoon, she asked, when she and Nurse were starting for their walk. "To be sure, Miss Ruth; and what sort of shops do you want? Toy-shops, I suppose." "N-no," said Ruth; "I think not. It must be somewhere where they sell note-paper, and a baker's, I _think_; but I'm not quite sure." Arrived at the stationer's, Ruth was a long time before deciding on what she would have; but at last, after the woman had turned over a whole boxful, she came to some pink note-paper with brightly painted heads of animals upon it, and upon the envelopes also. "Oh!" cried Ruth when she saw it, clasping her hands with delight. "_That_ would do beautifully. Only--_have_ you any with a cat?" Yes, there _was_ some with a nice fluffy cat upon it, and she left the shop quite satisfied with her first purchase. "And now," said Nurse briskly, whose patience had been a good deal tried, "we must make haste back, it's getting late." But Ruth had still something on her mind. She _must_ go to one more shop, she said, though she did not know exactly which. At last she fixed on a baker's. "What should you think," she asked on the way, "that a cat likes to eat better than anything in the world?" "Why, a mouse to be sure," answered Nurse promptly. "Well, but _next_ to mice?" persisted Ruth. "Fish," said Nurse Smith. "That would never do," thought Ruth to herself as she looked at a fish-shop they were passing. "It's so wet and slippery I couldn't possibly carry it home. Perhaps Nurse doesn't _really_ know what cats like best. Anyhow, I'm sure it's never tasted anything so nice as a Bath bun." A Bath bun was accordingly bought, carried home, and put carefully away in the doll's house. And now Ruth felt that she had an important piece of business before her. She spread out a sheet of the new writing-paper on the window-seat, knelt in front of it with a pencil in her hand, and ruled some lines. She could not write very well, and was often uncertain how to spell even short words; so she bit the end of her pencil and sighed a good deal before the letter was finished. At last it was done, and put into the envelope. But now came a new difficulty: How should it be addressed? After much thought she wrote the following: The Kitchen Cat, The Kitchen, 17 Gower Street. CHAPTER TWO. HER BEST FRIEND. After this letter had been dropped into the pillar-box just in front of the house, Ruth began to look out still more eagerly for the kitchen cat, but days passed and she caught no glimpse of it anywhere. It was disappointing, and troublesome too, because she had to carry the Bath bun about with her so long. Not only was it getting hard and dry, but it was such an awkward thing for her pocket that she had torn her frock in the effort to force it in. "You might a' been carrying brick-bats about with you, Miss Ruth," said Nurse, "by the way you've slit your pocket open." This went on till Ruth began to despair. "I'll try it one more evening," she said to herself, "and if it doesn't come then I shall give it up." Once more, therefore, when she was ready to go downstairs, she took the bun out of the dolls' house, where she kept it wrapped up in tissue paper, and squeezed it into her pocket. Rather hopelessly, but still keeping a careful look-out, she proceeded slowly on her way, when behold, just as she reached the top of the last flight, a little cringing grey figure crossed the hall below. "It's come!" she exclaimed in an excited whisper. "It's come at last!" But though it had come, it seemed now the cat's greatest desire to go, for it was hurrying towards the kitchen stairs. "Puss! Puss!" called out Ruth in an entreating voice as she hastily ran down. "Stop a minute! _Pretty_ puss!" Startled at the noise and the patter of the quick little feet, the cat paused in its flight and turned its scared yellow-green eyes upon Ruth. She had now reached the bottom step, where she stood struggling to get the Bath bun out of her small pocket, her face pink with the effort and anxiety lest the cat should go before she succeeded. "_Pretty_ puss!" she repeated as she tugged at the parcel. "Don't go away." One more desperate wrench, which gashed open the corner of the pocket, and the bun was out. The cat looked on with one paw raised, ready to fly at the first sign of danger, as with trembling fingers Ruth managed to break a piece off the horny surface. She held it out. The cat came nearer, sniffed at it suspiciously, and then to her great joy took the morsel, crouched down, and munched it up. "How good it must taste," she thought, "after the mice and rats." By degrees it was induced to make further advances, and before long to come on to the step where Ruth sat, and make a hearty meal of the bun which she crumbled up for it. "I'm afraid it's dry," she said; "but I couldn't bring any milk, you know, and you must get some water afterwards." The cat seemed to understand, and replied by pushing its head against her, and purred loudly. How thin it was! Ruth wondered as she looked gravely at it whether it would soon be fatter if she fed it every day. She became so interested in talking to it, and watching its behaviour, that she nearly forgot she had to go into the dining-room, and jumped up with a start. "Good-night," she said. "If you'll come again I'll bring you something else another day." She looked back as she turned the handle of the heavy door. The cat was sitting primly upright on the step washing its face after its meal. "I expect it doesn't feel so hungry now," thought Ruth as she went into the room. The acquaintance thus fairly begun was soon followed by other meetings, and the cat was often in the hall when Ruth came downstairs, though it did not appear every evening. The uncertainty of this was most exciting, and "Will it be there to-night?" was her frequent thought during the day. As time went on, and they grew to know each other better, she began to find the kitchen cat a far superior companion to either her dolls or the man in the picture. True, it could not answer her any more than they did--in words, but it had a language of its own which she understood perfectly. She knew when it was pleased, and when it said "Thank you" for some delicacy she brought for it; its yellow eyes beamed with sympathy and interest when she described the delights of that beautiful life it would enjoy in the nursery; and when she pitied it for the darkness of its present dwelling below, she knew it understood by the way it rubbed against her and arched up its back. There were many more pleasures in each day now that she had made this acquaintance. Shopping became interesting, because she could look forward to the cat's surprise and enjoyment when the parcel was opened in the evening; everything that happened was treasured up to tell it when they met, or, if it was not there, to write to it on the pink note-paper; the very smartest sash belonging to her best doll was taken to adorn the cat's thin neck; and the secrecy which surrounded all this made it doubly delightful. Ruth had never been a greedy child, and if Nurse Smith wondered sometimes that she now spent all her money on cakes, she concluded that they must be for a dolls' feast, and troubled herself no further. Miss Ruth was always so fond of "making believe." So things went on very quietly and comfortably, and though Ruth could not discover that the kitchen cat got any fatter, it had certainly improved in some ways since her attentions. Its face had lost its scared look, and it no longer crept about as close to the ground as possible, but walked with an assured tread and its tail held high. It could never be a pretty cat to the general eye, but when it came trotting noiselessly to meet Ruth, uttering its short mew of welcome, she thought it beautiful, and would not have changed it for the sleekest, handsomest cat in the kingdom. But it was the kitchen cat still. All this did not bring it one step nearer to the nursery. It must still live, Ruth often thought with sorrow, amongst the rats and mice and beetles. Nothing could ever happen which would induce Nurse Smith to allow it to come upstairs. And yet something did happen which brought this very thing to pass in a strange way which would never have entered her mind. The spring came on with a bright sun and cold sharp winds, and one day Ruth came in from her walk feeling shivery and tired. She could not eat her dinner, and her head had a dull ache in it, and she thought she would like to go to bed. She did not feel ill, she said, but she was first very hot and then very cold. Nurse Smith sent for the doctor; and he came and looked kindly at her, and felt her pulse and said she must stay in bed and he would send some medicine. And she went to sleep, and had funny dreams in which she plainly saw the kitchen cat dressed in Aunt Clarkson's bonnet and cloak. It stood by her bed and talked in Aunt Clarkson's voice, and she saw its grey fur paws under the folds of the cloak. She wished it would go away, and wondered how she could have been so fond of it. When Nurse came to give her something she said feebly: "Send the cat away." "Bless you, my dear, there's no cat here," she answered. "There's nobody been here but me and Mrs Clarkson." At last there came a day when she woke up from a long sleep and found that the pain in her head was gone, and that the things in the room which had been taking all manner of queer shapes looked all right again. "And how do you feel, Miss Ruth, my dear?" asked Nurse, who sat sewing by the bedside. "I'm quite well, thank you," said Ruth. "Why am I in bed in the middle of the day?" "Well, you haven't been just quite well, you know," said Nurse. "Haven't I?" said Ruth. She considered this for some time, and when Nurse came to her with some beef-tea in her hand, she asked: "Have I been in bed more than a day?" "You've been in bed a week," said Nurse. "But you'll get along finely now, and be up and about again in no time." Ruth drank her beef-tea and thought it over. Suddenly she dropped her spoon into the cup. The kitchen cat! How it must have missed her if she had been in bed a week. Unable to bear the idea in silence, she sat up in bed with a flushed face and asked eagerly: "Have you seen the cat?" Nurse instantly rose with a concerned expression, and patted her soothingly on the shoulder. "There now, my dear, we won't have any more fancies about cats and such. You drink your beef-tea up and I'll tell you something pretty." Ruth took up her spoon again. It was of no use to talk to Nurse about it, but it was dreadful to think how disappointed the cat must have been evening after evening. Meanwhile Nurse went on in a coaxing tone: "If so be as you make haste and get well, you're to go alonger me and stay with your Aunt Clarkson in the country. There now!" Ruth received the news calmly. It did not seem a very pleasant prospect, or even a very real one to her. "There'll be little boys and girls to play with," pursued Nurse, trying to heighten the picture; "and flowers--and birds and such--and medders, and a garding, and all manner." But nothing could rouse Ruth to more than a very languid interest in these delights. Her thoughts were all with her little friend downstairs; and she felt certain that it had often been hungry, and no doubt thought very badly of her for her neglect. If she could only see it and explain that it had not been her fault! The next day Aunt Clarkson herself came. She always had a great deal on her mind when she came up to town, and liked to get through her shopping in time to go back in the afternoon, so she could never stay long with Ruth. She came bustling in, looking very strong, and speaking in a loud cheerful voice, and all the while she was there she gave quick glances round her at everything in the room. Ruth was well enough to be up, and was sitting in a big chair by the nursery fire, with picture-books and toys near; but she was not looking at them. Her eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the fire, and her mind was full of the kitchen cat. She had tried to write to it, but the words would not come, and her fingers trembled so much that she could not hold the pencil straight. The vexation and disappointment of this had made her head ache, and altogether she presented rather a mournful little figure. "Well, Nurse, and how are we going on?" said Aunt Clarkson, sitting down in the chair Nurse placed for her. Remembering her dream, Ruth could not help giving a glance at Aunt Clarkson's hands. They were fat, round hands, and she kept them doubled up, so that they really looked rather like a cat's paws. "Well, ma'am," replied Nurse, "Miss Ruth's better; but she's not, so to say, as cheerful as I could wish. Still a few _fancies_, ma'am," she added in an undertone which Ruth heard perfectly. "Fancies, eh?" repeated Aunt Clarkson in her most cheerful voice. "Oh, we shall get rid of them at Summerford. You'll have real things to play with there, Ruth, you know. Lucy, and Cissie, and Bobbie will be better than fancies, won't they?" Ruth gave a faint little nod. She did not know what her aunt meant by "fancies." The cat was quite as real as Lucy, or Cissie, or Bobbie. Should she ask her about it, or did she hate cats like Nurse Smith? She gazed wistfully at Mrs Clarkson's face, who had now drawn a list from her pocket, and was running through the details half aloud with an absorbed frown. "I shall wait and see the doctor, Nurse," she said presently; "and if he comes soon I shall _just_ get through my business, and catch the three o'clock express." No, it would be of no use, Ruth concluded, as she let her head fall languidly back against the pillow--Aunt Clarkson was far too busy to think about the cat. Fortunately for her business, the doctor did not keep her waiting long. Ruth was better, he said, and all she wanted now was cheering up a little--she looked dull and moped. "If she could have a little friend, now, to see her, or a cheerful companion," glancing at Nurse Smith, "it would have a good effect." He withdrew with Mrs Clarkson to the door, and they continued the conversation in low tones, so that only scraps of it reached Ruth: "--Excitable--fanciful--too much alone--children of her own age--" Aunt Clarkson's last remark came loud and clear: "We shall cure that at Summerford, Dr Short. We're not dull people there, and we've no time for fancies." She smiled, the doctor smiled, they shook hands and both soon went away. Ruth leant her head on her hand. Was there no one who would understand how much she wanted to see the kitchen cat? Would they all talk about fancies? What were Lucy and Cissie and Bobbie to her?--strangers, and the cat was a friend. She would rather stroke its rough head, and listen to its purring song, than have them all to play with. It was so sad to think how it must have missed her, how much she wanted to see it, and how badly her head ached, that she felt obliged to shed a few tears. Nurse discovered this with much concern. "And there was master coming up to see you to-night and all, Miss Ruth. It'll never do for him to find you crying, you know. I think you'd better go to bed." Ruth looked up with a sudden gleam of hope, and checked her tears. "When is he coming?" she asked. "I want to see him." "Well, I s'pose directly he comes home--about your tea-time. But if I let you sit up we mustn't have no more tears, you know, else he'll think you ain't getting well." Ruth sank quietly back among her shawls in the big chair. An idea had darted suddenly into her mind which comforted her very much, and she was too busy with it to cry any more. She would ask her father! True, it was hardly likely that he would have any thoughts to spare for such a small thing as the kitchen cat; but still there was just a faint chance that he would understand better than Nurse and Aunt Clarkson. So she waited with patience, listening anxiously for his knock and the slam of the hall door, and at last, just as Nurse was getting the tea ready, it came. Her heart beat fast. Soon there was a hurried step on the stairs, and her father entered the room. Ruth studied his face earnestly. Was he tired? Was he worried? Would he stay long enough to hear the important question? He kissed her and sat down near her. "How is Miss Ruth to-day?" he said rather wearily to Nurse. Standing stiffly erect behind Ruth's chair, Nurse Smith repeated all that the doctor and Mrs Clarkson had said. "And I think myself, sir," she added, "that Miss Ruth will be all the better of a cheerful change. She worrits herself with fancies." Ruth looked earnestly up at her father's face, but said nothing. "Worries herself?" repeated Mr Lorimer, with a puzzled frown. "What can she have to worry about? Is there anything you want, my dear?" he said, taking hold of Ruth's little hot hand and bending over her. The moment had come. Ruth gathered all her courage, sat upright, and fixing an entreating gaze upon him said: "I want to see my best friend." "Your best friend, eh?" he answered, smiling as if it were a very slight affair. "One of your little cousins, I suppose? Well, you're going to Summerford, you know, and then you'll see them all. I forget their names. Tommie, Mary, Carry, which is it?" Ruth gave a hopeless little sigh. She was so tired of these cousins. "It's none of them," she said shaking her head. "I don't want any of them." "Who is it, then?" "It's the kitchen cat." Mr Lorimer started back with surprise at the unexpected words. "The kitchen cat!" he repeated, looking distractedly at Nurse. "Her best friend! What does the child mean?" "Miss Ruth has fancies, sir," she began with a superior smile. But she did not get far, for at that word Ruth started to her feet in desperation. "It isn't a fancy!" she cried; "it's a _real_ cat. I know it very well and it knows me. And I _do_ want to see it so. _Please_ let it come." The last words broke off in a sob. Mr Lorimer lifted her gently on to his knee. "Where is this cat?" he said, turning to Nurse with such a frown that Ruth thought he must be angry. "Why hasn't Miss Ruth had it before if she wanted it?" "Well, I believe there _is_ a cat somewhere below, sir," she replied in an injured tone; "but I'd no idea, I'm sure, that Miss Ruth was worritting after it. To the best of my knowledge she's only seen it once. She's so fond of making believe that it's hard to tell when she _is_ in earnest. I thought it was a kind of a fancy she got in her head when she was ill." "Fetch it here at once, if you please." Nurse hesitated. "It's hardly a fit pet for Miss Ruth, sir." "At once, if you please," repeated Mr Lorimer. And Nurse went. Ruth listened to this with her breath held, almost frightened at her own success. Not only was the kitchen cat to be admitted, but it was to be brought by the very hands of Nurse herself. It was wonderful--almost too wonderful to be true. And now it seemed that her father wished to know how the kitchen cat had become her best friend. He was very much interested in it, and she thought his face looked quite different while he listened to her to what it looked when he was reading his papers downstairs. Finding that he asked sensible questions, and did not once say anything about "fancies", she was encouraged to tell him more and more, and at last leant her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. It would be all right now. She had found someone at last who understood. The entrance of the kitchen cat shortly afterwards was neither dignified nor comfortable, for it appeared dangling at the end of Nurse's outstretched arm, held by the neck as far as possible from her own person. When it was first put down it was terrified at its new surroundings, and it was a little painful to find that it wanted to rush downstairs again at once, in spite of Ruth's fondest caresses. It was Mr Lorimer who came to her help, and succeeded at last in soothing its fears and coaxing it to drink some milk, after which it settled down placidly with her in the big chair and began its usual song of contentment. She examined it carefully with a grave face, and then looked apologetically at her father. "It doesn't look its _best_" she said. "Its paws are white _really_, but I think it's been in the coal-hole." This seemed very likely, for not only its paws but the smart ribbon Ruth had tied round its neck was grimy and black. "It's not _exactually_ pretty," she continued, "but it's a _very_ nice cat. You can't think how well it knows me--generally." Mr Lorimer studied the long lean form of the cat curiously through his eye-glass. "You wouldn't like a white Persian kitten better for a pet--or a nice little dog, now?" he asked doubtfully. "Oh, _please_ not," said Ruth with a shocked expression on her face. "I shouldn't love it half so well, and I'm sure the kitchen cat wouldn't like it." That was a wonderful evening. Everything seemed as suddenly changed as if a fairy had touched them with her wand. Not only was the kitchen cat actually there in the nursery, drinking milk and eating toast, but there was a still stranger alteration. This father was quite different to the one she had known in the dining-room downstairs, who was always reading and had no time to talk. His very face had altered, for instead of looking grave and faraway it was full of smiles and interest. And how well he understood about the kitchen cat! When her bed-time came he seemed quite sorry to go away, and his last words were: "Remember, Nurse, Miss Ruth is to have the cat here whenever she likes and as long as she likes." It was all so strange that Ruth woke up the next morning with a feeling that she had had a pleasant dream. The kitchen cat and the new father would both vanish with daylight; they were "fancies", as Nurse called them, and not real things at all. But as the days passed and she grew strong enough to go downstairs as usual, it was delightful to find that this was not the case. The new father was there still. The cat was allowed to make a third in the party, and soon learned to take its place with dignity and composure. But though thus honoured, it no longer received all Ruth's confidences. She had found a better friend. Her difficulties, her questions, her news were all saved up for the evening to tell her father. It was the best bit in the whole day. On one of these occasions they were all three sitting happily together, and Ruth had just put a new brass collar which her father had bought round the cat's neck. "I don't want to go to Summerford," she said suddenly. "I'd much rather stay here with you." "And the cat," added Mr Lorimer as he kissed her. "Well, you must come back soon and take care of us both, you know." "You'll be kind to it when I'm gone, won't you?" said Ruth. "Because, you know, I don't think the servants _understand_ cats. They're rather sharp to it." "It shall have dinner with me every night," said Mr Lorimer. In this way the kitchen cat was raised from a lowly station to great honour, and its life henceforth was one of peace and freedom. It went where it would, no one questioned its right of entrance to the nursery or dared to slight it in any way. In spite, however, of choice meals and luxury it never grew fat, and never, except in Ruth's eyes, became pretty. It also kept to many of its old habits, preferring liberty and the chimney-pots at night to the softly-lined basket prepared for its repose. But with all its faults Ruth loved it faithfully as long as it lived, for in her own mind she felt that she owed it a great deal. She remembered that evening when, a lonely little child, she had called it her "best friend." Perhaps she would not have discovered so soon that she had a better friend still, without the kitchen cat. CHAPTER THREE. "Who saw Sarah last?" It was Hester who had seen her last when she had said good-bye to a friend at the hall door. That was at eleven o'clock in the morning; now it was one o'clock in the afternoon, and there was no Sarah to be found anywhere. Not in the nursery, not in any of the bedrooms, not upstairs, not downstairs; every hole and corner and crevice much too small to hide Sarah was thoroughly searched. Her name was called in the fondest tones by every member of the family from father and mother down to little Diana, and by all the servants, but there was no answer. There could be no doubt about it--Sarah was lost! Little Diana was heart-broken. It was dreadful to think of Sarah out alone in the noisy London streets, where she knew no one and no one would know her, where she would soon get confused and lose her way, and where all the houses looked so much alike that she would never, never be able to find her home again. Perhaps even some wicked person might steal Sarah, or she might be run over by a carriage, or bitten by a dog, or--there were no end of misfortunes which might happen to her, for it made it all the more sad to remember that Sarah could not speak. Who was Sarah? Perhaps you may have been thinking that she was a little girl. Nothing of the kind. She was the dearest little dog in the world, with a yellow and white silky coat, and a very turned-up nose, and goggling, affectionate dark eyes. She was a gay-tempered little creature, full of playful coaxing ways, and a great pet with everyone; but she was fondest of her mistress, Diana. She went everywhere with her, knew her step from that of any of the other children, and would prick up her ears and listen for it a long way off. Her whole name was "Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough", and she was a Blenheim spaniel. As befitted her rank, Sarah led a life of luxury, and had a great many possessions of her very own. Smart collars and bells, a box full of different coloured ribbons, a travelling trunk with her name upon it, a brush and comb, a warm coat for cold weather, and a comfortable basket to sleep in. Everything that heart could desire for comfort or adornment was hers. She had never been used to the least roughness or hardship, and certainly was too delicate to fight her own way in the world. And now Sarah was lost! All through that Sunday everyone was very much disturbed, and talked of nothing but how they could find her. If a visitor came in, the conversation was all about Sarah; but no one seemed to be very hopeful that she would be brought back. There were dog-stealers about, they said, and such a little dog would be easily picked up and hidden. Poor Diana listened to all this, and got more and more miserable as the day went on, for she began to feel quite sure that she should never see her dear little dog again. She moped about, got very pale, would not eat her dinner, and would have been in utter despair if Mother had not given her some comfort. For Mother was the only person who thought there was a chance of Sarah's return, and this cheered Diana, because she had a feeling that Mother knew everything. Nevertheless when Monday morning came and there was no Sarah, Diana went downstairs in the lowest spirits. "Immediately after breakfast," said her mother, "I shall put on my bonnet and go out to look for Sarah." "Will you _promise_ to bring her back?" asked poor little Diana earnestly. Even Mother could not _promise_, but she would do her very best, and when she had started Diana went up to the nursery somewhat comforted, to wait as patiently as she could for her return. Long, long before that could possibly happen she stationed herself at the window, and fixed her eyes on the busy street below. Carts, carriages, cabs, people, how they all went on and on without a pause, full of their own business or pleasure! So many ladies, but not Mother; so many dogs, small and big, but not one quite like Sarah. Diana's mouth began to droop more and more with disappointment, and she was very near crying. Even Mother could not bring Sarah back! "A watched kettle never boils, Miss Diana," said Nurse. "You'd much better come away from the window and play, and then the time'd pass quicker." But Diana would not move. Just as Nurse spoke she caught sight of a bonnet in the distance just like Mother's, but she had been so often deceived that she hardly dared to hope. It came nearer--it was opposite the house. Oh, joy! Mother's face, with an expression of triumphant satisfaction upon it, looked up to the nursery window. No wonder it was triumphant, for under her arm there appeared a yellow and white head, with silky ears and large dark eyes. Sarah was found! It seemed almost too good to be true. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ You may imagine how Diana rejoiced over Sarah and petted her, and how interested she and everyone else were to hear how the little dog had been traced to a coachman's house in a mews close by. Sarah, on her side, seemed very glad to be with her dear little mistress again, and after returning her caresses curled herself up and went to sleep on the sofa, no doubt tired with her adventures. How Diana wished she could tell her all she had done and seen on that Sunday when everyone had been so unhappy about her! "Where did you go, you darling?" she asked her over and over again, but Sarah never answered. She only wagged her fringy tail, and licked her mistress's hand, and goggled at her with her full dark eyes. And yet Diana felt quite sure that she had many strange and interesting things to tell, if she only could. One afternoon she was lying on the schoolroom sofa with Sarah by her side. It was a very hot day, the blinds were down and the windows wide open, so that the distant rumble of the carts and carriages came up from the street below. There was an organ playing too, and as Diana listened dreamily to these noises, and stroked Sarah's head with one hand, she began to wonder again about those wonderful adventures. "Tell me where you went on Sunday," she whispered once more. To her great surprise, she plainly heard, among all the other noises, the sound of a tiny voice close to her. She listened eagerly, and this is what it said: "You must know, my dear mistress, that I have long had a great wish to see more of the world. The park is pleasant enough, but after all if you are led on a string and not allowed to speak to other dogs, it soon becomes dull and tiresome. I wanted to go out alone, into the busy street, to stay as long as I liked, to take whatever direction I fancied, and to join in the amusements of other dogs. In short, I wanted more freedom; and although I never gave way to temper or became snappish, I grew more and more discontented with my safe and pleasant life. I was so closely watched, however, that I could never get an opportunity for the least little stroll alone, and I began to despair, when, at last, on Sunday, the chance really came. I was alone in the hall, Hester opened the door, I slipped out unseen, and there I was-- free! "It was delightful to find myself alone on the door-step, and to hear the door shut behind me; not that I did not fully intend to go back, for I love my mistress and am not ungrateful for the kindness shown me, but it was so pleasant to think that for a short time I could do just as I liked. I soon found, however, that this was very far from the case. "At first I trotted along the pavement in the best spirits, meeting very few dogs, and those of a very rough kind, so that I did not care to speak to them. It was, as you remember, a very hot day. The ground felt quite burning under my feet, and soon I should have been thankful to be carried a little while. I got thirsty too, and I began to look about for a shady place where I could lie down and rest out of the sun. Presently I came to a narrow turning, which looked dark and cool compared to the bright hot streets. It was quiet too, for there was only a man in the yard washing a cart, and a rough-coated grey dog sitting near. I made up my mind to try this, and trotting up to the dog made a few remarks about the heat of the weather. From his replies I soon perceived that he was quite a common dog, though very good-natured in manner, and he shortly told me he belonged to the green-grocer and that his name was `Bob.' "We continued to talk, and before long I learnt a good deal about his way of life, which interested me extremely from its great contrast to my own. In spite of its hardships there was something attractive about it too, though quite out of the question for anyone of delicacy and refinement. For Bob was a working dog. He had to be at Covent Garden by daybreak with his master, to go on all his rounds with him, and to take care of the vegetables in the cart while he called at the different houses. "`And what do you get for all that?' I asked. "`I get my food, and a good many kicks sometimes,' he answered. "`Poor dog!' I exclaimed, for my heart was filled with pity for him, and I no longer thought his an attractive life. `Why don't you run away?' "Bob grinned. `I'm not so stupid as that,' he replied. `Dogs that run away come to bad ends. Besides, I'm happy enough. I get a holiday sometimes, and a walk in the park, and on Sunday I can do what I like.' "`Dear me!' I exclaimed languidly. `What a dreadful life! Now, _I_ have nothing to do but to please myself every day in the week, and as for the park, I go there so often I'm perfectly sick of it.' "`Do you get your Sundays out?' asked Bob. "I hesitated. `This is really my first Sunday out,' I replied at length, `but I intend in future--' "`What's your name?' rudely interrupted Bob. "He certainly had no manners at all, but what could you expect from a dog of low degree? "`My name,' I replied, holding up my head with a slight sniff of disdain, `is--Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough!' "I had no time to notice the effect of these words, for they were hardly out of my mouth when I felt myself seized by a large hand, lifted into the air, and thrust into someone's coat pocket. From this humiliating position I heard the voice of the man washing the cart:-- "`That _your_ dorg?' And someone answered, `It belongs to the lady.' "You may judge, my dear mistress, how frightened I felt. Here was a sudden end to my freedom! Imprisoned in a strange man's pocket, from which escape was impossible, nearly stifled with the smell of tobacco, and filled with dread as to what would happen next. I managed to wriggle my head out of the corner, but saw at once that it would be useless to think of jumping out, the distance from the ground being far too great. I remained still therefore, and as the man walked out of the yard had a faint hope that he knew where I lived and was taking me home. Alas! I was soon disappointed. He turned down a mews, went into a house I had never seen before, up some narrow stairs without any carpet, and entered a room where there sat a large fat man in his shirt sleeves, smoking and reading a newspaper. I was placed trembling on the table by his side, and he took the pipe out of his mouth and turned his head to look at me. "`Nice little sort of a fancy dorg,' he said at last. `What they call a "Blennum".' "`Strayed into the yard,' said the man who had picked me up. `I'm going to show it to the missus presently.' "`Worth a tidy sum,' said the fat man, and went on smoking. "Was ever a dog of my rank and position brought down so low? No one took any more notice of me, or seemed to think me of any importance, and I remained shivering on the table with large tears rolling down my cheeks. How I repented my folly! I had wanted to see the world, and here it was, a miserable contrast to my happy life at home, where I was fondled and admired by everyone. Foolish, foolish little dog that I had been! I began to think too how my dear little mistress would miss me, and how they would search everywhere and call for me in vain, and the more I thought the more painful it all seemed. A long and wretched time passed in this way, during which the fat man, who was a coachman I afterwards heard, puffed at his pipe and read his newspaper, sometimes shaking his head and talking to himself a little. He hardly seemed to know I was there, and I believe if the door had been open I could easily have escaped, for the other man had gone out of the room. But there was no chance of that; by and by he came back, took me under his arm and went out into the street again. Where was he going, I wondered. He had talked of the missus, but if the missus was any friend of his I had no hope that she would prove agreeable. It was a great surprise, therefore, to find myself a little later in a large house where there were soft carpets, and pictures, and flowers, and everything I have been used to see around me. Not only this, but I was most warmly received by a lady, who called me a duck, a darling, a love, and a beauty. These familiar names, which I had been accustomed to hear from my birth, made me feel somewhat at home, and I began to take comfort. At any rate, I was now with people who knew how to behave to me, and would treat me with consideration. I passed the rest of the day, therefore, in peace, though I still sighed for my own mistress, and had no appetite for the new roll and cream offered me. "All my fears returned, however, for to my distress I was sent back to sleep at the coachman's house, where I passed the night full of anxiety and the most dismal thoughts. How would all this end? Who can picture my ecstasy of delight the next morning when I heard the sound of your mother's voice talking to the coachman below? I need not tell you how she had succeeded in tracing me through the green-grocer, who had seen me picked up in the yard, for that you know already. I cannot help feeling that Bob may have had something to do with my recovery, for I am sure though rough in his manners he was a well-meaning dog. If so, I am grateful to him. To end a long story, my dear mistress, I must remark that I have no longer any wish to know more of the world. It is far too rough and noisy a place for me, and you need have no fear, therefore, that I shall try to repeat my experience, or shall ever forget the lesson taught me by `my Sunday out'." CHAPTER FOUR. "When is she coming?" "To-morrow." "Are you glad?" "No. Are you?" "I don't care. I wonder how long she will stay. I know Mother said a week, but I dare say she'll ask her to stay longer as she did last year." "Well, I know she'll be tiresome, and I shall be glad when she goes away." "I'm going to sleep now." "Oh, Martha, how soon you always do go to sleep! I'm not a bit sleepy yet." A snore from the other little bed soon showed Betty that further talk was hopeless. She would have liked to chatter longer, but Martha had a way of falling asleep at the most interesting points, and Betty knew it would be useless to try and rouse her now. So she resigned herself to her own thoughts with a sigh. Kitty was coming to-morrow! Coming before Martha and she had had any enjoyment of their country life together, for the children had only just left London. Coming to spoil all their plans and games with her tiresome ways, just as she had done last year. Of course she would insist on being first in everything, on ruling everyone, and would be as pushing and disagreeable as possible. It was all very well to say that she was a visitor and must do as she wished, but that did not make it any the less provoking. And then Martha took it all so quietly. It was almost impossible to rouse her to be angry, and that was annoying too in its way. "I suppose," thought Betty, very sleepily now, "that I ought to try to be patient too, but sometimes I really _can't_." She fell asleep here, and dreamed that Kitty was an immense "daddy-long-legs" flapping and buzzing about in her hair. The next afternoon Kitty arrived, full of excitement, and ready to be more than delighted with everything. She was eleven years old, just Martha's age, and Betty was two years younger. Fresh from her life in London, where there always were so many lessons to be learned and so little "fun" of any kind, this beautiful country home was a sort of paradise to her. To have no one to scold her, no lessons to learn, no tiresome straight walks with her governess, and above all, to have two playfellows always ready to join in pleasures and games! Kitty was an only child, and her life was often dull for want of companionship. Everything went on very well at first, for there was so much to do and see that there was no time for disputes. True, Kitty commanded as much as ever, and had a way of setting people to rights which was distinctly trying; but she and Betty did not come to any open disagreement until she had been at Holmwood for nearly a week. Nevertheless there had been many small occasions on which Betty had felt fretted and irritated; for Kitty, without the least intending it, seemed often to choose just the wrong thing to say and do. And then she always wished to do _exactly_ the same as Martha and herself, and that was _so_ tiresome. For instance, all the children were very fond of dear Miss Grey. But now it was always Kitty who must sit next to her, Kitty who rushed to supply her with roses to wear and strawberries to eat, Kitty who kissed her repeatedly at the most awkward moments. Martha and Betty, who naturally felt that Miss Grey was their _own dear_ Miss Grey, could hardly get near her at all, and Betty resented this very much. In fact, she gradually got to dwell so entirely on these annoyances that she could not think of Kitty's good qualities at all, and was quite unable to remember that she was generous and affectionate, and that her faults, though tiresome, were partly the result of a longing to be loved. At last, the clouds having gathered, the storm came. One morning, almost as soon as she got up, Betty felt that every single thing Kitty did or said was silly. It did not occur to her that perhaps she was a little bit cross herself, which was the real explanation. After breakfast they all three went down to the pond, and, dividing the water into shares, began to fish for frogs and newts. "In a minute," said Betty to herself as she watched Kitty, "she'll say Martha and I have the best places." It happened just so. "I say," said Kitty, throwing down her net and coming close up to Betty, "I've got the worst place of all, there's nothing to catch in this part!" "You haven't tried long enough," said Martha. "Let's change," was Kitty's next suggestion as she stood looking eagerly over Betty's shoulder. "All right," said Betty moodily, and she went round to the part of the pond Kitty had left, where she almost immediately caught two tadpoles and a newt. "Look there!" she cried, holding up her net triumphantly. "Oh!" screamed Kitty, "you _are_ lucky. _Do_ let me try," and she rushed up to Betty's side and seized hold of the net. But this was too much. Betty let go of the handle and said indignantly, "I shan't fish any more. You're so unfair; you always are!" And she walked away in a rage. "Kitty is more tiresome than ever," she said to herself. "She spoils everything. I wish she would go away!" All that day she preserved an attitude of dignified sulkiness in spite of Kitty's frequent attempts to make it up. When she came and threw her arm round her, Betty shook it off impatiently. That evening the three little girls were in the woods with dear Miss Grey and baby Susie, who was just three years old. Betty was walking a little behind the others with her eyes fixed on the ground. It was damp and mossy, and there was a thick growth of ferns and underwood at the side of the path. Suddenly she saw something move quickly through this, and disappear down a hole. She stopped and moved aside the ferns and moss. What do you think she saw sitting comfortably in the hole and staring at her with its moist bright eyes? A large speckled toad! "Look, look, Miss Grey!" she cried, and everyone gathered round to see what she had found. Even Susie peered into the hole, and poked a bit of fern gently at the toad, which sat there gazing quietly at them. "What a jolly little home he's made for himself!" said Martha. "All soft and moist, and just exactly to fit him." "He can't see out much," said Betty as she put back the moss gently over the top. "I don't think he wants to," said Miss Grey. "He is quite satisfied, like many other people who live in holes." The children ran on through the wood, except Betty, who kept back and took hold of Miss Grey's hand. "What do you mean about living in holes?" she asked presently. "Well, you know, we all live in holes of one kind or another. Some are rough and some smooth, some fit us exactly, and some don't fit us at all. Some are softly-lined with all sorts of comforts, and some are full of pricks and troubles. And it is always very difficult to see out of them." "Why?" asked Betty. "Because, like the toad's hole we saw just now, our own lives are so near us and surround us so closely, that it is only by making an effort that we can get out of them and understand other people's lives at all. The only thing that can really make us do that is sympathy." "What does that mean?" "It is that which makes us able to put ourselves in thought into other people's holes, and feel what it is like to live there. When we do that it makes us remember to be patient and gentle with our friends and companions, for if they live in uncomfortable holes it must be difficult for them to be unselfish and amiable. If we had their troubles and vexations we might not be half so pleasant as they are." Betty was silent. "Do you think Martha's hole and mine is nicer than Kitty's?" she said at last. "Well, I think in some ways it may be. At any rate you know Kitty has no sisters to play with, and very little of this country life you all enjoy so much. While her holiday lasts I should try to make it as pleasant as possible for her, if I were you." "I do," said Betty, "generally. Only sometimes she makes me feel so cross." At this moment up rushed Kitty, and elbowed Betty away from Miss Grey's side. "You've had her long enough!" she shouted. "It's my turn now!" And Betty was thinking so much about the toad in the hole, that she did not even frown. 
23452	----	[Illustration: With a look of scorn she put into my hand a bit of paper. _Page 12_] THE TRIAL OF WILLIAM TINKLING WRITTEN BY HIMSELF AT THE AGE OF 8 YEARS BY CHARLES DICKENS LONDON: CONSTABLE AND CO. LTD. FOREWORD The story contained herein was written by Charles Dickens in 1867. It is the first of four stories entitled "Holiday Romance" and was published originally in a children's magazine in America. It purports to be written by a child aged eight. It was republished in England in "All the Year Round" in 1868. For this and four other Christmas pieces Dickens received £1,000. "Holiday Romance" was published in book form by Messrs Chapman & Hall in 1874, with "Edwin Drood" and other stories. For this reprint the text of the story as it appeared in "All the Year Round" has been followed. THE TRIAL OF WILLIAM TINKLING [Illustration] This beginning-part is not made out of anybody's head, you know. It's real. You must believe this beginning-part more than what comes after, else you won't understand how what comes after came to be written. You must believe it all, but you must believe this most, please. I am the Editor of it. Bob Redforth (he's my cousin, and shaking the table on purpose) wanted to be the Editor of it, but I said he shouldn't because he couldn't. _He_ has no idea of being an editor. [Illustration] Nettie Ashford is my Bride. We were married in the right-hand closet in the corner of the dancing-school where first we met, with a ring (a green one) from Wilkingwater's toy-shop. _I_ owed for it out of my pocket-money. When the rapturous ceremony was over, we all four went up the lane and let off a cannon (brought loaded in Bob Redforth's waistcoat-pocket) to announce our nuptials. It flew right up when it went off, and turned over. Next day, Lieutenant-Colonel Robin Redforth was united, with similar ceremonies, to Alice Rainbird. This time the cannon bust with a most terrific explosion, and made a puppy bark. My peerless Bride was, at the period of which we now treat, in captivity at Miss Grimmer's. Drowvey and Grimmer is the partnership, and opinion is divided which is the greatest Beast. The lovely bride of the Colonel was also immured in the Dungeons of the same establishment. A vow was entered into between the Colonel and myself that we would cut them out on the following Wednesday, when walking two and two. Under the desperate circumstances of the case, the active brain of the Colonel, combining with his lawless pursuit (he is a Pirate), suggested an attack with fireworks. This however, from motives of humanity, was abandoned as too expensive. Lightly armed with a paper-knife buttoned up under his jacket, and waving the dreaded black flag at the end of a cane, the Colonel took command of me at 2 P.M. on the eventful and appointed day. He had drawn out the plan of attack on a piece of paper which was rolled up round a hoop-stick. He showed it to me. My position and my full-length portrait (but my real ears don't stick out horizontal) was behind a corner-lamp-post, with written orders to remain there till I should see Miss Drowvey fall. The Drowvey who was to fall was the one in spectacles, not the one with the large lavender bonnet. At that signal I was to rush forth, seize my Bride, and fight my way to the lane. There, a junction would be effected between myself and the Colonel; and putting our Brides behind us, between ourselves and the palings, we were to conquer or die. [Illustration] [Illustration: Waving his black flag, the Colonel attacked.] The enemy appeared--approached. Waving his black flag, the Colonel attacked. Confusion ensued. Anxiously I awaited my signal, but my signal came not. So far from falling, the hated Drowvey in spectacles appeared to me to have muffled the Colonel's head in his outlawed banner, and to be pitching into him with a parasol. The one in the lavender bonnet also performed prodigies of valour with her fists on his back. Seeing that all was for the moment lost, I fought my desperate way hand to hand to the lane. Through taking the back road, I was so fortunate as to meet nobody, and arrived there uninterrupted. [Illustration] It seemed an age, ere the Colonel joined me. He had been to the jobbing-tailor's to be sewn up in several places, and attributed our defeat to the refusal of the detested Drowvey to fall. Finding her so obstinate he had said to her in a loud voice, "Die, recreant!" but had found her no more open to reason on that point than the other. My blooming Bride appeared, accompanied by the Colonel's Bride, at the Dancing-School next day. What? Was her face averted from me? Hah! Even so. With a look of scorn she put into my hand a bit of paper, and took another partner. On the paper was pencilled, "Heavens! Can I write the word! Is my husband a Cow?" [Illustration: "SEWN UP IN SEVERAL PLACES."] In the first bewilderment of my heated brain I tried to think what slanderer could have traced my family to the ignoble animal mentioned above. Vain were my endeavours. At the end of that dance I whispered the Colonel to come into the cloak-room, and I showed him the note. [Illustration] "There is a syllable wanting," said he, with a gloomy brow. "Hah! What syllable?" was my inquiry. "She asks, Can she write the word? And no; you see she couldn't," said the Colonel, pointing out the passage. "And the word was?" said I. "Cow--cow--coward," hissed the Pirate-Colonel in my ear, and gave me back the note. Feeling that I must for ever tread the earth a branded boy--person I mean--or that I must clear up my honour, I demanded to be tried by a Court-Martial. The Colonel admitted my right to be tried. Some difficulty was found in composing the court, on account of the Emperor of France's aunt refusing to let him come out. He was to be the President. 'Ere yet we had appointed a substitute, he made his escape over the back wall, and stood among us, a free monarch. [Illustration: The court was held on the grass by the pond.] The court was held on the grass by the pond. I recognised in a certain Admiral among my judges my deadliest foe. A cocoa-nut had given rise to language that I could not brook. But confiding in my innocence, and also in the knowledge that the President of the United States (who sat next him) owed me a knife, I braced myself for the ordeal. [Illustration: "TWO EXECUTIONERS WITH PINAFORES REVERSED."] It was a solemn spectacle, that court. Two executioners with pinafores reversed, led me in. Under the shade of an umbrella, I perceived my Bride, supported by the Bride of the Pirate-Colonel. The President (having reproved a little female ensign for tittering, on a matter of Life or Death) called upon me to plead, "Coward or no Coward, Guilty or not Guilty?" I pleaded in a firm tone, "No Coward and Not Guilty." (The little female ensign being again reproved by the President for misconduct, mutinied, left the court, and threw stones.) My implacable enemy, the Admiral, conducted the case against me. The Colonel's Bride was called to prove that I had remained behind the corner-lamp-post during the engagement. I might have been spared the anguish of my own Bride's being also made a witness to the same point, but the Admiral knew where to wound me. Be still my soul, no matter. The Colonel was then brought forward with his evidence. It was for this point that I had saved myself up, as the turning-point of my case. Shaking myself free of my guards--who had no business to hold me, the stupids! unless I was found guilty--I asked the Colonel what he considered the first duty of a soldier? 'Ere he could reply, the President of the United States rose and informed the court that my foe the Admiral had suggested "Bravery," and that prompting a witness wasn't fair. The President of the Court immediately ordered the Admiral's mouth to be filled with leaves, and tied up with string. I had the satisfaction of seeing the sentence carried into effect, before the proceedings went further. I then took a paper from my trousers-pocket, and asked: "What do you consider, Colonel Redforth, the first duty of a soldier? Is it obedience?" "It is," said the Colonel. "Is that paper--please to look at it--in your hand?" "It is," said the Colonel. "Is it a military sketch?" "It is," said the Colonel. "Of an engagement?" "Quite so," said the Colonel. "Of the late engagement?" "Of the late engagement." "Please to describe it, and then hand it to the President of the Court." From that triumphant moment my sufferings and my dangers were at an end. The court rose up and jumped, on discovering that I had strictly obeyed orders. My foe, the Admiral, who though muzzled was malignant yet, contrived to suggest that I was dishonoured by having quitted the field. But the Colonel himself had done as much, and gave his opinion, upon his word and honour as a Pirate, that when all was lost the field might be quitted without disgrace. I was going to be found "No Coward and Not Guilty," and my blooming Bride was going to be publicly restored to my arms in a procession, when an unlooked-for event disturbed the general rejoicing. This was no other than the Emperor of France's aunt catching hold of his hair. The proceedings abruptly terminated, and the court tumultuously dissolved. [Illustration: "THE PIRATE-COLONEL WITH HIS BRIDE, AND YESTERDAY'S GALLANT PRISONER WITH HIS BRIDE."] It was when the shades of the next evening but one were beginning to fall, 'ere yet the silver beams of Luna touched the earth, that four forms might have been descried slowly advancing towards the weeping willow on the borders of the pond, the now deserted scene of the day before yesterday's agonies and triumphs. On a nearer approach, and by a practised eye, these might have been identified as the forms of the Pirate-Colonel with his Bride, and of the day before yesterday's gallant prisoner with _his_ Bride. On the beauteous faces of the Nymphs, dejection sat enthroned. All four reclined under the willow for some minutes without speaking, till at length the bride of the Colonel poutingly observed, "It's of no use pretending any more, and we had better give it up." "Hah!" exclaimed the Pirate. "Pretending?" "Don't go on like that; you worry me," returned his Bride. The lovely Bride of Tinkling echoed the incredible declaration. The two warriors exchanged stoney glances. "If," said the Bride of the Pirate-Colonel, "grown-up people WON'T do what they ought to do, and WILL put us out, what comes of our pretending?" "We only get into scrapes," said the Bride of Tinkling. "You know very well," pursued the Colonel's Bride, "that Miss Drowvey wouldn't fall. You complained of it yourself. And you know how disgracefully the court-martial ended. As to our marriage; would my people acknowledge it at home?" "Or would my people acknowledge ours?" said the Bride of Tinkling. Again the two warriors exchanged stoney glances. "If you knocked at the door and claimed me, after you were told to go away," said the Colonel's Bride, "you would only have your hair pulled, or your ears, or your nose." "If you persisted in ringing at the bell and claiming Me," said the Bride of Tinkling to that gentleman, "you would have things dropped on your head from the window over the handle, or you would be played upon by the garden-engine." "And at your own homes," resumed the Bride of the Colonel, "it would be just as bad. You would be sent to bed, or something equally undignified. Again: how would you support us?" The Pirate-Colonel replied, in a courageous voice, "By rapine!" But his Bride retorted, suppose the grown-up people wouldn't be rapined? Then, said the Colonel, they should pay the penalty in Blood. But suppose they should object, retorted his bride, and wouldn't pay the penalty in Blood or anything else? A mournful silence ensued. "Then do you no longer love me, Alice?" asked the Colonel. "Redforth! I am ever thine," returned his Bride. "Then do you no longer love me, Nettie?" asked the present writer. "Tinkling! I am ever thine," returned my Bride. We all four embraced. Let me not be misunderstood by the giddy. The Colonel embraced his own Bride, and I embraced mine. But two times two make four. "Nettie and I," said Alice, mournfully, "have been considering our position. The grown-up people are too strong for us. They make us ridiculous. Besides, they have changed the times. William Tinkling's baby-brother was christened yesterday. What took place? Was any king present? Answer, William." I said No, unless disguised as great-uncle Chopper. "Any queen?" There had been no queen that I knew of at our house. There might have been one in the kitchen; but I didn't think so, or the servants would have mentioned it. "Any fairies?" None that were visible. "We had an idea among us, I think," said Alice, with a melancholy smile, "we four, that Miss Grimmer would prove to be the wicked fairy, and would come in at the christening with her crutch-stick, and give the child a bad gift? Was there anything of that sort? Answer, William." [Illustration: We had an idea among us ... that Miss Grimmer would prove to be the wicked fairy.] I said that Ma had said afterwards (and so she had), that great-uncle Chopper's gift was a shabby one; but she hadn't said a bad one. She had called it shabby, electrotyped, second-hand, and below his income. "It must be the grown-up people who have changed all this," said Alice. "_We_ couldn't have changed it, if we had been so inclined, and we never should have been. Or perhaps Miss Grimmer _is_ a wicked fairy, after all, and won't act up to it, because the grown-up people have persuaded her not to. Either way, they would make us ridiculous if we told them what we expected." "Tyrants!" muttered the Pirate-Colonel. "Nay, my Redforth," said Alice, "say not so. Call not names, my Redforth, or they will apply to Pa." "Let 'em," said the Colonel. "I don't care. Who's he?" Tinkling here undertook the perilous task of remonstrating with his lawless friend, who consented to withdraw the moody expressions above quoted. "What remains for us to do?" Alice went on in her mild wise way. "We must educate, we must pretend in a new manner, we must wait." The Colonel clenched his teeth--four out in front, and a piece off another, and he had been twice dragged to the door of a dentist-despot, but had escaped from his guards. "How educate? How pretend in a new manner? How wait?" "Educate the grown-up people," replied Alice. "We part to-night. Yes, Redforth,"--for the Colonel tucked up his cuffs,--"part to-night! Let us in these next Holidays, now going to begin, throw our thoughts into something educational for the grown-up people, hinting to them how things ought to be. Let us veil our meaning under a mask of romance;[A] you, I, and Nettie. William Tinkling being the plainest and quickest writer, shall copy out. Is it agreed?" The Colonel answered, sulkily, "I don't mind." He then asked, "How about pretending?" "We will pretend," said Alice, "that we are children; not that we are those grown-up people who won't help us out as they ought, and who understand us so badly." The Colonel, still much dissatisfied, growled, "How about waiting?" "We will wait," answered little Alice, taking Nettie's hand in hers, and looking up to the sky, "we will wait--ever constant and true--till the times have got so changed as that everything helps us out, and nothing makes us ridiculous, and the fairies have come back. We will wait--ever constant and true--till we are eighty, ninety, or one hundred. And then the fairies will send _us_ children, and we will help them out, poor pretty little creatures, if they pretend ever so much." [Illustration] "So we will, dear," said Nettie Ashford, taking her round the waist with both arms and kissing her. "And now if my Husband will go and buy some cherries for us, I have got some money." In the friendliest manner I invited the Colonel to go with me; but he so far forgot himself as to acknowledge the invitation by kicking out behind, and then lying down on his stomach on the grass, pulling it up and chewing it. When I came back, however, Alice had nearly brought him out of his vexation, and was soothing him by telling him how soon we should all be ninety. As we sat under the willow-tree and ate the cherries (fair, for Alice shared them out), we played at being ninety. Nettie complained that she had a bone in her old back and it made her hobble, and Alice sang a song in an old woman's way, but it was very pretty, and we were all merry. At least I don't know about merry exactly, but all comfortable. There was a most tremendous lot of cherries and Alice always had with her some neat little bag or box or case, to hold things. In it, that night, was a tiny wine-glass. So Alice and Nettie said they would make some cherry-wine to drink our love at parting. [Illustration: There was a most tremendous lot of cherries.] Each of us had a glassful, and it was delicious, and each of us drank the toast, "Our love at parting." The Colonel drank his wine last, and it got into my head directly that it got into his directly. Anyhow his eyes rolled immediately after he had turned the glass upside down, and he took me on one side and proposed in a hoarse whisper that we should "Cut 'em out still." "How did he mean?" I asked my lawless friend. "Cut our Brides out," said the Colonel, "and then cut our way, without going down a single turning, Bang to the Spanish Main!" We might have tried it, though I didn't think it would answer; only we looked round and saw that there was nothing but moonlight under the willow-tree, and that our pretty, pretty wives were gone. We burst out crying. The Colonel gave in second, and came to first; but he gave in strong. We were ashamed of our red eyes, and hung about for half an hour to whiten them. Likewise a piece of chalk round the rims, I doing the Colonel's, and he mine, but afterwards found in the bedroom looking-glass not natural, besides inflammation. Our conversation turned on being ninety. The Colonel told me he had a pair of boots that wanted soleing and heeling but he thought it hardly worth while to mention it to his father, as he himself should so soon be ninety, when he thought shoes would be more convenient. The Colonel also told me with his hand upon his hip that he felt himself already getting on in life, and turning rheumatic. And I told him the same. And when they said at our house at supper (they are always bothering about something) that I stooped, I felt so glad! This is the end of the beginning-part that you were to believe most. THE END * * * * * [Footnote A: The titles of the romances by which Alice Rainbird, Nettie Ashford and the Pirate-Colonel sought to veil their meanings will be found on page 31.] [Transcriber's Note: The page this footnote refers to doesn't exist in this book. The footnote itself could not be found in other editions. Inconsistent use of initial capitals in Court-Martial/court-martial and Dancing-School/dancing-school has been retained.] 
20541	----	Transcribed from the 1849 (tenth) Francis & John Rivington edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org THE ROCKY ISLAND, AND OTHER SIMILITUDES. BY SAMUEL WILBERFORCE, D.D. LORD BISHOP OF OXFORD. "Fed my lambs."--S. JOHN xxi. 15. TENTH EDITION LONDON: FRANCIS & JOHN RIVINGTON, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH YARD, AND WATERLOO PLACE. 1849. {The Rocky Island: p0.jpg} PREFACE. The advertisement to a work of similar character to the present expresses the author's principle and wishes as to this little volume. It is constructed on the same plan, and, like the former, has had the test of the observations of his own children before it was given to the public. The reception of "Agathos" has shewn that many parents have felt the want which these little volumes are intended to supply, and leads the author to hope that he has in some measure been able to meet it. It is a peculiar gratification to him to be able thus to enter many a Christian household, and fulfil, in some measure, his Master's charge, "Feed my lambs." May it please God to give His blessing to this new attempt. S. W _Winchester_, _Sept._ 29, 1840. The Rocky Island. I saw in my dream a rough rocky island rising straight out of the midst of a roaring sea. In the midst of the island rose a black steep mountain; dark clouds rested gloomily upon its top; and into the midst of the clouds it cast forth ever and anon red flames, which lit them up like the thick curling smoke at the top of a furnace-chimney. Peals of loud thunder sounded constantly from these thick clouds; and now and then angry lightning shot its forked tongue, white, and red, and blue, from the midst of them, and fell upon the rocks, or the few trees which just clung to their sides, splitting them violently down, and scattering the broken and shivered pieces on all sides. It was a sad, dreary-looking island at the first view, and I thought that no one could dwell in it; but as I looked closer at its shores, I saw that they were covered with children at play. A soft white sand formed its beach, and there these children played. I saw no grown people among them; but the children were all busy--some picking up shells; some playing with the bright-coloured berries of a prickly dwarf-plant which grew upon those sands; some watching the waves as they ran up and then fell back again on that shore; some running after the sea-birds, which ran with quick light feet along the wet sand, and ever flew off, skimming just along the wave-top, and uttering a quick sharp note as the children came close upon them:--so some sported in one way, and some in another, but all were busily at play. Now I wondered in my dream to see these children thus busy whilst the burning mountain lay close behind them, and the thunder made the air ring. Sometimes, indeed, when it shone out redder and fiercer than usual, or when the thunder seemed close over their heads, the children would be startled for a little while, and run together, and cry, and scream; but very soon it was all forgotten, and they were as full of their sports as ever. While I was musing upon this, I saw a man appear suddenly amongst the children. He was of a noble and kingly countenance, and yet so gentle withal that there was not a child of them all who seemed afraid to look in his face, or to listen to his kind voice when he opened his mouth, for soon I found that he was speaking to them. "My dear children," I heard him say, "you will all be certainly killed, if you stay upon this rocky island. Here no one ever grows up happily. Here all play turns into death--the burning mountain, and the forked lightning, and the dreadful breath of the hill-storm,--these sweep down over all that stay here, and slay them all; and if you stay here, for these childish pleasures of yours, you will all perish." Then the children grew very grave, and they gazed one upon another, and all looked up into the face of the man, to see if he spoke in earnest. They saw directly that he did, for that kind face looked full of care as well as of love: so from him they looked out upon the waves of the sea, and one whispered to another, "Where shall we go? how shall we ever get over that sea? we can never swim across it: had we not better go back, and play and be happy, until the time comes for us to die?" "No," said the man, looking round kindly upon them all; "you cannot swim over; you never could get over of yourselves: but you need not stay here and die; for I have found a way of escape for you. Follow me, and you shall see it." So I saw that he led them round a high rough rock, to where the calm waves of the sea ran up into a little bay, upon the white sand of which only a gentle ripple broke with a very pleasant sound. This bay was full of boats, small painted boats, with just room in each for one person, with a small rudder to guide them at the stern, and a little sail as white as snow, and over all a flag, on which a bright red cross was flapping in the gentle sea-breeze. Then when the children saw these beautiful boats, they clapped their little hands together for very joy of heart. But the man spoke to them again and said, "You will all have a deep, and dangerous, and stormy sea to pass over in these little boats. They will carry you quite safely, if you are careful to do just as I bid you, for then neither are wind nor the sea can harm them; but they will bear you safely over the foaming waves to a bright and beautiful land--to a country where there is no burning mountain, and no angry lightning, and no bare rocks, and no blasting hill-storm; but where there are trees bearing golden fruits by the side of beautiful rivers, into which they sweep their green boughs. There the trees are always green, and the leaves ever fresh. There the fruit ripens every month, {6} and the very leaves upon the trees are healing. There is always glad and joyful light. There are happy children who have passed this sea; and there are others who have grown old full of happiness; there are some of your fathers, and mothers, and brothers, and sisters; and there am I ever present to keep and to comfort you." Now when they heard this, all the children wished to jump into the boats, and he was kindly ready to help them, only he put each one in carefully and slowly; and as he put him in, he gave him his charge. He told them that they must never look round to this island they were leaving, but must be always setting their faces towards the happy land they sought for. He told them that they must leave behind them all the shells and the berries which had pleased them here, for if they tried to take these with them in their boats, some accident would certainly befall them. Then some of the children, when they heard all this, drew secretly away, and ran round the point, and gave up the boats and the sea, and began their old idle play again. And some of them, I thought, hid the shells and the berries they had got, and then jumped into the boat, pretending they had left all behind them. Then I saw that the man gave different presents to each of them, as they seated themselves in the boat. One was a little compass in a wooden box. "This," he said, "will always shew you which way to steer; you are to follow me, for I shall always be before you on the waters; but often when the darkness of the night comes on, or the thick mist seethes up from the wave's brim, or the calm has fallen upon you so that your boat has stood still,--often at such times as these you may not be able even to mark my track before you: then you must look at the compass, and its finger will always point true and straight to where I am; and if you will follow me there, you will be safe." He gave them, too, a musical instrument, which made a soft murmuring sound when they breathed earnestly into it; "and this," he said, "you must use when you are becalmed and so cannot get on, or when the waves swell into a storm around you and threaten to swallow you up." He gave them, too, bread and water for many days. So I saw that they all set out upon their voyage, and a beautiful sight it was to look upon. Their snow-white sails upon the deep sea shone like stars upon the blue of the firmament; and now they all followed close upon the leader's ship, and their little boats danced lightly and joyfully over the trackless waves, which lifted up their breasts to waft them over: and so they started. But I looked again in a little while, and they were beginning to be scattered very widely asunder: here and there three or four of the boats kept well together, and followed steadily in the track of the leader's vessel; then there was a long space of the sea with no boat upon it at all; then came a straggler or two, and then another company; and then, far off on the right and on the left, were other boats, which seemed to be wandering quite away from the leader's path. Now, as I watched them closer, I saw that there were many different things which drew them away: one I saw, soon after they started, who turned back to look at the rocky island, forgetting the man's command. He saw the other children playing on the beach; he heard their merry voices; and then looking round again towards the sea, it looked rough and dark before him; and he forgot the burning mountain, and the terrible thunder, and the bright happy land for which he was bound, and the goodly company he was in, and the kind face of the kingly man; and he was like one in a dream, before whose eyes all sorts of shapes and colours fly, and in whose ears all sounds are ringing; and he thought no more of the helm, nor watched the sails; and so the driving swell carried his boat idly along with its long roll; and in a few minutes more I saw it at the top of a white foaming breaker, and then he and it were dashed down upon the rocks which girdled the sandy beach, and he was seen again no more. Then I turned my eyes to two other boats, which were going fast away from the true course, for no reason which I could see; but when I looked at them more closely, I saw that they were in a sort of angry race; each wished to get to the wind-side of the other; and they were so busy thinking about this, and looking at one another with angry glances, and calling out to one another with angry words, that they forgot to look for the leader's ship, or to watch the finger of the compass; and so they were going altogether wide of the track along which they should have passed. Then I looked closely at another, which was shooting quite away in another direction; and I saw that the poor child had left the rudder, and was playing with something in the bottom of the boat; and as I looked nearer in it, I saw that it was with some of the bright berries of the rocky island which he had brought with him that he was so foolishly busy. Foolish, indeed, he was; and kind had been the warning of the man who bade them leave all these behind: for whilst I was watching him, and wondering what would be the end of such a careless voyage, I saw his little boat strike suddenly upon a hidden rock, which broke a hole in its wooden sides, and the water rushed in, and the boat began to sink, and there was no help near, and the poor boy was soon drowned in the midst of the waves. Then I turned sadly away to watch the boats which were following their leader; and here, too, I saw strange things; for though the sea when looked at from afar seemed just alike to all, yet when I watched any one, I saw that he had some difficulties, and some frights, and some helps of his own, which I did not see the others have. Sometimes it would fall all at once quite dark, like a thick night, all round a boat; and if he that was in it could hear the voice of a companion near him for a little while, that gladdened him greatly; and then oftentimes all sound of voices died away, and all was dark, still, deep night, and he knew not where to steer. Now if, when this fell upon him, the child went straight to his compass, and looked close upon it, in spite of the darkness, there came always a faint flashing light out of the darkness, which played just over the compass, so as to shew him its straight blue finger, if he saw no more; and then, if he took up his musical instrument, and blew into it, though the thickness of the heavy air seemed at first to drown its sound, yet, after awhile, if he was but earnest, I could hear its sweet murmuring sound begin; and then directly the child lost his fears, and did not want company; sweet echoes of his music talked with his spirit out of the darkness, and within a little time the gloom would lift itself quite up again, or melt away into the softest light: and lo! he had got on far on his voyage even in this time of darkness, so that sometimes he could see the beloved form just before him; and at times even the wooded shore of the happy land would lift itself up, and shine on his glad eyes, over the level brim of the silver sea. From another boat it would seem that the very air of the heaven died away. There it lay, like a painted sail in a picture--the snow-white canvass drooping lazily, or flapping to and fro, as the long dull swell heaved up the boat, and let it sink again into the trough of the waves: other boats, but a little way off, would sail by with a full breeze; but he could not move; his very flag shewed no sign of life. Now if the little sailor began to amuse himself when this happened, it seemed to me that there he lay, and would lie, till the dark night overtook him, and parted him from all his company. But if, instead of this, he took up his musical instrument, and played upon it with all his earnestness, its soft breath, as it whispered to the wind, soon woke up its gentle sighing; the long flag lifted itself on high; the blood-red cross waved over the water; the snowy sails swelled out, and the little boat danced on along its joyful way. I noticed also that before those boats which were passing on the fastest, the sea would every now and then look very dark and threatening. Great waves would seem to lift their white heads just before them; whilst every where else the sea looked calm and enticing. Then the little sailor would strain his eye after his master's course, or look down at the faithful compass; and by both of these sure signs he saw that his way lay straight through these threatening waves. Well was it for him, if, with a bold heart and a faithful hand, he steered right into them. For always did I see, that just as he got where it seemed to be most dangerous, the tossing waves sank, as if to yield him an easy passage; the wind favoured him more than at any part of his voyage; and he got on in the right way faster than ever before. Especially was this so, if at first he was somewhat tossed, and yet held straight on; for then he shot into a glassy calm, where tide and wind bore him steadily along unto the desired haven. But sad was it for him, if, instead of then trusting to the compass, he steered for the smoother water. One or two such trembling sailors I especially observed. One of them had long been sailing with the foremost boats; he had met with less darkness, fewer mists or troubled places, than the boats around him; and when he saw the white crests of the threatening waves lift up their strength before him, his heart began to sink; and after wavering for a moment, he turned his little boat aside to seek the calmer water. Through it he seemed to be gliding on most happily, when all at once his little boat struck upon a hidden sandbank, and was fixed so firmly on its side, that it could not get afloat again. I saw not his end; but I sadly feared that when next the sea wrought with a troubled motion, and the surf broke upon that bank, his little boat must soon be shivered, and he perish in the waves. The other who turned aside followed closely after him; for this was one thing which I noted through all the voyage. Whenever one boat went astray, some thoughtless follower or other would forget his compass, to sail after the unhappy wanderer; and it often happened that these followers of others went the farthest wrong of any. So it was in this case; for when the first boat struck upon the sandbank, the other, thinking to escape it, bore still farther off; and so chancing to pass just where the shoal ended, and an unruly current swept by its farthest edge, the boat was upset in a moment, and the poor child in it drowned. And now I turned to three or four boats which had kept together from the time they left the harbour. Few were forwarder than they; few had smoother water or more prosperous gales. I could see, when I looked close into their faces, that they were all children of one family; and that all the voyage through they were helping, cheering, and directing one another. As I watched their ways, I noticed this, too, which seemed wonderful. If one of them had got into some trouble with its tackle, and the others stayed awhile to help it, and to bring it on its way, instead of losing ground by this their kindness, they seemed all to make the greater progress, and press on the further in their course. And now I longed to see the ending of this voyage; and so looking on to those which were most forward, I resolved to trace them to the end. Then I found that all, without exception, came into a belt of storms and darkness before they reached the happy land. True, it was much rougher and more dark with some than others; but to every one there was a deep night and a troubled sea. I saw, too, that when they reached this place, they were always parted one from another. Even those which had kept most close together all the voyage before, until just upon the edge of this dark part, they, like the rest, were scattered here, and toiled on awhile singly and alone. They seemed to me to fare the best who entered on it with the fullest sails, and had kept hitherto the straightest course. Indeed, as a common rule I found this always true--that those who had watched the compass, and held the rudder, and cheered themselves with the appointed music, and eaten the master's bread, and steered straight after him, they passed through this cloud and darkness easily and swiftly. Next to these were those who sought most earnestly to cheer its gloom with the sound of their appointed music. The Lord of these seas, indeed, had many ways of cheering His followers. Even in the thickest of that darkness His face of beaming love would look out upon them; and He seemed nearer to them then than He had done heretofore through all their voyage. Then, moreover, it was never long; and bright light lay beyond it. For they passed straight out of it into "the haven where they would be." Sweet sounds broke upon their glad ears even as they left that darkness. A great crowd of happy children--parents who had gone before them--friends whom they had loved, and holy persons whose names they had long known--these all lined the banks, waiting to receive and welcome them. Amidst these moved up and down shining forms of beautiful beings, such as the children's eyes had seen only in some happy dream; and they, too, were their friends; they, too, waited for them on the bank; they, too, welcomed them with singing, and bore the happy new-comer with songs of triumph into the shining presence of the merciful King. Then, on the throne royal, and with the glorious crown upon His head, they saw the same kind face of gentle majesty which had looked upon them when they played on the shores of that far rocky isle. They heard again the voice which had bid them fly the burning mountain. They saw Him who had taken them into His convoy; who had given them their boats; who had been near them in the storm; who had given them light in the darkness; who had helped them in the dull calm; who had never left them; but who had kept and guided them across the ocean; and who now received them to His never- ending rest. * * * * * _Father_. Who are the children playing on the shores of the rocky island? _Child_. The fallen children of fallen parents, born into this sinful world. F. What does the burning mountain, and the lightning, and the hill-storm, represent? C. The wrath of God ever burning against sinners. F. Who is He who warned these thoughtless children? C. The Lord Jesus, who, by His ministers, warns men to "flee from the wrath to come." F. What are the boats by which they are to escape? C. The "ark of Christ's Church," into which we are admitted by baptism. F. Many of the children who embarked in the boats were lost,--what is shewn by this? C. That it is not enough to be received into the congregation of Christ's flock; but that we must always "manfully fight under His banner against the world, the flesh, and the devil, and continue Christ's faithful soldiers and servants unto our lives' end." F. What is the compass, and the musical instrument, and the bread, and the water? C. God's word, and the privilege of prayer and holy sacraments, and the other gifts of God to His Church. F. What is the gentle wind which the musical instrument awoke? C. The grace of God's Holy Spirit, promised to the members of His Church, to be sought by earnest prayer, and in all the means of grace. F. What means the boy playing with the berries, and so striking on the rock? C. One who having been given up to Christ in baptism follows worldly pleasures, and so "makes shipwreck of the faith." F. What are the dark places and calms into which different boats enter? C. The different temptations and dangers of the Christian life. F. What are the threatening waves which seemed to be right ahead of the boat? C. The dangers and self-denials which they must meet with who will follow Christ. F. What is meant by the boat which turned aside, and ran upon the shoal? C. That they who will turn aside from following Christ because danger and self-denials meet them cannot reach heaven. F. What is shewn in the boat which followed this one? C. How ready we are to follow a bad example, and go beyond it. F. What was the little company of boats which kept together? C. A Christian family earnestly serving God. F. Why did those who helped others find that they got on the fastest? C. Because God, who has bid us "bear one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ," will greatly help and bless all such. F. What is the belt of storm and darkness which all must pass through? C. Death. F. Why were all separated in it? C. Because we must die alone. F. Who are those that generally passed through it most easily? C. Those whose life had been most holy and obedient. "Keep innocency, and take heed unto the thing that is right; for that shall bring a man peace at the last" (Ps. xxxvii. 38). F. Who were the next? C. Those who entered on it with much prayer. F. What was their great support in it? C. The presence of Jesus Christ our Lord. F. What declaration have we on this subject in God's word? C. "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee." "I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth on me shall never die." F. What lies beyond this to the faithful Christian? C. The blessed rest of paradise and the bright glories of heaven. The Vision of the Three States. I saw, in my vision, two glorious creatures walking together through a beautiful garden. I thought at first they must be angels, so bright and happy did they seem. The garden, also, in which they were, seemed too beautiful for earth. Every flower which I had ever seen, and numbers which my eye had never looked upon, grew in abundance round them. They walked, as it were, upon a carpet of flowers. The breeze was quite full of the rich scent which arose from them. The sun shone upon them with a brightness such as I had never seen before; whilst the air sparkled with myriads of winged things, which flew here and there, as if to shew how happy they were. All through the garden, too, I saw every sort of beast, in all its natural grace and beauty; and all at peace. Great lions moved about amongst tender sheep; and striped tigers lay down quietly to sleep amongst the dappled fawns which sported around them. But, amidst all these beautiful sights, my eyes followed more than all, the two glorious forms which were walking together with such a kingly majesty through the happy garden: they were, truly, I could see, beings of this earth; they were talking to each other; they were speaking of ONE who had made them out of the dust of the earth; who had given to them living souls: who was their Father and their Friend; who had planted for them this beautiful garden, and made them the rulers of all that was in it. Now I marked them as they talked, and I could see that their eyes were often turned from all the beauty round them towards one far end of the garden; and as I watched them, I saw that they were still passing on towards it. Then I also fixed my eyes there, and in a while I could see that, at the end of the garden to which they were moving, there was a bright light, brighter and purer than the light of the sun; and I thought that in it I could see here and there heavenly forms moving up and down, flying upon silver wings, or borne along upon the light breath of the sunny air. But as I strained my eyes to pierce into it, it seemed to dazzle and confound them by its great lustre. Then, again, I heard the words of the two; and they spake of what was before them; of the bright light, and the heavenly forms: and I found that they were only travellers through this beautiful garden; that the King who had placed them in it dwelt in that light, the brightness of which had so confounded my gaze; that they were on their way to His presence, and that when they reached it, they should be happy for ever; even as those shining spirits were already, whose golden figures I had been just able to discover. Now, whilst I was pondering upon these things, and casting my eyes round and round this beautiful garden, I heard all at once a most terrible sound, as of thunder, such as man's ears had never heard. I looked up, and the bright light at the end of the garden seemed to turn itself into angry fire, and to flash red and threatening through thick black clouds, which were forming themselves into terrible shapes all over the garden. Then I looked for the two that I had seen before: I could just see them; sorrow sat upon their faces, and fear made them deadly pale; a serpent was gliding from them into the bushes; and their eyes were fixed upon the air, as though voices, which I heard not, were speaking terrible things to their inner ears. Then, as I looked, it grew darker and darker--the thunder pealed all round me--cries came forth from every hill, as of fierce and deadly beasts in wild dreadful fight. The flowers round me were withering up, as if a burning blight had passed over them; and soon it was all dark, and dreary, and desolate. Then when my heart was very heavy within me, methought there stood by me one of the forms of light whom I had seen at the garden's end; and my knees smote together through fear of his glory; but he looked upon me kindly, and spoke to me in a voice of pity, and he said, "Wouldst thou see the end of this sight?" Then my heart gathered courage, and I told him, that if it were lawful, I would indeed fain look upon it. With that he lifted me, and we flew through the air, and I knew not where he had borne me; but in a while he set me on my feet, and bade me look right down beneath me. Then I looked down at his word, but could see nothing. My eyes seemed to rest upon the thick mantle of the night, and they could not pierce through it. Now, while I was striving to pierce through the darkness, strange noises rose from it to my ears. All sounds that ever were, came up from it, so mingled together that I could not say what they were. Whether it were a groan, or a cry, or a roaring, or music, or shouting, or the voice of anger or of sorrow; for all of these seemed joined together into one; but the groaning was louder than the laughing, and the voice of crying well nigh drowned the music. Then I asked my guide what was this strange noise; and he told me that it was the voice of all THE WORLD, as it rose up to the ears of those that were on high. Then I begged of him, if it might be, to let me see those from whom it came. With that he touched my eyes; and now methought, though the darkness remained, that I could see in the midst of its thickness, even as in the brightness of the day. It was a strange place into which I looked. Instead of the beautiful garden I had seen before, and two glorious creatures passing through it; now I saw a multitude of men, women, and children, passing on through a waste and desolate wilderness. Here and there, indeed, there were still flowery spots, but they were soon trodden down by the feet of those who passed along. Strange too were their steps. Now, instead of passing straight on, they moved round and round, for they were all in the black darkness. The ground was full of pitfalls, in the low bottoms of which I could see red fire burning fierce and hot, and one after another fell over into these pitfalls, and I saw them no more. Evil beasts, too, moved amongst them, slaying one, and tearing another; and as if this was not enough, oftentimes they would quarrel and fight with one another, until the ground all around was covered with their bodies strewed upon it. Yet for all this, some would sing, and dance, and frolic; and this seemed to me the saddest of all, for they were like mad men; and mad in truth they were, for in the midst of their dancing and their singing, one and another would get near the side of some great pitfall, and step over into its flames, even with the song upon their lips. In vain did I strain my eyes to see any light at the end, as I had seen it in the garden. If it was there, the black clouds had rolled over it so thick and dark that not a ray of it was left. Yet I heard one and another offering to lead those that would follow them, safely through this terrible wilderness; and such men never wanted followers: so I watched many of these leaders, to see what they would do for those that trusted them. Little help could any of them render. Some put their followers on a path which led straight down into the deepest and most frightful pitfalls; some set them on a path which wandered round and round, and brought them at the end back to the same place from which they started; some led them into thorny places, where the poor pilgrims pierced their bleeding feet with many a wound: but not one did I see who brought them into any better place, or took them any nearer to their journey's end. How they found their way at all, was at first my wonder. But as I looked more closely, I saw in all their hands little lanterns, which just threw a feeble light upon the darkness round them. These were always brightest in the young, for they soon grew very dim; and the falls and blows they met with, bruised and shattered them so much, that some had hardly any glimmering left, even of the feeble light which they had seemed to cast of old. I looked at them until my heart was very sad, for there was no peace, no safety, no hope; but all went heavily and sadly, groaning and weeping, or laughing like madmen, until, sooner or later, they seemed all to perish in the fearful pitfalls! Then my angel-guide spoke to me again, marking my sadness, and he said, "Hast thou well observed this sight?" and I answered, "Yes." Then he said, "And wouldst thou see more?" So when I had said "yes," methought we were once more flying through the air, until again he set me on my feet, and bid me look down. Now here, too, strange noises reached my ears; but as I listened to them, I found that there were mixed with them such sounds as I had not heard before. Sweet clear voices came up now from the din, speaking, as it were from one close by me, words of faith, and of hope, and of love; and they sounded to me like the happy talking which I had heard at the first between the glorious beings in the garden. So when my guide touched my eyes, I bent them eagerly down into the darkness below me. At first I thought that it was the same place I had seen last, for there was a busy multitude passing to and fro; and there was music and dancing, and sobbing and crying; there were pitfalls, too, and wild beasts. But as I looked closer, I saw that, in spite of all this, it was not the place that I had seen before. Even at a glance I could see that there were many more flowers here than there; and that many amongst the pilgrims were going straight on, with happy faces, by a road which passed safely by all the pitfalls. I could see, too, that at the end of the road was a dim shining of that happy light which had been so bright in the beautiful garden. Now, as I looked, I saw that there were but a few who kept to this straight safe road, and that many were scattered all over the plain. I saw many leave this path even as I looked upon it; and very few did I see come back to it: those who did, seemed to me to find it very hard to get into it again; whether it was that its sides were slippery, or its banks so steep, many fainted and gave up, after trying to climb into it again. But it seemed quite easy to leave it; for every one who left it went on at first lightly and pleasantly. Sometimes, indeed, they seemed greatly startled after taking their first step out of it, and some of them turned straight back, and after a few struggles, more or less, such always got into it again. But if once after this first check they set out for the plain, they seemed to go easily along, until their path lay straight by the den of some destroying beast, or led them into the midst of the pitfalls, where they wholly lost their reckoning, and knew not how to get on, or how to get back. I saw, too, after a while, that they had got lanterns in their hands, some of which gave a great deal of light. Those which were carried along the narrow path shot out bright rays on all sides, until towards the end they quite blazed with light. I could see, too, that these travellers had some way of trimming and dressing their lamps; and that much of their light seemed to come from an open book which they carried in their hands, from the leaves of which there flashed out continually streams of light, which made their lamps burn so brightly that all their road shone with it. But as they got further and further from the path, their lamps began to burn dim. All these travellers, too, had the book of light closed; or if they now and then opened it, they shut it up again, some carelessly, and some as if its light frightened them; and not one could I see who stopped to trim his light: so that just when they got amongst the pitfalls, and wanted light the most, they were all the most nearly in darkness. Now, when I had looked at them for a space, and wondered, my guide said to me, "Wouldst thou see how they enter on this plain?" Then he took me to a fair porch, which came from the wilderness I had looked upon before; and there I saw a man standing in white robes, and speaking good words, and giving good gifts to each one as he came in. There were persons coming in of all nations and people, and some, too, of all ages, though the greatest number were little children, so small that their little hands would not hold the man's gifts, and so he hung them round their necks, for them to use as soon as they were able. Then I joined myself to the group, to hear and see the better what was passing. The man in white was speaking with a grave kind voice as I came up. He told the pilgrims that the great Lord of the land had built that porch, and set him there to help the poor travellers, who were before without hope or help amongst the beasts, and snares, and pitfalls of the terrible wilderness; he told them that the blood of the King's own Son had been shed, that that porch might be built; that the King had prepared them a narrow way to walk in, which led straight from that porch to His own blessed presence, and that they might all pass along it safely if they would; he told them that if they left that path, they would surely get again amongst the pitfalls which they had left in the wilderness; nay, that they would be worse off than they had been even there, for that there was no other porch where they could again be set right, and no other place where the gifts that he was giving them now, could ever be got any more, if they were once thrown quite away. Then I looked to see what these gifts were. I saw the man bring forth clear and sparkling water, which shone as if with living light; and with this he washed from them the dirt and the bruises of the terrible wilderness: with this, too, he touched their little lamps, and as it touched them, they grew so bright and clear, that the light within poured freely forth on all around them. Then he looked in their faces, and gave them a name, which he wrote down in the King's book; and he told them, that by this name they should be known, not only by their fellow-travellers, but that this would remain written in the King's book here, unless they wholly left His path; and that every name which remained written here, they would find written in another book in letters of gold and of fire, when they reached the other end of the path; and that for every pilgrim, whose name was written there, the golden gate would open of itself, and he would find a place and a crown in the presence of the King. Then, as he spoke all these glorious words, my heart burned within me to see how the travellers sped. But he had not yet done with them; for he brought out of his stores a golden vial for each one; and he told them that in it the King had stored the oil of light and beauty for the dressing of their lamps. Then he shewed them how to use it: not carelessly or lightly, for then the oil would not flow; but earnestly, and with great care; and then sweet odours issued from the vial, and the flame of the lamp burned brightly and high. He gave them, too, the precious light-book, which I had seen; and he bade them read in it when it was dark, or the way was slippery; and that they should ever find that it was a "lantern unto their feet, and a light unto their paths." He put, too, into the hand of each a trusty staff, suited to their age; and then he told them, while they leant upon it, it would bear them up at many a pinch, and ever grow with their growth, and strengthen with their strength. "Church-truth" he called these staffs; and they were made after a marvellous fashion, for they were as if many wands had been woven together to make one; and as I looked, I could see "example," and "experience," and "discipline," and "creeds," written upon some of these wands, which grew together into "Church-truth." Then I longed greatly to follow forth some of these whom I had seen under the porch; and as I gazed, I saw the man look earnestly into the face of a fair boy, who stood before him: he gave him the name of "Gottlieb," {45a} and entered it in the book, and put the staff in his hand, and washed him with living water, and hung the vial at his side, and put the banded staff into his hands; and, bidding him God-speed, set him out upon his journey. Then he looked steadily into the face of another, and it, too, was fair to look upon; but it had not the quiet happy peace of the last. The man wrote it down as "Irrgeist;" {45b} and I thought a shade of sadness swept over his brow as he gave to him the King's goodly gifts. Then he sent forth a third, whose timid eye seemed hardly firm enough for so long a journey; and I heard the name that was given him, and it was "Furchtsam." {45c} Close to him went another, with a firm step, and an eye of steady gentleness; and I saw, by the King's book, that he bore the name of "Gehulfe." {46} So these four set out upon their journey; and I followed them to see how they should fare. Now, I saw that at first, when they started, they were so small that they could not read in the goodly book, neither could they use the golden vials; and their little banded sticks would have fallen from their hands, if they had not been small and thin, like the first green shoots of the spring. Their lamps, too, cast no light outwardly, yet still they made some way upon the path; and whilst I wondered how this might be, I saw that a loving hand was stretched out of the darkness round them, which held them up and guided them on their way. But, anon, in a while they were grown larger; and I could see Gottlieb walking on the first, and his book of light was open in his hand, and his lamp burned bright, for he often refreshed it with oil, and he leant upon his good staff, and strode along the road. Then, as he walked on, I saw that there stood upon his path a shadowy figure, as of one in flowing robes, and on her head she seemed to wear a chaplet of many flowers; in her hands was a cup of what seemed to be crystal water, and a basket of what looked like cool and refreshing fruit. A beautiful light played all round her, and half shewed her and her gifts to the boy. She bid him welcome, as he came up to her; so he raised his eyes from his book, and looked to see who spoke to him. Then she spoke kindly to him; and she held forth the cup towards him, and asked him if he would not drink. Now, the boy was hot with walking, for the air was close, so he stretched out his hand to take the cup; but though it seemed so near to him, he could not reach it. And at the same moment she spake to him again, and asked him to come where these fruits grew, and where the breeze whispered amongst the boughs of yonder trees,--and there to drink and rest, and then go on his way again. Then I saw that she had power to call out of the darkness the likeness of all she spoke of. So he looked at the trees to which she pointed; and the sun seemed to shine around them, and the shade looked cool and tempting under them, and the pleasant breeze rustled amongst their fresh leaves; and he thought the road upon which he was travelling was hotter and darker, and more tiring than ever; and he put up his hand to his burning brow, and she said to him, as he lingered, "come." Now, the trees to which she pointed him lay off his road, or he would gladly have rested under them; and whilst he doubted what to do, he looked down to the book that was open in his hand; and the light shot out upon it bright and clear, and the words which he read were these, "None that go unto her return again, neither take they hold of the paths of life." {49a} And as he read it, he looked again at the stranger; and now he could see more clearly through the wild light which played around her, and he knew that it was the evil enemy who stood before him; the sparkling cup, too, and the fruit, turned into bitter ashes; and the pleasant shady grass became a thorny and a troublesome brake: so, pushing by her with the help of his staff, he began to mend his pace; and looking down into the book of light, there shone out, as in letters of fire, "Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way? by taking heed thereto according to Thy word." {49b} Then I saw that he was feeding his lamp, which had begun to grow dim as he parleyed with the tempter, and that he ceased not till it streamed out as bright and as clear as ever. But still the air was hot and sultry, and no cool breath blew upon him; and if he looked off for a moment from his book, the fair form of the tempter stood again beside him in silver light; the cold water sparkled close to his lips; and trees with shady boughs waving backward and forward over fresh green grass, and full, in every spray, of singing-birds, seemed to spring up around him. For a little moment his step faltered; but as his lamp streamed out its light, all the vain shadows passed away: and I heard him say, as he struck his staff upon the ground, "I have made a covenant with my eyes;" and even as she heard it, the tempter passed away, and left him to himself. Scarcely was she gone, before he passed by the door of a beautiful arbour. It was strewn with the softest moss; roses and honeysuckle hung down over its porch; light, as from a living diamond, gleamed from its roof; and in the midst of its floor, a clear, cool, sparkling stream of the purest water bubbled ever up from the deep fountain below it. Now, as this lay on the road, Gottlieb halted for a moment to look at it; and the light of his lamp waxed not dim, though he thus stayed to see it; the book of fire, too, spoke to him of rest, and of halting by "palm-trees and wells of water;" and as he looked, he read in letters of light over the door-way-- Faithful pilgrim, banish fear, Thou mayst enter safely here: Rest for thee thy Lord did win; Faithful pilgrim, enter in. Then Gottlieb rejoiced greatly, and cast himself gladly upon the mossy floor, and bent down his parched lips to drink of the cool spring which bubbled up before him. Now, whilst he was resting safely here, I turned to see how it fared with the others who had set out with him from the porch, for they had not got as far as Gottlieb. The first of them was Irrgeist; and when I looked upon him, he was drawing near to the place where Gottlieb had fallen in with the tempter. Irrgeist was walking quickly on--so quickly that, at the first glance, I thought he would soon be by the side of Gottlieb. But, upon looking more closely, I saw that Gottlieb's steps had been far more steady and even than those with which Irrgeist was pressing on; for Irrgeist's lamp burned but dimly, and gave him no sure light to walk in. Very near to the place where Gottlieb had met with her, the tempter stood beside Irrgeist. He was not looking at his book, as the other had been; and he did not wait to be spoken to; for as soon as he saw the light which played round her figure, he began to speak to her, and asked who she was. She told him that her name was "Pleasure;" and forthwith she shewed to him her crystal cup and fruits; and she brought before the charmed eyes of the wanderer all the gay show with which she had tried before to mislead the faithful Gottlieb. There was the bright sunshine, and the green path, and the waving trees, and the rustling of the wind, and the song of birds, and the sweet resting-shade. Irrgeist looked eagerly at all she shewed him, and in his haste to reach out his hand for the cup, he dropped altogether the trusty staff of "Church-truth." Then the cup seemed to draw away from him, just as it had done from Gottlieb; but he followed thoughtlessly after it. And soon I saw that he left the path upon which he had been set; and though he started suddenly as soon as he was off it, yet it was but a moment's start,--the cup was close before him, the shadowy form led him on, the grass was green, and the trees and the sunlight but a little farther. And now I saw him drink some of the enchanted water; and as he drank it, his look grew wild, and his cheek burnt like the cheek of one in a fever; and he walked after the deceitful figure with a quicker step than ever: but I saw that his lamp was almost out, that the book of living light had fallen from his hands, and the golden vial hung down, ready, as it seemed, to fall from him altogether. Still he walked on; and a strange flitting light, from the form which was before him, lightened the darkness of the valley, so that he could pass on quickly; the meadow, also, was smooth and even, and there was a rustling breeze, which played around him: so that he got on faster than he had ever done upon the narrow path, and thought that he was getting well on to his journey's end. Many times did he put forth his hand for the sparkling cup, and drank of it again and again. But now I saw, as I thought, a strange change which was coming over him; for he drank oftener of the bowl, but appeared each time to find it less refreshing. Sometimes it seemed almost bitter, and yet he could not but take it the very moment he had thrust it from him. The shadowy form, also, before him seemed altogether altering; he looked again, and her beautiful features and pleasant countenance had changed into a sharp, stern, and reproachful frown. His own voice, which had been heretofore almost like one singing, grew sad and angry. The very figure of his guide seemed vanishing from his eyes; the light which floated round her grew wilder and more uncertain, and his own lamp was almost out. He felt puzzled and bewildered, and hardly knew which way to go: he had got into a broad beaten path, and he found that many besides himself were going here and there along it. Sometimes they sang; and, in very bitterness of heart, he tried to sing too, that he might not think: but every now and then, when a flashing light came, and he saw the look of the travellers amongst whom he was, it made his very heart shiver--they looked so sad and so wretched. Now, none went straight on: some turned into this path, some into that; and then he soon lost sight of them altogether. Sometimes he heard fearful cries, as if wild beasts had seized them; sometimes a dreadful burst of flame from the horrid pits which I had seen, made him fear that they had fallen over into them: for poor Irrgeist had got now into the midst of the deep pits and the ravenous beasts. And soon he found how terrible was his danger. He had been following one who had made him believe that he had light to guide his steps; he had gone with him out of the beaten path; and they were pressing on together, when Irrgeist suddenly lost sight of him in the darkness; and whether it was that he had fallen into a pit, or become the prey of some evil beast, Irrgeist knew not; only, he found that he was more alone than ever, and near to some great peril. Poor Irrgeist sprang aside with all his force, thinking only of the danger which he feared; but, feeling his feet slipping under him, he turned, and saw that he had got upon the treacherous brink of a fearful pit; down which, at the very moment, another pilgrim fell. The fierce red flames rose out of it with a roar like thunder, and a blaze like the mouth of a furnace; and the wind blew the flames into the face of Irrgeist, so that he was singed and almost blinded. Then the poor boy called in the bitterness of his heart upon Pleasure, who had led him out of the way, and now had forsaken him; but she came no more--only terrible thoughts troubled him; and he heard the hissing of serpents as they slid along in the bushes near him, and all evil noises sounded in his ears, till he scarcely knew where he was standing. Then he thought of his staff, which he had dropped when Pleasure had first tempted him, and he grieved that it was gone; and he felt in the folds of his mantle, hoping that he might still have the book of light within it; for he had too often thrust it there at the beginning of his journey; but he could not find it. Then he strove to get some light from his little lamp; for, hurt as it was, he had it still in his hand, and he thought there was just a little blue light playing most faintly within it; but this was not enough to direct him on his way, rather did it make his way more dark. Then at last he bethought him of the golden vial. Few were there of those near him but had lost theirs altogether, and his hung only by a single thread. But it was not gone; and when he had striven long, he just drew from it a single drop of oil, and he trimmed his lamp, and it yielded forth a little trembling light, just enough to shew that it was not altogether dead. With the help of this light he saw that when he had dropped his book of fire, one single leaf had been torn from it, and stuck to his mantle; so he seized it eagerly, and strove to draw light from it; but all that it would yield was red and angry-looking light, and all that he could read was, "the way of transgressors is hard." Poor Irrgeist! he sat down almost in despair, and wept as if his heart would break. "O, that I had never trusted Pleasure;" "O, that I had never left the path;" "O, that I had my book of light, and my lamp's former brightness, and my goodly stick;" "O, that one would lighten my darkness." Then did it seem to me as if in the murmur of the air around him two voices were speaking to the boy. One was like the gentle voice of the man whom I had seen at the porch of the valley; and it seemed to whisper, "return," "return;" "mercy," and "forgiveness." And as he listened, something like hope mixed with the bitter tears which ran down the face of the wanderer. But then would sound the other voice, harsh, and loud, and threatening; and it said, "too late," "too late," "despair," "despair." So the poor boy was sadly torn and scattered in his thoughts by these two different voices; but methought, as he guarded his golden vial, and strove to trim his dying lamp, that the gentle voice became more constant, and the voice of terror more dull and distant. Then, as I was watching him, all at once the boy sprang up, and he seemed to see a light before him, so straight on did he walk: many crossed his path and jostled against him, but he cared not; he heard the sweet voice plainer and plainer, like the soft murmuring of the cushat dove in the early summer, and he would follow where it led. Hitherto his pathway had been smooth, and he had hastened along it; but this did not last, for now it narrowed almost to a line, and ran straight between two horrible pitfalls; so he paused for a moment; but the roaring of a lion was behind him, and forward he pressed. It was a sore passage for Irrgeist, for the whole ground was strewed with thorns, which pierced his feet at every step, and the sparks from the fire-pits flew ever round him, and now and then fell in showers over him. Neither did he hear now the pleasant sound of the voice of kindness; whether it were that it had died away, he knew not, or whether it were that the crackling and roaring of the fierce flames, and the voice of the beasts behind, and his own groans and crying, drowned its soft music, so that he heard it not. I had looked at him until I could bear it no more; for the path seemed to grow narrower and narrower; the flames from the two pits already almost touched; and I could not endure to see, as I feared I should, the little one, whom I had watched, become the prey of their devouring fierceness. So, with a bitter groan for Irrgeist, I turned me back to the road to see how it fared with Furchtsam and Gehulfe. They had fallen far behind the others from the first. Poor little Furchtsam had a trembling tottering gait; and as he walked, he looked on this side and on that, as if every step was dangerous. This led him often to look off his book of light, and then it would shut up its leaves, and then his little lamp grew dimmer and dimmer, and his feet stumbled, and he trembled so, that he almost dropped his staff out of his hands. Yet still he kept the right path, only he got along it very slowly and with pain. Whether it was that Gehulfe was too tender spirited to leave him, or why else, I know not, but he kept close by the little trembler, and seemed ever waiting to help him. Many a time did he catch him by the hand when he was ready to fall, and speak to him a word of comfort, when without it he would have sunk down through fear. So they got on together, and now they came to the part of the pathway which the evil enchantress haunted. She used all her skill upon them, and brought up before their eyes all the visions she could raise; sunshine, and singing-birds, and waving boughs, and green grass, and sparkling water, they all passed before their eyes,--but they heeded them not: once, indeed, poor Furchtsam for a moment looked with a longing eye at the painted sunshine, as if its warm light would have driven off some of his fears; but it was but for a moment. And as for Gehulfe, whether it was that he was reading his book of light too closely, or trimming too carefully his lamp, or helping too constantly his trembling friend, for some cause or other he scarcely seemed to see the visions which the sorceress had spread around him. So when she had tried all her skill for a season, and found it in vain, she vanished altogether from them, and they saw her no more. But their dangers were not over yet. When Gottlieb passed along this road, he had gone on so boldly, that I had not noticed how fearful it was in parts to any giddy head or fainting heart. But now I saw well how it terrified Furchtsam. For here it seemed to rise straight up to a dangerous height, and to become so narrow at the same time, and to be so bare of any side- wall or parapet, that it was indeed a giddy thing to pass along it. Yet when one walked over it, as Gottlieb did, leaning on his staff of Church- truth, reading diligently in his book, and trimming ever and anon his lamp, such a light fell upon the narrow path, and the darkness so veiled the precipice, that the pilgrim did not know that there was any thing to fear. But not so when you stopped to look--then it became terrible indeed; you soon lost all sight of the path before you; for the brightest lamp only lighted the road just by your feet, and that seemed rising almost to an edge, whilst the flash of distant lights here and there shewed that a fearful precipice was on each side. Furchtsam trembled exceedingly when he looked at it; and even Gehulfe, when, instead of marching on, he stopped to talk about it, began to be troubled with fears. Now, as they looked here and there, Furchtsam saw an easy safe-looking path, which promised to lead them in the same direction, but along the bottom of the cliffs. Right glad was he to see it; and so taking the lead for once, he let fall his staff, that by catching hold of the bushes on the bank, he might drop down more easily upon the lower path; and there he got with very little trouble. It was all done in a moment; and when he was out of the path, Gehulfe turned round and saw where he was gone. Then he tried to follow after him; but he could not draw his staff with him through the gap, or climb down the bank without letting it go. And, happily for him, he held it so firmly, that after one or two trials he stopped. Then, indeed, was he glad, as soon as he had time to think; and he held his good stick firmer in his hand than ever, for now he saw plainly that Furchtsam was quite out of the road, and that he had himself well-nigh followed him. So leaning over the side, he began to call to his poor timid companion, and encourage him to mount up again, by the bank which he had slipped down, and venture along the right way with him. At first Furchtsam shook his head mournfully, and would not hear of it. But when Gehulfe reminded him that they had a true promise from the King, that nothing should harm them whilst they kept to the high way of holiness, and that the way upon which he had now entered was full of pitfalls, and wild beasts, and every sort of danger, and that in it he must be alone,--then his reason began to come back to him, and Furchtsam saw into what an evil state he had brought himself; and with all his heart he wished himself back again by the side of Gehulfe. But it was no such easy matter to get back. His lamp was so bruised and shaken as he slid down, that it threw scarcely any light at all; while it had never seemed, he thought, so dark as it did now: he could not see the bushes to which he had clung just before, or the half path which had brought him down. Gehulfe's voice from above was some guide to him, and shewed him in which direction to turn; but when he tried to mount the bank, it was so steep and so slippery, he could scarcely cling to it; and he had no staff to lean upon, and no friendly hand to help him. Surely if it had not been for the kind encouraging voice of Gehulfe, the weak and trembling heart of Furchtsam would have failed utterly, and he would have given up altogether. Now, just at this time, whilst he was reaching out to Furchtsam, and urging him to strive more earnestly, he heard a noise as of one running upon the path behind him; and he looked round and saw one of the King's own messengers coming fast upon it: so when he came up to Gehulfe, he stopped and asked him what made him tarry thus upon the King's path. Then Gehulfe answered very humbly, that he was striving to help back poor Furchtsam into the right way, from which he had been driven by his fears. Then the messenger of the King looked upon him kindly, and bid him "fear not." "Rightly," he said, "art thou named Gehulfe, for thou hast been ready to help the weak; and the Lord, who has bidden his children 'to bear one another's burdens,' has watched thee all alone thy way, and looked upon thee with an eye of love; and forasmuch as thou seemest to have been hindered in thy own course by helping thy brother, the King has sent me to carry thee on up this steep place, and over this dangerous road." With that, I saw that he lifted up the boy, and was about to fly with him through the air. Then, seeing that he cast a longing look towards the steep bank, down which Furchtsam had slipped, and that the sound of his sad voice was still ringing in his ear; the King's messenger said to him, "'Cast thy burden upon the Lord.' 'The Lord careth for thee.' 'For the very hairs of your head are numbered,' and 'the Lord is full of compassion, pitiful, and of great mercy.'" So the heart of Gehulfe was soothed, and with a happy mind he gave himself to the messenger, and he bore him speedily along the dangerous path, as if his feet never touched the ground, but refreshing airs breathed upon his forehead as he swept along, and silver voices chanted holy words to his glad heart. "He shall gather the lambs in his arms," said one; and another and a sweeter took up the strain and sang, "and he shall carry them in his bosom." And so he passed along the way swiftly and most happily. Then I saw that he bore him to the mouth of the arbour into which Gottlieb had turned to rest. And now as he came up to it, Gottlieb was just coming forth again to renew his journey. Right glad was Gottlieb of the company of such a comrade; so they joined their hands together, and walked along the road speaking to one another of the kindness of the King, and telling one to the other all that had befallen them hitherto. A pleasant thing it was to see them marching along that road, their good staffs in their hands, their lamps burning brightly, and their books sending forth streams of light, to shew them the way that they should go. But now I saw they got into a part of the road which was rough and full of stones; and unless they kept the lights they bore with them ever turned towards the road, and looked, too, most carefully to their footing, they were in constant danger of falling. The air, also, seemed to have some power here of sending them to sleep, for I saw that Gottlieb's steps were not as steady and active as they had been; and he looked often from this side to that, to see if there were any other resting-place provided for him; but none could he see: and then methought, as he walked on, his eyes would close as he bent them down over his book, like one falling asleep from exceeding weariness. Gehulfe saw the danger of his friend; and though he felt the air heavy, his fear for Gottlieb kept him wide awake. "What are those words," he asked his drowsy friend, "which burn so brightly in your book?" When he heard the voice, Gottlieb roused himself, and read; and it was written, "Watch and pray, lest ye enter into temptation; the spirit truly is willing, but the flesh is weak." Then, for a little while, Gottlieb was warned, and he walked like one awake; but, after a time, such power had this sleepy air, he was again almost as drowsy as ever, and his eyes were nearly closed. Then, before Gehulfe could give him a second warning, he placed his foot in a hole, which he would have easily passed by, if he had been watching; and, falling suddenly down, he would have rolled quite out of the road (for it was raised here with a steep bank on either side), if Gehulfe had not been nigh to catch him again by the hand, and keep him in the path. He was sorely bruised and shaken by the fall, and his lamp, too, was dusted and hurt; so that he could not, at first, press on the way as he wished to do. But now his drowsiness was gone; and, with many bitter tears, he lamented that he had given way to it before. One strange thing I noted, too: he had dropped his staff in his fall, and he could not rise till he had taken it again in his hand; but now, when he tried to take it, it pricked and hurt his hand, as if it had been rough and sharp with thorns. Then I looked at it, and saw that one of the stems which were twined together, and which bore the name of "discipline," was very rough and thorny; and this, which had turned inwardly before, was now, by his fall, forced to the outside of the staff, so that he must hold that or none. Now I heard the boy groan as he laid hold of it; but lay hold of it he did, and that boldly, for he could not rise or travel without it, and to rise and travel he was determined. Then he looked into his book of light, and he read out of it these words, "Make the bones which Thou hast broken to rejoice." And as he read them, he gathered courage, and made a great effort, and stood upon his feet, and pressed on beside Gehulfe. Then I saw that the road changed again, and became smoother than they had ever known it. Gottlieb's staff, too, was now smooth and easy in his hand, as it had been at first. Soon also a pleasant air sprung up, and blew softly and yet cool upon their foreheads. And now they heard the song of birds, as if the sunshine was very near them, though they saw it not yet. There were, too, every now and then, sounds sweeter than the songs of birds, as if blessed angels were near them, and they were let to hear their heavenly voices. A little further, and the day began to dawn upon them--bright light shone out some way before them, and its glad reflection was already cast upon their path. But still there was one more trial before them; for when they had enjoyed this light for a season, and I thought they must be close upon the sunshine, I saw that they had got into greater darkness than ever. Here, also, they lost sight of one another; for it was a part of the King's appointment, that each one must pass that dark part alone--it was called "the shadow of death." Gehulfe, I saw, walked through it easily; his feet were nimble and active, his lamp was bright, his golden vial ever in his hand, his staff firm to lean upon, and the book of light close before his eyes: he was still reading it aloud, and I heard him speak of his King as giving "songs in the night,"--and so, with a glad heart, he passed through the darkness. The brightest sunshine lay close upon the other side of it; and there he was waited for by messengers in robes of light, and they clad him in the same, and carried him with songs and music into the presence of the King. But Gottlieb did not pass through so easily. It seemed as if that darkness had power to bring out any weakness with which past accidents had at the time affected the pilgrim: for so it was, that when Gottlieb was in it, he felt all the stunning of his fall come back again upon him, and, for a moment, he seemed well-nigh lost. But his heart was sound, and there was One who was faithful holding him up: so he grasped his good staff tighter than ever, though its roughness had come out again and sorely pricked his hand; but this seemed only to quicken his steps; and when he had gone on a little while thus firmly, as he looked into his book he saw written on its open page, "I will make darkness light before thee." {76} And as he read them, the words seemed to be fulfilled, for he stepped joyfully out of the darkness into the clear sunlight. And for him too the messengers were waiting; for him too were garments ready woven of the light; around him were songs, and music, and rejoicing; and so they bare him into the presence of the King. Now, when I had seen these two pass so happily through their journey into rest, I thought again of the poor trembling Furchtsam, and longed to know that he had got again into the road. But upon looking back to where I had lost sight of him, I saw that he was still lying at the foot of the steep bank, down whose side he had stepped so easily. He had toiled and laboured, and striven to climb up, but it had been all in vain. Still he would not cease his labour; and now he was but waiting to recover his breath to begin to strive again. He was, too, continually calling on the King for aid. Then I saw a figure approaching him in the midst of his cries. And poor Furchtsam trembled exceedingly, for he was of a very timorous heart, and he scarcely dared to look up to him who stood by him. After a while I heard the man speak to him, and he asked him in a grave, pitying voice, "What doest thou here?" Then the poor boy sobbed out in broken words the confession of his folly, and told how he had feared and left the road, and how he had laboured to get back into it, and how he almost thought that he should never reach it. Then I saw the man look down upon him with a face of tenderness and love; and he stretched forth his hand towards him; and Furchtsam saw that it was the hand which had been pierced for him: so he raised the boy up, and set him on his feet; and he led him straight up the steepest bank. And now it seemed easy to his steps; and he put him back again in the road, and gave the staff into his hand, and bid him "redeem the time, because the days are evil;" and then he added, "Strengthen ye the weak hands, and confirm the feeble knees." "Say to them that are of a fearful heart, 'be strong:' 'fear not.'" {79a} Such strength had his touch, his words, and his kind look, given to the heart of the timid boy, that he seized the staff, though its most prickly "discipline" sorely hurt his tender flesh; and leaning on it, he set bravely out without a moment's delay. And I heard him reading in his book of light as he climbed up the steep path which had affrighted him; and what he read was this: "Before I was afflicted, I went astray; but now have I kept Thy word." {79b} When he had almost reached the arbour, another danger awaited him; for in the dim light round him he saw, as he thought, the form of an evil beast lying in the pathway before him. Then did some of his old terrors begin to trouble him; and he had turned aside, perhaps, out of the way, but that the wholesome roughness of his staff still pricked his hand and forced him to recall his former fall. Instead, therefore, of turning aside, he looked into his book of light, and there he read in fiery letters, "Thou shalt go upon the lion and the adder; the young lion and the dragon shalt thou tread under thy feet:" and this gave him comfort. So, on he went, determining still to read in his book, and not to look at all at that which affrighted him: and so it was, that when he came to the place, he saw that it was only a bush, which his fears had turned into the figure of a beast of prey; and at the same moment he found where it was written in his book, "No lion shall be there, nor any ravenous beast shall go up thereon, it shall not be found there; but the redeemed shall walk there." {80} And now he stood beside the arbour, where he rested a while, and then pursued his journey. Now I noticed, that as he got further on the road, and read more in his book, and leant upon his staff, that he grew bolder and firmer in his gait: and I thought that I could see why Gehulfe, who had been needful to him in his first weakness, had afterwards been carried away from him: for surely he had leant more upon him, and less upon his book and his good staff, unless he had walked there alone. However this might be, he grew continually bolder. As he drew near the last sad darkness, I began again to tremble for him; but I need not have done so; for he walked on so straight through it, that it seemed scarcely to make any difference to him at all. In the best part of the road his feebleness had taught him to lean altogether upon Him who had so mercifully helped him on the bank, and who had held up his fainting steps hitherto; and this strength could hold him up as well even in this extreme darkness. I heard him, as he parsed along, say, "When I am weak, then am I strong;" and with that he broke out into singing: "Through death's dark valley without fear My feeble steps have trod, Because I know my God is near; I feel His staff and rod." With that he too passed out of the shade and darkness into the joyful sunshine. And oh, it was indeed a happy time! It made my heart bound when I saw his face, which had so often turned pale and drooped with terror, now lighted up with the glow of the heavenly light; when, instead of the evil things which his fears had summoned up, I saw around him the bands of holy ones, and the children of the day: and so they passed along. And soon, I thought, he would see again the hand which had been stretched out to save him on the bank, and hear the kind and merciful voice which had soothed his terror and despair, and live in the present sunshine of that gracious countenance. And now methought I heard an earnest and sorrowful voice, as of one crying aloud for help; so I turned me round to see where he was that uttered it, and by the side of the King's path I could see one striving to mount the bank, and slipping back again as often as he tried. He was trying in right earnest: his cries were piteous to hear, and he laboured as if he would carry his point by storm. But it was all in vain; the more he struggled, the worse his case grew; for the bank, and all the path up to it, got so quagged and miry with his eager striving, that he seemed farther and farther from getting safely up. At last, as he was once more struggling violently up, his feet quite slipped from under him, and he fell upon his side: and so he lay sobbing and struggling for breath, but still crying out to the King, who had helped him before, and delivered him from the flames of the pit, to help him once more, and lift him again into the right way. My heart pitied the poor boy, and I looked more closely into his face, and saw that it was Irrgeist--not Irrgeist as he had been when he had walked at first with Gottlieb along the road, or as he had been when he had first followed the deceitful phantom "Pleasure" out of it,--but Irrgeist still, though brought by his wanderings and his trouble to paleness, and weariness, and sorrow. Now, whilst I was looking at him, as he lay in this misery, and longing for some helper to come to him, lo, his cries stopped for a moment, and I saw that it was because One stood by him and spoke to him. Then I could see under the mantle, which almost hid Him, that it was the same form which had visited Furchtsam, and delivered him when he had cried. Now, too, I saw the hand held out, and I saw Irrgeist seize it; and it raised him up, and he stood upon his feet: and the staff was given to him,--exceeding rough, but needful and trusty; and his lamp shone out, and the book of light was his; and his feet were again in the road. But I marked well that Irrgeist trod it not as the others had done. Truly did he go along it weeping. Whether it was that the thought of what he had gone through amongst the pitfalls dwelt ever on his mind; or whether it were shame of having wandered, I know not,--but his road seemed evermore one of toil and sorrow. Still, in the midst of tears, a song was often put into his mouth, and his tongue was ever speaking of the great kindness of Him who had restored the wanderer: his head, too, was so bowed down, that he marked every stone upon the road, and therefore never stumbled; but still his speed was little, and his troubles were many. When he got to the dark part, he had a sore trial: his feet seemed too weak and trembling to bear him; and more than once I heard him cry out, as if he thought that he were again between the pitfalls, and the fire were ready to break out upon him. But then did it seem as if there were some sweet hopes given him, and his face brightened up; and in a faint, feeble voice, he would break out again into his song and thanksgiving. As he drew towards the end, things somewhat mended with him; and when he was just upon the sunlight, and began to see its brightness through the haze, and to hear the voices of the heavenly ones, methought his heart would have burst, so did it beat with joy: and withal he smote upon his breast, and said,--"And this for me! And this for the wanderer! O mercy, choicest mercy! Who is a God like unto Thee, that pardonest iniquity?" And so saying, he entered on the heavenly light, and left for ever behind him the darkness and the danger of the pitfalls, and the face of shame, and the besetting weakness; for he too was clothed in raiment of light, and borne with joy before the Lord the King. * * * * * _Father_. Who were those who were walking in the beautiful garden as its lords? _Child_. Man in Paradise before the fall. F. What was the dreadful change that came upon them? C. Their fall into sin and misery. F. What was the second estate seen in the vision? C. Their fallen children in this sinful world, without the knowledge of God; wandering in the darkness of heathenism amongst the pitfalls of error. F. What was the porch which let them into a better way? C. The entrance into the Church of the redeemed by baptism. F. What does our Catechism say about this? C. That it is our being "called to a state of salvation." F. What are the gifts bestowed upon them? C. God's word is the book of light; conscience enlightened by God is the little lamp of each; the oil in the golden vial is the help and teaching of God's grace; and the staff is the help and assistance of the Church. F. Why was it so easy to get out of the path, and so hard to get back? C. Because it is easy to go wrong, and very hard to return into the way of righteousness. F. What were the baits which the phantom offered to the youths? C. The pleasures of sin, which are but for a season. F. Why was the staff rough to those that were coming back from wandering? C. Because the discipline of the Church, which is easy to the obedient, is often galling to those who offend. F. Why was Irrgeist, after he was brought back, still so sad a pilgrim? C. Because, though he was accepted and forgiven, the effects of his former sins still weakened and grieved him: as says the Lord, by the mouth of the Prophet Ezekiel (chap. xvi. ver. 63), "That thou mayest remember, and be confounded, and never open thy mouth any more because of thy shame, when I am pacified toward thee for all that thou hast done, saith the Lord God." The Little Wanderers. In a miserable little hovel, built on the edge of a wide and desolate common, lived a poor widow woman, who had two sons. The eldest of them was quite young, and the least was scarcely more than an infant. They were dressed in torn and dirty rags, for the widow had no better clothes to put upon them; and often they were very hungry and very cold, for she had not food or fire with which to feed and warm them. No one taught the biggest boy any thing; and as for the poor mother, she did not know a letter. She had no friends; and the only playfellows the little ones ever knew were other children as poor, and as dirty, and as untaught as they were themselves, from whom they learnt nothing but to say bad words and do naughty tricks. Poor children! it was a sad life, you would say, which lay before them. Just at this time the widow was taken very ill with a fever. Long she lay in that desolate hut, groaning and suffering, and no one knew how ill she was but the little children. They would sit and cry by her miserable bed all day, for they were very hungry and very sad. When she had lain in this state for more than a week, she grew light-headed, and after a while died. The youngest child thought she was asleep, and that he could not waken her; but the elder boy rushed weeping out of the house, knowing that she was really dead, and that they were left alone in the wide world. Just at that very moment a man passed by, who looked into the pale, thin, hungry face of the sobbing child, with a kind, gentle look, and let himself be led into the wretched hut, where the poor dead mother lay. His heart bled for the poor orphans, for he was one who was full of tenderness: so he spake kind words to them; and when his servants came up after a while, he gave orders that their dead mother should be buried, and that the children should be taken from the miserable hut, to dwell in his own beautiful castle. To it the children were removed. The servants of the Lord of the castle put on them clean fresh clothes--washed their old dirt from them; and as no one knew what were their names, they gave them two new names, which shewed they belonged to this family; and they were cared for, and given all they wanted. Happy was now their lot. They had all they wanted: good food in plenty, instead of hunger and thirst; clean raiment, instead of rags and nakedness; and kind teachers, who instructed them day by day as they were able to bear it. There were a multitude of other happy children too in the castle, with whom they lived, and learned, and spent their glad days. Sometimes they played in the castle, and sometimes they ran about in the grounds that were round it, where were all sorts of flowers, and beautiful trees full of singing birds, and green grass, and painted butterflies; and they were as happy as children could be. All over these grounds they might play about as they would: only on one side of them they were forbidden to go. There the garden ended in a wide waste plain, and there seemed to be nothing to tempt children to leave the happy garden to walk in it, especially as the kind Lord of the castle bid them never set foot on it: and yet it was said that some children had wandered into it, and that of these, many had never come back again. For in that desert dwelt the enemies of the Lord of the castle; and there was nothing they loved better than to pounce down upon any children whom he had taken as his own, and carry them off, to be their slaves in the midst of the waste and dreary sands. Many ways too had these enemies by which they enticed children to come on the plain; for as long as they stayed within the boundary, and played only in the happy garden, the evil one could not touch them. Sometimes they would drop gay and shining flowers all about the beginning of the waste, hoping that the children would come across the border to pick them up: and so it was, that if once a child went over, as soon as he had got into his hands the flower for which he had gone, it seemed to fade and wither away; but just beyond him he thought he saw another, brighter and more beautiful; and so, too, often it happened that, throwing down the first, he went on to take the second; and then throwing down the second, he went on to reach a third; until, suddenly, the enemy dashed upon him, and whirled him away with them in a moment. Often and often had little Kuhn {95a}--for so the eldest boy had been named--looked out over this desert, and longed, as he saw the gay flowers dropped here and there, to run over the border and pick them up. His little brother, who was now old enough to run about with him, would stand and tremble by him as he got close to the desert; but little Zart {95b} would never leave him: and sometimes, I am afraid, they would have both been lost, if it had not been for a dear little girl, who was almost always with them, and who never would go even near to the line. When Kuhn was looking into it, as if he longed for the painted flowers, the gentle Glaube {96} would grow quite sad, and bending her dark sorrowful eyes upon him, their long lashes would become wet with tears, and she would whisper in a voice almost too solemn for a child, "O Kuhn, remember." Then Kuhn, who could not bear to see her sad, would tear himself away; and the flowers seemed directly to lose their brightness, and the desert looked dry and hot, and the garden cool and delicious, and they played happily together, and forgot their sorrow. But it was very dangerous for Kuhn to go so near. The servants of the Lord of the castle often told the children this; and seeing a bold and daring spirit in Kuhn, they had spoken to him over and over again. What made it so dangerous was this,--that the flowers of the wilderness never looked gay until you got near to its border; afar off it seemed dusty, dry, and hot; but the nearer you got to it, the brighter shone the flowers; they seemed also to grow in number, until you could hardly see its dry hot sands, for the flowery carpet that was drawn over them. Poor Kuhn! he was often in danger. Never yet had he crossed the border; but it is a sad thing to go near temptation; and so this unhappy child found to his cost. One day he was sauntering close to the forbidden border, when the hoop which he was trundling slipped from him and ran into the desert. In a moment he was over after it; and just as he stooped to pick it up, he saw, right before him, a beautiful and sparkling flower. He would certainly have gone after it, but that at the instant he caught the eye of Glaube looking sadly after him, and it struck upon his heart, and he hastened back, and was safe. For a while his legs trembled under him, and Zart looked up quite frightened into his pale face; Glaube too could scarcely speak to him; and it was long before they were laughing merrily again under the tall palm-trees of the garden. But by the next day all Kuhn's fears had flown away, and he went with a bolder foot than ever to the very edge of the desert. {The Little Wanderers: p98.jpg} Glaube was further off than usual; and just as Kuhn and Zart were in this great danger, a beautiful bird started up under their feet. The boys had never seen such a bird. All the colours of the rainbow shone upon his feathers, and his black and scarlet head seemed quite to sparkle in the sunshine. It tried to fly; but whether its wing was hurt, or what, I know not, but it could not rise, and ran before them flapping its painted wings, screaming with a harsh voice, and keeping only just before them. The boys were soon in full chase, and every thing else was forgotten; when, just as they thought the bird was their own, he fluttered across the border, and both the boys followed him,--Kuhn boldly and without thought, for he had been across it before; but poor little Zart trembled and turned pale, and clung to his bolder brother, as if he never would have crossed it alone. Once over, however, on they went, and the bird still seemed to keep close before them; and they never noticed how far they were getting from the garden, until suddenly they heard a dreadful noise; the air looked thick before them, as if whole clouds of dust were sweeping on; shining spear- heads were all they could see in the midst of the dust; and they heard the trampling of a multitude of horses. The boys were too much frightened to shriek, but they clung to one another, pale and trembling, and ready to sink into the earth. In a minute rude hands seized them; they heard rough voices round them; and they could see that they were in the midst of the enemies of the Lord of the castle. In another minute they were torn asunder, they were snatched up on horseback, and were galloping off towards the sad abode in which the evil men of the desert dwelt. In vain the boys cried, and begged to be taken home; away galloped the horses; whilst no one thought of heeding their cries and prayers. They had gone on long in this way, and the dark-frowning towers of the desert castle were in sight. The little boys looked sadly at one another; for here there was no flowering garden, there were no sheltering trees, but all looked bare, and dry, and wretched; and they could see little narrow windows covered with iron bars, which seemed to be dungeon- rooms, where they thought they should be barred in, and never more play together amongst the flowers and in the sunlight. Just at this moment the little Zart felt that, by some means or other, the strap which bound him to the horse had grown loose, and in another moment he had slipped down its side, and fallen upon his head on the ground. No one noticed his fall; and there he lay upon the sand for a while stunned and insensible. When he woke up, the trampling of horses had died away in the distance; the light sand of the desert, which their feet had stirred, had settled down again like the heavy night-dew, so that he could see no trace of their footmarks. The frowning castle-walls were out of sight; look which way he would, he could see nothing but the hot flat sand below, and the hot bright sun in the clear sky above him. He called for his brother, but no voice answered him; he started up, and began to run he knew not where: but the sun beat on his head, the hot sand scorched his weary feet; his parched tongue began to cleave to his mouth; and he sunk down upon the desert again to die. As he lay there he thought upon the castle-garden and its kind Lord; upon the sorrowful face with which Glaube was used to look on them, when he and Kuhn drew near to the forbidden border; and his tears broke out afresh when he thought of his brother in the enemies' dungeon, and himself dying in the desolate wilderness. Then he called upon the Lord of the castle, for he remembered to have heard how He had pitied wandering children, and heard their cry from afar, and had brought them back again to His own happy castle. And as he lay upon the sand, crying out to the Lord of the castle, he thought that he heard a footstep, as of one walking towards him. Then there came a shade between the sun and his burning head, and looking languidly up he saw the kind face of the Lord of the castle turned towards him. He was looking on the poor child as He had looked on him when He had pitied him by the side of the hut; and that kind face seemed to speak comfort. Then He stretched out to him His hand, and He bade him rise; and He lifted up the child, and bore him in His bosom over that waste and scorching wilderness, nor ever set him down until He had brought him again into the pleasant garden. Once as he lay in that bosom, Zart thought that he heard in the distance the tramping of horse-hoofs; and he saw the dusty cloud lifting itself up: but he felt that he was safe; and so he was, for the enemy did not dare to approach that Mighty One who was bearing him. When he reached the garden again, the gentle Glaube met him, and welcomed him back again to their peaceful home. But he hung down his head with shame and with sorrow; and as he looked up into the face of the Lord of the garden, he saw in it such kindness and love, that his tears rolled down his cheeks to think how he had broken His command, and wandered into the wilderness of His enemies. Then he tried to speak for his brother, for his heart was sore and heavy with thinking of him; but the Lord of the castle answered not. Many, many days did Glaube and Zart pray for him; but they heard nothing of him: whether he died in the enemies' dungeon; or whether, as they still dared to hope, he might even yet one day find his way back to the garden of peace; or whether, as they sometimes trembled to think, he had grown up amongst the enemies of their Lord, and become one of them,--they knew not, and they dared not to ask. But they never thought of him without trembling and tears, and Zart more even than Glaube: for he had crossed that terrible border; he had been seized by the fierce enemy; he had lain alone in the wide scorching desert; and had only been brought back again from death by the great love of the mighty and merciful Lord of that most happy garden. * * * * * _Father_. Who are meant by these children born in the wretched hovel? _Child_. All the children of fallen parents. F. Who are such? C. All who are born. For we were "by nature born in sin, and the children of wrath." F. Who is the kind Lord of the castle who takes pity on them? C. Jesus Christ our Lord. F. What is meant by His taking them to His castle? C. His receiving us when children into His Church. F. When was this done? C. At our baptism. For "being by nature children of wrath, we were hereby made the children of grace." F. What is meant by the clean raiment and the new name He gave them? C. The "forgiveness of all our sins" (see Collect in Confirmation-Service), and the giving us our Christian name. F. Why is it called your Christian name? C. To mark its difference from our natural, or parents' name. F. Why was it given you at that time? C. Because then I was taken into God's family, and "made a member of Christ, child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven." F. What was the food with which they were fed? C. All the means of grace of the Church of Christ. F. What was the desert, and who those who dwelt in it who were enemies to the Lord? C. The ways of sin, and the devil and his angels. F. What were the bright flowers and the bird? C. The baits and temptations of sin. F. Why did Kuhn, or "bold," cross the border more easily the second time? C. Because one sin makes another easier. F. Why did Zart, or "tender," follow him? C. Because bold sinners lead weaker sinners after them. F. What were the dry sands into which Kuhn and Zart were carried? C. The evil ways of sin. F. Who came to Zart's rescue when he prayed? C. The gracious Lord who had at first received him into His Church by baptism. F. Why was he still sad and ashamed after he was brought back? C. Because he had wandered. F. Did he then doubt whether he was forgiven? C. No: but he "remembered and was confounded, and never opened his mouth any more, when the Lord was pacified toward him for all his iniquity." F. What was the end of Kuhn, or the "bold?" C. We know not; but they who "draw back unto perdition" are punished above all others. F. What are we to learn from the whole? C. The blessedness of being taken into the Church in our infancy; and our need of prayer and watching, lest we turn it into a curse. The King and his Servants. A great king once called his servants to him, and said to them,--"You have all often professed to love me, and to wish to serve me; and I have never yet made trial of you. But now I am about to try you all, that it may be known who does in truth desire to serve me, and who is a servant only in name. To morrow your trial will begin; so meet me here in the morning, and be ready to set out upon a journey on which I shall send you." When the king had so spoken, he left them; and there was a great deal of bustle and talking amongst these servants. Not that they were all alike. Some were very busy, and said a great deal of the services they should render; and that they hoped it would be some really hard trial on which the king would set them. Others were quiet and thoughtful, saying little or nothing, but, as it seemed, thinking silently of the words the king had spoken, as if they feared lest they should fail in their trial. For they loved that king greatly; he had been as a father to them all. Once they had been slaves, and cruelly treated by a wicked tyrant who had taken them prisoners, and cast some of them into dungeons, and made others work in dark mines, and dealt evil with them all. But the king had triumphed over this their enemy, and rescued them from his hands. His own son had sought them in the dungeons and dark pits into which they had been cast, and had brought them out; and now he had given them places in his service, and fed them from his own kingly table; and he promised to such as were faithful, that he would raise them yet higher; that he would even set them upon thrones, and put crowns upon their heads; and that they should remain always in his presence, and rule and dwell with him. Now, when the time of their trial was come, these faithful servants were grave and thoughtful, fearing lest they should fail, and be led to forget him their kind and gracious king. But one thought held them up. He had said unto them all, "As your day, so shall your strength be." They knew, therefore, that he would put on them no task beyond their strength. They remembered his kindness and his love in taking them out of the dungeons of the enemy. They desired greatly to serve him; and so they rejoiced that their trial was come, even while they feared it; and they trusted in him to help them, even whilst they trembled for themselves. These servants spent much of the night in preparing for their journey; in thinking over all the directions the king had ever given them; for many times had he spoken to them of this coming trial; and even written down plain rules for them, which should teach them always how he would have them act. All these they gathered together, lest in the hurry of setting out, they should forget any one of them; and so they went into the court of the palace to meet the king. Then he came forth from his palace-door, and gave them all their charge. From the great treasure-chambers of that palace he brought out many different gifts, and laid them before these his servants. One had gold and silver, and another had precious stuffs; but all had something good and costly: and as he gave them these gifts, he told them that this was to be their trial. He was about to send them with these gifts into an exceeding great and rich city, which lay afar off from his palace; and in that city they were all to trade for him. They were to take his gifts and use them wisely, so that each one of them might bring something back to him. He gave them also very close and particular instructions. He told them that there were many in that city who would try to rob them of these his gifts; and he told them how to keep them safely. He told them that many would seek to make them waste what he had given to them on pleasing themselves. But that they must remember always, that what they had belonged to him; that they would have to give him an account of their way of using all his gifts; and that of his mere mercy he, who had redeemed them from the dungeon and made them able to serve him, would graciously reward hereafter all their efforts to use his gifts for him. He told them also to set about trading for him as early as they could; for that all the merchants' goods were freshest in the morning; that then the precious stones were the finest and the truest; but that those who waited till the evening would find all the best goods sold; and that, perhaps, before they had any thing ready, the trumpet would sound which was to call them all out of the city, and then they would have to come back to him empty-handed and disgraced. When he had given them these charges, he sent them from his presence to begin their journey to the great city. All that day they travelled with horses and camels over plains and hills, and fruitful fields and deserts, until, just as the sun went down, they came to the walls of a great city; and they knew that it was here they were to traffic for their king upon the morrow. Then the thoughtful servants began carefully to unpack their goods; they looked into their bales of precious stuffs to see that they had got no injury from the dust and sand of the desert; they counted over their bags of money to see that all was right; and began to lay them all in order, that they might enter the town as soon as the gates were open, and trade for their king in the morning hours, which he had told them were the best. {The King and His Servants: p115.jpg} But some of the other servants laughed at them for taking all this care and trouble. "Surely it will be time enough," they said, "to get every thing ready when the markets are open to-morrow. We have had a long, hot, weary journey, and we must rest and refresh ourselves before we think of trading." So they spread the tables, and began to feast in a riotous way, quite forgetting the king's service, and putting the morrow out of their thoughts. Now as soon as the sun was up, in the morning, there was a great stir amongst the servants. Those who had been careful and watchful in the evening were ready with all their bales; and as soon as ever the city- gates were open, they marched in through them with their goods. It was a great wide city into which they entered, and must hold, they thought, a vast multitude of men. Houses and streets of all sizes met their eyes here and there; but they passed easily along, because it was still so early in the morning, that few persons were in the streets, and those few were all bent upon business, as they were themselves. So they passed on to the great market where the merchants bought and sold, and here they set out all their goods; and the merchants came round them to look over their wares, and to shew them what they had to sell in return. Now they found it true as the king had foretold them. For they had the first choice of all that the merchants could offer. One of them opened his stores, and shewed them rubies, and diamonds, and pearls, such as they had never seen before for size and beauty. So they chose a pearl of great price, and they bought it for their prince, and they trafficked in their other wares, and gained for him more than as many bags of treasure as he had given them at first. Thus they traded according to their skill, and every one had now secured something for his lord. The pearl of great price was stored by some; others had rich dresses adorned with gold and precious stones; others had bags of the most refined gold; others had the spices of Arabia and the frankincense of the islands of the East. One there was amongst them who seemed to have got nothing to carry home with him; and yet he, as well as the rest, had laid out his master's gifts. Then some of the other servants asked him, what he had stored up for the king? and he said that he had no riches which he could shew to them, but that he had an offering which he knew that the merciful heart of the king would make him love and value. Then they asked him to tell them his story; so he said that, as he was walking through the market, he had seen a poor woman weeping and wringing her hands, as if her heart would break: he stopped, and asked her the cause of her sorrow; and she told him that she was a widow, and that some merchants, to whom her husband had owed large sums of money, had come that morning to her house and taken all that she had, and seized her children too; and that they were dragging them away to the slave-market to sell them for slaves in a far land, that they might pay themselves the debt which her husband had owed them. So when he heard her sad tale, he opened his bag of treasure, and found that all the gold which he had got in it would just pay the widow's debt and set her children free. Then he went with her to the merchants, and he told out to them all that sum, and set the children of the widow free, and gave them back to their mother; "and I am taking," he said, "to our merciful king the offering of the widow's tears and gratitude; and I know well that this is an offering which will be well- pleasing in his sight." So it fared with these faithful servants in their trading; and all the while they were cheerful and light-hearted, because they remembered constantly the love and kindness which their king had shewed to them; and they rejoiced that they were able to serve him and to trade for him with his gifts. They thought also of the goodness of the king's son towards them; they remembered how he had sought them when they were prisoners in the dark dungeons of their tyrant enemy; and they were full of joy when they thought that they should be able to offer to him the goodly pearl, and the other curious gifts, which they had bought. They thought of these things until they longed to hear the trumpet sound, which was to call them out of the town and gather them together for their journey home. When that trumpet might sound, they knew not; but the sun was now passed its noon, and the town, which had been so quiet when they came in the early morning along its empty streets, was now full of noise, and bustle, and confusion, as great towns are wont to be, when all the multitude of sleepers awaken and pour out for pleasure, or business, or idleness, into the streets, and squares, and market-places. Heartily glad were they now that they had been so early at their traffic. Now the merchants had shut up all their richest stores; and the markets were full of others who brought false pearls and mock diamonds, instead of the costly gems for which they had traded in the morning. There seemed to be hardly any true traders left. Idlers were there in numbers, and shows and noisy revels were passing up and down the streets; and they could see thieves and bad men lurking about at all the corners, seeking whom they could catch, and rob, and plunder. On all these things the servants looked; sometimes they saw beautiful sights pass by them, which gladdened their eyes; and sometimes sweet music would fill their ears, as bands of merry harpers and singers walked up and down through the market; and they rejoiced in all of these, but still their hearts were full of thoughts of their kind king, and recollections of his son their prince; and they longed to be at home with them, even when the sights round them were the gayest, and the sounds in their ears were the sweetest; and they were ever watching for the voice of the trumpet, which was to call them again homeward. But this happy case was not that of all the servants. When these watchful men had been entering the gates of the city in the morning, the thoughtless servants were not yet awake. They had sat up late at their feasting and rejoicings, and when the morning sun rose upon them, they were still in their first deep sleep. The stirring of their fellow-servants moved them a little, and for a while they seemed ready to rise and join them. But their goods were not ready, so they could not go with them; and they might as well, therefore, they thought, wait a little longer and rest themselves, and then follow them to the market. They did not mean to be late, but they saw no reason why they should be so very early. They slept, therefore, till the sun was high, and then they rose in some confusion, because it was now so late; and they had all their goods to unpack, their stuffs to smooth out, and the dust to shake off from them. Soon they began about every little thing to find fault with one another, because they were secretly angry with themselves. Each one thought that if his neighbour had not persuaded him to stay, he should have been up, and have entered the city with the earliest: so high words arose between them; and instead of helping one another, and making the best they could of the time which remained, they only hindered one another, and made it later and later before they were ready to begin their trading. At length, after many hard words and much bad temper, one by one they got away; each as soon as he was ready, and often with his goods all in confusion; every one following his own path, and wandering by himself up the crowded streets of the full town. Hard work they had to get at all along it when they had passed the gates. All the stream of people seemed now to be setting against them. The idlers jested upon their strange dress; and if they did but try to traffic for their lord, the rude children of the town would gather round them, and hoot, and cry: so that they could not manage to carry on any trade at all. Then, as I watched them, I saw that some who had been the loudest in talking of what they should do when they were tried, were now the first to give up altogether making any head at all against the crowd of that city. They packed up what goods they might have, and began to think only of looking about them, and following the crowd, and pleasing themselves, like any of the men around them. Then I looked after some of these, and I saw that one of them was led on by the crowd to a place in the town where there was a great show. Outside of it were men in many-coloured dresses, who blew with trumpets, and jested, and cried aloud, and begged all to come in and see the strange sights which were stored within. Now when the servant came to this place, he watched one and another go in, until at last he also longed to go in and see the sights which were to be gazed on within. So he went to the door, and the porter asked him for money; but when he drew out his purse, and the porter saw that his money belonged to some strange place, and was quite unlike the coin used in that town, he only laughed at it, and said it was good for nothing there, and bid him "stand back." So as he turned away, the porter saw the rich bundle on his back, and then he spoke to him in another tone, and he said, "I will let you in, if you like to give me that bundle of goods." Then for a moment the servant was checked. He thought of his lord and of the reckoning, and he remembered the words, "As good stewards of the manifold grace of God;" and he had almost determined to turn back, and to fight his way to the market-place, and to trade for his lord, let it cost him what it might;--but just at the moment there was a great burst of the showman's trumpets; and he heard the people shouting for joy within; and so he forgot all but his great desire, and slipping off the bundle from his shoulders, he put it into the hands of the porter, and passed in, and I saw him no more. Then I saw another, who was standing at the corner of a street gating at some strange antics which were being played by a company of the townsmen. And as he gazed upon them, he forgot all about his trading for his master, and thought only of seeing more of this strange sight. Then I saw that whilst he was thinking only of these follies, some evil-minded men gathered round him, and before he was aware of it, they secretly stole from him all the gold which his lord had given him to lay out for him. The servant did not even know when it was gone, so much was he thinking of staring at the sight before him. But it made me very sad to think that when he went to buy for his master, he would find out, too late, his loss; and that when the trumpet sounded, he would have nothing to carry back with him on the day of reckoning. Some of these loiterers, too, were treated even worse than this. One of them I saw whom the shows and lights of that town led on from street to street, until he came quite to its farther end; and then he thought that he saw before him, beyond some lonely palings, still finer sights than any he had left; and so he set out to cross over those fields, and see those sights. And when he was half over, some wicked robbers, who laid wait in those desolate places, rushed out upon him from their lurking- place, and ill used him sorely, and robbed him of all his goods and money, and left him upon the ground hardly able to get back to the town which he had left. Then I saw one of these loiterers who, as he was looking idly at the sights round him, grew very grave, and began to tremble from head to foot. One of his fellows, who stood by and saw him, quickly asked him what made him tremble. At first he could not answer; but after a while he said, that the sound of the trumpet which they had just heard had made him think of the great trumpet-sound of their master, which was to call them all back to his presence, and that he trembled because the evening was coming on, and he had not yet traded for his lord. And "How," he said in great fear, "how shall we ever stand that reckoning with our hands empty?" Then some of his companions in idleness laughed and jeered greatly, and mocked the poor trembler. But his fears were wiser than their mockings; and so, it seemed, he knew, for he cared nothing for them; but only said to them, very sadly and gravely, "You are in the same danger, how then can you jeer at me?" And with that he pointed their eyes up to the sky, and shewed them how low the sun had got already, and that it wanted but an hour at the most to his setting, and then that the trumpet might sound at any moment, and they have nothing to bear home to their lord. Now, as he spoke, one listened eagerly to him; and whilst the others jeered, he said very gravely, "What can we do? Is it quite too late?" "It is never too late," said the other, "till the trumpet sounds; and though we have lost so much of the day, perchance we can yet do something: come with me to the market-place, and we will try." So the other joined him, and off they set, passing through their companions, who shouted after them all the way they went, until the townsmen who stood round began to jeer and shout after them also: so that all the town was moved. A hard time those two had now, and much they wished that they had gone to the market-place in the early morning, when the streets were empty, and the busy servants had passed so easily along. Many were the rough words they had now to bear; many the angry, or ill-natured, crowd through which they had to push; and if any where they met one of their late and idle companions, he was sure to stir up all the street against them, when he saw them pushing on to the market-place. "Do you think that we shall ever get there?" said he who had been moved by the other's words to him, who led the way, and buffeted with the crowd, like a man swimming through many rough waves in the strong stream of some swift river. "Do you think that we shall ever get there?" "Yes, yes," said the other; "we shall get there still, if we do but persevere." "But it is so hard to make any way, and the streets seem to grow fuller and fuller; I am afraid that I shall never get through." Just as he spoke, a great band of the townspeople, with music, and trumpets, and dancing, met them like a mighty wave of the sea, and seemed sure to drive them back: one of their old companions was dancing amongst the rest; and as I looked hard at him, I saw that it was the same who had given away his precious burden in order to go into the show. Now, as soon as he saw these his former fellows, he called to them by their names, and bid them join him and the townsmen round him. But he that was leading the way shook his head, and said boldly: "No: we will not join with you; we are going to the market-place to traffic for our lord." "It is too late for that," said he; "you lost the morning, and now you cannot trade." Then I saw that he who before had trembled exceedingly grew very pale; but still he held on his way; and he said,--"Yes, we have lost the morning, and a sore thing it is for us; but our good lord will help us even yet; and we WILL serve him, 'redeeming the time, because the days are evil.'" Then he turned to the other and said to him,-- "And will not you stop either? Do not be fooled by this madman: what use is it to go to buy when the shops are all shut, and the market empty?" Then he hung down his head, and looked as though he would have turned back, and fallen into the throng; but his fellow seized him by the hand, and bid him take courage, and think upon his kind master, and upon the king's son, whose very blood had been shed for them; and with that he seemed to gather a little confidence, and held for a while on in his way with the other. Then their old companion turned all his seeming love into hatred, and he called upon the crowd round him to lay hands on them and stop them; and this the rabble would fain have done, but that, as it seemed to me, a power greater than their own was with those servants, and strengthened them; until they pushed the rude people aside on the right and on the left, and passed safely through them into another street. Here there were fewer persons, and they had a breathing-time for a while; and as they heard the sound of music and of the crowd passing by at some little distance from them, they began to gather heart, and to talk to one another. "I never thought," said the one, "that I could have held on through that crowd; and I never could, if you had not stretched out your hand to help me." "Say, rather, if our master's strength had not been with us," said the other. "But do you think," said he that was fearful, "that he will accept any thing we can bring him now, when the best part of the day is over?" "Yes, I do," he replied. "I have a good hope that he will; for I remember how he said, 'Return, ye backsliding children, return ye even unto me.'" "But how can one who is so trembling and fearful as I am ever traffic for him?" "You can, if you will but hold on; for he has once spoken of his servants 'as faint yet pursuing.'" "Well," said the other, "I wish that I had your courage; but I do believe that I should not dare to meet such another crowd as that we have just passed through; I really thought that they would tear us in pieces." "Our king will never let that be," said the other, "if only we trust in him." "But are you sure," replied he, "that our king does see us in this town?" Just as he said this, and before his companion had time to answer him again, they heard a louder noise than ever, of men dancing, and singing, and crowding, and music playing, and horns blowing, as if all the mad sports of the city were coming upon them in one burst. At the front of all they could see their old companion; for the band had turned round by a different street, and now were just beginning to come down that one up which they were passing. Then he who had been affrighted before, turned white as snow; and he looked this way and that, to see what he could do. Now it so happened, that just by where they stood was a great shop, and in its windows there seemed to shine precious stones and jewels, and fine crystals, and gold and ivory. And, as he looked, his eyes fell full upon the shop, and he said to his fellow,--"Look here; surely here is what we want: let us turn in here and traffic for our master, and then we shall escape all this rout which is coming upon us." "No, no!" said the other; "we must push on to the market; that is our appointed place; there our lord bids us trade: we must not turn aside from the trouble which our lateness has brought upon us--we must not offer to our master that which costs us nothing. Play the man, and we shall soon be in the market." "But we shall be torn in pieces," said the other. "Look at the great crowd: and even now it seems that our old companion sees me, and is beginning to lead the rabble upon us." "Never fear," said he who led the way; "our king will keep us. 'I will not be afraid for ten thousands of the people who have set themselves against us round about.'" Then I saw that he to whom he spoke did not seem to hear these last words, for the master of the shop had noticed how he cast his eyes upon the goods that were in the window, and was ready in a moment to invite him in. "Come in, come in," he said, "before the crowd sweep you away; come in and buy my pearls, and my diamonds, and my precious stones; come in, come in." And while he halted for a moment to parley with the man, the crowd came upon them, and he was parted from his friend, who had held up his fainting steps; and so he sprung trembling into the shop, scarcely thinking himself safe even there. Now the man into whose house he had turned, though he was a fair-spoken man, and one who knew well how to seem honest and true, was altogether a deceiver. All his seeming jewels, and diamonds, and pearls, were but shining and painted glass, which was worth nothing at all to him who was so foolish as to buy it: but this the servant knew not. If it had been in the bright clear light of the morning, he would easily have seen that the diamonds and the pearls were only sparkling and painted glass, and the gold nothing but tinsel; but the bright light of the morning had passed away, and in the red slanting light of the evening sun he could not see clearly; and so the false man persuaded him, and he parted with all the rich treasures which his king had given him, and got nothing for them in exchange which was worth the having, for he filled his bag with bits of painted glass, which his lord would never accept. However, he knew not how he had been cheated; or if, perhaps, a thought crossed his mind that all was not right, it was followed by another, which said that it was now too late to alter, and that if he had chosen wrongly, still he must abide by it; and so he waited for the trumpet. But he was not altogether happy; and often and often he wished that he had faced the strife of the multitude, and pressed on with his trusting companion to the market. A hard struggle had been his before he had reached it. It seemed indeed at times as if the words of his fearful companion were coming true, and he would be torn altogether in pieces, so fiercely did the crowd press upon him and throng him. But as I watched him in the thickest part of it, I saw that always, just at his last need, something seemed to favour him, and the crowd broke off and left room for him to struggle by. I could hear him chanting, as it were, to himself, when the crowd looked upon him the most fiercely, "I will not be afraid for ten thousands of the people that have set themselves against me round about." And even as he chanted the words, the crowd divided itself in two parts, like a rushing stream glancing by some black rock; and on he passed, as though they saw him not. So it continued, even till he reached the market-place. Right glad was he to find himself there: but even now all his trials were not over. Many of the stalls were empty, and from many more the fair and true traders were gone away; and instead of them were come false and deceitful men, who tried to put off any who dealt with them with pretended jewels and bad goods. Then did he look anxiously round and round the market, fearing every moment lest the trumpet should sound before he had purchased any thing for his lord. Never, perhaps, all along the way, did he so bitterly regret his early sloth as now, for he wrung his hands together, and said in great bitterness, "What shall I do?" and, "How shall I, a loiterer, traffic for my lord?" Then his eyes fell upon a shop where were no jewels, nor gold, nor costly silks, nor pearls of great price; but all that was in it was coarse sackcloth, and rough and hairy garments, and heaps of ashes, and here and there a loaf of bitter bread, and bitter herbs, and bottles wherein tears were stored. As he gazed on this shop something seemed to whisper to his heart, "Go and buy." So he went with his sorrowful heart, as one not worthy to traffic for his master, and he bought the coarsest sackcloth, and the ashes of affliction, and many bitter tears: and so he waited for the sounding of the trumpet. Then suddenly, as some loud noise breaks upon the slumbers of men who sleep, that great trumpet sounded. All through the air came its voice, still waxing louder and louder; and even as it pealed across the sky, all that great city, and its multitudes, and its lofty palaces, and its show, and its noise, and its revels, all melted away, and were not. And in a moment all the servants were gathered together, and their lord and king stood amongst them. All else was gone, and they and their works were alone with him. Then was there a fearful trial of every man's work. Then were they crowned with light and gladness who had risen early and traded diligently, and who now brought before their master the fruit of that toil, and labour, and pain. Each one had his own reward; and amongst the richest and the best--as though he brought what the king greatly loved--was his reward who brought unto his master the offering of gratitude from the broken-hearted widow. Then drew near the servant who had wasted the morning, but had repented of his sloth, and had fought his way through the crowds, and had at last bought the sackcloth. Now he came bringing it with him; and it looked poor, and mean, and coarse, as he bore it amongst the heaps of gold, and jewels, and silks, which lay piled up all around; yet did he draw near unto the king; and as he came, he spoke, and said, "A broken and a contrite heart wilt thou not despise." And as he spake, the king looked graciously upon him: a mild and an approving smile sat upon his countenance, and he spoke to him also the blessed words, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant." Then did the coarse sackcloth shine as the most rich cloth of gold; then did the ashes of the furnace sparkle as a monarch's jewels; whilst every bitter tear which was stored in the bottle changed into pearls and rubies which were above all price. Then the king turned to the careless servants, and his voice was terrible to hear, and from his face they fled away. I dared not to look upon them; but I heard their just and most terrible sentence, and I knew that they were driven away for ever from the presence of the king, in which is life and peace; and that they were bound under chains and darkness, deeper and more dreadful than those from which the king's son had graciously delivered them. * * * * * _Father_. In what part of God's word do we read such a parable as this? _Child_. In the 25th chapter of St. Matthew's gospel, and at the 15th verse. F. Who is the King who called his servants thus together? C. Almighty God. F. Who are meant by these servants trading in the town? C. All of us Christians. F. How do you know that they were Christians? C. Because they had been delivered from slavery and dungeons by the King's own Son. F. What is the great town to which they were sent? C. This world. F. What are the goods which God gave them to lay out for him? C. Every thing which we have in this life: our strength, and health, and reason, and money, and time. F. How may we trade with these for the King? C. By trying to use them all so as to please Him and set forth His glory. F. Who are those who rose up early to go into the town? C. Those who begin to serve the Lord even from their youth. F. What is shewn by their finding the streets easy to pass, and the markets full of rich goods? C. That this service of God is far easier to such as begin to serve Him in youth; and that such are able to offer to Him the best gifts of early devotion, and their first love, and the zeal of youth, and tender hearts, and unclouded consciences. F. What is taught us by their seeing the beautiful things of the city at their ease, after their diligent trading? C. That those who serve God truly in a youthful piety commonly find more than others, that "godliness has promise of the life which now is, as well as of that which is to come." F. Why were those who were late ready to quarrel with one another? C. Because companions in sin have no real love for each other, but are always ready to fall out; being all selfish and separate from God. F. What were the full streets they met with when they entered the town? C. The many difficulties and hindrances which beset those who set about serving God late in life. F. What were the shows, and the thieves, and the robbers, which troubled them? C. The different temptations which come from the devil, the world, and the flesh. F. Who were the crowds who withstood them? C. Those who love this present world, and who therefore withstand those who seek to live for God's glory. F. Who was he who sold the false jewels? C. One of those who often make a prey of persons beginning, after a negligent youth, to feel earnest about religion, and of whom we read, Rom. xvi. 17, 18, "Now I beseech you, brethren, mark them which cause divisions and offences, contrary to the doctrine which ye have learned; and avoid them. For they that are such serve not our Lord Jesus Christ, but their own belly; and by good words and fair speeches deceive the hearts of the simple." F. Who was he who held on through all difficulties to the market-place? C. A truly humble penitent, who having turned to God with all his heart, leans not to his own understanding, but follows God's leading in all things; cleaving close to Christ's Church. F. What were the sackcloth and ashes which he bought? C. The true contrition of heart and deep sense of sin, which God gives to those who seek earnestly to turn away from all iniquity. F. What was the sound of the trumpet? C. The call of men to the general judgment. F. Who were those whose trading the master was pleased to reward? C. Those who had served God early; those who had given to Him the best of their youth; those who had been kind to others and helped the needy for His sake; those who had turned to Him in truth, and clave to Him with a humble penitence. F. What was the end of the careless servants? C. It is an awful end, which our blessed Saviour Jesus Christ speaks of thus: "Cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth." {148a} And, again, "These shall go away into everlasting punishment; but the righteous into life eternal." {148b} The Prophet's Guard. It was the very earliest morning. The day was not breaking as it does in this land of England, with a dewy twilight and a gradual dawning--first a dull glow all over the east, then blood-red rays, catching any fleecy cloud which is stealing over the sky, and turning all its misty whiteness into gold and fire;--but day was breaking as it does in those eastern countries--sudden, and bright, and hot. Darkness flew away as at a word; the thick shadows were all at once gone, and the broad glaring sun rose proudly in the sky, rejoicing in his strength. The people of the town woke up again to life and business. Doors were flung wide open, and some were passing through them; the flat roofs of the houses began to be peopled--on one was a man praying, on others two or three standing together; but most of the people were hastening here and there to get through their necessary work before the full heat of the day came on; numbers were passing and repassing to the clear dancing fountain, the cool waters of which bubbled up in the midst of a broad square within that city. And now, what is it which one suddenly sees, and, after gazing at it for a while, points out to another, and he to a third? As each hears, they look eagerly up to the hill, which rises high above their town, until they gather into a knot; and then, as one and another are added to their company, grow into almost a crowd. Still it is in the same quarter that all eyes are fixed; their water-vessels are set idly down, as if they could not think of them. Those which were set under the fountain have been quite full this long time, but no one stooped to remove them; and the water has been running over their brimming sides, while its liquid silver flew all round in a shower of sparkling drops. But no one thinks of them. What is it which so chains all eyes and fixes the attention of all? The hill is quite full of armed men. There were none there overnight: they have come up from the vale silently and stealthily during the darkness, while men slept, like some great mist rising in stillness from the waters, and they seem to be hemming in the town on every side. Look which way you will, the sun lights upon the burnished points of spears, or falls on strong shields, or flashes like lightning from polished and cutting swords, or is thrown a thousand ways by the rolling wheels of those war-chariots. "Who are they?" is the question of all; and no one likes to say what all have felt for a long time--"they are our enemies, and we are their prey." But there is no use in shutting the eyes any longer to the truth. The morning breeze has just floated off in its airy waves that flag which before hung down lifelessly by the side of its staff. It has shewn all. They are enemies; they are fierce and bitter enemies; they are the Syrians, and they are at war with Israel. But why are they come against this little town? When they have licked up it and its people like the dust from the face of the earth, they will be scarcely further on in their war against Israel. Why did not they begin with some of the great and royal cities? Why was it not against Jerusalem, or Jezreel, or even against the newly rebuilt Jericho? Why should they come against this little town? Then one, an evil-looking man of a dark countenance, one who feared not God and loved not His servants, whispered to those around him, and said, "Have you not heard how Elisha the prophet, who dwells amongst us, has discovered to the king of Israel the secrets of the army of the king of Syria? No doubt it is because Elisha is dwelling here that the king of Syria has come upon us. And now shall we, and our wives, and our sweet babes, and our houses, and our treasures, become the prey of the king of Syria, for the sake of this Elisha. I never thought that good would come from his dwelling here." Now, fear makes men cruel and suspicious, and fills their minds with hard thoughts; and many of these men were full of fear: and so, when they heard these words, they began to have hard bad thoughts of God's prophet, and to hate him, as the cause of all the evils which they were afraid would very soon come upon them. Just then the door of another house opened: it was the prophet's house, and his servant came forth with the water-vessels to fill them at the fountain. He wondered to see the crowd of men gathered together, and he drew near to ask them what was stirring. He could read upon their dark scowling faces that something moved them exceedingly; but what it was he could not gather. He could not tell why they would scarcely speak to him, but looked on him with angry faces, and spoke under their breath, and said, "This is one of them." "'Twere best to give them up." "They will destroy us all." Then the man was altogether astonished; for his master had been ever humble, and kind, and gentle; no poor man had ever turned away without help when he had come in his sorrows to the prophet of the Lord. And yet, why were they thus angry with him, if it were not for his master's sake? Broken sentences were all that he could gather; but, by little and little, he learned what they feared and what they threatened; he saw, also, the hosts of armed men gathered all around the city; and his heart, also, was filled with fear. He believed that it was for his master's sake that they were there; he saw that all around him were turned against his master, and he trembled exceedingly. For some time he stood amongst the rest, scarce knowing what to do, neither liking to remain nor daring to go; until at last, as some more stragglers joined themselves to the company, he slunk away like one ashamed, without stopping even to fill the water-vessels he had brought. And so he entered his own door, heavy-hearted and trembling; and he went to the prophet's chamber, for he deemed that he still slept. But the man of God was risen; and he knew, therefore, where he should find him--that he would be upon the flat roof of his house, calling upon the name of the Lord his God, who had made another morning's sun to rise in its glory. {The Prophet's Guard: p156.jpg} So he followed his master to the housetop; and there, even as he had supposed, he found the holy man. It was a striking sight, could any one have seen the difference between these two men. The one pale and trembling and affrighted, like a man out of himself, and with no stay on which to rest his mind; the other calm and earnest, as, in deep and solemn prayer, with his head bowed and his hands clasped together, his low voice poured forth his thanksgiving, or spake of his needs; he also, as it seemed, was out of himself, but going out of himself that he might rest upon One who was near to him though his eye saw Him not, and who spake to him though his outward ear heard no voice of words. Thus he continued for a season, as if he knew not that any man was nigh unto him; as if he knew not that there were, in the great world around him, any one besides his God with whom he communed, and his own soul which spake unto his God. All this time his servant stood by him, pale and trembling, but not daring to break in upon that hour of prayer; until at length the prophet paused, and his eye fell upon the trembler; and he turned towards him, and said kindly, "What ails thee, my son?" Then the servant answered, "O my father, look unto the hill." And he stood gazing in the prophet's face, as though he expected to see paleness and terror overspread it when his eyes gathered in the sight of those angry hosts. But it was not so. No change passed over his countenance; his brow was open as it was before; the colour never left his cheeks; and, with almost a smile, he turned unto the servant, and said, "And why does this affright thee?" "It is for thee they seek, my father--it is for thee they seek; and the wicked men of the town are ready to fall upon thee and deliver thee into their hands. Even now, as I walked along the street, they looked on me with fierce and cruel eyes; and they breathed threats which these lips may not utter, and said, that thou hadst brought this trouble upon them, and their wives, and their little ones; and I feared that they would curse thee and thy God." But the prophet was not moved by his words, for he only answered, "Fear them not; they that are with us are more than they that are against us." Then did the servant cast his eyes to the ground, and he spake not, yet his lips moved; and if any one had heard the words which he whispered, they might perhaps have heard him ask how this could be, when they were but two, and their enemies were so many and so mighty. Now the prophet's eye rested upon him, and he read all his secret thoughts; and he pitied his weakness, for that holy man was full of pity for the weak: so he chid him not; but, bowing his knees again on that flat roof, he prayed unto his God to open the eyes of his affrighted servant. His prayer was heard. For there fell from them as it were films; and now, when he looked out, he saw a glorious sight. All the mountain was full; and they were a wonderful company which filled it. The dark hosts of the Syrians, and their glancing swords and clashing chariots, now looked but as a mere handful; for the whole mountain round them was full of that heavenly army. Chariots of fire and horsemen of fire thronged it in every part. High up into the viewless air mounted their wheeling bands: rank beyond rank, and army beyond army, they seemed to stretch on into the vastness of space, until the gazer's wearied eye was unable to gaze on them. And all of these were gathered round his master. They were God's host, keeping guard over God's servant. And they who would injure him must first turn aside those flashing swords, must break up that strong and serried array, and be able to do battle with God's mighty angels. Then was the weak heart strong. Then did the poor trembler see that he was safe; and know that he who is on God's side can never want companions and defenders. The Brothers' Meeting; OR, The Sins of Youth. A large company was winding its way slowly out of the vale in which the river Jordan runs. The sun was just beginning to strike hotly upon them, and make them long for rest and shelter, as they toiled up the open sandy hills and amongst the great masses of rock with which that country was strewn. It was a striking sight to see those travellers. First went three troops of kine, lowing as they went; camels with their arched necks, stooping shoulders, and forward ears; asses with their foals; ewes and lambs; and goats with their kids, which mounted idly upon every rock that lay by their road-side, and then jumped as idly down again; and before and after these, drivers in stately turbans and long flowing robes, keeping the flocks and herds to their appointed way. Then came large droves of cattle, and sheep, and goats, and asses, stirring up with their many feet the dust of the sandy plain, till it fell like a gentle shower powdering with its small grains all the rough and prickly plants which grew in tufts over the waste. Then was there a space; and after that were seen two bands of camels,--the best they seemed to be of all the flock, those which came last especially,--and on them were children and women riding, over whom hung long veils to shelter their faces from the hot breath of the sandy desert through which they had travelled. And after all these came one man, with his staff in his hand and a turban on his head, walking slowly, as one who walked in pain and yet walked on, following those who went before. If you had stood near to that man, you might, perhaps, have heard him speaking to God in prayer and thanksgiving; you might have heard him saying to himself, "with my staff passed I over this Jordan, and now I am become two bands:" or you might have heard him earnestly calling upon the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac his father, to keep him safe in the great danger which now lay close before him. His mind was certainly very full of that danger; for he kept looking up from the sand on which his eyes were often fixed, and gazing as far as he could see over the hills before him, as if he expected to see some great danger suddenly meet him on his way, and as if, therefore, he wished to be quite ready for it. If you looked into his face, you could see at once that he was not a common man. He was not a very old man; his hair was not yet grey upon his head; and yet it seemed, at the first glance, as if he was very old. But as you looked closer, you saw that it was not so; but that many, many thoughts had passed through his mind, and left those deep marks stamped even on his face. It was not only sorrow, though there was much of that; nor care, though he was now full of care; but besides these, it seemed as if he had seen, and done, and felt great things--things in which all a man's soul is called up, and so, which leave their impress behind them, even when they have passed away. He HAD seen great things, and felt great things. He had seen God's most holy angels going up to heaven, and coming down to earth upon their messages of mercy. He had heard the voice of the Lord of all, promising to be his Father and his Friend. And only the night before, the Angel of the covenant had made himself known to him in the stillness of his lonely tent, and made him strong to wrestle with him for a blessing, until the breaking of the day. So that it was no wonder, that when you looked into his face, it was not like the face of a common man, but one which was full of thought, which bore almost outwardly the stamp of great mysteries. But what was it which now filled this man with care? He was returning home from a far land where he had been staying twenty years, to the land where his father dwelt. He had gone out a poor man; he was coming home a rich man. He was bringing back with him his wives, and his children, and his servants, and his flocks, and his herds; and of what was he afraid? Surely he could trust the God who had kept him and blessed him all these twenty years, and who had led him now so far on his journey? Why should he fear now, when he was almost at his father's tent? It was because he heard that HIS BROTHER was coming to meet him. But why should this fill him with such fear? Surely it would be a happy meeting; brothers born of the same father and of the same mother, who had dwelt together in one tent, kneeled before one father's knees in prayer, and joined together in the common plays of childhood,--surely their meeting must be happy, now that they have been twenty years asunder, and God has blessed them both, and they are about to see each other again in peace and safety, and to shew to each other the children whom God had given them, and who must remind them of their days of common childhood. And why then is the man afraid? Because when he left his father's house this brother was very angry with him, and he fears that he may have remembered his anger all these twenty years, and be ready now to revenge himself for that old quarrel. And yet, why should this make such an one to fear? Even if his brother be still angry with him, and have cruel and evil thoughts against him, cannot God deliver him?--cannot the same God who has kept him safely all these twenty years of toil and labour, help and save him now? Why then does he fear so greatly? He has not forgotten that this God can save him--he has not for a moment forgotten it; for see how earnestly he makes his prayer unto Him: hear his vows that if God will again deliver him, he and all of his shall ever praise and serve him for this mercy. Yet still he is in fear; and he seems like a man who thought that there was some reason why the God who had heard him in other cases should not hear him in this. What was it, then, which pressed so heavily upon this man's mind? It was the remembrance of an old sin. He feared that God would leave him now to Esau's wrath, because he knew that Esau's wrath was God's punishment of his sin. He feared that Esau's hand would slay his children, as God's chastisement for the sins of his childhood. He remembered that he had lied to Isaac his father, and mocked the dimness of his aged eyes by a false appearance; now he trembled lest his father's God should leave the deceiver and the mocker to eat the bitter fruit of his old sin. It was not so much Esau's wrath, and Esau's company, and Esau's arms, which he feared--though all these were very terrible to this peaceful man,--as it was his own sin in days long past, which now met him again, and seemed to frown upon him from the darkness before him. In vain did he strive to look on and see whether God would guide him there, for his sin clouded over the light of God's countenance. It was as when he strained his eyes into the great sand-drifts of the desert through which he had passed: they danced and whirled fearfully before him, and baffled all the strivings of his earnest gaze. But the time of trial was drawing very near. And how did it end? Instead of falling upon him and slaying him and his; instead of making a spoil of the oxen, and the asses, and the camels, and giving the young children to the sword, Esau's heart melted as soon as they met; he fell upon his brother's neck and kissed him; he looked lovingly upon the children who had been born to him in the far land; he spake kindly of the old days of their remembered childhood, of the grey-haired man at home; and he would not take even the present which his brother had set apart for him. Jacob knew who it was that had turned his brother's heart, and he felt more than ever what a strong and blessed thing prayer and supplication was. Nor did he forget his childhood's sin against his God. It had looked out again upon him in manhood, and reminded him of God's holiness, of his many past misdeeds, and made him pray more earnestly not to be made to "possess the iniquities of his youth." * * * * * _Father_. What should we learn from this account of Jacob's meeting Esau? _Child_. That God remembers and often visits long afterwards the sins of our childhood. F. Does not God, then, forgive the sins of children? C. Yes, He does forgive them, and blot them out for Christ's sake. F. Why, then, do we say that He visits them? C. Because He often allows the effects of past sins to be still their punishment, even when He has forgiven them. F. Why does He do so? C. To shew us how He hates sin. F. What should we learn from this? C. To watch against every sin most carefully, because we never can know what may be its effects; to remember how God has punished it, often for years, in His true servants; to pray against sin; to think no sin little. F. What should we do, if we find the consequences of past sin coming upon us? C. Take our chastisement meekly; humble ourselves under God's hand; pray for deliverance, as, "Remember not the sins of my youth, nor my transgressions: according to thy mercy remember thou me for thy goodness' sake, O Lord" (Ps. xxv. 7). F. What should be the effect on us when God hears our prayer, and delivers us? C. It should make us more humbly remember our sins and unworthiness, and strive to shew forth our thankfulness, "not with our lips only, but in our lives." {Finis: p172.jpg} LONDON: PRINTED BY GILBERT & RIVINGTON, St. John's Square. Footnotes: {6} Rev. xxii. 2. {45a} Lover of God. {45b} Wanderer. {45c} Timid. {46} Help. {49a} Prov. ii. 19. {49b} Ps. cxix. 9. {76} Isaiah xlii. 16. {79a} Isaiah xxxv. 3, 4. {79b} Ps. cxix. 67. {80} Isaiah xxxv. 9. {95a} Bold, or Rash. {95b} Tender. {96} Faith. {148a} Matt. xxv. 30. {148b} Ib. xxv. 46. 
23735	----	[Transcriber's Note: Lines 1712-1716 do not appear to be properly formatted but are a facsimile of the printed page.] [Illustration: EACH SAW THAT THE OTHER WAS HIS BROTHER.] THE STORY-TELLER by MAUD LINDSAY ILLUSTRATED BY FLORENCE LILEY YOUNG BOSTON LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. Published, August, 1915 Copyright, 1915, BY LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. * * * * * _To my cousin Judith Winston Sherrod in whose joyous company I journeyed through the wonderland of youth_ * * * * * INTRODUCTION It was a glad day in the olden time when the Story-Teller came to cottage or hall. At Christmas, or New Year; when the May-pole stood on the village green; or the chestnuts were roasting in the coals on All-hallows eve; come when he would, he was always welcome; and if, when he was least expected, he knocked at the door, what joy there was! Many were the miles that the Story-Teller had traveled, and many were the places where he had been; and many were the tales he had to tell of what he had seen and what he had heard in the wide world. Sometimes his voice was deep and sweet as the organ in church on Sunday; and sometimes it rang out clear as a bugle; and sometimes as the tale went on he would take the harp which was ever by his side, and touching it with skilful fingers, would weave a gay little song or a tender strain of music into his story, like a jeweled thread in a golden web. All the children gathered around him, sturdy Gilbert and rosy Jocelyn, roguish Giles and slender Rosalind, eager for a story. Mother and father drew near, and in the background stood the servants, smiling but silent. Oh, everything was still as the house at midnight as the Story-Teller began his magic words: "Once upon a time." Perhaps the story brought with it laughter, or perhaps a tear, but Life, said the Story-Teller, is made up of smiles and tears; and the little ones, listening to him, learned to rejoice with those whose joy was great, and to mourn with the sorrowful; and were the better and not the worse for it. And so in due time grew into noble men and good women. It is many and many a year since they lived and died; but still--knock, knock, knock--the Story-Teller comes with his harp and his story to every child's heart to-day. Open the door and let him come in, give him a seat by the fire and gather close about him. And then you shall hear! MAUD LINDSAY. _Sheffield, Alabama._ * * * * * THE STORIES THE TWO BROTHERS THE JAR OF ROSEMARY THE PROMISE THE PLATE OF PANCAKES LITTLE MAID HILDEGARDE THE APPLE DUMPLING THE KING'S SERVANT THE GREAT WHITE BEAR THE SONG THAT TRAVELED THE QUEST FOR THE NIGHTINGALE THE MAGIC FLOWER THE LIONS IN THE WAY * * * * * ILLUSTRATIONS Each saw that the other was his brother _Frontispiece_ She took the little prince in her arms and kissed him The harper was happier than a king as he sat by his own fireside Something seemed to whisper to him: "Stop, Karl, and eat" Yes, there they came! She saw an apple-tree as full of apples as her plum-tree was full of plums One of them took it in his mouth, and so brought it safely to Hans "A bear!" cried the tailor She leaned on the fence that divided the two Straight to the Enchanted Wood they went While she was watching and waiting, the flower burst into bloom When he had come to the lions he found that they were chained * * * * * THE STORY-TELLER THE TWO BROTHERS Once upon a time there lived two brothers, who, when they were children, were so seldom apart that those who saw one always looked for the other at his heels. But when they had grown to manhood, and the time had come when they must make their own fortunes, the elder brother said to the younger: "Choose as you will what you shall do, and God bless your choice; but as for me I shall make haste to the court of the king, for nothing will satisfy me but to serve him and my country." "Good fortune and a blessing go with you," said the younger brother. "I, too, should like to serve my country and the king, but I have neither words nor wit for a king's court. To hammer a shoe from the glowing iron while the red fire roars and the anvil rings--this is the work that I do best, and I shall be a blacksmith, even as my father was before me." So when he had spoken the two brothers embraced and bade each other good-bye and went on their ways; nor did they meet again till many a year had come and gone. The elder brother rode to the king's court just as he had said he would; and as time went on he won great honor there and was made one of the king's counselors. And the younger brother built himself a blacksmith's shop by the side of a road and worked there merrily from early morn till the stars shone at night. He was called the Mighty Blacksmith because of his strength, and the Honest Blacksmith because he charged no more than his work was worth, and the Master Blacksmith because no other smith in the countryside could shoe a horse so well and speedily as he. And he was envious of nobody, for always as he worked his hammer seemed to sing to him: "Cling, clang, cling! Cling, clang, cling! He who does his very best, Is fit to serve the king." Now in those days news came to the king of the country where the two brothers lived that the duke of the next kingdom had made threats against him, and against his people; and there was great excitement in the land. Some of the king's counselors wanted him to gather his armies and march at once into the duke's kingdom. "If we do not make war upon him, he will make war upon us," they said. But some of the king's counselors loved peace, and among these was the elder brother, in whom the king had great trust. "Let me, I pray you, ride to the duke's castle," he said to the king, "that we may learn from his own lips if he is friend or foe, for much is told that is not true; and it is easier to begin a fight than it is to end one." The king was well pleased with all the elder brother said, and bade him go. "But if by the peal of the noon bells on the day before Christmas you have neither brought nor sent a message of good will from the duke to me, then shall those who want war have their way," he said, and with this the elder brother had to be content. Day and night he rode to the duke's castle, and day and night, when his errand was done, he hastened home again. But the way was long and a strong wind had blown away the sign-posts which guided travelers, so, though he stopped neither to sleep in a bed or eat at a table the whole journey through, the early hours of the day before Christmas found him still far from the king's palace. And to make matters worse, in the loneliest part of the road, the good horse, that had carried him so well, lost a shoe. "Alack and alas! for the want of a nail The horseshoe is lost; and my good horse will fail For the want of the shoe; and I shall be late For want of a steed; and my message must wait For want of a bearer; and woe is our plight, For want of the message the king needs must fight!"[1] cried the elder brother then; and he bowed his head upon his saddle and wept, for where to turn for help he did not know. The sun had not yet risen and no other traveler was on the road, nor could he see through the dim light of dawn a house or watch-tower where he might ask aid. But as he wept he heard a distant sound that was sweeter than music to his ears: "Cling, clang, cling! Cling, clang, cling!" [Footnote 1: Adapted from the old proverb, "For want of a nail, the shoe was lost," etc.] "Only a blacksmith plays that tune!" he cried; and he urged his horse on joyfully, calling as he went: "Smith, smith, if you love country and king, shoe my horse, and shoe him speedily." It was not long before he spied the fire of a roadside smithy glaring out upon him like a great red eye, and when he reached the door of the shop he found the smith ready and waiting for his task. Cling, clang, cling! How the iron rang beneath his mighty stroke! And cling, clang, cling, how the hammer sang as the shoe was pounded into shape! By the time the sun was over the hill the horse was shod, and the rider was in his saddle again. But the blacksmith would take no money for his work. "To serve my country and the king is pay enough for me," he said; and he stood up straight and tall and looked the king's counselor in the eyes. And lo! and behold, as the morning light fell on their faces, each saw that the other was his brother. "God bless you, brother," and "God speed you, brother," was all that they had time to say, but that was enough to show that love was still warm in their hearts. Then away, and away, and away, through the sun and the dew rode the elder brother--away and away over hill and dale toward the king's palace. The king and his counselors were watching and waiting there, and as the sun climbed high and the message did not come, those who wanted war said: "Shall we not saddle our horses, and call up our men?" "The bells in the steeple have yet to ring for noon," said the peace-lovers; "and we see a dust on the king's highway." "Dust flies before wind," said the warriors, "and it is likelier that our messenger lies in the duke's prison than rides on the king's highway." But with the dust came the sound of flying hoofs. Faster, faster, faster, they came. When the first stroke of the noon hour pealed from the church steeple the king's messenger was in sight, and the last bell had not rung when he stood before the palace gate to deliver the duke's message: "Peace and good will to you and yours; And to all a Merry Christmas." Then the king sent for fine robes and a golden chain to be brought for the elder brother, and put a purse of gold in his hand, for he was well pleased with what he had done. But the elder brother would have none of these things for himself alone. "Try as I would, I must have failed had it not been for my brother, the blacksmith, who shod my horse on the road to-day," he said; "and, if it please your majesty, half of all you give to me I will give to him." "Two good servants are better than one," said the king, and he sent for the younger brother that he might thank him also. Then the two brothers were clothed alike and feasted alike, and each had a purse of gold; and whenever one was praised, so was the other. And they lived happily, each in his own work, all the days of their lives. THE JAR OF ROSEMARY There was once a little prince whose mother, the queen, was sick. All summer she lay in bed, and everything was kept quiet in the palace; but when the autumn came she grew better. Every day brought color to her cheeks, and strength to her limbs, and by and by the little prince was allowed to go into her room and stand beside her bed to talk to her. He was very glad of this for he wanted to ask her what she would like for a Christmas present; and as soon as he had kissed her, and laid his cheek against hers, he whispered his question in her ear. "What should I like for a Christmas present?" said the queen. "A smile and a kiss and a hug around the neck; these are the dearest gifts I know." But the prince was not satisfied with this answer. "Smiles and kisses and hugs you can have every day," he said, "but think, mother, think, if you could choose the thing you wanted most in all the world what would you take?" So the queen thought and thought, and at last she said: "If I might take my choice of all the world I believe a little jar of rosemary like that which bloomed in my mother's window when I was a little girl would please me better than anything else." The little prince was delighted to hear this, and as soon as he had gone out of the queen's room he sent a servant to his father's greenhouses to inquire for a rosemary plant. But the servant came back with disappointing news. There were carnation pinks in the king's greenhouses, and roses with golden hearts, and lovely lilies; but there was no rosemary. Rosemary was a common herb and grew, mostly, in country gardens, so the king's gardeners said. "Then go into the country for it," said the little prince. "No matter where it grows, my mother must have it for a Christmas present." So messengers went into the country here, there, and everywhere to seek the plant, but each one came back with the same story to tell; there was rosemary, enough and to spare, in the spring, but the frost had been in the country and there was not a green sprig left to bring to the little prince for his mother's Christmas present. Two days before Christmas, however, news was brought that rosemary had been found, a lovely green plant growing in a jar, right in the very city where the prince himself lived. "But where is it?" said he. "Why have you not brought it with you? Go and get it at once." "Well, as for that," said the servant who had found the plant, "there is a little difficulty. The old woman to whom the rosemary belongs did not want to sell it even though I offered her a handful of silver for it." "Then give her a purse of gold," said the little prince. So a purse filled so full of gold that it could not hold another piece was taken to the old woman; but presently it was brought back. She would not sell her rosemary; no, not even for a purse of gold. "Perhaps if your little highness would go yourself and ask her, she might change her mind," said the prince's nurse. So the royal carriage drawn by six white horses was brought, and the little prince and his servants rode away to the old woman's house, and when they got there the first thing they spied was the little green plant in a jar standing in the old woman's window. The old woman, herself, came to the door, and she was glad to see the little prince. She invited him in, and bade him warm his hands by the fire, and gave him a cooky from her cupboard to eat. She had a little grandson no older than the prince, but he was sick and could not run about and play like other children. He lay in a little white bed in the old woman's room, and the little prince, after he had eaten the cooky, spoke to him, and took out his favorite plaything, which he always carried in his pocket, and showed it to him. The prince's favorite plaything was a ball which was like no other ball that had ever been made. It was woven of magic stuff as bright as the sunlight, as sparkling as the starlight, and as golden as the moon at harvest time. And when the little prince threw it into the air, or bounced it on the floor or turned it in his hands it rang like a chime of silver bells. The sick child laughed to hear it, and held out his hands for it, and the prince let him hold it, which pleased the grandmother as much as the child. But pleased though she was she would not sell the rosemary. She had brought it from the home where she had lived when her little grandson's father was a boy, she said, and she hoped to keep it till she died. So the prince and his servants had to go home without it. No sooner had they gone than the sick child began to talk of the wonderfull ball. "If I had such a ball to hold in my hand," he said, "I should be contented all the day." "You may as well wish for the moon in the sky," said his grandmother; but she thought of what he said, and in the evening when he was asleep she put her shawl around her, and taking the jar of rosemary with her she hastened to the king's palace. When she got there the servants asked her errand but she would answer nothing till they had taken her to the little prince. "Silver and gold would not buy the rosemary," she said when she saw him; "but if you will give me your golden ball for my little grandchild you may have the plant." "But my ball is the most wonderful ball that was ever made!" cried the little prince; "and it is my favorite plaything. I would not give it away for anything." And so the old woman had to go home with her jar of rosemary under her shawl. The next day was the day before Christmas and there was a great stir and bustle in the palace. The queen's physician had said that she might sit up to see the Christmas Tree that night, and have her presents with the rest of the family; and every one was running to and fro to get things in readiness for her. The queen had so many presents, and very fine they were, too, that the Christmas Tree could not hold them all, so they were put on a table before the throne and wreathed around with holly and with pine. The little prince went in with his nurse to see them, and to put his gift, which was a jewel, among them. "She wanted a jar of rosemary," he said as he looked at the glittering heap. "She will never think of it again when she sees these things. You may be sure of that," said the nurse. But the little prince was not sure. He thought of it himself many times that day, and once, when he was playing with his ball, he said to the nurse: "If I had a rosemary plant I'd be willing to sell it for a purse full of gold. Wouldn't you?" "Indeed, yes," said the nurse; "and so would any one else in his right senses. You may be sure of that." The little boy was not satisfied, though, and presently when he had put his ball up and stood at the window watching the snow which had come to whiten the earth for Christ's birthday, he said to the nurse: "I wish it were spring. It is easy to get rosemary then, is it not?" "Your little highness is like the king's parrot that knows but one word with your rosemary, rosemary, rosemary," said the nurse who was a little out of patience by that time. "Her majesty, the queen, only asked for it to please you. You may be sure of that." But the little prince was not sure; and when the nurse had gone to her supper and he was left by chance for a moment alone, he put on his coat of fur, and taking the ball with him he slipped away from the palace, and hastened toward the old woman's house. He had never been out at night by himself before, and he might have felt a little afraid had it not been for the friendly stars that twinkled in the sky above him. "We will show you the way," they seemed to say; and he trudged on bravely in their light, till, by and by, he came to the house and knocked at the door. [Illustration: SHE TOOK THE LITTLE PRINCE IN HER ARMS AND KISSED HIM.] Now the little sick child had been talking of the wonderful ball all the evening. "Did you see how it shone, grandmother? And did you hear how the little bells rang?" he said; and it was just then that the little prince knocked at the door. The old woman made haste to answer the knock and when she saw the prince she was too astonished to speak. "Here is the ball," he cried, putting it into her hands. "Please give me the rosemary for my mother." And so it happened that when the queen sat down before her great table of gifts the first thing she spied was a jar of sweet rosemary like that which had bloomed in her mother's window when she was a little girl. "I should rather have it than all the other gifts in the world," she said; and she took the little prince in her arms and kissed him. THE PROMISE[2] A Christmas Wonder Story for Older Children There was once a harper who played such beautiful music and sang such beautiful songs that his fame spread throughout the whole land; and at last the king heard of him and sent messengers to bring him to the palace. [Footnote 2: This story was suggested by an old poem, told to me by Miss Harriette Mills, which recounted the adventures of a father who braved the snows of an Alpine pass to reach his home on Christmas day.] "I will neither eat nor sleep till I have seen your face and heard the sound of your harp." This was the message the king sent to the harper. The messengers said it over and over until they knew it by heart, and when they reached the harper's house they called: "Hail, harper! Come out and listen, for we have something to tell you that will make you glad." But when the harper heard the king's message he was sad, for he had a wife and a child and a little brown dog; and he was sorry to leave them and they were sorry to have him go. "Stay with us," they begged; but the harper said: "I _must_ go, for it would be discourtesy to disappoint the king; but as sure as holly berries are red and pine is green, I will come back by Christmas day to eat my share of the Christmas pudding, and sing the Christmas songs by my own fireside." And when he had promised this he hung his harp upon his back and went away with the messengers to the king's palace. When he got there the king welcomed him with joy, and many things were done in his honor. He slept on a bed of softest down, and ate from a plate of gold at the king's own table; and when he sang everybody and everything, from the king himself to the mouse in the palace pantry, stood still to listen. No matter what he was doing, however, feasting or resting, singing or listening to praises, he never forgot the promise that he had made to his wife and his child and his little brown dog; and when the day before Christmas came, he took his harp in his hand and went to bid the king good-bye. Now the king was loath to have the harper leave him, and he said to him: "I will give you a horse that is white as milk, as glossy as satin, and fleet as a deer, if you will stay to play and sing before my throne on Christmas day." But the harper answered, "I cannot stay, for I have a wife and a child and a little brown dog; and I have promised them to be at home by Christmas day to eat my share of the Christmas pudding and sing the Christmas songs by my own fireside." Then the king said, "If you will stay to play and sing before my throne on Christmas day I will give to you a wonderful tree that summer or winter is never bare; and silver and gold will fall for you whenever you shake this little tree." But the harper said, "I must not stay, for my wife and my child and my little brown dog are waiting for me, and I have promised them to be at home by Christmas day to eat my share of the Christmas pudding and sing the Christmas songs by my own fireside." Then the king said, "If you will stay on Christmas day one tune to play and one song to sing, I will give you a velvet robe to wear, and you may sit beside me here with a ring on your finger and a crown on your head." But the harper answered, "I _will_ not stay, for my wife and my child and my little brown dog are watching for me; and I have promised them to be at home by Christmas day to eat my share of the Christmas pudding and sing the Christmas songs by my own fireside." And he wrapped his old cloak about him, and hung his harp upon his back, and went out from the king's palace without another word. He had not gone far when the little white snow-flakes came fluttering down from the skies. "Harper, stay," they seemed to say, "Do not venture out to-day." But the harper said, "The snow may fall, but I must go, for I have a wife and a child and a little brown dog; and I have promised them to be at home by Christmas day to eat my share of the Christmas pudding and sing the Christmas songs by my own fireside." Then the snow fell thick, and the snow fell fast. The hills and the valleys, the hedges and hollows were white. The paths were all hidden, and there were drifts like mountains on the king's highway. The harper stumbled and the harper fell, but he would not turn back; and as he traveled he met the wind. "Brother Harper, turn, I pray; Do not journey on to-day," sang the wind, but the harper would not heed. "Snows may fall and winds may blow, but I must go on," he said, "for I have a wife and a child and a little brown dog; and I have promised them to be at home by Christmas day to eat my share of the Christmas pudding and sing the Christmas songs by my own fireside." Then the wind blew an icy blast. The snow froze on the ground and the water froze in the rivers. The harper's breath froze in the air, and icicles as long as the king's sword hung from the rocks on the king's highway. The harper shivered and the harper shook, but he would not turn back; and by and by he came to the forest that lay between him and his home. The trees of the forest were creaking and bending in the wind, and every one of them seemed to say: "Darkness gathers, night is near; Harper, stop! Don't venture here." But the harper would not stop. "Snows may fall, winds may blow, and night may come, but I have promised to be at home by Christmas day to eat my share of the Christmas pudding and sing the Christmas songs by my own fireside. I must go on." And on he went till the last glimmer of daylight faded, and there was darkness everywhere. But the harper was not afraid of the dark. "If I cannot see I can sing," said he, and he sang in the forest joyously: "Sing glory, glory, glory! And bless God's holy name; For 'twas on Christmas morning, The little Jesus came. "He wore no robes; no crown of gold Was on His head that morn; But herald angels sang for joy, To tell a King was born." [Illustration: THE HARPER WAS HAPPIER THAN A KING AS HE SAT BY HIS OWN FIRESIDE.] The snow ceased its falling, the wind ceased its blowing, the trees of the forest bowed down to listen, and, lo! dear children, as he sang the darkness turned to wondrous light, and close at hand the harper saw the open doorway of his home. The wife and the child and the little brown dog were watching and waiting, and they welcomed the harper with great joy. The holly berries were red in the Christmas wreaths; their Christmas tree was a young green pine; the Christmas pudding was full of plums; and the harper was happier than a king as he sat by his own fireside to sing: "O glory, glory, glory! We praise God's holy name; For 'twas to bring His wondrous love, The little Jesus came. "And in our hearts it shines anew, While at His throne we pray, God bless us all for Jesus' sake, This happy Christmas day." [Illustration: Music] THE HARPER'S SONG Words, MAUD LINDSAY Music, ELSIE A. MERRIMAN 1. Sing glo-ry, glo-ry, glo-ry! And bless God's ho-ly name; 2. O glo-ry, glo-ry, glo-ry! We praise God's ho-ly name; For 'twas on Christmas morn-ing, The lit-tle Je-sus came. For 'twas to bring His wondrous love, The lit-tle Je-sus came. He wore no robes; no crown of gold Was on His head that morn; But And in our hearts it shines a-new, While at His throne we pray, God her-ald an-gels sang for joy, To tell a King was born. bless us all for Je-sus' sake, This hap-py Christ-mas day. THE PLATE OF PANCAKES Once upon a time a woman was frying some pancakes, and as she turned the last cake in the pan she said to her little boy: "If you were a little older I should send you with some of these fine cakes for your father's dinner, but as it is, he must wait till supper for them." "Oh, do let me take them," said the little boy, whose name was Karl. "Just see how tall I am. And only yesterday my grandmother said I was old enough to learn my letters. Do let me go!" And he begged and begged till at last she selected the brownest and crispest cakes, and putting them in a plate with a white napkin over them she bade him take them. Now the path that led from Karl's home to the saw-mill where his father worked was straight enough, and plain enough, but it ran through the wood that was called Enchanted. Fairies lived there, so some people thought, and goblins that liked to work mischief; and never before had the little boy been allowed to go there alone. As he hurried along with the plate of pancakes in his hand he glanced into every green thicket that he passed, half hopeful, and half fearful that he might find a tiny creature hidden in the leaves. Not a glimpse of fairy or goblin did he see, but when he came to the blackberry bushes where the sweetest berries grow something seemed to whisper to him: "Stop, Karl, and eat." "But I am taking a plate of pancakes for my father's dinner," said Karl speaking aloud. "A moment or two will make no difference. You can run fast," came the whisper again. [Illustration: SOMETHING SEEMED TO WHISPER TO HIM: "STOP, KARL, AND EAT."] "Oh, yes, I can run fast," said Karl; and he put the plate down under the bushes and began to pick the berries. They were as ripe and sweet as they had looked and every one that the little boy put into his mouth made him wish for another; and if he turned away from the bushes the whisper was sure to come: "One more and then go." The pancakes grew cold in the plate, and the sun which had been high in the sky when Karl started from home slipped farther and farther into the west; but still he lingered, till suddenly the evening whistle of the mill sounded sharp and shrill in his ears. "Why, it is time for my father to come home," he cried. "Dear me, dear me, what shall I do?" There was nothing for him to do but to go home, so home he went with the plate of cold pancakes in his hand and the tears rolling down his cheeks. When he told his mother and grandmother what had happened they looked at each other wisely as if they thought more about it than they would say; but they bade him dry his tears. "You will be more careful another time," they said; and so the matter ended. But Karl did not forget it. It was many a month before his mother fried pancakes again, but no sooner did he see her turning the cakes in the pan than he said: "I wish my father had some of these fine cakes for his dinner, don't you, mother?" "Indeed I do," said she, smiling at his grandmother as she spoke; and as soon as the cakes were done she selected the brownest and crispest, and putting them in a plate with a white napkin over them, she bade him take them. "I'll get there in time for my father's dinner to-day," he said as he started out; but in a very short while he was back with an empty plate in his hand, and the tears rolling down his cheeks. "I only put the plate down for a minute while I chased a rabbit that said, 'If you catch me you may have me;' and when I came back every pancake was gone," he sobbed. His mother and grandmother looked at each other wisely when they heard this. "It is just as I thought the first time," said his mother. "The goblins are at work in the wood. He must never go there again." But to this the grandmother would not agree. "Leave it to me," she said, and the very next day she fried pancakes, and selecting the brownest and crispest she put them in a plate with a white napkin over them and bade Karl take them to his father. "And if any bid you stop or stay, or turn your feet from out your way, say but the word that is spelled with the fourteenth and fifteenth letters of the alphabet three times in a loud voice, and all will go well with you," she said. "All right," said Karl, nodding his head proudly, for he knew all his letters by this time and could spell hard words like c-a-t, cat, m-a-t, mat. "All right," but he did not stop to count the letters then for he was in a great hurry to be off. "I guess my father will be glad to get such fine pancakes for his dinner," he said; and he ran so fast that he was half-way to the mill before he knew it. There was no whispering voice in the wood that day and no talking rabbit to tempt him to a chase; but as he came to a place where another path crossed his own, a bird called out from the heart of the wood: "Quick, quick, come here, here, here----" "Where, where?" cried Karl; and he was just about to start in search of the bird when he remembered what his grandmother had said: "If any bid you stop or stay, or turn your feet from out your way, say but the word that is spelled with the fourteenth and fifteenth letters of the alphabet three times in a loud voice, and all will go well with you." "A, B, C, D, E, F, G," he chanted, counting the letters on his fingers as he said them, "H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O:" N was the fourteenth letter and O was the fifteenth. N-O; that was easy. "No! No! No!" he shouted; and--do you believe it?--in less time than it takes to tell it he was at the mill door with every pancake safe and hot. And the story goes that though he came and went through the Enchanted Wood all the days of his life he was never hindered by anything there again; and he never saw a goblin though he lived to be as old as his grandmother had been when he was a little boy. LITTLE MAID HILDEGARDE One evening Little Maid Hildegarde's father came home with wonderful news; the knights were coming to town. He had heard it as he came from the forest where he cut wood all day and he hurried every step of the way home to tell Hildegarde and her mother. "They are on the king's business and will be at the Church Square to-morrow morning at the hour of ten. Everybody in town will be there to see them. Old Grandmother Grey is going to ask them to ride in search of her little lamb that has gone astray; and the mayor will tell them of the wolves that come in the winter. The good knights are always glad to help," he said. Little Maid Hildegarde knew all about the knights. Her father was never tired of telling, or she of hearing, how they fought and killed the fierce dragon that had troubled the people of the border; and put out the forest fires in the time of the great drought and fed the hungry when the famine was in the land. And yet with all of their great deeds they were merry men, not too proud to sing at a feast or play with a child. And many an evening, though Hildegarde was growing to be a great girl, her mother sat by her bed to sing a song that she had sung to her when she was a babe in the cradle: "Hush, my baby, do not cry, Five brave knights go riding by. One is dressed in bonny blue; He's the leader, strong and true. One is clad from head to toe In an armor white as snow. "One in crimson bright is drest, With a star upon his breast. One in gold and one in green, Cloth of gold and satin sheen. Hush, my baby, do not cry, Five brave knights go riding by." Oh, how Hildegarde had longed to see those splendid riders! And now at last she was to have her heart's desire. It seemed almost too good to be true. "Shall we start to town as soon as the new day comes?" she asked. "Just as soon as the cows are taken to the pasture, and the little chicks are fed," said her mother; and the little maid went to bed well satisfied. But alas, for Hildegarde and her hopes! The morning sun had scarcely shone when her mother awoke with a terrible pain in her head, and her father slipped on his way to the barn and sprained his foot so he could not walk. And there was no one to take the child to the Church Square. No, not even a neighbor, for Hildegarde and her mother and father lived apart from every one else, and the wood that is called Enchanted lay between them and the town. There was no help for it. Hildegarde knew herself, without a word from any one, that she could not go; but as she ran about the house to wait on them, she heard her mother and father talking. "It is not for the pain in my face that I grieve," said the good mother; "but for the disappointment of our little maid." "Aye," said the father, "I would bear my hurt, and more too, willingly, if only she might see the gallant knights." And when Hildegarde heard what they said she made haste to wipe away the tears that threatened to roll down her cheeks, and went about her work with a pleasant face. All day long she was busy for there were the cows to take to the pasture, and the little chicks to feed, and the eggs to gather; but at sunset her tasks were done, and with her doll in her arms she sat in the doorway of the house and looked away toward the town, the towers of which just showed above the Enchanted Wood. Highest of all was the spire of the church that stood in the square where the knights had been; and as Hildegarde watched it change from grey to gold in the sunset glow, she thought of them and wondered where they had gone when their business was done. Some day they would come again and then she should surely see them, her father said; and already she had begun to look forward to that time. "Perhaps they will come when the wolves do in the winter," she said to herself; but scarcely had she spoken when through an opening in the wood she spied a horseman riding at a stately pace. Behind him came another, and another till she had counted five--five brave knights! Yes, there they came with prancing steeds and shining shields, and splendid clothes! One bore a banner blue as the sky on a summer's day, and the next held a wee lamb close within his arms. A dragon's head hung from another's saddle, and two had bugles by their sides. Not a word was spoken. As silently as the stars shine out at evening they passed the door where the child sat wonder-struck; and as quietly as the sun goes down at the day's end they vanished into the wood again before she could move or call. But just as the green of the last one's coat faded away into the green of the trees, Hildegarde thought she heard a strain of sweetest music! Now there were those, and Hildegarde's mother and father were among them, who believed that the little maid, tired from her long busy day, had fallen asleep, and dreamed a beautiful dream. But as for Hildegarde, she kept the vision in her heart alway; and when as the years went by she had little ones of her own to rock to sleep, she told them of it, and sang to them as her mother had sung to her: [Illustration: Music] FIVE BRAVE KNIGHTS Words, MAUD LINDSAY Air, Old Song Hush, my ba-by, do not cry, Five brave knights go rid-ing by. One is dressed in bon-ny blue; He's the lead-er, strong and true. One is clad from head to toe In an ar-mor white as snow. One in crim-son bright is drest, With a star up-on his breast. One in gold and one in green, Cloth of gold and sat-in sheen. Hush, my ba-by, do not cry, Five brave knights go rid-ing by. [Illustration: YES, THERE THEY CAME!] THE APPLE DUMPLING There was once upon a time an old woman who wanted an apple dumpling for supper. She had plenty of flour and plenty of butter, plenty of sugar and plenty of spice for a dozen dumplings, but there was one thing she did not have; and that was an apple. She had plums, a tree full of them, the roundest and reddest that you can imagine; but, though you can make butter from cream and raisins of grapes, you cannot make an apple dumpling with plums, and there is no use trying. The more the old woman thought of the dumpling the more she wanted it, and at last she dressed herself in her Sunday best and started out to seek an apple. Before she left home, however, she filled a basket with plums from her plum-tree and, covering it over with a white cloth, hung it on her arm, for she said to herself: "There may be those in the world who have apples, and need plums." She had not gone very far when she came to a poultry yard filled with fine hens and geese and guineas. Ca-ca, quawk, quawk, poterack! What a noise they made; and in the midst of them stood a young woman who was feeding them with yellow corn. She nodded pleasantly to the old woman, and the old woman nodded to her; and soon the two were talking as if they had known each other always. The young woman told the old woman about her fowls and the old woman told the young woman about the dumpling and the basket of plums for which she hoped to get apples. "Dear me," said the young woman when she heard this, "there is nothing my husband likes better than plum jelly with goose for his Sunday dinner, but unless you will take a bag of feathers for your plums he must do without, for that is the best I can offer you." "One pleased is better than two disappointed," said the old woman then; and she emptied the plums into the young woman's apron and putting the bag of feathers into her basket trudged on as merrily as before; for she said to herself: "If I am no nearer the dumpling than when I left home, I am at least no farther from it; and that feathers are lighter to carry than plums nobody can deny." Trudge, trudge, up hill and down she went, and presently she came to a garden of sweet flowers; lilies, lilacs, violets, roses--oh, never was there a lovelier garden! The old woman stopped at the gate to look at the flowers; and as she looked she heard a man and a woman, who sat on the door-step of a house that stood in the garden, quarreling. "Cotton," said the woman. "Straw," said the man. "'Tis not--" "It is," they cried, and so it went between them, till they spied the old woman at the gate. "Here is one who will settle the matter," said the woman then; and she called to the old woman: "Good mother, answer me this: If you were making a cushion for your grandfather's chair would you not stuff it with cotton?" "No," said the old woman. "I told you so," cried the man. "Straw is the thing, and no need to go farther than the barn for it;" but the old woman shook her head. "I would not stuff the cushion with straw," said she; and it would have been hard to tell which one was the more cast down by her answers, the man or the woman. But the old woman made haste to take the bag of feathers out of her basket, and give it to them. "A feather cushion is fit for a king," she said, "and as for me, an apple for a dumpling, or a nosegay from your garden will serve me as well as what I give." The man and the woman had no apples, but they were glad to exchange a nosegay from their garden for a bag of fine feathers, you may be sure. "There is nothing nicer for a cushion than feathers," said the woman. "My mother had one made of them," said the man; and they laughed like children as they hurried into the garden to fill the old woman's basket with the loveliest posies; lilies, lilacs, violets, roses--oh! never was there a sweeter nosegay. "A good bargain, and not all of it in the basket," said the old woman, for she was pleased to have stopped the quarrel, and when she had wished the two good fortune and a long life, she went upon her way again. Now her way was the king's highway, and as she walked there she met a young lord who was dressed in his finest clothes, for he was going to see his lady love. He would have been as handsome a young man as ever the sun shone on had it not been that his forehead was wrinkled into a terrible frown, and the corners of his mouth drawn down as if he had not a friend left in the whole world. "A fair day and a good road," said the old woman, stopping to drop him a courtesy. "Fair or foul, good or bad, 'tis all one to me," said he, "when the court jeweler has forgotten to send the ring he promised, and I must go to my lady with empty hands." "Empty hands are better than an empty heart," said the old woman; "but then we are young only once; so you shall have a gift for your lady though I may never have an apple dumpling." And she took the nosegay from her basket and gave it to the young lord which pleased him so much that the frown smoothed away from his forehead, and his mouth spread itself in a smile, and he was as handsome a young man as ever the sun shone on. "Fair exchange is no robbery,"[3] said he, and he unfastened a golden chain from round his neck and gave it to the old woman, and went away holding his nosegay with great care. [Footnote 3: An old saying.] The old woman was delighted. "With this golden chain I might buy all the apples in the king's market, and then have something to spare," she said to herself, as she hurried away toward town as fast as her feet could carry her. But she had gone no farther than the turn of the road when she came upon a mother and children, standing in a doorway, whose faces were as sorrowful as her own was happy. "What is the matter?" she asked as soon as she reached them. "Matter enough," answered the mother, "when the last crust of bread is eaten and not a farthing in the house to buy more." "Well-a-day," cried the old woman when this was told her. "Never shall it be said of me that I eat apple dumpling for supper while my neighbors lack bread;" and she put the golden chain into the mother's hands and hurried on without waiting for thanks. She was not out of sight of the house, though, when the mother and children, every one of them laughing and talking as if it were Christmas or Candlemas day, overtook her. "Little have we to give you," said the mother who was the happiest of all, "for that you have done for us, but here is a little dog, whose barking will keep loneliness from your house, and a blessing goes with it." The old woman did not have the heart to say them nay, so into the basket went the little dog, and very snugly he lay there. [Illustration: SHE SAW AN APPLE-TREE AS FULL OF APPLES AS HER PLUM-TREE WAS FULL OF PLUMS.] "A bag of feathers for a basket of plums; a nosegay of flowers for a bag of feathers; a golden chain for a nosegay of flowers; a dog and a blessing for a golden chain; all the world is give and take, and who knows but that I may have my apple yet," said the old woman as she hurried on. And sure enough she had not gone a half dozen yards when, right before her, she saw an apple-tree as full of apples as her plum-tree was full of plums. It grew in front of a house as much like her own as if the two were peas in the same pod; and on the porch of the house sat a little old man. "A fine tree of apples!" called the old woman as soon as she was in speaking distance of him. "Aye, but apple-trees and apples are poor company when a man is growing old," said the old man; "and I would give them all if I had even so much as a little dog to bark on my door-step." "Bow-wow!" called the dog in the old woman's basket, and in less time than it takes to read this story he was barking on the old man's door-step, and the old woman was on her way home with a basket of apples on her arm. She got there in plenty of time to make the dumpling for supper, and it was as sweet and brown a dumpling as heart could desire. "If you try long enough and hard enough you can always have an apple dumpling for supper," said the old woman; and she ate the dumpling to the very last crumb; and enjoyed it, too. THE KING'S SERVANT[4] There was once upon a time a faithful servant whose name was Hans. He served the king his master so long and so well that one day the king said to him: "Speak, Hans, and tell me what three things do you most desire that I may give them to you as a reward for your faithfulness." [Footnote 4: Adapted with a free hand from Grimm's "White Snake."] It did not take Hans long to answer the king. "If you please, your majesty," he said, "I should like best in all the world to go to see my mother; to have a horse on which to ride upon my journey; and to taste the food that lies hidden in the silver dish that comes each day to your majesty's table." And when the king heard this he made haste to send for the silver dish and lifting the lid with his own hand he bade Hans taste of the food inside. What this food was, neither I nor anybody else can tell you, but no sooner had Hans tasted it than he understood what everything in the world was saying, from the birds in the tree-tops to the hens in the king's poultry yard. "Good-bye, Hans," they called as Hans mounted the horse which the king gave him and rode away through the gate. "Good-bye," said Hans, and he cantered off in fine style down the king's highway. Before he had ridden far, however, he heard such a moaning and complaining by the roadside that he stopped his horse to see what the matter was; and--do you believe it?--it was the ant people whose ant-hill stood in the way, right where Hans was about to ride. "See, see!" they cried, running to and fro in great alarm. "This giant of a man on his terrible horse will ride over our new house and crush us to death." "Not I," said Hans. "If so much as one of you gets under my horse's hoofs it will be your fault and not mine;" and getting down from his horse he led him around the ant-hill and into the road on the other side. "One good turn deserves another," cried the ant people running to and fro in great joy. "You have helped us, and we will help you some day;" and they were still saying this when Hans mounted his horse and rode away. Now before long Hans came to a great forest and as he rode under the spreading branches of the trees he heard a cry for help in the woods. "What can this be?" said Hans; but the very next minute he saw two young birds lying beneath a tree, beating their wings upon the ground and crying aloud: "Alas! Alas! Who will put us into the nest again?" "I, the king's servant and my mother's son; I will put you into the nest again," said Hans, and he was as good as his word. "One good turn deserves another," called the birds when they were safe in their nest once more. "You have helped us, and we will help you some day." Hans laughed to hear them, for though it was easy for him to help them he could not think what they might do for him. Trot, trot, and gallop, gallop he rode through the forest till he came to a stream of water beside which lay three panting fishes. "We shall surely die unless we can get into the water," they cried. Their breath was almost gone and their voices were no louder than the faintest whisper, but Hans understood every word that they said; and he jumped from his horse and threw them into the stream. "One good turn deserves another," they cried as they swam merrily away. "You have helped us, and we will help you some day." Now it so happened that Hans came by and by to the land of a very wicked king who broke his promises as easily as if they were made of spun glass and who never thought of anybody but himself. No sooner had Hans come into the land than the king stopped him and would not let him go on. "No one shall pass through my kingdom," he said, "till he has done one piece of work for me." Hans was not afraid of work. "Show it to me that I may do it at once," he said; "for I am hastening to see my mother." Then the king took Hans into a room as large as a meadow where some of all the seeds in the world was stored. There were lettuce-seeds, and radish-seeds, flax-seeds and grains of rice, fine seeds of flowers and small seeds of grass, all mixed and mingled till no two alike lay together. Hans had never seen so many seeds in all his life before; and when he had looked at them the king bade him sort them, each kind to itself. "The lettuce-seed must be here, and the radish-seed there; the flax-seed in this corner and the grains of rice in another; the fine seeds of flowers must be in their place, and the small seeds of grass all ready for planting before you can pass through my kingdom and go on your way," he said; and when he had spoken he went out of the room and locked the door behind him. Poor Hans! He sat down on the floor and cried--the tears rolled down his cheeks I do assure you--for he said to himself: "If I live to be a hundred years old I can never do this thing that the king requires. I shall never see my mother or the good king, my master, again." How long he sat there, neither I nor anybody else can tell you, but by and by he saw a little black ant creeping in through a crack in the floor. Behind it came another and another, like soldiers marching; one by one they came, till the whole floor was black with hundreds and hundreds of the ant people. "You helped us, and we have come to help you," they said; and they set to work at once to sort the seed as the king required. By the next day when the king came in to inquire how Hans was getting on, the work was done. The lettuce-seed was here and the radish-seed was there, the flax-seed in one corner, and the grains of rice in another; the fine seeds of flowers were in their place and the small seeds of grass were all ready for planting. The king was astonished. He could scarcely believe his eyes; but he would not let Hans go. "Such a fine workman must do one other piece of work before he passes through my kingdom," he said; and he took Hans out in the open country and pointed to an orchard far away. "Bring me one golden apple that grows in that orchard and you shall go free," he said. "Ah, what an easy task is this," said Hans, and he set off at once to the orchard. But, alack, when he had come to the orchard gate it was guarded by a fiery dragon, the like of which he had never seen in all his life! "Come and be devoured!" it cried, as Hans came into sight. Poor Hans! He sat down by the roadside and held his head between his hands and cried--the tears rolled down his cheeks I do assure you--for he said to himself: "If I go into the orchard I shall be eaten alive by the dragon, and if I do not go I shall never see my mother or the good king, my master, again." How long he sat there, neither I nor anybody else can tell you, but by and by he saw two birds flying through the air. Nearer and nearer they came till at last they reached the spot where Hans sat and lighted at his feet. And they were the very birds that Hans had helped. Their wings had grown strong enough by this time to carry them wherever they wanted to go and they flapped them joyfully as they cried: "One good turn deserves another. You helped us, and we have come to help you." It was no trouble for them to fly into the orchard high above the dragon's head; and almost before Hans knew they were gone they were back again bringing with them the golden apple that the king desired. He was astonished when Hans took it to him. He could scarcely believe his eyes; but he would not let Hans go. Instead he took a ring from his finger and threw it to the very bottom of the sea. "Go and fetch me that ring," he said, "and you shall be free as the birds and the bees; but until it is upon my finger again you shall not pass through my kingdom." Poor Hans! He sat down on the seashore and cried--the tears rolled down his cheeks I do assure you--for he said to himself: "Who can do a task like this? I must either drown or stay here all the days of my life. I shall never see my mother or the good king, my master, again." How long he sat there, neither I nor anybody else can tell you, but by and by three little fishes came swimming to the shore. "One good turn deserves another," they called, for they were the very fish that Hans had thrown into the stream. "You helped us, and we have come to help you." Then down they went to the very bottom of the sea where the king's ring lay. One of them took it in his mouth and so brought it safely to Hans who ran with it to the king. [Illustration: ONE OF THEM TOOK IT IN HIS MOUTH, AND SO BROUGHT IT SAFELY TO HANS.] And when the king saw the ring he knew that he must let Hans go; he did not dare to keep him any longer. So Hans mounted his horse and rode joyfully to his mother's home where he stayed till the time came when he must return to the good king, his master, which he did by another road. He worked well and was happy serving his master faithfully, and making friends with birds and beasts, all the days of his life; but never again did he go to the wicked king's country. And I for one think he showed his good sense by that. THE GREAT WHITE BEAR Once upon a time the tailor of Wraye and the tinker of Wraye went to the king's fair together; and when they had seen all the sights that were there they started home together well pleased with their day's outing. The sun was going down when they left the fair and when they came to the Enchanted Wood through which they had to pass the moon was rising over the hill. And a fine full moon it was, so bright that the night was almost as light as day. "There are some people who would not venture in this wood at night even when the moon is shining," said the tinker; "but as for me I do not know what fear is." "Nor I," said the tailor. "I would that every one had as stout a heart as mine." And it was just then that Grandmother Grey's old white sheep that had wandered into the wood that eve came plodding through the bushes. "Goodness me! What is that?" said the tinker clutching his companion's arm. "A bear!" cried the tailor casting one frightened glance toward the bushes. "A great white bear! Run, run for your life." And run they did! The tailor was small and the tinker was tall, but it was a close race between them, up hill and down hill, and into the town. "A bear, a great white bear!" they called as they ran; and everybody they met took up the cry: "A bear, a bear!" till the whole town was roused. The mayor and his wife, the shoemaker and his daughter, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, the blacksmith and the miller's son--indeed, to make a long story short, everybody who was awake in the town of Wraye--came hurrying out of their houses to hear what the matter was. There was soon as large a crowd as went to church on Sunday gathered about the two friends; and the tailor and the tinker talked as fast as they had run, to tell their thrilling tale. "We were just coming through the wood," said the tailor, "when there, as close to us as the shoemaker is to the blacksmith, we saw----" "A terrible creature," interrupted the tinker. "'Tis as large as a calf, I assure you----" "And white as the mayor's shirt," cried the tailor. "It is a marvel that we escaped and if it had not been that I----" "I saw it first," said the tinker; "but I stood my ground. I did not run till the tailor did." The two would have been willing to talk till morning had not all the others determined to go to the wood at once and kill the bear. [Illustration: "A BEAR!" CRIED THE TAILOR.] "I cannot answer for the safety of the town till it is done," said the mayor; so every one ran for a weapon as fast as his feet could carry him. The mayor brought his long sword that the king had given him, and the carpenter a hatchet, the blacksmith took his hammer, and the miller's son a gun; and the rest of the men whatever they could put their hands on. The women went, too, with mops and brooms to drive the bear away should he run toward the town; and one little boy who had waked up in the stir followed after them with stones in his hands. They very soon came to the wood, and then the question was who should go first. "Let the tinker and the tailor lead the way," said the mayor, "and we will come close after." "Oh, no, if you please, your honor," said the tinker and the tailor speaking at the very same time. "That will never do. We cannot think of going before you." "I will go first if the mayor will lend me his sword," said the shoemaker. "Aye, aye, let the shoemaker go," cried some. "No, no, 'tis the mayor's place. The king gave the sword to him," said others. "I could kill the bear while you are talking about it," said the miller's son. Every one had something to say, but at last it was all settled and the miller's son with the mayor's sword by his side and his own gun in his hand was just slipping into the wood when out walked the old white sheep! "Baa, baa," she cried, as if to ask, "Pray tell me what the stir's about. Baa, baa!" "A sheep, a sheep, a great white sheep!" cried the miller's son; and then how the people of Wraye did laugh! They laughed and they laughed and they laughed, so loud and so long that their laughter was heard all the way to the king's fair and set the people to laughing there. But whether the tailor and the tinker laughed or not, I do not know. THE SONG THAT TRAVELED One day when all the world was gay with spring a king stood at a window of his palace and looked far out over his kingdom. And because his land was fair to see, and he was a young king, and his heart was happy, he made a song for himself and sang it loud and merrily: "The hawthorn's white, the sun is bright, And blue the cloudless sky; And not a bird that sings in spring Is happier than I, than I, Is happier than I." Now it chanced that a ploughboy at work in a field hard by the palace heard the king's song and caught the words and the air of it. He was young and happy and as he followed his plough across the dewy field, and thought of the corn that would grow, by and by, in the furrows it made, and of his little black and white pig that would feed and grow fat on the corn, he sang: "The hawthorn's white, the sun is bright, And blue the cloudless sky; And not a bird that sings in spring Is happier than I, than I, Is happier than I." "A right merry song, Robin Ploughboy," called the goose-girl who tended the farmer's geese in the next field; and she leaned on the fence that divided the two, and sang with him, for she was as happy a lass as ever lived in the king's country. The farmer's wife had given her a goose for her very own that day, and the goose had made a nest in the alder bushes. There was already one egg in it and soon there would be more. Then she would send them to market; and when they were sold she would buy a ribbon for her hair. It was no wonder that she felt like singing: "The hawthorn's white, the sun is bright, And blue the cloudless sky; And not a bird that sings in spring Is happier than I, than I, Is happier than I." The chapman,[5] from whom she bought her ribbon in all good time, learned the king's song from her; and as he trudged along the king's highway with his pack upon his back he, too, sang it; for there is no better weather for peddling or singing, either, than that which comes in the spring. [Footnote 5: A peddler.] A soldier just home from the wars, and glad enough to be there, had the song from the chapman; and in turn he taught it to a sailor who took it to sea with him. The sailor was going to the far countries, but if all went well with his ship, and with him, he would be at home in time to see the hawthorn bloom in his mother's yard another year and another spring. [Illustration: SHE LEANED ON THE FENCE THAT DIVIDED THE TWO.] He kept the song in his heart for a year and a day, and then, because nothing had gone amiss and he was homeward bound, he sang it, too: "The hawthorn's white, the sun is bright, And blue the cloudless sky; And not a bird that sings in spring Is happier than I, than I, Is happier than I." On the sailor's ship there was a minstrel bound for the king's court to sing on May Day; and the minstrel learned the song from the sailor. He was a young minstrel and very proud to sing at the king's festival, so when it was his turn and he stood before the throne he could think of no better song to sing than: "The hawthorn's white, the sun is bright, And blue the cloudless sky; And not a bird that sings in spring Is happier than I, than I, Is happier than I." Now the king had been so busy about the affairs of his kingdom deciding this question and that, sending messengers here and there, and listening to one and another, as all kings must do, that he had forgotten the song which he had made. But when he heard the minstrel it all came back to him; and then he was puzzled. "Good minstrel," said he, "ten golden guineas I will give you for your song, and to the ten will add ten more if you will tell me where you learned it." "An easy matter that," said the minstrel. "The sailor who rides in yon white ship in your harbor taught it to me." "The soldier who even now stands guard at your majesty's gate gave me the song," said the sailor when he was asked. "I had it from the chapman who travels on the king's highway," said the soldier. "I heard the little goose-girl sing it," said the chapman when they found him. "'Tis Robin Ploughboy's song," laughed the goose-girl. "Go ask him about it." "The king sang it first and I next," said the ploughboy. Then the king knew that he had made a good song that everybody with a happy heart might sing; and because he was glad of this, he stood at his window and sang again: [Illustration: Music] THE SONG THAT TRAVELED Words, MAUD LINDSAY Music, ELSIE A. MERRIMAN _Allegretto_ The hawthorn's white, the sun is bright, And blue the cloud-less sky; . And not a bird that sings in spring Is hap-pi-er than I, than I, Is hap-pi-er than I. . . THE QUEST FOR THE NIGHTINGALE[6] Oh, who would go to fairyland? The moon is shining bright, oh, And who would go to fairyland Upon a summer's night, oh! Across a field of fragrant fern All sparkling with the dew, oh! Come trip it light to fairyland And I will go with you, oh! To fairyland, to fairyland, Who seeks may find the way, oh, And we shall see the fairies dance Before the break of day, oh! [Footnote 6: I am indebted to one William Shakespeare, whose intimate acquaintance with fairyland none can dispute, for the name "Pease-Blossom"; to Joseph Rodman Drake for the idea of my story; and to some of the folk tales which suggested to me one or two of Pease-Blossom's adventures.] In the deepest dell of the Enchanted Wood, where the moss grew the greenest and the violets bloomed the sweetest, the fairies lived. It was they who kept the brooks and the springs free from dirt or clog, and tended the wild flowers and watched over the young trees. And they were friends with all the harmless birds and beasts from wood's end to wood's end. But for those creatures that work harm to others, and for the goblins who delight in mischief they had no love, and every day and every night a watch was set to drive them from the fairy dell. Each fay in turn kept guard and all went well till one evening when Pease-Blossom, the best-loved fairy in the dell, fell asleep at his post and the goblins stole away the nightingale that sang each night at the queen's court. Great was the sorrow in fairyland when this was known. "I will fly to catch them before they have had time to hide her away," cried a fay whose name was Quick-As-Lightning. "I will go, too," said little Twinkle-Toes. "And I, three," said Spice-of-Life; "and my good thorn sword with me, which will make four against them." But the fairy queen would not consent to this. "Pease-Blossom in his trust did fail; And he must seek the nightingale," she said; and no sooner had she spoken than the little fay bade his companions good-bye and hastened out upon his quest alone. The goblins had left no trace behind them and Pease-Blossom wandered hither and thither over dewy fells and fields asking of every piping cricket and brown winged bat he met: "Passed the goblins this way?" No one could aid him, and he was ready to drop from weariness and sorrow when the moon came over the hill and called: "Whither away, Pease-Blossom? Whither away?" "In quest of the nightingale that the goblins have stolen; but where they have taken her I cannot find," answered the little fay sadly. Then said the moon: "Many a nightingale there is in the wide world, both free and caged, and how may I know yours from any other? But this I can tell you: through a window in the castle of the Great Giant, which stands upon a high hill beside the Silver Sea, I spy a nightingale in a golden cage which was not there when I shone through that same window yester eve; and moreover, at the World's End, which is beyond the Giant's castle, I see a band of goblins counting money." "A thousand thanks to you, oh moon," cried Pease-Blossom joyfully when he heard this; for he could put two and two together as well as any fay in fairyland, and he did not doubt that the goblins had sold the nightingale to the Great Giant. "I shall be at the castle before you shine in the dell," he called to the moon as he flew swift as a humming bird through the air. But when he reached the hedge of thorns that guarded the palace of a lovely princess who was next neighbor to the Giant, he tripped against a candle-fly that was hurrying to an illumination in the palace, and tumbled headlong into the thorns. "Help! help!" he cried as he struggled to get free, and a night-hawk that was out in a search of a supper flew down to see what the matter was. "Oh, ho!" said he when he saw who it was. "Fairy folk like to have all things their way, but 'tis my turn now to have a little fun." And he plucked Pease-Blossom from out the thorns and flew away with him in his bill. Up and down, so high that the trees below looked no taller than corn stalks, and so low that their branches brushed his wings, he flew, till Pease-Blossom was faint from dizziness. "See what a great moth the hawk has in his bill," cried an owl that they passed. "'Tis no moth but a bug," said a whip-poor-will. "Such an enormous gnat should make a meal for two," whispered a brother hawk, flying close. "Simpleton! Do you not know a fairy when you see one?" said the night-hawk who could keep quiet no longer. But no sooner had he opened his bill to speak his very first word than out tumbled Pease-Blossom. The other hawk made haste to catch the fay but before he could reach him a fine breeze came blowing by. "Is this not my little playmate, Pease-Blossom, who likes so well to ride on the grasses and rock in the flowers?" asked the breeze; and it whisked the little fairy away and bore him along so fast that no bird could keep up with him. They were at the Silver Sea in the twinkling of a star, and Pease-Blossom was just beginning to think that his troubles were ended, when the breeze died away as quickly as it had come, and the little fay found himself in the sea before he knew what was happening. Fortunately for him a great tarpon fish came swimming by just then. "Catch fast hold of my tail, and I will take you safely to shore," said he; and Pease-Blossom lost no time in doing as he was bid. Ugh! How salty the water was and how the billows roared as the fish plunged through them, sending the white spray far above his head! Poor Pease-Blossom was more dead than alive when they reached the shore, but as soon as he had gotten his breath again he said to his new friend: "If you will come with me to fairyland you may swim in a stream as clear as glass. There is no salt in it, and no rough waves and every fairy in the dell will guard you from harm." "Water without salt! I cannot imagine it," said the great tarpon. "And no waves! Why, I should die of homesickness there." So when Pease-Blossom saw that there was nothing he could do for him, he thanked him kindly, and turned his steps to the Giant's castle which stood on a high hill close beside the sea just as the moon had said. But Pease-Blossom's wings were so wet and so weary that though he tried once, twice, and thrice he could not fly to the lowest window ledge of the castle; and what he would have done nobody knows had not a chimney-swift who was out late from home flown by just then. She lived in the castle chimney and when she heard what the little fay wanted she offered to carry him to her nest. "Once there all will be easy," she said; "for there is no better way to get into the castle than through the chimney." So Pease-Blossom seated himself between the swift's wings, and up they went to the top of the chimney and then down through the opening to the swift's home, which looked as if it were only half of a nest fastened against the wall. "If you will come with me to fairyland," said Pease-Blossom when he saw this, "you shall have the greenest tree in the wood for your home. And the fairies will help you to build a whole nest there." But the swift only laughed at him. "There is no better place than a chimney to raise young birds. I should be uneasy about them every minute in a tree. And as for a whole nest, I don't know what you mean," said she. And when Pease-Blossom saw that she was well content with her home, he thanked her and bade her good-bye, and began his climb down the chimney. There was no light to show him the way except the little that the moon sent through the opening high above the swift's nest; and on all sides of the little fay were the straight narrow walls of the chimney, covered with black soot. He clung to them as closely as a lichen to a rock, putting his little toes into every crack and holding fast to the bits of cement that jutted out here and there from the bricks. If he rustled a wing he brought down a shower of soot upon himself, and when at last he stood in the Giant's room, he was as black as any goblin. He had no time to think of himself though, for there asleep in the golden cage which the moon had seen was the queen's nightingale. There was no mistaking her, for there was a tiny feather missing from the tip of her right wing, and that missing feather was in Pease-Blossom's Sunday cap hanging in an alder bush in the fairy dell that very minute. The Giant was asleep, too, but the golden cage was on a table close beside him, so close that poor Pease-Blossom, whose wings were not improved by the soot from the chimney, could not reach it without climbing upon the Giant's bed. He was as careful as he could be, but no sooner had he stepped upon the bed than he touched one of the Giant's toes; and the Giant gave a great start. "What is the matter?" called his wife. "Oh, nothing," said he; "I only dreamed that a little mouse was tickling my toes;" and he fell asleep again. Pease-Blossom did not dare to move till he heard him breathing heavily. Then, tiptoe across the counterpane he went, taking care at every step; but in spite of his care his wings brushed against one of the Giant's hands; and the Giant gave a great start. "What is the matter?" called his wife. "Oh, nothing," said he; "I only dreamed that a little leaf fell on my hand;" and he closed his eyes, and turned over on his side and was soon asleep. Pease-Blossom was close under the cage by this time, but so tall was the table on which it was, and so small was he that, to reach the door, he was forced to stand on the Giant's head. Light as thistle-down were his feet, but no sooner had the Giant felt their tread than he gave a great start, and lifting his hand struck himself a tremendous blow upon his forehead. Pease-Blossom would have been crushed to death had he not managed to spring, just at that instant, to the edge of the cage, where he stood trembling. "What is the matter?" called the Giant's wife. "Oh, nothing," said he; "I only dreamed that a fly lighted on my forehead," and he was soon breathing heavily again. The nightingale, who was not used to sleeping at night, anyway, was wide awake by this time, but when she saw Pease-Blossom she did not know him, so black was he. "Do you not remember the fairy dell and the little fay to whom you gave a feather for his cap?" said Pease-Blossom then; and when the nightingale heard that, she was so overjoyed that she could scarcely keep from bursting into song. To open the cage door was only a minute's work and the nightingale was soon as free as air. Pease-Blossom seated himself upon her back and she was just ready to fly through an open window near by when the giant waked up in real earnest and saw the open cage. "Thieves! Robbers!" he called in such a terrible voice that the chimney-swift shook in her nest, and the big fish in the Silver Sea jumped out of the water. If the Giant had spied Pease-Blossom and the nightingale it would have gone hard with them; but luckily for them his wife, who was a kind-hearted woman, saw them before he did, and upset the golden cage right in his way. [Illustration: STRAIGHT TO THE ENCHANTED WOOD THEY WENT.] "The whole place is bewitched," thundered he, stumbling over the cage; and in the stir which followed the nightingale slipped away unseen. Over the Silver Sea where the fish swam, over the hedge of thorns which guarded the palace of the lovely princess, over the fields and the fells where the dew sparkled, straight to the Enchanted Wood they went. "Who comes here?" called the fairy warder of the dell. "Pease-Blossom and the nightingale," answered the fay; and great was the joy in fairyland at their return. "How long you have been!" said Quick-As-Lightning. "How fast you have come!" said little Twinkle-Toes. But as for Spice-of-Life he could not speak at all for laughing at sooty Pease-Blossom. Then Pease-Blossom made haste to bathe himself in the brook, and put on his finest court suit of pink satin rose-petals trimmed with lace from a spider's web; for the fairy queen had ordered a grand court ball in his honor, and there was no time to lose. A cricket band played merrily, the nightingale sang from a thicket close at hand, and tripping and twirling the little folks went till the cock crowed and the sun came up; and it was fairy bedtime. In light of sun and light of moon How different all things seem, oh! Wake up, wake up, dear Sleepy Head, 'Twas nothing but a dream, oh. But who can tell? Some other night When mellow shines the moon, oh, Perhaps we'll dream the dream again And may that night come soon, oh! THE MAGIC FLOWER Once upon a time there lived a wee woman whose bit of a garden was a delight to all eyes. Such flowers as she had! And in the midst of them, green as an emerald and smooth as velvet, was a grass plot with never a weed upon it. And through the grass ran a garden walk as white as snow. Every one who saw it declared there was no prettier garden in the king's country and what they said was no more than what was true. Early and late the wee woman worked to keep her garden fair and lovely but in spite of all her care whenever the east wind blew it brought with it a whirl of trash from her neighbor's dooryard, and scattered it among her flowers. Alack and alas, what a dooryard was that! Except for the trash that was always upon it, it was as bare as the palm of your hand; and there was a heap of dirt and ashes as high as a hillock in front of the door. Everybody who passed it turned their eyes away from it, for there was no uglier spot in the king's country; and that is nothing but the truth of it. Whenever the wee woman looked from her windows or walked in her garden she saw the dooryard and many was the day when she said to herself: "I wish I were a thousand miles away from it;" and if she made up her mind, as sometimes she did, that she would trouble no more about it, the east wind was sure to come with a whirl of its trash. Oh, it seemed as if she were always cleaning because of that dooryard! And what to do about it she did not know. She puzzled and planned, she wished and she worked, but she had come to the end of her wits when, one day, her fairy godmother came to see her. "Never fret," said the godmother when she had heard the trouble. "In your own garden grows a magic flower that can set things right; and if you will only tend it and watch it and wait long enough you shall see what you shall see." And when she had pointed out the flower she went on her way, leaving the wee woman much comforted. She tended the flower and watched it and waited to see what she should see; and while she was watching and waiting, the flower burst into bloom. The loveliest bloom! Every blossom was as rosy as the little clouds at sunrise; and the wee woman's garden was more beautiful than before because of them. "'Tis the prettiest garden in the king's country," said every one who passed; and what they said was no more than what was true. But as for the neighbor's dooryard it was as bare and ugly as ever. The heap of dirt and ashes grew larger every day; and whenever the wind blew from the east it brought a whirl of its trash into the wee woman's garden just as it had always done. The wee woman looked each morning to see if the magic of the flower had begun to work but morning after morning nothing changed. "It is long waiting and weary watching for magic things to work," said she to herself; but because of what her fairy godmother had told her, she tended the flower from day to day, and hoped in her heart that something might come of it yet. By and by the blossoms of the flower faded and fell and after them came the seed. Hundreds and hundreds of feathery seed there were, and one day the wind from the west came by, and blew them away in a whirl over the fence and into the neighbor's dooryard. No one saw them go, not even the wee woman knew what had become of them; and as for the dooryard, it was as ugly as ever with its ash heap and its trash. Everybody who passed it turned their eyes away from it. [Illustration: WHILE SHE WAS WATCHING AND WAITING, THE FLOWER BURST INTO BLOOM.] The wee woman herself would look at it no longer. "I will look at the magic flower instead," she said to herself, and so she did. Early and late she tended the plant and worked to make her garden fair and lovely; but she kept her eyes from the dooryard. And if the wind from the east blew trash among her flowers she raked it away and burned it up and troubled no more about it. Summer slipped into autumn and autumn to winter and the flowers slept; but at the first peep of spring the wee woman's garden budded and bloomed once more; and one day as she worked there, with her back to the dooryard, she heard passers-by call out in delight: "Of all the gardens in the king's country there are none so pretty as these two," and when she looked around in surprise to see what they meant she saw that the neighbor's dooryard was full of flowers--hundreds and hundreds of lovely blossoms, every one as rosy as the little clouds at sunrise. They covered the heap of dirt and ashes, they clustered about the door stone; they filled the corners; and in the midst of them was the neighbor, raking and cleaning as busily as if she were the wee woman herself. "'Tis fine weather for flowers," said she, nodding and smiling at the wee woman. "The finest in the world," said the wee woman; and she nodded and smiled too, for she knew that the magic flower had done its work. THE LIONS IN THE WAY[7] Once upon a time three friends set out to go to the palace of the king, which was known as the House Beautiful. [Footnote 7: Founded upon the incident of the Lions in the Way in Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress."] The king himself had invited them there, and that they might have no trouble in finding the way he sent to them a scroll upon which the path was marked so plainly that it would have been a hard matter to have missed it. And to make assurance doubly sure he wrote upon the scroll with his own hand, bidding them to keep to the path. "Turn neither to the right nor to the left," his message said; "but follow the path and it will lead you safely to the House Beautiful, where I have prepared a place for you." All their lives the three friends had heard of the wonders of the king's house. Some people said that it was built of gold bright as the sun itself, and others that it was made of gleaming pearl. Its windows were said to overlook the whole world, and its towers to reach higher than the sky. And every one agreed that there was naught within its gates but peace and joy. So eager were the friends to see it that they could not journey fast enough to satisfy themselves, and from morning until night they urged each other on. The path by which they were to go was a narrow path, with a rough place now and then, and now and then a briar or sharp stone upon it, but for the most part it was a pleasant way. The travelers hastened joyfully along it and all went well with them until, one day, they met a man whose face was turned toward the land from which they had just come. "Good neighbors," he cried, "why travel you so fast? Is a house afire or a friend ill; or does a feast wait till you come? Tell me, I pray you, that I may sorrow with you, or rejoice, as your need may be." "Rejoice, rejoice!" cried the three; "for we journey to the king's House Beautiful, where a place is prepared for us." But when the man heard this he shook his head sorrowfully as if what they told him was grievous news indeed. "I, too, had thought of going there," he said; "but that was before I knew of the lions in the way." "Lions in the way!" cried the travelers, looking at each other with startled eyes. "Aye, lions," repeated the man solemnly, "the fiercest and largest that ever man saw. Their very roaring shakes the ground, and many a traveler has been devoured by them, so people say. As for myself, I have not seen them. To hear of them is enough for me." "And for me," said one of the travelers; and in spite of all his companions might do or say to persuade him, he would go no farther. "The king's house may be beautiful as the morning and as full of wonders as the sky is full of stars, but what good will it be to me if I am eaten by the lions?" said he. And his friends were forced to journey on without him. As they went they talked of the lions in the way and the one said to the other: "Think you it is true, or but an idle tale?" "True or not we shall pass in safety. Have we not the king's own word for it?" said the other; and he led the way with such great strides that his friend could scarcely keep pace with him. On and on they traveled without stop or hindrance, till all at once the air was filled with a great noise that shook the earth beneath their feet and set their knees to trembling. There was no mistaking what it was. Even though they had never heard the sound before, they knew it was the roaring of the lions. And the second traveler began to grow afraid. "Let us go around by another way," he said. "Surely there are more paths than one to the king's house." And though the other spread out before him the scroll on which the path was marked and read once more the message of the king: "Turn neither to the right nor to the left but follow the path and it will lead you safely to the House Beautiful, where a place is prepared for you," he would pay no heed to it but turned away into a by-path and followed it out of sight. The other traveler was forced to journey on the path alone, with the roaring of the lions in his ears and the shaking of the earth beneath his feet. Nor had he gone a furlong more when just ahead he spied the lions themselves. One on each side of the path they stood with flaming eyes and yawning mouths; and at the very sight of them the traveler's heart beat quick and sharp and his feet faltered upon the way. But his faith in the king's word was greater than his fear. "Falter not, oh, feet! Fear not, oh, heart! There is safety in the path. The king himself has said it," he cried as he pressed on. And lo! and behold, when he had come to the lions he found that they were chained. Roar as they might and strive as they would, they could not touch those who walked in the path that the king had marked; and the traveler passed in safety. [Illustration: WHEN HE HAD COME TO THE LIONS HE FOUND THAT THEY WERE CHAINED.] Beyond the lions stood the House Beautiful, with walls of gold bright as the sun itself and gates of gleaming pearl. Its windows overlooked the world, its towers reached above the sky, and of its wonders not the half had ever been told him. The traveler's place was prepared for him, and the king was waiting to welcome him to his house; and he lived there in peace and joy forever after. THE END 
23114	----	Our Frank, and other stories, by Amy Walton. ________________________________________________________________________ Here we have half-a-dozen short stories, in that wonderful Amy Walton style, so very evocative of dear England as it used to be. Frank thinks life at home is a bit hard, as his father expects so much of him, so he runs away. After several adventures he finds himself in a very awkward situation, as the young companion he had fallen in with turns out to be a thief. Luckily the thief's victim realises that Frank is not a bad lad after all, makes no charge against him, and even takes him home. So all is well that ends well. For the most part the other stories have a moral to tell, but they are all charming, and you will enjoy reading to them or listening to them. ________________________________________________________________________ OUR FRANK, AND OTHER STORIES, BY AMY WALTON. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 1. OUR FRANK--A BUCKINGHAMSHIRE STORY. "_From east to west, At home is best_." _German proverb_. It was a mild spring evening, and Mrs Frank Darvell was toiling slowly up Whiteleaf Hill on her way back from market. She had walked every step of the way there to sell her ducklings, and now the basket on her arm was heavy with the weight of various small grocery packets. Up till now she had not felt so tired, partly because she had been walking along the level high-road, and partly because the way had been beguiled by the chat of a friend; but after she had said good-night to her crony at the beginning of the village, and turned up the steep chalky road which led to the hills, her fatigue increased with every step, and the basket seemed heavier than ever. It was a very lonely mile she had to go before reaching home; up and up wound the rough white road, and then gave a sudden turn and ran along level a little while with dark woods on either side. Then up again, steeper than ever, till you reached the top of the hill, and on one side saw the plain beneath, dotted over with villages and church spires, and on the other hand wide sloping beech woods, which were just now delicately green with their young spring leaves. Mrs Darvell set her basket down on the ground when she reached this point, and drew a long breath; the worst of the walk was over now, and she thought with relief how good it would be to pull off her boots, and hoped that Frank had not forgotten to have the kettle on for tea. She presently trudged on again with renewed spirits, and in ten minutes more the faint blue smoke from a chimney caught her eye; that was neighbour Gunn's cottage, and their own was close by. "And right thankful I be," said Mrs Darvell to herself as she unlatched the little garden gate. The cottage was one of a small lonely cluster standing on the edge of an enormous beech wood. Not so very long ago the wood had covered the whole place; but gradually a clearing had been made, the ground cultivated, and a little settlement had sprung up, which was known as "Green Highlands." It belonged to the parish of Danecross, a village in the plain below, three good miles away; so that for church, school, and public-house the people had to descend the long hill up which Mrs Darvell had just struggled. Shops there were none, even in Danecross, and for these they had to go a mile further, to the market-town of Daylesbury. But all this was not such a hardship to the people of Green Highlands as might be supposed, and many of them would not have changed their cottage on the hill for one in the village on the plain; for the air of Green Highlands was good, the children "fierce," which in those parts means healthy and strong, and everyone possessed a piece of garden big enough to grow vegetables and accommodate a family pig. So the people, though poor, were contented, and had a more prosperous well-to-do air than some of the Danecross folk, who received higher wages and lived in the valley. The room Mrs Frank Darvell entered with a heavy, tired tread was a good-sized kitchen, one end of which was entirely occupied by a huge open fireplace without any grate; on the hearth burned and crackled a bright little wood-fire, the flames of which played merrily round a big black kettle hung on a chain. A little checked curtain hung from the mantel-shelf to keep away the draught which rushed down the wide open chimney, on each side of which was a straight-backed wooden settle. The dark smoke-dried rafters were evidently used as larder and storehouse, for all manner of things hung from them, such as a side of bacon, tallow dips, and a pair of clogs. Two or three pieces of oak furniture, brought to a high state of polish by Mrs Darvell's industrious hands, gave an air of comfort to the room, though the floor was red-brick and bare of carpet; a tall brazen-faced clock ticked deliberately behind the door. On one of the settles in the chimney-corner sat Mrs Darvell's "man," as she called her husband, smoking a short pipe, with his feet stretched out on the hearth; his great boots, caked with mud, stood beside him. He was a big broad-shouldered fellow, about forty, with a fair smooth face, which generally looked good-tempered enough, and somewhat foolish, but which just now had a sullen expression on it, which Mrs Darvell's quick eye noted immediately. He looked up and nodded when his wife came in, without taking the pipe out of his mouth. "Well, I'm proper tired," she said, bumping her basket down with a sigh of relief. "That Whiteleaf Hill do spend one so after a day's marketing." Then glancing at the muddy boots on the hearth: "Bin ploughin'?" Mr Darvell nodded again, and looked inquiringly at his wife's basket. Answering this silent question she said: "I sold 'em fairly well. Mrs Reuben got more; but hers was fatter." Mr Darvell smoked on in silence, and his wife busied herself in preparing supper, consisting of cold bacon, bread, and tea without milk; it was not until they had both been seated at the meal for a little while that she set down her cup suddenly and exclaimed: "Why, whatever's got our Frank? Isn't he home yet?" Mr Darvell's mouth was still occupied, not with his pipe, but with a thick hunk of bread, on which was laid an almost equally thick piece of fat bacon. Gazing at his wife across this barrier he nodded again, and presently murmured somewhat indistinctly: "Ah, he came home with me." "Then," repeated Mrs Darvell, fixing her eyes sharply on him, "where _is_ the lad?" Mr Darvell avoided his wife's gaze. "How should I know where he is?" he answered sullenly. "I haven't seen him, not for these two hours. He's foolin' round somewheres with the other lads." "That's not like our Frank," said Mrs Darvell, giving an anxious look round at the tall clock. "Why, it's gone eight," she went on. "What _can_ have got him?" Her eyes rested suspiciously on her husband, who shifted about uneasily. "Can't you let the lad bide?" he said; "ye'll not rest till ye make him a greater ninny nor he is by natur. He might as well ha' bin a gell, an better, for all the good he'll ever be." "How did he tackle the ploughin'?" asked Mrs Darvell, pausing in the act of setting aside Frank's supper on the dresser. "Worser nor ever," replied her husband contemptuously. "He'll never be good for nowt, but to bide at home an' keep's hands clean. Why, look at Eli Redrup, not older nor our Frank, an' can do a man's work already." "Eli Redrup!" exclaimed Mrs Darvell in a shrill tone of disgust; "you'd never even our lad to a great fullish lout like Eli Redrup, with a head like a turmut! If Frank isn't just so fierce as some lads of his age, he's got more sense than most." "I tell 'ee, he'll never be good for nowt," replied her husband doggedly, as he resumed his seat in the chimney-corner and lighted his pipe. "Onless," he added after a moment's pause, "he comes to be a schoolmaster; and it haggles me to think that a boy of mine should take up a line like that." Mrs Darvell made no answer; but as she washed up the cups and plates she cast a curious glance every now and then at her husband's silent figure, for she had a strong feeling that he knew more than he chose to tell about "our" Frank's absence. "Our Frank" had more than once been the innocent cause of a serious difference of opinion between Mr and Mrs Darvell. He was their only child, and had inherited his father's fair skin and blue eyes, and his mother's quickness of apprehension; but here the likeness to his parents ended, for he had a sensitive nature and a delicate frame--things hitherto unknown in Green Highlands. This did not matter so much during his childhood, when he earned golden opinions from rector and schoolmaster in Danecross, as a fine scholar, and one of the best boys in the choir; but the time came when Frank was thirteen, when he had gone through all the "Standards," when he must leave school, and begin to work for his living. It was a hard apprenticeship, for something quite different from brain-work was needed now, and the boy struggled vainly against his physical weakness. It was a state of things so entirely incomprehensible to Mr Darvell, that, as he expressed it, "it fairly haggled him." Weakness and delicacy were conditions entirely unknown to him and all his other relations, and might, he thought, be avoided by everyone except very old people and women; so Frank must be hardened, and taught not to shirk his work. The hardening process went on for some time, but not with a very satisfactory result, for added to his weakness the boy now showed an increasing terror of his father. He shrank from the hard words or the uplifted hand with an evident fear, which only strengthened Mr Darvell's anger, for it mortified him still more to find his lad a coward as well as a bungler over his work. Frank, on his side, found his life almost intolerable just now, and all his trembling efforts "to work like a man" seemed utterly useless, for he was crippled by fear as well as weakness. He could not take things like the other Green Highland lads of his age, who were tough of nerve and sinew, and thought nothing of cuffs on the head and abuse. It was all dreadful to him, and he suffered as much in apprehension as in the actual punishment when it came. Mingled with it all was a hot sense of injustice, for he tried to do his best, and yet was always in disgrace and despair. Where was the use of having been such a good "scholard?" That seemed wasted now, for Frank's poor little brain felt so muddled after a day's field-work, and he was altogether so spent with utter weariness, that the only thing to do was to tumble into bed, and books were out of the question. He was being "hardened," as his father called it, but not in a desirable way; for while his body remained slender and weak as ever, his mind became daily more stupid and unintelligent. Frank's only refuge in these hard times was his mother's love. That never failed him, for the very incapacity that so excited the wrath of his father only drew him more closely to Mrs Darvell, and made her watchful to shield him, if possible, from harsh treatment. She was always ready to do battle for him, and her strong big husband quailed before the small determined mother when she had her boy's cause in hand. For Mrs Darvell was gifted with a range of expression and a freedom of speech which had been denied to her "man," and he had learned to dread the times when the missus was put out, as occasions when he stood defenceless before that deadly weapon--the tongue. He was dreading it now, although he sat so quietly smoking in the chimney-corner. The air had that vaguely uneasy feeling in it that precedes a storm. Presently there would be the first clap of thunder. The clock struck nine. No Frank. An unheard-of hour for any of the Green Highland folk to be out of their beds and awake. Mr Darvell rose, stretched himself, glanced nervously at his wife, and suggested humbly: "Shall us go to bed?" "_You_ may," she replied, "but I don't stir till I see the lad. If so be," she added, "you _can_ go to sleep with an easy mind while the lad's still out, you'd better do it." Her husband scratched his head thoughtfully, but made no answer; then Mrs Darvell rose and stood in front of him, shaking a menacing finger. "Frank Darvell," she said slowly and solemnly, "you've bin leatherin' that lad. Don't deny it, for I know it." Mr Darvell did not attempt to deny it. He only shuffled his feet a little. "An now," continued his wife with increasing vehemence, "you've druv him at last to run away; don't deny it." "He ain't run away," muttered Mr Darvell. "He ain't got pluck enough to do that. He's a coward, that's what he is." "Coward!" cried his wife, now fairly roused, and standing in an aggressive attitude. "It's you that are the coward, you great, hulking, stupid lout, to strike a weak boy half yer size. An' to talk of goin' to bed, an' him wandering out there in the woods. My poor little gentle lad!" She sank down on the settle and wrung her hands helplessly, but started up again the next minute with a sudden energy which seemed to petrify her husband. "Put on your boots," she said, pointing to them; and as Mr Darvell meekly obeyed she went on speaking quietly and rapidly. "Wake up Jack Gunn and send him down to Danecross. Tell him to ask at the rectory and at schoolmaster's if they've seen the lad. Take your lantern and go into the woods. There's gypsies camping out Hampden way; go there, and tell 'em to look out for him. Don't you dare to come back without the lad. I'll stop here, and burn a light and keep his supper ready. Poor little lad, he'll be starved with hunger!" But the night waned, and no tidings came of Frank. Jack Gunn came back from Danecross having learned nothing, and the poor mother's fears increased. The boy must be wandering in those weary woods, afraid to come home--or perhaps lost. Such a thing had been known before now; and as the first streaks of light appeared in the sky, and she saw the dim figure of her husband returning alone, Mrs Darvell's courage quite forsook her. "I shall never see him no more," she said to herself, and cried bitterly. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ And where was "our Frank" meanwhile? At the moment when Mrs Darvell began to climb Whiteleaf Hill with her heavy basket, Frank was lying at the foot of a big beech-tree in the wood near his home; his face was buried in his hands, and every now and then sobs shook his little thin frame. For it had been a most unfortunate day for him; everything had gone wrong, and by the time the evening came and work was over his father's wrath was high. Frank knew what to expect, and he also remembered that there would be no mother at home to shield him from punishment, so waiting a favourable moment he slipped off into the wood before he was missed. Then he flung himself on the ground and cried, because he felt so tired, and weak, and hopeless; and as he thought of his father's angry face and heavy uplifted hand he shivered with terror. How he longed for someone to comfort and speak kindly to him. Soon, he knew, his mother would be in from market; there would be a blazing fire at home, and supper, and a warm corner. Should he venture back? But then, morning would come again, and the hard work, and he would have to stumble along the sticky furrows all day, and there would be blows and threatenings to end with. No, he could not go back; it would be better even, he said to himself, to beg for his bread like the tramps he had seen sometimes in Danecross. As he came to this conclusion he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked round him. It was about six o'clock, and already very dusk in the wood, though the little dancing leaves of the Leeches could not make much shadow yet, for it was only April; all round the boy rose the grey straight stems of the trees, and tufts of primroses shone out whitely here and there on the ground. It was perfectly still and silent, except that a cold little wind rustled the branches, and the birds were making a few last twittering notes before they went to sleep--"a harmony," as the country folks called it. Frank got up and hurried on, for he knew that directly mother returned search would be made for him. He must get a long way on before that, and hide somewhere for the night. That side of the wood near Green Highlands was quite familiar to him, and though there were no paths, and it all looked very much alike, he knew what direction to take for the hiding-place he had in view. A town boy would soon have become confused, and perhaps have ended in finding himself at Green Highlands again, but Frank knew better than that, and he stumbled steadily along in his heavy boots, getting gradually and surely further away from home and deeper in the wood. How quiet it was, and how fast the darkness seemed to close round him! All the birds were silent soon, except that a jay sometimes startled him with its harsh sudden cry; once a rabbit rushed so quickly across his path that he almost fell on it. On and on he went at a steady jog-trot pace, looking neither to right nor left. Now, if you have ever been in a beech wood, you must remember that winter and summer the ground is covered with the old dead brown leaves that have fallen from the trees. So thick they lie, that in some places you can stand knee-deep in them, especially if there are any hollows into which they have been drifted by the wind; this particular wood was full of such hollows, some of them wide and long enough for a tall man to lie down in, and Frank knew exactly where to find them. Turning aside, therefore, at a certain clump of bushes there was the very thing he wanted--bed and hiding-place at once. It was a broad shallow pit or hollow filled quite up to the top with the red-brown beech leaves. He scooped out a place just large enough for himself, lay down in it, and carefully replaced the leaves up to his very chin. He even put a few lightly over his face, and when that was done no one would have imagined that a boy or any other living thing was hidden there. Then the solemn hours of darkness came silently on; all the creatures in the great wood slept, and even Frank in his strange leafy bed slept also, worn out with weariness. About the middle of the night the breeze freshened a little, and the dry leaves stirred and rustled. The sounds mingled with the boy's dreams, and he thought he was lying in his attic at home, and that a mouse was running over his face; he felt its little tickling feet and its long tail quite plainly, and put up his hand to brush it away. Then he woke with a start. The chill wind blew in his face and sighed among the trees, and instead of the low attic beams there were waving branches over his head. He was not at home, but alone, quite alone in Whiteleaf Wood, with thick darkness all round him. Frank was frightened without knowing why; it was all so "unked," as he would have expressed it, and as he stared about with terrified eyes he seemed to see mysterious forms moving near. Then he looked up towards the sky; and there, through a space between the tops of the trees, was one solitary beautiful star shining down upon him like a kind bright eye. It was a comfort to see it there, and by degrees, as he lay with his eyes fixed upon it, he forgot his fears a little, and began to think of other things. First there came into his head one line of a hymn which he had often sung in the choir at Danecross church: "Brightest and best of the sons of the morning," it began. From that he went on to consider what a long time it was since he had said his prayers, because he was always so sleepy and tired at night, and he thought he would say them now. But before he had finished them he fell into a quiet slumber, which lasted till morning, when the sun, peering through the trees, pointed suddenly down at his face with a fiery finger and woke him up. CHAPTER TWO. The first thought that came into Frank's head was that he should not have to go to plough that day. The second was, that it was breakfast-time, that he was very hungry, and that he had nothing to eat. This was not so pleasant; but proceeding to "farm" his pockets, which in Buckinghamshire dialect means to rummage, he discovered a small piece of very hard bread. With this scanty meal he was obliged to be satisfied, and presently continued his journey in a tolerably cheerful frame of mind. Where he was going and how he was to earn his living he did not know; but on one subject he was quite resolved, he would not go back till he was too big and strong for father to "whop" him. It was hard to leave mother, and she would be sorry; but he thought he would manage somehow to write her a letter, and put a stamp upon it with the first penny he earned. So reflecting, and varying the gravity of such thoughts by chasing the squirrels and the grey rabbits that scudded across his path, he journeyed on, and by degrees reached a part of the wood quite unknown to him. He began to wonder now what he should do if he did not soon come to a cottage or some place where he could ask for food, for it was many hours since he had eaten, and he was faint with exhaustion. Never in his life had he felt so dreadfully hungry, and there were not even berries for him to eat at this time of the year. At last the craving became so hard to bear, and his head was so queer and giddy that he thought he must rest a little while. As far as he could judge by the sun it was about four o'clock, and he must be a long way from Green Highlands. He dropped down in a little crumpled heap at the foot of a tree, and shut his eyes--nothing seemed to matter much, not even his father's anger; nothing but this dreadful gnawing pain. The only other thing he was conscious of was a distant continuous sound like the sawing of wood. He did not take much notice of this at first, but by and by as it went on and on monotonously the idea shaped itself in his mind that where that noise was there must be people, whom he could ask for food, and he got up and staggered on again. As he went the sound got louder and louder, and he could also hear a voice singing. This encouraged him so much that he quickened his pace to a run, and soon came to a great clearing in the wood. And then he saw what had caused the noise. Felled trees were lying about in the round open space, and there were great heaps of curly yellow shavings, and strange-looking smooth pieces of wood carefully arranged in piles. Two little sheds stood at some distance from each other, and in one of these sat a man turning a piece of wood in a rudely fashioned lathe; as he finished it he handed it to a boy kneeling at his feet, who supplied him with more wood, and sang at his work in a loud, clear voice. And then a still more interesting object caught Frank's eye, for in the middle of the clearing there burned and crackled a lively little wood-fire, and over it, hanging from a triangle of three sticks, was a smoky black kettle. It held tea, he felt sure, and near it were some tin mugs and some nice little bundles of something tied up in spotted handkerchiefs. It all suggested agreeable preparations for a meal, and he felt he must join it at any risk. He stood timidly at the edge of the wood observing all this for a minute, and then, as no one noticed him, he slowly advanced till he was close to the man and boy; then they looked up and saw him. A wayworn, weary little figure he was, with a white face and mournful blue eyes; he had a shrinking, frightened air, like some hunted creature of the woods; and here and there the dry brown leaves had stuck to his clothes. Holding out his hand, and speaking in a low voice, for he felt ashamed of begging when it came to the point, he said: "Please can yer give me a morsel of bread?" The man, who had kind slow brown eyes and a very placid face, looked at him without speaking, and shook his head at the outstretched hand. But the boy answered with a wide-mouthed grin: "He's hard o' hearin', my pardner is. He don't know what yer say." He then rose, and going close to the man shouted shrilly in his ear: "Little chap wants summat t'eat." The man nodded. "He's welcome to jine at tea," he said, "and he can work it out arterwards. Where dost come from?" to Frank. Frank hesitated; then he thought of a village several miles beyond Danecross, and answered boldly, "Dinton." "And where art goin'?" "I'm seekin' work," said Frank. These answers having been yelled into his ear by the boy, the man asked no further questions, though he gravely considered the stranger with his large quiet eyes. Shortly afterwards, having been joined by the mate who was sawing in the other shed, the company disposed themselves round the fire, and to Frank's great joy the meal began. And what a meal it was! Roasted potatoes, tea, thick hunches of bread, small fragments of fat bacon, all pervaded with a slight flavour of smoke--could anything be more delicious to a famished boy? Frank abandoned himself silently to the enjoyment of it; and though his companions cast interested glances at him from time to time, no one spoke. It was a very quiet assembly. All round and above them the new little green leaves danced and twinkled, and on the ground the old ones made a rich brown carpet; the blue smoke of the fire rose thinly up in the midst. At last Frank gave a deep sigh of contentment as he put down his tin mug, and the deaf man clapped him kindly on the shoulder. "Hast taken the edge off, little chap?" he said. Then the two men, stretched luxuriously on the ground, filled their pipes and smoked in silence. The boy, who was about Frank's own age, but brown-faced and stoutly built, busied himself in clearing away the remains of the meal, and in carefully making up the fire with dry chips and shavings; he seemed to have caught the infection of silence from his companions, and eyed the stranger guest without speaking a word. But Frank, who was revived and cheered by his food, felt inclined for a little conversation; he was always of an inquisitive turn of mind, and he was longing to ask some questions; so as the boy passed near him he ventured to say, pointing to the neat piles of wood: "What be yon?" The boy stared. "Yon?" he repeated; "why, yon be legs and rungs of cheers--that's what we make 'em fur." "Where be the cheers?" pursued Frank. "We send all yon down to Wickham, to the cheer factory," answered the boy; "we don't fit 'em together here." He seated himself at Frank's side as he spoke, and poked at the fire with a long pointed stick. "How do they get 'em down to Wickham?" asked Frank, bent on getting as much information as possible. The boy pointed to a broad cart-track, which descended abruptly from one side of the clearing. "They fetch a cart up yonder, and take 'em down into the high-road." "And how fur is it?" "A matter of two miles, and then three miles further to the factory, and there they make 'em up into cheers, and then they send 'em up to Lunnon Town by the rail." Frank remembered the great cart-loads of chairs that he had seen passing through Danecross, but what chiefly struck him in his companion's answer were the two words "Lunnon Town." They fell on his ear with a new meaning. He had read of Lunnon Town, and heard schoolmaster talk of it, but had never imagined it as a place he could see, any more than America. Now, suddenly, an idea of such vast enterprise seized on his mind, that it stunned him into silence. He would go to Lunnon Town! Everyone became rich there. He would become rich too; then he would go back to Green Highlands, and give all his money to mother; there would be no need for any more field-work, and they would all be happy. At the thought of mother his eyes filled with tears, for he knew how unhappy she would be when he did not come back, and how she would stand at the door and look out for him. He longed to set about making this great fortune at once, it seemed a waste of time to sit idle; but he knew he must rest that night, for his legs felt stiff and aching; besides he had to work out his meal. In half an hour the deaf man's lathe was hard at work again, and the two boys busily employed near. Frank's new friend showed him how to arrange the pieces of wood neatly in piles when they were turned and smoothed. He hummed a tune in the intervals of conversation and presently asked: "Can yer sing?" Frank _could_ sing--very well. He was one of the best singers in Danecross choir, and Mrs Darvell held her head very high when she heard her boy's voice in church; so he answered with a certain pride: "Ah, I can sing proper well." "Sing summat," said the boy. Frank waited a minute to choose a tune, and then sang "Ring the Bell, Watchman," straight through. The boy listened attentively, and joined, after the second verse, in the chorus, which was also taken up in a gruff and uncertain manner by the mate in the other shed. The deaf man looked on approvingly, and the lathe kept up a grinding accompaniment. "That's fine, that is," said the boy when the last notes of Frank's clear voice died away. "Do yer know any more?" "I know a side more," said Frank, "and hymns too." "Can yer sing `Home Sweet Home?'" asked the boy. "Ah." But this song was not so successful, for after the chorus had been sung with great animation, and the second verse eagerly expected, something choked and gurgled in Frank's throat so that he could not sing any more. All that night, as he lay on the bed of shavings, which he shared with his new companion, he waked at intervals to hear those words echoing through the woods: "Home Sweet Home--There's no place like Home." But with the morning sun these sounds vanished, and he began his onward journey cheerily, refreshed by his rest and food. As he went down the cart-track the boy had pointed out to him he sang scraps of songs to himself, the birds twittered busily above his head, and the distant sound of the deaf man's lathe came more and more faintly to his ears. He felt sure now that he was on his way to make his fortune, and the wood seemed full of voices which said, "Lunnon Town, Lunnon Town," over and over again. The thought of his mother's sad face was, it is true, a little depressing. "But," he said to himself, "how pleased she'll be when I come back rich!" Then he considered what sort of shawl he would buy for her with the first money he earned--whether it should be a scarlet one, or mixed colours with an apple-green border, like one he had seen once in a shop at Daylesbury. These fancies beguiled the way, and he was surprised when, after what seemed a short time, he found himself at the edge of the wood, and in a broad high-road; that must be the Wickham Road, and he had still three miles to walk before reaching the town and the chair factories, where he meant to ask for work as a first step on his way to London. It was not a busy-looking road, and the carts and people who passed now and then seemed to have plenty of time and no wish to hurry; still, to Frank, who was used to the solitude of Green Highlands and the deeper quiet of the woods, it felt like getting into the world, and he looked down at his clothes, and wondered how they would suit a large town. He wore a smock, high brown leather gaiters reaching almost to his thighs, and very thick hobnailed boots. He wished he had his Sunday coat on instead of the smock, but the rest of the things would do very well, and they were so strong and good that they would last a long time. So this point settled he trudged on again, till, by twelve o'clock, he saw Wickham in the distance with its gabled red houses and tall factory buildings. And now that he was so near, his courage forsook him a little, and he felt that he was a very small weak boy, and that the factories were full of bustling work-people who would take no notice of him. He stood irresolute in the street, wondering to whom he ought to apply, and presently his eye was attracted to the window of a small baker's shop near. Through this he saw a kind-looking round-faced woman, who stood behind the counter knitting. Just in front of her there was, curled round, a sleek black cat, and she stopped in her work now and then to scratch its head gently with her knitting-pin. Somehow this encouraged Frank, and entering he put his question timidly, in his broad Buckinghamshire accent. The woman smiled at him good-naturedly. "From the country, I reckon?" she said, not answering his question. "Ah," replied Frank, "I be." "You're a dillicate little feller to be trampin' about alone seekin' work," she said, considering him thoughtfully. "Is yer mother livin'?" "Ah," said Frank again, casting longing eyes at a crisp roll on the counter. "Then why don't yer bide at home," asked the woman, "and work there?" "I want to get more wage," said Frank, who was feeling hungrier every minute with the smell of the bread. "I'll be obliged to yer if ye'll tell me how I could git taken on at the factory." "You must go and ask at the overseer's office up next street, where you see a brass plate on the door--name of Green. But bless yer 'art, we've lads enough and to spare in Wickham; I doubt they won't want a country boy who knows nought of the trade." "I can try," said Frank; "and I learn things quick. Schoolmaster said so." The woman shook her head. "You'd be better at home, my little lad," she said, "till you're a bit older. There's no place like home." Those same words had been sounding in Frank's ears all night. They seemed to meet him everywhere, he thought, like a sort of warning. Nevertheless he was not going to give up his plan, and having learned the direction of the overseer's office he turned to leave the shop. "And here's summat to set yer teeth in as you go along," said the woman, holding out a long roll of bread. "Growing lads should allus be eatin'." "Thank you, ma'am," said Frank, and he took off his cap politely, as he had been taught at school, and went his way. "As pretty behaved as possible," murmured the woman as she looked after him, "and off with his hat like a prince. What sort o' folks does he belong to, I wonder!" The overseer's office was a small dark room with a high desk in it, at which sat a sandy-haired red-faced man, with his hat very much on the back of his head. He was talking in a loud blustering voice to several workmen, and as Frank entered he heard the last part of the speech. "So you can tell Smorthwaite and the rest of 'em that they can come on again on the old terms, but they'll not get a farthing more. Well, boy," as he noticed Frank standing humbly in the background, "what do _you_ want?" Mr Green's manner was that of an incensed and much-tried man, and Frank felt quite afraid to speak. "Please, sir," he said, "do you want a boy in the factory?" "Do I want a boy!" repeated the overseer, addressing the ceiling in a voice of despair. "No, of course I don't want a boy. If I had my will I'd have no boys in the place--I'm sick of the sight of boys." He bent his eyes on a newspaper before him, and seemed to consider the matter disposed of; but Frank made one more timid venture. "Please, sir," he said, going close up to the desk, "I'd work very stiddy." Mr Green peered over his high desk at the sound of the small persistent voice, and frowned darkly. "Clear out!" he said with a nod of his head towards the door; "don't stop here talking nonsense. Out you go!" Frank dared not stay; he slunk out into the street crushed and disappointed, for he felt he had not even had a chance. "He might a listened to a chap," he said to himself. Just then the church clock struck one, dinner time, and a convenient doorstep near, so he took the roll out of the breast of his smock-frock and sat down to eat it. As he had never been used to very luxurious meals it satisfied him pretty well; and then he watched the people passing to and fro, and wondered what he could do to earn some money. The chair-factory was hopeless certainly, but there must surely be some one in Wickham who wanted a boy to run errands, or dig gardens, or help in stables. What should he do? Without money he must starve; he could neither go on to London or back to Green Highlands. The street was almost deserted now, for all the people who had dinners waiting for them had hurried home to eat them, and no one had noticed the rustic little figure in the grey gaberdine crouched on the doorstep. Suddenly a dreadful feeling of loneliness seized on Frank, such as he had not felt since leaving home. Even the great solitary wood had not seemed so cold and unfriendly as this town, full of human faces, where the very houses seemed to stare blankly upon him. He thought of the kind baker woman, and immediately her words sounded in his ear: "There's no place like home." If he went to her she would try to persuade him to go back, and that he was still determined not to do; but his golden pictures of the future had faded a good deal since that morning, and as he sat and looked wistfully at the hard red houses opposite he could not help his eyes filling with tears. Fortunately, he thought, there was no one to see them; but still he felt ashamed of crying, and bent his head on his folded arms. Sitting thus for some minutes, he was presently startled by a voice close by. "What's up, little un?" it said. Frank looked up quickly, and saw that the question came from a boy standing in front of him. He was a very tall, thin boy, about fifteen years old, with a dark face and narrow twinkling black eyes. All his clothes were ragged, and none of them seemed to fit him properly, for his coat-sleeves were inconveniently long, and his trousers so short that they showed several inches of brown bony ankles. On his head he wore a rusty black felt hat with half a brim, which was turned down over his eyes; his feet were bare; and he carried under his arm a cage full of nimble crawling white mice. After a minute's observation Frank decided in his mind that this must be a "tramp." Now and then these wandering folks passed through Danecross and the neighbourhood on their way to large towns; and, as a rule, people looked askance at them. It was awkward to have them about when ducklings and chickens were being reared, and Frank had always heard them spoken of with contempt and suspicion. Just now, however, any sympathy appeared valuable, and he smiled back at the twinkling black eyes, and answered: "There's nowt the matter with me. I'm wantin' work." The boy seemed to think this an amusing idea, for he grinned widely, showing an even row of very white teeth. Then he sat down on the doorstep, put his cage of mice on the ground, and began to whistle; his bright eyes keenly observing Frank from top to toe meanwhile, and finally resting on his thick hobnailed boots. Then he asked briefly: "Farm-work?" "I'd ratherly get any other," answered Frank. And feeling it his turn to make some inquiries, he said: "What do yer carry them mice fur?" The boy looked at him for a minute in silence; then he chuckled, and gave a long low whistle. "I say, little chap," he said confidentially, "_ain't_ you a flat! Just rather." Seeing on Frank's face no sign of comprehension he continued: "Without them little mice I should be what they calls a wagrant. Many a time they've saved me from the beak, and from being run in. Them's my business; and a nice easy trade it is. Lots of change and wariety. No one to wallop yer. Live like a jintleman." He waved his hand at his last words with a gesture expressive of large and easy circumstances. Frank glanced at his bare feet and generally dishevelled appearance. "I don't want to live like a jintleman," he said; "I want to work honest, and git wage." "Why did yer cut and run then?" said his companion suddenly and sharply. "Did they wallop yer?" Frank started. How could this strange boy possibly know that he had run away? His alarmed face seemed to afford the tramp the keenest amusement; he laughed long and loud, leaning back on the steps in an ecstasy, and said at breathless intervals: "You're just the innocentest, greenest little chap. How old are yer?" Frank did not answer; he was considering the best means of getting away from this undesirable acquaintance, who presently, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his jacket, remarked with recovered gravity: "In course, yer know, no one 'ull take a boy what's run away." This was a new and alarming idea to Frank. "_Won't_ they?" he said earnestly. "Certingly not," continued the tramp. "Where's yer carikter? You 'ain't got none." Frank hung his head. He wondered he had not thought of this before. "This is where it lies," pursued his companion, holding out a very dirty hand dramatically in front of him. "You comes, as it might be, to me and you says, `I want a sitivation.' Then I says, `Where's yer carikter?' Then you says, `I 'ain't got one.' Then I says, `Out yer go.'" Having thus placed the situation in a nutshell, as it were, he put his hands in his pockets and observed Frank covertly out of the corners of his eyes. Seeing how crestfallen he looked, the tramp presently spoke again. "Now, in my line of bizness it's not so important a carikter isn't. I might very likely look over it in takin' a pal if he asked me. In course it would be a favour; but still I might look over it." "Do you want a pal?" asked Frank, pushed to extremity. "Well, I don't, not to say _want_ a pal," replied the tramp, "but I don't mind stretching a pint in your case if you like to jine." The blue eyes and the glittering black ones met for an instant. "I'll jine yer," said Frank with a sigh. The tramp held out his long-fingered brown hand. "Shake hands," he said. "The terms is, halves all we git." The bargain concluded, he informed Frank that his name was Barney, and further introduced him to the mice, called respectively Jumbo, Alice, and Lord Beaconsfield. This last, a mouse of weak-eyed and feeble appearance, he took out of the cage and allowed to crawl over him, stroking it tenderly now and then with the tip of his finger. "He's an artful one, he is," he murmured admiringly. "I calls him Dizzy for short. What's your name, little un?" "Frank." "That sounds a good sort o' name too," said Barney; "sort o' name you see in gowld letters on a chany mug in the shop winders, don't it? I don't fancy, though, I could bring my tongue to it, not as a _jineral_ thing. I shall call yer `Nipper,' if you don't mind. After a friend o' mine." The new name appearing rather an advantage than otherwise under his present circumstances Frank agreed to drop his own, and to be henceforth known only as the "Nipper." This change seemed to have broken the last link which bound him to Green Highlands and his own people. He was Frank Darvell no longer; he belonged to no one; the wide world was his home; Barney and the white mice his only friends and companions. CHAPTER THREE. In the wandering life that followed, Frank had excellent opportunities for studying the character of his new comrade, and it did not take long to discover two prominent points in it. Barney was a liar and a thief. These accomplishments, indeed, had formed the principal features in poor Barney's education from his tenderest childhood. He had always been taught that it was desirable and proper to lie and steal; the only wrong and undesirable thing was--to be found out. To do Barney justice he very seldom _was_ found out; nimble of finger and quick of wit he had profited well by his lessons, and by the time Frank met him had long been a finished scholar, and able to "do" for himself. In spite of these failings he was a kind-hearted boy; he would not have hurt any living thing weaker than himself, and Frank's pale face and slender form soon appealed to his protective instincts in much the same way that his white mice did, for which he cherished a fond affection. If the night were cold he always managed that the Nipper had the warmest shelter, and when provisions were scarce the least tasty morsels were always reserved for himself, as a matter of course. Then what an amusing companion he was! How his ingenious stories, mostly a tissue of falsehood, beguiled the weary way, and made Frank forget his aching feet! He believed them all at first, and his innocent credulousness acted as a spur to Barney's fertile invention and excited him to fresh and wilder efforts. On one occasion, however, his imagination carried him beyond the limits of even Frank's capacity of belief, and from that moment suspicion began. He had been romancing about the riches and wealth of people who lived in London (where he had never been), and after describing at great length that the houses were none of them smaller than the whole town of Wickham put together, he added: "An the folks niver uses ought but gowld to eat an drink off." Frank looked up quickly. "You're wrong there," he said. "My mother's got a chany jug what used to belong to her grandfather, and _he_ lived in Lunnon." Observing a twinkle in the corner of Barney's eye he continued in an injured tone: "You've bin lyin'. Lies is wicked, and stealin's wicked too." There was a sound of conscious superiority in his tone, which was naturally irritating to his companion, who laughed hoarsely. "Jest listen to him," he said, addressing Lord Beaconsfield for want of a more intelligent audience, "listen to him! Don't he preach fine? An' him a boy without a carikter too! Lies is wicked, eh? And stealin's wicked. Who told him that, I wonder?" "It's in the catekizum," continued Frank. "Parson allers said so, and Schoolmaster too." Barney made a gesture expressive of much contempt at the mention of these two dignitaries. "Parson and Schoolmaster!" he said derisively. "Why, in course they said so; they're paid to do it. That's how they earns their money. But jest you please to remember, that yer not Parson, not yit Schoolmaster, but a boy without a carikter, so shut up with yer preachin'." Without a character! It was hard, Frank thought, that he, a respectable Danecross boy, who had been to school, and sung in the choir, and whose folks had always worked honest and got good wages, should have come to this! That a vagrant tramp, who could neither read nor write, and who got his living anyhow, should be able to call him "a boy without a carikter!" And the worst of it was, that it was true, he sadly thought, as he plodded along in the dust by Barney's side. He had thrown away his right to be considered respectable--no one would employ him if they knew he had run away, and still less if they knew he had been "on the tramp" with a boy like Barney. However, as time went on, such serious thoughts troubled him less frequently; as long as the sun shone, it was easy to avoid dwelling on them amidst the change and uncertainty of his vagrant life. But there were not two days alike in it. Sometimes luck, plenty to eat, and a bed of dry straw in a barn--that was luxury. Sometimes a weary tramp in the pouring rain, no coppers and no supper. Under these last circumstances the "Nipper" was sharply reminded of the time when he was Frank Darvell, and lived at Green Highlands; shivering and hungry, his thoughts would dwell regretfully on the comfort and security he had left. Mother's face would come before him sad and reproachful. Poor mother! She would never have that shawl with the apple-green border now. Her Frank, instead of making a great fortune in London town, had become a wanderer and a tramp; and indeed after a month's companionship with Barney he was so altered that she would hardly have known him. Sleeping under hedges or in outhouses had not improved his clothes, which were now stained and torn. His pale face was changed by wind and weather, and also by a plentiful supply of dust, seldom washed off, into a dirty brown one, and his hair, once kept so neatly cropped, now hung about in bushy tangles like Barney's. Only his bright blue eyes, with their innocent childishness of expression, were recognisable, and these gained him many a copper when he carried round his cap after Barney's feeble performances with the white mice. But though changed outwardly, there was one good habit which Frank had brought away from Green Highlands, and to which he clung with a persistency which surprised and irritated his partner. This was honesty. Nothing would induce him to steal, or even to share stolen booty; hunger, threats, bitterly sarcastic speeches were alike in vain, and at last Barney's scornful amusement at the "boy without a carikter" began to be mingled with a certain respect; not that he was the least inclined to follow his example and give up pilfering himself, but he thought it was "game" of the little 'un to hold his own, and that was a quality he could understand and admire. After all, a chap that had been brought up by parsons and schoolmasters must have allowances made for him, he supposed, and he soon gave up all idea of inducing Frank to thieve, and even kept his own exploits in the background, because the "Nipper" took it to heart. So, sharing sometimes hardships, and sometimes pleasures, the oddly-matched partners journeyed on, with an increasing attachment to each other, and Frank's thoughts travelled back less and less often to Green Highlands. For now the bright warm weather had set fairly in, and all the different flowers came marching on in sweet procession, and filled the woods and fields. After the primroses, and while some still remained sprinkled about in the sunny places, came the deep blue hyacinths, and then the golden kingcups, and the downy yellow cowslips: last of all, a tall triumphant host of foxgloves spread themselves over forest and common. The wind, blowing softly from the west, brought with it little gentle showers, just enough to freshen the leaves and wash the upturned faces of the blossoms; tramping was a luxury in such weather, and those people much to be pitied who had to work in close dark rooms, hidden away from the glorious sunshine. Certainly it was rather _too_ hot sometimes, and the roads were dusty and gritty, and the boys' throats got parched with thirst after a very few miles; but there was always the hope of coming to some delicious, cool green bit by the way, or to a stream of water, or to some comfortable village seat under the shadow of a great tree. And this kept up their spirits. One day they had walked far in a blazing July sun along an unshaded high-road; it was evening now, and they were wondering where they should sleep, and how they should get some supper, when they came to a narrow lane turning off to the right, with steep banks on each side of it. There was a sign-post, which, interpreted by Frank, said, To Crowhurst--one mile. The boys consulted a little, and soon determined to leave the high-road, which seemed endless, as far as they could see, and try their fortune in Crowhurst for the night. It was not long before they came to it, lying in a hollow, and snugly sheltered by gently rising wooded ground. It was a very little village indeed. There was a small grey church with a stumpy square tower, and a cheerful red-brick inn called the Holly Bush, with a swinging sign in front of it; there were half a dozen little cottages with gay gardens, and, standing close to the road, there was a long, low, many-gabled house which was evidently the vicarage. It was such a snug, smiling little settlement altogether that Barney and Frank, slouching along dusty and tired, felt quite out of place and uneasy at the glances cast at them by the people standing at their open doors or in their trim gardens. However, there was a bench outside the inn, and there they presently sat down to rest and look about them. The vicarage was just opposite; and one of its wide lattice-windows being open, the boys could see plainly into the room, where the most prominent object was the figure of an old gentleman, with grey hair and a velvet skull-cap; he sat at a table writing busily, and everything was so quiet and still that they could even hear the scratch of his quill pen, and the rustle of the sheets of manuscript which he threw from time to time on the floor. Sometimes he looked vaguely out of the window, and sometimes he took off his skull-cap and rubbed his bald head with his pocket handkerchief--then he bent busily over his writing again. Frank, watching him lazily, wondered what he could have to write so much about, and then it occurred to him that perhaps he might be the schoolmaster correcting the boys' exercises; from that, his mind wandered back to Danecross and the school-room there, where it used to be so hot in summer, and the bees buzzed and murmured so in the garden outside, and the boys within. And gradually, his ideas becoming confused between bees and boys, and being very tired, he forgot the old gentleman and fell asleep. But, meanwhile, the acute Barney, sitting by his side and apparently engrossed with his white mice, had been attentively observing the same scene. Unfortunately, whenever the old gentleman dipped his pen absently in the ink Barney's quick eye was attracted to a small object which glittered brightly, and presently he made out that this was a silver inkstand. The more he looked, the more his fingers longed to close round that shining object and make sure if it really could be silver, and I grieve to say that it was not from pressing necessity that he coveted it, but simply from a strong desire to exercise an inborn talent. It was as natural to him to steal, particularly if it required cleverness and ingenuity, as it is for an artist or a poet to paint or write poetry, so all the while he looked, his mind was busy with a plan to rob the old gentleman of his silver inkstand. Presently he glanced round at Frank, whose head was nodding forward in an uncomfortable attitude, and whose deep breathing showed him to be asleep. "If only he warn't sich a duffer," said Barney to himself, "we might do it easy," then seeing that his partner was in danger of falling, he moved nearer to him, and placed the boy's head gently against his own shoulder so that he might rest easily. Meanwhile the old gentleman's pen went scribbling on at quite a furious pace, and the black skull-cap seemed to nod complacently, as though its owner were pleased with what he wrote. Barney sat and waited with the sleeping boy's head on his shoulder-- waited patiently, without stirring a muscle, though after a time the stiff position became painful. Shadows were lengthening--the cows sauntered through the village to be milked--it began to get a little dusk, but still the old gentleman went on writing and Frank went on sleeping, and Barney's bright glance was fixed on the shining object opposite, much as a raven or a jackdaw will eye the silver spoon he means to steal by and by. "Everything comes to him who knows how to wait," and though Barney had never heard the proverb it was now verified in his case; the old gentleman paused in his writing, stuck his pen absently behind his ear, and proceeded to read over his manuscript. It pleased him evidently, for he smiled several times, and shook his head waggishly. Then he got up, yawned, stretched himself, and finally left the room, but only to reappear a moment later in the porch: thence he strolled down the narrow brick path to the gate, with his hands in the pockets of his flowered dressing-gown, and looked up and down the road, and up at the sky, and finally at the two dusty figures opposite on the bench. It was on Frank that his gaze rested, and just then, aided by a quiet poke from Barney's elbow, the boy roused himself, sat up, and rubbed his eyes. "Jintleman wants yer," said Barney, whispering hoarsely in his ear. Hardly awake, Frank stumbled across the road, and mechanically touched his cap. The old gentleman stood beaming benignly at him through his spectacles. "What do you want, my lad?" he said in a kind voice. Directly Frank heard him speak he knew he could not be the schoolmaster, but the parson of the village. Parson at Danecross used to speak in the same sort of way. He felt ashamed to beg, and looked back at Barney for support, who immediately came slouching up with his white mice, and began to speak in his usual professional whine. The old gentleman waved his hand impatiently. "Stop," he said; "I don't want to hear any of those stories. You can't impose upon me, so you needn't try." Then he turned to Frank. "Are you willing to work for your supper and a bed in the hay-loft to-night?" "Oh yes, sir," said Frank eagerly; "and so's Barney too." The rector, for such he was, glanced somewhat doubtfully at Barney. "Well," he said, "there's an hour's weeding in my kitchen-garden that you can easily do before dark, and then you shall have bread and cheese, and may sleep in the loft. Where have you come from?" He spoke to Frank, but the boy did not answer; and Barney, coming glibly to the rescue, had in a few moments woven an ingenious fable, in which he frequently referred to his companion as "his little brother." The rector listened without further question, but his shrewd grey eyes rested suspiciously on Barney when he had finished his story. "Come this way," he said, and led them round to the back of the house, where there was a neatly kept kitchen-garden, with borders of homely flowers, and a small orchard at the end of it. Here he paused, and showed the boys that one of the gravel walks was thickly covered with grass weeds. A man leant on the orchard gate smoking a pipe. "Andrew," said the rector, "when those two boys have weeded that path they are to have supper and a bed in the loft." The man touched his cap with a very ill-pleased expression, and the old gentleman strolled back into the house and left the boys to their work, which they undertook with very different feelings. On Barney's side there was a distinct sense of injury, and he performed his task with great bitterness of soul; for to work for anything was contrary to his inmost nature, and to every principle of his life hitherto. So he sighed and groaned and held on to his long back with both hands at intervals, and managed to do as small a share of the weeding as possible. Frank, on the contrary, went to work with a will, with a pleasant sense that he was earning something, and he was careful to get the weeds up by the roots, instead of slicing them off neatly at the top, which was Barney's unprincipled method of gardening. Meanwhile Andrew's watchful eye never left the boys; and in answer to his master's inquiries that night his opinion of them was thus delivered: "Long un's no good, but t'other's bin taught to use his hands. He's no tramp." Frank lay awake long that night in the fragrant hay-loft thinking. The kind old rector, the work, the supper, had roused old memories in his mind, and his tramping life of late seemed suddenly distasteful. He longed to "work honest and get wage," and feel a respectable boy again. If only this nice old gentleman would let him stay and work in his garden; but that, Frank remembered with a sigh, was hopeless, because he had "no carikter." And then, there was Barney--Barney, who had always been good to him, and who had helped him when he most wanted it, he could not desert him now; and as for trying to turn him from his present course of life, that was just the most hopeless thing of all. So, rather sorrowfully, he turned over on the other side, and very shortly fell fast asleep. Barney slept too with the profound peacefulness of a mind at rest, as, indeed, it was; for with the morning's light he had firmly resolved to steal the old gentleman's silver inkstand, and he was troubled with no doubts either as to the propriety or success of the undertaking. The fastening of that lattice-window would be easily managed by a dexterous hand, and before any of the folks were about he and Frank would be beyond pursuit; only he must be careful not to wake the Nipper before he had secured his booty, as he might make foolish and troublesome objections. So it came to pass that it was only just daylight next morning when Frank was waked from a deep sleep by some one shaking his arm, and by the dim grey light he saw Barney kneeling by him with an eager look in his dark face. "Get up!" he whispered. "'Tain't time," murmured Frank, rolling over sleepily. But Barney renewed his shaking, and at last succeeded in thoroughly rousing his comrade, who sat up and stared at him with surprised blue eyes. "Why, Barney," he said, "it's night still. What do yer want to go on fur? The old gentleman ull want to see us afore we start; we mustn't go yet." Barney frowned darkly. "I niver want to see that old cove, niver no more," he said; and this was truer than Frank thought. "I calls it a mean act to make a poor chap work for a bit o' supper. He's no jintleman, he isn't." "Well," said Frank, "I should like to a said `Thank yer;' it seems ongrateful." "Then you'd better stop and do it," said Barney impatiently. "I'm off. I'm not goin' to stay an work in that blessed old garding any more. You can come arter me." He was already half-way down the loft steps as he spoke, with his mice's cage under his arm, when he looked back over his shoulder at his partner's slight figure standing at the top in the dim light watching him. Turning suddenly, he was by Frank's side again in two long-legged strides. "Good-bye, Nipper," he whispered, "good-bye, old pal!" He patted the boy on the shoulder gently, and soon with stealthy swiftness passed from sight, and seemed to vanish in the grey morning mist. Then Frank, wondering a little, but more sleepy than curious, crept back to his still warm nest in the hay, and fell asleep again without loss of time. He dreamt that Barney had come back to fetch him, and opened his eyes some hours later expecting to see him; but he was not there. Instead of him there was Andrew the gardener just coming up the steps in a great hurry. He seized Frank roughly by the arm. "Oh, you're here, are you, young scamp?" he said. Then looking round the loft. "Where's t'other?" "He's gone on before," answered Frank, surprised and confused at this treatment. "Oh, I daresay," said Andrew, giving him a shake. "And I suppose you don't even know what he's got in his pocket. You're a nice young innercent. You jest come along with me." He hurried the boy along, holding him tight by the collar of his smock, and thrust him into the room with the lattice-window, where the rector had been writing the night before. He was there now, walking feverishly backwards and forwards, and looking thoroughly ill at ease. "Here's one on 'em, sir," said Andrew triumphantly introducing the small trembling form of Frank, "an' t'other's not far off, I reckon." The rector looked more than ever perturbed. "Where was the boy, Andrew?" he asked. "Does he know anything of the matter?" "He was in the loft, and he's just the most owdacious young rascal; says t'other one's gone on before. He'll know more about it, I fancy, after a day or two in the lock-up." Andrew administered a rousing shake to his captive as he spoke. He was not ill-pleased that the rector should at last see the result of encouraging tramps. Hitherto Frank had been in a state of puzzled misery, and had scarcely understood what was going on; but when Andrew mentioned the word lock-up, the whole matter was clear to him. Barney had stolen something; that was the meaning of his abrupt departure before daylight. The rector looked at him pityingly. "Where is your companion, my boy?" he said. Frank did not answer; he stood perfectly passive in Andrew's hands, and cast his eyes on the ground. "Don't yer hear his reverence?" shouted the latter in the boy's ear. "I dunno," said Frank faintly. "You'd better let me run him over to Aylesford and have him locked up, sir," said Andrew. "He'd find a tongue then." Frank raised his frightened blue eyes entreatingly to the rector's face without speaking; he saw something in the kind rugged features which encouraged him, for with sudden energy he wriggled himself loose from Andrew and threw himself on his knees. "Don't let them lock me up, sir," he sobbed. "I've allers bin a honest lad." "Was it your companion who broke into this room this morning and stole my inkstand?" pursued the rector. "I dunno," repeated Frank. "I didn't see him steal nuthin', I was asleep." "Would he be likely to do it?" "I dunno," said Frank under his breath, deeply conscious that he _did_ know very well. "Is he your brother?" "No," cried Frank with a sudden burst of eloquence, "he's no kin to me. I'm Frank Darvell's lad, what lives at Green Highlands. And Parson knows me--and Schoolmaster. And I've niver stolen nowt in my life. Don't ye let 'em lock me up!" "A likely story!" growled Andrew. "Honest lads don't go trampin' round with thieves." The rector, whose face had softened at the boy's appeal, seemed to pull himself together sternly at this remark; he frowned, and said, turning away a little from Frank's tear-stained face: "I would gladly believe you, my boy, but it is too improbable. As Andrew says, honest boys do not associate with thieves." "Ask any of 'em at Danecross, sir," pleaded poor Frank in despair; "anyone ull tell ye I belong to honest folk." "That's no proof you're not a thief," put in the persistent Andrew; "there's many a rotten apple hangs on a sound tree." The rector looked up impatiently. "Leave the boy alone with me, Andrew," he said, "I wish to ask him some questions;" and as the man left the room he seated himself in his big leather chair and beckoned Frank to him. "Come here," he said, "and answer me truthfully." Frank stood at his elbow, trembling still in fear of being sent to prison, and yet with a faint hope stealing into his heart. Bit by bit he sobbed forth his story in answer to the rector's questions, and finally raising his swollen eyelids to the kind face he said: "If so be as mother was to know I wur sent to prison it 'ud break her 'art." "Tell me," said the rector, "have your parents lived long at Green Highlands? Are they well-known there?" "Father, he's lived there all his life," said Frank; "and granther, he used to live there too. Father can do a better day's work nor any man in Danecross," he added with conscious pride. "Ah!" said the rector, "it's a fine thing to be a good workman, and to have earned a good name, isn't it?" Frank hung his head. "But it isn't done by tramping about the country with bad companions. A good name's a precious thing, and like all precious things it's got by trouble and labour. It's the best thing a father can hand down to his son. When he begins life, men say, `He's Frank Darvell's son, he comes of a good stock;' and so the `good name' his father earned is of great use to him. But he can't live on that; he has to make one of his own too, so that he can hand it on to _his_ sons and daughters and say, `There's my father's name, I've never disgraced it; now it's your turn to use it well.' But suppose that the son doesn't value his father's good name. Suppose that he chooses an idle good-for-nothing life and his own pleasure, rather than to work hard and live honestly; what happens then? Why, then, men soon leave off trusting him, and say, `He's not the man his father was;' and so the name of Darvell, which used to be so honoured and respected, comes to be connected with evil things. Then, perhaps too late, the son finds that `a good name is more to be desired than great riches, and loving favour rather than silver and gold.' But he has thrown away the good name and the loving favour too, for he has drifted away from his old friends and companions. He can _never_ get back to where he started from." The solemn monotonous voice--for the rector had dropped unconsciously into his sermon tones--and the emphasis on the last words completed Frank's misery of spirit. Clasping his hands, he fell on his knees and said imploringly: "Let me go home, sir. Let me go back. I'd be proper glad to see 'em all again." "Whom would you like to see again?" asked the rector kindly. "There's mother first," said Frank, "and father on Sundays, and then Schoolmaster, and Jack Gunn, and little Phoebe Redrup." "My little lad," said the rector, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, "you see there's no place like home. Home, where people know us and love us in spite of our faults. I think you won't want to run away again?" "Niver no more," sobbed Frank. "And now," said the rector rising, and reassuming the air of severity which he had quite laid aside during the last part of the interview. "I am going to write to the vicar of Danecross, who is a friend of mine. If I find that what you have told me is true we will say no more about the inkstand, and I will believe that you had no knowledge of the theft. Until then you must be treated as under suspicion, though we will not send you to prison." He summoned Andrew, and delivered Frank over to his charge. Disgusted to find that he was not to be "run in" as an example to tramps, from whom his master's orchard and garden had suffered so frequently, Andrew was determined that his captive should have no chance of escape, and as rigorous a confinement as possible. Frank was therefore locked up in a small harness-room, as the place of greatest security and discomfort; and here he passed the lonely day in much distress of mind, troubled with many fears concerning his late friend and companion Barney. The rector himself was hardly more at his ease, however, for he would willingly have dispensed with the zeal of his parishioners, who had been scouring the country since daybreak in search of the thief, and kept him in a constant tremor. The good people of Crowhurst seldom had the chance of such an excitement as this unexpected robbery, and though few things would have embarrassed the rector more than a successful end to the chase, he did not dare to check their ardour. His peaceful solitude was therefore perpetually disturbed throughout the day by the arrival of breathless parties of scouts. He would sally out to the gate to meet them, and ask nervously: "Well, my lads, seen anything of him, eh?" Deep was his inward relief when the day closed in with no news of the thief, for he would have cheerfully sacrificed many silver inkstands rather than have been obliged to deliver the unfortunate Barney into the hands of justice. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Two evenings later than this, the vicar of Danecross stood at the open door of the Darvells' cottage at Green Highlands, and looked into the room. Mrs Darvell was alone, scrubbing away at her brick floor on her knees, and surrounded by a formidable array of pails, and brushes, and mops. The place had a comfortless air, and there was no fire on the hearth. "Late at work, Mrs Darvell, eh?" was the vicar's greeting as he stood on the threshold. Mrs Darvell got up quickly, and dropped her usual brisk courtesy, but her face looked dull and spiritless. "I'm in too much of a muss to ask you in, sir," she said, glancing round. "Oh, never mind," said the clergyman; "where's Darvell? Isn't he back from work yet?" Mrs Darvell shrugged her shoulders, and made an expressive movement with her head in the direction of Danecross. "I reckon he's where he generally is now," she answered moodily, "at the `Nag's Head.'" "Why, that's something new, isn't it? I always consider Darvell one of the steadiest men in my parish." Mrs Darvell looked up defiantly. "Maybe it's partly my fault," she said; "but we've never had a minute's comfort since the little lad went. And things get worse and worse. I don't care no more to keep the place nice, and I ups and speaks sharp to Darvell, and he goes off to the `Nag's Head.'" The vicar nodded his head slowly, as though Darvell's conduct was not quite incomprehensible under such circumstances, and Mrs Darvell continued in a lower tone: "You know, sir, it wur because my man lifted his hand to Frank that the lad went off; and I don't seem as how I can forget it. When I look at Darvell I keep on rememberin' as how, if he'd bin more patient with the boy we should ha' had him with us still. Darvell's been a good man to me, but I can't help speaking sharp to him; though maybe I'm sorry after I done it, for there's only the two on us now, and we'll have to worry along together." The vicar shook his head. "Hard blows are bad things, Mrs Darvell, but hard words do quite as much mischief in their way. If your husband has driven Frank from home, does it mend matters for you to drive your husband to the public-house?" "There's truth in what you say, sir," said Mrs Darvell, rubbing her arms with her apron; "but I don't seem as if I cared to do any different now the boy's gone. I've allers had a quick tongue from a gall, and Darvell, he must just take the consequences." "But suppose," said the vicar, looking earnestly at her, "suppose that Frank were to come back to you safe and well, and Darvell were to promise never to be so harsh to him again, wouldn't you try then to keep from saying sharp things?" Mrs Darvell's black eyes fixed themselves keenly on the vicar's face. "You've heard summat, sir?" she said, laying one damp red hand on his coat-sleeve. "Is the lad livin'? Just tell me that. Is he livin'?" "Look there," said the vicar. He turned and pointed down the road, where, at the top of the hill leading up from Danecross, two figures were just visible. They came nearer and nearer. One was that of Darvell, broad-shouldered and heavily built, but the other one was small and slender, and had rough yellow hair. Mrs Darvell was a woman of decisive action as well as of a quick tongue. One look was enough for her. She immediately took off her pattens, which had iron rings to them, and were not adapted for rapid movement, and placed them quickly and quite unconsciously in the vicar's arms as he stood beside her. "Bless you, sir!" she said. Before he had realised his situation she had flown down the road, reached the two figures, and enveloped Frank in her embrace, Darvell standing by meanwhile with a broad smile on his fair and foolish countenance. The neighbours gathered round the group, and all the dogs, and pigs, and chickens belonging to the settlement also drew near. Jack Gunn's donkey looked over the hedge, his furry ears showing a pointed interest in the affair, and in the distance the vicar surveyed the scene from the cottage door, still holding Mrs Darvell's pattens. So Frank had got home again; and after all his wanderings he found that: "From east to west At home is best." STORY TWO, CHAPTER 1. FAITHFUL MOSES--A SHORT STORY. Those of you who live near any of the great high-roads that lead to London may remember to have been awake sometimes in the middle of the night, and to have heard the sound of horses' feet, and of cart wheels rumbling slowly and heavily along. If it be winter, frosty and dry, you hear them very sharply and distinctly; and perhaps you wonder, drowsily, who it is that has business so late, and whither they are bound. "How cold it must be outside!" you think, and it is quite a pleasure to snuggle cosily down in your comfortable bed and feel how warm you are. Gradually, as the sounds grow less and less, and die away mysteriously in the distance, your eyes close; soon you are fast asleep again, and that is all you know about the cold, dark night outside. But Tim, the van-boy, knew a great deal more about it than this, for he had now been "on the road" between Roydon and London for more than a year. The carrier's cart started at eleven o'clock in the morning, and having distributed and received parcels on the way the driver put up his horses at an inn called "The Magpie and Stump," in a part of London named the Borough. So far it was all very well, and not at all hard work; but then came the return journey at night, which began just at the moment when a boy, after a good warm supper, naturally thinks of going to bed. This was trying, and at first Tim felt it a good deal, for he never got home until three o'clock in the morning; he was so anxious, too, to do his duty and fill his post well, that he would not have closed his eyes for the world, though he might well have taken a nap without anyone's knowledge. His "mate" as he called him, whose name was Joshua, sat in front driving his two strong black horses, and Tim's place was at the other open end of the van, so that he might keep his eye on the parcels and prevent their being stolen or lost. It was a responsible situation he felt for a boy of thirteen, and he meant to do his very best to keep it now that he had been lucky enough to get it; in the far-off future, too, he saw himself no longer the van-boy, but in the proud position now occupied by Joshua as driver, and this he considered, though a lofty, was by no means an unreasonable ambition. When Tim first began his work it was summertime, and the nights were so balmy, and soft, and light that it was not so very difficult to keep awake--there seemed so many other thing's awake too. After they were well out of London, and the horses no longer clattered noisily over the stones, it was like getting into another world. The stars looked brightly down from the clear smokeless sky. Soft little winds blew a thousand flowery scents from over the fields, and sometimes, singing quite close to the road, Tim heard the nightingale. Even Joshua, a gruff man, was affected by the sweet influence of the season, for Tim noticed that he always sang one particular song on fine nights in summer. Joshua's voice was hoarse from much exposure to weather, but Tim thought he sang with great expression. The words were not easy to follow, because the middle of the verse always became inaudible; but by degrees the boy made out that it was the description of a letter received by a rustic from his sweetheart. It began: "All _on_ a summer's day As _I_ pursued my way." Then came some lines impossible to hear, and then each verse ended with: "Com--_men_cing with `my dearest,' And con--_clu_ding with her name--" Joshua's song and the steady tramp, tramp of the horses were sometimes the only sounds disturbing the still night, and Tim, a small erect figure with widely opened eyes, would sit perched on a convenient packing-case at the back of the cart, and listen admiringly. But the winter! That was another matter. Joshua did not sing then, but kept his teeth clenched, and his head bent, before the sleet, or wind, or driving rain. Then the brightly lighted London streets seemed cheerful, and much to be preferred to the lonely open country, where the bitter wind swept across the wide fields, and, gathering strength as it came, rushed in among Tim and the parcels. That was hard to bear, but of all kinds of weather, and he knew them all pretty well now, he thought the very worst was a fog. It was not only that it penetrated everywhere, and laid its cold damp finger on everything; but it spread such a thick veil of dreadful mystery over well-known objects. Nothing looked the same. The houses in the streets towered up like giant castles, and if Tim had read fairy tales he might well have fancied them inhabited by ogres. But he had not. He only felt a dim sense of discomfort and fear, as though he were lost in a strange place. Then it was a comfort to know that Joshua was there, almost invisible indeed, but making himself evident by hoarse shouts, now of encouragement to his horses, and now of derision at some luckless driver. Out in the country, when the heavily laden market carts loomed slowly out of the fog as they passed, they had the appearance of being miles up in the air, and as if they must inevitably topple over. Joshua knew all the carters, not by sight, for he could not see them, but by the time and place he met them on his nightly journey. Tim could reckon pretty well that after he had heard his gruff salutation of "a dark night, mate," repeated a certain number of times, that they must be nearing home, for they always met about the same number of Joshua's friends; as he had no watch this was a comfort to him on the dark nights. Taught by experience, he learned to contrive for himself a sort of Robinson Crusoe but with the various hampers and boxes, and in this he lay curled round in tolerable comfort, covered with an old horse-cloth; nevertheless, it was often very cold, and then the only consolation was in thinking that Joshua must be cold also. It is always easier to bear things if there is some one to bear them with you--unless you are a hero. One December evening the carrier's cart was just starting homewards from the door of the Magpie and Stump. Joshua, reins in hand, and closely buttoned up to the chin, stood ready to mount to his perch, saying a few last words to the landlord, who was a crony of his; Tim was already in his place. From where he sat he could see something which interested and excited him a good deal, and this was an old woman close by who was selling roasted chestnuts. They did look good! So beautifully done, with nice cracks in their brown skins showing just a little bit of the soft yellow nut inside. Tim looked and longed, and fingered a penny in his pocket. How jolly it would be to have a penn'orth of hot chestnuts to eat on his way home! They would keep his hands warm too. Joshua still talked, there was yet time, he would give himself a treat. He scrambled down from the cart and went up to the old woman, who sat crouched on a stool warming her hands over her little charcoal brazier. She looked a cross old thing, he thought, but she was not, for when he had paid for his chestnuts she picked out an extra fine one and gave it him "for luck," with a kind grin on her wrinkled face. He was turning away with a warm pocketful, when he saw, sitting on the edge of the pavement near, a very poor thin dog, who trembled with cold or fear, and blinked his eyes sorrowfully at the glowing coals. He was not at all a pretty dog, and probably never had been, even in the days of his prosperity, and these were evidently gone by. He was long-legged and rough-coated, with coarse black hair mingled with yellowish brown, and his large bright eyes had a timid look in them as though he feared ill-treatment; he sat with his thin body drawn together as closely as possible, as if anxious to escape observation. Tim stood and looked at him, and felt sorry. He was such a very miserable dog, and yet so patient. "Is he your dog?" he asked the old woman. "Bless yer 'art, no," she answered. "He's a stray, he is; he'll come and sit there often at nights, and I sometimes give him a mouthful o' supper." "I suppose he's rare and 'ungry?" pursued Tim. "He's starving, that's what he is," said the woman, "and he's hurt his leg badly besides. The boys are allers ready to chuck stones at him when they see him prowlin' round. He don't belong to no one." Tim felt still more sorry; if he had seen the dog before, he thought, he would have bought a "penn'orth" of liver for him instead of the chestnuts. Now he could do nothing for him. He looked round at the old woman, who was rocking herself to and fro with crossed arms, and said: "Shall you give him any supper to-night?" "Nay," she said with a sort of chuckle; "he's come too late to-night. I've had my supper. There's many a one besides him as has to go supperless." The dog during this conversation was evidently conscious that he was being noticed, for he trembled more than ever, and gazed up at Tim with his pleading eyes. "Pore feller, then," said the boy. The kind voice woke some bygone memory in the animal; it reminded him perhaps of the days when he belonged to somebody, and was treated gently. He got up, slowly reared his poor stiff limbs into a begging attitude, and wagged his short tail. He soon dropped down again, for he was evidently weak, but he looked apologetically from the old woman to Tim, as much as to say: "I know it was a poor performance, but it was the best I could do. In old days it used to please." "See there now," said the woman, "someone must a taught him that. Maybe he's bin a Punch's dog." Tim stood absorbed in thought. He had forgotten Joshua, and the cart, and his own important position as van-boy; one idea filled his mind. Could he, ought he, might he take the dog home with him and have him for his own? He was a prudent boy, and he considered that he would have to pay a tax for him and feed him out of his wages. "But he could have 'arf my dinner," he reflected; "and how useful he'd be to look after the parcels. And he do look so thin and poor. I'll ask Joshua." He looked round. Fortunately for him, Joshua and the landlord had entered into a discussion as to the respective merits of warm mashes, and were still engaged upon it, so Tim had not been missed. He went up to the two men, and standing a little in front of them waited for a convenient moment to make his request. He was glad to see that Joshua looked good-tempered just now; he had evidently had the best of the argument which had been going on, for there was a gleam of triumph in his eye, and he repeating some assertion in a loud voice, while the landlord stood in a dejected attitude with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. "_That's_ where it is," said Joshua as he concluded, and then his eye fell on Tim's eager upturned face. "Dorg, eh?" he said, when the boy had made him understand what he wanted. "Where is he?" "There," said Tim, pointing to where the dog still sat shivering near the old chestnut woman. Joshua gazed at the animal in silence, and sucked a straw which he had in his mouth reflectively. Tim looked anxiously up into his face. Would he take a fancy to him? The landlord had now drawn near, and also an inquisitive ostler. The old chestnut-seller ceased to rock herself to and fro, and turned her head towards the group, so that the dog, so lonely a few minutes ago, had suddenly become a centre of interest. He seemed to wonder at this, but he scarcely moved his eyes, with a mute appeal in them, from his first friend, Tim. At last, after what seemed an immense silence, Joshua spoke. "He ain't a beauty--not to look at," he said. This might have sounded discouraging to anyone who did not know Joshua, but it was rather the reverse to Tim. "He'd be werry useful in the cart," he suggested, taking care not to appear too anxious. But now the landlord, feeling it time to offer his opinion, broke into the discussion. "There's no doubt, as the boy says, that you'd find a dog useful, but I wouldn't have a brute of a cur like that, if I was you. Now I could give you as pretty a pup to bring up to the business as you could wish to see. A real game un. Death to anything reasonable he'd be in a year's time. Them nasty mongrels is never no good." Now this adverse opinion was, strange to say, sufficient to make up Joshua's mind in the dog's favour; he always took a contrary view of things to the landlord on principle, because it encouraged conversation, and this habit was so strong that he at once began to see the special advantages of a mongrel. "He's a werry faithful creetur, is a mongrel, if he's properly trained," he said slowly and solemnly; "and as to _game_, where's the game he'd find in a carrier's cart? You can bring him along, mate." Leaving the landlord in a temporarily crushed condition, he walked off to his horses, which stamped impatiently at all this delay. The dog suffered Tim to take him in his arms without any resistance, though he winced a little as if in pain, and the cart presently drove away from the small knot of interested spectators gathered round the inn door. Then, gently examining his new comrade, the boy found that one of his hind-legs was injured, so that he could not put it to the ground, and moaned when it was touched, though he licked Tim's hand immediately afterwards in apology. "But I don't think it's broke," said the boy encouragingly; "and when we get home I'll bathe it and tie it up, and I dessay I can find yer a bit o' supper." Soothed perhaps by this prospect, and evidently feeling a sense of comfort and protection, the dog stretched out his thin, weary limbs, and soon, sharing the warm shelter of Tim's horse-cloth, slept profoundly. And thus the new friends made their first journey together. STORY TWO, CHAPTER 2. FAITHFUL MOSES--A SHORT STORY--(CONTD). So from this time there was a van-dog as well as a van-boy; three "mates" travelling in the cart between Roydon and London--Joshua, Tim, and Moses, for after much consideration that was the name given to the dog. It was wonderful to see how, after a few weeks of food and kindness, he "plucked up a spirit," as Joshua said. His whole aspect altered, for he now held his ears and tail valiantly erect, and quite a martial gleam appeared in his eye. He still, it is true, limped about on three legs, which is never a dignified attitude for a dog, but he already began to acquire distinct views concerning the parcels and the cart, and was ready to defend them, with hair bristling, and lips fiercely drawn back from glistening white teeth. "Not a beauty," Joshua had said, and decidedly a mongrel according to the landlord. Nobody could doubt that; but to Tim's eyes Moses wanted no attractions, he was perfect. Many and many a confidence was poured into his small, upright, attentive ear, as the two sat so close together at the back of the cart; Tim never considered whether he understood or not, but it was such a comfort to tell him about things. The cold nights were comparatively easy to bear, now that he could put his arm round Moses' hairy form and feel that he was warm and comfortable; meals became more interesting though slighter than they used to be, now that they must be shared by Moses, who watched every morsel with bright expectant eyes. Then he must be taught, and this was not difficult, for ready intelligence and eager affection made him a good scholar; all he wanted was to know what was really required of him. This once understood and successfully performed, what an ecstasy of delight followed on the part of both master and pupil, shown by the former in caresses, and by the latter in excited barks, and short quick rushes among the parcels. As his education proceeded he learnt to distinguish all the different sounds of Tim's voice, and would sit on guard for any length of time if once told to do so. When on duty in this way, a more conscientious dog could not have been found, for not even the urgent temptation of a cat-chase could lure him from his post--although, sometimes, a short cry of anguish would be wrung from him at being obliged to forego such a pleasure. Joshua he regarded with a distant respect, Tim with intense affection, and the landlord of the Magpie and Stump with ill-concealed growls of aversion, though the latter tried to ingratiate himself by savoury offerings of food. Moses would walk stiffly away from him with his tail held very high, and the landlord would laugh sarcastically. "You're a nice sample, you are," he would say, "and as ugly a mongrel as ever I see--" As time went on, Tim began to place great reliance on the dog's trustworthiness, and to look upon him as quite equal to another boy. He knew that he had only to hold up his ringer and say, "Watch, Moses!" and the dog's vigilant attention was secure; trusting in this, therefore, he felt it by no means so necessary as formerly to be very watchful himself, and began to take life much more easily. In the evening, when Joshua stopped to deliver a parcel, Tim would rouse himself from a comfortable nap, and just murmur, "Watch, Moses!" then woe to anyone who ventured too near Moses and his property. Now this division of labour, or rather this shifting of responsibility on to another's shoulders, had its bad results, for while the dog improved every day in sharpness and conscientious performance of duty, the boy did the opposite. Tim became somewhat careless and lazy, and though Joshua knew nothing of it, he did not really fill his post half so well as before the dog came; he allowed things to get slack. Now, whether one is a van-boy or a lord-chancellor this is bad, for slackness leads to neglect, and neglect to worse things. You shall hear what happened in Tim's case. One evening the carrier's cart was standing in a little back street in the Borough waiting for Joshua; he had matters to settle, he told Tim, which might take him an hour or more, and he added: "Look alive, now, for it's a nasty neighbourhood to be standing about in, and there's some smallish parcels in the cart easy made off with. Don't you let your eye off 'em." Tim promised, and, taking his seat on the edge of the cart with his legs swinging, whistled to Moses, who was examining the neighbourhood in an interested manner; he at once jumped up beside his master and assumed a gravely watchful and responsible air. It was not an amusing street, but poor and squalid, full of small lodging-houses, and little dingy shops; very few people were about, and in spite of Joshua's warning no one seemed even to notice the carrier's cart. Presently there walked slowly by, whistling carelessly, a boy about Tim's own age; he was quite respectably, though poorly dressed, and wore his cap very much on one side with an air of smartness which Tim thought becoming. He stopped and looked at the boy and the dog, and they looked at him, Moses ready to be suspicious, and Tim to be conversational if required. For some minutes the group remained in silent contemplation, then the new-comer said inquiringly: "Fer dog?" "Ah," said Tim, nodding his head. "Up to snuff, ain't he?" said the other boy. Tim nodded again, this time in a more friendly manner. "Wot's his name?" "Moses." "Yer give it him?" "Ah." "Where's yer boss?" (meaning master). "Yonder," with a backward movement of the head. The boy leant his back against a lamp-post near, and seemed in no hurry to pursue his journey; Tim was not sorry, for a little conversation beguiled the time, and his remark about Moses showed this to be an intelligent and discerning youth. "Wot can he do?" he asked presently, still with his eye on the dog. Tim ran through a list of Moses' acquirements eagerly, and finished up with: "And he can watch the parcels as well as a Christian--he wouldn't let no one but me or Joshua come nigh 'em, not for anything." "Wouldn't he now?" said the boy admiringly. "You try," suggested Tim, anxious to show off Moses' talents. The stranger came a little nearer, and stretched out his hand as if to touch one of the parcels; he quickly withdrew it, however, for Moses' bristling mane and angry growl were sufficient warnings of his further intentions. Both boys laughed, Tim triumphantly, and he patted the dog with an air of proud proprietorship. "There's a Punch and Judy playin' in the next street," remarked the stranger, "and they've got a dorg some'at like yours, he's a clever un he is--wouldn't you like to see him?" "I've seen 'em--scores o' times," said Tim loftily. "Not such a good un as this, I lay. You come and see. It wouldn't take you not two minutes, and your dog'll watch the things." "No," said Tim very quickly and decidedly, "I can't leave the cart." "You don't trust the dog much, then. You've bin humbuggin' about him, I bet." "That I haven't," said Tim angrily, "I could trust him not to stir for hours." "I should just like to see yer," sneered the boy--"I don't b'lieve yer dare leave 'im a minute. Well, I wouldn't keep a stupid cur like that!" The taunt was more than Tim could bear. He knew that Moses would come triumphantly out of the ordeal, and besides, he would really like to go and see the clever Punch's dog in the next street; Joshua was safe for another half-hour, and the place looked so quiet and deserted. It must be safe. He would go. He jumped down from the cart, and spoke to Moses in a certain voice: "Watch, Moses!" he said, pointing to the parcels. The dog looked wistfully at his master, as though suspecting something wrong or unusual, but he did not attempt to follow him; he lay down with his nose between his paws, his short ears pricked, and his bright eyes keenly observant. Then the two boys set off running down the street together, and were soon out of his sight. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Half an hour later, Joshua, his business over, turned into the street where he had left his cart. There it stood still, with the horses' heads turned towards him; but what was that choking savage growl which met his ear? Surely that was Moses' voice, though strangely stifled. With a hoarsely muttered oath Joshua quickened his pace to a run, stretched out his powerful arm, and seized hold of a boy about Tim's size, who, with several parcels in his arms, was trying in vain to escape. In vain--because, hanging fast on to one leg, with resolute grip and starting fiery eyes, was the faithful Moses. Every separate hair of his rough coat bristled with excitement and rage, his head was bleeding from a wound made by a kick or a blow, and he uttered all the time the half-strangled growls which Joshua had heard. And where was Tim? Oh, sad falling off! Tim had deserted his post; he had proved less faithful than the dog Moses. When a few minutes later he came hurrying back breathless, there were no traces of what had happened, except on Joshua's enraged red countenance and Moses' bleeding head. The strange boy, who had so easily beguiled him, had been quickly handed over to a policeman. And there were no parcels missing--thanks to Moses, but not, alas, to Tim. Disgraced and miserable, he stood before the angry Joshua, silent in the midst of a torrent of wrathful words. He deserved every one of them. Instant dismissal without a character was all he had to expect, and he waited trembling for his fate. But, behold, an unlooked-for intercessor! Moses, seeing Joshua's threatening attitude and his dear master's downcast face, drew near to help him, and, as was his custom, stood up and put his paw on the boy's arm. Joshua looked at the dog; his silent presence pleaded eloquently in Tim's favour, and the angry tone was involuntarily softened. "If ever a boy deserved the sack, it's you," he said; "and, as sure as my name's Joshua, you should have it if it wasn't for that dog o' yourn. He's worth a score o' boys, that dog is, for he does his dooty, as well as knows what it is." Tim breathed again; he flung his arms round Moses' neck, who licked his face eagerly. "Give us another chance," he cried imploringly, "we'll both work so hard, Moses and me, and I'll never leave the cart again. If you only won't turn us off I'll work without wage ever so long, that I will." "That, in course, you will," said Joshua grimly, yet relenting, "and you'll get a jolly good thrashing besides. And if you're not turned off you've got the dog to thank." He got up into his seat as he spoke, and Tim crept thankfully in at the back of the cart with Moses. He had, indeed, "got the dog to thank." Moses had paid his debt of gratitude now; he and Tim were equal. You will be glad to hear that Tim was not dismissed, and that he used his other "chance" well, for no amount of sharp London boys could have tempted him from his duty again. As for Moses, he was respected and trusted by everyone on the road after this, and Joshua presented him with a collar, whereon were inscribed his name and the date of the memorable fray in which he acquitted himself so well. In spite of these honours, however, all the love of his faithful heart continued to be given to Tim; who, on his part, never forgot how it was and why it was that he had "got the dog to thank." STORY THREE, CHAPTER 1. LIKE A BEAN-STALK--A SHORT STORY. It had always been an uncontested fact in the Watson family that Bridget was plain. Even when she was a round toddling thing of five years old, with bright eyes and thick brown curls, aunts and other relations had often said in her presence: "Bridget is a dear little girl, but she will grow up plain." Plain! Bridget was quite used to the sound of the word, and did not mind it at all, though she was conscious that it meant something to be regretted, because people always said "but" before it. "A good child, but plain." "A sweet-tempered little thing, but plain." However, it did not interfere with any pleasure or advantage that Bridget could see. She could run faster than most of her brothers and sisters, who were _not_ plain but pretty; she could climb a tree very well indeed, with her stout little legs, and she could say a great many verses of poetry by heart. Besides, she felt sure that Toto the black poodle, and Samson the great cat, and all the other pets, loved her as well as the rest, and perhaps even better. So she did not mind being plain at all, until she was about thirteen years old and the new governess came. Now about this time Bridget, who had hitherto been a compact sturdy child, short for her age, began to grow in the most alarming manner; the "Bean-stalk," her brothers called her, and one really could almost believe she had shot up in a night, the growth was so sudden. Her arms and legs seemed to be everywhere, always sprawling about in a spider-like manner in unexpected places, so that she very often either swept things off the table or tripped somebody up. Her mother looking round on the children at their dinner hour would say: "My _dear_ Bridget, I believe you have grown an inch since yesterday! How very short those sleeves are for you!" and then there was a general chuckle at the poor "Bean-stalk." Then visitors would come, and Bridget with the others would be sent for to the drawing-room; entering in gawky misery she well knew what sentence would first strike her ear, and would try furtively to shelter herself in the background. No use! "My dear Mrs Watson," the lady would cry, with an expression of amused pity on her face, "how your daughter Bridget has grown! Why, she is as tall as my girl of eighteen;" etcetera, etcetera. Bridget got tired of it at last, and she very much dreaded the arrival of the new governess, because she felt sure that she should be so "bullied," as the boys said, about her height and awkwardness. She would cheerfully have sacrificed several inches of her arms and legs to be comfortably short, but this could not be managed, so she must make the best of it. Miss Tasker arrived. Bobbie saw her first, from an advantageous post he had taken up for the purpose amongst the boughs of a large beech-tree in front of the house. He saw her cab drive up with boxes on the top, and Toto dancing round and round it on the tips of his toes barking loudly, which I am sorry to say was his reprehensible manner of receiving strangers. Bobbie parted the boughs a little more. It was a situation full of interest. Would she be frightened of Toto? He felt a good deal depended on this as a sign of her future behaviour. It appeared, however, that Miss Tasker was not afraid of dogs, for a tall thin figure presently descended from the cab in the midst of Toto's wildest demonstrations. Bobbie felt an increased respect for the new governess, but meanwhile the "others" must at once be told the result of his observations, and as she entered the house he slipped down from his perch and scudded quickly away to find them. From this time Bridget's troubles increased tenfold; Miss Tasker had severe views about deportment, and besides this her attention was specially directed by Mrs Watson to Bridget's awkwardness. "I am particularly anxious," she said, "about my daughter Bridget, and other lessons are really not of so much importance just now as that she should learn to hold herself properly. As it is, she is so clumsy in her movements that I almost tremble to see her enter the room." Poor Bridget! Her usual manner of entering a room was with her head eagerly thrust forward, and her long arms swinging; that was when she was quite comfortable and unselfconscious, but all this must be changed now, and to achieve this Miss Tasker devised an ingenious method of torture, which was practised every morning. It was this. Lessons began at ten o'clock, at which time the children were expected to assemble in the school-room, but now, instead of running in any how, they had to go through the following scene. Miss Tasker sat at her desk ready to receive each pupil with a gracious smile and bow; then one by one they entered with a solemn bow or curtsy and said, "Good morning, Miss Tasker." "I call it humbug," remarked the outspoken Bobbie, "as if we hadn't seen her once already at breakfast-time." How Bridget hated this ordeal! To know that Miss Tasker was waiting there ready to fix a keen grey eye on her deficiencies, and that she would probably say when the curtsy was done: "Once again, Bridget, and remember to _round_ the elbows." How to round your elbows when they naturally stuck out like knitting-pins, Bridget could not conceive, and I am afraid that, pushed to desperation, she soon left off even trying, and so became more awkward than ever. But the ceremony once over, and lessons begun, Miss Tasker had no cause for complaint, for Bridget was a ready and ambitious pupil. She had a good memory, and being an imaginative child, it was a special pleasure to her to learn poetry, in repeating which she would quite forget herself and her awkwardness and pour forth page after page without a single mistake. At such times, Miss Tasker's chill remarks of "Your shoulders, Bridget"--"Don't poke, Bridget," generally fell on unheeding ears, but there was one occasion on which Bridget did feel them to be especially trying and out of place. She had been learning one of the "Lays of Ancient Rome," and was now repeating it all through. In proud consciousness of not having missed one word, and in full enjoyment of the swing of the poetry, she stood with her head thrust forward and her chin in the air: "So he spake, and speaking sheathed His good sword by his side, And with his armour on his back Plunged headlong in the tide! No sound of--" "My _dear_ Bridget, draw in your chin," said the cold voice, and poor Bridget, dropping suddenly down from the heights of heroic deeds to dreary commonplace, felt that this was hard indeed. She had said it all without a mistake, and the only thing that seemed to matter was how her chin, or her shoulders, or her arms looked. It was unkind. It was unfair. It was too bad. She could not help being awkward, and as they worried her so about it, she should not try to be any different. From this time forward she would be just herself--plain, awkward Bridget. So she resolved as she took the book back from Miss Tasker, and sat down sullenly in her place, and so she continued to resolve as several days went on. You know how, when one has once begun to be a little naughty, everything that happens seems to increase the feeling, and so it was with Bridget; everything Miss Tasker said, or did, or even looked after this, made her feel more and more ill-used and injured, till one unfortunate day brought matters to a climax. If there was one day in the week that Bridget disliked more than another at this time it was Thursday, for Thursday was "dancing-day." It would be hard to give you an idea of how much misery that meant to her, or how fervently she used to pray for something to happen to prevent her going to the class, which was held at a friend's house some miles away. A sprained ankle, or a slight earthquake, not bad enough to hurt anyone, were among her usual aspirations, but nothing of the kind ever occurred, and she was borne away with her brothers and sisters by the relentless Miss Tasker to the scene of torture; the suffering of martyrs, whom she had read about, were, in Bridget's opinion, not worthy of mention beside those to be endured at a dancing-class. Everything seemed to go wrong on this particular day, perhaps because she did not try to make them go right, and at last, after the whole class had been practising a step together, the dancing-mistress said rather severely: "I wish Miss Bridget Watson to do the minuet steps alone: all the others may sit down." With downcast eyes, and one shoulder pushed nervously up, Bridget stood alone in the middle of the room. She felt that thousands of eyes, like the little sharp pricks of so many needles, were transfixing her luckless figure, for there were a good many lady visitors present besides the children. "Now, if you please, Miss Watson. Straighten the shoulders. Take the dress gracefully between fingers and thumb. Raise the head. One--two-- three--begin!" The music played. Bridget was intensely nervous, but through it all she felt a perverse pleasure in irritating Miss Tasker, so she performed some grotesquely uncouth steps which raised a smile on almost every face. "Again, if you please." It was done again, and if possible worse than before. "You may return to your seat." Which Bridget did with swift ungainly strides, feeling covered with disgrace, and as she passed, an unfortunate whisper from one of the visitors reached her ear: "What a windmill of a child to be sure!" She plunged into her seat, her eyes wet with tears of mortification, but no one saw them except Bobbie, who sat next her. He did not understand the full extent of her distress, but he looked up in her face and put his small hand in hers. It was a sympathetic but sticky clasp, for Bobbie always carried sweets in his pockets for solace at odd moments, yet it comforted Bridget a little, and she gave it a silent squeeze in return. But, hurt and sore and angry as she felt, the cup was not quite full until that evening, when Mrs Watson came into the school-room while the children were having tea. After her usual little chat with them she said just before going away: "I am sorry to hear from Miss Tasker that Bridget does not seem to think it worth while to take pains with her dancing, though she knows how anxious I am about it." She looked at Bridget, who blushed hotly, but made no answer; and, indeed, she could not, for she felt as though Bobbie's largest ball were sticking in her throat. "I know," continued her mother, "that you cannot all do the same things equally well, but you can at least try to do your best, however much you may dislike any particular lesson. I should be more pleased to know that Bridget tried to hold herself upright and took pains with her dancing, than to hear that she had said all her lessons quite perfectly, because I know one is a difficulty to her and the other none." Mother looked very grave, and she so seldom reproved any of the children, that they felt this to be a solemn occasion, and their little serious faces were all turned upon Bridget. She could not bear it. As her mother left the room she started up abruptly, upsetting her cup and saucer, and, heedless of Miss Tasker's warning voice, rushed out into the garden blinded with her tears. She must go somewhere and cry alone, and her steps turned instinctively to the well-known refuge of "the barn," an old out-building which the children had turned into a playground of their own; it was otherwise disused, excepting that now and then some trusses of hay or straw were put there, and it was a most splendid place to keep pets in. A numerous and motley family lived here in cages and hutches of all kinds, generally made out of old packing-cases. There was a large colony of white rats, two dormice named Paul and Silas, a jackdaw, rabbits, and a little yellow owl, not to mention the pigeons who fluttered in and out through the open door at will. They came whirling round Bridget now as she entered and settled on her shoulders and head, and pecked boldly at her shoes expecting to be fed. All the different little creatures in cages roused themselves too, and gave signs that they knew her in their various ways--by small scratching noises, by ruffling of feathers, and tiny squeaks. The jackdaw, who was free, at once came down from the rafters, and, standing before her in slim elegance, raised his blue-grey crest and said "Jark," the only word he knew. They all gave their little welcome. But Bridget could not take any notice of them to-day, her heart was too full, though she felt with a dim sense of comfort that these were people to whom her awkwardness made no difference. Otherwise the world was all against her--Miss Tasker, the dancing-mistress, and now, to crown all, mother! She threw herself down on some trusses of straw at the end of the barn, and the tears which had made her eyes smart so all day flowed freely. It was so unjust! That was what hurt her so. If she had been naughty she would be sorry, that would be different. But she could not feel that she was in fault at all. It was just because she was plain and awkward that they were all unkind to her, so she whispered to herself, and cried on. The barn was very quiet, only Bridget's sobs mingled with the cooing of the pigeons and the rustling noises in the cages round. One slanting ray from the setting sun lay on the floor, but the corner where Bridget had thrown herself was in dusky shadow. And presently a strange thing happened. "Bridget! Bridget!" said a little husky voice. Bridget raised herself on her elbow, and looked round astonished. She did not know the voice at all; and it sounded muffled, as though coming through a heap of feathers. "Bridget! Bridget!" it said again. This time it plainly came from the rafters over Bridget's head. She looked up, but there was nothing there except the little yellow owl, who was sitting in his cage, with his eyes very round and bright. "How wise you look!" said Bridget aloud; "I wish you could help me." What was her astonishment when the owl at once replied, in the same stifled voice: "What do you want?" Bridget paused. What _did_ she want? Then she remembered that as the owl could talk, it must certainly be a fairy, and could do anything, so she said: "I want to be very graceful." The owl did not answer immediately, and Bridget kept a watchful eye on her arms and legs, almost expecting them to be changed into models of grace at once. Nothing of the sort happened, however; and the owl sat as though in deep thought. At last it said: "I can tell you a way, but it is difficult." "I don't care how difficult it is," cried Bridget, now very much excited, "if you will only tell me what it is I will do it." "Try," said the owl solemnly. "Try what?" asked Bridget anxiously. "Try," repeated the owl, "nothing more; try." Bridget's face fell; she was very much disappointed. Every one had told her that till she was sick of the word. The owl could not be a fairy after all. "Is that all?" she said. "I always do that." "Always?" asked the owl. Bridget was silent a moment as she thought of the past week. "Why, not _quite_ always." "But it must be always," said the owl, "that's the secret of it. If at _first_ you don't succeed, try, try, try again. You've heard that?" "Of course I have," said Bridget sorrowfully; "I've heard it much too often." The owl did not answer, perhaps it was offended. "Can it be possible," thought Bridget, "that I really haven't tried enough?" Just then something cold and moist was thrust into her hand, and she started up bewildered, hardly able for the moment to make out where she was. It was almost dark in the barn now, but presently she made out the form of Toto the poodle, who had come to look for his mistress, and now stood with his eager affectionate eyes fixed on her from under his frizzled black hair. Bridget stretched out her arms to him, and leaning forward, kissed his shaven nose; she felt wonderfully better, and looked up at the owl to thank it for its advice. It sat there blinking as though it had never spoken in its life. "But you did, you know," she said nodding at it, and she got up and ran out of the barn with Toto springing round her. She thought a good deal afterwards of what the owl had said, and came to the conclusion that perhaps she had been a good deal in fault. At any rate she would "try again" and see how it answered. Bridget was a resolute little character, and she took the matter in hand at once; but I can best tell you how it "answered" by describing a scene which took place a month later, on the last dancing-day before the holidays. The lesson was over, and the mistress was taking leave of her pupils; the usual visitors sat round the room looking on. "And now," she said, "before we part, I must say a few special words about one of my pupils, and that is, Miss Bridget Watson, whose marked improvement during the past month I have been pleased to notice. I have always felt that she had great difficulties to contend with, for when young people are growing fast, it is not easy to manage the limbs gracefully. I have to congratulate her upon her efforts, and to hope that you will all follow her example in trying to do your best." There was a murmur of satisfaction, for Bridget was a general favourite among her companions and they were all pleased to hear her praised. Every one was pleased; Miss Tasker, who was fond of Bridget, beamed behind her spectacles, and carried home the good news to Mrs Watson, whose pleasure put a finishing touch to Bridget's exultation. Indeed, for some minutes she was more like a windmill than ever, through excess of joy, but it was holiday time, and even Miss Tasker said nothing. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ You all know the story of the "Ugly Duckling," and how, after all, it became a beautiful white swan. I cannot say whether, in like manner, Bridget grew up to be graceful and pretty, but one thing I am certain of, and that is, that she never regretted following the owl's advice to "try again." STORY FOUR, CHAPTER 1. ALL ALONE--A SHORT STORY. Nan was the youngest but one of the little Beresfords, and she was six years old when the baby came, so she was quite a responsible person and ready to be a great help to nurse. Her round face and form assumed airs of dignity, and she strove valiantly to put away all babyish weaknesses as things of the past. But some of them were too strong for Nan, struggle as she would, and she found to her dismay that though she was six years old, and "baby" no longer, she was still afraid of the dark. It had always been a dreadful moment to her when, leaving the cheerful nursery, she must be tucked up in her little bed and see nurse take away the candle. She would lie and stare with her bright round eyes into the thick blackness, and feel grateful if she could fix them on any little faint thread of light coming through chink or crevice. She could not have told you what it was she feared, and perhaps this was the reason why she never spoke of it to anyone--not even to mother. Besides, in the bright morning light she forgot her fears, and being naturally a cheerful and courageous child would have been ashamed to mention them. In a large family children are not encouraged to make too much of their troubles, for there is not time to attend to them; so no one knew that merry little Nan, who was afraid of nothing by daylight or candle-light, often lay awake at night long after she should have been asleep, and felt very much afraid indeed. And now I am going to tell you how on one occasion Nan conquered her fears all by herself, with no help from anyone on earth; and you must remember that it is a far braver thing to do what one is told in spite of being afraid, than not to be afraid at all. At Ripley, which was the next village to that in which Mr Beresford, Nan's father, was rector, lived Squire Chorley, who had a large family of boys and girls. They were fond of getting up concerts, and theatricals, and readings for the poor people, and in all these things the Beresfords were always asked over to help. And one Christmas holidays there was to be an unusually grand entertainment given by the children, which included a display of "Mrs Jarley's Wax-works." Nan would listen with absorbing interest to the discussion about who should represent the different characters in wax-work, and she was allowed to be present at the rehearsals, but there was no question of such a little thing taking a part. She thought all the figures very beautiful, especially Joan of Arc, who was dressed in splendid tinsel armour and a crimson skirt, and was seated on a spotted rocking-horse. When she gracefully waved her sword Nan could hardly believe that it really was her own sister Sophy, and afterwards when she read about Joan of Arc in the history of England she always fancied her looking just like that, with long fair hair streaming down her back. There were a great many figures, as many as the stage would hold. And, as it was the first time the wax-works had been attempted, the children were particularly anxious that it should go off well, and that the dresses should be especially brilliant. So everyone worked hard, and Nan did her utmost to help, and was as excited about it as anyone. The evening before the performance there was to be a dress-rehearsal on the stage which the carpenter had put up in the school-room, and six excited little Beresfords were packed into the wagonette with the German governess, and driven over to Ripley. Fraulein was rather excited too, for she was to sing a song in an interval of the performance, and also to represent the Chinese giant in the wax-works. But when they reached the village school-room they found the other members of the company in low spirits, for they had received a blow. Johnnie Chorley, who was to have been "Jack-in-the-box," had so bad a cold that he was not to play. "I knew how it would be," said Agatha, the eldest girl, despondingly, "when Johnnie wouldn't change his boots yesterday. And now there will be no Jack-in-the-box; and it was one of the best." "Can't someone else take it?" said Tom Beresford, looking round. "No one small enough for the tub," was the answer; "Johnnie is such a mite, and made such good faces." Nan's heart beat fast. It was on her lips to say, "I am small enough," but she did not dare. She only pushed herself a little in front, and stared up at Tom and Agatha with solemn, longing eyes. The former, a tall boy of fifteen, who was stage-manager on these occasions, stood whistling in a perplexed manner, and his eyes fell on the compact little figure in front of him. "Hallo!" he said suddenly, "I have it. Here's your Jack!" He took Nan up and stood her on a form near. "What, Nan?" said all the voices in different tones, and everyone looked at her critically. Nan stood quite quietly, with her cheeks very red, and her eyes glistening, and her hands tucked into her little muff. She was so afraid that they would say she could not do it, and she felt so sure that she could. But it was settled that she might at least try; and, oh delightful moment! She was lifted into the barrel, which was very cold and smelt of beer, and told what was expected of her. "You know, Nan," said Tom, "that you are not to show the least little bit of your head until you hear Mrs Jarley winding you up, and then you must pop up suddenly, and make a nice little funny face as you have seen Johnnie do." Now, Nan was a most observant child, and had taken careful notes of Johnnie's performance, which she very much admired; so, although her heart beat very quickly, she bobbed up just at the right minute with such a comical expression that there was a burst of applause, and "Well done, Nan!" from the company. Happy Nan! They put a scarlet cloak on her, very full in the neck, and a queer little tow wig with a top-knot, and painted a red patch on each cheek; and there she was, a member of the wax-works, and the happiest little soul in the county. She was to be a wax-work! The honour was almost too much, and the only drawback was poor Johnnie's disappointment. She thought of that, driving home that evening, and was so quiet that Fraulein thought she was asleep, but she was only resolving that she would offer Johnnie her spotted guinea-pig to make up. So the eventful evening came, and everything was wonderfully successful; Mrs Jarley's wax-works was considered the best thing that had been seen in the village for years, and everyone laughed very much. Nan did her very best to make a good Jack, and though she got very cramped in the tub, before her turn came to be exhibited, she made some most agile springs, and was heartily applauded. Then the Vicar of Ripley made a speech and thanked the performers, and all the people cheered, and then everyone, including the wax-works, sang "God save the Queen," and the entertainment was over. There was a great bustling and chattering afterwards in the green-room, where the actors were trying to find cloaks and shawls and hats, for they were all to go to Mr Chorley's to supper, and no one seemed able to get hold of the right things. Fraulein was fussing about her overshoes which she had lost, and there was a general struggle and confusion. Nan stood in a corner in her quaint little dress, waiting for someone to wrap her up, and at last her sister Sophy saw her. "Why! There you are, you quiet little Nan," she said, "I will find your hood if I can. Here it is, and here is a shawl." She bundled the child up warmly, and kissed her. "You were a jolly little Jack," she went on, "and now you are to go home with cousin Annie and sleep at her house to-night. Run into the school-room and find her." Cousin Annie was the Vicar of Ripley's wife, and had a little girl of Nan's own age, so it was a great treat to stay with her. Nan poked her way among the people who were still standing about in the school-room chatting together before they dispersed, but she could not see anyone she knew. Then she waited a long while at the door, but there was no cousin Annie, she had evidently gone home. Nan peeped out. Down the road which led to Mr Chorley's she heard distant voices and laughter, and saw the twinkling light of lanterns, but in the opposite direction it was all quite dark and silent, and that was the way to cousin Annie's. She knew it as well as possible, and it was not very far, quite a short distance, in the _daylight_--you had only to go down the lane, and turn a little to the right, and go in at the white gate near the pond. A very simple matter in the daytime; but now! Nan stepped back into the room; she would go and tell them that cousin Annie had gone, and then someone would go with her. But to her dismay she found the green-room dark and silent; they had all gone out by the other door without coming through the school-room, and Nan was alone. She stood irresolute, clutching the heavy shawl which Sophy had wrapped round her, and feeling half inclined to cry. There was only one thing to do now, and that was to go down the dark lane all by herself. Nan had been brought up in habits of the most simple obedience, and it never occurred to her to question any order. "You are to go to cousin Annie's," Sophy had said, so of course she must go. She choked down a little sob, and pulled open the door again, and trotted out into the darkness. Her heavy shawl rather impeded her, so she could not go very fast, and the road was rough and uneven for her small feet. She looked up to see if she could find any comfortable twinkling star for a companion, but the sky was all black and overcast, and there was no moon. Then she said her evening prayer to herself, but it was very short and did not last long, and then all the hymns she knew, and then all the texts, and by that time she was nearly at the bottom of the lane, when, oh misfortune! She caught her foot in the dangling end of the big shawl and fell flat in the mud. It was very hard to keep back the tears after that; but she gathered herself up as well as she could and stumbled on, until at last she passed through the white gate, which stood open, and reached the front door of the Vicarage. But her troubles were not over yet, for she found that, even by standing on the very tips of her toes, she could reach neither bell nor knocker. She rapped as hard as she could with her soft little knuckles, but they made no more noise on the great door than a bird's beak would have done; and then she tried some little kicks, but no one came. She felt very lonely and miserable with the black night all round her, and it seemed to make it worse to think of her brothers and sisters enjoying themselves so much at Mr Chorley's. How sorry they would be for Nan if they knew! And then she felt so sorry for herself, that she was obliged to sit down on the stone steps and cry. She was hungry, as well as frightened and cold, for she had been much too excited to eat anything at tea-time, and now it was past ten o'clock. Oh to be in her little white bed at home! She cuddled herself up as close to the door as she could, and laid her cheek against it, shrinking back from the darkness which seemed to press against her, and presently, how it came to pass she never know, her head began to nod and she went fast to sleep. The next thing she remembered was hearing a voice say, quite close to her: "Why, it's little Nan! How did the child get here?" And then someone took her up, and carried her with strong arms into a warm room with bright lights. And then she found herself on cousin Annie's knee, and saw people standing round asking eager questions and looking very much amused. And no wonder, for Nan was a very funny-looking little bundle indeed, in spite of her woe-begone appearance; her round face was streaked with mud, and tears, and scarlet paint, and the odd little wig had fallen over one eye in a waggish manner. When the hood and shawl were taken off, a more disconsolate little Jack-in-the-box could hardly be imagined, for what with hunger, fatigue, and the comfort of feeling cousin Annie's kind arms round her, Nan's tears fell fast and she could not stop them. They could just make out between her sobs something about "Sophy" and "sleeping," but that was all; and at last cousin Annie said, "Never mind, darling, you shall tell me all about it by and by." And then poor little weary Nan was carried upstairs, and washed, and put to bed, and cousin Annie brought her some supper, and sat by her until she dropped gently off to sleep. It turned out afterwards that Fraulein in the excitement of the moment had forgotten to deliver the message about Nan, so that none expected her at the Vicarage. When she went home the next day Tom said she was quite a "little heroine." Nan did not know what that meant, but she was sure it was something pleasant. And the best of it all was, that after this adventure Nan never felt so frightened of the dark again. But that she kept to herself. STORY FIVE, CHAPTER 1. PENELOPE'S NEEDLEWORK--A SHORT STORY. One of the greatest trials of Penelope's life when she was ten years old was music, and the other, needlework; she could not see any possible use in learning either of them, and none of the arguments put forward by nurse, governess, or mother, made the least impression on her mind. It was especially hard, she thought, that she had to go on with music, because Ralph, her younger brother, had been allowed to leave off. "Won't you have pity on me, and let me leave off too?" she asked her mother one day imploringly. But mother, though she was touched by the pleading face, and though Penelope's music lessons were household afflictions, thought it better to be firm. "You see, darling," she said, "that now you have got on so much further than Ralph it would be a pity to leave off. You have broken the back of it." "Ah, no," sighed poor Penelope, "it's broken the back of me." And then the needlework! Could there be a duller, more unsatisfactory occupation? Particularly if your stitches _would_ always look crooked and straggling, and when the thimble hurt your finger, and the needle got sticky, and the thread broke when you least expected it. It was quite as bad as music in its way. Penelope would sigh wearily over her task, and envy the people in the Waverley novels, who, she felt sure, never sewed seams or had music lessons. For the Waverley novels were Penelope's favourite books, and she asked nothing better than to curl herself up in some corner with one of the volumes, and to be left alone. Then, once plunged into the adventures of "Ivanhoe," or "Quentin Durward," or the hero of "The Talisman," her troubles vanished. She followed her hero in all his varying fortunes, and was present at his side in battle; she saw him struggling against many foes, fighting for the poor and weak, meeting treachery with truth, and falsehood with faithfulness; she heard the clash of his armour, and watched his good sword flash in the air at the tournament; she trembled for him when he was sore wounded, and rejoiced with him when, after many a hard-won fray, he was rewarded by the hand of his lady love. Those were days indeed! There was something quite remarkably flat and stupid in sitting down to hem a pocket-handkerchief when you had just come from the tourney at Ashby de la Zouche, or in playing exercises and scales while you were still wondering whether King Louis the Eleventh _would_ hang the astrologer or not. Penelope loved all her books. She had a shelf of her own in the play-room quite full of them, but the joy and pride of her heart were the Waverley novels, which her father had given her on her last birthday. It was a great temptation to her to spend all her pocket-money in buying new books, but she knew this would have been selfish, so she had made the following arrangement. She kept two boxes, one of which she called her "charity-box," and into this was put the half of any money she had given to her; this her mother helped her to spend in assisting any poor people who specially needed it. The money in the other box was saved up until there was enough to buy a new book, but this did not occur very often. Penelope liked it all the better when it did, for, though she could read some stories over and over again with pleasure, they did not all bear constant study equally well, in some cases, she told her mother, "it was like trying to dry your face on a wet towel." One morning Penelope, or "Penny," as she was generally called, was sitting in the nursery window-seat with a piece of sewing in her hands, it seemed more tiresome even than usual, for there was no one in the room but nurse, and she appeared too busy for any conversation. Penny had tried several subjects, but had received such short absent answers that she did not feel encouraged to proceed, so there was nothing to beguile the time, and she frowned a good deal and sighed heavily at intervals. At last she looked up in despair. "What _can_ you be doing, nurse?" she said, "and why are you looking at all those old things of mine and Nancy's?" Nurse did not answer. She held out a little shrunken flannel dress at arm's-length between herself and the light and scanned it critically, then she put it on one side with some other clothes and took up another garment to examine with equal care. Penny repeated her question, and this time nurse heard it. "I'm just looking out some old clothes for poor Mrs Dicks," she said. "Do you mean _our_ Mrs Dicks?" asked Penny. "What does she want clothes for?" "Well, Miss Penny," said nurse, proceeding to look through a pile of little stockings, "when a poor woman's lost her husband, and is left with six children to bring up on nothing, she's glad of something to clothe them with." Penny felt interested. "Our Mrs Dicks" had been her mother's maid, and after she married the children had often been to visit her, and considered her a great friend. Sometimes they went to tea with her, and once she had given Nancy, Penny's second sister, a lovely fluffy kitten. Penny was fond of Mrs Dicks, and it seemed dreadful to think that she must now bring up six children on nothing. She felt, however, that she must inquire into the thing a little more. "Why must she bring up her six children on nothing?" she asked, letting her work fall into her lap. "Because," said nurse shortly, "she hasn't got any money or anyone to work for her. But if I were you, Miss Penny, I'd get on with my needlework, and not waste time asking so many questions." "Well," said Penny, making fruitless attempts to thread her needle, "I suppose mother will help her to get some money. I shall ask her to let me give her some out of the charity-box--only I'm afraid there isn't much in it now." "If you really wanted to help her," said nurse, who saw an excellent opportunity for making a useful suggestion, "you might make some things for her baby; she hasn't much time for sewing, poor soul." "Oh, I couldn't possibly do that," said Penny decidedly, "because, you know, I hate needlework so. I couldn't do any extra, it would take all my time." Nurse rolled up a tight bundle of clothes and left the room without answering, and Penny, with her frowning little face bent over her work, went on thinking about Mrs Dicks and her six children. She wondered whether they had enough to eat now; if they were to be brought up on nothing, they probably had not, she thought, and she felt anxious to finish her task that she might run and ask mother about it, and how she could best help with the money out of the charity-box. So she cobbled over the last stitches rather hastily, and put the work away; but she found after all that her mother was too busy to attend to her just then. The next step, therefore, was to ascertain the state of the charity-box, and she took it down from the mantel-piece in the play-room and gave it a little shake. It made quite a rich sound; but Penny knew by experience what a noise coppers can make, so she was not very hopeful as she unscrewed the top and looked in. And matters were even worse than she feared, for all the box contained was this: two pennies, one halfpenny, and one stupid little farthing. Penny felt quite angry with the farthing, for it was bright and new, and looked at the first glance almost like gold. "If you were a fairy farthing," she said, "you'd get yourself changed into gold on purpose to help Mrs Dicks; but it's no use waiting for that." That afternoon Penny was to go out with her mother, instead of walking with the other school-room children and the governess. It was a great honour and delight, and she had saved up so many questions to ask about various subjects that she had scarcely time to tell her about Mrs Dicks and the state of the charity-box. They had just begun to talk about it, when Mrs Hawthorne stopped at a house near their own home. "Oh, mother!" cried Penny in some dismay, "are we going to see Mrs Hathaway?" "Yes," answered her mother, "she has promised to show me her embroideries, and I think you will like to see them too." Penny did not feel at all sure about that, she was rather afraid of Mrs Hathaway, who was a severe old lady, noted for her exquisite needlework; however, it was a treat to go anywhere with mother, even to see Mrs Hathaway. The embroideries were, indeed, very beautiful, and exhibited with a good deal of pride, while Penny sat in modest silence listening to the conversation. She privately regarded Mrs Hathaway's handiwork with a shudder, and thought to herself, "How very little time she must have for reading!" Scarcely any notice had been taken of her yet; but presently, when everything had been shown and admired, Mrs Hathaway turned her keen black eyes upon her, and said: "And this little lady, now, is she fond of her needle?" A sympathetic glance passed between Mrs Hawthorne and Penny, but she knew she must answer for herself, and she murmured shyly though emphatically: "Oh, _no_." "No! Indeed," said Mrs Hathaway, "and why not?" She was a very upright old lady, and when she said this she sat more upright than ever, and fixed her eyes on Penny's face. Penny felt very uncomfortable under this gaze, and wriggled nervously, but she could find nothing better to say than: "Because I _hate_ it so." "I am afraid," put in Mrs Hawthorne, "that Penny doesn't quite understand the importance of being able to sew neatly; just now she thinks of nothing but her books, but she will grow wiser in time, and become a clever needlewoman, I hope." Mrs Hathaway had not taken her eyes off Penny with a strong expression of disapproval; she evidently thought her a very ill brought-up little girl indeed. Now she turned to Mrs Hawthorne and said: "I question whether all this reading and study is an advantage to the young folks of the present day. I do not observe that they are more attractive in manner than in the time I remember, when a young lady was thought sufficiently instructed if she could sew her seam and read her Bible." She turned to Penny again and continued: "Now, the other day I heard of a society which I think you would do well to join. It is a working society, and the members, who are some of them as young as you are, pledge themselves to work for half an hour every day. At the end of the year their work is sent to the infant Africans, and thus they benefit both themselves and others. Would you like to join it?" "Oh, _no_, thank you," said Penny in a hasty but heartfelt manner. "Why not?" "Because I never could fulfil that promise. I shouldn't like to belong to that society at all. I don't know the Africans, and if I work, I'd rather work for Mrs Dicks." Penny spoke so quickly that she was quite out of breath. "And who, my dear child," said Mrs Hathaway, surprised at Penny's vehemence, "is Mrs Dicks?" She spoke quite kindly, and her face looked softer, so Penny was emboldened to tell her about the whole affair, and how Mrs Dicks was a very nice woman, and had six children to bring up on nothing. "I wanted to help her out of the charity-box," concluded Penny, "but there's scarcely anything in it." Mrs Hathaway looked really interested, and Penny began to think her rather a nice old lady after all. After she and her mother left the house she walked along for some time in deep thought. "What are you considering, Penny?" asked Mrs Hawthorne at last. "I think," said Penny very deliberately, "that as there's so little in the charity-box I should like to work for Mrs Dicks' children." Mrs Hawthorne knew what an effort this resolve had cost her little daughter. "Well, dear Penny," she answered, "if you do that I think you will be giving her a more valuable gift than the charity-box full of money." "Why?" said Penny. "Because you will give her what costs you most. It is quite easy to put your hand in your box and take out some money; but now, besides the things you make for her, you will have to give her your patience and your perseverance, and also part of the time you generally spend on your beloved books." "So I shall!" sighed Penny. But she kept her resolve and did work for Mrs Dicks. Very unpleasant she found it at first, particularly when there was some interesting new story waiting to be read. Gradually, however, there came a time when it did not seem quite so disagreeable and difficult, and she even began to feel a little pride in a neat row of stitches. The day on which she finished a set of tiny shirts for the baby Dicks was one of triumph to herself, and of congratulation from the whole household; Mrs Dicks herself was almost speechless with admiration at Miss Penny's needlework; indeed the finest embroideries, produced by the most skilful hand, could not have been more praised and appreciated. "Penny," said Mrs Hawthorne, "have you looked in the charity-box lately?" "Why, no, mother," answered she, "because I know there's only twopence three farthings in it." "Go and look," said her mother. And what do you think Penny found? The bright farthing was gone, and in its place there was a shining little half-sovereign. How did it come there? That I will leave you to guess. STORY SIX, CHAPTER 1. THE BLACK PIGS--A TRUE STORY. "I know what we must do--we must sell them at the market!" "Where?" "At Donnington." "We shall want the cart and horse." "Ask father." "No. _You_ ask him--you know I always stammer so when I ask." The speakers were two dark, straight-featured little boys of ten and twelve, and the above conversation was carried on in eager whispers, for they were not alone in the room. It was rather dark, for the lamp had not been lighted yet, but they could see the back of the vicar's head as he sat in his arm-chair by the fire, and they knew from the look of it that he was absorbed in thought; he had been reading earnestly as long as it was light enough, and scarcely knew that the boys were in the room. "_You_ ask," repeated Roger, the elder boy, "I always stammer so." Little Gabriel clasped his hands nervously, and his deep-set eyes gazed apprehensively at the back of his father's head. "I don't like to," he murmured. "But you must," urged Roger eagerly; "think of the pigs." Thus encouraged, Gabriel got up and walked across the room. He thought he could ask better if he did not face his father, so he stopped just at the back of the chair and said timidly: "Father." The vicar looked round in a sort of dream and saw the little knickerbockered figure standing there, with a wide-mouthed, nervous smile on its face. "Well," he said in an absent way. "O please, father," said Gabriel, "may Roger and I have the cart and horse to-morrow?" "Eh, my boy? Cart and horse--what for?" "Why," continued Gabriel hurriedly, "to-morrow's Donnington market, and we can't sell our pigs here, and he thought--I thought--we thought, that we might sell them there." He gazed breathless at his father's face, and knew by its abstracted expression that the vicar's thoughts were very far away from any question of pigs--as indeed they were, for they were busy with the subject of the pamphlet he had been reading. "Foolish boys, foolish boys," he said, "do as you like." "Then we may have it, father?" "Do as you like, do as you like. Don't trouble, there's a good boy;" and he turned round to the fire again without having half realised the situation. But Roger and Gabriel realised it fully, and the next morning between five and six o'clock, while it was still all grey, and cold, and misty, they set forth triumphantly on their way to market with the pigs carefully netted over in the cart. Through the lanes, strewn thickly with the brown and yellow leaves of late autumn, up the steep chalk hill and over the bare bleak downs, the old horse pounded steadily along with the two grave little boys and their squeaking black companions. There was not much conversation on the road, for, although Gabriel was an excitable and talkative boy, he was now so fully impressed by the importance of the undertaking that he was unusually silent, and Roger was naturally rather quiet and deliberate. They had to drive between five and six miles to Donnington, and at last, as they wound slowly down a long hill, they saw the town and the cathedral towers lying at their feet. They were a good deal too early, for in their excitement they had started much too soon. "But that is all the better," said Roger, "because we shall get a good place." Presently the pen, made of four hurdles, was ready, the pigs safely in it, and the boys took their station in front of it and waited events. Donnington market was a large one, well attended by all the fanners for miles round; gradually they came rattling up in their carts and gigs, or jogging along on horseback, casting shrewd glances at the various beasts which had already been driven in. Some of the men knew the boys quite well, and greeted them with, "Fine day, sir," and a broad stare of surprise. By the time the cathedral clock had sounded nine the market was in full swing. A medley of noises. The lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the squeak of some outraged pig, mixed with the shouts of the drovers and the loud excited voices of buyers and sellers. In the midst of all this turmoil the little boys stood steadily at their post, looking up anxiously as some possible buyer elbowed his way past and stopped a minute to notice the black pigs; but none got further than "Good-day, sir," and a grin of amusement. So the day wore on. They had brought their dinner tied up in Roger's handkerchief, and some acorns for the pigs, so at one o'clock they all had a little meal together. There was a lull just then, for most of the farmers had poured into the "Blue Boar" to dinner, and the people who were left were engaged in steadily munching the contents of the baskets they had brought with them. Roger and Gabriel had not lost heart yet, and still hoped to sell the pigs, but they certainly began to feel very tired, especially Gabriel, who, having remained manfully upright all the morning, now felt such an aching in the legs that he was obliged to take a seat on a basket turned upside down. The afternoon waned, it grew a little dusk, still no buyer. Soon the boys knew that they must begin their long drive home. But, to take the pigs back again; it was too heartrending to think of. Then there was suddenly a little bustle in the market, and people moved aside to let a new-comer pass down the narrow space between the pens opposite to where the boys had placed themselves. It was a broad comely gentleman of middle age, dressed in riding-boots, and cords, and a faded green coat. He had a riding-whip in his hand, with which he touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgment of the greetings round him; his dog followed close on his heels. There was a pleased recognition on all the faces, for everyone liked Squire Dale; he was a bold rider, and a good shot, and a kind landlord. "Hullo, boys," he said cheerily, for he knew Roger and Gabriel well, "what are you doing here? Is your father in the town?" "N-n-no," replied Roger, stammering very much; "we c-came to sell our p-p-p-pigs." "And we can't," put in Gabriel rather mournfully from his basket. The squire's eyes twinkled, though his face was perfectly grave. "Pigs, eh?" he said. "Whose pigs are they?" "Our pigs," said Gabriel; "and if we sell them, we've got a plan." The squire stood planted squarely in front of them with his hands in his pockets, looking down at the serious little figures without speaking. "Tiring work marketing, eh?" he said at last. "G-Gabriel _is_ a little tired," replied Roger glancing at his younger brother, whose face was white with fatigue. "Well, now," continued Squire Dale, "it's an odd thing, but I just happened to be walking through the market to see if I could find some likely pigs for myself. But," with a glance at the dusky occupants of the pen, "they _must_ be black." Gabriel forgot that he was tired. "They're beautiful black pigs," he cried, jumping up eagerly, "as black as they can be. Berkshire pigs. Look at them." So the squire looked at them; and not only looked at them, but asked the price and bought them, putting the money into a very large weather-beaten purse of Roger's; and presently the two happy boys were seated opposite to him in the parlour of the "Blue Boar" enjoying a substantial tea. With renewed spirits they chatted away to their kind host, whose jolly brown face beamed with interest and good-humour as he listened. At last Gabriel put down his tea-cup with a deep-drawn sigh of contentment, and said to his brother mysteriously: "Shall we tell about the plan?" Roger nodded. He could not speak just then, for he was in the act of taking a large mouthful of bread and jam. "Shall I tell it," said Gabriel, "or you?" "You," said Roger huskily. "You see," began Gabriel, turning to the squire confidentially, "it is a coperative plan." "A what?" interrupted the squire. "That's not the right word," said Roger; "he means co-co-co--" "Oh yes, I know, co-operative. Isn't that it?" "Yes, that's it, of course," continued Gabriel, speaking very quickly for fear that Roger should take the matter out of his hands. "We're going to put our money together, and Ben is going to put some money in too, and then we shall buy a pig; and when it has a litter we shall sell them, and perhaps buy a calf, and so we shall get some live stock, and have a farm, and share the profits." Gabriel sat very upright while he spoke, with a deepening flush on his cheeks. The squire leaned forward with a hand on each knee, and listened attentively. "Well," he said, "that seems a good plan. Where's the farm to be? In the vicarage garden?" "Father wouldn't like that," said Roger. "Why, possibly not," said the squire; "you see it's not always nice to have cattle and pigs too close to a house. But I tell you what; you know that little field of mine near the church, I'm wanting to let that off, how would that do?" "It would be just the very thing," said Roger, "but," he added reflectively, "we couldn't afford to give you much for it." "You must talk it over with Ben," said the squire rising, "it's not an expensive little bit of land, and I should say about ten shillings a year would be about the right price. And now, boys, you must start for home--as it is you won't be there much before dark." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The co-operative plan began very well indeed. Roger and Gabriel, with a little assistance and advice from their eldest brother Ben, built a capital sty on Squire Dale's little bit of land, which was conveniently near the vicarage, and soon, behold them the proud possessors of a sow and nine black pigs! The boys' pride and pleasure were immense, and nothing could exceed their care and attention to the mother and her children; perhaps these were overdone, which may account for the tragic event which shortly took place. The little pigs were about two weeks old, very "peart" and lively, and everything was proceeding in a satisfactory manner, when one morning Gabriel went to visit them as usual with a pail of food. As he neared the sty, he heard, instead of the low "choug, choug, choug," to which he was accustomed, nothing but a chorus of distressed little squeaks. He quickened his steps; his heart beat very fast; he looked over the edge of the sty, and, oh horror! The sow was stretched flat on her side quite dead, while her black family squeaked and struggled and poked at each other with their little pointed snouts. Quick as lightning he grasped the situation, and throwing down the pail which he held rushed back to the house, almost stunning Roger, whom he met on the way, with the dreadful news. There was no time to be lost-- if the pigs were to be saved they must be fed at once. In hot haste the boys returned with a wheel-barrow, put the seven little creatures into it, for two out of the nine were dead, and took them into the vicarage kitchen. Then each boy, with a pig held tenderly in his arms like a baby, crouched in front of the broad hearth and tried to induce them to swallow some warm milk. "Choug, choug, choug," grunted Gabriel in fond imitation of the mother pig. "Ch-ch-choug," repeated Roger, dandling his his charge on the other side. Presently all the seven pigs were warmed and fed, and put into a large rabbit-hutch just outside the kitchen door; they were quiet now, and lay in a black contented heap, with their little eyes blinking lazily. The boys stood and looked at them gravely. "We shall have to feed them every hour," said Roger, "Zillah says so." "Oh! Roger," cried Gabriel doubtfully, "do you think we shall ever bring them up?" "We _will_ bring them up," replied Roger, clenching his fist with quiet determination. But it really was not such an easy matter as some people might suppose, and especially was it difficult to manage at night. The boys divided the work in a business-like manner, and took turns to go down every alternate hour to feed their troublesome foster-children. Zillah, the cook, allowed the hutch to be brought into the kitchen at night, and undertook to feed the pigs at six o'clock in the morning, but until then the boys were responsible and never once flinched from what they had undertaken. It was getting cold weather now, and bed was delightfully cosy and warm, but nevertheless little Gabriel would tumble out with his eyes half shut, at Roger's first whisper of "Your turn now," and creep through the lonely house and down the kitchen stairs. They had arranged an ingenious feeding apparatus with a quill inserted through the cork of a medicine bottle, and the pigs took to it quite kindly, sucked away vigorously, and throve apace. But it was hard work, when the first excitement of it was over, and Gabriel felt it particularly; he was a delicate boy, and after one or two of these night excursions he would lie shivering in his little bed, and find it impossible to go to sleep again, while Roger snored peacefully at his side. It need hardly be said that the vicar knew nothing of these proceedings, and Ben was at college, so matters were allowed to go on in this way for nearly a month, by which time Gabriel had managed to get a very bad cold on his chest, and a cough. As the pigs got fatter, and rounder, and more lively, he became thinner, and whiter, and weaker--a perfect shadow of a little boy; but still he would not give up his share of the work, until one day he woke up from what seemed to him to have been a long sleep, and found that he was lying in bed, in a room which was still called the "nursery," and that he felt very tired and weak. He pulled aside the curtain with a feeble little hand, and saw Roger sitting there quite quietly, with his head bent over a book. How strange everything was! What did it all mean? Then Roger raised his head. "Oh, you're awake!" he said looking very pleased, "I will go and call nurse." He was going away on tip-toe, but Gabriel beckoned to him and he came near. "Roger," he said in a small whispering voice, "why am I in this room?" "You're not to talk," said Roger. "You've been ill for a long time--a fever--and oh," clasping his hands, "how you have been going on about the pigs! You tried to get out of bed no end of times to go and feed them; and I heard the doctor say to father, `We must manage to subdue this restlessness--he _must_ have some quiet sleep.' And oh, we were all so glad when you went to sleep, and now you will get quite well soon." Gabriel tried to say, "How are the pigs?" but he was really too weak, so he only smiled, and Roger hurried out of the room to call the nurse. Later on, when he was getting quite strong again, he heard all about it, and how, by his father's advice, the pigs had been sold to a neighbouring farmer. "And they _are_ such jolly pigs," said Roger; "he says he never saw such likely ones. And they knew me when I went to see them, and rubbed against my legs. You see," he added, "it was really best to sell them, because father says we are to go to school at Brighton soon, and then we couldn't see after the farm." So this was the end of the co-operative plan. Not carried out after all, in spite of the patience and care bestowed upon it; but I feel sure that in after years Roger and Gabriel were not unsuccessful men, if they learnt their lessons at school and in life with half the determination they used in rearing the black pigs. THE END. 
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26164	----	CHILD LAND [Illustration] WITH 200 ILLUSTRATIONS * * * * * CHILD LAND. * * * * * [Illustration: FRONTISPIECE.] * * * * * CHILD LAND: PICTURE-PAGES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. _Containing nearly 200 Designs by Oscar Pletch,_ _M. Richter, &c., &c._ LONDON: S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO., 9, PATERNOSTER ROW. * * * * * MESSRS. WATSON AND HAZELL, PRINTERS, LONDON AND AYLESBURY. * * * * * [Illustration] CONTENTS. PAGE A Musical Evening 9 The Harvest Field 101 The Little Cooks 10 Taking a Walk 102 The Wheel Off 11 Wind and Rain 103 The Broken Cup 12 Watching the Gardener 104 Baby and his Doll 13 Ellen's New Bible 105 The Kind Brother 14 Not Hurt, I Hope 106 Curious John 15 The Sick Boy 107 Fast Asleep 16 Under the Umbrella 108 Dolly's Party 17 The Meeting 109 Don't be Greedy 18 Medicine for the Baby 110 The Pump 19 The Broken Cradle 111 The Lost Ball 20 More Kissing 112 Learning to Walk 21 Playing at Bowls 113 The Sick Doll 22 The Strolling Fiddler 114 Feeding the Birds 23 The Dunce 115 Helping Mother 24 The Windmill 116 What's in the Cupboard? 25 Making Jam 117 All to Ourselves 26 Our Shop 118 The Washing-Tub 27 Exchanging Dolls 119 "Teach Me to Draw, Please" 28 Lion's Kennel 120 Dressed Up 29 Learning the Lessons 121 The Grocer 30 Who'll have the Apple? 122 "It Doesn't Tick" 31 The Reverie 123 Just the Size 32 King of the Castle 124 Dolly's Washing 33 The Stew Pan 125 The Interruption 34 Our Half-Holiday 126 Lucy's New Bonnet 35 On the Wall 127 The Concert 36 "Shall We Ring the Bell?" 128 The Broken Doll 37 Brushing Sister's Hair 129 The Nosegay 38 Baby Brother 130 Baby Brother 39 Out in the Garden 131 Ready for School 40 Feeding the Rabbits 132 "There's a Good Doggie" 41 As Mama Does 133 Feeding the Fowls 42 Offended 134 Being Washed 43 Just Like Grandpapa 135 The Ropery 44 Off to School 136 The Broken Watering-Pot 45 Floating the Ducks 137 Shoeing the Horse 46 Albert's Horse 138 The New Jacket 47 Waiting for the Rain 139 The Pet Bird 48 Breakfast for Mama 140 Fast Asleep 49 "Mama, I Do Love You So" 141 The Apple Cupboard 50 Making a Pudding 142 Half-Holiday 51 "How do You do, Poll?" 143 "Don't Forget Me" 52 John's New Toy 144 The Bakery 53 The Secret 145 The Two Little Sisters 54 Ellen's Dream 146 "Wake Up, Driver" 55 Quarrelling 147 Coming Out of School 56 Diligent Charles 148 Baby's Flowers 57 Tired of It 149 Helping to Cook 58 The Sulky Girl 150 The Snow Man 59 The Sick Dolls 151 The Artist 60 "What Shall We Do?" 152 Teasing Mama 61 An Afternoon Nap 153 The Visit to Grandmama 62 The Pump 154 Asleep 63 The Playthings 155 What Shall I do next? 64 Grandmama 156 The Little Lamb 65 Helping Cook 157 "Hold It Fast, Prince" 66 In the Summer-House 158 The Tinman 67 The Empty Pocket 159 Blind-Man's-Buff 68 A Strange Seat for Dolly 160 Washing Hands 69 Studious Herbert 161 A Rough Ride 70 Waiting 162 Making Snow-Balls 71 "You Shan't Come In" 163 The New Game 72 Caught 164 Half Afraid 73 "Be a Good Dolly" 165 Grandpapa 74 The Little Squirrel 166 The Organ Man 75 Nearly Dressed 167 Do You Want a Carpenter? 76 The Kites 168 How Polite! 77 The Pets 169 Teasing 78 The Bookseller 170 Baby's Bath 79 Taking a Photograph 171 Baby and Rattle 80 Rather Tight 172 Very Happy 81 "A Letter, Sir" 173 Wayside Flowers 82 Musing 174 The Confectioner's 83 The Winged Letter-Carrier 175 Out in the Garden 84 Watching Pussy 176 Being Washed 85 The Sledge 177 Only a Toadstool 86 A, B, C 178 Watching the Moon 87 Little Alfred's Prayer 179 First Steps 88 "Which is the Way, Please?" 180 The Ducklings 89 "Can't go Out Yet" 181 Susan's Shop 90 The Schoolmaster 182 In the Nursery 91 The Saw-Pit 183 Sunday Morning 92 The Sledge-Chair 184 Giving Doggie a Ride 93 Off to Sea 185 The Gentle Cow 94 "Want Anything To-day?" 186 The Bookbinder's 95 Don't be Afraid 187 How Dark It Is! 96 Showing Baby the Pictures 188 Playing at See-Saw 97 "Rather Feverish" 189 A Ride Down-Hill 98 Ringing the Bell 190 The Thief Asleep 99 School Over 191 Breakfast Time 100 The Boot Cupboard 192 [Illustration] * * * * * [Illustration] A MUSICAL EVENING. This is a very pleasant way of spending a winter evening, and my young friends like it much. All young folks should learn music. [Illustration] THE LITTLE COOKS. Lucy and Jane are fond of playing at cooks, and seem very busy this morning. Lucy is standing on a stool stirring something in a pot, and Jane is watching the cups on the little stove. I hope the children will not burn themselves, nor make a mess on the floor, or mama will be very cross. [Illustration] THE WHEEL OFF. Oh dear, another accident! Only yesterday the third wheel came off the lamb that little sister used to drag about the room. And now a wheel has come off the pretty chaise in which dolly rides. But do not cry, baby; we must ask papa to mend it, and then the chaise will go as well as ever. [Illustration] THE BROKEN CUP. Laura looks very grave this morning, and no wonder, for she has broken a tea-cup. [Illustration] BABY AND HIS DOLL. Baby is busy this morning with his doll. "Bruno" is watching by his side, ready to bark at any one who comes near. [Illustration] THE KIND BROTHER. Edward is a good kind brother, for, though he has his own lessons to learn, he is holding the thread for his sister Kate, whom he is very fond of, and tries to please as much as he can. [Illustration] CURIOUS JOHN. You are too impatient and curious, Master John. Far better to have waited till papa had himself shown you the pretty toys he has brought you from the fair. [Illustration] FAST ASLEEP. The sun has been up long ago, but baby is still asleep, with dolly by his side. We will not wake him, for he went to bed last night very tired. He had been out all day playing in the garden, and seemed quite glad when it was time for him to go to bed, so we will let him sleep a little longer. This will do him more good just now than being out in the hot sun. [Illustration] DOLLY'S PARTY. This is dolly's party. The two little girls have been invited to tea with her, and they have each brought their dolls with them. I hope it will be a pleasant party, though of course our two little friends must do all the talking, as Miss Dolly, though she sits there in such state, cannot speak a single word. But I dare say they can talk for her and themselves too. [Illustration] DON'T BE GREEDY. Harriet has had some apples given her, but she is so greedy she wishes to keep them all herself. She has two lying on the sofa already, and yet she does not seem willing to give the third to her little brother. I am ashamed of you, greedy girl! [Illustration] THE PUMP. Lucy is trying to pump up some water for her little sister, but she should be careful, for the water may run out suddenly and wet little Mary's dress. If this happens mama will be angry, for her dress is a very nice one indeed, and almost new. [Illustration] THE LOST BALL. Oh dear, oh dear, what shall we do, For we have lost the ball? The water-butt is deep, and now We cannot play at all. [Illustration] LEARNING TO WALK. Mama is giving little Mary her first lesson in walking. She is of course rather timid, but she will learn presently, when she has got a little more confidence. [Illustration] THE SICK DOLL. The doctor has just come in to see the sick doll, and is feeling her pulse. He tells Mary not to be alarmed, for her doll is no worse, and will be quite well in a day or two if she is kept quiet. I am sure Mary will attend to this, as she is very anxious about her doll, and would be sorry to lose her. [Illustration] FEEDING THE BIRDS. Well done, well done, thoughtful Jane, At your morning work again, Feeding thus with grain and crumbs Every hungry bird that comes: Well they know you, I can see, Or they would more timid be. [Illustration] HELPING MOTHER. Well done, Emma! Dinner is just over, and Emma is folding up the cloth, and tidying up. [Illustration] WHAT'S IN THE CUPBOARD? Mama has just caught the children prying into the cupboard. She will be angry with them, I am sure, for being so inquisitive. [Illustration] ALL TO OURSELVES. Little Emma and George have shut themselves into an up-stairs room this morning, and are pretending to be papa and mama. They have got papa's great boots on the floor, and Emma has dressed the boot-jack like a doll, and placed mama's bonnet on her head. Mama down-stairs will wonder presently what has become of her two little pets. [Illustration] THE WASHING-TUB. Our little friends are busy this morning, for dolly's washing must be done before dinner. But there are two of them, and they have got a nice large tub, so they will soon get it done. It will be well for poor dolly when her clothes are washed and ironed, for she must be very uncomfortable lying there on the floor. [Illustration] "TEACH ME TO DRAW, PLEASE." The children have come to see their uncle, the artist. They like to come and look at his pictures, and they are asking him to teach them to draw. It is a nice thing to be able to draw well. [Illustration] DRESSED UP. Little Richard has been dressing himself up in some old clothes, and has got a big walking-stick. His brother is amused, but baby does not seem to know him. [Illustration] THE GROCER. Mr. Sweet, the grocer, is serving his customers. James has just had some treacle, but he has put his finger into the jug, and is sucking it. Naughty boy! [Illustration] "IT DOESN'T TICK." Mama, my watch does not tick, as papa's does. I wish you would make it tick. [Illustration] JUST THE SIZE. Our two little friends have been out to-day with their mama, to buy some stockings for their dolls. They have just returned, and are fitting them on, and find they are just the size. The youngest of the doll family is snug in her cradle; but the doll lying on her face on the drawers, must, I fear, be very uncomfortable. They will notice it presently, I dare say. [Illustration] DOLLY'S WASHING. It is a very serious affair when the day comes round to do dolly's washing. Lines are hung up in the nursery, with a great tub to hold the wet clothes, and, after that, they are hung across the lines to dry. Our two little friends are as busy as they can be, and they must make haste, for papa would not like to find his little girls absent when he comes home. [Illustration] THE INTERRUPTION. Do not interrupt our play, brother Tom. Please go back to your lessons. [Illustration] LUCY'S NEW BONNET. That bonnet is too smart, Lucy. I fear you are too fond of dress. [Illustration] THE CONCERT. The children have got papa's music books, and are pretending to sing from them. Even dolly is stuck up against the wall, as if she were one of the singers. The dog is listening, as though he would ask what is the meaning of all this strange noise, and is barking, himself, very dismally, to add to it. [Illustration] THE BROKEN DOLL. This is a sad affair indeed. Little Jane dropped her pretty new doll on the floor while she was playing with her cousin, and now it is broken and spoiled. She is crying as if she would break her little heart over the disaster, but all her tears will not mend dolly again. But perhaps papa will buy her another, if she asks him. [Illustration] THE NOSEGAY. Little Laura has just opened the garden gate, and is hurrying off to school. She has a nosegay in her hand, which she is taking to her governess, whom she is very fond of. I dare say the governess will like her little present, for every one is fond of flowers, and still more the kindness which prompted her to bring it. [Illustration] BABY BROTHER. Our little baby brother is quite a romp. He is full of fun, and it is hard to keep him out of mischief. He kicks his boots off, pulls off his socks, and his new little woolly lamb and cart were soon torn to pieces. He plays with Bruno in a very rough way, and it is a wonder the dog bears it so patiently. This morning he has seized Tom by the hair, and seems highly pleased to have the chance of giving it a good pull. [Illustration] READY FOR SCHOOL. Mama is plaiting Ellen's hair this morning, and then she will be ready for school. Though her toys are on the floor beside her, yet she stands quite still, like a good girl. [Illustration: "THERE'S A GOOD DOGGIE."] [Illustration] FEEDING THE FOWLS. Baby is giving some bread-crumbs to the fowls this morning. The cock looks up as though he would say "Thank you." [Illustration] BEING WASHED. Baby is screaming because he does not like to be washed. This is very naughty. [Illustration] THE ROPERY. Poor little James has come down to the ropery, to see the men make string. He has got a great ball of string to fly his kite with. [Illustration] THE BROKEN WATERING-POT. Susan is very sad this evening, for she has broken her little watering-pot, and so she does not know how to water her flowers. [Illustration] SHOEING THE HORSE. Let him have a good shoe, please, Mr. Farrier, and take care you don't hurt him, for he is a noble fellow. [Illustration] THE NEW JACKET. This is a tailor's shop, and Master Albert is being measured for a new jacket. His young brother Robert is to have one too. [Illustration] THE PET BIRD. How pleased baby is with the pet bird perched on the back of the chair! [Illustration: FAST ASLEEP.] [Illustration] THE APPLE CUPBOARD. The children have just found out where mama keeps her apples. [Illustration] HALF-HOLIDAY. It is half-holiday, and, as it is wet, Master Fred is lounging about in-doors. [Illustration] "DON'T FORGET ME." Baby is sitting in the out-house eating a piece of bread-and-butter. Bob is putting his paw gently upon him, as much as to say, "Don't forget me, baby, but give me a bit, please." [Illustration] THE BAKERY. Mary has come to the baker's to buy a new loaf this morning, and she has peeped into the bakery to see how the men make the bread. She must not stay long though, for they are all waiting at home to have their breakfast. [Illustration] THE TWO LITTLE SISTERS. These two little girls are sisters, and they are very fond of one another, as sisters should be. [Illustration] "WAKE UP, DRIVER." Little Andrew is out early with his grandfather this morning, to take a long ride to the next town. They are asking the driver of a coach to take them, but he is fast asleep on the box. [Illustration] COMING OUT OF SCHOOL. The clock has just struck the hour, and the children are coming out of school. They seem to have forgotten that the snow is on the ground, and that it is very slippery. Three of them have fallen down, but I do not think they have hurt themselves, as they seem very merry. [Illustration: BABY'S FLOWERS.] [Illustration] HELPING TO COOK. Little Lucy is helping mama to make the nice jams this morning. [Illustration] THE SNOW MAN. The children have made a great snow man, and they are lifting up dolly to look at him. [Illustration] THE ARTIST. The artist is sitting on a camp-stool, taking a sketch of the cottages yonder. He has put up his umbrella to shelter himself from the sun. The boys seem greatly interested in his work. [Illustration] TEASING MAMA. The children seem very troublesome and noisy this afternoon. It is well for them that mama has much patience, or she would be very angry indeed at their bad behaviour. [Illustration] THE VISIT TO GRANDMAMA. The children are come to-day on a visit to grandmama. She is telling them they have grown very much lately. But Miss Pry ought not to open grandmama's drawers. [Illustration] ASLEEP. Maria has been sitting on the sofa this evening, looking through some picture books. But it is late, and mama has not yet come home, and she has fallen fast asleep with dolly behind her. [Illustration] WHAT SHALL I DO NEXT? It is a wet day, and little Laura cannot go out. So she has been playing in-doors, and been amusing herself with her dolls. But it still rains, and she is tired of her dolls, and is asking herself what she shall do next to amuse herself. She must have patience, and papa will be home to tea presently. [Illustration: THE LITTLE LAMB.] [Illustration] "HOLD IT FAST, PRINCE." This is Alfred, the hunter's little son, who has dressed himself up in his father's belt and hat. Prince seems to know what Alfred says to him. [Illustration] THE TINMAN. The tinman is very busy to-day, with his little hammer, shaping a piece of tin. On the floor around him lie watering-pots, coffee-pots, tin pipes, and a variety of useful articles, all made out of tin. [Illustration: BLIND-MAN'S-BUFF.] [Illustration] WASHING HANDS. Mama does not like to see her children dirty, so she is washing their hands, and then they can play about again. Baby is looking at his hands to see if they are dirty, and Alice is examining her doll's hands. [Illustration] A ROUGH RIDE. Baby is having a ride this morning on his brother's back. It is a rather rough ride, and shakes him very much when his brother runs. But he likes the fun, and will be sorry when his brother is tired, and puts him down. Carlo is barking beside him with all his might. [Illustration] MAKING SNOW-BALLS. It is very cold, and the fields are all covered with snow. The children are on their way to school, but they have laid their books down for a few minutes. The boys are in high glee, for they cannot make snow-balls every day, and there is plenty of snow on the ground just now. I dare say they will be sorry when the snow melts. [Illustration] THE NEW GAME. Arthur is a clever lad, as every boy and girl in the village knows. He has just invented a new game, and his playfellows are listening to him while he explains it to them. They are to meet him on the common this afternoon after school, and try if they can play at it. [Illustration: HALF AFRAID.] [Illustration] GRANDPAPA. It is grandpapa's birthday, and the children have come to congratulate him. [Illustration] THE ORGAN MAN. Here, poor organ man, here is a penny for you, and I will sit down with my dolly, on this log of wood, and listen to your pretty tunes. [Illustration] DO YOU WANT A CARPENTER? Little William has dressed himself up as a carpenter, and his sister is pretending to be a fine lady. William is asking her if she wants a carpenter, as he has his tools with him, and will be very glad of a job. Susan is sitting outside pretending to be keeping a coffee-stall. [Illustration] HOW POLITE! Richard's little cousin has called in this afternoon, and Richard, who is very kind and polite, is handing her some cake, and asking her to have a slice. [Illustration] TEASING. Master Sydney is, I am sorry to tell you, very fond of teasing. This is not a nice habit, for, although it may begin in fun, it often ends in a quarrel. His little sister does not like it, and he has been teasing her so long that she is now crying. If she tells his papa of it he will be very angry, as he has often reproved Sydney for this bad habit before, and I was hoping he had broken it off. Sydney ought to do all he can to please his little sister, rather than thus take delight in vexing and annoying her. [Illustration] BABY'S BATH. Baby is sitting in his little bathing tub, waiting for his sister to come up and wash him. He is beginning to like the water now, and is quite pleased to sit in it and be washed. At first he did not like it at all, and began to scream at the sight of the tub, but he has now more confidence, and likes it very much. It is nice to have a good wash, especially in hot weather, and all children should early be taught to like cleanliness. [Illustration] BABY AND RATTLE. Baby is highly amused to hear his rattle making a noise. The dog seems amused too, for he is jumping up to see what it is all about. [Illustration: VERY HAPPY.] [Illustration] WAYSIDE FLOWERS. It is a pity there is not more interest taken in wayside and field flowers, some of which are so very beautiful. [Illustration] THE CONFECTIONER'S. This is the shop of Mr. Sweet, the pastrycook. The children have just bought some sweets, and his lad is taking out a large cake on a tray. [Illustration] OUT IN THE GARDEN. It is half-holiday to-day, but it is too warm to run about the fields. So Susan and Emma are sitting in the wheelbarrow, at the kitchen door, and enjoying themselves as much as if they were sitting in a fine arbour. They have got puss with them, who seems to like it as much as they do. When the sun sets they will water their flowers, for they have got a nice flower-bed of their own, and some of the flowers are just beginning to blossom. [Illustration] BEING WASHED. Baby brother is being washed this morning. He does not sit so quiet as he ought to do, and so his sister has, quite by accident, put the sponge in his eye. No wonder he should be making a wry face over it, and crying. If he had been still this would probably not have happened, as his sister is very careful not to hurt him. I hope the next time he is washed he will try to keep himself quiet. [Illustration] ONLY A TOADSTOOL. The children are out early this morning in the wood, to gather mushrooms, and have brought a basket to put them in. They have just found something among the roots of this old tree, which they thought at first was a mushroom, but I fear it is only a toadstool, it looks so very strange. [Illustration] WATCHING THE MOON. It is time to put baby to bed, but her sister is showing her the moon, shining out so brightly to-night in the deep blue sky. Baby is looking up at it, and is perhaps wondering what it is up there in the sky, so bright and round. It will shine into her little bed-room nearly all the night long. [Illustration] FIRST STEPS. Baby is learning to walk, and is stepping out boldly. Puss looks on quietly, but Tiny is barking with joy. [Illustration: THE DUCKLINGS.] [Illustration] SUSAN'S SHOP. Susan is playing at shop, and has placed herself behind a large chair, and is looking out for customers. She has dressed baby up in cook's great bonnet and jacket, and she is supposed to be the customer. And Susan is asking her what she will buy, as her scales are all ready to weigh up anything she wants. Baby is asking her if she sells barley-sugar, as, if she does, she would like to have some. [Illustration] IN THE NURSERY. The two little sisters are having fine fun in the nursery this morning. Baby dolly is to have a bath presently. The other dolls have at last got dressed in their new clothes, that have been so long making, and they are being jumped about and walked along as if they were really alive. The children are so fond of their dolls, they seem never tired of playing with them. [Illustration] SUNDAY MORNING. It is Sunday morning, and everything is quiet in the village. The blacksmith's hammer is still, the horses are in the stable, and the plough lies in the corner of the field. The children are hastening to the Sunday-school, with their Bible and hymn-book under their arm. Walter Rose is reading a Psalm to his wife and children, and then they will get ready for church. [Illustration] GIVING DOGGIE A RIDE. The little sisters have been giving dolly a ride in their basket-chaise. And now they think it is doggie's turn, and they are putting him in the chaise for a ride too. I am afraid he will not sit very nicely, but will be a troublesome rider. Poor dolly is lying on the floor, on her back. I hope she is not hurt. [Illustration] THE GENTLE COW. The cow is a quiet creature, and is one of the most useful of all animals. We have to thank the cow for our nice milk, and fresh butter. Mary often carries baby to the window of the cow-shed, and baby takes hold of the cow's horn, it is so harmless and gentle. [Illustration] THE BOOKBINDER'S. The children have called in to see the bookbinder's shop, and are looking at a map, which he has varnished for them. Arthur is telling his little sister he thinks he should like to be a bookbinder, it seems such a nice business. [Illustration] HOW DARK IT IS! Mama is going to put baby to bed, but she is taking her first to the window to show her how dark it is. And now baby must go to bed, for it is late. The little birds are already asleep beneath the roof, for they go to rest early at night, and rise very early in the morning. It is not so dark as this every night, but to-night the moon is not visible. [Illustration: PLAYING AT SEE-SAW.] [Illustration] A RIDE DOWN-HILL. Master Clarence is giving his sister Kate a ride in a wheelbarrow, but, as they are going down-hill, I am afraid she will not have a very comfortable ride, and will be very much jolted. And the next time he takes her out for a ride I hope he will find her something larger and pleasanter to ride in. I dare say she will be very glad to get out and walk presently. [Illustration] THE THIEF ASLEEP. Giles Scroggs is a lumpish farmer's boy, fat, silly, and lazy. He has but a faint idea of the use of a book, but he understands well the worth of an apple-dumpling. One morning the sly rogue got up very early to steal some apples, but climbing the wall to return he fell asleep on the top, with three rosy apples at his side, just as our artist has drawn him. [Illustration] BREAKFAST TIME. It is breakfast time, and this is a family just seated round the table. One of the little boys has put his plate upon his head, I suppose to attract attention to his wants. Baby stands on mama's knee, and seems determined he will not be forgotten. Papa will have enough to do to cut bread-and-butter for them all. [Illustration] THE HARVEST FIELD. It is very hot in the open fields to-day, and the reapers are weary. So they are sitting in the shadow of the sheaves, and are drinking some water, as working in the heat has made them very thirsty. The sun will go down presently, and then it will be cool and pleasant for them to walk home over the fields. [Illustration] TAKING A WALK. It is a pleasant spring morning, and the children are out early, taking a walk with mama. She is carrying the baby, and little Alice is taking her new doll by the hand to try and teach her to walk. Albert is riding his wooden horse, and Rover is barking at him, he is so pleased. They are not going far, and will turn back to breakfast presently. [Illustration] WIND AND RAIN. How it rains! I am afraid our party in the picture will all be wet to the skin. It is a pity they have only one umbrella among them, and they have a long distance to go before they reach home. It was fine when they started, so they were not prepared for such a storm. But perhaps it will soon be fine again. [Illustration] WATCHING THE GARDENER. Gardening is a nice employment, and so little Maria thinks, as with folded arms she watches the gardener attending to his plants. She is thinking how she should like to be putting plants into pots, watching for the seeds to come up, and the buds to expand into blossoms. [Illustration: ELLEN'S NEW BIBLE.] [Illustration] NOT HURT, I HOPE. The road is so slippery this morning, after the frost, that little Harriet has just had a fall. [Illustration] THE SICK BOY. Master Thomas is very unwell to-day, so he has to stay at home and take some physic. [Illustration] UNDER THE UMBRELLA. Ellen and Maria are enjoying themselves in-doors this afternoon. They are sitting on the floor in the nursery, and have put up cook's old market umbrella to cover them. It is so large it makes quite a tent for them to sit under. They have two apples beside them, so I suppose they will have a feast presently. [Illustration] THE MEETING. Susan has long been expecting her little cousin from the country, and she has just arrived. When Susan has done kissing her, she will tell her how glad she is to see her, and show her her pretty doll and her playthings. The dog too is jumping up at her and barking, as though he would give her a welcome also. [Illustration] MEDICINE FOR THE BABY. James has come to the chemist's shop this morning for medicine for the baby, who is sick. [Illustration] THE BROKEN CRADLE. Harriet has just brought her doll's cradle to the carpenter, to get it mended. He is telling her to leave it, and he will soon repair it. [Illustration] MORE KISSING. Mama and baby are always kissing one another, and there will be kissing again when papa comes home. [Illustration: PLAYING AT BOWLS.] [Illustration] THE STROLLING FIDDLER. Poor old man! He is playing away merrily, though I dare say he is tired, and has perhaps walked many a mile this hot day. If he does not play very well, his music pleases the baby at the window. Here, poor man, is a penny for you. [Illustration] THE DUNCE. I am sorry to see that boy with the dunce's cap standing there in the middle of the school. I should think he must feel very much ashamed to be the laughing-stock of his schoolfellows. I do hope he will pay more attention. [Illustration] THE WINDMILL. The sails go round, and the corn is ground. [Illustration] MAKING JAM. Mama has been boiling some fruit to make jam for the winter, and given the children a large pan which has been used to make it. They are busy getting out every morsel of the syrup, for it is so nice and sweet. [Illustration] OUR SHOP. The tailor's children are having some fun, and, with the help of an old chair and their father's sleeve-board, have made themselves a shop. [Illustration] EXCHANGING DOLLS. The two cousins are each of them tired of their own doll, and are wanting to exchange. But they do not seem to like to trust one another, and so each is holding out her hand to the other, and neither of them seems willing to give her doll first. Even the dog looks as if he was surprised at them. [Illustration] LION'S KENNEL. Robert is cleaning out Lion's kennel this afternoon, for he is very fond of his dog. Lion seems to know well what Robert is doing for him. [Illustration] LEARNING THE LESSONS. George and Ellen are both fond of learning, and never neglect their lessons for anything. They learned them perfectly last night, and this morning they are looking them over again before going to school. I have no fear that either George or Ellen will grow up to be dunces. [Illustration] WHO'LL HAVE THE APPLE? Reuben is a clever little boy, and for his age knows very much. He has mounted a tree-stump in the garden, and is asking his brothers and sisters some questions. Whoever gives him the best answers is to have that nice apple he is holding up. They all seem puzzled, even the dog and cat. [Illustration] THE REVERIE. Little Martha has just come up into her bed-room, and is leaning her head against the chair, thinking of her dream last night. She dreamed that her uncle had invited her to pay him a visit, and she is just now wondering whether her dream will come true, as she likes going there. [Illustration] KING OF THE CASTLE. Tom has fastened the gate, and is laughing at his little playfellows, because they cannot get over the palings to him. [Illustration] THE STEW PAN. Mama has just gone out of the kitchen, and Miss Pry is looking to see what is in the stew-pan. This is very naughty. [Illustration] OUR HALF-HOLIDAY. This is half-holiday, and the four children are going to have a merry game in the fields. Even baby sister is going with her little dolly, and doggie seems determined he will not be left behind. I hope they will spend a pleasant afternoon, and not get into any mischief. [Illustration] ON THE WALL. What a daring little boy that young Edward is! He has climbed to the top of the wall, and his young cousins are cheering him. I hope he will not fall, and hurt himself. [Illustration] "SHALL WE RING THE BELL?" Poor little boys, they have no one to care for them, for their father and mother are drunken and idle, and send them about to beg. The children have been told that a kind Christian man lives at this house, and they are going to pull the bell and ask him to help them. [Illustration] BRUSHING SISTER'S HAIR. Little Emmeline has just been washed and dressed by her mama. So now she has got the hair-brush, and is standing on a chair brushing her sister Caroline's hair. Caroline has very long hair, so I hope Emmeline will not break it, for of course she does not quite understand how to handle the brush. [Illustration] BABY BROTHER. Baby brother is a great pet, I can tell you. Mama is afraid to lose sight of him, for fear any accident should happen to him. Jane and Robert watch for his waking up, so eager are they to nurse him, and even doggie jumps up as if he would say "Can I do anything for you?" [Illustration] OUT IN THE GARDEN. Julia is playing with her young brother in the garden. The little bird perched up there is looking as if he would like to play with them too. He has a nest in the trees behind, but I dare say he thinks the children are too kind and gentle to molest his pretty little family. [Illustration] FEEDING THE RABBITS. The children are busy in the yard this morning feeding the rabbits. They have opened the rabbit-hutch, and are going to give the rabbits some fresh vegetables. The cat behind is looking slyly on, as though she would like to pounce down among them. [Illustration] AS MAMA DOES. Little Bertha is having a tea party. The children have been playing, and now they are having tea, and Bertha is pouring it out for them. Even dolly is seated at the table, but they have forgotten to take her bonnet off. When tea is over they will go out and play in the garden. [Illustration] OFFENDED. Something has offended master Joseph, and he is leaning there in a sullen mood, and refuses to play any more. His little sisters are coaxing him to play with them again, and one of them in fun has taken his hat off his head. I hope he will not continue to be angry and sullen, for I am sure they did not mean to offend him. [Illustration] JUST LIKE GRANDPAPA. Master Samuel is full of fun, and having found his grandpapa's red cap and spectacles, has seated himself very gravely on one of the kitchen chairs, and is pretending to be grandpapa. I hope he will grow up to be as good a man as his grandpapa is. I can wish nothing better for him, I am quite sure. [Illustration] OFF TO SCHOOL. The clock has just struck, and Amy, with her school satchel behind her, is just bidding good-bye to her little sister. She wanted to tell her how to dry her doll's clothes, but she cannot stay now. [Illustration] FLOATING THE DUCKS. Baby is highly amused this evening. Papa has brought him home two little toy ducks, and mama has put them in some water in a large tub, where they are floating about. [Illustration] ALBERT'S HORSE. Albert is fond of striding a wooden horse, with a horn at his side. [Illustration] WAITING FOR THE RAIN. The children were just starting for school, when the rain suddenly came on, and prevented them. But it will be over presently. [Illustration] BREAKFAST FOR MAMA. Mama is not well this morning, for she took cold yesterday going over the wet fields to visit the poor man who is dying. So she is not up so early as usual, and Harriet is taking her a cup of hot coffee. Harriet will not let the servant wait on her mama when she is ill, because she can herself pay her more attention. She is walking on tip-toe to avoid making a noise, as sick persons like to be quiet. [Illustration] "MAMA, I DO LOVE YOU SO." Ethel is a loving little girl, and is always clinging about her mama. Mama wishes to do some knitting just now, but Ethel is clinging to her, and is saying, "Mama, I do love you so." I am afraid mama will not be able to do much knitting while Ethel interrupts her in this manner. [Illustration] MAKING A PUDDING. Mama is busy this morning making a pudding, and the children are watching the process with great interest. Richard is asking her whether she is going to use all that great loaf of lump sugar in making it. Tom seems to know better, and is telling him if she were to put all that in the pudding it would be so sweet that they would not like to eat it. [Illustration] "HOW DO YOU DO, POLL?" "Poll" is a fine parrot, and seems very happy and contented, swinging there on his perch. He likes to be talked to, and can answer very plain. If you say to him, "How do you do, Poll?" he will answer you, "Quite well, thank you, and how are you?" Poll is quite a companion, he is so intelligent. [Illustration] JOHN'S NEW TOY. John is in high glee, for his aunt has bought him a new toy. It is a figure made of paste-board, and it throws out its legs and arms. [Illustration] THE SECRET. Emma seems whispering something in her sister's ear as if it was a secret. I do not know why she should whisper, for no one seems near to overhear them. I suppose it is something about their dolls, else about little Fan, who is lying beside them on the floor, and who seems to be very tired. [Illustration] ELLEN'S DREAM. Ellen is very fond of animals, and likes to read about them. Papa has just bought her a pretty book, in which she has been reading a good deal about sheep and shepherds. I suppose it is owing to this that she dreamed last night she was a shepherdess, with a crook in her hand, and her sheep lying in the fields around her, just as our artist has drawn in the picture. [Illustration] QUARRELLING. This is a sad scene. The two little sisters are quarrelling over their playthings, and I am afraid the dolls will get damaged in their angry strife. The little lamb lies upset on the chair, the little dolly is sprawling on the floor, and the dress of the bigger one will certainly be torn. It is a pity the two sisters should quarrel in this manner, and about such trifles too. [Illustration] DILIGENT CHARLES. Charles is one of the most diligent boys in his school. He does not dislike a good game in the playground, but, when you see him there, you may be sure his lessons have all been learned first. The diligent schoolboy generally becomes a successful man, but a dunce seldom gets on in after-life. [Illustration] TIRED OF IT. Arthur Jones has been writing some exercises in grammar this morning. He has not done much, but he is quite tired of it already. He wishes the clock would strike twelve, that he might leave off, and spin the top at his side. Shame on you, lazy Arthur! [Illustration] THE SULKY GIRL. Here is a little party of children, playing in the wood-yard this afternoon. They have been having some merry games, and had just arranged to meet again next half-holiday. Suddenly one of the little girls took offence at something, and walked away, and would not play any more. It is a pity she is sulky, and so apt to take offence. I dare say her little friends did not intend to offend her. [Illustration] THE SICK DOLLS. The two little sisters are making a great fuss just now about their sick dolls. They have been making something warm for them, and are now about to put them to bed in the cradle. One of them is being hushed to sleep. They are taking pains to have the mattress smooth and well shaken up, so that the dolls may have a soft bed. But I am afraid the cradle is not quite big enough for both of them, and if so they will not be very comfortable. [Illustration] "WHAT SHALL WE DO?" The poor children have just accidentally broken their pitcher. No wonder they are so sad. [Illustration] AN AFTERNOON NAP. Lucy has just been asleep in the great arm-chair. She little thinks what pussy is about. [Illustration] THE PUMP. The children are up early this morning getting some water at the pump. The geese are watching them, as if they were longing to have a little of it. Perhaps the little girl will give them some when she has filled her jar, for she is very thoughtful for dumb animals, and they all like her very much, and follow her about. It is a good sign when children are kind to animals. [Illustration] THE PLAYTHINGS. Little Ellen seems ill at ease just now. She has got a nice doll, a chest of drawers, and a doll's cradle. But she is coveting her little brother's playthings besides, and seems cross because she cannot have his horse and stable, and little cart. This is very wrong. We should be content with what we have, and not covet what belongs to others. [Illustration] GRANDMAMA. Mama has brought the children to see grandmama this afternoon. She is so glad to see them. One of them is handing her some tea. [Illustration] HELPING COOK. The children are spending an hour in the kitchen with cook. It is fine fun for them. [Illustration] IN THE SUMMER-HOUSE. Baby is hugging and kissing his sister in the summer-house. It is a nice cool place to play in. [Illustration] THE EMPTY POCKET. The children are buying some fruit at the fruit stall. Poor little Richard and his sister are walking sadly away, for they have no money. [Illustration] A STRANGE SEAT FOR DOLLY. Baby has strayed up into a spare room, where papa keeps some of his old books, and she is having rare fun here all by herself. She has brought up her two dolls, one of which she has seated in a basket, and is finding a seat for the other on a great old clasped book. Papa little thinks what baby is about, but I dare say she will be missed presently, and then they will find her very busy up here. [Illustration] STUDIOUS HERBERT. Herbert is a studious boy, fond of books, and is very careful to learn his lessons well. These long winter evenings are very nice for learning, and just now Herbert is making great progress. It is late this evening, but he is not willing to go up to bed till he has learned all his lessons for to-morrow. He would have learned them earlier but he has been to tea with his cousins, and so when he came home just now he lit the lamp, and sat down to his work. When Herbert leaves school I dare say he will get a good situation, as any one will be glad to employ him. [Illustration] WAITING. Maria is waiting for her little cousin to come and play with her in papa's bed-room. She is standing on the top of the stairs listening, and is wondering why she does not come. She will come up presently, I suppose, and then they will have a nice game all to themselves, without disturbing any one in the house. [Illustration] "YOU SHAN'T COME IN." The boys are at home just now for their holidays, and mama is half distracted with their noise. When it is fine they prefer to be in the fields, but when it is wet they are chasing one another about all the day long. One of them has just run up into this room, and is telling his brothers outside they shall not come in. [Illustration] CAUGHT. Master Andrew has just been caught by the old gentleman, who is giving him a few smart strokes with his cane. I am glad of it, for he is a mischievous lad. He was sent to school just now, but instead of hastening there he thought he would stroll through the plantation and see if he could find any birds' nests. Now the old gentleman is very fond of his birds, and will not have them molested. Hearing the crashing of the boughs, he soon discovered the offender, and after a short chase caught him. This beating serves Andrew right, and I hope he will in future leave the poor birds alone. [Illustration] "BE A GOOD DOLLY." Louisa is so fond of her dolls. She has two of them, and places a pillow in her little basket chaise, and draws them about the garden. She is as attentive to them as if they were two little babies, and takes more care of them than some thoughtless mothers do of their children. She is going to take them out for a ride this morning, and is kissing them. I hope she will make them a comfortable seat on the pillows, or else they will not have a very nice ride. [Illustration] THE LITTLE SQUIRREL. The children are offering some bread to a pretty squirrel their father found in the wood. [Illustration] NEARLY DRESSED. Matilda is nearly dressed. She will be ready for her breakfast now in a few minutes, and then must make haste to school. [Illustration] THE KITES. There is a nice breeze this afternoon, and this hill-side is just the place for flying a kite. Two kites are already flying merrily up in the sky, and our two young friends will fly theirs when they get a little higher up, near the windmill. [Illustration: THE PETS.] [Illustration] THE BOOKSELLER. The boys like to call on Mr. Leaf, because he has such nice books. But sometimes they merely sit down and read them. [Illustration] TAKING A PHOTOGRAPH. The squire has called at the studio to-day to have his carte taken, and the photographer is placing him in the best position. [Illustration] RATHER TIGHT. Richard has come for a pair of boots, and is trying a pair on, but he thinks they are rather too small for him. [Illustration] "A LETTER, SIR." A messenger has just brought the student a letter. The dog is looking at the man rather suspiciously. [Illustration] MUSING. Little Hester is leaning on the palings this afternoon, with her head on her hand, as if in a deep study. I wonder what she is musing about. I dare say if the little bird above her could speak he would ask her the subject of her thoughts. I hope they are good, hopeful, cheerful thoughts, and I think they are, judging from her serene and happy countenance. [Illustration] THE WINGED LETTER-CARRIER. The pigeon is a pretty creature, and is sometimes useful in carrying letters very long distances. Little Susan is quite overjoyed this morning to find one of papa's pigeons dropping at her feet a letter which it must have carried very many weary miles. [Illustration] WATCHING PUSSY. Pussy is very sly in her movements, and little John is watching from the window, to see whether she is up to any mischief. The dog seems, from his look, as if he half suspected her also. The little birds on the bough just above her had better take care of themselves, for Pussy would soon be after them if she once saw them. But she is not likely to catch them, for Pussy has no wings to follow them when they fly away. [Illustration] THE SLEDGE. It is a cold winter morning, and the children are amusing themselves by riding in a sledge over the frozen snow. The birds are huddling together on the bare branches, as if they felt the cold very keenly. It is pleasant, no doubt, for the riders, but whether it is for our little friend who is drawing the sledge, I am not sure. At all events, it will warm him this cold morning, and that will no doubt do him good. [Illustration] A, B, C. A, B, C, are, as you know, the first three letters of the alphabet, and the children in the picture are just beginning to learn them. It seems hard to them at first, but it will be easy presently. They will soon learn the name and shape of all the letters, and then will go on to learn what letters make a word, and then what meaning the word has. Thus they will soon be able to read and spell every word, and sit down and read the nice books in papa's library. [Illustration] LITTLE ALFRED'S PRAYER. My heavenly Father, I thank Thee for all Thy care and kindness, for all Thy mercy and love. I thank Thee for my home and friends, for my comforts and blessings. I commit myself to Thy continued care and kind keeping. I pray that Thou wilt keep all evil from me. And bless my dear friends, and all who are about me. Help me to be sorry for my sins, to please Thee in all things, and to grow in all virtue and godliness. Hear me, my Father, for my dear Saviour's sake. Amen. [Illustration] "WHICH IS THE WAY, PLEASE?" Edwin has had a long walk in the country, but in returning home has wandered out of the way, and lost himself. He is just now standing on an eminence in the road, and, seeing some travellers, is shouting to them, and asking them to direct him. [Illustration] "CAN'T GO OUT YET." It is pouring heavily, though the boy with the basket does not seem to mind it. Annie is impatient, but she must wait till the rain is over. [Illustration] THE SCHOOLMASTER. The old schoolmaster is busy with his pupils this afternoon, and is reading something which they are writing out. Some of the words puzzle little Joseph, and he does not know how to spell them. His tiny brother, who sits at his side, is making straight strokes. [Illustration] THE SAW-PIT. It is dinner-time, and the children have just brought their father's dinner to the saw-pit, and are spreading a clean cloth for him on a large log of wood. [Illustration] THE SLEDGE-CHAIR. Harriet is giving her little sister a ride in a sledge-chair, and she has got her mama's muff to put her hands in. The rude schoolboys are stopping to quiz the funny chair, but Harriet does not mind their laugh, for she knows her little sister will like the ride. [Illustration] OFF TO SEA. Sidney has just bidden his friends good-bye, and is off for his first voyage. He is so fond of the sea that nothing else would please him. His ship is lying out there in the distance, and he is just going on board, as the vessel sails to-morrow for China. [Illustration] "WANT ANYTHING TO-DAY?" The poor old man is hobbling along from door to door, to see if he can sell anything. [Illustration] DON'T BE AFRAID. Amy has got a penny for the lad who has swept the path, but she is quite afraid of him. [Illustration] SHOWING BABY THE PICTURES. Mama is always ready to please her little baby girl in any way she can. She has just got a nice picture-book, and is going to show baby the pictures. Baby is so eager to see them that she has thrown aside her little mug, and trumpet, and woolly lamb, in order to look at them. How pleased she will be for mama to take her on her knee, and explain them to her! [Illustration] "RATHER FEVERISH." Master Edmund is lying on the sofa this morning unwell. They have sent for the doctor, who is feeling his pulse, and looking at his tongue. The doctor will send him some medicine presently, but he does not know that it is all through eating too much of that currant tart yesterday. [Illustration] RINGING THE BELL. Little May is but a dot of a child to walk down the street all by herself, and ring the school bell. But she can do this quite safely, and does it nearly every day. The bell is rather high up for her to reach it, but she can just stretch her little fat fingers up to it, and pull it, and then some one opens the door for her. She is very fond of going to school, and always contrives to be there early. [Illustration] SCHOOL OVER. The clock has just struck, and the children are coming down-stairs to go home. They are glad to go, the more so as it is half-holiday to-day, and as it is fine weather they want to be at their games in the fields. The little girl coming down the stone stairs is leaning over the rails looking for her brother, who is just below and does not see her. He will wait for her, I am sure, for he would not be so unkind as to go home without her, for he is very fond of his little sister. [Illustration] THE BOOT CUPBOARD. This is our boot cupboard, where we keep the blacking and brushes, and papa's boot-jack. I will tell you whom they belong to, all these five pairs. The tall big ones belong to dear papa, as you may suppose, and are strong ones, as he has to walk very much. Mama's boots are not kept here, but in her own bed-room. Then the next tall pair belong to brother Richard, and are almost as large as papa's. The pair between Richard's boots belong to sister Mary; and the pair nearer the door, to little Susan. The tiny pair next the door, are dear little baby's, but they are not of much use to him, for his fat little feet need a larger pair. * * * * * Printed by WATSON & HAZELL, London and Aylesbury. 
16540	----	MELCHIOR'S DREAM AND OTHER TALES, BY JULIANA HORATIA EWING. LONDON: SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE, NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C. NEW YORK: E. & J.B. YOUNG & CO. [Published under the direction of the General Literature Committee.] Dedicated TO FOUR BROTHERS AND FOUR SISTERS. CONTENTS. MELCHIOR'S DREAM THE BLACKBIRD'S NEST FRIEDRICH'S BALLAD A BIT OF GREEN MONSIEUR THE VISCOUNT'S FRIEND THE YEW-LANE GHOSTS A BAD HABIT A HAPPY FAMILY EDITOR'S PREFACE. It is always a memorable era in a mother's life when she first introduces a daughter into society. Many things contribute to make it so; among which is the fact of the personal blessing to herself, in having been permitted to see the day--to have been spared, that is, to watch over her child in infancy, and now to see her entering life upon her own account. But a more uncommon privilege is the one granted to me on the present occasion, of introducing a daughter into the literary world; and the feelings of pride and pleasure it calls forth, are certainly not less powerful than those created by the commoner occurrence. It is my comfort also to add that these are not overclouded by any painful anxiety or misgiving. There may be differences of opinion as to the precise amount of literary merit in these tales; but viewed as the first productions of a young author, they are surely full of promise; while their whole tone and aim is so unmistakably high, that even those who criticize the style will be apt to respect the writer. I ought here to express a hope that it will not be thought presumptuous on my part, to undertake the office of introduction. I beg it to be understood that I address myself especially to those readers who have (I speak it with deep gratitude and pleasure) listened kindly and favourably to me for several years past, and who will, I trust, be no less well disposed towards my daughter's writings. To them also it may be interesting to know, that in the "J.H.G." of "Melchior's Dream," etc., they will find the original of my own portrait of "Aunt Judy." But I have still something more to say: another little bit of gratification to express. What one sister has written, another has illustrated by her pencil; a cause of double thankfulness in my heart to Him from whom all good gifts come. MARGARET GATTY. NOTE.--_The foregoing Preface was written for the first edition of "Melchior's Dream, and other Tales." This was published in 1862 under Mrs. Ewing's maiden initials, "J.H.G." It contained the first five stories in the present volume, and these were illustrated by the writer's eldest sister, "M.S.G."_ MELCHIOR'S DREAM. AN ALLEGORY. "Thou that hast given so much to me, Give one thing more--a grateful heart." GEORGE HERBERT. "Well, father, I don't believe the Browns are a bit better off than we are; and yet when I spent the day with young Brown, we cooked all sorts of messes in the afternoon; and he wasted twice as much rum and brandy and lemons in his trash, as I should want to make good punch of. He was quite surprised, too, when I told him that our mince-pies were kept shut up in the larder, and only brought out at meal-times, and then just one apiece; he said they had mince-pies always going, and he got one whenever he liked. Old Brown never blows up about that sort of thing; he likes Adolphus to enjoy himself in the holidays, particularly at Christmas." The speaker was a boy--if I may be allowed to use the word in speaking of an individual whose jackets had for some time past been resigned to a younger member of his family, and who daily, in the privacy of his own apartment, examined his soft cheeks by the aid of his sisters' "back-hair glass." He was a handsome boy too; tall, and like David--"ruddy, and of a fair countenance;" and his face, though clouded then, bore the expression of general amiability. He was the eldest son in a large young family, and was being educated at one of the best public schools. He did not, it must be confessed, think either small beer or small beans of himself; and as to the beer and beans that his family thought of him, I think it was pale ale and kidney-beans at least. Young Hopeful had, however, his weak points like the rest of us; and perhaps one of the weakest was the difficulty he found in amusing himself without _bothering_ other people. He had quite a monomania for proposing the most troublesome "larks" at the most inconvenient moments; and if his plans were thwarted, an Æolian harp is cheerful compared to the tone in which, arguing and lamenting, he "Fought his battles o'er again," to the distraction of every occupied member of the household. When the lords of the creation of all ages can find nothing else to do, they generally take to eating and drinking; and so it came to pass that our hero had set his mind upon brewing a jorum of punch, and sipping it with an accompaniment of mince-pies; and Paterfamilias had not been quietly settled to his writing for half-an-hour, when he was disturbed by an application for the necessary ingredients. These he had refused, quietly explaining that he could not afford to waste his French brandy, etc., in school-boy cookery, and ending with, "You see the reason, my dear boy?" To which the dear boy replied as above, and concluded with the disrespectful (not to say ungrateful) hint, "Old Brown never blows up about that sort of thing; he likes Adolphus to enjoy himself in the holidays." Whereupon Paterfamilias made answer, in the mildly deprecating tone in which the elder sometimes do answer the younger in these topsy-turvy days:-- "That's quite a different case. Don't you see, my boy, that Adolphus Brown is an only son, and you have nine brothers and sisters? If you have punch and mince-meat to play with, there is no reason why Tom should not have it, and James, and Edward, and William, and Benjamin, and Jack. And then there are your sisters. Twice the amount of the Browns' mince-meat would not serve you. I like you to enjoy yourself in the holidays as much as young Brown or anybody; but you must remember that I send you boys to good schools, and give you all the substantial comforts and advantages in my power; and the Christmas bills are very heavy, and I have a great many calls on my purse; and you must be reasonable. Don't you see?" "Well, father--" began the boy; but his father interrupted him. He knew the unvarying beginning of a long grumble, and dreading the argument, cut it short. "I have decided. You must amuse yourself some other way. And just remember that young Brown's is quite another case. He is an only son." Whereupon Paterfamilias went off to his study and his sermon; and his son, like the Princess in Andersen's story of the Swineherd, was left outside to sing, "O dearest Augustine, All's clean gone away!" Not that he did say that--that was the princess' song--what he said was, "_I wish I were an only son!_" This was rather a vain wish, for round the dining-room fire (where he soon joined them) were gathered his nine brothers and sisters, who, to say the truth, were not looking much more lively and cheerful than he. And yet (of all days in the year on which to be doleful and dissatisfied!) this was Christmas Eve. Now I know that the idea of dulness or discomfort at Christmas is a very improper one, particularly in a story. We all know how every little boy in a story-book spends the Christmas holidays. First, there is the large hamper of good things sent by grandpapa, which is as inexhaustible as Fortunatus's purse, and contains everything, from a Norfolk turkey to grapes from the grandpaternal vinery. There is the friend who gives a guinea to each member of the family, and sees who will spend it best. There are the godpapas and godmammas, who might almost be fairy sponsors from the number of expensive gifts that they bring upon the scene. The uncles and aunts are also liberal. One night is devoted to a magic-lantern (which has a perfect focus), another to the pantomime, a third to a celebrated conjuror, a fourth to a Christmas tree and juvenile ball. The happy youth makes himself sufficiently ill with plum-pudding, to testify to the reader how good it was, and how much there was of it; but recovers in time to fall a victim to the negus and trifle at supper for the same reason. He is neither fatigued with late hours nor surfeited with sweets; or if he is, we do not hear of it. But as this is a strictly candid history, I will at once confess the truth, on behalf of my hero and his brothers and sisters. They had spent the morning in decorating the old church, in pricking holly about the house, and in making a mistletoe bush. Then in the afternoon they had tasted the Christmas soup and seen it given out; they had put a finishing touch to the snow man by crowning him with holly, and had dragged the yule-logs home from the carpenter's. And now, the early tea being over, Paterfamilias had gone to finish his sermon for to-morrow; his friend was shut up in his room; and Materfamilias was in hers, with one of those painful headaches which even Christmas will not always keep away. So the ten children were left to amuse themselves, and they found it rather a difficult matter. "Here's a nice Christmas!" said our hero. He had turned his youngest brother out of the arm-chair, and was now lying in it with his legs over the side. "Here's a nice Christmas! A fellow might just as well be at school. I wonder what Adolphus Brown would think of being cooped up with a lot of children like this! It's his party to-night, and he's to have champagne and ices. I wish I were an only son." "Thank you," said a chorus of voices from the floor. They were all sprawling about on the hearth-rug, pushing and struggling like so many kittens in a sack, and every now and then with a grumbled remonstrance:-- "Don't, Jack! you're treading on me." "You needn't take all the fire, Tom." "Keep your legs to yourself, Benjamin." "It wasn't I," etc., with occasionally the feebler cry of a small sister-- "Oh! you boys are so rough." "And what are you girls, I wonder?" inquired the proprietor of the arm-chair with cutting irony. "Whiney piney, whiney piney. I wish there were no such things as brothers and sisters!" "_You wish_ WHAT?" said a voice from the shadow by the door, as deep and impressive as that of the ghost in Hamlet. The ten sprang up; but when the figure came into the fire-light, they saw that it was no ghost, but Paterfamilias's old college friend, who spent most of his time abroad, and who, having no home or relatives of his own, had come to spend Christmas at his friend's vicarage. "You wish _what_?" he repeated. "Well, brothers and sisters are a bore," was the reply. "One or two would be all very well; but just look, here are ten of us; and it just spoils everything. If a fellow wants to go anywhere, it's somebody else's _turn_. If old Brown sends a basket of grapes, it's share and share alike; all the ten must taste, and then there's about a grape and a half for each. If anybody calls or comes to luncheon, there are a whole lot of brats swarming about, looking as if we kept a school. Whatever one does, the rest must do; whatever there is, the rest must share; whereas, if a fellow was an only son, he would have the whole--and by all the rules of arithmetic, one is better than a tenth." "And by the same rules ten is better than one," said the friend. "Sold again," sang out Master Jack from the floor, and went head over heels against the fender. His brother boxed his ears with great promptitude, and went on, "Well, I don't care; confess, sir, isn't it rather a nuisance?" Paterfamilias's friend looked very grave, and said, quietly, "I don't think I am able to judge. I never had brother or sister but one, and he was drowned at sea. Whatever I have had, I have had the whole of, and would have given it away willingly for some one to give it to. If any one sent me grapes, I ate them alone. If I made anything, there was no one to show it to. If I wanted to act, I must act all the characters, and be my own audience. I remember that I got a lot of sticks at last, and cut heads and faces to all of them, and carved names on their sides, and called them my brothers and sisters. If you want to know what I thought a nice number for a fellow to have, I can only say that I remember carving twenty-five. I used to stick them in the ground and talk to them. I have been only, and lonely, and alone, all my life, and have never felt the nuisance you speak of." This was a funny account; but the speaker looked so far from funny that one of the sisters, who was very tender-hearted, crept up to him, and said, gently-- "Richard is only joking; he doesn't really want to get rid of us. The other day the curate said he wished he had a sister, and Richard offered to sell us all for ninepence; but he is only in fun. Only it is rather slow just now, and the boys get rather cross; at least, we all of us do." "It's a dreadful state of things," said the friend, smiling through his black beard and moustachios. "What is to be done?" "I know what would be very nice," insinuated the young lady. "What?" "If you wouldn't mind telling us a very short story till supper-time. The boys like stories." "That's a good idea," said Benjamin. "As if the girls didn't!" But the friend proclaimed order, and seated himself with the girl in question on his knee. "Well, what sort of a story is it to be?" "Any sort," said Richard; "only not too true, if you please. I don't like stories like tracts. There was an usher at a school I was at, and he used to read tracts about good boys and bad boys to the fellows on Sunday afternoon. He always took out the real names, and put in the names of the fellows instead. Those who had done well in the week he put in as good ones, and those who hadn't as the bad. He didn't like me, and I was always put in as a bad boy, and I came to so many untimely ends I got sick of it. I was hanged twice, and transported once for sheep-stealing; I committed suicide one week, and broke into the bank the next; I ruined three families, became a hopeless drunkard, and broke the hearts of my twelve distinct parents. I used to beg him to let me be reformed next week; but he said he never would till I did my Cæsar better. So, if you please, we'll have a story that can't be true." "Very well," said the friend, laughing; "but if it isn't true, may I put you in? All the best writers, you know, draw their characters from their friends now-a-days. May I put you in?" "Oh, certainly!" said Richard, placing himself in front of the fire, putting his feet on the hob, and stroking his curls with an air which seemed to imply that whatever he was put into would be highly favoured. The rest struggled, and pushed, and squeezed themselves into more modest but equally comfortable quarters; and after a few moments of thought, Paterfamilias's friend commenced the story of MELCHIOR'S DREAM. "Melchior is my hero. He was--well, he considered himself a young man, so we will consider him so too. He was not perfect; but in these days the taste in heroes is for a good deal of imperfection, not to say wickedness. He was not an only son. On the contrary, he had a great many brothers and sisters, and found them quite as objectionable as my friend Richard does." "I smell a moral," murmured the said Richard. "Your scent must be keen," said the story-teller, "for it is a long way off. Well, he had never felt them so objectionable as on one particular night, when, the house being full of company, it was decided that the boys should sleep in 'barracks,' as they called it; that is, all in one large room." "Thank goodness, we have not come to that!" said the incorrigible Richard; but he was reduced to order by threats of being turned out, and contented himself with burning the soles of his boots against the bars of the grate in silence: and the friend continued:-- "But this was not the worst. Not only was he, Melchior, to sleep in the same room with his brothers, but his bed being the longest and largest, his youngest brother was to sleep at the other end of it--foot to foot. True, by this means he got another pillow, for, of course, that little Hop-o'-my-Thumb could do without one, and so he took his; but, in spite of this, he determined that, sooner than submit to such an indignity, he would sit up all night. Accordingly, when all the rest were fast asleep, Melchior, with his boots off and his waistcoat easily unbuttoned, sat over the fire in the long lumber-room which served that night as 'barracks'. He had refused to eat any supper downstairs to mark his displeasure, and now repaid himself by a stolen meal according to his own taste. He had got a pork-pie, a little bread and cheese, some large onions to roast, a couple of raw apples, an orange, and papers of soda and tartaric acid to compound effervescing draughts. When these dainties were finished, he proceeded to warm some beer in a pan, with ginger, spice, and sugar, and then lay back in his chair and sipped it slowly, gazing before him, and thinking over his misfortunes. "The night wore on, the fire got lower and lower, and still Melchior sat, with his eyes fixed on a dirty old print that had hung above the mantelpiece for years, sipping his 'brew', which was fast getting cold. The print represented an old man in a light costume, with a scythe in one hand and an hour-glass in the other; and underneath the picture in flourishing capitals was the word TIME. "'You're a nice old beggar,' said Melchior, dreamily. 'You look like an old hay-maker who has come to work in his shirt-sleeves, and forgotten the rest of his clothes. Time! time you went to the tailor's, I think.' "This was very irreverent; but Melchior was not in a respectful mood; and as for the old man, he was as calm as any philosopher. "The night wore on, and the fire got lower and lower, and at last went out altogether. "'How stupid of me not to have mended it!' said Melchior; but he had not mended it, and so there was nothing for it but to go to bed; and to bed he went accordingly. "'But I won't go to sleep,' he said; 'no, no; I shall keep awake, and to-morrow they shall know that I have had a bad night.' "So he lay in bed with his eyes wide open, and staring still at the old print, which he could see from his bed by the light of the candle, which he had left alight on the mantelpiece to keep him awake. The flame waved up and down, for the room was draughty; and as the lights and shadows passed over the old man's face, Melchior almost fancied that it nodded to him, so he nodded back again; and as that tired him he shut his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them again, there was no longer any doubt--the old man's head was moving; and not only his head, but his legs, and his whole body. Finally, he put his feet out of the frame, and prepared to step right over the mantelpiece, candle, and all. "'Take care,' Melchior tried to say, 'you'll set fire to your shirt.' But he could not utter a sound; and the old man arrived safely on the floor, where he seemed to grow larger and larger, till he was fully the size of a man, but still with the same scythe and hour-glass, and the same airy costume. Then he came across the room, and sat down by Melchior's bedside. "'Who are you?' said Melchior, feeling rather creepy. "'TIME,' said his visitor in a deep voice, which sounded as if it came from a distance. "'Oh, to be sure, yes! In copper-plate capitals.' "'What's in copper-plate capitals?' inquired Time. "'Your name, under the print.' "'Very likely,' said Time. "Melchior felt more and more uneasy. 'You must be very cold,' he said. 'Perhaps you would feel warmer if you went back into the picture.' "'Not at all,' said Time; 'I have come on purpose to see you.' "'I have not the pleasure of knowing you,' said Melchior, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. "'There are not many people who have a personal acquaintance with me,' said his visitor. 'You have an advantage--I am your godfather.' "'Indeed,' said Melchior; 'I never heard of it.' "'Yes,' said his visitor; 'and you will find it a great advantage.' "'Would you like to put on my coat?' said Melchior, trying to be civil. "'No, thank you,' was the answer. 'You will want it yourself. We must be driving soon.' "'Driving!' said Melchior. "'Yes,' was the answer; 'all the world is driving; and you must drive; and here come your brothers and sisters.' "Melchior sat up; and there they were, sure enough, all dressed, and climbing one after the other on to the bed--_his_ bed! "There was that little minx of a sister with her curls (he always called them carrot shavings), who was so conceited (girls always are!) and always trying to attract notice, in spite of Melchior's incessant snubbings. There was that clever brother, with his untidy hair and bent shoulders, who was just as bad the other way; who always ran out of the back door when visitors called, and was for ever moping and reading: and this, in spite of Melchior's hiding his books, and continually telling him that he was a disgrace to the family, a perfect bear, not fit to be seen, etc.--all with the laudable desire of his improvement. There was that little Hop-o'-my-Thumb, as lively as any of them, a young monkey, the worst of all; who was always in mischief, and consorting with the low boys in the village; though Melchior did not fail to tell him that he was not fit company for gentlemen's sons, that he was certain to be cut when he went to school, and that he would probably end his days by being transported, if not hanged. There was the second brother, who was Melchior's chief companion, and against whom he had no particular quarrel. And there was the little pale lame sister, whom he dearly loved; but whom, odd to say, he never tried to improve at all; his remedy for her failings was generally, 'Let her do as she likes, will you?' There were others who were all tiresome in their respective ways; and one after the other they climbed up. "'What are you doing, getting on to my bed!' inquired the indignant brother, as soon as he could speak. "'Don't you know the difference between a bed and a coach, godson?' said Time, sharply. "Melchior was about to retort, but on looking round, he saw that they were really in a large sort of coach with very wide windows. 'I thought I was in bed,' he muttered. 'What can I have been dreaming of?' "'What, indeed!' said the godfather. 'But, be quick, and sit close, for you have all to get in; you are all brothers and sisters.' "'Must families be together?' inquired Melchior, dolefully. "'Yes, at first,' was the answer; 'they get separated in time. In fact, everyone has to cease driving sooner or later. I drop them on the road at different stages, according to my orders,' and he showed a bundle of papers in his hands; 'but, as I favour you, I will tell you in confidence that I have to drop all your brothers and sisters before you. There, you four oldest sit on this side, you five others there, and the little one must stand or be nursed.' "'Ugh!' said Melchior, 'the coach would be well enough if one was alone; but what a squeeze with all these brats! I say, go pretty quick, will you?' "'I will,' said Time, 'if you wish it. But, beware that you cannot change your mind. If I go quicker for your sake, I shall never go slow again; if slower, I shall not again go quick; and I only favour you so far, because you are my godson. Here, take the check-string; when you want me, pull it, and speak through the tube. Now we're off.' "Whereupon the old man mounted the box, and took the reins. He had no whip; but when he wanted to start, he shook the hour-glass, and off they went. Then Melchior saw that the road where they were driving was very broad, and so filled with vehicles of all kinds that he could not see the hedges. The noise and crowd and dust were very great; and to Melchior all seemed delightfully exciting. There was every sort of conveyance, from the grandest coach to the humblest donkey-cart; and they seemed to have enough to do to escape being run over. Among all the gay people there were many whom he knew; and a very nice thing it seemed to be to drive among all the grandees, and to show his handsome face at the window, and bow and smile to his acquaintance. Then it appeared to be the fashion to wrap oneself in a tiger-skin rug, and to look at life through an opera-glass, and old Time had kindly put one of each into the coach. "But here again Melchior was much troubled by his brothers and sisters. Just at the moment when he was wishing to look most fashionable and elegant, one or other of them would pull away the rug, or drop the glass, or quarrel, or romp, or do something that spoilt the effect. In fact, one and all, they 'just spoilt everything;' and the more he scolded, the worse they became. The 'minx' shook her curls, and flirted through the window with a handsome but ill-tempered looking man on a fine horse, who praised her 'golden locks,' as he called them; and, oddly enough, when Melchior said the man was a lout, and that the locks in question were corkscrewy carrot shavings, she only seemed to like the man and his compliments the more. Meanwhile, the untidy brother pored over his book, or if he came to the window, it was only to ridicule the fine ladies and gentlemen, so Melchior sent him to Coventry. Then Hop-o'-my-Thumb had taken to make signs and exchange jokes with some disreputable-looking youths in a dog-cart; and when his brother would have put him to 'sit still like a gentleman' at the bottom of the coach, he seemed positively to prefer his low companions; and the rest were little better. "Poor Melchior! Surely there never was a clearer case of a young gentleman's comfort destroyed, solely by other people's perverse determination to be happy in their own way instead of in his. Surely, no young gentleman ever knew better that if his brothers and sisters would yield to his wishes, they would not quarrel; or ever more completely overlooked the fact, that if he had yielded more to theirs the same happy result might have been attained. At last he lost patience, and pulling the check-string, bade Godfather Time drive as fast as he could. "'For,' said he, 'there will never be any peace while there are so many of us in the coach; if a fellow had the rug and glass, and, indeed, the coach to himself, he might drive and bow and talk with the best of them; but as it is, one might as well go about in a wild-beast caravan.' "Godfather Time frowned, but shook his glass all the same, and away they went at a famous pace. All at once they came to a stop. "'Now for it,' says Melchior; 'here goes one at any rate.' "Time called out the name of the second brother over his shoulder; and the boy stood up, and bade his brothers and sisters good-bye. "'It is time that I began to push my way in the world,' said he, and passed out of the coach, and in among the crowd. "'You have taken the only quiet boy,' said Melchior to the godfather angrily. 'Drive fast now, for pity's sake; and let us get rid of the tiresome ones.' "And fast enough they drove, and dropped first one and then the other; but the sisters, and the reading boy, and the youngest still remained. "'What are you looking at?' said Melchior to the lame sister. "'At a strange figure in the crowd,' she answered. "'I see nothing,' said Melchior. But on looking again after a while, he did see a figure wrapped in a cloak, gliding in and out among the people, unnoticed, if not unseen. "'Who is it?' Melchior asked of the godfather. "'A friend of mine,' Time answered. 'His name is Death.' "Melchior shuddered, more especially as the figure had now come up to the coach, and put its hand in through the window, on which, to his horror, the lame sister laid hers and smiled. At this moment the coach stopped. "'What are you doing?' shrieked Melchior, 'Drive on! drive on!' "But even while he sprang up to seize the check-string the door had opened, the pale sister's face (a little paler now) had dropped upon the shoulder of the figure in the cloak, and he had carried her away; and Melchior stormed and raved in vain. "'To take her, and to leave the rest! Cruel! cruel!' "In his rage and grief, he hardly knew it when the untidy brother was called, and putting his book under his arm, slipped out of the coach without looking to the right or left. Presently the coach stopped again; and when Melchior looked up the door was open, and at it was the fine man on the fine horse, who was lifting the sister on to the saddle before him. 'What fool's game are you playing?' said Melchior, angrily. 'I know that man. He is both ill-tempered and a bad character.' "'You never told her so before,' muttered young Hop-o'-my-Thumb. "'Hold your tongue,' said Melchior. 'I forbade her to talk to him, which was enough.' "'I don't want to leave you; but he cares for me, and you don't,' sobbed the sister; and she was carried away. "When she had gone, the youngest brother slid down from his corner and came up to Melchior. "'We are alone now, Brother,' he said; 'let us be good friends. May I sit on the front seat with you, and have half the rug? I will be very good and polite, and will have nothing more to do with those fellows, if you will talk to me.' "Now Melchior really rather liked the idea, but as his brother seemed to be in a submissive mood, he thought he would take the opportunity of giving him a good lecture, and would then graciously relent and forgive. So he began by asking him if he thought that he was fit company for him (Melchior), what he thought that gentlefolks would say to a boy who had been playing with such youths as young Hop-o'-my-Thumb had, and whether the said youths were not scoundrels? And when the boy refused to say that they were (for they had been kind to him), Melchior said that his tastes were evidently as bad as ever, and even hinted at the old transportation threat. This was too much; the boy went angrily back to his window corner, and Melchior--like too many of us!--lost the opportunity of making peace for the sake of wagging his own tongue. "'But he will come round in a few minutes,' he thought A few minutes passed, however, and there was no sign. A few minutes more, and there was a noise, a shout; Melchior looked up, and saw that the boy had jumped through the open window into the road, and had been picked up by the men in the dog-cart, and was gone. "And so at last my hero was alone. At first he enjoyed it very much. He shook out his hair, wrapped himself in the rug, stared through the opera-glass, and did the fine gentleman very well indeed. But though everyone allowed him to be the finest young fellow on the road, yet nobody seemed to care for the fact as much as he did; they talked, and complimented, and stared at him, but he got tired of it. For he could not arrange his hair any better; he could not dispose the rug more gracefully, or stare more perseveringly through the glass; and if he could, his friends could do nothing more than they had done. In fact, he got tired of the crowd, and found himself gazing through the window, not to see his fine friends, but to try and catch sight of his brothers and sisters. Sometimes he saw the youngest brother, looking each time more wild and reckless; and sometimes the sister, looking more and more miserable; but he saw no one else. "At last there was a stir among the people, and all heads were turned towards the distance, as if looking for something. Melchior asked what it was, and was told that the people were looking for a man, the hero of many battles, who had won honour for himself and for his country in foreign lands, and who was coming home. Everybody stood up and gazed, Melchior with them. Then the crowd parted, and the hero came on. No one asked whether he were handsome or genteel, whether he kept good company, or wore a tiger-skin rug, or looked through an opera-glass? They knew what he had _done_, and it was enough. "He was a bronzed hairy man, with one sleeve empty, and a breast covered with stars; but in his face, brown with sun and wind, overgrown with hair and scarred with wounds, Melchior saw his second brother! There was no doubt of it. And the brother himself, though he bowed kindly in answer to the greetings showered on him, was gazing anxiously for the old coach, where he used to ride and be so uncomfortable, in that time to which he now looked back as the happiest of his life. "'I thank you, gentlemen. I am indebted to you, gentlemen. I have been away long. I am going home.' "'Of course he is!' shouted Melchior, waving his arms widely with pride and joy. 'He is coming home; to this coach, where he was--oh, it seems but an hour ago! Time goes so fast. We were great friends when we were young together. My brother and I, ladies and gentlemen, the hero and I--my brother--the hero with the stars upon his breast--he is coming home!' "Alas! what avail stars and ribbons on a breast where the life-blood is trickling slowly from a little wound? The crowd looked anxious; the hero came on, but more slowly, with his dim eyes straining for the old coach; and Melchior stood with his arms held out in silent agony. But just when he was beginning to hope, and the brothers seemed about to meet, a figure passed between--a figure in a cloak. "'I have seen you many times, Friend, face to face,' said the hero; 'but now I would fain have waited for a little while.' "'To enjoy his well-earned honours,' murmured the crowd. "'Nay,' he said, 'not that; but to see my home, and my brothers and sisters. But if it may not be, friend Death, I am ready, and tired too.' With that he held out his hand, and Death lifted up the hero of many battles like a child, and carried him away, stars and ribbons and all. "'Cruel Death!' cried Melchior; 'was there no one else in all this crowd, that you must take him?' "His friends condoled with him; but they soon went on their own ways; and the hero seemed to be forgotten; and Melchior, who had lost all pleasure in the old bowings and chattings, sat sadly gazing out of the window, to see if he could see any one for whom he cared. At last, in a grave dark man, who was sitting on a horse, and making a speech to the crowd, he recognized his clever untidy brother. "'What is that man talking about?' he asked of some one near him. "'That man!' was the answer. 'Don't you know? He is _the_ man of the time. He is a philosopher. Everybody goes to hear him. He has found out that--well--that everything is a mistake.' "'Has he corrected it?' said Melchior. "'You had better hear for yourself,' said the man. 'Listen.' "Melchior listened, and a cold clear voice rang upon his ear, saying:-- "'The world of fools will go on as they have ever done; but to the wise few, to whom I address myself, I would say--Shake off at once and for ever the fancies and feelings, the creeds and customs that shackle you, and be true. We have come to a time when wise men will not be led blindfold in the footsteps of their predecessors, but will tear away the bandage and see for themselves. I have torn away mine, and looked. There is no Faith--it is shaken to its rotten foundation; there is no Hope--it is disappointed every day; there is no Love at all. There is nothing for any man or for each, but his fate; and he is happiest and wisest who can meet it most unmoved.' "'It is a lie!' shouted Melchior. 'I feel it to be so in my heart. A wicked foolish lie! Oh! was it to teach such evil folly as this that you left home and us, my brother? Oh, come back! come back!' "The philosopher turned his head coldly, and smiled. 'I thank the gentleman who spoke,' he said, still in the same cold voice, 'for his bad opinion, and for his good wishes. I think the gentleman spoke of home and kindred. My experience of life has led me to find that home is most valued when it is left, and kindred most dear when they are parted. I have happily freed myself from such inconsistencies. I am glad to know that fate can tear me from no place that I care for more than the next where it shall deposit me, nor take away any friends that I value more than those it leaves. I recommend a similar self-emancipation to the gentleman who did me the honour of speaking.' "With this the philosopher went his way, and the crowd followed him. "'There is a separation more bitter than death,' said Melchior. "At last he pulled the check-string, and called to Godfather Time in an humble entreating voice. "'It is not your fault,' he began; 'it is not your fault, Godfather; but this drive has been altogether wrong. Let us turn back and begin again. Let us all get in afresh and begin again.' "'But what a squeeze with all the brats!' said Godfather Time, ironically. "'We should be so happy,' murmured Melchior, humbly; 'and it is very cold and chilly; we should keep each other warm.' "'You have the tiger-skin rug and the opera-glass, you know,' said Time. "'Ah, do not speak of me!' cried Melchior, earnestly. 'I am thinking of them. There is plenty of room; the little one can sit on my knee; and we shall be so happy. The truth is, Godfather, that I have been wrong. I have gone the wrong way to work. A little more love, and kindness, and forbearance, might have kept my sisters with us, might have led the little one to better tastes and pleasures, and have taught the other by experience the truth of the faith and hope and love which he now reviles. Oh, I have sinned! I have sinned! Let us turn back, Godfather Time, and begin again. And oh! drive very slowly, for partings come only too soon.' "'I am sorry,' said the old man in the same bitter tone as before, 'to disappoint your rather unreasonable wishes. What you say is admirably true, with this misfortune, that your good intentions are too late. Like the rest of the world you are ready to seize the opportunity when it is past. You should have been kind _then_. You should have advised _then_. You should have yielded _then_. You should have loved your brothers and sisters while you had them. It is too late now.' "With this he drove on, and spoke no more, and poor Melchior stared sadly out of the window. As he was gazing at the crowd, he suddenly saw the dog-cart, in which were his brother and his wretched companions. Oh, how old and worn he looked! and how ragged his clothes were! The men seemed to be trying to persuade him to do something that he did not like, and they began to quarrel; but in the midst of the dispute he turned his head and caught sight of the old coach; and Melchior seeing this, waved his hands, and beckoned with all his might. The brother seemed doubtful; but Melchior waved harder, and (was it fancy?) Time seemed to go slower. The brother made up his mind; he turned and jumped from the dog-cart as he had jumped from the old coach long ago, and ducking in and out among the horses and carriages, ran for his life. The men came after him; but he ran like the wind--pant, pant, nearer, nearer; at last the coach was reached, and Melchior seized the prodigal by his rags and dragged him in. "'Oh, thank GOD, I have got you safe, my brother!' "But what a brother! with wasted body and sunken eyes; with the old curly hair turned to matted locks, that clung faster to his face than the rags did to his trembling limbs; what a sight for the opera-glasses of the crowd! What a subject for the tongues that were ever wagging, and complimenting, and backbiting, and lying, all in a breath, and without sense or scruple! What a sight and a subject for the fine friends, for whose good opinion Melchior had been so anxious? Do you think he was as anxious now? Do you think he was troubled by what they either saw or said; or was ashamed of the wretched prodigal lying among the cushions? I think not. I think that for the most foolish of us there are moments in life (of real joy or real sorrow) when we judge things by a higher standard, and care vastly little for what 'people say'. The only shame that Melchior felt was that his brother should have fared so hardly in the trials and temptations of the world outside, while he had sat at ease among the cushions of the old coach, that had been the home of both alike. Thank GOD, it was the home of both now! And poor Hop-o'-my-Thumb was on the front seat at last, with Melchior kneeling at his feet, and fondly stroking the head that rested against him. "'Has powder come into fashion, brother?' he said. 'Your hair is streaked with white.' "'If it has,' said the other, laughing, 'your barber is better than mine, Melchior, for your head is as white as snow.' "'Is it possible? are we so old? has Time gone so very fast? But what are you staring at through the window? I shall be jealous of that crowd, brother.' "'I am not looking at the crowd,' said the prodigal in a low voice; 'but I see--' "'You see what?' said Melchior. "'A figure in a cloak, gliding in and out--' "Melchior sprang up in horror. 'No! no!' he cried, hoarsely. 'No! surely no!' "Surely yes! Too surely the well-known figure came on; and the prodigal's sunken eyes looked more sunken still as he gazed. As for Melchior, he neither spoke nor moved, but stood in a silent agony, terrible to see. All at once a thought seemed to strike him; he seized his brother, and pushed him to the furthest corner of the seat, and then planted himself firmly at the door just as Death came up and put his hand into the coach. Then he spoke in a low steady voice, more piteous than cries or tears. "'I humbly beseech you, good Death, if you must take one of us, to take me. I have had a long drive, and many comforts and blessings, and am willing if unworthy to go. He has suffered much, and had no pleasure; leave him for a little to enjoy the drive in peace, just for a very little; he has suffered so much, and I have been so much to blame; let me go instead of him.' "Alas for Melchior! It is decreed in the Providence of GOD, that, although the opportunities for doing good, which are in the power of every man, are beyond count or knowledge, yet, the opportunity once neglected, no man by any self-sacrifice can atone for those who have fallen or suffered by his negligence. Poor Melchior! An unalterable law made him the powerless spectator of the consequences of his neglected opportunities. 'No man may deliver his brother, or make agreement unto GOD for him, for it cost more to redeem their souls, so that he must let that alone for ever.' And is it ever so bitter to 'let alone,' as in a case where we might have acted and did not? "Poor Melchior! In vain he laid both his hands in Death's outstretched palm; they fell to him again as if they had passed through air; he was pushed aside--Death passed into the coach--'one was taken and the other left.' "As the cloaked figure glided in and out among the crowd, many turned to look at his sad burden, though few heeded him. Much was said; but the general voice of the crowd was this: 'Ah! he is gone, is he? Well! a born rascal! It must be a great relief to his brother!' A conclusion which was about as wise, and about as near the truth, as the world's conclusions generally are. As for Melchior, he neither saw the figure nor heard the crowd, for he had fallen senseless among the cushions. "When he came to his senses, he found himself lying still upon his face; and so bitter was his loneliness and grief, that he lay still and did not move. He was astonished, however, by the (as it seemed to him) unusual silence. The noise of the carriages had been deafening, and now there was not a sound. Was he deaf? or had the crowd gone? He opened his eyes. Was he blind? or had the night come? He sat right up, and shook himself, and looked again. The crowd _was_ gone; so, for matter of that, was the coach; and so was Godfather Time. He had not been lying among cushions, but among pillows; he was not in any vehicle of any kind, but in bed. The room was dark, and very still; but through the 'barracks' window, which had no blind, he saw the winter sun pushing through the mist, like a red hot cannon-ball hanging in the frosty trees; and in the yard outside, the cocks were crowing. "There was no longer any doubt that he was safe in his old home; but where were his brothers and sisters? With a beating heart he crept to the other end of the bed; and there lay the prodigal, but with no haggard cheeks or sunken eyes, no grey locks or miserable rags, but a rosy yellow-haired urchin fast asleep, with his head upon his arm. 'I took his pillow,' muttered Melchior, self-reproachfully. "A few minutes later, young Hop-o'-my-Thumb (whom Melchior dared not lose sight of for fear he should melt away) seated comfortably on his brother's back, and wrapped up in a blanket, was making a tour of the 'barracks.' "'It's an awful lark,' said he, shivering with a mixture of cold and delight. "If not exactly a _lark_, it was a very happy tour to Melchior, as, hope gradually changing into certainty, he recognized his brothers in one shapeless lump after the other in the little beds. There they all were, sleeping peacefully in a happy home, from the embryo hero to the embryo philosopher, who lay with the invariable book upon his pillow, and his hair looking (as it always did) as if he lived in a high wind. "'I say,' whispered Melchior, pointing to him, 'what did he say the other day about being a parson?' "'He said he should like to be one,' returned Hop-o'-my-Thumb; 'but you said he would frighten away the congregation with his looks. And then, you know, he got very angry, and said he didn't know priests need be dandies, and that everybody was humbuggy alike, and thought of nothing but looks; but that he would be a philosopher like Diogenes, who cared for nobody, and was as ugly as an ape, and lived in a tub.' "'He will make a capital parson,' said Melchior, hastily, 'and I shall tell him so to-morrow. And when I'm squire here, he shall be vicar, and I'll subscribe to all his dodges without a grumble. I'm the eldest son. And, I say, don't you think we could brush his hair for him in a morning, till he learns to do it himself?' "'Oh, I will!' was the lively answer; 'I'm an awful dab at brushing. Look how I brush your best hat!' "'True,' said Melchior. 'Where are the girls to-night?' "'In the little room at the end of the long passage,' said Hop-o'-my-Thumb, trembling with increased chilliness and enjoyment. 'But you're never going there! we shall wake the company, and they will all come out to see what's the matter.' "'I shouldn't care if they did,' said Melchior, 'it would make it feel more real.' "As he did not understand this sentiment, Hop-o'-my-Thumb said nothing, but held on very tightly; and they crept softly down the cold grey passage in the dawn. The girls' door was open; for the girls were afraid of robbers, and left their bed-room door wide open at night, as a natural and obvious means of self-defence. The girls slept together; and the frill of the pale sister's prim little night-cap was buried in the other one's uncovered curls. "'How you do tremble!' whispered Hop-o'-my-Thumb; 'are you cold?' This inquiry received no answer; and after some minutes he spoke again. 'I say, how very pretty they look! don't they?' "But for some reason or other, Melchior seemed to have lost his voice; but he stooped down and kissed both the girls very gently, and then the two brothers crept back along the passage to the 'barracks.' "'One thing more,' said Melchior; and they went up to the mantelpiece. 'I will lend you my bow and arrows to-morrow, on one condition--' "'Anything!' was the reply, in an enthusiastic whisper. "'That you take that old picture for a target, and never let me see it again.' "It was very ungrateful! but perfection is not in man; and there was something in Melchior's muttered excuse-- "'I couldn't stand another night of it.' "Hop-o'-my-Thumb was speedily put to bed again, to get warm, this time with both the pillows; but Melchior was too restless to sleep, so he resolved to have a shower-bath, and to dress. After which, he knelt down by the window, and covered his face with his hands. "'He's saying very long prayers,' thought Hop-o'-my-Thumb, glancing at him from his warm nest; 'and what a jolly humour he is in this morning!' "Still the young head was bent, and the handsome face hidden; and Melchior was finding his life every moment more real and more happy. For there was hardly a thing, from the well-filled 'barracks' to the brother bedfellow, that had been a hardship last night, which this morning did not seem a blessing. He rose at last, and stood in the sunshine, which was now pouring in; a smile was on his lips, and on his face were two drops, which, if they were water, had not come from the shower-bath, or from any bath at all." * * * * * "Is that the end?" inquired the young lady on his knee, as the story teller paused here. "Yes, that is the end." "It's a beautiful story," she murmured, thoughtfully; "but what an extraordinary one! I don't think I could have dreamt such a wonderful dream." "Do you think you could have eaten such a wonderful supper?" said the friend, twisting his moustachios. After this point, the evening's amusements were thoroughly successful. Richard took his smoking boots from the fire-place, and was called upon for various entertainments for which he was famous: such as the accurate imitation of a train just starting, in which two pieces of bone were used with considerable effect; as also of a bumble-bee, who (very much out of season) went buzzing about, and was always being caught with a heavy bang on the heads and shoulders of those who least expected it; all which specimens of his talents were received with due applause by his admiring brothers and sisters. The bumble-bee had just been caught (for the twenty-first time) with a loud smack on brother Benjamin's ear, when the door opened, and Paterfamilias entered with Materfamilias (whose headache was better), and followed by the candles. A fresh log was then thrown upon the fire, the yule cakes and furmety were put upon the table, and everybody drew round to supper; and Paterfamilias announced that although he could not give the materials to play with, he had no objection now to a bowl of moderate punch for all, and that Richard might compound it. This was delightful; and as he sat by his father, ladling away to the rest, Adolphus Brown could hardly have felt more jovial, even with the champagne and ices. The rest sat with radiant faces and shining heads in goodly order; and at the bottom of the table, by Materfamilias, was the friend, as happy in his unselfish sympathy as if his twenty-five sticks had come to life, and were supping with him. As happy--nearly--as if a certain woman's grave had never been dug under the southern sun that could not save her, and as if the children gathered round him were those of whose faces he had often dreamt, but might never see. His health had been drunk, and everybody else's too, when, just as supper was coming to a close, Richard (who had been sitting in thoughtful silence for some minutes) got up with sudden resolution, and said, "I want to propose Mr. What's-his-name's health on my own account. I want to thank him for his story, which had only one mistake in it. Melchior should have kept the effervescing papers to put into the beer; it's a splendid drink! Otherwise it was first-rate; though it hit me rather hard. I want to say that though I didn't mean all I said about being an only son (when a fellow gets put out he doesn't know what he means), yet I know I was quite wrong, and the story is quite right. I want particularly to say that I'm very glad there are so many of us, for the more, you know, the merrier. I wouldn't change father or mother, brothers or sisters, with any one in the world. It couldn't be better, we couldn't be happier. We are all together, and to-morrow is Christmas Day. Thank GOD." It was very well said. It was a very good speech. It was very well and very good that while the blessings were with him, he could feel it to be so, and be grateful. It was very well, and good also, that the friend, who had neither home nor kindred to be grateful for, had something else for which he could thank GOD as heartily. The thought of that something came to him then as he sat at his friend's table, filling his eyes with tears. It came to him next day as he knelt before GOD's altar, remembering in blessed fellowship that deed of love which is the foundation of all our hope and joy. It came to him when he went back to his lonely wandering life, and thought with tender interest of that boyish speech. It came--a whisper of consolation to silence envy and regret for ever. "There _is_ something far better. There _is_ something far happier. There is a better Home than any earthly one, and a Family that shall never be divided." THE BLACKBIRD'S NEST. "Let me not think an action mine own way, But as Thy love shall sway, Resigning up the rudder to Thy skill." GEORGE HERBERT. One day, when I was a very little girl (which is a long time ago), I made a discovery. The place where I made it was not very remote, being a holly-bush at the bottom of our garden; and the discovery was not a great one in itself, though I thought it very grand. I had found a blackbird's nest, with three young ones in it. The discovery was made on this wise. I was sitting one morning on a log of wood opposite this holly-bush, reading the story of Goody Twoshoes, and thinking to myself how much I should like to be like her, and to go about in the village with a raven, a pigeon, and a lark on my shoulders, admired and talked about by everybody. All sorts of nonsense passed through my head as I sat, with the book on my lap, staring straight before me; and I was just fancying the kind condescension with which I would behave to everybody when I became a Goody Twoshoes, when I saw a bird come out of the holly-bush and fly away. It was a blackbird: there was no doubt of it; and it must have a nest in the tree, or why had it been there so long? Down went my book, and I flew to make my discovery. A blackbird's nest, with three young ones! I stood still at first in pure pleasure at the sight; and then, little by little, grand ideas came into my head. I would be very kind to these little blackbirds, I thought; I would take them home out of this cold tree, and make a large nest of cotton wool (which would be much softer and better for them than to be where they were), and feed them, and keep them; and then, when they were full-grown, they would, of course, love me better than any one, and be very tame and grateful; and I should walk about with them on my shoulders, like Goody Twoshoes, and be admired by everybody; for, I am ashamed to say, most of my day dreams ended with this, _to be admired by everybody_. I was so wrapped up in these thoughts that I did not know, till his hands were laid upon my shoulders, that my friend, the curate of the village, had come up behind me. He lived next door to us, and often climbed over the wall that divided our garden to bring me flowers for my little bed. He was a tall, dark, not very young man; and the best hand at making fire-balloons, mending toys, and making a broken wax doll as good as new with a hot knitting needle, that you can imagine. I had heard grown-up people call him grave and silent, but he always laughed and talked to me. "What are you doing, little woman?" he said. "I have got a nest of poor little birds," I answered; "I am so sorry for them here in the cold; but they will be all right when I have got them indoors. I shall make them a beautiful nest of cotton wool, and feed them. Won't it be nice?" I spoke confidently; for I had really so worked up my fancy that I felt quite a contemptuous pity for all the wretched little birds who were hatched every year without me to rear them. At the same time, I had a general idea that grown-up people always _did_ throw cold water on splendid plans like mine; so I was more indignant than surprised when my friend the curate tried to show me that it was quite impossible to do as I wished. The end of all his arguments was that I must leave the nest in its place. But I had a great turn for disputing, and was not at all inclined to give up my point. "You told me on Sunday," I said, pertly, "that we were never too little to do kind things; let me do this." "If I could be sure," he said, looking at me, "that you only wish to do a kind thing." I got more angry and rude. "Perhaps you think I want to kill them," I said. He did not answer, but taking both my hands in his, said, gravely, "Tell me, my child, which do you wish most--to be kind to these poor little birds? or to have the honour and glory of having them, and bringing them up?" "To be kind to them," said I, getting very red. "I don't want any honour and glory," and I felt ready to cry. "Well, well," he said, smiling; "then I know you will believe me when I tell you that the kindest thing you can do for these little birds is to leave them where they are. And if you like, you can come and sit here every day till they are able to fly, and keep watch over the nest, that no naughty boy may come near it--the curate, for instance!" and he pulled a funny face. "That will be very kind." "But they will never know, and I want them to like me," said I. "I thought you only wanted to be kind," he answered. And then he began to talk very gently about different sorts of kindness, and that if I wished to be kind like a Christian, I must be kind without hoping for any reward, whether gratitude or anything else. He told me that the best followers of Jesus in all times had tried hard to do everything, however small, simply for GOD's sake, and to put themselves away. That they often began even their letters, etc., with such words, as, "Glory to GOD," to remind themselves that everything they did, to be perfect, must be done to GOD, and GOD alone. And that in doing good kind things even, they were afraid lest, though the thing was right, the wish to do it might have come from conceit or presumption. "This self-devotion," he added, "is the very highest Christian life, and seems, I dare say, very hard for you even to understand, and much more so to put in practice. But we must all try for it in the best way we can, little woman; and for those who by GOD's grace really practised it, it was almost as impossible to be downcast or disappointed as if they were already in Heaven. They wished for nothing to happen to themselves but GOD's will; they did nothing but for GOD's glory. And so a very good bishop says, 'I have my end, whether I succeed or am disappointed.' So you will have your end, my child, in being kind to these little birds in the right way, and denying yourself, whether they know you or not." I could not have understood all he said; but I am afraid I did not try to understand what I might have done; however, I said no more, and stood silent, while he comforted me with the promise of a new flower for my garden, called "hen and chickens," which he said I was to take care of instead of the little blackbirds. When he was gone I went back to the holly-bush, and stood gazing at the nest, and nursing angry thoughts in my heart. "What a _preach_," I thought, "about nothing! as if there could be any conceit and presumption in taking care of three poor little birds! The curate must forget that I was growing into a big girl; and as to not knowing how to feed them, I knew as well as he did that birds lived upon worms, and liked bread-crumbs." And so _thinking wrong_ ended (as it almost always does) in _doing wrong_: and I took the three little blackbirds out of the nest, popped them into my pocket-handkerchief, and ran home. And I took some trouble to keep them out of everyone's sight--even out of my mother's; for I did not want to hear any more "grown-up" opinions on the matter. I filled a basket with cotton wool, and put the birds inside, and took them into a little room downstairs, where they would be warm. Before I went to bed I put two or three worms, and a large supply of soaked bread-crumbs, in the nest, close to their little beaks. "What can they want more?" thought I in my folly; but conscience is apt to be restless when one is young, and I could not feel quite comfortable in bed, though I got to sleep at last, trying to fancy myself Goody Twoshoes, with three sleek full-fledged blackbirds on my shoulders. In the morning, as soon as I could slip away, I went to my pets. Any one may guess what I found; but I believe no one can understand the shock of agony and remorse that I felt. There lay the worms that I had dug up with reckless cruelty; there was the wasted bread; and there, above all, lay the three little blackbirds, cold and dead! I do not know how long I stood looking at the victims of my presumptuous wilfulness; but at last I heard a footstep in the passage, and fearing to be caught, I tore out of the house, and down to my old seat near the holly-bush, where I flung myself on the ground, and "wept bitterly." At last I heard the well-known sound of some one climbing over the wall; and then the curate stood before me, with the plant of "hen and chickens" in his hands. I jumped up, and shrank away from him. "Don't come near me," I cried; "the blackbirds are dead;" and I threw myself down again. I knew from experience that few things roused the anger of my friend so strongly as to see or hear of animals being ill-treated. I had never forgotten, one day when I was out with him, his wrath over a boy who was cruelly beating a donkey; and now I felt, though I could not see, the expression of his face, as he looked at the holly-bush and at me, and exclaimed, "You took them!" And then added, in the low tone in which he always spoke when angry, "And the mother-bird has been wandering all night round this tree, seeking her little ones in vain, not to be comforted, because they are not! Child, child! has GOD the Father given life to His creatures for you to destroy it in this reckless manner?" His words cut my heart like a knife; but I was too utterly wretched already to be much more miserable; I only lay still and moaned. At last he took pity, and lifting me up on to his knee, endeavoured to comfort me. This was not, however, an easy matter. I knew much better than he did how very naughty I had been; and I felt that I had murdered the poor tender little birds. "I can never, never, forgive myself!" I sobbed. "But you must be reasonable," he said. "You gave way to your vanity and wilfulness, and persuaded yourself that you only wished to be kind to the blackbirds; and you have been punished. Is it not so?" "O yes!" I cried; "I am so wicked! I wish I were as good as you are!" "As I am!"--he began. I was too young then to understand the sharp tone of self-reproach in which he spoke. In my eyes he was perfection; only perhaps a little _too_ good. But he went on:-- "Do you know, this fault of yours reminds me of a time when I was just as wilful and conceited, just as much bent upon doing the great duty of helping others in my own grand fashion, rather than in the humble way which GOD's Providence pointed out, only it was in a much more serious matter; I was older, too, and so had less excuse. I am almost tempted to tell you about it; not that our cases are really quite alike, but that the punishment which met my sin was so unspeakably bitter in comparison with yours, that you may be thankful to have learnt a lesson of humility at smaller cost." I did not understand him--in fact, I did not understand many things that he said, for he had a habit of talking to me as if he were speaking to himself; but I had a general idea of his meaning, and said (very truly), "I cannot fancy you doing wrong." I was puzzled again by the curious expression of his face; but he only said, "Shall I tell you a story?" I knew his stories of old, and gave an eager "Yes." "It is a sad one," he said. "I do not think I should like a very funny one just now," I replied. "Is it true?" "Quite," he answered. "It is about myself." He was silent for a few moments, as if making up his mind to speak; and then, laying his head, as he sometimes did, on my shoulder, so that I could not see his face, he began. "When I was a boy (older than you, so I ought to have been better), I might have been described in the words of Scripture--I was 'the only son of my mother, and she was a widow.' We were badly off, and she was very delicate, nay, ill--more ill, GOD knows, than I had any idea of. I had long been used to the sight of the doctor once or twice a week, and to her being sometimes better and sometimes worse; and when our old servant lectured me for making a noise, or the doctor begged that she might not be excited or worried, I fancied that doctors and nurses always did say things of that sort, and that there was no particular need to attend to them. "Not that I was unfeeling to my dear mother, for I loved her devotedly in my wilful worldly way. It was for her sake that I had been so vexed by the poverty into which my father's death had plunged us. For her sake I worried her, by grumbling before her at our narrow lodgings and lost comforts. For her sake, child, in my madness, I wasted the hours in which I might have soothed, and comforted, and waited on her, in dreaming of wild schemes for making myself famous and rich, and giving her back all and more than she had lost. For her sake I fancied myself pouring money at her feet, and loading her with luxuries, while she was praying for me to our common Father, and laying up treasure for herself in Heaven. "One day I remember, when she was remonstrating with me over a bad report which the schoolmaster had given of me (he said I could work, but wouldn't), my vanity overcame my prudence, and I told her that I thought some fellows were made to 'fag,' and some not; that I had been writing a poem in my dictionary the day that I had done so badly, and that I hoped to be a poet long before my master had composed a grammar. I can see now her sorrowful face as, with tears in her eyes, she told me that all 'fellows' alike were made to do their duty 'before GOD, and Angels, and Men.' That it was by improving the little events and opportunities of every day that men became great, and not by neglecting them for their own presumptuous fancies. And she entreated me to strive to do my duty, and to leave the rest with GOD. I listened, however, impatiently to what I called a 'jaw' or a 'scold,' and then (knowing the tender interest she took in all I did) I tried to coax her by offering to read my poem. But she answered with just severity, that what she wished was to see me a good man, not a great one; and that she would rather see my exercises duly written than fifty poems composed at the expense of my neglected duty. Then she warned me tenderly of the misery which my conceit would bring upon me, and bade me, when I said my evening prayers, to add that prayer of King David, 'Keep Thy servant from presumptuous sins, lest they get the dominion over me.' "Alas! they had got the dominion over me already, too strongly for her words to take any hold. 'She won't even look at my poem,' I thought, and hurried proudly from the room, banging one door and leaving another open. And I silenced my uneasy conscience by fresh dreams of making my fortune and hers. But the punishment came at last. One day the doctor took me into a room alone, and told me as gently as he could what everyone but myself knew already--my mother was dying. I cannot tell you, child, how the blow fell upon me--how, at first, I utterly disbelieved its truth! It seemed _impossible_ that the only hope of my life, the object of all my schemes and fancies, was to be taken away. But I was awakened at last, and resolved that, GOD helping me, while she did live, I would be a better son. I can now look back with thankfulness on the few days we were together. I never left her. She took her food and medicine from my hand; and I received my First Communion with her on the day she died. The day before, kneeling by her bed, I had confessed all the sin and vanity of my heart and those miserable dreams; had destroyed with my own hand all my papers, and had resolved that I would apply to my studies, and endeavour to obtain a scholarship and the necessary preparation for Holy Orders. It was a just ambition, little woman, undertaken humbly, in the fear of GOD, and in the path of duty; and I accomplished it years after, when I had nothing left of my mother but her memory." The curate was silent, and I felt, rather than saw, that the tears which were wetting my frock had not come from my own eyes, though I was crying bitterly. I flung my arms round his neck, and hugged him tight. "Oh, I am so sorry!" I sobbed; "so very, very sorry!" We became quieter after a bit; and he lifted up his head and smiled, and called himself a fool for making me sad, and told me not to tell any one what he had told me, and what babies we had been, except my mother. "Tell her _everything_ always," he said. I soon cheered up, particularly as he took me over the wall, and into his workshop, and made a coffin for the poor little blackbirds, which we lined with cotton-wool and scented with musk, as a mark of respect. Then he dug a deep hole in the garden and we buried them, and made a fine high mound of earth, and put the "hen and chicken" plants all round. And that night, sitting on my mother's knee, I told her "everything," and shed a few more tears of sorrow and repentance in her arms. * * * * * Many years have passed since then, and many showers of rain have helped to lay the mound flat with the earth, so that the "hen and chickens" have run all over it, and made a fine plot. The curate and his mother have met at last; and I have transplanted many flowers that he gave me to his grave. I sometimes wonder if, in his perfect happiness, he knows, or cares to know, how often the remembrance of his story has stopped the current of conceited day-dreams, and brought me back to practical duty with the humble prayer, "Keep Thy servant also from presumptuous sins." FRIEDRICH'S BALLAD. A TALE OF THE FEAST OF ST. NICHOLAS. "Nè pinger nè scolpir fia più che queti, L'anima volta a quell' Amor divino Ch'asserse a prender noi in Croce le braccia." "Painting and Sculpture's aid in vain I crave, My one sole refuge is that Love divine Which from the Cross stretched forth its arms to save." _Written by_ MICHAEL ANGELO _at the age of 83._ "So be it," said one of the council, as he rose and addressed the others. "It is now finally decided. The Story Woman is to be walled up." The council was not an ecclesiastical one, and the woman condemned to the barbarous and bygone punishment of being "walled up" was not an offending nun. In fact the Story Woman (or _Märchen-Frau_ as she is called in Germany) may be taken to represent the imaginary personage who is known in England by the name of Mother Bunch, or Mother Goose; and it was in this instance the name given by a certain family of children to an old book of ballads and poems, which they were accustomed to read in turn with special solemnities, on one particular night in the year; the reader for the time being having a peculiar costume, and the title of "Märchen-Frau," or Mother Bunch, a name which had in time been familiarly adopted for the ballad-book itself. This book was not bound in a fashionable colour, nor illustrated by a fashionable artist; the Chiswick Press had not set up a type for it, and Hayday's morocco was a thing unknown. It had not, in short, one of those attractions with which in these days books are surrounded, whose insides do not always fulfil the promise of the binding. If, however, it was on these points inferior to modern volumes, it had on others the advantage. It did not share a precarious favour with a dozen rivals in mauve, to be supplanted ere the year was out by twelve new ones in magenta. It was never thrown aside with the contemptuous remark,--"I've read that!" On the contrary, it always had been to its possessors, what (from the best Book downwards) a good book always should be, a friend, and not an acquaintance--not to be too readily criticized, but to be loved and trusted. The pages were yellow and worn, not with profane ill-usage, but with honourable wear and tear; and the mottled binding presented much such an appearance as might be expected from a book that had been pressed under the pillow of one reader, and in the pocket of another; that had been wept over and laughed over, and warmed by winter fires, and damped in the summer grass, and had in general seen as much of life as the venerable book in question. It was not the property of one member of the family, but the joint possession of all. It was not _mine_, but _ours_, as the inscription, "For the Children," written on the blank leaf testified; which inscription was hereafter to be a pathetic memorial to aged eyes of days when "the children" were not yet separated, and took their pleasures, like their meals, together. And after all this, with the full consent of a council of the owners, the _Märchen-Frau_ was to be "walled up." But before I attempt to explain, or in any way excuse this seemingly ungracious act, it may be well to give some account of the doers thereof. Well, then:-- Providence had blessed a certain respectable tradesman, in a certain town in Germany, with a large and promising family of children. He had married very early the beloved of his boyhood, and had been left a widower with one motherless baby almost before he was a man. A neighbour, with womanly compassion, took pity upon this desolate father, and more desolate child; and it was not until she had nursed the babe in her own house through a dangerous sickness, and had for long been chief adviser to the parent, that he awoke to the fact that she had become necessary to him, and they were married. Of this union came a family of eight, the two eldest of whom were laid in turn in the quiet grave. The others survived, and, with the first wife's daughter, made a goodly family party, which sometimes sorely taxed the resources of the tradesman to provide for, though his business was good and his wife careful. They scrambled up, however, as children are wont to do in such circumstances; and at the time our story opens the youngest had turned his back upon babyhood, and Marie, the eldest, had reached that pinnacle of childish ambition--she was "grown up." A very good Marie she was, and always had been; from the days when she ran to school with a little knapsack on her back, and her fair hair hanging down in two long plaits, to the present time, when she tenderly fastened that same knapsack on to the shoulders of a younger sister; and when the plaits had for long been reclaimed from their vagrant freedom, and coiled close to her head. "Our Marie is not clever," said one of the children, who flattered himself that _he was_ a bit of a genius; "our Marie is not clever, but also she is never wrong." It is with this same genius that our story has chiefly to do. Friedrich was a child of unusual talent; a fact which, happily for himself, was not discovered till he was more than twelve years old. He learnt to read very quickly; and when he was once able, read every book on which he could lay his hands, and in his father's house the number was not great. When Marie was a child, the school was kept by a certain old man, very gentle and learned in his quiet way. He had been fond of his fair-haired pupil, and when she was no longer a scholar, had passed many an odd hour in imparting to her a slight knowledge of Latin, and of the great Linnæus' system of botany. He was now dead, and his place filled by a less sympathizing pedagogue; and Friedrich listened with envious ears to his more fortunate sister's stories of her friend and master. "So he taught you Latin--that great language! And botany--which is a science!" the child would exclaim with envious admiration, when he had heard for the thousandth time every particular of the old schoolmaster's kindness. And Marie would answer calmly, as she "refooted" one of the father's stockings, "We did a good deal of the grammar, which I fear I have forgotten, and I learnt by heart a few of the Psalms in Latin, which I remember well. Also we commenced the system of Mr. Linnæus, but I was very stupid, and ever preferred those plates which pictured the flower itself to those which gave the torn pieces, and which he thought most valuable. But, above all, he taught me to be good; and though I have forgotten many of his lessons, there are words and advice of his which I heeded little then, but which come back and teach me now. Father once heard the Burgomaster say he was a genius, but I know that he was good, and that is best of all;" with which, having turned the heel of her stocking, Marie would put it out of reach of the kitten, and lay the table for dinner. And Friedrich--poor Friedrich!--groaning inwardly at his sister's indifference to her great opportunities for learning, would speculate to himself on the probable fate of each volume in the old schoolmaster's library, which had been sold when he, Friedrich, was but three years old. Thus, in these circumstances, the boy expressed his feelings with moderation when he said, "Our Marie is not clever, but also she is never wrong." If the schoolmaster was dead, however, Friedrich was not, nevertheless, friendless. There was a certain bookseller in his native town, for whom in his spare time he ran messages, and who in return was glad to let him spend his playhours and half-holidays among the books in his shop. There, perched at the top of the shelves on a ladder, or crouched upon his toes at the bottom, he devoured some volumes and dipped into others; but what he liked best was poetry, and this not uncommon taste with many young readers was with this one a mania. Wherever the sight of verses met his eye, there he fastened and read greedily. One day, a short time before my story opens, he found, in his wanderings from shelf to shelf, some nicely-bound volumes, one of which he opened, and straightway verses of the most attractive-looking metre met his eye, not, however, in German, but in a fair round Roman text, and, alas! in a language which he did not understand. There were customers in the shop, so he stood still in the corner with his nose almost resting on the bookshelf, staring fiercely at the page, as if he would force the meaning out of those fair clear-looking verses. When the last beard had vanished through the doorway, Friedrich came up to the counter, book in hand. "Well, now?" said the comfortable bookseller, with a round German smile. "This book," said the boy; "in what language is it?" The man stuck his spectacles on his nose, and smiled again. "It is Italian, and these are the sonnets of Petrarch, my child. The edition is a fine one, so be careful." Friedrich went back to his place, sighing heavily. After a while he came out again. "Well now, what is it?" said the bookseller, cheerfully. "Have you an Italian grammar?" "Only this," said the other, as he picked a book from the shelf and laid it on the counter with a twinkle in his eye. The boy opened it and looked up disappointed. "It is all Italian," said he. "No, no," was the answer; "it is in French and Italian, and was printed at Paris. But what wouldst thou with a grammar, my child?" The boy blushed as if he had been caught stealing, and said hastily-- "I _must_ read those poems, and I cannot if I do not learn the language." "And thou wouldst read Petrarch with a grammar," shouted the bookseller; "ho! ho! ho!" "And a dictionary," said Friedrich; "why not?" "Why not?" repeated the other, with renewed laughter. "Why not? Because to learn a language, my Friedrich, one must have a master, and exercises, and a phrase-book, and progressive reading-lessons with vocabulary; and, in short, one must learn a language in the way everybody else learns it; that is why not, my Friedrich." "Everybody is nobody," said Friedrich, hotly; "at least nobody worth caring for. If I had a grammar and a dictionary, I would read those beautiful poems." "Hear him!" said the cheerful little bookseller. "He will read Petrarch. He! If my volumes stop in the shelves till thou canst read them, my child--ho! ho! ho!" and he rubbed his brushy little beard with glee. Friedrich's temper was not by nature of the calmest, and this conversation rubbed its tenderest points. He answered almost fiercely-- "Take care of your volumes. If I live, and they _do_ stop in the shelves, I will buy them of you some day. Remember!" and he turned sharply round to hide the tears which had begun to fall. For a moment the good shopkeeper's little mouth became as round as his round little eyes and his round little face; then he laid his hands on the counter, and jumping neatly over flung his dead weight on to Friedrich, and embraced him heartily. "My poor child! (a kiss)--would that it had pleased Heaven to make thee the son of a nobleman--(another kiss). But hear me. A man in Berlin is now compiling an Italian grammar. It is to be out in a month or two. I shall have a copy, and thou shalt see it; and if ever thou canst read Petrarch I will give thee my volumes--(a volley of kisses). And now, as thou hast stayed so long, come into the little room and dine with me." With which invitation the kind-hearted German released his young friend and led him into the back room, where they buried the memory of Petrarch in a mess of vegetables and melted butter. It may be added here, that the Petrarchs remained on the shelf, and that years afterwards the round-faced little bookseller redeemed his promise with pride. Of these visits the father was to all intents and purposes ignorant. He knew that Friedrich went to see the bookseller, and that the bookseller was good-natured to him; but he never dreamt that his son read the books with which his neighbour's shop was lined, and he knew nothing of the wild visions which that same shop bred and nourished in the mind of his boy, and which made the life outside its doorstep seem a dream. The father and son saw that life from different points of view. The boy felt that he was more talented than other boys, and designed himself for a poet; the tradesman saw that the boy was more talented than other boys, and designed him for the business; and the opposite nature of these determinations was the one great misery of Friedrich's life. If, however, this source of the child's sorrows was a secret one, and not spoken of to his brothers and sisters, or even to his friend the bookseller, equally secret also were the sources of his happiness. No eye but his own ever beheld those scraps of paper which he begged from the bookseller, and covered with childish efforts at verse-making. No one shared the happiness of those hours, of which perhaps a quarter was spent in working at the poem, and three-fourths were given to the day-dreams of the poet; or knew that the wild fancies of his brain made Friedrich's nights more happy than his days. By day he was a child (his family, with some reason, said a tiresome one), by night he was a man, and a great man. He visited the courts of Europe, and received compliments from Royalty; _his_ plays were acted in the theatres; _his_ poems stood on the shelves of the booksellers; he made his family rich (the boy was too young to wish for money for himself); he made everybody happy, and himself famous. Fame! that was the word that rang in his ears and danced before his eyes as the hours of the night wore on, and he lived through a glorious lifetime. And so, when the mother, candle in hand, came round like a guardian angel among the sleeping children, to see that "all was right," he--poor child!--must feign to be sleeping on his face, to hide the traces of the tears which he had wept as he composed the epitaph which was to grace the monument of the famous Friedrich ----, poet, philosopher, etc. Whoever doubts the possibility of such exaggerated folly, has never known an imaginative childhood, or wept over those unreal griefs, which are not the less bitter at the time from being remembered afterwards with a mixture of shame and amusement. Happy or unhappy, however, in his dreams the boy was great, and this was enough; for Friedrich was vain, as everyone is tempted to be who feels himself in any way singular and unlike those about him. He revelled in the honours which he showered upon himself, and so--the night was happy; and so--the day was unwelcome when he was smartly bid to get up and put on his stockings, and found Fame gone and himself a child again, without honour, in his own country, and in his father's house. These sad dreams (sad in their uselessness) were destined, however, to do him some good at last; and, oddly enough, the childish council that condemned the ballad-book decided his fate also. This was how it happened. The children were accustomed, as we have said, to celebrate the Feast of St. Nicholas by readings from their beloved book. St. Nicholas's Day (the 6th of December) has for years been a favourite festival with the children in many parts of the Continent. In France, the children are diligently taught that St. Nicholas comes in the night down the chimney, and fills the little shoes (which are ranged there for the purpose) with sweetmeats or rods, according to his opinion of their owner's conduct during the past year. The Saint is supposed to travel through the air, and to be followed by an ass laden with two panniers, one of which contains the good things, and the other the birch, and he leaves his ass at the top of the chimney and comes down alone. The same belief is entertained in Holland; and in some parts of Germany he is even believed to carry off bad boys and girls in his sack, answering in this respect to our English Bogy. The day, as may be supposed, is looked forward to with no small amount of anxiety; very clean and tidy are the little shoes placed by the young expectants; and their parents--who have threatened and promised in St. Nicholas's name for a year past--take care that, with one sort of present or the other, the shoes are well filled. The great question--rods or sweetmeats--is, however, finally settled for each individual before breakfast-time on the great day; and before dinner, despite maternal warnings, most of the said sweetmeats have been consumed. And so it came to pass that Friedrich and his brothers and sisters had hit upon a plan for ending the day, with the same spirit and enjoyment with which it opened. The mother, by a little kind manoeuvring, generally induced the father to sup and take his evening pipe with a neighbour, for the tradesman was one of those whose presence is rather a "wet blanket" upon all innocent folly and fun. Then she good-naturedly took herself off to household matters, and the children were left in undisturbed possession of the stove, round which they gathered with the book, and the game commenced. Each in turn read whichever poem he preferred; and the reader for the time being, was wrapt in a huge hood and cloak, kept for the purpose, and was called the "Märchen-Frau," or Story Woman. Sometimes the song had a chorus, which all the children sang to whichever suited best of the thousand airs that are always floating in German brains. Sometimes, if the ballad was a favourite one, the others would take part in any verses that contained a dialogue. This was generally the case with some verses in the pet ballad of Bluebeard, at that exciting point where Sister Anne is looking from the castle window. First the Märchen-Frau read in a sonorous voice-- "Schwester Aennchen, siehst du nichts?" (Sister Anne, do you see nothing?) Then the others replied for Anne-- "Stäubchen fliegen, Gräschen wehen." (A little dust flies, a little grass waves.) Again the Märchen-Frau-- "Aennchen, lässt sich sonst nichts sehen?" (Little Anne, is there nothing else to be seen?) And the unsatisfactory reply-- "Schwesterchen, sonst seh' ich nichts!" (Little sister, I see nothing else!) After this the Märchen-Frau finished the ballad alone, and the conclusion was received with shouts of applause and laughter, that would have considerably astonished the good father, could he have heard them, and that did sometimes oblige the mother to call order from the loft above, just for propriety's sake; for, in truth, the good woman loved to hear them, and often hummed in with a chorus to herself as she turned over the clothes among which she was busy. At last, however, after having been for years the crowning enjoyment of St. Nicholas's Day, the credit of the Märchen-Frau was doomed to fade. The last reading had been rather a failure, not because the old ballad-book was supplanted by a new one, or because the children had outgrown its histories; perhaps--though they did not acknowledge it--Friedrich was in some degree to blame. His increasing knowledge, the long readings in the bookseller's shop, which his brothers and sisters neither shared nor knew of, had given him a feeling of contempt for the one book on which they feasted from year to year; and his part, as Märchen-Frau, had been on this occasion more remarkable for yawns than for anything else. The effect of this failure was not confined to that day. Whenever the book was brought out, there was the same feeling that the magic of it was gone, and very greatly were the poor children disquieted by the fact. At last, one summer's day, in the year of which we are writing, one of the boys was struck, as he fancied, by a brilliant idea; and as brilliant ideas on any subject are precious, he lost no time in summoning a council of his brothers and sisters in the garden. It was a half-holiday, and they soon came trooping round the great linden tree--where the bees were already in full possession--and the youngest girl, who was but six years old, bore the book hugged fast in her two arms. The boy opened the case--as lawyers say--by describing the loss of interest in their book since the last Feast of St. Nicholas. "This did not," he said, "arise from any want of love to the stories themselves, but from the fact of their knowing them so well. Whatever ballad the Märchen-Frau chose, every line of it was so familiar to each one of them that it seemed folly to repeat it. In these circumstances it was evident that the greatest compliment they could pay the stories was to forget them, and he had a plan for attaining this desirable end. Let them deny themselves now for their future pleasure; let them put away the Märchen-Frau till next St. Nicholas's Day, and, in the meantime, let each of them do his best to forget as much of it as he possibly could." The speaker ceased, and in the silence the bees above droned as if in answer, and then the children below shouted applause until the garden rang. But now came the question, where was the Märchen-Frau to be put? and for this the suggestive brother had also an idea. He had found certain bricks in the thick old garden wall which were loose, and when taken out there was a hole which was quite the thing for their purpose. Let them wrap the book carefully up, put it in the hole, and replace the bricks. This was his proposal, and he sat down. The bees droned above, the children shouted below, and the proposal was carried amid general satisfaction. "So be it," said the suggestor, in conclusion. "It is now finally decided. The Märchen-Frau is to be walled up." And walled up she was forthwith, but not without a parting embrace from each of her judges, and possibly some slight latent faith in the suggestion of one of the party that perhaps St. Nicholas would put a new inside and new stories into her before next December. "I don't think I should like a new inside, though," doubted the child before mentioned, with a shake of her tiny plaits, "or new stories either." As this quaint little Fräulein went into the house she met Friedrich, who came from the bookseller's. "Friedrich," said she, in a solemn voice, "we have walled up the 'Märchen-Frau.'" "Have you, _Schwesterchen_?" This was Friedrich's answer; but it may safely be stated that, if any one had asked him what it was his sister had told him, he would have been utterly unable to reply. He had been to the bookseller's! The summer passed, and the children kept faithfully to their resolve. The little sister sometimes sat by the wall and comforted the Märchen-Frau inside, with promises of coming out soon; but not a brick was touched. There was something pathetic in the children's voluntary renouncement of their one toy. The father was too absent and the mother too busy, to notice its loss; Marie missed it and made inquiries of the children, but she was implored to be silent, and discreetly held her tongue. Winter drew on, and for some time a change was visible in the manners of one of the children; he seemed restless and uncomfortable, as if something preyed upon his mind. At last he was induced to unburden himself to the others, when it was discovered that he couldn't forget the poems in "Märchen-Frau." This was the grievance. "It seems as if I did it on purpose," groaned he in self-indignation. "The nearer the time comes, and the more I try to forget, the clearer I remember them everyone. You know my pet is Bluebeard; well, I thought I would forget that altogether, every word: and then when my turn came to be Märchen-Frau I would take it for my piece. And now, of all the rest, this is just the one that runs in my head. It is quite as if I did it on purpose." Involuntarily the company--who appeared to have forgotten it as little as he--struck up in a merry tune-- "Blaubart war ein reicher Mann," etc.[A] "Oh, don't!" groaned the victim. "That's just how it goes in my head all along, especially the verse-- "Stark war seines Körpers Ban, Feurig waren seine Blicke, Aber ach!--ein Missgeschicke!-- Aber ach! sein Bart war blau."[B] "On Sunday, when the preacher gave out the text, I was looking at him, and it came so strongly into my head that I nearly said it out loud--'But ah! his beard was blue!' To-day the schoolmaster asked me a question about Solomon. I could remember nothing but 'Ah! his beard was blue!' I have tried this week with all my might; and the harder I try, the better I remember every word. It is dreadful." [Footnote A: "Bluebeard was a rich man."] [Footnote B: "Strong was the build of his body, Fiery were his glances, But ah!--disaster!-- But ah! his beard was blue."] It was dreadful; but he was somewhat comforted to learn that the memories of his brothers and sisters were as perverse as his own. Those ballads were not to be easily forgotten. They refused to give up their hold on the minds they had nourished and amused so long. One and all the children were really distressed, with the exception of Friedrich, who had, as usual, given about half his attention to the subject in hand; and who now sat absently humming to himself the account of Bluebeard's position and character, as set forth in Gotter's ballad. The others came to the conclusion that there was but one hope left--that St. Nicholas might have put some new ballads into the old book--and one and all they made for the hiding-place, followed at a feebler pace by the little Fräulein, who ran with her lips tightly shut, her hands clenched, and her eyes wide open with a mixture of fear and expectation. The bricks were removed, the book unwrapped, but alas! everything was the same, even to the rough woodcut of Bluebeard himself, in the act of sharpening his scimitar. There was no change, except that the volume was rather the worse for damp. It was thrown down with a murmur of disappointment, but seized immediately by the little Fräulein, who flung herself upon it in a passion of tears and embraces. Hers was the only faithful affection; the charm of the Märchen-Frau was gone. They were all out of humour with this, and naturally looked about for some one to find fault with. Friedrich was at hand, and so they fell upon him and reproached him for his want of sympathy with their vexation. The boy awoke from a brown study, and began to defend himself:--"He was very sorry," he said; "but he couldn't see the use of making such a great fuss about a few old ballads, that after all were nothing so very wonderful." This was flat heresy, and he was indignantly desired to say where any were to be got like them--where even _one_ might be found, when St. Nicholas could not provide them? Friedrich was even less respectful to the idea of St. Nicholas, and said something which, translated into English, would look very like the word _humbug_. This was no answer to the question "where were they to get a ballad?" and a fresh storm came upon his head; whereupon being much goaded, and in a mixture of vanity and vexation of spirit, he let out the fact that "he thought he could write one almost as good himself." This turned the current of affairs. The children had an instinctive belief in Friedrich's talents, to which their elders had not attained. The faith of childhood is great; and they saw no reason why he should not be able to do as he said, and so forthwith began to pet and coax him as unmercifully as they had scolded five minutes before. "Beloved Friedrich; dear little brother! _Do_ write one for us. We know thou canst!" "I cannot," said Friedrich. "It is all nonsense. I was only joking." "It is not nonsense; we know thou canst! Dear Fritz--just to please us!" "Do!" said another. "It was only yesterday the mother was saying, 'Friedrich can do nothing useful!' But when thou hast written a poem thou wilt have done more than any one in the house--ay, or in the town. And when thou hast written one poem thou wilt write more, and be like Hans Sachs, and the Twelve Wise Masters thou hast told us of so often." Friedrich had read many of the verses of the Cobbler Poet, but the name of Hans Sachs awakened no thought in his mind. He had heard nothing of that speech but one sentence, and it decided him. _Friedrich can do nothing useful._ "I will see what I can do," he said, and walked hastily away. Down the garden, out into the road, away to the mill, where he could stand by the roaring water and talk aloud without being heard. "Friedrich can do nothing useful. Yes, I will write a ballad." He went home, got together some scraps of paper, and commenced. In half-a-dozen days he began as many ballads, and tore them up one and all. He beat his brains for plots, and was satisfied with none. He had a fair maiden, a cruel father, a wicked sister, a handsome knight, and a castle on the Rhine; and so plunged into a love story with a moonlight meeting, an escape on horseback, pursuit, capture, despair, suicide, and a ghostly apparition that floated over the river, and wrung her hands under the castle window. It seems impossible for an author to do more for his heroine than take her out of the world, and bring her back again; but our poet was not content. He had not come himself to the sentiment of life, and felt a rough boyish disgust at the maundering griefs of his hero and heroine, who, moreover, were unpleasantly like every other hero and heroine that he had ever read of under similar circumstances; and if there was one thing more than another that Friedrich was determined to be, it was to be original. He had no half hopes. With the dauntlessness of young ambition, he determined to do his very best, and that that best should be better than anything that ever had been done by any one. Having failed with the sentimental, he tried to write something funny. Surely such child's tales as Bluebeard, Cinderella, etc., were easy enough to write. He would make a _Kindeslied_--a child's song. But he was mistaken; to write a new nursery ballad was the hardest task of all. Time after time he struggled; and, at last, one day when he had written and destroyed a longer effort than usual, he went to bed in hopeless despair. His disappointment mingled with his dreams. He dreamt that he was in the bookseller's shop hunting among the shelves for some scraps of paper on which he had written. He could not find them, he thought, but came across the Petrarch volumes in their beautiful binding. He opened one and saw--not a word of that fair-looking Italian, but--his own ballad that he could not write, written and printed in good German character with his name on the title-page. He took it in his hands and went out of the shop, and as he did so it seemed to him, in his dream, that he had become a man. He dreamt that as he came down the steps, the people in the street gathered round him and cheered and shouted. The women held up their children to look at him; he was a Great Man! He thought that he turned back into the shop and went up to the counter. There sat the smiling little bookseller as natural as life, who smiled and bowed to him, as Friedrich had a hundred times seen him bow and smile to the bearded men who came in to purchase. "How many have you sold of this?" said Friedrich, in his dream. "Forty thousand!" with another smile and bow. Forty thousand! It seemed to him that all the world must have read it. This was Fame. He went out of the shop, through the shouting market-place, and home, where his father led him in and offered pipes and a mug of ale, as if he were the Burgomaster. He sat down, and when his mother came in, rose to embrace her, and, doing so, knocked down the mug. Crash! it went on the floor with a loud noise, which woke him up; and then he found himself in bed, and that he had thrown over the mug of water which he had put by his bedside to drink during the thirsty feverish hours that he lay awake. He was not a great man, but a child. He had not written a ballad, but broken a mug. "Friedrich can do nothing useful." He buried his face, and wept bitterly. In time, his tears were dried, and as it was very early he lay awake and beat his brains. He had added nothing to his former character but the breaking of a piece of crockery. Something must be done. No more funny ballads now. He would write something terrible--miserable; something that should make other people weep as he had wept. He was in a very tragic humour indeed. He would have a hero who should go into the world to seek his fortune, and come back to find his lady-love in a nunnery; but that was an old story. Well, he would turn it the other way, and put the hero into a monastery; but that wasn't new. Then he would shut both of them up, and not let them meet again till one was a monk and the other a nun, which would be grievous enough in all reason; but this was the oldest of all. Friedrich gave up love stories on the spot. It was clearly not his _forte_. Then he thought he would have a large family of brothers and sisters, and kill them all by a plague. But, besides the want of further incident, this idea did not seem to him sufficiently sad. Either from its unreality, or from their better faith, the idea of death does not possess the same gloom for the young that it does for those older minds that have a juster sense of the value of human life, and are, perhaps, more heavily bound in the chains of human interests. No; the plague story might be pathetic, but it was not miserable--not miserable enough at any rate for Friedrich. In truth, he felt at last that every misfortune that he could invent was lost in the depths of the real sorrow which oppressed his own life, and out of this knowledge came an idea for his ballad. What a fool never to have thought of it before! He would write the history--the miserable bitter history--of a great man born to a small way of life, whose merits should raise him from his low estate to a deserved and glorious fame; who should toil, and strive, and struggle, and when his hopes and prayers seemed to be at last fulfilled, and the reward of his labours at hand, should awake and find that it was a dream; that he was no nearer to Fame than ever, and that he might never reach it. Here was enough sorrow for a tragedy. The ballad should be written now. The next day. Friedrich plunged into the bookseller's shop. "Well, now, what is it?" smiled the comfortable little bookseller. "I want some paper, please," gasped Friedrich; "a good big bit if I may have it, and, if you please, I must go now. I will come and clean out the shop for you at the end of the week, but I am very busy to-day." "The condition of the shop," said the little bookseller, grandiloquently, with a wave of his hand, "yields to more important matters; namely, to thy condition, my child, which is not of the best. Thou art as white as this sheet of paper, to which thou art heartily welcome. I am silent, but not ignorant. Thou wouldst be a writer, but art not yet a philosopher, my Friedrich. Thou art not fast-set on thy philosophic equilibrium. Thou hast knocked down three books and a stool since thou hast come in the shop. Be calm, my child: consider that even if truly also the fast-bound-eternally-immutable-condition of everlastingly-varying-circumstance--" But by this time Friedrich was at home. How he got through the next three days he never knew. He stumbled in and out of the house with the awkwardness of an idiot, and was so stupid in school that nothing but his previous good character saved him from a flogging. The day before the Feast of St. Nicholas (which was a holiday) the schoolmaster dismissed him with the severe inquiry, if he meant to be a dunce all his life? and Friedrich went home with two sentences ringing in his head-- "Do I mean to be a dunce all my life?" "Friedrich can do nothing useful." To-night the ballad must be finished. He contrived to sit up beyond his usual hour, and escaped notice by crouching behind a large linen chest, and there wrote and wrote till his heart beat and his head felt as if it would split in pieces. At last, the careful mother discovered that Friedrich had not bid her good-night, and he was brought out of his hiding-place and sent to bed. He took a light and went softly up the ladder into the loft, and, to his great satisfaction, found the others asleep. He said his prayers, and got into bed, but he did not put out the light; he put a box behind it to prevent its being seen, and drew out his paper and wrote. The ballad was done, but he must make a fair copy for the Märchen-Frau; and very hard work it was, in his feverish excited state, to write out a thing that was finished. He worked resolutely, however, and at last completed it with trembling hands, and pushed it under his pillow. Then he sat up in bed, and looked round him. Time passed, and still he sat shivering and clasping his knees, and the reason he sat so was--because he dared not lie down. The work was done, and the overstrained mind, no longer occupied, filled with ghastly fears and fancies. He did not dare to put out the light, and yet its faint glimmer only made the darkness more horrible. He did not dare to look behind him, though he knew that there was nothing there. He trembled at the scratching sound in the wainscot, though he knew that it was only mice. A sudden light on the window, and a distant chorus, did not make his heart beat less wildly from being nothing more alarming than two or three noisy students going home with torches. Then his light took the matter into its own hands, and first flared up with a suddenness that almost made Friedrich jump out of his skin, and then left him in total darkness. He could endure no longer, and, scrambling out of bed, crossed the floor to where the warm light came up the steps of the ladder from the room beneath. There our hero crouched without daring to move, and comforted himself with the sounds of life below. But it was very wearying, and yet he dared not go back. A neighbour had "dropped in," and he could see figures passing to and fro across the kitchen. At last his sister passed, with the light shining on her golden plaits, and he risked a low murmur of "Marie! Marie!" She stopped an instant, and then passed on; but after a few minutes, she returned, and came up the ladder with her finger on her lips to enjoin silence. He needed no caution, being instinctively aware that if one parental duty could be more obvious than another to the tradesman, it would be that of crushing such folly as Friedrich was displaying by timely severity. The boy crept back to bed, and Marie came after him. There are unheroic moments in the lives of the greatest of men, and though when the head is strong and clear, and there is plenty of light and good company, it is highly satisfactory and proper to smile condescension upon female inanity, there are times when it is not unpleasant to be at the mercy of kind arms that pity without asking a reason, and in whose presence one may be foolish without shame. And it is not ill, perhaps, for some of us, whose acutely strung minds go up with every discovery, and down with every doubt, if we have some humble comforter (whether woman or man) on whose face a faithful spirit has set the seal of peace--a face which in its very steadfastness is "as the face of an angel." Such a face looked down upon Friedrich, before which fancied horrors fled; and he wound his arms round Marie's neck, and laid down his head, and was comfortable, if not sublime. After a dozen or so of purposeless kisses, she spoke-- "What is it, my beloved?" "I--I don't think I can get to sleep," said the poet. Marie abstained from commenting on this remark, and Friedrich was silent and comfortable. So comfortable that, though he despised her opinion on such matters he asked it in a low whisper--"Marie, dost thou not think it would be the very best thing in the world to be a great man? To labour and labour for it, and be a great man at last?" Marie's answer was as low, but quite decided-- "No." "Why not, Marie?" "It is very nice to be great, and I should love to see thee a great man, Friedrich, very well indeed, but the very best thing of all is to be good. Great men are not always happy ones, though when they are good also it is very glorious, and makes one think of the words of the poor heathen in Lycaonia--'The gods have come down to us in the likeness of men.' But if ever thou art a great man, little brother, it will be the good and not the great things of thy life that will bring thee peace. Nay, rather, neither thy goodness nor thy greatness, but the mercy of GOD!" And in this opinion Marie was obstinately fixed, and Friedrich argued no more. "I think I shall do now," said the hero at last; "I thank thee very much, Marie." She kissed him anew, and bade GOD bless him, and wished him good-night, and went down the ladder till her golden plaits caught again the glow of the warm kitchen, and Friedrich lost sight of her tall figure and fair face, and was alone once more. He was better, but still he could not sleep. Wearied and vexed, he lay staring into the darkness till he heard steps upon the ladder, and became the involuntary witness of--the true St. Nicholas. It was the mother, with a basket in her hand, and Friedrich watched her as she approached the place where all the shoes were laid out, his among them. The children were by no means immaculate or in any way greatly superior to other families, but the mother was tender-hearted, and had a poor memory for sins that were past, and Friedrich saw her fill one shoe after another with cakes and sweetmeats. At last she came to his, and then she stopped. He lifted up his head, and an indefinable fury surged in his heart. He had been very tiresome since the ballad was begun; was she going to put rods into his shoes only? _His_! He could have borne anything but this. Meanwhile, she was fumbling in the basket; and, at last, pulled out--not a rod, but--a paper of cakes of another kind, to which Friedrich was particularly attached, and with these she lined the shoes thickly, and filled them up with sweetmeats, and passed on. "Oh, mother! mother! Far, far too kind!" The awkwardness and stupidity of yesterday, and of many yesterdays, smote him to the heart, and roused once more the only too ready tears. But he did not cry long, he had a happy feeling of community with his brothers and sisters in getting more than they any of them deserved; to have seen the St. Nicholas's proceedings had diverted his mind from gloomy fancies, and altogether, with a comfortable sensation of cakes and kindness, he fell asleep smiling, and slept soundly and well. The next day he threw his arms round his mother, and said that the cakes were "so nice." "But I don't deserve them," he added. "Thou'lt mend," said she kindly. "And no doubt the Saint knew that thou hadst eaten but half a dinner for a week past, and brought those cakes to tempt thee; so eat them all, my child; for, doubtless, there are plenty more where they come from." "I am very much obliged to whoever did think of it," said Friedrich. "And plenty more there are," said the good woman to Marie afterwards, as they were dishing the dinner. "Luise Jansen's shop is full of them. But, bless the boy! he's too clever for anything. There's no playing St. Nicholas with him." The day went by at last, and the evening came on. The tradesman went off of himself to see if he could meet with the Burgomaster, and the children became rabid in their impatience for Friedrich's ballad. He would not read it himself, so Marie was pressed into the service, and crowned with the hood and cloak, and elected Märchen-Frau. The author himself sat in an arm-chair, with a face as white and miserable as if he were ordered for execution. He formed a painful contrast to his ruddy brothers and sisters; and it would seem as if he had begun already to experience the truth of Marie's assertion, that "great men are not always happy ones." The ballad was put into the Märchen-Frau's hands, and she was told that Friedrich had written it. She gave a quick glance at it, and asked if he had really invented it all. The children repeated the fact, which was a pleasant but not a surprising one to them, and Marie began. The young poet had evidently a good ear, for the verses were easy and musical, and the metre more than tolerably correct; and as the hero of the ballad worked harder and harder, and got higher and higher, the children clapped their hands, and discovered that it was "quite like Friedrich." Why, when that hero was almost at the height of fortune, and the others gloried in his success, did the foolish author bury his face upon his arms, and sob silently but bitterly in sympathy?--moreover, with such a heavy and absorbing grief that he did not hear it, when Marie stopped for an instant and then went on again, or know that steps had come behind his chair, and that his father and the Burgomaster were in the room. The Märchen-Frau went on; the hero awoke from his unreal happiness to his real fate, and bewailed in verse after verse the heavy weights of birth, and poverty, and circumstance, that kept him from the heights of fame. The ballad was ended. Then a voice fell on Friedrich's ear, which nearly took away his breath. It was his father's asking sternly, "What is all this?" And then he knew that Marie was standing up, with a strange emotion on her face, and he heard her say-- "It is a poem that Friedrich has written. He has written it all himself. Every word. And he is but twelve years old!" She was pointing to him, or, perhaps, the Burgomaster might not have recognized in that huddled miserable figure the genius of the family. His was the next voice, and what he said Friedrich could hardly remember; the last sentences only he clearly understood. "GOD has not blessed me with children, neighbour. My wife, as well as I, would be ashamed if such genius were lost for want of a little money. Give the child to me. He shall have a liberal education, and will be a great man." "I shall not," said the tradesman, "stand in the way of his interests or your commands. I cannot tell what to say to your kindness, Burgomaster. GOD willing, I hope he will be a credit to the town." "GOD willing, he will be a credit to his country," said the Burgomaster. The words rang in Friedrich's ears over and over again, like the changes of bells. They danced before his eyes as if he saw them in a book. They were written in his heart as if "graven with an iron pen and lead in the rock for ever." "GOD _willing, I hope he will be a credit to the town._" "GOD _willing, he will be a credit to his country._" "_He shall have a liberal education, and will be a_ GREAT MAN." Friedrich tried to stand on his feet and thank the Burgomaster; who, on any other occasion, might have been tempted to suppose him an idiot, so white and distorted was the child's face, struggling through tears and smiles. He could not utter a word; a mist began to come before his eyes, through which the Burgomaster's head seemed to bob up and down, and then his father's, and his mother's, and Marie's, with a look of pity on her face. He tried to tell _her_ that he was now a great man and felt quite happy; but, unfortunately, was only able to burst into tears, and then to burst out laughing, and then a sharp pain shot through his head, and he remembered no more. * * * * * Friedrich had a dim consciousness of coming round after this, and being put to bed; then he fell asleep, and slept heavily. When he woke Marie was sitting by his side, and it was dark. The mother had gone downstairs, she said, and she had taken her place. Friedrich lay silent for a bit; at last he said, "I am very happy, Marie." "I am very glad, dearest." "Dost thou think father will let the Burgomaster give me a good education, Marie?" "Yes, dear, I am sure he will." "It is very kind," said Friedrich, thoughtfully; "for I know he wants me for the business. But I will help him some day. And, Marie, I will be a good man, and when I am very rich I will give great alms to the poor." "Thou wilt be a good man before thou art a rich one, I trust," said his dogmatic sister. "We are accepted in that we have, and not in that we have not. Thou hast great talent, and wilt give it to the Lord, whether He make thee rich or no. Wilt thou not, dearest?" "What dost thou mean, Marie? Am I never to write anything but hymns?" "No, no, I do not mean that," she said. "I am very ignorant and cannot rightly explain it to thee, little brother. But genius is a great and perilous gift; and, oh, Friedrich! Friedrich! promise me just this:--that thou wilt never, never write anything against the faith or the teaching of the Saviour, and that thou wilt never use the graces of poetry to cover the hideousness of any of those sins which it is the work of a lifetime to see justly, and to fight against manfully. Promise me just this." "Oh, Marie! to think that I could be so wicked!" "No! no!" she said, covering him with kisses. "I know thou wilt be good and great, and we shall all be proud of our little brother. GOD give thee the pen of a ready writer, and grace to use it to His glory!" "I will," he said, "GOD help me! and I will write beautiful hymns for thee, Marie, that when I am dead shall be sung in the churches. They shall be like that Evening Hymn we sing so often. Sing it now, my sister!" Marie cleared her throat, and in a low voice, that steadied and grew louder and sweeter till it filled the house and died away among the rafters, sang the beautiful hymn that begins-- "Herr, Dein Auge geht nicht unter, wenn es bei uns Abend wird;" (Lord! Thine eye does not go down, when it is evening with us.) The boy lay drinking it in with that full enjoyment of simple vocal music which is so innate in the German character; and as he lay, he hummed his accustomed part in it, and the mother at work below caught up the song involuntarily, and sang at her work; and Marie's clear voice breaking through the wooden walls of the house, was heard by a passer in the street, who struck in with the bass of the familiar hymn, and went his way. Before it was ended, Friedrich was sleeping peacefully once more. But Marie sat by the stove till the watchman in the quaint old street told the hour of midnight, when (with the childish custom taught her by the old schoolmaster long ago) she folded her hands, and murmured, "Nisi Dominus urbem custodiat, frustra vigilat custos." (Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.) And then she slept also. The snow fell softly on the roof, and on the walls of the old church outside, and on the pavement of the street of the poet's native town, and the night passed and the day came. There is little more to tell, for that night was the last night of his sorrowful humble childhood, and that day was the first day of his fame. * * * * * The Duke of ---- was an enlightened and generous man, and a munificent patron of the Arts and Sciences, and of literary and scientific men. He was not exactly a genius, but he was highly accomplished. He wrote a little, and played a little, and drew a little; and with fortune to befriend him, as a natural consequence he published a little, and composed a little, and framed his pictures. But what was better and more remarkable than this, was the generous spirit in which he loved and admired those who did great things in the particular directions in which he did a little. He bought good pictures while he painted bad ones; and those writers, musicians, and artists who could say but little for his performances, had every reason to talk loudly of his liberality. He was the special admirer of talent born in obscurity; and at the time of which we are writing (many years after the events related above), the favourite "lion" in the literary clique he had gathered round him in his palace, was a certain poet--the son of a small tradesman in a small town, who had been educated by the kindness of the Burgomaster (long dead), and who now had made Germany to ring with his fame; who had visited the Courts of Europe, and received compliments from Royalty, whose plays were acted in the theatres, whose poems stood on the shelves of the booksellers, who was a great man--Friedrich! It was a lovely evening, and the Duke, leaning on the arm of his favourite, walked up and down a terrace. The Duke was (as usual) in the best possible humour. The poet (as was not uncommon) was just in the slightest degree inclined to be in a bad one. They had been reading a critique on his poems. It was praise, it is true, but the praise was not judiciously administered, and the poet was aggrieved. He rather felt (as authors are not unapt to feel) that a poet who could write such poems should have critics created with express capabilities for understanding him. But the good Duke was in his most cheery and amiable mood, and quite bent upon smoothing his ruffled lion into the same condition. "What impossible creatures you geniuses are to please!" he said. "Tell me, my friend, has there ever been, since you first began your career, a bit of homage or approbation that has really pleased you?" "Oh, yes!" said the poet, in a tone that sounded like Oh, no! "I don't believe it," said the Duke. "Come, now, could you, if you were asked, describe the happiest and proudest hour of your life?" A new expression came into the poet's eyes, and lighted up his gaunt intellectual face. Some old memories awoke within him, and it is doubtful if he saw the landscape at which he was gazing. But the Duke was not quick, though kind; he thought that Friedrich had not heard him, and repeated the question. "Yes," said the poet. "Yes, indeed I could." "Well, then, let me guess," said the Duke, facetiously. (He fancied that he was bringing his crusty genius into capital condition.) "Was it when your great tragedy of 'Boadicea' was first performed in Berlin, and the theatre rose like one man to offer homage, and the gods sent thunder? I wish they had ever treated my humble efforts with as much favour. Was it then?" "No!" "Was it when his Imperial Majesty the Emperor of ---- was pleased to present you with a gold snuff-box set with diamonds, and to express his opinion that your historical plays were incomparably among the finest productions of poetic genius?" "His Imperial Majesty," said Friedrich, "is a brave soldier; but, a--hem!--an indifferent critic. I do not take snuff, and his Imperial Majesty does not read poetry. The interview was gratifying, but that was not the occasion. No!" "Was it when you were staying with Dr. Kranz at G----, and the students made that great supper for you, and escorted your carriage both ways with a procession of torches?" "Poor boys!" said the poet, laughing; "it was very kind, and they could ill afford it. But they would have drunk quite as much wine for any one who would have taken the inside out of the University clock, or burnt the Principal's wig, as they did for me. It was a very unsteady procession that brought me home, I assure you. The way they poked the torches in each other's faces left one student, as I heard, with no less than eight duels on his hands. And, oh! the manner in which they howled my most pathetic love songs! No! no!" The Duke laughed heartily. "Is it any of the various occasions on which the fair ladies of Germany have testified their admiration by offerings of sympathy and handiwork?" "No!" roared the poet. "Are you quite sure?" said the Duke, slyly. "I have heard of comforters, and slippers, and bouquets, and locks of hair, besides a dozen of warm stockings knit by the fair hands of ----" "Spare me!" groaned Friedrich, in mock indignation. "Am I a pet preacher, that I should be smothered in female absurdities? I have hair that would stuff a sofa, comforters that would protect a regiment in Siberia, slippers, stockings ----. I shall sell them, I shall burn them. I would send them back, but the ladies send nothing but their Christian names, and to identify Luise, and Gretchen, and Catherine, and Bettina, is beyond my powers. No!" When they had ceased laughing the Duke continued his catechism. "Was it when the great poet G---- (your only rival) paid that handsome compliment to your verses on ----" "No!" interrupted the poet. "A thousand times no! The great poet praised the verses you allude to simply to cover his depreciation of my 'Captive Queen,' which is among my best efforts, but too much in his own style. How Germany can worship his bombastic ---- but that's nothing! No." "Was it when you passed accidentally through the streets of Dresden, and the crowd discovered you, and carried you to the hotel on its shoulders?" The momentary frown passed from Friedrich's face, and he laughed again. "And when the men who carried me twisted my leg so that I couldn't walk for a fortnight, to say nothing of the headache I endured from bowing to the populace like a Chinese mandarin? No!" "Is it any triumph you have enjoyed in any other country in Europe?" "No!" "My dear genius, I can guess no more; what, in the name of Fortune, was this happy occasion--this life triumph?" "It is a long story, your highness, and entertaining to no one but myself." "You do me injustice," said the Duke. "A long story from you is too good to be lost. Sit down, and favour me." A patron's wishes are not to be neglected; and somewhat unwillingly the poet at last sat down, and told the story of his Ballad and of St. Nicholas's Day, as it has been told here. The fountain of tears is drier in middle age than in childhood, but he was not unmoved as he concluded. "Every circumstance of that evening," he said, "is as fresh in my remembrance now as it was then, and will be till I die. It is a joy, a triumph, and a satisfaction that will never fade. The words that roused me from despair, that promised knowledge to my ignorance and fame to my humble condition, have power now to make my heart beat, and to bring hopeful tears into eyes that should have dried with age-- "GOD _willing, he will be a credit to the town._" "GOD _willing, he will be a credit to his country._" "_He shall have a liberal education, and will be a great man._" "It is as good as a poem," said the delighted Duke. "I shall tell the company to-night that I am the most fortunate man in Germany. I have heard your unpublished poem. By the bye, Poet, is that ballad published?" "No, and never will be. It shall never know less kindly criticism than it received then." "And are you really in earnest? Was this indeed the happiest triumph your talents have ever earned?" "It was," said Friedrich. "The first blast on the trumpet of Fame is the sweetest. Afterwards, we find it out of tune." "Your parents are dead, I think?" "They are, and so is my youngest sister." "And what of Marie?" "She married--a man who, I think, is in no way worthy of her. Not a bad, but a stupid man, with strong Bible convictions on the subject of marital authority. She is such an angel in his house as he can never understand in this world." "Do you ever see her?" "Sometimes, when I want a rest. I went to see her not long ago, and found her just the same as ever. I sat at her feet, and laid my head in her lap, and tried to be a child again. I bade her tell me the history of Bluebeard, and strove to forget that I had ever lost the childish simplicity which she has kept so well;--and I almost succeeded. I had forgotten that the great poet was jealous of my 'Captive Queen,' and told myself it would be a grand thing to be like him. I thought I should like to see a live Emperor. But just when the delusion was perfect, there was a row in the street. The people had found me out, and I must show myself at the window. The spell was broken. I have not tried it again." They were on the steps of the palace. "Your story has entertained and touched me beyond measure," said the Duke. "But something is wanting. It does not (as they say) 'end well.' I fear you are not happy." "I am content," said Friedrich. "Yes, I am happy. I never could be a child again, even if it pleased GOD to restore to me the circumstances of my childhood. It is best as it is, but I have learnt the truth of what Marie told me. It is the good, and not the great things of my life that bring me peace; or rather, neither one nor the other, but the undeserved mercies of my GOD!" * * * * * For those who desire to know more of the poet's life than has been told, this is added. He did not live to be very old. A painful disease (the result of mental toil), borne through many years, ended his life almost in its prime. He retained his faculties till the last, and bore protracted suffering with a heroism and endurance which he had not always displayed in smaller trials. The medical men pronounced, on the authority of a _post-mortem_ examination, that he must for years have suffered a silent martyrdom. Truly, his bodily sufferings (when known at last) might well excuse many weaknesses and much moody, irritable impatience; especially when it is remembered that the mental sufferings of intellectual men are generally great in proportion to their gifts, and (when clogged with nerves and body that are ever urged beyond their strength) that they often mock the pride of humanity by leaving but little space between the genius and the madman. Another fact was not known till he had died--his charity. Then it was discovered how much kindness he had exercised in secret, and that three poor widows had been fed daily from his table during all the best years of his prosperity. Before his death he arranged all his affairs, even to the disposal of his worn-out body. "My country has been gracious to me," he said, "and, if it cares, may dispose of my carcase as it will. But I desire that after my death my heart may be taken from my body and buried at the feet of my father and my mother in the churchyard of my native town. At their feet," he added, with some of the old imperiousness--"strong in death." "At their feet, remember!" In one of the largest cities of Germany, a huge marble monument is erected to the memory of the Great Man. On three sides of the pedestal are bas-relief designs illustrating some of his works, whereby three fellow-countrymen added to their fame; and on the fourth is a fine inscription in Latin, setting forth his talents, and his virtues, and the honours conferred on him, and stating in conclusion (on the authority of his eulogizer) that his works have gained for him immortality. In a quiet green churchyard, near a quiet little town, under the shadow of the quaint old church, a little cross marks the graves of a tradesman and of his wife who lived and laboured in their generation, and are at rest. Near them, daisies grow above the dust of the "Fräulein," which awaits the resurrection from the dead. And at the feet of that simple couple lies the heart of their great son--a heart which the sickness of earthly hope and the fever of earthly ambition shall disturb no more. By the Poet's own desire, "the rude memorial" that marks the spot contains no more than his initials, and a few words in his native tongue to mark the foundation of the only ambition that he could feel in death-- "Ich verlasse mich auf Gottes Güte immer und ewiglich." --_My trust is in the tender mercy of_ GOD _for ever and ever._ A BIT OF GREEN. "Thou oughtest, therefore, to call to mind the more heavy sufferings of others, that so thou mayest the easier bear thy own very small troubles."--THE IMITATION OF CHRIST. Children who live always with grass and flowers at their feet, and a clear sky overhead, can have no real idea of the charm that country sights and sounds have for those whose home is in a dirty, busy, manufacturing town--just such a town, in fact, as I lived in when I was a boy, which is more than twenty years ago. My father was a doctor, with a very large, if not what is called a "genteel," practice, and we lived in a comfortable house in a broad street. I was born and bred there; and, ever since I could remember, the last sound that soothed my ears at night, and the first to which I awoke in the morning, was the eternal rumbling and rattling of the carts and carriages as they passed over the rough stones. I never noticed if I heard them in the day-time, but at night my chief amusement, as I lay in bed, was to guess by the sound of the wheels what sort of vehicle was passing. "That light sharp rattle is a cab," I thought. "What a noise it makes, and gone in a moment! One gentleman inside, I should think. There's an omnibus; and there, jolty-jolt, goes a light cart; that's a carriage, by the way the horses step; and now, rumbling heavily in the distance, and coming slowly nearer, and heavier, and louder, this can be nothing but a brewer's dray!" And the dray came so slowly that I was asleep before it had got safely out of hearing. Ours was a very noisy street, but the noise made the night cheerful; and so did the church clock near, which struck the quarters; and so did the light of the street lamps, which came through the blind and fell upon my little bed. We had very little light, except gaslight and daylight, in our street; the sunshine seldom found its way to us, and, when it did, people were so little used to it that they pulled down the blinds for fear it should hurt the carpets. In the room my sister and I called our nursery, however, we always welcomed it with blinds rolled up to the very top; and, as we had no carpet, no damage was done. But sunshine outside will not always make sunshine shine within, and I remember one day when, though our nursery was unusually cheerful, and though the windows were reflected in square patches of sunlight on the floor, I stood in the very midst of the brightness, grumbling and kicking at my sister's chair with a face as black as a thunder-cloud. The reason of my ill-temper was this: Ever since I could remember, my father had been accustomed, once a year, to take us all into the country for change of air. Once he had taken us to the sea, but generally we went to an old farmhouse in the middle of the beautiful moors which lay not many miles from our dirty black town. But this year, on this very sunshiny morning, he had announced at breakfast that he could not let us go to what we called our moor-home. He had even added insult to injury by expressing his thankfulness that we were all in good health, so that the change was not a matter of necessity. I was too indignant to speak, and rushed upstairs into the nursery, where my little sister had also taken refuge. She was always very gentle and obedient (provokingly so, I thought), and now she sat rocking her doll on her knee in silent sorrow, whilst I stood kicking her chair and grumbling in a tone which it was well the doll could not hear, or rocking would have been of little use. I took pleasure in trying to make her as angry as myself. I reminded her how lovely the purple moors were looking at that moment, how sweet heather smelt, and how good bilberries tasted. I said I thought it was "very hard." It wasn't as if we were always paying visits, as many children did, to their country relations; we had only one treat in the year, and father wanted to take that away. Not a soul in the town, I said, would be as unfortunate as we were. The children next door would go somewhere, of course. So would the little Smiths, and the Browns, and _everybody_. Everybody else went to the sea in the autumn; we were contented with the moors, and he wouldn't even let us go there. And, at the end of every burst of complaint, I discharged a volley of kicks at the leg of the chair, and wound up with "I can't think why he can't!" "I don't know," said my sister, timidly, "but he said something about not affording it, and spending money, and about trade being bad, and he was afraid there would be great distress in the town." Oh, these illogical women! I was furious. "What on earth has that to do with us?" I shouted at her. "Father's a doctor; trade won't hurt him. But you are so silly, Minnie, I can't talk to you. I only know it's very hard. Fancy staying a whole year boxed up in this beastly town!" And I had so worked myself up that I fully believed in the truth of the sentence with which I concluded-- "_There never_ WAS _anything so miserable!_" Minnie said nothing, for my feelings just then were something like those of the dogs who (Dr. Watts tells us) "delight To bark and bite;" and perhaps she was afraid of being bitten. At any rate, she held her tongue; and just then my father came into the room. The door was open, and he must have heard my last speech as he came along the passage; but he made no remark on it, and only said, "Would any young man here like to go with me to see a patient?" I went willingly, for I was both tired and half-ashamed of teasing Minnie, and we were soon in the street. It was a broad and cheerful one, as I said; but before long we left it for a narrower, and then turned off from that into a side street, where the foot-path would only allow us to walk in single file--a dirty, dark lane, where surely the sun never did shine. "What a horrid place!" I said. "I never was here before. Why don't they pull such a street down?" "What is to become of the people who live in it?" said my father. "Let them live in one of the bigger streets," I said; "it would be much more comfortable." "Very likely," he said; "but they would have to pay much more for their houses; and if they haven't the money to pay with, what's to be done?" I could not say, for, like older social reformers than myself, I felt more sure that the reform was needed, than of how to accomplish it. But before I could decide upon what to do with the dirty little street, we had come to a place so very much worse that it put the other quite out of my head. There is a mournful fatality about the pretty names which are given, as if in mockery, to the most wretched of the bye-streets in large towns. The street we had left was called Rosemary Street, and this was Primrose Place. Primrose Place was more like a yard than a street; the houses were all irregular and of different ages. On one side was a gap with palings round it, where building was going on, and beyond rose a huge black factory. But the condition of Primrose Place was beyond description. I had never seen anything like it before, and kept as close to my father as was consistent with boyish, dignity. The pathway was broken up, children squalled at the doors and quarrelled in the street, which was strewn with rags, and bones, and bits of old iron, and shoes, and the tops of turnips. I do not think there was a whole unbroken window in all the row of tall miserable houses, and the wet clothes hanging out on lines stretched across the street, flapped above our heads. I counted three cripples as we went up Primrose Place. My father stopped to speak to several people, and I heard many complaints of the bad state of trade to which my sister had alluded. He gave some money to one woman, and spoke kindly to all; but he hurried me on as fast as he could, and we turned at last into one of the houses. My ill-humour had by this time almost worked itself off in the fresh air, and the novel scenes through which we had come; and, for the present, the morning's disappointment was forgotten as I followed my father through the crowded miserable rooms, and clambered up staircase after staircase, till we reached the top of the house, and stumbled through a latched door into the garret. After so much groping in the dark, the light dazzled me, and I thought at first that the room was empty. But at last a faint "Good day" from the corner near the window drew my eyes that way; and there, stretched on a sort of bed, and supported by a chair at his back, lay the patient we had come to see. He was a young man about twenty-six years old, in the last stage of that terrible disease so fatally common in our country--he was dying of consumption. There was no mistaking the flushed cheek, the painfully laborious breathing, and the incessant cough; while two old crutches in the corner spoke of another affliction--he was a cripple. His gaunt face lighted up with a glow of pleasure when my father came in, who seated himself at once on the end of the bed, and began to talk to him, whilst I looked round the room. There was absolutely nothing in it, except the bed on which the sick man lay, the chair that supported him, and a small three-legged table. The low roof was terribly out of repair, and the window was patched with newspaper; but through the glass panes that were left, in full glory streamed the sun, and in the midst of the blaze stood a pot of musk in full bloom. The soft yellow flowers looked so grand, and smelled so sweet, that I was lost in admiration, till I found the sick man's black eyes fixed on mine. "You are looking at my bit of green, master?" he said, in a gratified tone. "Do you like flowers?" I inquired, coming shyly up to the bed. "Do I like 'em?" he exclaimed in a low voice. "Ay, I love 'em well enough--well enough," and he looked fondly at the plant, "though it's long since I saw any but these." "You have not been in the country for a long time?" I inquired, compassionately. I felt sad to think that he had perhaps lain there for months, without a taste of fresh air or a run in the fields; but I was _not_ prepared for his answer. "_I never was in the country, young gentleman._" I looked at my father. "Yes," he said, in answer to my glance, "it is quite true. William was born here. He got hurt when a boy, and has been lame ever since. For some years he has been entirely confined to the house. He was never out of town, and never saw a green field." Never out of the town! confined to the house for years! and what a house! The tears rushed to my eyes, and I felt that angry heart-ache which the sight of suffering produces in those who are too young to be insensible to it, and too ignorant of GOD's Providence to submit with "quietness and confidence" to His will. "My son can hardly believe it, William." "It is such a shame," I said; "it is horrible. I am very sorry for you." The black eyes turned kindly upon me, and the sick man said, "Thank you heartily, Sir. You mean very kindly. I used to say the same sort of things myself, when I was younger, and knew no better. I used to think it was very hard, and that no one was so miserable as I was. But I know now how much better off I am than most folks, and how many things I have to be thankful for." I looked round the room, and began involuntarily to count the furniture--one, two, three. The "many things" were certainly not chairs and tables. But he was gazing before him, and went on: "I often think how thankful I ought to be to die in peace, and have a quiet room to myself. There was a girl in a consumption on the floor below me; and she used to sit and cough, while her father and mother quarrelled so that I could hear them through the floor. I used to send her half of anything nice I had, but I found they took it. I did wish then," he added, with a sudden flush, "that I had been a strong man!" "How shocking!" I said. "Yes," he answered; "it was that first set me thinking how many mercies I had. And then there came such a good parson to St. John's, and he taught me many things; and then I knew your father; and the neighbours have been very kind. And while I could work I got good wage, and laid by a bit; and I've sold a few things, and there'll be these to sell when I'm gone; and so I've got what will keep me while I do live, and pay for my coffin. What can a man want more?" What, indeed! Unsatisfied heart, make answer! A fit of coughing that shook the crazy room interrupted him here. When he had recovered himself, he turned to my father. "Ay, ay, I have many mercies, as you know, Sir. Who would have thought I could have kept a bit of green like that plant of mine in a place like this? But, you see, they pulled down those old houses opposite just before I got it, and now the sun couldn't come into a king's room better than it comes into mine. I was always afraid, year after year, that they would build it up, and my bit of green would die; and they are building now, but it will last my time. Indeed, indeed, I've had much to be thankful for. Not," he added, in a low, reverential tone, "not to mention greater blessings. The presence of the LORD! the presence of the LORD!" I was awed, almost frightened, by the tone in which he spoke, and by the look of his face, on which the shadow of death was falling fast. He lay in a sort of stupor, gazing with his black eyes at the broken roof, as if through it he saw something invisible to us. It was some time before he seemed to recollect that we were there, and before I ventured to ask him. "Where did you get your plant?" He smiled. "That's a long story, master; but it was this way. You see, my father died quite young in a decline, and left my mother to struggle on with eight of us as she could. She buried six, one after another; and then she died herself, and brother Ben and I were left alone. But we were mighty fond of one another, and got on very well. I got plenty of employment, weaving mats and baskets for a shop in the town, and Ben worked at the factory. One Saturday night he came home all in a state, and said there was going to be a cheap trip on the Monday into the country. It was the first there had been from these parts, though there have been many since, I believe. Neither he nor I had ever been out of the town, and he was full of it that we must go. He had brought his Saturday wage with him, and we would work hard afterwards. Well, you see, the landlord had been that day, and had said he must have the rent by Tuesday, or he'd turn us out. I'd got some of it laid by, and was looking to Ben's wages to make it up. But I couldn't bear to see his face pining for a bit of fresh air, and so I thought I could stay at home and work on Monday for what would make up the rent, and he need never know. So I pretended that I didn't want to go, and couldn't be bothered with the fuss; and at last I set him off on Monday without me. It was late at night when he came back like one wild. He'd got flowers in his hat, and flowers in all his button-holes; he'd got his handkerchief filled with hay, and was carrying something under his coat. He began laughing and crying, and 'Eh, Bill!' he said, 'thou hast been a fool. Thou hast missed summat. But I've brought thee a bit of green, lad, I've brought thee a bit of green.' And then he lifted up his coat, and there was the plant, which some woman had given him. We didn't sleep much that night. He spread the hay over the bed, for me to lay my face on, and see how the fields smelt, and then he began and told me all about it; and after that, when I was tired with work, or on a Sunday afternoon, I used to say, 'Now, Ben, tell us a bit about the country.' And he liked nothing better. He used to say that I should go, if he carried me on his back; but the LORD did not see fit. He took cold at work, and went off three months afterwards. It was singular, the morning he died he called me to him, and said, 'Bill, I've been a dreaming about that trip that thou didst want to go after all. I dreamt--' and then he stopped, and said no more; but, after a bit, he opened his eyes wide, and pulled me to him, and he said, 'Bill, my lad, there's such flowers in heaven, such flowers!' And so the LORD took him. But I kept the bit of green for his sake." Here followed another fit of coughing, which brought my father from the end of the bed to forbid his talking any more. "I have got to see another patient in the yard," he said, "and I will leave my son here. He shall read you a chapter or two till I come back; he is a good reader for his age." And so my father went. I was, as he said, a good reader for my age; but I felt very nervous when the sick man drew a Bible from his side, and put it in my hands. I wondered what I should read; but it was soon settled by his asking for certain Psalms, which I read as clearly and distinctly as I could. At first I was rather disturbed by his occasional remarks, and a few murmured Amens; but I soon got used to it. He joined devoutly in the "Glory be to the Father"--with which I concluded--and then asked for a chapter from the Revelation of St. John. I was more at ease now, and read my best, with a happy sense of being useful; whilst he lay in the sunshine, folding the sheet with his bony fingers, with his eyes fixed on the beloved "bit of green," and drinking in the Words of Life with dying ears. "_Blessed are they that dwell in the heavenly Jerusalem, where there is no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it; for the glory of_ GOD _does lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof._" By the time that my father returned, the sick man and I were fast friends; and I left him with his blessing on my head. As we went home, my good kind father told me that I was nearly old enough now to take an interest in his concerns, and began to talk of his patients, and of the poverty and destitution of some parts of the town. Then he spoke of the bad state of trade--that it was expected to be worse, and that the want of work and consequent misery this year would probably be very great. Finally he added, that when so many were likely to be starving, he had thought it right that we should deny ourselves our little annual treat, and so save the money to enable us to take our part in relieving the distressed. "Don't you think so, my boy?" he concluded, as we reached the door of our comfortable (how comfortable!) home. My whole heart was in my "Yes." It is a happy moment for a son when his father first confides in him. It is a happy moment for a father when his son first learns to appreciate some of the labour of his life, and henceforth to obey his commands, not only with a blind obedience, but in the sympathizing spirit of the "perfect love" which "casts out fear." My heart was too full to thank him then for his wise forbearance and wiser confidence; but when after some months my sister's health made change of air to the house of a country relative necessary, great was my pride and thankfulness that I was well enough to remain at the post of duty by my father's side. One day, not long after our visit to William, he went again to see him; and when he came back I saw by the musk-plant in his hand the news he brought. Its flowers were lovelier than ever, but its master was transplanted into a heavenly garden, and he had left it to me. Mortal man does not learn any virtue in one lesson; and I have only too often in my life been ungrateful both to GOD and man. But the memory of lame William has often come across me when I have been tempted to grumble about small troubles; and has given me a little help (not to be despised) in striving after the grace of Thankfulness, even for a "bit of green." MONSIEUR THE VISCOUNT'S FRIEND. A TALE IN THREE CHAPTERS. "Sweet are the vses of aduersitie Which like the toad, ougly and venemous, Weares yet a precious lewell in his head." AS YOU LIKE IT: A.D. 1623. CHAPTER I. It was the year of grace 1779. In one of the most beautiful corners of beautiful France stood a grand old château. It was a fine old building, with countless windows large and small, with high-pitched roofs and pointed towers, which in good taste or bad, did its best to be everywhere ornamental, from the gorgon heads which frowned from its turrets to the long row of stables and the fantastic dovecotes. It stood (as became such a castle) upon an eminence, and looked down. Very beautiful indeed was what it looked upon. Terrace below terrace glowed with the most brilliant flowers, and broad flights of steps led from one garden to the other. On the last terrace of all, fountains and jets of water poured into one large basin, in which were gold and silver fish. Beyond this were shady walks, which led to a lake on which floated water-lilies and swans. From the top of the topmost flight of steps you could see the blazing gardens one below the other, the fountains and the basin, the walks and the lake, and beyond these the trees, and the smiling country, and the blue sky of France. Within the castle, as without, beauty reigned supreme. The sunlight, subdued by blinds and curtains, stole into rooms furnished with every grace and luxury that could be procured in a country that then accounted itself the most highly-civilized in the world. It fell upon beautiful flowers and beautiful china, upon beautiful tapestry and pictures; and it fell upon Madame the Viscountess, sitting at her embroidery. Madame the Viscountess was not young, but she was not the least beautiful object in those stately rooms. She had married into a race of nobles who (themselves famed for personal beauty) had been scrupulous in the choice of lovely wives. The late Viscount (for Madame was a widow) had been one of the handsomest of the gay courtiers of his day; and Madame had not been unworthy of him. Even now, though the roses on her cheeks were more entirely artificial than they had been in the days of her youth, she was like some exquisite piece of porcelain. Standing by the embroidery frame was Madame's only child, a boy who, in spite of his youth, was already Monsieur the Viscount. He also was beautiful. His exquisitely-cut mouth had a curl which was the inheritance of scornful generations, but which was redeemed by his soft violet eyes and by an under-lying expression of natural amiability. His hair was cut square across the forehead, and fell in natural curls behind. His childish figure had already been trained in the fencing school, and had gathered dignity from perpetually treading upon shallow steps and in lofty rooms. From the rosettes on his little shoes to his _chapeau à plumes_, he also was like some porcelain figure. Surely, such beings could not exist except in such a château as this, where the very air (unlike that breathed by common mortals) had in the ante-rooms a faint aristocratic odour, and was for yards round Madame the Viscountess dimly suggestive of frangipani! Monsieur the Viscount did not stay long by the embroidery frame; he was entertaining to-day a party of children from the estate, and had come for the key of an old cabinet of which he wished to display the treasures. When tired of this, they went out on to the terrace, and one of the children who had not been there before exclaimed at the beauty of the view. "It is true," said the little Viscount, carelessly, "and all, as far as you can see, is the estate." "I will throw a stone to the end of your property, Monsieur," said one of the boys, laughing; and he picked one off the walk, and stepping back, flung it with all his little strength. The stone fell before it had passed the fountains, and the failure was received with shouts of laughter. "Let us see who can beat that," they cried; and there was a general search for pebbles, which were flung at random among the flower beds. "One may easily throw such as those," said the Viscount, who was poking under the wall of the first terrace; "but here is a stone that one may call a stone. Who will send this into the fish-pond? It will make a fountain of itself." The children drew round him as, with ruffles turned back, he tugged and pulled at a large dirty looking stone, which was half-buried in the earth by the wall. "Up it comes!" said the Viscount, at length; and sure enough, up it came; but underneath it, his bright eyes shining out of his dirty wrinkled body--horror of horrors!--there lay a toad. Now, even in England, toads are not looked upon with much favour, and a party of English children would have been startled by such a discovery. But with French people, the dread of toads is ludicrous in its intensity. In France toads are believed to have teeth, to bite, and to spit poison; so my hero and his young guests must be excused for taking flight at once with a cry of dismay. On the next terrace, however, they paused, and seeing no signs of the enemy, crept slowly back again. The little Viscount (be it said) began to feel ashamed of himself, and led the way, with his hand upon the miniature sword which hung at his side. All eyes were fixed upon the fatal stone, when from behind it was seen slowly to push forth, first a dirty wrinkled leg, then half a dirty wrinkled head, with one gleaming eye. It was too much; with cries of, "It is he! he comes! he spits! he pursues us!" the young guests of the château fled in good earnest, and never stopped until they reached the fountain and the fish-pond. But Monsieur the Viscount stood his ground. At the sudden apparition the blood rushed to his heart, and made him very white, then it flooded back again and made him very red, and then he fairly drew his sword, and shouting, "_Vive la France!_" rushed upon the enemy. The sword if small was sharp, and stabbed the poor toad would most undoubtedly have been, but for a sudden check received by the valiant little nobleman. It came in the shape of a large heavy hand that seized Monsieur the Viscount with the grasp of a giant, while a voice which could only have belonged to the owner of such a hand said in slow deep tones, "_Que faites-vous?_" ("What are you doing?") It was the tutor, who had been pacing up and down the terrace with a book, and who now stood holding the book in his right hand, and our hero in his left. Monsieur the Viscount's tutor was a remarkable man. If he had not been so, he would hardly have been tolerated at the château, since he was not particularly beautiful, and not especially refined. He was in holy orders, as his tonsured head and clerical costume bore witness--a costume which, from its tightness and simplicity, only served to exaggerate the unusual proportions of his person. Monsieur the Preceptor had English blood in his veins, and his northern origin betrayed itself in his towering height and corresponding breadth, as well as by his fair hair and light blue eyes. But the most remarkable parts of his outward man were his hands, which were of immense size, especially about the thumbs. Monsieur the Preceptor was not exactly in keeping with his present abode. It was not only that he was wanting in the grace and beauty that reigned around him, but that his presence made those very graces and beauties to look small. He seemed to have a gift the reverse of that bestowed upon King Midas--the gold on which his heavy hand was laid seemed to become rubbish. In the presence of the late Viscount, and in that of Madame his widow, you would have felt fully the deep importance of your dress being _à la mode_, and your complexion _à la_ strawberries and cream (such influences still exist); but let the burly tutor appear upon the scene, and all the magic died at once out of brocaded silks and pearl-coloured stockings, and dress and complexion became subjects almost of insignificance. Monsieur the Preceptor was certainly a singular man to have been chosen as an inmate of such a household; but, though young, he had unusual talents, and added to them the not more usual accompaniments of modesty and trustworthiness. To crown all, he was rigidly pious in times when piety was not fashionable, and an obedient son of the church of which he was a minister. Moreover, a family that fashion does not permit to be demonstratively religious, may gain a reflected credit from an austere chaplain; and so Monsieur the Preceptor remained in the château and went his own way. It was this man who now laid hands on the Viscount, and, in a voice that sounded like amiable thunder, made the inquiry, "_Que faites-vous?_" "I am going to kill this animal--this hideous horrible animal," said Monsieur the Viscount, struggling vainly under the grasp of the tutors finger and thumb. "It is only a toad," said Monsieur the Preceptor, in his laconic tones. "_Only_ a toad, do you say, Monsieur?" said the Viscount. "That is enough, I think. It will bite--it will spit--it will poison: it is like that dragon you tell me of, that devastated Rhodes--I am the good knight that shall kill it." Monsieur the Preceptor laughed heartily. "You are misled by a vulgar error. Toads do not bite--they have no teeth; neither do they spit poison." "You are wrong, Monsieur," said the Viscount; "I have seen their teeth myself. Claude Mignon, at the lodge, has two terrible ones, which he keeps in his pocket as a charm." "I have seen them," said the tutor, "in Monsieur Claude's pocket. When he can show me similar ones in a toad's head I will believe. Meanwhile, I must beg of you, Monsieur, to put up your sword. You must not kill this poor animal, which is quite harmless, and very useful in a garden--it feeds upon many insects and reptiles which injure the plants." "It shall not be useful, in this garden," said the little Viscount, fretfully. "There are plenty of gardeners to destroy the insects, and, if needful, we can have more. But the toad shall not remain. My mother would faint if she saw so hideous a beast among her beautiful flowers." "Jacques!" roared the tutor to a gardener who was at some distance. Jacques started as if a clap of thunder had sounded in his ear, and approached with low bows. "Take that toad, Jacques, and carry it to the _potager_. It will keep the slugs from your cabbages." Jacques bowed low and lower, and scratched his head, and then did reverence again with Asiatic humility, but at the same time moved gradually backwards, and never even looked at the toad. "You also have seen the contents of Monsieur Claude's pocket?" said the tutor, significantly, and quitting his hold of the Viscount, he stooped down, seized the toad in his huge finger and thumb, and strode off in the direction of the _potager_, followed at a respectful distance by Jacques, who vented his awe and astonishment in alternate bows and exclamations at the astounding conduct of the incomprehensible Preceptor. "What is the use of such ugly beasts?" said the Viscount to his tutor, on his return from the _potager_. "Birds and butterflies are pretty, but what can such villains as these toads have been made for?" "You should study natural history, Monsieur--" began the priest, who was himself a naturalist. "That is what you always say," interrupted the Viscount, with the perverse folly of ignorance; "but if I knew as much as you do, it would not make me understand why such ugly creatures need have been made." "Nor," said the priest, firmly, "is it necessary that you should understand it, particularly if you do not care to inquire. It is enough for you and me if we remember Who made them, some six thousand years before either of us was born." With which Monsieur the Preceptor (who had all this time kept his place in the little book with his big thumb) returned to the terrace, and resumed his devotions at the point where they had been interrupted which exercise he continued till he was joined by the Curé of the village, and the two priests relaxed in the political and religious gossip of the day. Monsieur the Viscount rejoined his young guests, and they fed the gold fish and the swans, and played _Colin Maillard_ in the shady walks, and made a beautiful bouquet for Madame, and then fled indoors at the first approach of evening chill, and found that the Viscountess had prepared a feast of fruit and flowers for them in the great hall. Here, at the head of the table, with Madame at his right hand, his guests around, and the liveried lacqueys waiting his commands, Monsieur the Viscount forgot that anything had ever been made which could mar beauty and enjoyment; while the two priests outside stalked up and down under the falling twilight, and talked ugly talk of crime and poverty that were _somewhere_ now, and of troubles to come hereafter. And so night fell over the beautiful sky, the beautiful château, and the beautiful gardens; and upon the secure slumbers of beautiful Madame and her beautiful son, and beautiful, beautiful France. * * * * * CHAPTER II. It was the year of grace 1792, thirteen years after the events related in the last chapter. It was the 2nd of September, and Sunday, a day of rest and peace in all Christian countries, and even more in gay, beautiful France--a day of festivity and merriment. This Sunday, however, seemed rather an exception to the general rule. There were no gay groups or bannered processions; the typical incense and the public devotion of which it is the symbol were alike wanting; the streets in some places seemed deserted, and in others there was an ominous crowd, and the dreary silence was now and then broken by a distant sound of yells and cries, that struck terror into the hearts of the Parisians. It was a deserted bye-street, overlooked by some shut-up warehouses, and from the cellar of one of these a young man crept up on to the pathway. His dress had once been beautiful, but it was torn and soiled; his face was beautiful still, but it was marred by the hideous eagerness of a face on which famine has laid her hand--he was starving. As this man came out from the warehouse, another man came down the street. His dress was not beautiful, neither was he. There was a red look about him--he wore a red flannel cap, tricolour ribbons, and had something red upon his hands, which was neither ribbon nor flannel. He also looked hungry; but it was not for food. The other stopped when he saw him, and pulled something from his pocket. It was a watch, a repeater, in a gold filigree case of exquisite workmanship, with raised figures depicting the loves of an Arcadian shepherd and shepherdess; and, as it lay on the white hand of its owner, it bore an evanescent fragrance that seemed to recall scenes as beautiful and as completely past as the days of pastoral perfection, when "All the world and love were young And truth in every shepherd's tongue." The young man held it to the other and spoke. "It was my mother's," he said, with an appealing glance of violet eyes; "I would not part with it but that I am starving. Will you get me food?" "You are hiding?" said he of the red cap. "Is that a crime in these days?" said the other, with a smile that would in other days have been irresistible. The man took the watch, shaded the donor's beautiful face with a rough red cap and tricolour ribbon, and bade him follow him. He, who had but lately come to Paris, dragged his exhausted body after his conductor, hardly noticed the crowds in the streets, the signs by which the man got free passage for them both, or their entrance by a little side-door into a large dark building, and never knew till he was delivered to one of the gaolers that he had been led into the prison of the Abbaye. Then the wretch tore the cap of Liberty from his victim's head, and pointed to him with a fierce laugh. "He wants food, this aristocrat. He shall not wait long--there is a feast in the court below, which he shall join presently. See to it, Antoine! And you, _Monsieur_, _Mons-ieur_! listen to the banqueters." He ceased, and in the silence yells and cries from a court below came up like some horrid answer to imprecation. The man continued-- "He has paid for his admission, this Monsieur. It belonged to Madame his mother. Behold!" He held the watch above his head, and dashed it with insane fury on the ground, and, bidding the gaoler see to his prisoner, rushed away to the court below. The prisoner needed some attention. Weakness, and fasting, and horror had overpowered a delicate body and a sensitive mind, and he lay senseless by the shattered relic of happier times. Antoine, the gaoler (a weak-minded man whom circumstances had made cruel), looked at him with indifference while the Jacobin remained in the place, and with half-suppressed pity when he had gone. The place where he lay was a hall or passage in the prison, into which several cells opened, and a number of the prisoners were gathered together at one end of it. One of them had watched the proceedings of the Jacobin and his victim with profound interest, and now advanced to where the poor youth lay. He was a priest, and though thirteen years had passed over his head since we saw him in the château, and though toil and suffering and anxiety had added the traces of as many more, yet it would not have been difficult to recognize the towering height, the candid face, and, finally, the large thumb in the little book of ----, Monsieur the Preceptor, who had years ago exchanged his old position for a parochial cure. He strode up to the gaoler (whose head came a little above the priest's elbow), and, drawing him aside, asked, with his old abruptness, "Who is this?" "It is the Vicomte de B----. I know his face. He has escaped the commissaires for some days." "I thought so. Is his name on the registers?" "No. He escaped arrest, and has just been brought in, as you saw." "Antoine," said the priest, in a low voice, and with a gaze that seemed to pierce the soul of the weak little gaoler; "Antoine, when you were a shoemaker in the Rue de la Croix, in two or three hard winters I think you found me a friend." "Oh! Monsieur le Curé," said Antoine, writhing; "if Monsieur le Curé would believe that if I could save his life! But--" "Pshaw!" said the priest, "it is not for myself, but for this boy. You must save him, Antoine. Hear me, you _must_. Take him now to one of the lower cells and hide him. You risk nothing. His name is not on the prison register. He will not be called, he will not be missed; that fanatic will think that he has perished with the rest of us (Antoine shuddered, though the priest did not move a muscle) and when this mad fever has subsided and order is restored, he will reward you. And Antoine--" Here the priest pocketed his book, and somewhat awkwardly with his huge hands unfastened the left side of his cassock, and tore the silk from the lining. Monsieur le Curé's cassock seemed a cabinet of oddities. First he pulled from this ingenious hiding-place a crucifix, which he replaced; then a knot of white ribbon, which he also restored; and, finally, a tiny pocket or bag of what had been cream-coloured satin, embroidered with small bunches of heartsease, and which was aromatic with otto of roses. Awkwardly, and somewhat slowly, he drew out of this a small locket, in the centre of which was some unreadable legend in cabalistic-looking character, and which blazed with the finest diamonds. Heaven alone knows the secret of that gem, or the struggle with which the priest yielded it. He put it into Antoine's hand, talking as he did so partly to himself and partly to the gaoler. "We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The diamonds are of the finest, Antoine, and will sell for much. The blessing of a dying priest upon you if you do kindly, and his curse if you do ill to this poor child, whose home was my home in better days. And for the locket--it is but a remembrance, and to remember is not difficult!" As the last observation was not addressed to Antoine, so also he did not hear it. He was discontentedly watching the body of the Viscount, whom he consented to help, but with genuine weak-mindedness consented ungraciously. "How am I to get him there? Monsieur le Curé sees that he cannot stand upon his feet." Monsieur le Curé smiled, and stooping, picked his old pupil up in his arms as if he had been a baby, and bore him to one of the doors. "You must come no further," said Antoine, hastily. "Ingrate!" muttered the priest in momentary anger, and then, ashamed, he crossed himself, and pressing the young nobleman to his bosom with the last gush of earthly affection that he was to feel, he kissed his senseless face, spoke a benediction to ears that could not hear it, and laid his burden down. "GOD the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be with thee now and in the dread hour of death. Adieu! we shall meet hereafter." The look of pity, the yearning of rekindled love, the struggle of silenced memories passed from his face and left a shining calm--foretaste of the perpetual Light and the eternal Rest. Before he reached the other prisoners, the large thumb had found its old place in the little book, the lips formed the old old words; but it might almost have been said of him already, that "his spirit was with the GOD who gave it." As for Monsieur the Viscount, it was perhaps well that he was not too sensible of his position, for Antoine got him down the flight of stone steps that led to the cell by the simple process of dragging him by the heels. After a similar fashion he crossed the floor, and was deposited on a pallet; the gaoler then emptied a broken pitcher of water over his face, and locking the door securely, hurried back to his charge. When Monsieur the Viscount came to his senses he raised himself and looked round his new abode. It was a small stone cell; it was underground, with a little grated window at the top that seemed to be level with the court; there was a pallet--painfully pressed and worn--a chair, a stone on which stood a plate and broken pitcher, and in one corner a huge bundle of firewood which mocked a place where there was no fire. Stones lay scattered about, the walls were black, and in the far dark corners the wet oozed out and trickled slowly down, and lizards and other reptiles crawled up. I suppose that the first object that attracts the hopes of a new prisoner is the window of his cell, and to this, despite his weakness, Monsieur the Viscount crept. It afforded him little satisfaction. It was too high in the cell for him to reach it, too low in the prison to command any view, and was securely grated with iron. Then he examined the walls, but not a stone was loose. As he did so, his eye fell upon the floor, and he noticed that two of the stones that lay about had been raised up by some one and a third laid upon the top. It looked like child's play, and Monsieur the Viscount kicked it down, and then he saw that underneath it there was a pellet of paper roughly rolled together. Evidently it was something left by the former occupant of the cell for his successor. Perhaps he had begun some plan for getting away which he had not had time to perfect on his own account, Perhaps--but by this time the paper was spread out, and Monsieur the Viscount read the writing. The paper was old and yellow. It was the fly-leaf torn out of a little book, and on it was written in black chalk, the words-- "_Souvenez-vous du Sauveur._" (Remember the Saviour.) He turned it over, he turned it back again; there was no other mark; there was nothing more; and Monsieur the Viscount did not conceal from himself that he was disappointed. How could it be otherwise? He had been bred in ease and luxury, and surrounded with everything that could make life beautiful; while ugliness, and want, and sickness, and all that make life miserable, had been kept, as far as they can be kept, from the precincts of the beautiful château which was his home. What were the _consolations_ of religion to him? They are offered to those (and to those only) who need them. They were to Monsieur the Viscount what the Crucified Christ was to the Greeks of old--foolishness. He put the paper in his pocket and lay down again, feeling it the crowning disappointment of what he had lately suffered. Presently, Antoine came with some food; it was not dainty, but Monsieur the Viscount devoured it like a famished hound, and then made inquiries as to how he came and how long he had been there. When the gaoler began to describe him, whom he called the Curé, Monsieur the Viscount's attention quickened into eagerness, an eagerness deepened by the tender interest that always hangs round the names of those whom we have known in happier and younger days. The happy memories recalled by hearing of his old tutor seemed to blot out his present misfortunes. With French excitability, he laughed and wept alternately. "As burly as ever, you say? The little book? I remember it, it was his breviary. Ah! it is he. It is Monsieur the Preceptor, whom I have not seen for years. Take me to him, bring him here, let me see him!" But Monsieur the Preceptor was in Paradise. That first night of Monsieur the Viscount's imprisonment was a terrible one. The bitter chill of a Parisian autumn, the gnawings of half-satisfied hunger, the thick walls that shut out all hope of escape but did not exclude those fearful cries that lasted with few intervals throughout the night, made it like some hideous dream. At last the morning broke; at half-past two o'clock, some members of the _commune_ presented themselves in the hall of the National Assembly with the significant announcement:--"The prisons are empty!" and Antoine, who had been quaking for hours, took courage, and went with half a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water to the cell that was not "empty." He found his prisoner struggling with a knot of white ribbon, which he was trying to fasten in his hair. One glance at his face told all. "It is the fever," said Antoine; and he put down the bread and water and fetched an old blanket and a pillow; and that day and for many days, the gaoler hung above his prisoner's pallet with the tenderness of a woman. Was he haunted by the vision of a burly figure that had bent over his own sick bed in the Rue de la Croix? Did the voice (once so familiar in counsel and benediction!) echo still in his ears? "_The blessing of a dying priest upon you if you do well, and his curse if you do ill to this poor child, whose home was my home in better days._" Be this as it may, Antoine tended his patient with all the constancy compatible with keeping his presence in the prison a secret; and it was not till the crisis was safely past, that he began to visit the cell less frequently, and reassumed the harsh manners which he held to befit his office. Monsieur the Viscount's mind rambled much in his illness. He called for his mother, who had long been dead. He fancied himself in his own château. He thought that all his servants stood in a body before him, but that not one would move to wait on him. He thought that he had abundance of the most tempting food and cooling drinks, but placed just beyond his reach. He thought that he saw two lights like stars near together, which were close to the ground, and kept appearing and then vanishing away. In time he became more sensible; the château melted into the stern reality of his prison walls; the delicate food became bread and water; the servants disappeared like spectres; but in the empty cell, in the dark corners near the floor, he still fancied that he saw two sparks of light coming and going, appearing and then vanishing away. He watched them till his giddy head would bear it no longer, and he closed his eyes and slept. When he awoke he was much better, but when he raised himself and turned towards the stone--there, by the bread and the broken pitcher, sat a dirty, ugly, wrinkled toad, gazing at him, Monsieur the Viscount, with eyes of yellow fire. Monsieur the Viscount had long ago forgotten the toad which had alarmed his childhood; but his national dislike to that animal had not been lessened by years, and the toad of the prison seemed likely to fare no better than the toad of the château. He dragged himself from his pallet, and took up one of the large damp stones which lay about the floor of the cell, to throw at the intruder. He expected that when he approached it, the toad would crawl away, and that he could throw the stone after it; but to his surprise, the beast sat quite unmoved, looking at him with calm shining eyes, and, somehow or other, Monsieur the Viscount lacked strength or heart to kill it. He stood doubtful for a moment, and then a sudden feeling of weakness obliged him to drop the stone, and sit down, while tears sprang to his eyes with the sense of his helplessness. "Why should I kill it?" he said, bitterly. "The beast will live and grow fat upon this damp and loathsomeness, long after they have put an end to my feeble life. It shall remain. The cell is not big, but it is big enough for us both. However large be the rooms a man builds himself to live in, it needs but little space in which to die!" So Monsieur the Viscount dragged his pallet away from the toad, placed another stone by it, and removed the pitcher; and then, wearied with his efforts, lay down and slept heavily. When he awoke, on the new stone by the pitcher was the toad, staring full at him with topaz eyes. He lay still this time and did not move, for the animal showed no intention of spitting, and he was puzzled by its tameness. "It seems to like the sight of a man," he thought. "Is it possible that any former inmate of this wretched prison can have amused his solitude by making a pet of such a creature? and if there were such a man, where is he now?" Henceforward, sleeping or waking, whenever Monsieur the Viscount lay down upon his pallet, the toad crawled up on to the stone, and kept watch over him with shining lustrous eyes; but whenever there was a sound of the key grating in the lock, and the gaoler coming his rounds, away crept the toad, and was quickly lost in the dark corners of the room. When the man was gone, it returned to its place, and Monsieur the Viscount would talk to it, as he lay on his pallet. "Ah! Monsieur Crapaud," he would say, with mournful pleasantry, "without doubt you have had a master and a kind one; but, tell me, who was he, and where is he now? Was he old or young, and was it in the last stage of maddening loneliness that he made friends with such a creature as you?" Monsieur Crapaud looked very intelligent, but he made no reply, and Monsieur the Viscount had recourse to Antoine. "Who was in this cell before me?" he asked at the gaoler's next visit. Antoine's face clouded. "Monsieur le Curé had this room. My orders were that he was to be imprisoned in secret.'" Monsieur le Curé had this room. There was a revelation in those words. It was all explained now. The priest had always had a love for animals (and for ugly, common animals), which his pupil had by no means shared. His room at the château had been little less than a menagerie. He had even kept a glass beehive there, which communicated with a hole in the window through which the bees flew in and out, and he would stand for hours with his thumb in the breviary, watching the labours of his pets. And this also had been his room! This dark, damp cell. Here, breviary in hand, he had stood, and lain, and knelt. Here, in this miserable prison, he had found something to love, and on which to expend the rare intelligence and benevolence of his nature. Here, finally, in the last hours of his life, he had written on the fly-leaf of his prayer-book something to comfort his successor, and, "being dead, yet spoke" the words of consolation which he had administered in his lifetime. Monsieur the Viscount read that paper now with different feelings. There is, perhaps, no argument so strong, and no virtue that so commands the respect of young men, as consistency. Monsieur the Preceptor's lifelong counsel and example would have done less for his pupil than was effected by the knowledge of his consistent career, now that it was past. It was not the nobility of the priest's principles that awoke in Monsieur the Viscount a desire to imitate his religious example, but the fact that he had applied them to his own life, not only in the time of wealth, but in the time of tribulation and in the hour of death. All that high-strung piety--that life of prayer--those unswerving admonitions to consider the vanity of earthly treasures, and to prepare for death--which had sounded so unreal amidst the perfumed elegances of the château, came back now with a reality gained from experiment. The daily life of self-denial, the conversation garnished from Scripture and from the Fathers, had not, after all, been mere priestly affectations. In no symbolic manner, but literally, he had "watched for the coming of his Lord," and "taken up the cross daily;" and so, when the cross was laid on him, and when the voice spoke which must speak to all, "The Master is come, and calleth for thee," he bore the burden and obeyed the summons unmoved. _Unmoved_!--this was the fact that struck deep into the heart of Monsieur the Viscount, as he listened to Antoine's account of the Curé's imprisonment. What had astonished and overpowered his own undisciplined nature had not disturbed Monsieur the Preceptor. He had prayed in the château--he prayed in the prison. He had often spoken in the château of the softening and comforting influences of communion with the lower animals and with nature, and in the uncertainty of imprisonment he had tamed a toad. "None of these things had moved him," and, in a storm of grief and admiration, Monsieur the Viscount bewailed the memory of his tutor. "If he had only lived to teach me!" But he was dead, and there was nothing for Monsieur the Viscount but to make the most of his example. This was not so easy to follow as he imagined. Things seemed to be different with him to what they had been with Monsieur the Preceptor. He had no lofty meditations, no ardent prayers, and calm and peace seemed more distant than ever. Monsieur the Viscount met, in short, with all those difficulties that the soul must meet with, which, in a moment of enthusiasm, has resolved upon a higher and a better way of life, and in moments of depression is perpetually tempted to forego that resolution. His prison life was, however, a pretty severe discipline, and he held on with struggles and prayers; and so, little by little, and day by day, as the time of his imprisonment went by, the consolations of religion became a daily strength against the fretfulness of imperious temper, the sickness of hope deferred, and the dark suggestions of despair. The term of his imprisonment was a long one. Many prisoners came and went within the walls of the Abbaye, but Monsieur the Viscount still remained in his cell; indeed, he would have gained little by leaving it if he could have done so, as he would almost certainly have been retaken. As it was, Antoine on more than one occasion concealed him behind the bundles of firewood, and once or twice he narrowly escaped detection by less friendly officials. There were times when the guillotine seemed to him almost better than this long suspense: but while other heads passed to the block, his remained on his shoulders; and so weeks and even months went by. And during all this time, sleeping or waking, whenever he lay down upon his pallet, the toad crept up on to the stone, and kept watch over him with lustrous eyes. Monsieur the Viscount hardly acknowledged to himself the affection with which he came to regard this ugly and despicable animal. The greater part of his regard for it he believed to be due to its connection with his tutor, and the rest he set down to the score of his own humanity, and took credit to himself accordingly: whereas in truth Monsieur Crapaud was of incalculable service to his master, who would lie and chatter to him for hours, and almost forget his present discomfort in recalling past happiness, as he described the château, the gardens, the burly tutor, and beautiful Madame, or laughed over his childish remembrances of the toad's teeth in Claude Mignon's pocket; whilst Monsieur Crapaud sat well-bred and silent, with a world of comprehension in his fiery eyes. Whoever thinks this puerile must remember that my hero was a Frenchman, and a young Frenchman, with a prescriptive right to chatter for chattering's sake, and also that he had not a very highly cultivated mind of his own to converse with, even if the most highly cultivated intellect is ever a reliable resource against the terrors of solitary confinement. Foolish or wise, however, Monsieur the Viscount's attachment strengthened daily; and one day something happened which showed his pet in a new light, and afforded him fresh amusement. The prison was much infested with certain large black spiders, which crawled about the floor and walls; and, as Monsieur the Viscount was lying on his pallet, he saw one of these scramble up and over the stone on which sat Monsieur Crapaud. That good gentleman, whose eyes, till then, had been fixed as usual on his master, now turned his attention to the intruder. The spider, as if conscious of danger, had suddenly stopped still. Monsieur Crapaud gazed at it intently with his beautiful eyes, and bent himself slightly forward. So they remained for some seconds, then the spider turned round, and began suddenly to scramble away. At this instant Monsieur the Viscount saw his friend's eyes gleam with an intenser fire, his head was jerked forwards; it almost seemed as if something had been projected from his mouth, and drawn back again with the rapidity of lightning. Then Monsieur Crapaud resumed his position, drew in his head, and gazed mildly and sedately before him; _but the spider was nowhere to be seen_. Monsieur the Viscount burst into a loud laugh. "Eh, well! Monsieur," said he, "but this is not well-bred on your part. Who gave you leave to eat my spiders? and to bolt them in such an unmannerly way, moreover." In spite of this reproof Monsieur Crapaud looked in no way ashamed of himself, and I regret to state that henceforward (with the partial humaneness of mankind in general), Monsieur the Viscount amused himself by catching the insects (which were only too plentiful) in an old oyster-shell, and then setting them at liberty on the stone for the benefit of his friend. As for him, all appeared to be fish that came to his net--spiders and beetles, slugs and snails from the damp corners, flies, and wood-lice found on turning up the large stone, disappeared one after the other. The wood-lice were an especial amusement: when Monsieur the Viscount touched them, they shut up into tight little balls, and in this condition he removed them to the stone, and placed them like marbles in a row, Monsieur Crapaud watching the proceeding with rapt attention. After awhile the balls would slowly open and begin to crawl away; but he was a very active wood-louse indeed who escaped the suction of Monsieur Crapaud's tongue, as, his eyes glowing with eager enjoyment, he bolted one after another, and Monsieur the Viscount clapped his hands and applauded. The grated window was a very fine field for spiders and other insects, and by piling up stones on the floor, Monsieur the Viscount contrived to scramble up to it, and fill his friend's oyster-shell with the prey. One day, about a year and nine months after his first arrival at the prison, he climbed to the embrasure of the window, as usual, oyster-shell in hand. He always chose a time for this when he knew that the court would most probably be deserted, to avoid the danger of being recognized through the grating. He was, therefore, not a little startled at being disturbed in his capture of a fat black spider by a sound of something bumping against the iron bars. On looking up, he saw that a string was dangling before the window with something attached to the end of it. He drew it in, and, as he did so, he fancied that he heard a distant sound of voices and clapped hands, as if from some window above. He proceeded to examine his prize, and found that it was a little round pincushion of sand, such as women use to polish their needles with, and that, apparently, it was used as a make-weight to ensure the steady descent of a neat little letter that was tied beside it, in company with a small lead pencil. The letter was directed to "_The prisoner who finds this._" Monsieur the Viscount opened it at once. This was the letter-- "_In prison, 24th Prairial, year 2_. "_Fellow-sufferer, who are you? how long have you been imprisoned? Be good enough to answer_." Monsieur the Viscount hesitated for a moment, and then determined to risk all. He tore off a bit of the paper, and with the little pencil hurriedly wrote this reply:-- "_In secret, June 12, 1794_. "_Louis Archambaud Jean-Marie Arnaud, Vicomte de B., supposed to have perished in the massacres of September_, 1792. _Keep my secret. I have been imprisoned a year and nine months. Who are_ you? _how long have_ you _been here_?" The letter was drawn up, and he watched anxiously for the reply. It came, and with it some sheets of blank paper. "_Monsieur_,--_We have the honour to reply to your inquiries, and thank you for your frankness. Henri Edouard Clermont, Baron de St. Claire. Valerie de St. Claire. We have been here but two days. Accept our sympathy for your misfortunes_." Four words in this note seized at once upon Monsieur the Viscount's interest--_Valerie de St. Claire_;--and for some reasons, which I do not pretend to explain, he decided that it was she who was the author of these epistles, and the demon of curiosity forthwith took possession of his mind. Who was she? was she old or young? And in which relation did she stand to Monsieur le Baron--that of wife, of sister, or of daughter? And from some equally inexplicable cause Monsieur the Viscount determined in his own mind that it was the latter. To make assurance doubly sure, however, he laid a trap to discover the real state of the case. He wrote a letter of thanks and sympathy, expressed with all the delicate chivalrous politeness of a nobleman of the old _régime_, and addressed it to _Madame la Baronne_. The plan succeeded. The next note he received contained these sentences:--"_I am not the Baroness. Madame my mother is, alas! dead. I and my father are alone. He is ill, but thanks you, Monsieur, for your letters, which relieve the_ ennui _of imprisonment. Are you alone?_" Monsieur the Viscount, as in duty bound, relieved the _ennui_ of the Baron's captivity by another epistle. Before answering the last question, he turned round involuntarily, and looked to where Monsieur Crapaud sat by the broken pitcher. The beautiful eyes were turned towards him, and Monsieur the Viscount took up his pencil, and wrote hastily, "_I am not alone--I have a friend._" Henceforward the oyster-shell took a long time to fill, and patience seemed a harder virtue than ever. Perhaps the last fact had something to do with the rapid decline of Monsieur the Viscount's health. He became paler and weaker, and more fretful. His prayers were accompanied by greater mental struggles, and watered with more tears. He was, however, most positive in his assurances to Monsieur Crapaud that he knew the exact nature and cause of the malady that was consuming him. It resulted, he said, from the noxious and unwholesome condition of his cell; and he would entreat Antoine to have it swept out. After some difficulty the gaoler consented. It was nearly a month since Monsieur the Viscount had first been startled by the appearance of the little pincushion. The stock of paper had long been exhausted. He had torn up his cambric ruffles to write upon, and Mademoiselle de St. Claire had made havoc of her pocket-handkerchiefs for the same purpose. The Viscount was feebler than ever, and Antoine became alarmed. The cell should be swept out the next morning. He would come himself, he said, and bring another man out of the town with him to help him, for the work was heavy, and he had a touch of rheumatism. The man was a stupid fellow from the country, who had only been a week in Paris; he had never heard of the Viscount, and Antoine would tell him that the prisoner was a certain young lawyer who had really died of fever in prison the day before. Monsieur the Viscount thanked him; and it was not till the next morning arrived, and he was expecting them every moment, that Monsieur the Viscount remembered the toad, and that he would without doubt be swept away with the rest in the general clearance. At first he thought that he would beg them to leave it, but some knowledge of the petty insults which that class of men heaped upon their prisoners made him feel that this would probably be only an additional reason for their taking the animal away. There was no place to hide it in, for they would go all round the room; unless--unless Monsieur the Viscount took it up in his hand. And this was just what he objected to do. All his old feelings of repugnance came back; he had not even got gloves on; his long white hands were bare, he could not touch a toad. It was true that the beast had amused him, and that he had chatted to it; but, after all, this was a piece of childish folly--an unmanly way, to say the least, of relieving the tedium of captivity. What was Monsieur Crapaud but a very ugly (and most people said a venomous) reptile? To what a folly he had been condescending! With these thoughts, Monsieur the Viscount steeled himself against the glances of his topaz-eyed friend, and when the steps of the men were heard upon the stairs, he did not move from the window where he had placed himself, with his back to the stone. The steps came nearer and nearer, Monsieur the Viscount began to whistle--the key was rattled in the lock, and Monsieur the Viscount heard a bit of bread fall, as the toad hastily descended to hide itself as usual in the corners. In a moment his resolution was gone; another second, and it would be too late. He dashed after the creature, picked it up, and when the men came in he was standing with his hands behind him, in which Monsieur Crapaud was quietly and safely seated. The room was swept, and Antoine was preparing to go, when the other, who had been eyeing the prisoner suspiciously, stopped and said with a sharp sneer, "Does the citizen always preserve that position?" "Not he," said the gaoler, good-naturedly. "He spends most of his time in bed, which saves his legs. Come along, François." "I shall not come," said the other, obstinately. "Let the citizen show me his hands." "Plague take you!" said Antoine, in a whisper. "What sulky fit possesses you, my comrade? Let the poor wretch alone. What wouldst thou with his hands? Wait a little, and thou shall have his head." "We should have few heads or prisoners either, if thou hadst the care of them," said François, sharply. "I say that the prisoner secretes something, and that I will see it. Show your hands, dog of an aristocrat!" Monsieur the Viscount set his teeth to keep himself from speaking, and held out his hands in silence, toad and all. Both the men started back with an exclamation, and François got behind his comrade, and swore over his shoulder. Monsieur the Viscount stood upright and still, with a smile on his white face. "Behold, citizen, what I secrete, and what I desire to keep. Behold all that I have left to secrete or to desire! There is nothing more." "Throw it down!" screamed François; "many a witch has been burnt for less--throw it down." The colour began to flood over Monsieur the Viscount's face; but still he spoke gently, and with bated breath. "If you wish me to suffer, citizen, let this be my witness that I have suffered. I must be very friendless to desire such a friend. I must be brought very low to ask such a favour. Let the Republic give me this." "The Republic has one safe rule for aristocrats," said the other; "she gives them nothing but their keep till she pays for their shaving--once for all. She gave one of these dogs a few rags to dress a wound on his back with, and he made a rope of his dressings, and let himself down from the window. We will have no more such games. You may be training the beast to spit poison at good citizens. Throw it down and kill it." Monsieur the Viscount made no reply. His hands had moved towards his breast, against which he was holding his golden-eyed friend. There are times in life when the brute creation contrasts favourably with the lords thereof, and this was one of them. It was hard to part just now. Antoine, who had been internally cursing his own folly in bringing such a companion into the cell, now interfered. "If you are going to stay here to be bitten or spit at, François, my friend," said he, "I am not. Thou art zealous, my comrade, but dull as an owl. The Republic is far-sighted in her wisdom beyond thy coarse ideas, and has more ways of taking their heads from these aristocrats than one. Dost thou not see?" And he tapped his forehead significantly, and looked at the prisoner; and so, between talking and pushing, got his sulky companion out of the cell, and locked the door after them. "And so, my friend--my friend!" said Monsieur the Viscount, tenderly, "we are safe once more; but it will not be for long, my Crapaud. Something tells me that I cannot much longer be overlooked. A little while, and I shall be gone; and thou wilt have, perchance, another master, when I am summoned before mine." Monsieur the Viscount's misgivings were just. François, on whose stupidity Antoine had relied, was (as is not uncommon with people stupid in other respects) just clever enough to be mischievous. Antoine's evident alarm made him suspicious, and he began to talk about the too-elegant-looking young lawyer who was imprisoned "in secret," and permitted by the gaoler to keep venomous beasts. Antoine was examined and committed to one of his own cells, and Monsieur the Viscount was summoned before the revolutionary tribunal. There was little need even for the scanty inquiry that in those days preceded sentence. In every line of his beautiful face, marred as it was by sickness and suffering--in the unconquerable dignity, which dirt and raggedness were powerless to hide, the fatal nobility of his birth and breeding were betrayed. When he returned to the ante-room, he did not positively know his fate; but in his mind there was a moral certainty that left him no hope. The room was filled with other prisoners awaiting trial; and, as he entered, his eyes wandered round it to see if there were any familiar faces. They fell upon two figures standing with their backs to him--a tall, fierce-looking man, who, despite his height and fierceness, had a restless, nervous despondency expressed in all his movements; and a young girl who leant on his arm as if for support, but whose steady quietude gave her more the air of a supporter. Without seeing their faces, and for no reasonable reason, Monsieur the Viscount decided with himself that they were the Baron and his daughter, and he begged the man who was conducting him for a moment's delay. The man consented. France was becoming sick of unmitigated carnage, and even the executioners sometimes indulged in pity by way of a change. As Monsieur the Viscount approached the two they turned round, and he saw her face--a very fair and very resolute one, with ashen hair and large eyes. In common with almost all the faces in that room, it was blanched with suffering; and, it is fair to say, in common with many of them, it was pervaded by a lofty calm. Monsieur the Viscount never for an instant doubted his own conviction; he drew near and said in a low voice, "Mademoiselle de St. Claire!" The Baron looked first fierce, and then alarmed. His daughter's face illumined; she turned her large eyes on the speaker, and said simply, "Monsieur le Vicomte?" The Baron apologized, commiserated, and sat down on a seat near, with a look of fretful despair; and his daughter and Monsieur the Viscount were left standing together. Monsieur the Viscount desired to say a great deal, and could say very little. The moments went by, and hardly a word had been spoken. Valerie asked if he knew his fate. "I have not heard it," he said; "but I am morally certain. There can be but one end in these days." She sighed. "It is the same with us. And if you must suffer, Monsieur, I wish that we may suffer together. It would comfort my father--and me." Her composure vexed him. Just, too, when he was sensible that the desire of life was making a few fierce struggles in his own breast. "You seem to look forward to death with great cheerfulness, Mademoiselle." The large eyes were raised to him with a look of surprise at the irritation of his tone. "I think," she said, gently, "that one does not look forward _to_, but _beyond_ it." She stopped and hesitated, still watching his face, and then spoke hurriedly and diffidently:-- "Monsieur, it seems impertinent to make such suggestions to you, who have doubtless a full fund of consolation; but I remember, when a child, going to hear the preaching of a monk who was famous for his eloquence. He said that his text was from the Scriptures--it has been in my mind all to-day--'_There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary be at rest._' The man is becoming impatient. Adieu! Monsieur. A thousand thanks and a thousand blessings." She offered her cheek, on which there was not a ray of increased colour, and Monsieur the Viscount stooped and kissed it, with a thick mist gathering in his eyes, through which he could not see her face. "Adieu! Valerie!" "Adieu! Louis!" So they met, and so they parted; and as Monsieur the Viscount went back to his prison, he flattered himself that the last link was broken for him in the chain of earthly interests. When he reached the cell he was tired, and lay down, and in a few seconds a soft scrambling over the floor announced the return of Monsieur Crapaud from his hiding-place. With one wrinkled leg after another he clambered on to the stone, and Monsieur the Viscount started when he saw him. "Friend Crapaud! I had actually forgotten thee. I fancied I had said adieu for the last time;" and he gave a choked sigh, which Monsieur Crapaud could not be expected to understand. In about five minutes he sprang up suddenly. "Monsieur Crapaud, I have not long to live, and no time must be lost in making my will." Monsieur Crapaud was too wise to express any astonishment; and his master began to hunt for a tidy-looking stone (paper and cambric were both at an end). They were all rough and dirty; but necessity had made the Viscount inventive, and he took a couple and rubbed them together till he had polished both. Then he pulled out the little pencil, and for the next half hour composed and wrote busily. When it was done he lay down, and read it to his friend. This was Monsieur the Viscount's last will and Testament:-- "_To my successor in this cell._ "To you whom Providence has chosen to be the inheritor of my sorrows and my captivity, I desire to make another bequest. There is in this prison a toad. He was tamed by a man (peace to his memory!) who tenanted this cell before me. He has been my friend and companion for nearly two years of sad imprisonment. He has sat by my bedside, fed from my hand, and shared all my confidence. He is ugly, but he has beautiful eyes; he is silent, but he is attentive; he is a brute, but I wish the men of France were in this respect more his superiors! He is very faithful. May you never have a worse friend! He feeds upon insects, which I have been accustomed to procure for him. Be kind to him; he will repay it. Like other men, I bequeath what I would take with me if I could. "Fellow-sufferer, adieu! GOD comfort you as He has comforted me! The sorrows of this life are sharp but short; the joys of the next life are eternal. Think sometimes on him who commends his friend to your pity, and himself to your prayers. "This is the last will and testament of Louis Archambaud Jean-Marie Arnaud, Vicomte de B----." Monsieur the Viscount's last will and testament was with difficulty squeezed into the surface of the larger of the stones. Then he hid it where the priest had hidden _his_ bequest long ago, and then lay down to dream of Monsieur the Preceptor, and that they had met at last. The next day was one of anxious suspense. In the evening, as usual, a list of those who were to be guillotined next morning, was brought into the prison; and Monsieur the Viscount begged for a sight of it. It was brought to him. First on the list was Antoine! Halfway down was his own name, "Louis de B----," and a little lower his fascinated gaze fell upon names that stirred his heart with such a passion of regret as he had fancied it would never feel again, "Henri de St. Claire, Valerie de St. Claire." Her eyes seemed to shine on him from the gathering twilight, and her calm voice to echo in his ears. "_It has been in my mind all to-day. There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary be at rest._" _There_! He buried his face and prayed. He was disturbed by the unlocking of the door, and the new gaoler appeared with Antoine! The poor wretch seemed overpowered by terror. He had begged to be imprisoned for this last night with Monsieur the Viscount. It was only a matter of a few hours, as they were to die at daybreak, and his request was granted. Antoine's entrance turned the current of Monsieur the Viscount's thoughts. No more selfish reflections now. He must comfort this poor creature, of whose death he was to be the unintentional cause. Antoine's first anxiety was that Monsieur the Viscount should bear witness that the gaoler had treated him kindly, and so earned the blessing and not the curse of Monsieur le Curé, whose powerful presence seemed to haunt him still. On this score he was soon set at rest, and then came the old, old story. He had been but a bad man. If his life were to come over again, he would do differently. Did Monsieur the Viscount think that there was any hope? Would Monsieur the Viscount have recognized himself, could he, two years ago, have seen himself as he was now? Kneeling by that rough, uncultivated figure, and pleading with all the eloquence that he could master to that rough uncultivated heart, the great Truths of Christianity--so great and few and simple in their application to our needs! The violet eyes had never appealed more tenderly, the soft voice had never been softer than now, as he strove to explain to this ignorant soul, the cardinal doctrines of Faith and Repentance, and Charity, with an earnestness that was perhaps more effectual than his preaching. Monsieur the Viscount was quite as much astonished as flattered by the success of his instructions. The faith on which he had laid hold with such mortal struggles, seemed almost to "come natural" (as people say) to Antoine. With abundant tears he professed the deepest penitence for his past life, at the same time that he accepted the doctrine of the Atonement as a natural remedy, and never seemed to have a doubt in the Infinite Mercy that should cover his infinite guilt. It was all so orthodox that even if he had doubted (which he did not) the sincerity of the gaoler's contrition and belief, Monsieur the Viscount could have done nothing but envy the easy nature of Antoine's convictions. He forgot the difference of their respective capabilities! When the night was far advanced the men rose from their knees, and Monsieur the Viscount persuaded Antoine to lie down on his pallet, and when the gaoler's heavy breathing told that he was asleep, Monsieur the Viscount felt relieved to be alone once more--alone, except for Monsieur Crapaud, whose round fiery eyes were open as usual. The simplicity with which he had been obliged to explain the truths of Divine Love to Antoine, was of signal service to Monsieur the Viscount himself. It left him no excuse for those intricacies of doubt, with which refined minds too often torture themselves; and as he paced feebly up and down the cell, all the long-withheld peace for which he had striven since his imprisonment seemed to flood into his soul. How blessed--how undeservedly blessed--was his fate! Who or what was he that after such short, such mitigated sufferings, the crown of victory should be so near? The way had seemed long to come, it was short to look back upon, and now the golden gates were almost reached, the everlasting doors were open. A few more hours, and then--! and as Monsieur the Viscount buried his worn face in his hands, the tears that trickled from his fingers were literally tears of joy. He groped his way to the stone, pushed some straw close to it, and lay down on the ground to rest, watched by Monsieur's Crapaud's fiery eyes. And as he lay, faces seemed to him to rise out of the darkness, to take the form and features of the face of the priest, and to gaze at him with unutterable benediction. And in his mind, like some familiar piece of music, awoke the words that had been written on the fly-leaf of the little book; coming back, sleepily and dreamily, over and over again-- "_Souvenez-vous du Sauveur! Souvenez-vous du Sauveur_!" (Remember the Saviour!) In that remembrance he fell asleep. Monsieur the Viscount's sleep for some hours was without a dream. Then it began to be disturbed by that uneasy consciousness of sleeping too long, which enables some people to awake at whatever hour they have resolved upon. At last it became intolerable, and wearied as he was, he awoke. It was broad daylight, and Antoine was snoring beside him. Surely the cart would come soon, the executions were generally at an early hour. But time went on, and no one came, and Antoine awoke. The hours of suspense passed heavily, but at last there were steps and a key rattled into the lock. The door opened, and the gaoler appeared with a jug of milk and a loaf. With a strange smile he set them down. "A good appetite to you, citizens." Antoine flew on him. "Comrade! we used to be friends. Tell me, what is it? Is the execution deferred?" "The execution has taken place at last," said the other, significantly; "_Robespierre is dead!_" and he vanished. Antoine uttered a shriek of joy. He wept, he laughed, he cut capers, and flinging himself at Monsieur the Viscount's feet, he kissed them rapturously. When he raised his eyes to Monsieur the Viscount's face, his transports moderated. The last shock had been too much, he seemed almost in a stupor. Antoine got him on to the pallet, dragged the blanket over him, broke the bread into the milk, and played the nurse once more. On that day thousands of prisoners in the city of Paris alone awoke from the shadow of death to the hope of life. The Reign of Terror was ended! CHAPTER III. It was a year of Grace early in the present century. We are again in the beautiful country of beautiful France. It is the château once more. It is the same, but changed. The unapproachable elegance, the inviolable security, have witnessed invasion. The right wing of the château is in ruins, with traces of fire upon the blackened walls; while here and there, a broken statue or a roofless temple are sad memorials of the Revolution. Within the restored part of the château, however, all looks well. Monsieur the Viscount has been fortunate, and if not so rich a man as his father, has yet regained enough of his property to live with comfort, and, as he thinks, luxury. The long rooms are little less elegant than in former days, and Madame the present Viscountess's boudoir is a model of taste. Not far from it is another room, to which it forms a singular contrast. This room belongs to Monsieur the Viscount. It is small, with one window. The floor and walls are bare, and it contains no furniture; but on the floor is a worn-out pallet, by which lies a stone, and on that a broken pitcher, and in a little frame against the wall is preserved a crumpled bit of paper like the fly-leaf of some little book, on which is a half-effaced inscription, which can be deciphered by Monsieur the Viscount if by no one else. Above the window is written in large letters, a date and the word REMEMBER. Monsieur the Viscount is not likely to forget, but he is afraid of himself and of prosperity lest it should spoil him. It is evening, and Monsieur the Viscount is strolling along the terrace with Madame on his arm. He has only one to offer her, for where the other should be an empty sleeve is pinned to his breast, on which a bit of ribbon is stirred by the breeze. Monsieur the Viscount has not been idle since we saw him last; the faith that taught him to die, has taught him also how to live--an honourable, useful life. It is evening, and the air comes up perfumed from a bed of violets by which Monsieur the Viscount is kneeling. Madame (who has a fair face and ashen hair) stands by him with her little hand on his shoulder, and her large eyes upon the violets. "My friend! my friend! my friend!" It is Monsieur the Viscount's voice, and at the sound of it, there is a rustle among the violets that sends the perfume high into the air. Then from the parted leaves come forth first a dirty wrinkled leg, then a dirty wrinkled head with gleaming eyes, and Monsieur Crapaud crawls with self-satisfied dignity on to Monsieur the Viscount's outstretched hand. So they stay laughing and chatting, and then Monsieur the Viscount bids his friend good-night, and holds him towards Madame that she may do the same. But Madame (who did not enjoy Monsieur Crapaud's society in prison) cannot be induced to do more than scratch his head delicately with the tip of her white finger. But she respects him greatly, at a distance, she says. Then they go back along the terrace, and are met by a man-servant in Monsieur the Viscount's livery. Is it possible that this is Antoine, with his shock head covered with powder? Yes; that grating voice, which no mental change avails to subdue, is his, and he announces that Monsieur le Curé has arrived. It is the old Curé of the village (who has survived the troubles of the Revolution), and many are the evenings he spends at the château, and many the times in which the closing acts of a noble life are recounted to him, the life of his old friend whom he hopes ere long to see--of Monsieur the Preceptor. He is kindly welcomed by Monsieur and by Madame, and they pass on together into the château. And when Monsieur the Viscount's steps have ceased to echo from the terrace, Monsieur Crapaud buries himself once more among the violets. * * * * * Monsieur the Viscount is dead, and Madame sleeps also at his side; and their possessions have descended to their son. Not the least valued among them is a case with a glass front and sides, in which, seated upon a stone is the body of a toad stuffed with exquisite skill, from whose head gleam eyes of genuine topaz. Above it in letters of gold is a date, and this inscription:-- "MONSIEUR THE VISCOUNT'S FRIEND." ADIEU! THE YEW-LANE GHOSTS CHAPTER I. "Cowards are cruel." OLD PROVERB. This story begins on a fine autumn afternoon when, at the end of a field over which the shadows of a few wayside trees were stalking like long thin giants, a man and a boy sat side by side upon a stile. They were not a happy-looking pair. The boy looked uncomfortable, because he wanted to get away and dared not go. The man looked uncomfortable also; but then no one had ever seen him look otherwise, which was the more strange as he never professed to have any object in life but his own pleasure and gratification. Not troubling himself with any consideration of law or principle--of his own duty or other people's comfort--he had consistently spent his whole time and energies in trying to be jolly; and though now a grown-up young man, had so far had every appearance of failing in the attempt. From this it will be seen that he was not the most estimable of characters, and we shall have no more to do with him than we can help; but as he must appear in the story, he may as well be described. If constant self-indulgence had answered as well as it should have done, he would have been a fine-looking young man; as it was, the habits of his life were fast destroying his appearance. His hair would have been golden if it had been kept clean. His figure was tall and strong; but the custom of slinking about places where he had no business to be, and lounging in corners where he had nothing to do, had given it such a hopeless slouch that for the matter of beauty he might almost as well have been knock-kneed. His eyes would have been handsome if the lids had been less red; and if he had ever looked you in the face, you would have seen that they were blue. His complexion was fair by nature and discoloured by drink. His manner was something between a sneak and a swagger, and he generally wore his cap a-one-side, carried his hands in his pockets and a short stick under his arm, and whistled when any one passed him. His chief characteristic, perhaps, was the habit he had of kicking. Indoors he kicked the furniture, in the road he kicked the stones, if he lounged against a wall he kicked it; he kicked all animals and such human beings as he felt sure would not kick him again. It should be said here that he had once announced his intention of "turning steady, and settling, and getting wed." The object of his choice was the prettiest girl in the village, and was as good as she was pretty. To say the truth, the time had been when Bessy had not felt unkindly towards the yellow-haired lad; but his conduct had long put a gulf between them, which only the conceit of a scamp would have attempted to pass. However, he flattered himself that he "knew what the lasses meant when they said no;" and on the strength of this knowledge he presumed far enough to elicit a rebuff so hearty and unmistakable that for a week he was the laughing stock of the village. There was no mistake this time as to what "no" meant; his admiration turned to a hatred almost as intense, and he went faster "to the bad" than ever. It was Bessy's little brother who sat by him on the stile; "Beauty Bill," as he was called, from the large share he possessed of the family good looks. The lad was one of those people who seem born to be favourites. He was handsome, and merry, and intelligent; and, being well brought up, was well-conducted and amiable--the pride and pet of the village. Why did Mother Muggins of the shop let the goody side of her scales of justice drop the lower by one lollipop for Bill than for any other lad, and exempt him by unwonted smiles from her general anathema on the urchin race? There were other honest boys in the parish, who paid for their treacle-sticks in sterling copper of the realm! The very roughs of the village were proud of him, and would have showed their good nature in ways little to his benefit had not his father kept a somewhat severe watch upon his habits and conduct. Indeed, good parents and a strict home counterbalanced the evils of popularity with Beauty Bill, and, on the whole, he was little spoilt, and well deserved the favour he met with. It was under cover of friendly patronage that his companion was now detaining him; but, all the circumstances considered, Bill felt more suspicious than gratified, and wished Bully Tom anywhere but where he was. The man threw out one leg before him like the pendulum of a clock. "Night school's opened, eh?" he inquired; and back swung the pendulum against Bill's shins. "Yes;" and the boy screwed his legs on one side. "You don't go, do you?" "Yes, I do," said Bill, trying not to feel ashamed of the fact, "Father can't spare me to the day-school now, so our Bessy persuaded him to let me go at nights." Bully Tom's face looked a shade darker, and the pendulum took a swing which it was fortunate the lad avoided; but the conversation continued with every appearance of civility. "You come back by Yew-lane, I suppose?" "Yes." "Why, there's no one lives your way but old Johnson; you must come back alone?" "Of course, I do," said Bill, beginning to feel vaguely uncomfortable. "It must be dark now before school looses?" was the next inquiry; and the boy's discomfort increased, he hardly knew why, as he answered-- "There's a moon." "So there is," said Bully Tom, in a tone of polite assent; "and there's a weathercock on the church-steeple but I never heard of either of 'em coming down to help a body, whatever happened." Bill's discomfort had become alarm. "Why, what could happen?" he asked. "I don't understand you." His companion whistled, looked up in the air, and kicked vigorously, but said nothing. Bill was not extraordinarily brave, but he had a fair amount both of spirit and sense; and having a shrewd suspicion that Bully Tom was trying to frighten him, he almost made up his mind to run off then and there. Curiosity, however, and a vague alarm which he could not throw off, made him stay for a little more information. "I wish you'd out with it!" he exclaimed, impatiently. "What could happen? No one ever comes along Yew-lane; and if they did they wouldn't hurt me." "I know no one ever comes near it when they can help it," was the reply; "so, to be sure, you couldn't get set upon. And a pious lad of your sort wouldn't mind no other kind. Not like ghosts, or anything of that." And Bully Tom looked round at his companion; a fact disagreeable from its rarity. "I don't believe in ghosts," said Bill, stoutly. "Of course you don't," sneered his tormentor; "you're too well educated. Some people does, though. I suppose them that has seen them does. Some people thinks that murdered men walk. P'raps some people thinks the man as was murdered in Yew-lane walks." "What man?" gasped Bill, feeling very chilly down the spine. "Him that was riding by the cross-roads and dragged into Yew-lane, and his head cut off and never found, and his body buried in the churchyard," said Bully Tom, with a rush of superior information; "and all I know is, if I thought he walked in Yew-lane, or any other lane, I wouldn't go within five mile of it after dusk--that's all. But then I'm not book-larned." The two last statements were true if nothing else was that the man had said; and after holding up his feet and examining his boots with his head a-one-side, as if considering their probable efficiency against flesh and blood, he slid from his perch, and "loafed" slowly up the street, whistling and kicking the stones as he went along. As to Beauty Bill, he fled home as fast as his legs would carry him. By the door stood Bessy, washing some clothes; who turned her pretty face as he came up. "You're late, Bill," she said. "Go in and get your tea, it's set out. It's night-school night, thou knows, and Master Arthur always likes his class to time." He lingered, and she continued--"John Gardener was down this afternoon about some potatoes, and he says Master Arthur is expecting a friend." Bill did not heed this piece of news, any more than the slight flush on his sister's face as she delivered it; he was wondering whether what Bully Tom said was mere invention to frighten him, or whether there was any truth in it. "Bessy!" he said, "was there a man ever murdered in Yew-lane?" Bessy was occupied with her own thoughts, and did not notice the anxiety of the question. "I believe there was," she answered carelessly, "somewhere about there. It's a hundred years ago or more. There's an old gravestone over him in the churchyard by the wall, with an odd verse on it. They say the parish clerk wrote it. But get your tea, or you'll be late, and father'll be angry;" and Bessy took up her tub and departed. Poor Bill! Then it was too true. He began to pull up his trousers and look at his grazed legs; and the thoughts of his aching shins, Bully Tom's cruelty, the unavoidable night-school, and the possible ghost, were too much for him, and he burst into tears. CHAPTER II. "There are birds out on the bushes, In the meadows lies the lamb, How I wonder if they're ever Half as frightened as I am?" C.F. ALEXANDER. The night-school was drawing to a close. The attendance had been good, and the room looked cheerful. In one corner the Rector was teaching a group of grown-up men, who (better late than never) were zealously learning to read; in another the schoolmaster was flourishing his stick before a map as he concluded his lesson in geography. By the fire sat Master Arthur, the Rector's son, surrounded by his class, and in front of him stood Beauty Bill. Master Arthur was very popular with the people, especially with his pupils. The boys were anxious to get into his class, and loath to leave it. They admired his great height, his merry laugh, the variety of walking-sticks he brought with him, and his very funny way of explaining pictures. He was not a very methodical teacher, and was rather apt to give unexpected lessons on subjects in which he happened just then to be interested himself; but he had a clear simple way of explaining anything, which impressed it on the memory, and he took a great deal of pains in his own way. Bill was especially devoted to him. He often wished that Master Arthur could get very rich, and take him for his man-servant; he thought he should like to brush his clothes and take care of his sticks. He had a great interest in the growth of his moustache and whiskers. For some time past Master Arthur had had a trick of pulling at his upper lip whilst he was teaching; which occasionally provoked a whisper of "Moostarch, guvernor!" between two unruly members of his class; but never till to-night had Bill seen anything in that line which answered his expectations. Now, however, as he stood before the young gentleman, the fire-light fell on such a distinct growth of hair, that Bill's interest became absorbed to the exclusion of all but the most perfunctory attention to the lesson on hand. Would Master Arthur grow a beard? Would his moustache be short like the pictures of Prince Albert, or long and pointed like that of some other great man whose portrait he had seen in the papers? He was calculating on the probable effect of either style, when the order was given to put away books, and then the thought which had been for a time diverted came back again--his walk home. Poor Bill! his fears returned with double force from having been for awhile forgotten. He dawdled over the books, he hunted in wrong places for his cap and comforter, he lingered till the last boy had clattered through the doorway, and left him with a group of elders who closed the proceedings and locked up the school. But after this further delay was impossible. The whole party moved out into the moonlight, and the Rector and his son, the schoolmaster and the teachers, commenced, a sedate parish gossip, whilst Bill trotted behind, wondering whether any possible or impossible business would take one of them his way. But when the turning point was reached, the Rector destroyed all his hopes. "None of us go your way, I think," said he, as lightly as if there were no grievance in the case; "however, it's not far. Good-night, my boy!" And so with a volley of good-nights, the cheerful voices passed on up the village. Bill stood till they had quite died away, and then when all was silent, he turned into the lane. The cold night-wind crept into his ears, and made uncomfortable noises among the trees, and blew clouds over the face of the moon. He almost wished that there were no moon. The shifting shadows under his feet, and the sudden patches of light on unexpected objects, startled him, and he thought he should have felt less frightened if it had been quite dark. Once he ran for a bit, then he resolved to be brave, then to be reasonable; he repeated scraps of lessons, hymns, and last Sunday's Collect, to divert and compose his mind; and as this plan seemed to answer, he determined to go through the Catechism, both question and answer, which he hoped might carry him to the end of his unpleasant journey. He had just asked himself a question with considerable dignity, and was about to reply, when a sudden gleam of moonlight lit up a round object in the ditch. Bill's heart seemed to grow cold, and he thought his senses would have forsaken him. Could this be the head of ----? No! on nearer inspection it proved to be only a turnip; and when one came to think of it, that would have been rather a conspicuous place for the murdered man's skull to have been lost in for so many years. My hero must not be ridiculed too much for his fears. The terrors that visit childhood are not the less real and overpowering from being unreasonable; and to excite them is wanton cruelty. Moreover, he was but a little lad, and had been up and down Yew-lane both in daylight and dark without any fears, till Bully Tom's tormenting suggestions had alarmed him. Even now, as he reached the avenue of yews from which the lane took its name, and passed into their gloomy shade, he tried to be brave. He tried to think of the good GOD Who takes care of His children, and to Whom the darkness and the light are both alike. He thought of all he had been taught about angels, and wondered if one were near him now, and wished that he could see him, as Abraham and other good people had seen angels. In short, the poor lad did his best to apply what he had been taught to the present emergency, and very likely had he not done so he would have been worse; but as it was, he was not a little frightened, as we shall see. Yew-lane--cool and dark when the hottest sunshine lay beyond it--a loitering place for lovers--the dearly-loved play-place of generations of children on sultry summer days--looked very grim and vault-like, with narrow streaks of moonlight peeping in at rare intervals to make the darkness to be felt! Moreover, it was really damp and cold, which is not favourable to courage. At a certain point Yew-lane skirted a corner of the churchyard, and was itself crossed by another road, thus forming a "four-want-way," where suicides were buried in times past. This road was the old high-road, where the mail coach ran, and along which, on such a night as this, a hundred years ago, a horseman rode his last ride. As he passed the church on his fatal journey did anything warn him how soon his headless body would be buried beneath its shadow? Bill wondered. He wondered if he were old or young--what sort of a horse he rode--whose cruel hands dragged him into the shadow of the yews and slew him, and where his head was hidden, and why. Did the church look just the same, and the moon shine just as brightly, that night a century ago? Bully Tom was right. The weathercock and moon sit still, whatever happens. The boy watched the gleaming high road as it lay beyond the dark aisle of trees, till he fancied he could hear the footfalls of the solitary horse--and yet, no! The sound was not upon the hard road, but nearer; it was not the clatter of hoofs, but something--and a rustle--and then Bill's blood seemed to freeze in his veins, as he saw a white figure, wrapped in what seemed to be a shroud, glide out of the shadow of the yews and move slowly down the lane. When it reached the road it paused, raised a long arm warningly towards him for a moment, and then vanished in the direction of the churchyard. What would have been the consequence of the intense fright the poor lad experienced is more than anyone can say, if at that moment the church clock had not begun to strike nine. The familiar sound, close in his ears, roused him from the first shock, and before it had ceased he contrived to make a desperate rally of his courage, flew over the road, and crossed the two fields that now lay between him and home without looking behind him. CHAPTER III. "It was to her a real _grief of heart_, acute, as children's sorrows often are. "We beheld this from the opposite windows--and, seen thus from a little distance, how many of our own and of other people's sorrows might not seem equally trivial, and equally deserving of ridicule!" HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. When Bill got home he found the household busy with a much more practical subject than that of ghosts and haunted yew-trees. Bessy was ill. She had felt a pain in her side all the day, which towards night had become so violent that the doctor was sent for, who had pronounced it pleurisy, and had sent her to bed. He was just coming downstairs as Bill burst into the house. The mother was too much occupied about her daughter to notice the lad's condition; but the doctor's sharp eyes saw that something was amiss, and he at once inquired what it was. Bill hammered and stammered, and stopped short. The doctor was such a tall, stout, comfortable-looking man, he looked as if he couldn't believe in ghosts. A slight frown, however, had come over his comfortable face, and he laid two fingers on Bill's wrist as he repeated his question. "Please, sir," said Bill, "I've seen--" "A mad dog?" suggested the doctor. "No, sir." "A mad bull?" "No, sir," said Bill, desperately, "I've seen a ghost." The doctor exploded into a fit of laughter, and looked more comfortable than ever. "And _where_ did we see the ghost?" he inquired, in a professional voice, as he took up his coat-tails and warmed himself at the fire. "In Yew-lane, sir; and I'm sure I did see it," said Bill, half crying; "it was all in white, and beckoned me." "That's to say you saw a white gravestone, or a tree in the moonlight, or one of your classmates dressed up in a table-cloth. It was all moonshine, depend upon it," said the doctor, with a chuckle at his own joke; "take my advice, my boy, and don't give way to foolish fancies." At this point the mother spoke-- "If his father knew, sir, as he'd got any such fads in his head, he'd soon flog 'em out of him." "His father is a very good one," said the doctor; "a little too fond of the stick, perhaps. There," he added, good-naturedly, slipping sixpence into Bill's hand, "get a new knife, my boy, and cut a good thick stick, and the next ghost you meet, lay hold of him and let him taste it." Bill tried to thank him, but somehow his voice was choked, and the doctor turned to his mother. "The boy has been frightened," he said, "and is upset. Give him some supper, and put him to bed." And the good gentleman departed. Bill was duly feasted and sent to rest. His mother did not mention the matter to her husband, as she knew he would be angry; and occupied with real anxiety for her daughter, she soon forgot it herself. Consequently, the next night-school night she sent Bill to "clean himself," hurried on his tea, and packed him off, just as if nothing had happened. The boy's feelings since the night of the apparition had not been enviable. He could neither eat nor sleep. As he lay in bed at night, he kept his face covered with the clothes, dreading that if he peeped out into the room the phantom of the murdered horseman would beckon to him from the dark corners. Lying so till the dawn broke and the cocks began to crow, he would then look cautiously forth, and seeing by the grey light that the corners were empty, and that the figure by the door was not the Yew-lane Ghost, but his mother's faded print dress hanging on a nail, would drop his head and fall wearily asleep. The day was no better, for each hour brought him nearer to the next night school; and Bessy's illness made his mother so busy, that he never could find the right moment to ask her sympathy for his fears, and still less could he feel himself able to overcome them. And so the night-school came round again, and there he sat, gulping down a few mouthfuls of food, and wondering how he should begin to tell his mother that he neither dare, could, nor would, go down Yew-lane again at night. He had just opened his lips when the father came in, and asked in a loud voice "Why Bill was not off." This effectually put a stop to any confidences, and the boy ran out of the house. Not, however, to school. He made one or two desperate efforts at determination, and then gave up altogether. He _could_ not go! He was wondering what he should do with himself, when it struck him that he would go whilst it was daylight and look for the grave with the odd verse of which Bessy had spoken. He had no difficulty in finding it. It was marked by a large ugly stone, on which the inscription was green and in some places almost effaced. SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF EPHRAIM GARNETT-- He had read so far when a voice close by him said-- "You'll be late for school, young chap." Bill looked up, and to his horror beheld Bully Tom standing in the road and kicking the churchyard wall. "Aren't you going?" he asked, as Bill did not speak. "Not to-night," said Bill, with crimson cheeks. "Larking, eh?" said Bully Tom. "My eyes, won't your father give it you!" and he began to move off. "Stop!" shouted Bill in an agony; "don't tell him, Tom. That would be a dirty trick. I'll go next time, I will indeed; I can't go to-night. I'm not larking, I'm scared. You won't tell?" "Not this time, maybe," was the reply; "but I wouldn't be in your shoes if you play this game next night;" and off he went. Bill thought it well to quit the churchyard at once for some place where he was not likely to be seen; he had never played truant before, and for the next hour or two was thoroughly miserable as he slunk about the premises of a neighbouring farm, and finally took refuge in a shed, and began to consider his position. He would remain hidden till nine o'clock, and then go home. If nothing were said, well and good; unless some accident should afterwards betray him. But if his mother asked any questions about the school? He dared not, and he would not, tell a lie; and yet what would be the result of the truth coming out? There could be no doubt that his father would beat him. Bill thought again, and decided that he could bear a thrashing, but not the sight of the Yew-lane Ghost; so he remained where he was, wondering how it would be, and how he should get over the next school-night when it came. The prospect was so hopeless, and the poor lad so wearied with anxiety and wakeful nights, that he was almost asleep when he was startled by the church clock striking nine; and, jumping up, he ran home. His heart beat heavily as he crossed the threshold; but his mother was still absorbed by thoughts of Bessy, and he went to bed unquestioned. The next day too passed over without any awkward remarks, which was very satisfactory; but then night-school day came again, and Bill felt that he was in a worse position than ever. He had played truant once with success; but he was aware that it would not do a second time. Bully Tom was spiteful, and Master Arthur might come to "look up" his recreant pupil, and then Bill's father would know all. On the morning of the much-dreaded day, his mother sent him up to the Rectory to fetch some little delicacy that had been promised for Bessy's dinner. He generally found it rather amusing to go there. He liked to peep at the pretty garden, to look out for Master Arthur, and to sit in the kitchen and watch the cook, and wonder what she did with all the dishes and bright things that decorated the walls. To-day all was quite different. He avoided the gardens, he was afraid of being seen by his teacher, and though cook had an unusual display of pots and pans in operation, he sat in the corner of the kitchen indifferent to everything but the thought of the Yew-lane Ghost. The dinner for Bessy was put between two saucers, and as cook gave it into his hands she asked kindly after his sister, and added-- "You don't look over-well yourself, lad! What's amiss?" Bill answered that he was quite well, and hurried out of the house to avoid further inquiries. He was becoming afraid of everyone! As he passed the garden he thought of the gardener, and wondered if he would help him. He was very young and very good-natured; he had taken of late to coming to see Bessy, and Bill had his own ideas upon that point; finally, he had a small class at the night-school. Bill wondered whether if he screwed up his courage to-night to go, John Gardener would walk back with him for the pleasure of hearing the latest accounts of Bessy. But all hopes of this sort were cut off by Master Arthur's voice shouting to him from the garden-- "Hi, there! I want you, Willie! Come here, I say." Bill ran through the evergreens, and there among the flower-beds in the sunshine he saw--first, John Gardener driving a mowing-machine over the velvety grass under Master Arthur's very nose, so there was no getting a private interview with him. Secondly, Master Arthur himself, sitting on the ground with his terrier in his lap, directing the proceedings by means of a donkey-headed stick with elaborately carved ears; and thirdly, Master Arthur's friend. Now little bits of gossip will fly; and it had been heard in the dining-room, and conveyed by the parlour-maid to the kitchen, and passed from the kitchen into the village, that Master Arthur's friend was a very clever young gentleman; consequently Beauty Bill had been very anxious to see him. As, however, the clever young gentleman was lying on his back on the grass, with his hat flattened over his face to keep out the sun, and an open book lying on its face upon his waistcoat to keep the place, and otherwise quite immovable, and very like other young gentlemen, Bill did not feel much the wiser for looking at him. He had a better view of him soon, however, for Master Arthur began to poke his friend's legs with the donkey-headed stick, and to exhort him to get up. "Hi! Bartram, get up! Here's my prime pupil. See what we can turn out. You may examine him if you like. Willie: this gentleman is a very clever gentleman, so you must keep your wits about you. _He'll_ put questions to you, I can tell you! There's as much difference between his head and mine, as between mine and the head of this stick." And Master Arthur flourished his "one-legged donkey," as he called it, in the air, and added, "Bartram! you lazy lout! _will_ you get up and take an interest in my humble efforts for the good of my fellow-creatures?" Thus adjured, Mr. Bartram sat up with a jerk which threw his book on to his boots, and his hat after it, and looked at Bill. Now Bill and the gardener had both been grinning, as they always did at Master Arthur's funny speeches, but when Bill found the clever gentleman looking at him, he straightened his face very quickly. The gentleman was not at all like his friend ("nothing near so handsome," Bill reported at home), and he had such a large prominent forehead that he looked as if he were bald. When he sat up, he suddenly screwed up his eyes in a very peculiar way, pulled out a double gold eye-glass, fixed it on his nose, and stared through it for a second; after which his eyes unexpectedly opened to their full extent (they were not small ones), and took a sharp survey of Bill over the top of his spectacles; and this ended, he lay back on his elbow without speaking. Bill then and there decided that Mr. Bartram was very proud, rather mad, and the most disagreeable gentleman he ever saw; and he felt sure could see as well as he (Bill) could, and only wore spectacles out of a peculiar kind of pride and vain-glory which he could not exactly specify. Master Arthur seemed to think, at any rate, that he was not very civil, and began at once to talk to the boy himself. "Why were you not at school last time, Willie? couldn't your mother spare you?" "Yes, Sir." "Then why didn't you come?" said Master Arthur, in evident astonishment. Poor Bill! He stammered as he had stammered before the doctor, and finally gasped-- "Please, Sir, I was scared." "Scared? What of?" "Ghosts," murmured Bill in a very ghostly whisper. Mr. Bartram raised himself a little. Master Arthur seemed confounded. "Why, you little goose! How is it you never were afraid before?" "Please, Sir, I saw one the other night." Mr. Bartram took another look over the top of his eye-glass and sat bolt upright, and John Gardener stayed his machine and listened, while poor Bill told the whole story of the Yew-lane Ghost. When it was finished, the gardener, who was behind Master Arthur, said-- "I've heard something of this, Sir, in the village," and then added more which Bill could not hear. "Eh, what?" said Master Arthur. "Willie, take the machine and drive about the garden a-bit wherever you like. Now, John." Willie did not at all like being sent away at this interesting point. Another time he would have enjoyed driving over the short grass, and seeing it jump up like a little green fountain in front of him; but now his whole mind was absorbed by the few words he caught at intervals of the conversation going on between John and the young gentlemen. What could it mean? Mr. Bartram seemed to have awakened to extraordinary energy, and was talking rapidly. Bill heard the words "lime-light" and "large sheet," and thought they must be planning a magic-lantern exhibition, but was puzzled by catching the word "turnip." At last, as he was rounding the corner of a bed of geraniums, he distinctly heard Mr. Bartram ask-- "They cut the man's head off, didn't they?" Then they were talking about the ghost, after all! Bill gave the machine a jerk, and to his dismay sliced a branch off one of the geraniums. What was to be done? He must tell Master Arthur, but he could not interrupt him just now; so on he drove, feeling very much dispirited, and by no means cheered by hearing shouts of laughter from the party on the grass. When one is puzzled and out of spirits, it is no consolation to hear other people laughing over a private joke; moreover, Bill felt that if they were still on the subject of the murdered man and his ghost, their merriment was very unsuitable. Whatever was going on, it was quite evident that Mr. Bartram was the leading spirit of it, for Bill could see Master Arthur waving the one legged donkey in an ecstasy, as he clapped his friend on the back till the eye-glass danced upon his nose. At last Mr. Bartram threw himself back as if closing a discussion, and said loud enough for Bill to hear-- "You never heard of a bully who wasn't a coward." Bill thought of Bully Tom, and how he had said he dared not risk the chance of meeting with a ghost, and began to think that this was a clever young gentleman, after all. Just then Master Arthur called to him; and he took the bit of broken geranium and went. "Oh, Willie!" said Master Arthur, "we've been talking over your misfortunes--geranium? fiddle-sticks! put it in your button-hole--your misfortunes, I say, and for to-night at any rate we intend to help you out of them. John--ahem!--will be--ahem!--engaged to-night, and unable to take his class as usual; but this gentleman has kindly consented to fill his place ("Hear, hear," said the gentleman alluded to), and if you'll come to-night, like a good lad, he and I will walk back with you; so if you do see the ghost, it will be in good company. But, mind, this is on one condition. You must not say anything about it--about our walking back with you, I mean--to anybody. Say nothing; but get ready and come to school as usual. You understand?" "Yes, Sir," said Bill; "and I'm very much obliged to you, Sir, and the other gentleman as well." Nothing more was said, so Bill made his best bow and retired. As he went he heard Master Arthur say to the gardener-- "Then you'll go to the town at once, John. We shall want the things as soon as possible. You'd better take the pony, and we'll have the list ready for you." Bill heard no more words; but as he left the grounds the laughter of the young gentlemen rang out into the road. What did it all mean? CHAPTER IV "The night was now pitmirk; the wind soughed amid the headstones and railings of the gentry (for we all must die), and the black corbies in the steeple-holes cackled and crawed in a fearsome manner." MANSIE WAUGH. Bill was early at the night-school. No other of his class had arrived, so he took the corner by the fire sacred to first-comers, and watched the gradual gathering of the school. Presently Master Arthur appeared, and close behind him came his friend. Mr. Bartram Lindsay looked more attractive now than he had done in the garden. When standing, he was an elegant though plain-looking young man, neat in his dress, and with an admirable figure. He was apt to stand very still and silent for a length of time, and had a habit of holding his chin up in the air, which led some people to say that he "held himself very high." This was the opinion that Bill had formed, and he was rather alarmed by hearing Master Arthur pressing his friend to take his class instead of the more backward one, over which the gardener usually presided; and he was proportionably relieved when Mr. Bartram steadily declined. "To say the truth, Bartram," said the young gentleman, "I am much obliged to you, for I am used to my own boys, and prefer them." Then up came the schoolmaster. "Mr. Lindsay going to take John's class? Thank you, Sir. I've put out the books; if you want anything else, Sir, p'raps you'll mention it. When they have done reading, perhaps, Sir, you will kindly draft them off for writing, and take the upper classes in arithmetic, if you don't object, Sir." Mr. Lindsay did not object. "If you have a picture or two," he said. "Thank you. Know their letters? All right. Different stages of progression. Very good. I've no doubt we shall get on together." "Between ourselves, Bartram," whispered Master Arthur into his friend's ear, "the class is composed of boys who ought to have been to school, and haven't; or who have been, and are none the better for it. Some of them can what they call 'read in the Testament,' and all of them confound b and d when they meet with them. They are at one point of general information--namely, they all know what you have just told them, and will none of them know it by next time. I call it the rag-tag and bob-tail class. John says they are like forced tulips. They won't blossom simultaneously. He can't get them all to one standard of reading." Mr. Lindsay laughed and said-- "He had better read less, and try a little general oral instruction. Perhaps they don't remember because they can't understand;"--and the Rector coming in at that moment, the business of the evening commenced. Having afterwards to cross the school for something, Bill passed the new teacher and his class, and came to the conclusion that they did "get on together," and very well too. The rag-tag and bob-tail shone that night, and afterwards were loud in praises of the lesson. "It was so clear," and "He was so patient." Indeed, patience was one great secret of Mr. Lindsay's teaching; he waited so long for an answer that he generally got it. His pupils were obliged to exert themselves when there was no hope of being passed over, and everybody was waiting. Finally, Bill's share of the arithmetic lesson converted him to Master Arthur's friend. He _was_ a clever young gentleman, and a kind one too. The lesson had been so interesting--the clever young gentleman, standing (without his eye-glass) by the blackboard, had been so strict and yet so entertaining, was so obviously competent, and so pleasantly kind, that Bill, who liked arithmetic, and (like all intelligent children) appreciated good teaching, had had no time to think of the Yew-lane Ghost till the lesson was ended. It was not till the hymn began (they always ended the night-school with singing), then he remembered it. Then, while he was shouting with all his might Bishop Ken's glorious old lines-- "Keep me, oh keep me, King of kings," he caught Mr. Lindsay's eyes fixed on him, and back came the thoughts of his terrible fright, with a little shame too at his own timidity. Which of us trusts as we should do in the "defence of the Most High?" Bill lingered as he had done the last time, and went out with the "grown-ups." It had been raining, and the ground was wet and sludgy, though it was fair overhead. The wind was cold, too, and Mr. Lindsay began to cough so violently, that Bill felt rather ashamed of taking him so far out of his way, through the damp chilly lane, and began to wonder whether he could not summon up courage to go alone. The result was, that with some effort he said-- "Please, Mr. Lindsay, Sir, I think you won't like to come so far this cold night. I'll try and manage, if you like." Mr. Lindsay laid one hand on Bill's shoulder, and said quietly-- "No, thank you, my boy, we'll come with you, Thank you, all the same." "Nevertheless, Bartram," said Master Arthur, "I wish you could keep that cough of yours quiet--it will spoil everything. A boy was eating peppermints in the shade of his copy-book this very night. I did box his ears; but I wish I had seized the goodies, they might have kept you quiet." "Thank you," was the reply, "I abhor peppermint; but I have got some lozenges, if that will satisfy you. And when I smell ghosts, I can smother myself in my pocket-handkerchief." Master Arthur laughed boisterously. "We shall smell one if brimstone will do it. I hope he won't set himself on fire, or the scenic effect will be stronger than we bargained for." This was the beginning of a desultory conversation carried on at intervals between the two young gentlemen, of which, though Bill heard every sentence, he couldn't understand one. He made one effort to discover what Master Arthur was alluding to, but with no satisfactory result, as we shall see. "Please, Master Arthur," he said desperately, "you don't think there'll be two ghosts, do you, Sir?" "I should say," said Master Arthur, so slowly and with such gravity that Bill felt sure he was making fun of him, "I should say, Bill, that if a place is haunted at all there is no limit to the number of ghosts--fifty quite as likely as one. What do you say, Bartram?" "Quite so," said Bartram. Bill made no further attempts to understand the mystery. He listened, but only grew more and more bewildered at the dark hints he heard, and never understood what it all meant until the end came; when (as is not uncommon) he wondered how he could have been so stupid, and why he had not seen it all from the very first. They had now reached the turning-point, and as they passed into the dark lane, where the wind was shuddering and shivering among the trees, Bill shuddered and shivered too, and felt very glad that the young gentlemen were with him, after all. Mr. Lindsay pulled out his watch. "Well?" said his friend. "Ten minutes to nine." Then they walked on in silence, Master Arthur with one arm through his friend's, and the one-legged donkey under the other; and Mr. Lindsay with his hand on Bill's shoulder. "I _should_ like a pipe!" said Master Arthur presently; "it's so abominably damp." "What a fellow you are," said Mr. Lindsay. "Out of the question! With the wind setting down the lane too! you talk of my cough--which is better, by-the-bye." "What a fellow _you_ are!" retorted the other. "Bartram, you are the oddest creature I know. What ever you take up, you do drive at so. Now I have hardly got a lark afloat before I'm sick of it. I wish you'd tell me two things--first, why are you so grave to-night? and, secondly, what made you take up our young friend's cause so warmly?" "One answer will serve both questions," said Mr. Lindsay. "The truth is, old fellow, our young friend--[and Bill felt certain that the 'young friend' was himself]--has a look of a little chap I was chum with at school--Regy Gordon. I don't talk about it often, for I can't very well; but he was killed--think of it, man!--_killed_ by such a piece of bullying as this! When they found him, he was quite stiff and speechless; he lived a few hours, but he only said two words--my name, and amen." "Amen?" said Master Arthur, inquiringly. "Well, you see when the surgeon said it was no go, they telegraphed for his friends; but they were a long way off, and he was sinking rapidly; and the old Doctor was in the room, half heart-broken, and he saw Gordon move his hands together, and he said, 'If any boy knows what prayers Gordon minor has been used to say, let him come and say them by him;' and I did. So I knelt by his bed and said them, the old Doctor kneeling too and sobbing like a child; and when I had done, Regy moved his lips and said 'Amen;' and then he said 'Lindsay!' and smiled, and then--" Master Arthur squeezed his friend's arm tightly, but said nothing, and both the young men were silent; but Bill could not restrain his tears. It seemed the saddest story he had ever heard, and Mr. Lindsay's hand upon his shoulder shook so intolerably whilst he was speaking, that he had taken it away, which made Bill worse, and he fairly sobbed. "What are you blubbering about, young 'un?" said Mr. Lindsay. "He is better off than any of us, and if you are a good boy you will see him some day;" and the young gentleman put his hand back again, which was steady now. "What became of the other fellow?" said Master Arthur. "He was taken away, of course. Sent abroad, I believe. It was hushed up. And now you know," added Mr. Lindsay, "why my native indolence has roused itself to get this cad taught a lesson, which many a time I wished to GOD when wishes were too late, that that other bully had been taught _in time_. But no one could thrash him; and no one durst complain. However, let's change the subject, old fellow! I've got over it long since: though sometimes I think the wish to see Regy again helps to keep me a decent sort of fellow. But when I saw the likeness this morning, it startled me; and then to hear the story, it seemed like a dream--the Gordon affair over again. I suppose rustic nerves are tougher; however, your village blackguard shan't have the chance of committing murder if we can cure him!" "I believe you half wanted to undertake the cure yourself," said Master Arthur. Mr. Lindsay laughed. "I did for a minute. Fancy your father's feelings if I had come home with a black eye from an encounter with a pot-house bully! You know I put my foot into a tender secret of your man's, by offering to be the performer!" "How?" Mr. Lindsay lowered his voice, but not so that Bill could not hear what he said, and recognize the imitation of John Gardener. "He said, 'I'd rather do it, if _you_ please, Sir. The fact is, I'm partial to the young woman myself!' After that, I could but leave John to defend his young woman's belongings." "Gently!" exclaimed Master Arthur. "There is the Yew Walk." From this moment the conversation was carried on in whispers, to Bill's further mystification. The young gentlemen recovered their spirits, and kept exploding in smothered chuckles of laughter. "Cold work for him if he's been waiting long!" whispered one. "Don't know. His head's under cover, remember!" said the other: and they laughed. "Bet you sixpence he's been smearing his hand with brimstone for the last half hour." "Don't smell him yet, though." "He'll be a patent aphis-destroyer in the rose-garden for months to come." "Sharp work for the eyelids if it gets under the sheet." They were now close by the Yews, out of which the wind came with a peculiar chill, as if it had been passing through a vault. Mr. Bartram Lindsay stooped down, and whispered in Bill's ear. "Listen, my lad. We can't go down the lane with you, for we want to see the ghost, but we don't want the ghost to see us. Don't be frightened, but go just as usual. And mind--when you see the white figure, point with your own arm _towards the Church_, and scream as loud as you like. Can you do this?" "Yes, Sir," whispered Bill. "Then off with you. We shall creep quietly on behind the trees; and you shan't be hurt, I promise you." Bill summoned his courage, and plunged into the shadows. What could be the meaning of Mr. Lindsay's strange orders? Should he ever have courage to lift his arm towards the church in the face of that awful apparition of the murdered man? And if he did, would the unquiet spirit take the hint, and go back into the grave, which Bill knew was at that very corner to which he must point? Left alone, his terrors began to return; and he listened eagerly to see if, amid the ceaseless soughing of the wind among the long yew branches, he could hear the rustle of the young men's footsteps as they crept behind. But he could distinguish nothing. The hish-wishing of the thin leaves was so incessant, the wind was so dexterous and tormenting in the tricks it played and the sounds it produced, that the whole place seemed alive with phantom rustlings and footsteps; and Bill felt as if Master Arthur was right, and that there was "no limit" to the number of ghosts! At last he could see the end of the avenue. There among the few last trees was the place where the ghost had appeared. There beyond lay the white road, the churchyard corner, and the tall grey tomb-stone glimmering in the moonlight. A few steps more, and slowly from among the yews came the ghost as before, and raised its long white arm. Bill determined that, if he died for it, he would do as he had been told; and lifting his own hand he pointed towards the tomb-stone, and gave a shout. As he pointed, the ghost turned round, and then--rising from behind the tomb-stone, and gliding slowly to the edge of the wall, which separated the churchyard from the lower level of the road--there appeared a sight so awful, that Bill's shout merged into a prolonged scream of terror. Truly Master Arthur's anticipations of a "scenic effect" were amply realized. The walls and buttresses of the old Church stood out dark against the sky; the white clouds sailed slowly by the moon, which reflected itself on the damp grass, and shone upon the flat wet tomb-stones till they looked like pieces of water. It was not less bright upon the upright ones, upon quaint crosses, short headstones, and upon the huge ungainly memorial of the murdered Ephraim Garnett. But _the_ sight on which it shone that night was the figure now standing by Ephraim Garnett's grave, and looking over the wall. An awful figure, of gigantic height, with ghostly white garments clinging round its headless body, and carrying under its left arm the head that should have been upon its shoulders. On this there was neither flesh nor hair. It seemed to be a bare skull, with fire gleaming through the hollow eye-sockets and the grinning teeth. The right hand of the figure was outstretched as if in warning; and from the palms to the tips of the fingers was a mass of lambent flame. When Bill saw this fearful apparition he screamed with hearty good will; but the noise he made was nothing to the yell of terror that came from beneath the shroud of the Yew-lane Ghost, who, on catching sight of the rival spectre, fled wildly up the lane, kicking the white sheet off as he went, and finally displaying, to Bill's amazement, the form and features of Bully Tom. But this was not all. No sooner had the first ghost started, than the second (not to be behind-hand) jumped nimbly over the wall, and gave chase. But fear had put wings on to Bully Tom's feet; and the second ghost being somewhat encumbered by his costume, judged it wisdom to stop; and then taking the fiery skull in its flaming hands, shied it with such dexterity, that it hit Bully Tom in the middle of his back, and falling on to the wet ground, went out with a hiss. This blow was an unexpected shock to the Bully, who thought the ghost must have come up to him with supernatural rapidity, and falling on his knees in the mud, began to roar most lustily: "Lord, have mercy upon me! I'll never do it no more!" Mr. Lindsay was not likely to alter his opinion on the subject of bullies. This one, like others, was a mortal coward. Like other men, who have no fear of GOD before their eyes, he made up for it by having a very hearty fear of sickness, death, departed souls, and one or two other things, which the most self-willed sinner knows well enough to be in the hands of a Power which he cannot see, and does not wish to believe in. Bully Tom had spoken the truth when he said that if he thought there was a ghost in Yew-lane he wouldn't go near it. If he had believed the stories with which he had alarmed poor Bill, the lad's evening walk would never have been disturbed, as far as he was concerned. Nothing but his spite against Bessy would have made him take so much trouble to vex the peace, and stop the schooling, of her pet brother; and as it was, the standing alone by the churchyard at night was a position so little to his taste, that he had drunk pretty heavily in the public-house for half an hour beforehand, to keep up his spirits. And now he had been paid back in his own coin, and lay grovelling in the mud, and calling profanely on the Lord, Whose mercy such men always cry for in their trouble, if they never ask it for their sins. He was so confused and blinded by drink and fright, that he did not see the second ghost divest himself of his encumbrances, or know that it was John Gardener, till that rosy-cheeked worthy, his clenched hands still flaming with brimstone, danced round him, and shouted scornfully, and with that vehemence of aspiration, in which he was apt to indulge when excited: "Get hup, yer great cowardly booby, will yer? So you thought you was coming hout to frighten a little lad, did ye? And you met with one of your hown size, did ye? Now _will_ ye get hup and take it like a man, or shall I give it you as ye lie there?" Bully Tom chose the least of two evils, and staggering to his feet with an oath, rushed upon John. But in his present condition he was no match for the active little gardener, inspired with just wrath, and thoughts of Bessy; and he then and there received such a sound thrashing as he had not known since he first arrogated the character of village bully. He was roaring loudly for mercy, and John Gardener was giving him a harmless roll in the mud by way of conclusion, when he caught sight of the two young gentlemen in the lane--Master Arthur in fits of laughter at the absurd position of the ex-Yew-lane Ghost and Mr. Lindsay standing still and silent, with folded arms, set lips, and the gold eye-glass on his nose. As soon as he saw them, he began to shout, "Murder! help!" at the top of his voice. "I see myself," said Master Arthur, driving his hands contemptuously into his pockets--"I see myself helping a great lout who came out to frighten a child, and can neither defend his own eyes and nose, nor take a licking with a good grace when he deserves it!" Bully Tom appealed to Mr. Lindsay. "Yah! yah!" he howled: "will you see a man killed for want of help?" But the clever young gentleman seemed even less inclined to give his assistance. "Killed!" he said contemptuously; "I _have_ seen a lad killed on such a night as this, by such a piece of bullying! Be thankful you have been stopped in time! I wouldn't raise my little finger to save you from twice such a thrashing. It has been fairly earned! Give the ghost his shroud, Gardener, and let him go; and recommend him not to haunt Yew-lane in future." John did so, with a few words of parting advice on his own account. "Be hoff with you," he said. "Master Lindsay, he speaks like a book. You're a disgrace to your hage and sect, you are! I'd as soon fight with an old charwoman. Though, bless you, young gentlemen," he added, as Bully Tom slunk off muttering, "he _is_ the biggest blackguard in the place; and what the Rector'll say, when he comes to know as you've been mingled up with him, passes me." "He'll forgive us, I dare say," said Master Arthur. "I only wish he could have seen you emerge from behind that stone! It was a sight for a century! I wonder what the youngster thought of it! Hi, Willie, here, Sir! What did you think of the second ghost?" Bill had some doubts as to the light in which he ought to regard that apparition; but he decided on the simple truth. "I thought it looked very horrid, Sir." "I should hope it did! The afternoon's work of three able-bodied men has been marvellously wasted if it didn't. However, I must say you halloed out loud enough!" Bill coloured, the more so as Mr. Lindsay was looking hard at him over the top of his spectacles. "Don't you feel rather ashamed of all your fright, now you've seen the ghosts without their sheets?" inquired the clever young gentleman. "Yes, Sir," said Bill, hanging his head. "I shall never believe in ghosts again, Sir, though." Mr. Bartram Lindsay took off his glasses, and twiddled them in his fingers. "Well, well," he said in a low hurried voice; "I'm not the parson, and I don't pretend to say what you should believe and what you shouldn't. We know precious little as to how much the spirits of the dead see and know of what they have left behind. But I think you may venture to assure yourself that when a poor soul has passed the waves of this troublesome world, by whatever means, it doesn't come back kicking about under a white sheet in dark lanes, to frighten little boys from going to school." "And that's very true, Sir," said John Gardener, admiringly. "So it is," said Master Arthur. "I couldn't have explained that myself, Willie; but those are my sentiments and I beg you'll attend to what Mr. Lindsay has told you." "Yes, Sir," said Bill. Mr. Lindsay laughed, though not quite merrily, and said-- "I could tell him something more, Arthur, though he's too young to understand it: namely, that if he lives, the day will come, when he would be only too happy if the dead might come back and hold out their hands to us, anywhere, and for however short a time." The young gentleman stopped abruptly; and the gardener heaved a sympathetic sigh. "I tell you what it is, Bartram," muttered Master Arthur, "I suppose I'm too young, too, for I've had quite enough of the melancholies for one night. As to you, you're as old as the hills; but it's time you came home; and if I'd known before what you told me to night, old fellow, you shouldn't have come out on this expedition. Now, for you, Willie," added the young gentleman, whirling sharply round, "if you're not a pattern Solomon henceforth, it won't be the fault of your friends. And if wisdom doesn't bring you to school after this, I shall try the argument of the one-legged donkey." "I don't think I shall miss next time, Sir." "I hope you won't. Now, John, as you've come so far, you may as well see the lad safe home; but don't shake hands with the family in the present state of your fists, or you might throw somebody into a fit. Good-night!" Yew-lane echoed a round of "Good-nights;" and Bill and the gardener went off in high spirits. As they crossed the road, Bill looked round, and under the trees saw the young gentlemen strolling back to the Rectory, arm in arm. Mr. Bartram Lindsay with his chin high in the air, and Master Arthur vehemently exhorting him on some topic, of which he was pointing the moral with flourishes of the one-legged donkey. * * * * * For those who like to know "what became of" everybody, these facts are added: The young gentlemen got safely home; and Master Arthur gave such a comical account of their adventure, that the Rector laughed too much to scold them, even if he had wished. Beauty Bill went up and down Yew-lane on many a moonlight night after this one, but he never saw another ghost, or felt any more fears in connection with Ephraim Garnett. To make matters more entirely comfortable, however, John kindly took to the custom of walking home with the lad after night-school was ended. In return for this attention, Bill's family were apt to ask him in for an hour; and by their fire-side he told the story of the two ghosts so often--from the manufacture in the Rectory barn to the final apparition at the cross-roads--that the whole family declare they feel just as if they had seen it. Bessy, under the hands of the cheerful doctor, got quite well, and eventually married. As her cottage boasts the finest window plants in the village, it is shrewdly surmised that her husband is a gardener. Bully Tom talked very loudly for some time of "having the law of" the rival ghost; but finding, perhaps, that the story did not redound to his credit, was unwilling to give it further publicity, and changed his mind. Winter and summer, day and night, sunshine and moonlight, have passed over the lane and the churchyard, and the wind has had many a ghostly howl among the yews, since poor Bill learnt the story of the murder; but he knows now that the true Ephraim Garnett has never been seen on the cross-roads since a hundred years ago, and will not be till the Great Day. In the ditch by the side of Yew-lane shortly after the events I have been describing, a little lad found a large turnip, in which someone had cut eyes, nose, and mouth, and put bits of stick for teeth. The turnip was hollow, and inside it was fixed a bit of wax candle. He lighted it up, and the effect was so splendid, that he made a show of it to his companions at the price of a marble each, who were well satisfied. And this was the last of the Yew-lane Ghosts. A BAD HABIT. CHAPTER I. "Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live." SHAKESPEARE. My godmother, Lady Elizabeth, used to say, "Most things are matters of habit. Good habits and bad habits." And she generally added, "_Your_ bad habit, Selina, is a habit of grumbling." I was always accustomed to seeing great respect paid to anything my godmother said or did. In the first place, she was what Mrs. Arthur James Johnson called "a fine lady," and what the maids called "a real lady." She was an old friend and, I think, a relative of my father, who had married a little below his own rank--my mother being the daughter of a rich manufacturer. My father had died before I can remember things, and Joseph and I lived with our mother and her friends. At least, we were with our mother when she could bear the noise; and for the rest of our time, when we were tired of playing games together, we sat with the maids. "That is where you learned your little _toss_ and your trick of grumbling, my dear," my godmother said, planting her gold eye-glasses on her high nose; "and that is why your mouth is growing out of shape, and your forehead getting puckered, and your chin poked, and--and your boots bulged crooked." "_My boots_, godmother?" "Your boots, my dear. No boots will keep in shape if you shake your hips and kick with your heels like a servant out Sunday walking. When little girls flounce on the high road, it only looks ridiculous; but when you grow up, you'll never have a clean petticoat, or be known for a well-bred woman behind your back, unless you learn to walk as if your legs and your feelings were under your own control. That is why the sergeant is coming to-morrow and every week-day morning to drill you and Joseph from ten to eleven whilst you remain here." And my godmother pressed the leaves of the journal on her lap, and cut them quite straight and very decisively with a heavy ivory paper-knife. I had never been taught that it is bad manners to mutter--nurse always talked to herself when she was "put out"--and, as I stood in much awe of Lady Elizabeth, I did not like to complain aloud of her arrangements. So I turned my doll with a sharp flounce in my arms, and muttered behind her tarlatan skirts that "I did think we were to have had whole holidays out visiting." I believe my godmother heard me; but she only looked at me for a moment over the top of her gold eye-glasses, and then went on reading the paper through them. After a few moments, she laid it down on her lap with her left hand, and with her right hand took off her eye-glasses and held them between her fingers. "I shall be sorry if you don't grow up nice-looking, Selina," she said. "It's a great advantage to a woman--indeed, to anyone--to be good-looking. Your mother was a pretty woman, too; and your father--" Lady Elizabeth stopped, and then, seeming suddenly to see that I was watching her and waiting, put her glasses before her eyes again, and continued-- "Your father was a very good-looking gentleman, with a fine face and a fine figure, beautiful eyes and mouth, very attractive hands, and most fascinating manners. It will be a pity if you don't grow up nice-looking." I grew crimson, partly with mortification and partly with astonishment. I had a strong natural desire to be pretty, but I felt sure I had been taught somehow that it was much more meritorious not to care about it. It certainly did not please me when (if I had offended them) the maids said I should never be as pretty as Maud Mary Ibbetson, my bosom friend; but when nurse took the good looking-glass out of the nursery, and hung up the wavy one which used to be in her room instead, to keep me from growing vain, I did not dispute her statement that "the less little girls looked in the glass the better." And when I went to see Maud Mary (who was the only child of rich parents, and had a cheval-glass in her own bed-room), it was a just satisfaction to me to feel that if she was prettier, and could see herself full length, she was probably vainer than I. It was very mortifying, therefore, to find that my godmother not only thought me plain, but gave me no credit for not minding it. I grew redder and redder, and my eyes filled with tears. Lady Elizabeth was very nice in one way--she treated us with as much courtesy and consideration as if we were grown up. People do not think about being polite to children, but my godmother was very polite. "My dear child," she said, holding out her hand, "I am very sorry if I have hurt your feelings. I beg your pardon." I put my hot and rather dirty little paw among her cool fingers and diamond rings. I could not mutter to her face, but I said rather under my sobs that "it seemed such a thing" to be blamed for not being pretty. "My dear Selina, I never said anything about your being pretty. I said I should be sorry if you did not grow up nice-looking, which is quite another thing. It will depend on yourself whether you are nice-looking or not." I began to feel comforted, but I bridled my chin in an aggrieved manner, which I know I had caught from Mrs. Marsden, the charwoman, when she took tea in the nursery and told long tales to nurse; and I said I "was sure it wasn't for want of speaking to" nurse that my hair did not wave like Maud Mary's, but that when I asked her to crimp it, she only said, "Handsome is that handsome does, and that ought to be enough for you, Miss Selina, without _my_ slaving to damp-plait your hair every night." I repeated nurse's speech pretty volubly, and with her sharp accent and accompanying toss. My godmother heard me out, and then she said-- "Nurse quoted a very good proverb, which is even truer than it is allowed to be. Those who do well grow to look well. My little goddaughter, that soft child's face of yours can be pinched and pulled into a nice shape or an ugly shape, very much as you pull and pinch that gutta-percha head I gave you, and, one way or another, it is being shaped all along." "But people can't give themselves beautiful figures, and eyes, and mouths, and hands, as you said papa had, unless they are born so," I objected. "Your father's figure, my dear," said Lady Elizabeth, "was beautiful with the grace and power which comes of training. He was a military man, and you have only to look at a dozen common men in a marching regiment and compare them with a dozen of the same class of men who go on plodding to work and loafing at play in their native villages, to see what people can do for their own figures. His eyes, Selina, were bright with intelligence and trained powers of observation; and they were beautiful with kindliness, and with the well-bred habit of giving complete attention to other people and their affairs when he talked with them. He had a rare smile, which you may not inherit, but the real beauty of such mouths as his comes from the lips being restrained into firm and sensitive lines, through years of self-control and fine sympathies." I do not quite understand. "Do you mean that I can practise my mouth into a nice shape?" I asked. "Certainly not, my dear, any more than you can pinch your nose into shape with your finger and thumb; but your lips, and all the lines of your face, will take shape of themselves, according to your temper and habits. "There are two things," my godmother continued, after turning round to look at me for a minute, "there are two things, Selina, against your growing up good-looking. One is that you have caught so many little vulgarisms from the servants; and the other is your little bad habit of grumbling, which, for that matter, is a very ill-bred habit as well, and would spoil the prettiest eyes, nose, mouth, and chin that ever were inherited. Under-bred and ill-educated women are, as a general rule, much less good-looking than well-bred and highly-educated ones, especially in middle life; not because good features and pretty complexions belong to one class more than to another, but because nicer personal habits and stricter discipline of the mind do. A girl who was never taught to brush her teeth, to breathe through the nostrils instead of the lips, and to chew with the back teeth instead of the front, has a very poor chance of growing up with a pretty mouth, as anyone may see who has observed a middle-aged woman of that class munching a meat pie at a railway-station. And if, into the bargain, she has nothing to talk about but her own and her neighbour's everyday affairs, and nothing to think about to keep her from continually talking, life, my dear child, is so full of little rubs, that constant chatter of this kind must almost certainly be constant grumbling. And constant grumbling, Selina, makes an ugly under-lip, a forehead wrinkled with frowning, and dull eyes that see nothing but grievances. There is a book in the library with some pictures of faces that I must show you. Do you draw at all, my dear?" "Mamma gave me a drawing-slate on my birthday," I replied, "but Joseph bothered me to lend it to him, and now he's broken the glass. It _is_ so tiresome! But it's always the way if you lend things." "What makes you think that it is always the way if you lend things?" my godmother gently inquired. "It seems as if it was, I'm sure," was my answer. "It was just the same with the fish-kettle when cook lent it to the Browns. They kept it a fortnight, and let it rust, and the first time cook put a drop of water into it it leaked; and she said it always _was_ the way; you might lend everything you had, and people had no conscience, but if it came to borrowing a pepperpot--" My godmother put up both her long hands with an impatient gesture. "That will do, my dear. I don't care to hear all that your mother's cook said about the fish-kettle." I felt uncomfortable, and was glad that Lady Elizabeth went on talking. "Have you and Joseph any collections? When I was your age, I remember I made a nice collection of wafers. They were quite as pretty as modern monograms." "Joseph collected feathers out of the pillows once," I said, laughing. "He got a great many different sorts, but nurse burned them, and he cried." "I'm sorry nurse burned them. I daresay they made him very happy. I advise you to begin a collection, Selina. It is a capital cure for discontent. Anything will do. A collection of buttons, for instance. There are a great many kinds; and if ever some travelled friend crowns your collection with a mandarin's button, for one day at least you won't feel a grievance worth speaking of." I was feeling very much aggrieved as Lady Elizabeth spoke, and thinking to myself that "it seemed so hard to be scolded out visiting, and when one had not got into any scrape." But I only said that "nobody at home ever said that I grumbled so much;" and that I "didn't know that our servants complained more than other people's." "I do not suppose they do," said my godmother. "I have told you already that I consider it a foible of ill-educated people, whose interests are very limited, and whose feelings are not disciplined. You know James, the butler, Selina, do you not?" "Oh, yes, godmamma!" I knew James well. He was very kind to me, and always liberal when, by Lady Elizabeth's orders, he helped me to almonds and raisins at dessert. "My mother died young," said Lady Elizabeth, "and at sixteen I was head of my father's household. I had been well trained, and I tried to do my duty. Amid all the details of providing for and entertaining many people, my duty was to think of everything, and never to seem as if I had anything on my mind. I should have been fairly trained _for a kitchen-maid_, Selina, if I had done what I was told when it was bawled at me, and had talked and seemed more overwhelmed with work than the Prime Minister. Well, most of our servants had known me from babyhood, and it was not a light matter to have the needful authority over them without hurting the feelings of such old and faithful friends. But, on the whole, they respected my efforts, and were proud of my self-possession. I had more trouble with the younger ones, who were too young to help me, and whom I was too young to overawe. I was busy one morning writing necessary letters, when James--who was then seventeen, and the under-footman--came to the drawing room and wished to speak to me. When he had wasted a good deal of my time in describing his unwillingness to disturb me, and the years his father had lived in my father's service, I said, 'James, I have important letters to write, and very little time to spare. If you have any complaint to make, will you kindly put it as shortly as you can?' 'I'm sure, my lady, I have no wish to complain,' was James's reply; and thereon his complaints poured forth in a continuous stream. I took out my watch (unseen by James, for I never insult people), and gave him five minutes for his grievances. He got on pretty fast with them. He had mentioned the stone floor of his bed-room, a draught in the pantry, the overbearingness of the butler, the potatoes for the servants' hall being under-boiled when the cook was out of temper, the inferior quality of the new plate-powder, the insinuations against his father's honesty by servants who were upstarts by comparison, his hat having been spoilt by the rain, and that he never was so miserable in his life--when the five minutes expired, and I said 'Then, James, you want to go?' He coloured, and I really think tears stood in his eyes. He was a good-hearted lad. "When he began to say that he could never regard any other place as he looked on this, and that he felt towards his lordship and me as he could feel towards no other master and mistress, I gave him another five minutes for what he was pleased with. To do him justice, the list was quite as long as that of his grievances. No people were like us, and he had never been so happy in his life. So I said, 'Then, James, you want to stay?' "James began a fresh statement, in which his grievances and his satisfactions came alternately, and I cut this short by saying, 'Well, James, the difficulty seems to be that you have not made up your mind what you do want. I have no time to balance matters for you, so you had better go downstairs and think it well over, and let me know what you decide.' "He went accordingly, and when he was driven to think for himself by being stopped from talking to me, I suppose he was wise enough to perceive that it is easier to find crosses in one's lot than to feel quite sure that one could change it for a better. I have no doubt that he had _not_ got all he might lawfully have wished for, but, different as our positions were, no more had I, and we both had to do our duty and make the best of life as we found it. It's a very good thing, dear child, to get into the habit of saying to oneself, 'One can't have everything.' I suppose James learned to say it, for he has lived with me ever since." At this moment Joseph called to me through the open window which led into the garden-- "Oh, Selina! I am so sorry; but when I got to the shop I couldn't remember whether it was a quarter of a yard of ribbon or three-quarters that you wanted for the doll's hat." Joseph was always doing stupid things like this. It vexed me very much, and I jumped up and hastily seized my doll to go out and speak to him, saying, as I did so, that "boys were enough to drive one wild, and one might as well ask the poodle to do anything as Joseph." And it was not till I had flounced out of the drawing-room that I felt rather hot and uncomfortable to remember that I had tossed my head, and knitted my brows, and jerked my chin, and pouted my lips, and shaken my skirts, and kicked up my heels, as I did so, and that my godmother had probably been observing me through her gold eye-glasses. CHAPTER II. "It is easier to prevent ill habits than to break them."--OLD PROVERB. I must say that Joseph _was_ rather a stupid boy. He was only a year younger than me, but I never could make him understand exactly what I wanted him to do when we played together; and he was always saying, "Oh, I say, look here, Selina!" and proposing some silly plan of his own. But he was very good-natured, and when we were alone I let him be uncle to the dolls. When we spent the day with Maud Mary, however, we never let him play with the baby-house; but we allowed him to be the postman and the baker, and people of that sort, who knock and ring, and we sent him messages. During the first week of our visit to Lady Elizabeth, the weather was so fine that Joseph and I played all day long in the garden. Then it became rainy, and we quarrelled over the old swing and the imperfect backgammon board in the lumber-room, where we were allowed to amuse ourselves. But one morning when we went to our play-room, after drilling with Sergeant Walker, Joseph found a model fortress and wooden soldiers and cannon in one corner of the room; and I found a Dutch market, with all kinds of wooden booths, and little tables to have tea at in another. They were presents from my godmother; and they were far the best kind of toys we had ever had, you could do so many things with them. Joseph was so happy with his soldiers that he never came near the Dutch fair; and at other times he was always bothering to be allowed to play with the dolls. At first I was very glad, for I was afraid he would be coming and saying, "Oh, I say, Selina," and suggesting things; and I wanted to arrange the shops my own way. But when they were done, and I was taking the dolls from one booth to another to shop, I did think it seemed very odd that Joseph should not even want to walk through the fair. And when I gave him leave to be a shopkeeper, and to stand in front of each booth in turn, he did not seem at all anxious to come; and he would bring a cannon with him, and hide it behind his back when I came to buy vegetables for the dolls' dinners. We quarrelled about the cannon. I said no one ever heard of a greengrocer with a cannon in his shop; and Joseph said it couldn't matter if the greengrocer stood in front of the cannon so as to hide it. So I said I wouldn't have a cannon in my fair at all; and Joseph said he didn't want to come to my fair, for he liked his fortress much better, and he rattled out, dragging his cannon behind him, and knocked down Adelaide Augusta, the gutta-percha doll, who was leaning against the fishmonger's slab, with her chin on the salmon. It was very hard, and I said so; and then Joseph said there were plenty of times when I wouldn't let him play with the dolls; and I said that was just it--when I didn't want him to he wanted, and when I wanted him to he wouldn't, and that he was very selfish. So at last he put away his cannon, and came and played at shops; but he was very stupid, and would look over his shoulder at the fortress when he ought to have been pretending to sell; and once, when I had left the fair, he got his cannon back and shot peas out of it, so that all the fowls fell off the real hooks in the poulterer's shop, and said he was bombarding the city. I was very angry, and said, "I shall go straight down, and complain to godmamma," and I went. The worst of it was that only that very morning Lady Elizabeth had said to me, "Remember one thing, my dear. I will listen to no complaints whatever. No grumbles either from you or from Joseph. If you want anything that you have not got, and will ask for it, I will do my best for you, as my little guests; and if it is right and reasonable, and fair to both, you shall have what you want. But you must know your own mind when you ask, and make the best of what I can do for you. I will hear no general complaints whatever." Remembering this, I felt a little nervous when I was fairly in the drawing-room, and Lady Elizabeth had laid down her glasses to hear what I had to say. "Do you want anything, my dear?" said she. I began to complain--that Joseph was so stupid; that it seemed so provoking; that I did think it was very unkind of him, etc.; but Lady Elizabeth put up her hand. "My dear Selina, you have forgotten what I told you. If there is anything that an old woman like me can do to make your father's child happy, do not be afraid to ask for it, but I will not have grumbling in the drawing-room. By all means make up your mind as to what you want, and don't be afraid to ask your old godmother. But if she thinks it right to refuse, or you do not think it right to ask, you must make the best of matters as they stand, and keep your good humour and your good manners like a lady." I felt puzzled. When I complained to nurse that Joseph "was so tiresome," she grumbled back again that "she never knew such children," and so forth. It is always easy to meet grievance with grievance, but I found that it was not so easy to make up my mind and pluck up my courage to ask in so many words for what I wanted. "Shall I ask Joseph to put away his cannon and come and play at your game for an hour now, my dear? I will certainly forbid him to fire into your shop." This did not quite satisfy me. As a matter of fact, Joseph had left his fortress to play with me; and I did not really think he would discharge his cannon at the poulterer's again. But I thought myself hardly used, and I wanted my godmother to think so too, and to scold Joseph. What else I wanted, I did not feel quite sure. "I wish you would speak to Joseph," I said. "He would attend to you if you told him how selfish and stupid he is." "My dear, I never offered to complain to Joseph, but I will order him not to molest you, and I will ask him to play with you." "I'm sure I don't want him to play with me, unless he can play nicely, and invent things for the dolls to say, as Maud Mary would," was my reply; for I was getting thoroughly vexed. "Then I will tell him that unless he can play your game as you wish it, he had better amuse himself with his own toys. Is there anything else that you want, my dear?" I could not speak, for I was crying, but I sobbed out that "I missed Maud Mary so." "Who is Maud Mary, Selina?" "Maud Mary Ibbetson, my particular friend--my _very_ particular friend," I explained. I spoke warmly, for at that moment the memory of Maud Mary seemed adorable, and I longed to pour my complaints into her sympathetic ear. Besides, I had another reason for regretting that she was not with me. When we were together, it was she, as a rule, who had new and handsome toys to exhibit, whilst I played the humbler part of admirer. But if she had been with me, then, what would not have been my triumph in displaying the Dutch fair! The longer I thought of her the faster my tears fell, but they did not help me to think of anything definite to ask for; and when Lady Elizabeth said, "would you like to go home, my dear? or do you want me to ask your friend to stay with you?" I had the grace to feel ashamed of my peevishness, and to thank my godmother for her kindness, and to protest against wanting anything more. I only added, amid my subsiding sobs, that "it did seem such a thing," when I had got a Dutch fair to play at dolls in, that Joseph should be so stupid, and that dear Maud Mary, who would have enjoyed it so much, should not be able to see it. CHAPTER III. "Nous aurons aussi la fête dans notre rue."--RUSSIAN PROVERB. Next day, when our drill in the long corridor was over, Lady Elizabeth told Joseph to bring his fortress, guns, and soldiers into the library, and to play at the Thirty Years' War in the bay-window from a large book with pictures of sieges and battles, which she lent him. To me my godmother turned very kindly and said, "I have invited your little friend Maud to come and stay here for a week. I hope she will arrive to-day, so you had better prepare your dolls and your shops for company." Maud Mary coming! I danced for joy, and kissed my godmother, and expressed my delight again and again. I should have liked to talk about it to Joseph, but he had plunged into the Thirty Years' War, and had no attention to give me. It was a custom in the neighbourhood where my mother lived to call people by double Christian names, John Thomas, William Edward, and so forth; but my godmother never called Maud Mary anything but Maud. It was possible that my darling friend might arrive by the twelve o'clock train, and the carriage was sent to meet her, whilst I danced up and down the big hall with impatience. When it came back without her my disappointment knew no bounds. I felt sure that the Ibbetsons' coachman had been unpunctual, or dear Maud Mary's nurse had been cross, as usual, and had not tried to get her things packed. I rushed into the library full of my forebodings, but my godmother only said, "No grumbling, my dear!" and Joseph called out, "Oh, I say, Selina, I wish you wouldn't swing the doors so: you've knocked down Wallenstein, and he's fallen on the top of Gustavus Adolphus;" and I had to compose myself as best I could till the five o'clock train. Then she came. Darling Maud Mary! Perhaps it was because I crushed her new feather in kissing her (and Maud Mary was very particular about her clothes); perhaps it was because she was tired with travelling, which I forgot; or perhaps it was because she would rather have had tea first, that Maud Mary was not quite so nice about the Dutch fair as I should have liked her to be. She said she rather wondered that Lady Elizabeth had not given me a big dolls' house like hers instead; that she had come away in such a hurry that she forgot to lock hers up, and she should not be the least surprised if the kitten got into it and broke something, but "it did seem rather odd" to be invited in such a very hurried way; that just when she _was_ going to a big house to pay a grand visit, of course the dressmaker "disappointed" Mrs. Ibbetson, but "that was the way things always did happen;" that the last time Mr. Ibbetson was in Paris he offered to bring her a dolls' railway train, with real first-class carriages really stuffed, but she said she would rather have a locket, and that was the very one which was hanging round her neck, and which was much handsomer than Lucy Jane Smith's, which cost five pounds in London. Maud Mary's inattention to the fair and the dolls was so obvious that I followed my godmother's advice, and "made the best of it" by saying, "I'm afraid you're very much tired, darling?" Maud Mary tossed her chin and frowned. It was "enough to tire anybody," she said, to travel on that particular line. The railway of which her papa was a director was very differently managed. I think my godmother's courtesy to us, and her thoughtful kindness, had fixed her repeated hints about self-control and good manners rather firmly in my head. I distinctly remember making an effort to forget my toys and think of Maud Mary's comfort. I said, "Will you come and take off your things, darling?" and she said, "Yes, darling;" and then we had tea. But next day, when she was quite rested, and had really nothing to complain of, I did think she might have praised the Dutch fair. She said it "seemed such a funny thing" to have to play in an old garret; but she need not have wanted to alter the arrangement of all the shops, and have everything her own way, as she always had at home, because, if her dolls' house was hers, my Dutch fair was mine. I did think, for a moment, of getting my godmother to speak to her, but I knew it would be of no use to complain unless I had something to ask for. When I came to think of it, I found that what I wanted was that Maud Mary should let me manage my own toys and direct the game, and I resolved to ask her myself. "Look here, darling," said I, "when I come and play with you, I always play dolls as you like, because the dolls' house is yours; I wish you would play my game to-day, as the Dutch fair is mine." Maud Mary flounced to her feet, and bridled with her wavy head, and said she was sure she did not want to play if I didn't like her way of playing; and as to my Dutch fair, her papa could buy her one any day for her very own. I was nettled, for Maud Mary was a little apt to flourish Mr. Ibbetson's money in my face; but if her father was rich, my godmother was a lady of rank, and I said that "my godmother, Lady Elizabeth, said it was very vulgar to flounce and toss one's head if one was put out." Maud Mary crimsoned, and, exclaiming that she did not care what Lady Elizabeth or Lady Anybody Else said, she whisked over three shops with the ends of her sash, and kicked the wax off Josephine Esmeralda's nose with the heel of her Balmoral boot. I don't like confessing it, but I did push Maud Mary, and Maud Mary slapped me. And when we both looked up, my godmother was standing before us, with her gold spectacles on her nose. * * * * * Lady Elizabeth was very kind, and even then I knew that she was very right. When she said, "I have asked your friend for a week, and for that week, my dear, she is your guest, and you must try to please, and _make the best of it_," I not only did not dispute it; I felt a spirit of self-suppression and hospitable pride awake within me to do as she had said. I think the hardest part of it was that, whatever I did and whatever I gave up, Maud Mary recognized no effort on my part. What she got she took as her due, and what she did not get she grumbled about. I sometimes think that it was partly because, in all that long week, she never ceased grumbling, that I did; I hope for life. Only once I said, "O godmamma! how glad I shall be when I am alone with Joseph again!" And with sudden remorse, I added, "But I beg your pardon, that's grumbling; and you _have_ been so kind!" Lady Elizabeth took off her eye-glasses, and held out her hands for mine. "Is it grumbling, little woman?" she said. "Well, I'm not sure." "_I'm_ not sure," I said, smiling; "for you know I only said I should be so _glad_ to be alone with Joseph, and to try to be good to him; for he is a very kind boy, and if he is a little awkward with the dolls, I mean to make the best of it. _One can't have everything_," I added, laughing. Lady Elizabeth drew my head towards her, and stroked and kissed it. "GOD bless you, child," she said. "You _have_ inherited your father's smile." * * * * * "But, I say, Selina," whispered Joseph, when I went to look at his fortress in the bay-window. "Do you suppose it's because he's dead that she cried behind her spectacles when she said you had got his smile?" A HAPPY FAMILY. CHAPTER I. "If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies. * * * * * From our own selves our joys must flow, And peace begins at home." COTTON. The family--our family, not the Happy Family--consisted of me and my brothers and sisters. I have a father and mother, of course. I am the eldest, as I remind my brothers; and of the more worthy gender, which my sisters sometimes forget. Though we live in the village, my father is a gentleman, as I shall be when I am grown up. I have told the village boys so more than once. One feels mean in boasting that one is better born than they are; but if I did not tell them, I am not sure that they would always know. Our house is old, and we have a ghost--the ghost of my great-great-great-great-great-aunt. She "crossed her father's will," nurse says, and he threatened to flog her with his dog-whip, and she ran away, and was never heard of more. He would not let the pond be dragged, but he never went near it again; and the villagers do not like to go near it now. They say you may meet her there, after sunset, flying along the path among the trees, with her hair half down, and a knot of ribbon fluttering from it, and parted lips, and terror in her eyes. The men of our family (my father's family, my mother is Irish) have always had strong wills. I have a strong will myself. People say I am like the picture of my great-grandfather (the great-great-great-nephew of the ghost). He must have been a wonderful old gentleman by all accounts. Sometimes nurse says to us, "Have your own way, and you'll live the longer," and it always makes me think of great-grandfather, who had so much of his own way, and lived to be nearly a hundred. I remember my father telling us how his sisters had to visit their old granny for months at a time, and how he shut the shutters at three o'clock on summer afternoons, and made them play dummy whist by candle light. "Didn't you and your brothers go?" asked Uncle Patrick, across the dinner-table. My father laughed. "Not we! My mother got us there once--but never again." "And did your sisters like it?" "Like it? They used to cry their hearts out. I really believe it killed poor Jane. She was consumptive and chilly, but always craving for fresh air; and granny never would have open windows, for fear of draughts on his bald head; and yet the girls had no fires in their room, because young people shouldn't be pampered." "And ye never-r offer-r-ed--neither of ye--to go in the stead of them?" When Uncle Patrick rolls his R's in a discussion, my mother becomes nervous. "One can't expect boys to consider things," she said. "Boys will be boys, you know." "And what would you have 'em be?" said my father. Uncle Patrick turned to my mother. "Too true, Geraldine. Ye don't expect it. Worse luck! I assure ye, I'd be aghast at the brutes we men can be, if I wasn't more amazed that we're as good as we are, when the best and gentlest of your sex--the moulders of our childhood, the desire of our manhood--demand so little for all that you alone can give. There were conceivable uses in women preferring the biggest brutes of barbarous times, but it's not so now; and boys will be civilised boys, and men will be civilised men, sweet sister, when you _do_ expect it, and when your grace and favours are the rewards of nobleness, and not the easy prize of selfishness and savagery." My father spoke fairly. "There's some truth in what you say, Pat." "And small grace in my saying it. Forgive me, John." That's the way Uncle Patrick flares up and cools down, like a straw bonfire. But my father makes allowances for him; first, because he is an Irishman, and, secondly, because he's a cripple. * * * * * I love my mother dearly, and I can do anything I like with her. I always could. When I was a baby, I would not go to sleep unless she walked about with me, so (though walking was bad for her) I got my own way, and had it afterwards. With one exception. She would never tell me about my godfather. I asked once, and she was so distressed that I was glad to promise never to speak of him again. But I only thought of him the more, though all I knew about him was his portrait--such a fine fellow--and that he had the same swaggering, ridiculous name as mine. How my father allowed me to be christened Bayard I cannot imagine. But I was rather proud of it at one time--in the days when I wore long curls, and was so accustomed to hearing myself called "a perfect picture," and to having my little sayings quoted by my mother and her friends, that it made me miserable if grown-up people took the liberty of attending to anything but me. I remember wriggling myself off my mother's knee when I wanted change, and how she gave me her watch to keep me quiet, and stroked my curls, and called me her fair-haired knight, and her little Bayard; though, remembering also, how lingeringly I used just not to do her bidding, ate the sugar when she wasn't looking, tried to bawl myself into fits, kicked the nurse-girl's shins, and dared not go upstairs by myself after dark--I must confess that a young chimpanzee would have as good claims as I had to represent that model of self-conquest and true chivalry, "the Knight without fear and without reproach." However, the vanity of it did not last long. I wonder if that grand-faced godfather of mine suffered as I suffered when he went to school and said his name was Bayard? I owe a day in harvest to the young wag who turned it into Backyard. I gave in my name as Backyard to every subsequent inquirer, and Backyard I modestly remained. CHAPTER II. "The lady with the gay macaw." LONGFELLOW. My sisters are much like other fellows' sisters, excepting Lettice. That child is like no one but herself. I used to tease the other girls for fun, but I teased Lettice on principle--to knock the nonsense out of her. She was only eight, and very small, but, from the top row of her tight little curls to the rosettes on her best shoes, she seemed to me a mass of affectation. Strangers always liked Lettice. I believe she was born with a company voice in her mouth; and she would flit like a butterfly from one grown-up person to another, chit-chattering, whilst some of us stood pounding our knuckles in our pockets, and tying our legs into knots, as we wished the drawing-room carpet would open and let us through into the cellar to play at catacombs. That was how Cocky came. Lettice's airs and graces bewitched the old lady who called in the yellow chariot, and was so like a cockatoo herself--a cockatoo in a citron velvet bonnet, with a bird of Paradise feather. When that old lady put up her eye-glass, she would have frightened a yard-dog; but Lettice stood on tip-toes and stroked the feather, saying, "What a love-e-ly bird!" And next day came Cocky--perch and all complete--_for the little girl who loves birds_. Lettice was proud of Cocky, but Edward really loved him, and took trouble with him. Edward is a good boy. My mother called him after the Black Prince. He and I disgraced ourselves in the eyes of the Cockatoo lady, and it cost the family thirty thousand pounds, which we can ill afford to lose. It was unlucky that she came to luncheon the very day that Edward and I had settled to dress up as Early Britons, in blue woad, and dine off earth-nuts in the shrubbery. As we slipped out at the side door, the yellow chariot drove up to the front. We had doormats on, as well as powder-blue, but the old lady was terribly shocked, and drove straight away, and did not return. Nurse says she is my father's godmother, and has thirty thousand pounds, which she would have bequeathed to us if we had not offended her. I take the blame entirely, because I always made the others play as I pleased. We used to play at all kinds of things--concerts, circuses, theatricals, and sometimes conjuring. Uncle Patrick had not been to see us for a long time, when one day we heard that he was coming, and I made up my mind at once that I would have a perfectly new entertainment for him. We like having entertainments for Uncle Patrick, because he is such a very good audience. He laughs, and cries, and claps, and thumps with his crutch, and if things go badly, he amuses the rest. Ever since I can remember anything, I remember an old print, called "The Happy Family," over our nursery fire-place, and how I used to wonder at that immovable cat, with sparrows on her back, sitting between an owl and a magpie. And it was when I saw Edward sitting with Benjamin the cat, and two sparrows he had brought up by hand, struggling and laughing because Cocky would push itself, crest first, under his waistcoat, and come out at the top to kiss him--that an idea struck me; and I resolved to have a Happy Family for Uncle Patrick, and to act Showman myself. Edward can do anything with beasts. He was absolutely necessary as confederate, but it was possible Lettice might want to show off with Cocky, and I did not want a girl on the stage, so I said very little to her. But I told Edward to have in the yard-dog, and practise him in being happy with the rest of the family pets. Fred, the farm-boy, promised to look out for an owl. Benjamin, the cat, could have got mice enough; but he would have eaten them before Edward had had time to teach him better, so I set a trap. I knew a village-boy with a magpie, ready tamed. Bernard, the yard-dog, is a lumbering old fellow, with no tricks. We have tried. We took him out once, into a snow-drift, with a lantern round his neck, but he rescued nothing, and lost the lantern--and then he lost himself, for it was dark. But he is very handsome and good, and I knew, if I put him in the middle, he would let anything sit upon him. He would not feel it, or mind if he did. He takes no notice of Cocky. Benjamin never quarrels with Cocky, but he dare not forget that Cocky is there. And Cocky sometimes looks at Benjamin's yellow eyes as if it were thinking how very easily they would come out. But they are quite sufficiently happy together for a Happy Family. The mice gave more trouble than all the rest, so I settled that Lettice should wind up the mechanical mouse, and run that on as the curtain rose. CHAPTER III. "Memor esto majorum." OLD MOTTO. " . . . . All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died!" LONGFELLOW. Do you wish to avoid vexations? Then never have a Happy Family! Mine were countless. Fred could not get me an owl. Lettice _did_ want to show off with Cocky. I had my own way, but she looked sulky and spiteful. I got Tom Smith's magpie; but I had to have him, too. However, my costume as Showman was gorgeous, and Edward kept our Happy Family well together. We arranged that Tom should put Mag on at the left wing, and then run round behind, and call Mag softly from the right. Then she would hop across the stage to him, and show off well. Lettice was to let mother know when the spectators might take their places, and to tell the gardener when to raise the curtain. I really think one magpie must be "a sign of sorrow," as nurse says; but what made Bernard take it into his beautiful foolish head to give trouble I cannot imagine. He wouldn't lie down, and when he did, it was with a _grump_ of protest that seemed to forbode failure. However, he let Cocky scold him and pull his hair, which was a safety-valve for Cocky. Benjamin dozed with dignity. He knew Cocky wasn't watching for his yellow eyes. I don't think Lettice meant mischief when she summoned the spectators, for time was up. But her warning the curtain to rise when it did was simple malice and revenge. I never can forget the catastrophe, but I do not clearly remember how Tom Smith and I _began_ to quarrel. He was excessively impudent, and seemed to think we couldn't have had a Happy Family without him and his chattering senseless magpie. When I told him to remember he was speaking to a gentleman, he grinned at me. "A gentleman? Nay, my sakes! Ye're not civil enough by half. More like a new policeman, if ye weren't such a Guy Fawkes in that finery." "Be off," said I, "and take your bird with you." "What if I won't go?" "I'll make you!" "Ye darsen't touch me." "Daren't I?" "Ye darsen't." "I dare." "Try." "_Are_ you going?" "Noa." I only pushed him. He struck first. He's bigger than me, but he's a bigger coward, and I'd got him down in the middle of the stage, and had given him something to bawl about, before I became conscious that the curtain was up. I only realised it then, because civil, stupid Fred, arrived at the left wing, panting and gasping-- "Measter Bayard! Here's a young wood-owl for ye." As he spoke, it escaped him, fluff and feathers flying in the effort, and squawking, plunging, and fluttering, made wildly for the darkest corner of the stage, just as Lettice ran on the mechanical mouse in front. Bernard rose, and shook off everything, and Cocky went into screaming hysterics; above which I now heard the thud of Uncle Patrick's crutch, and the peals upon peals of laughter with which our audience greeted my long-planned spectacle of a Happy Family! * * * * * Our Irish uncle is not always nice. He teases and mocks, and has an uncertain temper. But one goes to him in trouble. I went next morning to pour out my woes, and defend myself, and complain of the others. I spoke seriously about Lettice. It is not pleasant for a fellow to have a sister who grows up peculiar, as I believe Lettice will. Only the Sunday before, I told her she would be just the sort of woman men hate, and she said she didn't care; and I said she ought to, for women were made for men, and the Bible says so; and she said grandmamma said that every soul was made for GOD and its own final good. She was in a high-falutin mood, and said she wished she had been christened Joan instead of Lettice, and that I would be a true Bayard; and that we could ride about the world together, dressed in armour, and fighting for the right. And she would say all through the list of her favourite heroines, and asked me if I minded _their_ being peculiar, and I said of course not, why should you mind what women do who don't belong to you? So she said she could not see that; and I said that was because girls can't see reason; and so we quarrelled, and I gave her a regular lecture, which I repeated to Uncle Patrick. He listened quite quietly till my mother came in, and got fidgetty, and told me not to argue with my uncle. Then he said-- "Ah! let the boy talk, Geraldine, and let me hear what he has to say for himself. There's a sublime audacity about his notions, I tell ye. Upon me conscience, I believe he thinks his grandmother was created for his particular convenience." That's how he mocks, and I suppose he meant my Irish grandmother. He thinks there's nobody like her in the wide world, and my father says she is the handsomest and wittiest old lady in the British Isles. But I did not mind. I said, "Well, Uncle Patrick, you're a man, and I believe you agree with me, though you mock me." "Agree with ye?" He started up, and pegged about the room. "Faith! if the life we live is like the globe we inhabit--if it revolves on its own axis, _and you're that axis_--there's not a flaw in your philosophy; but IF--Now perish my impetuosity! I've frightened your dear mother away. May I ask, by the bye, if _she_ has the good fortune to please ye, since the Maker of all souls made her, for all eternity, with the particular object of mothering you in this brief patch of time?" He had stopped under the portrait--my godfather's portrait. All his Irish rhodomontade went straight out of my head, and I ran to him. "Uncle, you know I adore her! But there's one thing she won't do, and, oh, I wish you would! It's years since she told me never to ask, and I've been on honour, and I've never even asked nurse; but I don't think it's wrong to ask you. Who is that man behind you, who looks such a wonderfully fine fellow? My Godfather Bayard." I had experienced a shock the night before, but nothing to the shock of seeing Uncle Patrick's face then, and hearing him sob out his words, instead of their flowing like a stream. "Is it possible? Ye don't know? She can't speak of him yet? Poor Geraldine!" He controlled himself, and turned to the picture, leaning on his crutch. I stood by him and gazed too, and I do not think, to save my life, I could have helped asking-- "Who is he?" "Your uncle. Our only brother. Oh, Bayard, Bayard!" "Is he dead?" He nodded, speechless; but somehow I could not forbear. "What did he die of?" "Of unselfishness. He died--for others." "Then he _was_ a hero? That's what he looks like. I am glad he is my godfather. Dear Uncle Pat, do tell me all about it." "Not now--hereafter. Nephew, any man--with the heart of man and not of a mouse--is more likely than not to behave well at a pinch; but no man who is habitually selfish can be _sure_ that he will, when the choice comes sharp between his own life and the lives of others. The impulse of a supreme moment only focusses the habits and customs of a man's soul. The supreme moment may never come, but habits and customs mould us from the cradle to the grave. His were early disciplined by our dear mother, and he bettered her teaching. Strong for the weak, wise for the foolish--tender for the hard--gracious for the surly--good for the evil. Oh, my brother, without fear and without reproach! Speak across the grave, and tell your sister's son that vice and cowardice become alike impossible to a man who has never--cradled in selfishness, and made callous by custom--learned to pamper himself at the expense of others!" I waited a little before I asked-- "Were you with him when he died?" "I was." "Poor Uncle Patrick! What _did_ you do?" He pegged away to the sofa, and threw himself on it. "Played the fool. Broke an arm and a thigh, and damaged my spine, and--_lived_. Here rest the mortal remains." And for the next ten minutes, he mocked himself, as he only can. * * * * * One does not like to be outdone by an uncle, even by such an uncle; but it is not very easy to learn to live like Godfather Bayard. Sometimes I wish my grandmother had not brought up her sons to such a very high pitch, and sometimes I wish my mother had let that unlucky name become extinct in the family, or that I might adopt my nickname. One could live up to _Backyard_ easily enough. It seems to suit being grumpy and tyrannical, and seeing no further than one's own nose, so well. But I do try to learn unselfishness; though I sometimes think it would be quite as easy for the owl to learn to respect the independence of a mouse, or a cat to be forbearing with a sparrow! I certainly get on better with the others than I used to do; and I have some hopes that even my father's godmother is not finally estranged through my fault. Uncle Patrick went to call on her whilst he was with us. She is very fond of "that amusing Irishman with the crutch," as she calls him; and my father says he'll swear Uncle Patrick entertained her mightily with my unlucky entertainment, and that she was as pleased as Punch that her cockatoo was in the thick of it. I am afraid it is too true; and the idea made me so hot, that if I had known she was really coming to call on us again, I should certainly have kept out of the way. But when Uncle Patrick said, "If the yellow chariot rolls this way again, Bayard, ye need not be pursuing these archæological revivals of yours in a too early English costume," I thought it was only his chaff. But she did come. I was pegging out the new gardens for the little ones. We were all there, and when she turned her eye over us (just like a cockatoo), and said, in a company voice-- "What a happy little family!" I could hardly keep my countenance, and I heard Edward choking in Benjamin's fur, where he had hidden his face. But Lettice never moved a muscle. She clasped her hands, and put her head on one side, and said--in _her_ company voice--"But you know brother Bayard _is_ so good to us now, and _that_ is why we are such A HAPPY FAMILY." * * * * * _The present Series of Mrs. Ewing's Works is the only authorized, complete, and uniform Edition published._ _It will consist of 18 volumes, Small Crown 8vo, at 2s. 6d. per vol., issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these will appear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the Series will be completed within 18 months. The device of the cover was specially designed by a Friend of Mrs. Ewing._ _The following is a list of the books included in the Series--_ 1. MELCHIOR'S DREAM, AND OTHER TALES. 2. MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 3. OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY-TALES. 4. A FLAT-IRON FOR A FARTHING. 5. THE BROWNIES, AND OTHER TALES. 6. SIX TO SIXTEEN. 7. LOB-LIE-BY-THE-FIRE, AND OTHER TALES. 8. JAN OF THE WINDMILL. 9. VERSES FOR CHILDREN, AND SONGS. 10. THE PEACE EGG--A CHRISTMAS MUMMING PLAY--HINTS FOR PRIVATE THEATRICALS, &c. 11. A GREAT EMERGENCY, AND OTHER TALES. 12. BROTHERS OF PITY, AND OTHER TALES OF BEASTS AND MEN. 13. WE AND THE WORLD, Part I 14. WE AND THE WORLD, Part II. 15. JACKANAPES--DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOTE--THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 16. MARY'S MEADOW, AND OTHER TALES OF FIELDS AND FLOWERS. 17. MISCELLANEA, including The Mystery of the Bloody Hand--Wonder Stories--Tales of the Khoja, and other translations. 18. JULIANA HORATIA EWING AND HER BOOKS, with a selection from Mrs. Ewing's Letters. * * * * * S.P.C.K., NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, LONDON, W.C. 
26018	----	[Illustration: ALL THE COURT CROWDED OUT TO SEE _See page 13_] _GRANNY'S WONDERFUL CHAIR_ _From the Story by FRANCES BROWNE_ _BLACKIE & SON LTD._ _London_ _Glasgow_ _Bombay_ _Printed and bound in Great Britain_ _STORIES OLD AND NEW_ _A small chosen library is like a walled garden where a child may safely play. In that charmed seclusion the love of books, like the love of flowers, grows of itself. If the reading habit is to be acquired, the child ought from the first to be given real books, which may be handled with pleasure and kept with pride--books containing literature suited to its own age._ _This volume belongs to a series of "Stories Old and New" which has been prepared specially for children. The books have been carefully chosen so as to include, along with many charming stories by the best children's authors of to-day, a due proportion of those older tales which never grow old._ _To secure simplicity and right gradation, the text has been prepared to suit the different ages of readers. Care has been given to the illustration, print, and binding of the series, for it is believed that this is the best way to secure from the children that careful handling of the volumes which is the mark of the true book-lover._ CONTENTS I INTRODUCTORY 6 II THE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO 18 III LADY GREENSLEEVES 51 IV CHILDE CHARITY 76 V SOUR AND CIVIL 92 VI PRINCE WISEWIT'S RETURN 118 GRANNY'S WONDERFUL CHAIR CHAPTER I INTRODUCTORY In an old time, long ago, when the fairies were in the world, there lived a little girl so very fair and pleasant of look, that they called her Snowflower. This girl was good as well as pretty. No one had ever seen her frown or heard her say a cross word, and young and old were glad when they saw her coming. Snowflower had no relation in the world but a very old grandmother, called Dame Frostyface. People did not like her quite so well as her granddaughter, for she was cross enough at times, though always kind to Snowflower. They lived together in a little cottage built of peat and thatched with reeds, on the edge of a great forest. Tall trees sheltered its back from the north wind, and the midday sun made its front warm and cheerful. Swallows built in the eaves, and daisies grew thick at the door. But there were none in all that country poorer than Snowflower and her grandmother. A cat and two hens were all their live stock. Their bed was dry grass, and the only good piece of furniture in the cottage was a great armchair with wheels on its feet, a black velvet cushion, and many strange carvings of flowers and fairies on its dark oaken back. On that chair Dame Frostyface sat spinning from morning till night, to keep herself and her granddaughter, while Snowflower gathered sticks for the fire, looked after the hens and the cat, and did whatever else her grandmother bade her. There was nobody in that part of the country could spin such fine yarn as Dame Frostyface, but she spun very slowly. Her wheel was as old as herself, and far more worn-out. Indeed, the wonder was that it did not fall to pieces. So what the dame earned was very little, and their living was scanty. Snowflower, however, felt no want of good dinners or fine clothes. Every evening, when the fire was heaped with the sticks she had gathered till it blazed and crackled up the cottage chimney, Dame Frostyface set aside her wheel and told her a new story. Often did the little girl wonder where her grandmother had gathered so many stories, but she soon learned that. One sunny morning, at the time of the coming of the swallows, the dame rose up, put on the grey hood and cloak in which she carried her yarn to the fairs, and said: "My child, I am going a long journey to visit an aunt of mine, who lives far in the north country. I cannot take you with me, because my aunt is the crossest woman alive, and never liked young people. But the hens will lay eggs for you, and there is barley meal in the barrel. And, as you have been a good girl, I'll tell you what to do when you feel lonely. Lay your head gently down on the cushion of the armchair and say, 'Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story'. "The chair was made by a clever fairy, who lived in the forest when I was young, and she gave it to me because she knew nobody could keep what they got hold of better than I could. Remember, you must never ask a story more than once in the day. If there is any need to travel, you have only to seat yourself in it and say, 'Chair of my grandmother, take me such a way'. It will carry you wherever you wish. But mind to oil the wheels before you set out, for I have sat on it these forty years in that same corner." Having said this, Dame Frostyface set forth to see her aunt in the north country. Snowflower gathered wood for the fire, and looked after the hens and cat, as she had always done. She baked herself a cake or two of the barley meal; but, when the evening came, the cottage looked lonely. Then Snowflower remembered her grandmother's words, and, laying her head gently down, she said: "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story". Hardly were the words spoken, when a clear voice from under the velvet cushion began a new and most wonderful tale, which surprised Snowflower so much that she forgot to be afraid. After that the good girl was lonely no more. Every morning she baked a barley cake, and every evening the chair told her a new story. But she could never find out to whom the voice belonged, though Snowflower showed her thanks by keeping bright the oaken back and dusting the velvet cushion, till the chair looked as good as new. The swallows came and built in the eaves, and the daisies grew thicker than ever at the door, but great troubles fell upon Snowflower. In spite of all her care she forgot to clip the hens' wings, and they flew away one morning to visit their friends the pheasants, who lived far in the forest. The cat went away to see its friends. The barley meal was eaten up, except two handfuls, and Snowflower had often looked out in hope of seeing the grey cloak, but Dame Frostyface did not come back. "My grandmother stays long," said Snowflower to herself; "and by and by there will be nothing left to eat. If I could get to her, perhaps she would tell me what to do. Surely there is good need for me to travel." Next day, at sunrise, Snowflower oiled the wheels of the chair, baked a cake out of the last of the meal, took it in her lap by way of food for the journey, seated herself, and said: "Chair of my grandmother, take me the way she went". At once the chair gave a creak, and began to move out of the cottage, and into the forest, the very way Dame Frostyface had taken, where it rolled along at the rate of a coach and six. Snowflower was amazed at this way of travelling, but the chair never stopped nor stayed the whole summer day, till as the sun was setting they came upon an open space, where a hundred men were cutting down the tall trees with their axes, a hundred more were splitting them for firewood, and twenty men, with horses and wagons, were carrying the wood away. "Oh! chair of my grandmother, stop!" said Snowflower, for she was tired, and also wished to know what this might mean. The chair at once stood still, and Snowflower, seeing an old woodcutter, who looked kind, stepped up to him and said: "Good father, tell me why you cut all this wood?" "Where do you live," replied the man, "that you have not heard of the great feast which King Winwealth means to give on the birthday of his only daughter, Princess Greedalind? It will last for seven days. Everybody will be feasted, and this wood is to roast the oxen and the sheep, the geese and the turkeys, amongst whom there is great sorrow throughout the land." When Snowflower heard that, she could not help wishing to see, and perhaps to share in, such a noble feast, after living so long on barley cakes. So, seating herself, she said: "Chair of my grandmother, take me quickly to the palace of King Winwealth." The words were hardly spoken, when off the chair started through the trees and out of the forest, to the great surprise of the woodcutters, who, never having seen such a sight before, threw down their axes, left their wagons, and went after Snowflower to the gates of a great and splendid city, having strong walls and high towers, and standing in the midst of a wide plain covered with cornfields, fruit gardens, and villages. It was the richest city in all the land. People from every part of the land came there to buy and sell, and there was a saying that they had only to live seven years in it to make their fortunes. Rich as they were, however, Snowflower had never seen so many discontented, greedy faces as looked out from the great shops, grand houses, and fine coaches, when her chair rattled along the streets. Indeed, the people of that city were not much thought of for either good nature or honesty. But it had not been so when King Winwealth was young, and he and his brother, Prince Wisewit, governed the land. Prince Wisewit knew the whole art of governing, the tempers of men, and the powers of the stars. Moreover, he was a very clever man, and it was said of him that he could never die or grow old. In his time there was neither discontent nor sickness in the city. Strangers were kindly treated without price or questions. Then no one went to law against his neighbour, and no one locked his door at night. The fairies used to come there at May Day and Michaelmas, for they were Prince Wisewit's friends--all but one, called Fortunetta, a short-sighted but very cunning fairy, who hated everybody wiser than herself, and above all the prince, because she could never cheat him. There was peace and pleasure for many a year in King Winwealth's city, till one day at midsummer Prince Wisewit went alone to the forest, in search of a strange plant for his garden, but he never came back. Though the King, with all his guards, looked for him far and near, no news was ever heard of him. When his brother was gone, King Winwealth grew lonely in his great palace, so he married a princess called Wantall, and brought her home to be his queen. This princess was neither handsome nor pleasant. People thought she must have gained the King's love by the charms she worked, for her whole dowry was a desert island, with a huge pit in it that could never be filled, and she was so greedy that the more she got the greedier she grew. In course of time the King and Queen had an only daughter, who was to be the heiress of all the kingdom. Her name was the Princess Greedalind, and the whole city were at that time preparing to keep her birthday. Not that they cared much for the Princess, who was very like her mother both in looks and temper; but being King Winwealth's only daughter, people came from far and near to the feast, and among them strangers and fairies who had not been there since the day of Prince Wisewit. There was great stir about the palace, a most noble building, so large that it had a room for every day in the year. All the floors were of beautiful dark wood, and all the roofs of silver; and there was such a large number of golden dishes used by the household, that five hundred men kept guard night and day lest any of them should be stolen. When these guards saw Snowflower and her chair, they ran one after the other to tell the King, for the like had never been seen nor heard of in his kingdom, and all the Court crowded out to see the little maiden and her chair that came of itself. When Snowflower saw the lords and ladies in their fine robes and splendid jewels, she began to feel ashamed of her own bare feet and linen gown. But at length taking courage, she answered all their questions, and told them everything about her wonderful chair. The Queen and the Princess cared for nothing that was not gilt. The people of the Court had learned to do the same, and all turned away in great scorn except the old King, who, thinking the chair might amuse him sometimes when he got into low spirits, allowed Snowflower to stay and feast in his worst kitchen. The poor girl was glad of any place, though nobody made her welcome--even the servants looked down upon her bare feet and linen gown. They would give her chair no room but in a dusty corner behind the back door, where Snowflower was told that she might sleep at night, and eat up the scraps the cook threw away. That very day the feast began. It was fine to see the great crowds of coaches and people on foot and on horseback who came to the palace, and filled every room according to their rank. Never had Snowflower seen such roasting and boiling. There was wine for the lords and ale for the common people, music and dancing of all kinds, and the best of gay dresses. But with all the good cheer there seemed little joy, and a great deal of ill humour in the palace. Some of the guests thought they should have been feasted in grander rooms. Others were vexed to see many finer than themselves. All the servants were very displeased because they did not get presents. There was somebody caught every hour stealing the cups, and a great number of people were always at the gates shouting for goods and lands, which Queen Wantall had taken from them. The guards were always driving them away, but they came back again, and could be heard plainly in the highest hall. So it was not wonderful that the old King's spirits were very low that evening after supper. His page, who always stood behind him, seeing this, reminded His Majesty of the little girl and her chair. "It is a good thought," said King Winwealth. "I have not heard a story this many a year. Bring the child and the chair at once!" The page sent someone to the first kitchen, who told the master-cook; the master-cook told the kitchen-maid; the kitchen-maid told the dust-boy, and he told Snowflower to wash her face, rub up her chair, and go to the highest hall, for the great King Winwealth wished to hear a story. Nobody offered to help her; but when Snowflower had made herself as smart as she could with soap and water, and rubbed the chair till it looked as if dust had never fallen on it, she seated herself and said: "Chair of my grandmother, take me to the highest hall." At once the chair marched in a grave and courtly manner out of the kitchen, up the grand staircase, and into the highest hall. The chief lords and ladies of the land were feasting there, besides many fairies and noble people from far-off countries. There had never been such company in the palace since the time of Prince Wisewit. Nobody wore less than the finest satin. [Illustration: ALL CAME TO TALK WITH SPARE _See page 32_] King Winwealth sat on his ivory throne in a robe of purple velvet, stiff with flowers of gold. The Queen sat by his side in a robe of silver cloth clasped with pearls. But the Princess Greedalind was finer still, the feast being in her honour. She wore a robe of cloth of gold clasped with diamonds. Two waiting-ladies in white satin stood, one on either side, to hold her fan and handkerchief, and two pages, in gold-lace livery, stood behind her chair. With all that, Princess Greedalind looked ugly and spiteful. She and her mother were angry to see a barefooted girl and an old chair allowed to enter the highest hall. The supper table was still covered with golden dishes, and the best of good things, but no one offered Snowflower a morsel. So, having made a humble bow to the King, the Queen, the Princess, and the good company, most of whom hardly noticed her, the poor little girl sat down upon the carpet, laid her head on the velvet cushion, as she used to do in the old cottage, and said: "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story." Everybody was greatly surprised, even the angry Queen and the spiteful Princess, when a clear voice from under the cushion said: "Listen to the story of the Christmas Cuckoo." CHAPTER II THE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO Once upon a time there stood in the midst of a bleak moor, in the north country, a certain village. All its people were poor, for their fields were barren, and they had little trade; but the poorest of them all were two brothers called Scrub and Spare. They were cobblers, and had but one stall between them. It was a hut built of clay and wattles. The door was low and always open, for there was no window. The roof did not entirely keep out the rain, and the only thing with any look of comfort about it was a wide hearth, for which the brothers could never find wood enough to make a good fire. There they worked in most brotherly friendship, though the people did not give them very many shoes to make or mend. The people of that village did not need many shoes, and better cobblers than Scrub and Spare might be found. Spiteful people said there were no shoes so bad that they would not be worse for their mending. Nevertheless Scrub and Spare managed to live by means of their own trade, a small barley field, and a cottage garden, till a new cobbler arrived in the village. He had lived in the chief city of the kingdom, and, by his own account, cobbled for the Queen and the princesses. His awls were sharp and his lasts were new. He set up his stall in a neat cottage with two windows. The villagers soon found out that one patch of his would outwear two of the brothers'. In short, all the mending left Scrub and Spare, and went to the new cobbler. The season had been wet and cold, their barley did not ripen well, and the cabbages never half closed in the garden. So the brothers were poor that winter; and when Christmas came, they had nothing to feast on but a barley loaf, a piece of musty bacon, and some small beer of their own brewing. Worse than that, the snow was very deep, and they could get no firewood. Their hut stood at the end of the village; beyond it spread the bleak moor, now all white and silent. But that moor had once been a forest. Great roots of old trees were still to be found in it, loosened from the soil and laid bare by the winds and rains. One of these, a rough, heavy log, lay close to their door, the half of it above the snow. Spare said to his brother: "Shall we sit here cold on Christmas Day while the great root lies yonder? Let us chop it up for firewood, the work will make us warm." "No," said Scrub; "it's not right to chop wood on Christmas. Besides, that root is too hard to be cut with any axe." "Hard or not, we must have a fire," replied Spare. "Come, brother, help me in with it. Poor as we are, there is nobody in the village will have such a Yule log as ours." Scrub liked to be a little grand sometimes, and in hopes of having a fine Yule log, both brothers strove with all their might till, between pulling and pushing, the great old root was safe on the hearth, and soon began to crackle and blaze with the red embers. In high glee, the cobblers sat down to their beer and bacon. The door was shut, for there was nothing but cold moonlight and snow outside. But the hut, strewn with fir branches, and decked with holly, looked cheerful as the ruddy blaze flared up and made their hearts glad. "Long life and good fortune to ourselves, brother!" said Spare. "I hope you will drink that toast, and may we never have a worse fire on Christmas--but what is that?" Spare set down the drinking-horn, and the brothers listened in great surprise, for out of the blazing root they heard "Cuckoo! cuckoo!" as plain as ever the spring bird's voice came over the moor on a May morn. "It is something bad," said Scrub, very much frightened. "Maybe not," said Spare. And out of the deep hole at the side which the fire had not reached flew a large grey cuckoo, and alighted on the table before them. Much as the cobblers had been surprised at first, they were still more so when the bird began to speak. "Good gentlemen," said the cuckoo, "what season is this?" "It's Christmas," replied Spare. "Then a merry Christmas to you!" said the cuckoo. "I went to sleep in the hollow of that old root last summer, and never woke till the heat of your fire made me think it was summer again. But now, since you have burned my lodging, let me stay in your hut till the spring comes round--I only want a hole to sleep in, and when I go on my travels next summer you may be sure I will bring you some gift for your trouble." "Stay, and welcome," said Spare, while Scrub sat wondering if it were something bad or not. "I'll make you a good warm hole in the thatch. But you must be hungry after that long sleep. There is a slice of barley bread. Come, help us to keep Christmas!" The cuckoo ate up the slice, drank some water from the brown jug--for it would take no beer--and flew into a snug hole which Spare scooped for it in the thatch of the hut. Scrub said he was afraid the bird wouldn't be lucky. But as it slept on, and the days passed, he forgot his fears. So the snow melted, the heavy rains came, the cold grew less, and the days became longer; and one sunny morning the brothers were awakened by the cuckoo shouting its own cry to let them know the spring had come. "Now," said the bird, "I am going on my travels over the world to tell men of the spring. There is no country where trees bud, or flowers bloom, that I will not cry in before the year goes round. Give me another slice of bread to keep me on my journey, and tell me what gift I shall bring you at the end of the twelve months." Scrub would have been angry with his brother for cutting so large a slice, their store of barley meal being low; but his mind was so taken up with what present it would be best for him to ask. At length a lucky thought struck him. "Good Master Cuckoo," said he, "if a great traveller who sees all the world like you, could know of any place where diamonds or pearls were to be found, one of a fairly large size brought in your beak would help such poor men as my brother and me to get something better than barley bread to give you the next time you come." "I know nothing of diamonds or pearls," said the cuckoo. "They are in the hearts of rocks and the sands of rivers. I know only of that which grows on the earth. But there are two trees close by the well that lies at the end of the world. One of them is called the golden tree, for its leaves are all of beaten gold. Every winter they fall into the well with a sound like that of scattered gold, and I know not what becomes of them. As for the other, it is always green, like a laurel. Some call it the wise, and some the merry tree. Its leaves never fall but they that get one of them keep a cheerful heart in spite of all troubles, and can make themselves as merry in a hut as in a palace." "Good Master Cuckoo, bring me a leaf off that tree!" cried Spare. "Now, brother, don't be a fool!" said Scrub. "Think of the leaves of gold. Dear Master Cuckoo, bring me one of them!" Before another word could be said, the cuckoo had flown out of the open door, and was shouting its spring cry over moor and meadow. The brothers were poorer than ever that year. Nobody sent them a single shoe to mend. The new cobbler said, in scorn, they should come over and work for him. Scrub and Spare would have left the village but for their barley field, their cabbage garden, and a maid called Fairfeather, whom both the cobblers had courted for seven years without even knowing whom she meant to favour. Sometimes Fairfeather seemed to favour Scrub, sometimes she smiled on Spare; but the brothers were always friends and did not quarrel. They sowed their barley, planted their cabbage, and, now that their trade was gone, worked in the fields of some of the rich villagers to make out a scanty living. So the seasons came and passed. Spring, summer, harvest, and winter followed each other as they have always done. At the end of the winter Scrub and Spare had grown so poor and ragged that Fairfeather thought them beneath her notice. Old neighbours forgot to invite them to wedding feasts or merrymaking. They thought the cuckoo had forgotten them too, when at daybreak, on the first of April, they heard a hard beak knocking at their door and a voice crying: "Cuckoo! cuckoo! let me in with my gifts." Spare ran to open the door, and in came the cuckoo, carrying on one side of his bill a golden leaf larger than that of any tree in the north country; and in the other, one like that of the common laurel, only it had a fresher green. "Here," it said, giving the gold to Scrub and the green to Spare; "it is a long way to carry them from the end of the world. Give me a slice of bread, for I must tell the north country that the spring has come." Scrub did not grudge the thickness of that slice, though it was cut from their last loaf. So much gold had never been in the cobbler's hands before, and he could not help exulting over his brother. "See the wisdom of my choice!" he said, holding up the large leaf of gold. "As for yours, as good might be plucked from any hedge. I wonder such a wise bird would carry the like so far." "Good Master Cobbler," cried the cuckoo, finishing the slice, "your words are more hasty than kind. If your brother is disappointed this time, I go on the same journey every year, and for your kind treatment will think it no trouble to bring each of you whichever leaf you wish." "Darling cuckoo!" cried Scrub, "bring me a golden one." And Spare, looking up from the green leaf on which he gazed as though it were a crown-jewel, said: "Be sure to bring me one from the merry tree." And away flew the cuckoo once again. "This is the Feast of All Fools, and it ought to be your birthday," said Scrub. "Did ever man fling away such a chance of becoming rich! Much good your merry leaves will do when you are so poor!" So he went on; but Spare laughed at him, and answered with many old proverbs about the cares that come with gold, till Scrub, at length growing angry, vowed his brother was not fit to live with a gentleman like himself. And taking his lasts, his awls, and his golden leaf, he left the wattle hut and went to tell the villagers. They were surprised at the folly of Spare, and charmed with Scrub's good sense, more so when he showed them the golden leaf, and told that the cuckoo would bring him one every spring. The new cobbler at once made him a partner. The greatest people sent him their shoes to mend. Fairfeather smiled kindly on him, and in the course of the summer they were married, with a grand wedding feast, at which the whole village danced, except Spare, who was not invited, because the bride said he was low-minded, and his brother thought he was a disgrace to the family. Indeed, all who heard the story thought that Spare must be mad, and nobody would take up with him but a lame tinker, a beggar boy, and a poor woman, who was looked upon as a witch because she was old and ugly. As for Scrub, he went with Fairfeather to a cottage close by that of the new cobbler, and quite as fine. There he mended shoes so as to please everyone, had a scarlet coat for holidays, and a fat goose for dinner every wedding-day. Fairfeather, too, had a crimson gown and fine blue ribbons. But neither she nor Scrub were content, for to buy all these grand things the golden leaf had to be broken and parted with piece by piece, so the last morsel was gone before the cuckoo came with another. Spare lived on in the old hut, and worked in the cabbage garden. (Scrub had got the barley field, because he was the elder.) Every day his coat grew more ragged, and the hut more weather-beaten, but the people remarked that he never looked sad nor sour. The wonder was, that from the time they began to keep his company, the tinker grew kinder to the ass with which he travelled the country, the beggar boy kept out of mischief, and the old woman was never cross to her cat or angry with the children. Every first of April the cuckoo came tapping at their doors with the golden leaf to Scrub and the green to Spare. Fairfeather would have treated him nobly with wheaten bread and honey, for she had some notion of trying to make him bring two gold leaves instead of one. But the cuckoo flew away to eat barley bread with Spare, saying he was not fit company for fine people, and liked the old hut where he slept so snugly from Christmas to Spring. Scrub spent the golden leaves, and Spare kept the merry ones; and I know not how many years passed in this manner, when a great lord, who owned that village, came to dwell near. His castle stood on the moor. It was old and strong, with high towers and a deep moat. All the country as far as one could see from the highest turret belonged to this lord; but he had not been there for twenty years, and would not have come then, only he was very sad. The cause of his grief was that he had been Prime Minister at Court, and in high favour, till somebody told the Crown Prince that he had spoken with great disrespect about the turning out of His Royal Highness's toes, and the King that he did not lay on taxes enough; whereon the north-country lord was turned out of office and sent to his own estate. There he lived for some weeks in very bad temper. The servants said nothing would please him, and the people of the village put on their worst clothes lest he should raise their rents. But one day, in the harvest time, his lordship chanced to meet Spare gathering watercresses at a meadow stream, and fell into talk with the cobbler. How it was nobody could tell, but from that hour the great lord cast away his sadness. He forgot his lost office and his Court enemies, the King's taxes and the Crown Prince's toes, and went about with a noble train, hunting, fishing, and making merry in his hall, where all travellers were well treated and all the poor were welcome. This strange story soon spread through the north country, and a great company came to the cobbler's hut--rich men who had lost their money, poor men who had lost their friends, beauties who had grown old, wits who had gone out of fashion--all came to talk with Spare, and whatever their troubles had been, all went home merry. The rich gave him presents, the poor gave him thanks. Spare's coat was no longer ragged, he had bacon with his cabbage, and the people of the village began to think there was some sense in him after all. By this time his fame had reached the chief city of the kingdom, and even the Court. There were a great many discontented people there besides the King, who had lately fallen into ill humour because a princess, who lived in a kingdom near his own, and who had seven islands for her dowry, would not marry his eldest son. So a royal page was sent to Spare, with a velvet cloak, a diamond ring, and a command that he should come to Court at once. "To-morrow is the first of April," said Spare, "and I will go with you two hours after sunrise." The page lodged all night at the castle, and the cuckoo came at sunrise with the merry leaf. "The Court is a fine place," he said, when the cobbler told him he was going. "But I cannot come there, they would lay snares and catch me. So be careful of the leaves I have brought you, and give me a farewell slice of barley bread." Spare was sorry to part with the cuckoo, little as he had of his company. But he gave him a slice which would have broken Scrub's heart in the former times, it was so large. And having sewed up the leaves in the lining of his leather doublet, he set out with the page on his way to the Court. His coming caused great surprise there. Everybody wondered what the King could see in such a common-looking man. But hardly had His Majesty talked with him half an hour, when the Princess and her seven islands were forgotten, and orders given that a feast for all-comers should be spread in the large dining-hall. The princes of the blood, the great lords and ladies, the Ministers of State, and the judges of the land had a talk with Spare; the more they talked the lighter grew their hearts, so that such changes had never been seen at Court. The lords forgot their spites and the ladies their envies, the princes and Ministers made friends among themselves, and the judges showed no favour. As for Spare, he had a room set apart for him in the palace, and a seat at the King's table. One sent him rich robes and another costly jewels. But in the midst of all his greatness he still wore the leathern doublet, which the palace servants thought very mean. One day the King's attention being drawn to it by the chief page, he asked why Spare didn't give it to a beggar. But the cobbler answered: "High and mighty King, this doublet was with me before silk and velvet came. I find it easier to wear than the Court cut. Moreover, it serves to keep me humble, by recalling the days when it was my holiday dress." The King thought this was a wise speech, and gave orders that no one should find fault with the leathern doublet. So things went on, till news of his brother's good fortune reached Scrub in the moorland cottage on another first of April, when the cuckoo came with two golden leaves because he had none to carry for Spare. "Think of that!" said Fairfeather. "Here we are spending our lives in this humdrum place, and Spare making his fortune at the Court with two or three paltry green leaves! What would they say to our golden ones? Let us pack up and make our way to the King's palace. I am sure he will make you a lord and me a lady of honour, not to speak of all the fine clothes and presents we shall have." Scrub thought there was a great deal in what his wife said, and they began to pack up. But it was soon found that there were very few things in the cottage fit for carrying to the Court. Fairfeather could not think of her wooden bowls, spoons, and plates being seen there. Scrub thought his lasts and awls had better be left behind, as without them no one would suspect him of being a cobbler. So, putting on their holiday clothes, Fairfeather took her looking-glass, and Scrub his drinking-horn, and each carrying a golden leaf wrapped up with great care that none might see it till they reached the palace, the pair set out with high hopes. How far Scrub and Fairfeather journeyed I cannot say; but when the sun was high and warm at noon, they came into a wood both tired and hungry. "Husband," said Fairfeather, "you should not have such mean thoughts. How could one eat barley bread on the way to a palace? Let us rest ourselves under this tree, and look at our leaves to see if they are safe." In looking at the leaves, and talking of what they were going to do when they came to the Court, Scrub and Fairfeather did not see that a very thin old woman had slipped from behind a tree, with a long staff in her hand and a great bag by her side. "Noble lord and lady," she said,--"for I know you are such by your voices, though my eyes are dim and my hearing none of the sharpest,--will you tell me where I may find some water to mix a bottle of mead which I carry in my bag, because it is too strong for me?" As the old woman spoke, she pulled out of her bag a large wooden bottle such as shepherds used in the olden times, corked with leaves rolled together, and having a small wooden cup hanging from its handle. "Perhaps you will do me the favour to taste it," she said. "It is only made of the best of honey. I have also cream cheese, and a wheaten loaf here, if such noble persons as you eat the like." Scrub and Fairfeather were now sure, after this speech, that there must be about them something of the look that noble persons have. Besides, they were very hungry; and having with great haste wrapped up the golden leaves, they told the old woman that they were not at all proud, notwithstanding the lands and castles they had left behind them in the north country, and would willingly help to lighten the bag. The old woman would hardly sit down beside them, she was so humble and modest, but at length she did; and before the bag was half empty, Scrub and Fairfeather firmly believed that there must be something very noble-looking about them. The old woman was a wood-witch. Her name was Buttertongue, and all her time was spent in making mead, which being boiled with strange herbs and spells, had the power of making all who drank it fall asleep and dream with their eyes open. She had two dwarfs of sons; one was named Spy and the other Pounce. Wherever their mother went, they were not far behind; and whoever tasted her mead was sure to be robbed by the dwarfs. Scrub and Fairfeather sat leaning against the old tree. The cobbler had a lump of cheese in his hand; his wife held fast a hunch of bread. Their eyes and mouths were both open, but they were dreaming of the fine things at the Court, when the old woman raised her shrill voice: "What ho, my sons! come here, and carry home the harvest." No sooner had she spoken than the two little dwarfs darted out of the nearest thicket. "Idle boys!" cried the mother, "what have you done to-day to help our living?" "I have been to the city," said Spy, "and could see nothing. These are hard times for us--everybody minds his work so contentedly since that cobbler came. But here is a leathern doublet which his page threw out of the window. It's of no use, but I brought it to let you see I was not idle." And he tossed down Spare's doublet, with the merry leaves in it, which he had carried like a bundle on his little back. To let you know how Spy got hold of it, I must tell you that the forest was not far from the great city where Spare lived in such high esteem. All things had gone well with the cobbler till the King thought that it was quite unbecoming to see such a worthy man without a servant. His Majesty, therefore, to let all men understand his royal favour towards Spare, appointed one of his own pages to wait upon him. The name of this youth was Tinseltoes, and, though he was the seventh of the King's pages in rank, nobody in all the Court had grander notions. Nothing could please him that had not gold or silver about it, and his grandmother feared he would hang himself for being made page to a cobbler. As for Spare, if anything could have troubled him, this mark of His Majesty's kindness would have done it. The honest man had been so used to serve himself that the page was always in the way; but his merry leaves came to his aid; and, to the great surprise of his grandmother, Tinseltoes took to the new service in a wonderful way. Some said it was because Spare gave him nothing to do but play at bowls all day on the palace green. Yet one thing vexed the heart of Tinseltoes, and that was his master's leathern doublet. But for it, he was sure people would never remember that Spare had been a cobbler; and the page took a deal of pains to let him see how much out of the fashion it was at the Court. But Spare answered Tinseltoes as he had done the King; and at last, finding nothing better would do, the page got up one fine morning earlier than his master, and tossed the leathern doublet out of the back window into a lane, where Spy found it and brought it to his mother. "That nasty thing!" said the old woman. "Where is the good in it?" By this time, Pounce had taken everything of value from Scrub and Fairfeather--the looking-glass, the silver-rimmed horn, the husband's scarlet coat, the wife's gay cloak, and, above all, the golden leaves, which so gladdened the hearts of old Buttertongue and her sons, that they threw the leathern doublet over the sleeping cobbler for a joke, and went off to their hut in the middle of the forest. The sun was going down when Scrub and Fairfeather awoke from dreaming that they had been made a lord and a lady, and sat clothed in silk and velvet, feasting with the King in his palace hall. They were greatly disappointed to find their golden leaves and all their best things gone. Scrub tore his hair, and vowed to take the old woman's life, while Fairfeather uttered loud cries of sorrow. But Scrub, feeling cold for want of his coat, put on the leathern doublet without asking or caring whence it came. Hardly was it buttoned on when a change came over him. He began to talk so merrily, that, instead of crying, Fairfeather made the wood ring with laughter. Both busied themselves in getting up a hut of branches, in which Scrub kindled a fire with a flint and steel, which, together with his pipe, he had brought unknown to Fairfeather, who had told him the like was never heard of at the Court. Then they found a pheasant's nest at the root of an old oak, made a meal of roasted eggs, and went to sleep on a heap of long green grass which they had gathered, with nightingales singing all night long in the old trees about them. So it happened that Scrub and Fairfeather stayed day after day in the forest, making their hut larger and more cosy against the winter, living on wild birds' eggs, and berries, and never thinking of their lost golden leaves, or their journey to the Court. In the meantime Spare had got up and missed his doublet. Tinseltoes, of course, said he knew nothing about it. The whole palace was searched, and every servant questioned, till all the Court wondered why such a fuss was made about an old leathern doublet. That very day, things came back to their old fashion. Quarrels began among the lords, and envies among the ladies. The King said his people did not pay him half enough taxes, the Queen wanted more jewels, the servants took to their old quarrels and got up some new ones. Spare found himself getting strangely dull, and very much out of place. Nobles began to ask what business a cobbler had at the King's table, and His Majesty ordered the palace records to be searched to find out if such a thing had ever taken place before. The cobbler was too wise to tell all he had lost with that doublet; but as by this time he knew the Court customs, he offered a reward of fifty gold pieces to anyone who would bring him news about it. Scarcely was this made known in the city, when the gates and outer courts of the palace were filled by men, women, and children--some bringing leathern doublets of every cut and colour, some with tales of what they had heard and seen in their walks round about the palace. So much news about all sorts of great people came out of these stories, that lords and ladies ran to complain of Spare as one who spoke against people. His Majesty, being now sure that there was no example in all the palace records of such a retainer, sent forth a decree sending the cobbler away for ever from the Court, and giving all his goods to the page Tinseltoes. That royal decree was hardly issued before the page had taken for himself Spare's rich room, his costly garments, and all the presents the people at Court had given him. While Spare, having no longer the fifty pieces of gold to give, was glad to make his escape out of a back window, for fear of the nobles, who vowed to have revenge on him, and the crowd, who were ready to stone him for cheating them about his doublet. The window from which Spare let himself down with a strong rope, was that from which Tinseltoes had tossed the doublet; and as the cobbler came down late in the twilight, a poor woodman, with a heavy load of fagots, stopped and stared at him in great surprise. "What is the matter, friend?" asked Spare. "Did you never see a man coming down from a back window before?" "Why," said the woodman, "the last morning I passed here, a leathern doublet came out of that very window, and I feel sure you are the owner of it." "That I am, friend," said the cobbler eagerly. "Can you tell me which way that doublet went?" "As I walked on," said the woodman, "a dwarf, called Spy, bundled it up and ran off to his mother in the forest." "Honest friend," said Spare, taking off the last of his fine clothes (a grass-green cloak edged with gold), "I will give you this if you will follow the dwarf and bring me back my doublet." "It would not be good to carry fagots in," said the woodman. "But if you want back your doublet, the road to the forest lies at the end of this lane;" and he trudged away. Having made up his mind to find his doublet, and sure that neither crowd nor nobles could catch him in the forest, Spare went on his way, and was soon among the tall trees; but neither hut nor dwarf could he see. Moreover, the night came on; the wood was dark and thick, but here and there the moon shone through its lanes, the great owls flitted about, and the nightingales sang. So he went on, hoping to find some place of shelter. At last the red light of a fire, shining through a thicket, led him to the door of a low hut. It stood half open, as if there was nothing to fear, and within he saw his brother Scrub snoring loudly on a bed of grass, at the foot of which lay his own leathern doublet; while Fairfeather, in a dress made of plaited rushes, sat roasting pheasants' eggs by the fire. "Good evening, mistress!" said Spare, stepping in. The blaze shone on him, but so changed was her brother-in-law with his Court life, that Fairfeather did not know him, and she answered far more kindly than was her wont. "Good evening, master! Whence come you so late? but speak low, for my good man has tired himself cutting wood, and is taking a sleep, as you see, before supper." "A good rest to him!" said Spare, seeing he was not known. "I come from the Court for a day's hunting, and have lost my way in the forest." "Sit down and have a share of our supper," said Fairfeather, "I will put some more eggs in the ashes; and tell me the news of Court--I used to think of it long ago when I was young and foolish." "Did you never go there?" said the cobbler. "So fair a dame as you would make the ladies wonder." "You are pleased to flatter," said Fairfeather; "but my husband has a brother there, and we left our moorland village to try our fortune also. An old woman at the entrance to this forest, by means of fair words, got us to take some strong drink, which caused us to fall asleep and dream of great things. But when we woke, everything had been robbed from us--my looking-glass, my scarlet cloak, my husband's Sunday coat; and, in place of all, the robbers left him that old doublet, which he has worn ever since, and he never was so merry in all his life, though we live in this poor hut." "It is a shabby doublet, that," said Spare, taking up the garment, and seeing that it was his own, for the merry leaves were still sewed in its lining. "It would be good for hunting in, however--your husband would be glad to part with it, I dare say, in exchange for this handsome cloak;" and he pulled off the green mantle and buttoned on the doublet, much to Fairfeather's delight, who ran and shook Scrub, crying: "Husband, husband, rise and see what a good bargain I have made!" Scrub gave one last snore, and muttered something about the root being hard. But he rubbed his eyes, gazed up at his brother and said: "Spare, is that really you? How did you like the Court, and have you made your fortune?" "That I have, brother," said Spare, "in getting back my own good leathern doublet. Come, let us eat eggs, and rest ourselves here this night. In the morning we will return to our own old hut, at the end of the moorland village, where the Christmas Cuckoo will come and bring us leaves." Scrub and Fairfeather agreed. So in the morning they all returned, and found the old hut little the worse for wear and weather. The people of the village came about them to ask the news of Court, and see if they had made their fortune. Everybody was surprised to find the three poorer than ever, but somehow they liked to go to the hut. Spare brought out the lasts and awls he had hidden in the corner. Scrub and he began their old trade again, and the whole north country found out that there never were such cobblers. They mended the shoes of lords and ladies as well as the common people; everybody was well pleased with the work. Their trade grew greater from day to day, and all that were discontented or unlucky came to the hut as in old times, before Spare went to the Court. The rich brought them presents, the poor did them service. The hut itself changed, no one knew how. Flowering honeysuckle grew over its roof; red and white roses grew thick about its door. Moreover, the Christmas Cuckoo always came on the first of April, bringing three leaves of the merry tree--for Scrub and Fairfeather would have no more golden ones. So it was with them when I last heard the news of the north country. CHAPTER III LADY GREENSLEEVES On the evening of the next day King Winwealth again fell into low spirits, and gave orders that Snowflower and her wonderful chair should be brought to the highest hall. When Snowflower came, she at once laid down her head on the chair, saying: "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story." "Listen," said the clear voice from under the cushion, "to the story of Lady Greensleeves." Once upon a time there lived two noble lords in the east country. Their lands lay between a broad river and an old oak forest. In the midst of his land each lord had a stately castle; one was built of white freestone, the other of grey granite. So the one was called Lord of the White Castle, and the other Lord of the Grey. No lords in all the east country were so noble and kind as they. Their people lived in peace and plenty; all strangers were well treated at their castles. Every autumn they sent men with axes into the forest to hew down the great trees, and chop them into firewood for the poor. Neither hedge nor ditch divided their lands, but these lords never had a quarrel. They had been friends from their youth. Their ladies had died long ago, but the Lord of the Grey Castle had a little son, and the Lord of the White a little daughter; and when they feasted in each other's halls it was their custom to say, "When our children grow up they will marry, and have our castles and our lands, and keep our friendship in memory." So the lords and their little children, and their people, lived happily till one Michaelmas night, as they were all feasting in the hall of the White Castle, there came a traveller to the gate, who was welcomed and feasted as usual. He had seen many strange sights and countries, and he liked to tell of his travels. The lords were delighted with his tales as they sat round the fire after supper, and at length the Lord of the White Castle, who was always very eager to know all he could about new countries, said: "Good stranger, what was the greatest wonder you ever saw in all your travels?" "The most wonderful sight that ever I saw," replied the traveller, "was at the end of yonder forest, where in an old wooden house there sits an old woman weaving her own hair into grey cloth on an old worn-out loom. When she wants more yarn she cuts off her own grey hair, and it grows so quickly that though I saw it cut in the morning, it was out of the door before noon. She told me she wished to sell the cloth, but none of all who came that way had yet bought any, she asked so great a price. And, if the way were not so long and dangerous through that wide forest, which is full of bears and wolves, some rich lord like you might buy it for a cloak." All who heard this story were greatly surprised; but when the traveller had gone on his way, the Lord of the White Castle could neither eat nor sleep for wishing to see the old woman that wove her own hair. At length he made up his mind to go through the forest in search of her old house, and told the Lord of the Grey Castle what he had made up his mind to do. Being a wise man, this lord replied that travellers' tales were not always to be trusted, and tried hard to advise him against undertaking such a long and dangerous journey, for few that went far into that forest ever returned. However, when the curious lord would go in spite of all he said, he vowed to go with him for friendship's sake, and they agreed to set out without letting anyone know, lest the other lords of the land might laugh at them. The Lord of the White Castle had a steward who had served him many years, and his name was Reckoning Robin. To him he said: "I am going on a journey with my friend. Be careful of my goods, deal justly with my people, and above all things be kind to my little daughter Loveleaves till my return." The steward answered: "Be sure, my lord, I will." The Lord of the Grey Castle also had a steward who had served him many years, and his name was Wary Will. To him he said: "I am going on a journey with my friend. Be careful of my goods, deal justly with my people, and above all be kind to my little son Woodwender till my return." His steward answered him: "Be sure, my lord, I will." So these lords kissed their children while they slept, and set out each with his staff and cloak before sunrise through the old oak forest. The children missed their fathers, and the people missed their lords. None but the stewards could tell what had become of them; but seven months wore away, and they did not come back. The lords had thought their stewards faithful, because they served so well under their eyes; but instead of that, both were proud and cunning, and thinking that some evil had happened to their masters, they set themselves to be lords in their places. Reckoning Robin had a son called Hardhold, and Wary Will a daughter named Drypenny. There was not a sulkier girl or boy in the country, but their fathers made up their minds to make a young lord and a young lady of them; so they took the silk clothes which Woodwender and Loveleaves used to wear, to dress them, putting on the lords' children their coarse clothes. Their toys were given to Hardhold and Drypenny; and at last the stewards' children sat at the chief tables, and slept in the best rooms, while Woodwender and Loveleaves were sent to herd the swine, and sleep on straw in the granary. The poor children had no one to take their part. Every morning at sunrise they were sent out--each with a barley loaf and a bottle of sour milk, which was to serve them for breakfast, dinner, and supper--to watch a great herd of swine on a wide field near the forest. The grass was scanty, and the swine were always straying into the wood in search of acorns. The children knew that if they were lost the wicked stewards would punish them; and between gathering and keeping their herds in order, they were readier to sleep on the granary straw at night than ever they had been within their own silken curtains. Still, Woodwender and Loveleaves were a great help and comfort to each other, saying their fathers would come back or God would send them some friends. So, in spite of swine-herding and hard living, they looked as cheerful and handsome as ever; while Hardhold and Drypenny grew crosser and uglier every day, notwithstanding their fine clothes. The false stewards did not like this. They thought their children ought to look genteel, and Woodwender and Loveleaves like young swineherds. So they sent them to a wilder field, still nearer the forest, and gave them two great black hogs, more unruly than all the rest, to keep. One of these hogs belonged to Hardhold, and the other to Drypenny. Every evening when they came home the stewards' children used to come down and feed them, and it was their delight to reckon up what price they would bring when properly fattened. One very hot day, about midsummer, Woodwender and Loveleaves sat down in the shadow of a mossy rock. The swine grazed about them more quietly than usual; and the children plaited rushes and talked to each other, till, as the sun was sloping down the sky, Woodwender saw that the two great hogs were missing. Thinking they must have gone to the forest, the children ran to search for them. They heard the thrush singing and the wood-doves calling; they saw the squirrels leaping from branch to branch, and the deer bounding by. But though they searched for hours, no trace of the hogs could be seen. Loveleaves and Woodwender dared not go home without them. Deeper and deeper they ran into the forest, searching and calling, but all in vain. And when the woods began to darken with the fall of evening, the children feared they had lost their way. It was known that they never feared the forest, nor all the boars and wolves that were in it. But being weary, they wished for some place of shelter, and took a green path through the trees, thinking it might lead to the dwelling of some hermit or forester. A fairer way Woodwender and Loveleaves had never walked. The grass was soft and mossy, a hedge of wild roses and honeysuckle grew on either side, and the red light of the sunset streamed through the tall trees above. On they went, and it led them straight to a great open dell, covered with the most lovely flowers, bordered with banks of wild strawberries, and all overshadowed by a huge oak, the like of which had never been seen in grove or forest. Its branches were as large as full-grown trees. Its trunk was wider than a country church, and its height like that of a castle. There were mossy seats at its great root, and when the tired children had gathered as many strawberries as they cared for, they sat down on one, close by a small spring that bubbled up as clear as crystal. The mighty oak was covered with thick ivy, in which thousands of birds had their nests. Woodwender and Loveleaves watched them flying home from all parts of the forest, and at last they saw a lady coming by the same path which led them to the dell. She wore a gown of a red colour; her yellow hair was braided and bound with a red band. In her right hand she carried a holly branch; but the strangest part of her dress was a pair of long sleeves, as green as the very grass. "Who are you," she said, "that sit so late beside my well?" And the children told her their story, how they had first lost the hogs, and then their way, and were afraid to go home to the wicked stewards. "Well," said the lady, "you are the fairest swineherds that ever came this way. Choose whether you will go home and keep hogs for Hardhold and Drypenny, or live in the free forest with me." "We will stay with you," said the children, "for we do not like keeping swine. Besides, our fathers went through this forest, and we may meet them some day coming home." While they spoke, the lady slipped her holly branch through the ivy, as if it had been a key,--soon a door opened in the oak, and there was a fair house. The windows were of rock crystal, but they could not be seen from without. The walls and floors were covered with thick green moss, as soft as velvet. There were low seats and a round table, vessels of carved wood, a hearth inlaid with strange stones, an oven, and a storeroom for food against the winter. When they stepped in, the lady said: "A hundred years have I lived here, and my name is Lady Greensleeves. No friend or servant have I except my dwarf Corner, who comes to me at the end of harvest with his handmill, his basket, and his axe. With these he grinds the nuts, and gathers the berries, and splits the firewood; and cheerily we live all the winter. But Corner loves the frost and fears the sun; and when the topmost branches begin to bud, he returns to his country far in the north, so I am lonely in the summertime." By these words the children saw how welcome they were. Lady Greensleeves gave them deer's milk and cakes of nut-flour, and soft green moss to sleep on. And they forgot all their troubles, the wicked stewards, and the straying swine. Early in the morning a troop of does came to be milked, fairies brought flowers, and birds brought berries, to show Lady Greensleeves what had bloomed and ripened. She taught the children to make cheese of the does' milk, and wine of the woodberries. She showed them the stores of honey which wild bees had made, and left in the hollow trees, the rarest plants of the forest, and the herbs that made all the creatures tame. All that summer Woodwender and Loveleaves lived with her in the great oak tree, free from toil and care. The children would have been happy, but they could hear no news of their fathers. At last the leaves began to fade, and the flowers to fall. Lady Greensleeves said that Corner was coming. One moonlight night she heaped sticks on the fire, and set her door open, when Woodwender and Loveleaves were going to sleep, saying she expected some friends to tell her the news of the forest. Loveleaves was not quite so curious as her father, the Lord of the White Castle, but she kept awake to see what would happen, and very much afraid the little girl was when in walked a great brown bear. "Good evening, lady!" said the bear. "Good evening, bear!" said Lady Greensleeves. "What is the news in your part of the forest?" "Not much," said the bear; "only the fawns are growing very cunning--one can't catch above three in a day." "That's bad news," said Lady Greensleeves; and at once in walked a great wild cat. "Good evening, lady!" said the cat. "Good evening, cat!" said Lady Greensleeves. "What is the news in your part of the forest?" "Not much," said the cat; "only the birds are growing very plentiful--it is not worth one's while to catch them." "That's good news," said Lady Greensleeves; and in flew a great black raven. "Good evening, lady!" said the raven. "Good evening, raven!" said Lady Greensleeves. "What is the news in your part of the forest?" "Not much," said the raven; "only in a hundred years or so we shall be very genteel and private, the trees will be so thick." "How is that?" said Lady Greensleeves. "Oh!" said the raven, "have you not heard how the king of the forest fairies laid a spell on two lords, who were travelling through his kingdom to see the old woman that weaves her own hair? They had thinned his oaks every year, cutting firewood for the poor. So the king met them in the likeness of a hunter, and asked them to drink out of his oaken goblet, because the day was warm. When the two lords drank, they forgot their lands and their people, their castles and their children, and minded nothing in all the world but the planting of acorns, which they do day and night, by the power of the spell, in the heart of the forest. They will never stop till someone makes them pause in their work before the sun sets, and then the spell will be broken." [Illustration: A DOOR OPENED IN THE ROCK _See page 61_] "Ah!" said Lady Greensleeves, "he is a great prince, that king of the forest fairies; and there is worse work in the world than planting acorns." Soon after, the bear, the cat, and the raven bade Lady Greensleeves good night. She closed the door, put out the light, and went to sleep on the soft moss as usual. In the morning Loveleaves told Woodwender what she had heard, and they went to Lady Greensleeves where she milked the does, and said: "We heard what the raven told you last night, and we know the two lords are our fathers. Tell us how the spell may be broken." "I fear the king of the forest fairies," said Lady Greensleeves, "because I live here alone, and have no friend but my dwarf Corner. But I will tell you what you may do. At the end of the path which leads from this dell turn your faces to the north, and you will find a narrow way sprinkled over with black feathers. Keep that path, no matter how it winds, and it will lead you straight to that part of the forest in which the ravens dwell. There you will find your fathers planting acorns under the forest trees. Watch till the sun is near setting, and tell them the most wonderful things you know to make them forget their work. But be sure to tell nothing but truth, and drink nothing but running water, or you will fall into the power of the fairy king." The children thanked her for this good advice. She packed up cakes and cheese for them in a bag of woven grass, and they soon found the narrow way sprinkled over with black feathers. It was very long, and wound through the thick trees in so many circles that the children were often weary, and sat down to rest. When the night came, they found a mossy hollow in the trunk of an old tree, where they laid themselves down, and slept all the summer night--for Woodwender and Loveleaves never feared the forest. So they went, eating their cakes and cheese when they were hungry, drinking from the running stream, and sleeping in the hollow trees, till on the evening of the seventh day they came into that part of the forest where the ravens lived. The tall trees were laden with nests and black with ravens. There was nothing to be heard but cawing. In a great opening where the oaks grew thinnest, the children saw their own fathers busy planting acorns. Each lord had on the velvet cloak in which he left his castle, but it was worn to rags with rough work in the forest. Their hair and beards had grown long; their hands were soiled with earth; each had an old wooden spade, and on all sides lay heaps of acorns. The children called their names, and ran to kiss them, each saying: "Dear father, come back to your castle and your people." But the lords replied: "We know of no castles and no people. There is nothing in all this world but oak leaves and acorns." Woodwender and Loveleaves told them of all their former state in vain. Nothing would make them pause for a minute. So the poor children first sat down and cried, and then slept on the cold grass, for the sun set, and the lords worked on. When they awoke it was broad day. Woodwender cheered up Loveleaves, saying: "We are hungry, and there are two cakes in the bag, let us share one of them--who knows but something may happen." So they divided the cake, and ran to the lords, saying: "Dear fathers, eat with us." But the lords said: "There is no use for meat or drink. Let us plant our acorns." Loveleaves and Woodwender sat down, and ate that cake in great sorrow. When they had finished, both went to a stream that ran close by, and began to drink the clear water with a large acorn shell. And as they drank there came through the oaks a gay young hunter, his mantle was green as the grass; about his neck there hung a crystal bugle, and in his hand he carried a huge oaken goblet, carved with flowers and leaves, and rimmed with crystal. Up to the brim the cup was filled with milk, on which the rich cream floated. And as the hunter came near, he said: "Fair children, leave that muddy water, and come and drink with me." But Woodwender and Loveleaves answered: "Thanks, good hunter, but we have promised to drink nothing but running water." Still the hunter came nearer with his goblet, saying: "The water is dirty; it may do for swineherds and woodcutters, but not for such fair children as you. Tell me, are you not the children of mighty kings? Were you not brought up in palaces?" But the boy and girl answered him: "No: we were brought up in castles, and are the children of yonder lords. Tell us how the spell that is upon them may be broken." At once the hunter turned from them with an angry look, poured out the milk upon the ground, and went away with his empty goblet. Loveleaves and Woodwender were sorry to see the rich cream spilled, but they remembered the warning of Lady Greensleeves; and seeing they could do no better, each got a withered branch and began to help the lords, scratching up the ground with the sharp end, and planting acorns. But their fathers took no notice of them, nor of all that they could say. When the sun grew warm at noon, they went again to drink at the running stream. Then through the oaks came another hunter, older than the first, and clothed in yellow. About his neck there hung a silver bugle, and in his hand he carried an oaken goblet, carved with leaves and fruit, rimmed with silver, and filled with mead to the brim. This hunter also asked them to drink, told them the stream was full of frogs, and asked them if they were not a young prince and princess dwelling in the woods for their pleasure. But when Woodwender and Loveleaves answered as before: "We have promised to drink only running water, and are the children of yonder lords; tell us how the spell may be broken," he turned from them with an angry look, poured out the mead, and went his way. All that afternoon the children worked beside their fathers, planting acorns with the withered branches. But the lords would mind neither them nor their words. And when the evening drew near they were very hungry. So the children divided their last cake; and since they could not make the lords eat with them, they went to the banks of the stream, and began to eat and drink, though their hearts were very heavy. The sun was getting low, and the ravens were coming home to their nests in the high trees. But one, that seemed old and weary, alighted near them to drink at the stream. As they ate, the raven lingered, and picked up the small crumbs that fell. "Brother," said Loveleaves, "this raven is surely hungry. Let us give it a little bit, though it is our last cake." Woodwender agreed, and each gave a bit to the raven. But its great bill finished the morsels in a moment, and hopping nearer, it looked them in the face by turns. "The poor raven is still hungry," said Woodwender, and he gave it another bit. When that was gobbled, it came to Loveleaves, who gave it a bit too, and so on till the raven had eaten the whole of their last cake. "Well," said Woodwender, "at least we can have a drink." But as they stooped to the water, there came through the oaks another hunter, older than the last, and clothed in scarlet. About his neck there hung a golden bugle, and in his hand he carried a huge oaken goblet, carved with ears of corn and clusters of grapes, rimmed with gold, and filled to the brim with wine. He also said: "Leave this muddy water, and drink with me. It is full of toads, and not fit for such fair children. Surely you are from fairyland, and were brought up in its queen's palace!" But the children said: "We will drink nothing but this water, and yonder lords are our fathers. Tell us how the spell may be broken." And the hunter turned from them with an angry look, poured out the wine on the grass, and went his way. When he was gone, the old raven looked up into their faces, and said: "I have eaten your last cake, and I will tell you how the spell may be broken. Yonder is the sun, going down behind the western trees. Before it sets, go to the lords, and tell them how their stewards used you, and made you herd hogs for Hardhold and Drypenny. When you see them listening, catch up their wooden spades, and keep them if you can till the sun goes down." Woodwender and Loveleaves thanked the raven, and where it flew they never stopped to see, but running to the lords began to tell as they were bidden. At first the lords would not listen; but as the children told how they had been made to sleep on straw, how they had been sent to herd hogs in the wild pasture, and what trouble they had with the unruly swine, the acorn planting grew slower, and at last the lords dropped their spades. Then Woodwender, catching up his father's spade, ran to the stream and threw it in. Loveleaves did the same for the Lord of the White Castle. That moment the sun went down behind the western oaks, and the lords stood up, looking, like men just awakened, on the forest, on the sky, and on their children. So this strange story has ended, for Woodwender and Loveleaves went home rejoicing with their fathers. Each lord returned to his castle, and all their people were merry. The fine toys and the silk clothes, the flower gardens and the best rooms, were taken from Hardhold and Drypenny, and the lords' children got them again. And the wicked stewards, with their cross boy and girl, were sent to herd swine, and live in huts in the wild pasture, which everybody said became them better. The Lord of the White Castle never again wished to see the old woman that wove her own hair, and the Lord of the Grey Castle continued to be his friend. As for Woodwender and Loveleaves, they met with no more misfortunes, but grew up, and were married, and got the two castles and broad lands of their fathers. Nor did they forget the lonely Lady Greensleeves, for it was known in the east country that she and her dwarf Corner always came to feast with them in the Christmas time, and at midsummer they always went to live with her in the great oak in the forest. CHAPTER IV CHILDE CHARITY Another evening King Winwealth fell into low spirits, and sent down a message for Snowflower to come to the highest hall. So the little girl went up with her grandmother's chair, upon which she laid down her head, saying: "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story." The clear voice from under the cushion said: "Listen to the story of Childe Charity." Once upon a time, there lived in the west country a little girl who had neither father nor mother. They both died when she was very young, and left their daughter to the care of her uncle, who was the richest farmer in all that country. He had houses and lands, flocks and herds, many servants to work about his house and fields, a wife who had brought him a great dowry, and two fair daughters. All their neighbours, being poor, looked up to the family--insomuch that they thought themselves great people. The father and mother were as proud as peacocks. The daughters thought themselves the greatest beauties in the world, and not one of the family would speak civilly to anybody they thought low. Now it happened that though she was their near relation, they had this opinion of the orphan girl, partly because she had no fortune, and partly because of her humble, kindly nature. It was said that the more needy any creature was, the more ready was she to befriend it. So the people of the west country called her Childe Charity, and if she had any other name, I never heard it. Childe Charity was thought very mean in that proud house. Her uncle would not own her for his niece. Her cousins would not keep her company. Her aunt sent her to work in the dairy, and to sleep in the back garret, where they kept all sorts of lumber and dry herbs for the winter. All the servants learned the same lesson, and Childe Charity had more work than rest among them. All the day she scoured pails, scrubbed dishes, and washed crockery ware. But every night she slept in the back garret as sound as a princess could in her palace. Her uncle's house was large and white, and stood among green meadows by a river's side. In front it had a porch covered with a vine; behind, it had a farmyard and high granaries. Within were two parlours for the rich, and two kitchens for the poor, which the neighbours thought very grand; and one day in the harvest season, when this rich farmer's corn had been all cut down and housed, he invited them to a harvest supper. The west-country people came in their holiday clothes. Such heaps of cakes and cheese, such baskets of apples and barrels of ale had never been at a feast before. They were making merry in kitchen and parlour, when a poor old woman came to the back door, begging for scraps of food and a night's lodging. Her clothes were coarse and ragged; her hair was scanty and grey; her back was bent; her teeth were gone. She had a squinting eye, a clubbed foot, and crooked fingers. In short, she was the poorest and ugliest old woman that ever came begging. The first who saw her was the kitchen maid, and she ordered her to be gone for an ugly witch. The next was the herd-boy, and he threw her a bone. But Childe Charity, hearing the noise, came out from her seat at the foot of the lowest table, and asked the old woman to take her share of the supper, and sleep that night in her bed in the back garret. The old woman sat down without a word of thanks. All the people laughed at Childe Charity for giving her bed and her supper to a beggar. Her proud cousins said it was just like her mean spirit, but Childe Charity did not mind them. She scraped the pots for her supper that night, and slept on a sack among the lumber, while the old woman rested in her warm bed. And next morning, before the little girl awoke, she was up and gone, without so much as saying thank you, or good morning. That day all the servants were sick after the feast, and mostly cross too--so you may judge how civil they were; when, at supper time, who should come to the back door but the old woman, again asking for broken scraps of food and a night's lodging. No one would listen to her or give her a morsel, till Childe Charity rose from her seat at the foot of the lowest table, and kindly asked her to take her supper, and sleep in her bed in the back garret. Again the old woman sat down without a word. Childe Charity scraped the pots for her supper, and slept on the sack. In the morning the old woman was gone; but for six nights after, as sure as the supper was spread, there was she at the back door, and the little girl always asked her in. Childe Charity's aunt said she would let her get enough of beggars. Her cousins made game of what they called her genteel visitor. Sometimes the old woman said: "Child, why don't you make this bed softer? and why are your blankets so thin?" but she never gave her a word of thanks, nor a civil good morning. [Illustration: THERE CAME IN A COMPANY OF LITTLE LADIES _See page 84_] At last, on the ninth night from her first coming, when Childe Charity was getting used to scrape the pots and sleep on the sack, her knock came to the door, and there she stood with an ugly ashy-coloured dog, so stupid-looking and clumsy that no herd-boy would keep him. "Good evening, my little girl!" she said, when Childe Charity opened the door. "I will not have your supper and bed to-night. I am going on a long journey to see a friend. But here is a dog of mine, whom nobody in all the west country will keep for me. He is a little cross, and not very handsome; but I leave him to your care till the shortest day in all the year. Then you and I will count for his keeping." When the old woman had said the last word, she set off with such speed that Childe Charity lost sight of her in a minute. The ugly dog began to fawn upon her, but he snarled at everybody else. The servants said he was a disgrace to the house. The cousins wanted him drowned, and it was with great trouble that Childe Charity got leave to keep him in an old ruined cow-house. Ugly and cross as the dog was, he fawned on her, and the old woman had left him to her care. So the little girl gave him part of all her meals; and when the hard frost came, took him to her own back garret, because the cow-house was damp and cold in the long nights. The dog lay quietly on some straw in a corner. Childe Charity slept soundly, but every morning the servants would say to her: "What great light and fine talking was that in your back garret?" "There was no light but the moon shining in through the shutterless window, and no talk that I heard," said Childe Charity; and she thought they must have been dreaming. But night after night, when any of them awoke in the dark and silent hour that comes before the morning, they saw a light brighter and clearer than the Christmas fire, and heard voices like those of lords and ladies in the back garret. Partly from fear, and partly from laziness, none of the servants would rise to see what might be there; till at length, when the winter nights were at the longest, the little parlour maid, who did least work and got most favour, because she gathered news for her mistress, crept out of bed when all the rest were sleeping, and set herself to watch at a small hole in the door. She saw the dog lying quietly in the corner, Childe Charity sleeping soundly in her bed, and the moon shining through the shutterless window. But an hour before daybreak there came a glare of lights, and a sound of far-off bugles. The window opened, and in marched a troop of little men clothed in crimson and gold, and bearing every man a torch, till the room looked bright as day. They marched up with great respect to the dog, where he lay on the straw, and the most richly clothed among them said: "Royal Prince, we have prepared the banquet hall. What will your Highness please that we do next?" "You have done well," said the dog. "Now prepare the feast, and see that all things are in the best order; for the Princess and I mean to bring a stranger who never feasted in our halls before." "Your Highness's commands shall be obeyed," said the little man, making another bow; and he and his company passed out of the window. By and by there was another glare of lights, and a sound like far-off flutes. The window opened, and there came in a company of little ladies clad in velvet, and carrying each a crystal lamp. They also walked up to the dog, and the gayest one said: "Royal Prince, we have prepared the carpets and curtains. What will your Highness please that we do next?" "You have done well," said the dog. "Now prepare the robes, and let all things be of the best; for the Princess and I will bring with us a stranger who never feasted in our halls before." "Your Highness's commands shall be obeyed," said the little lady, making a low curtsy; and she and her company passed out through the window, which closed quietly behind them. The dog stretched himself out upon the straw, the little girl turned in her sleep, and the moon shone in on the back garret. The parlour maid was so much amazed, and so eager to tell this story to her mistress, that she could not close her eyes that night, and was up before cock-crow. But when she told it, her mistress called her a silly wench to have such foolish dreams, and scolded her so that she did not dare to speak about what she had seen to the servants. Nevertheless Childe Charity's aunt thought there might be something in it worth knowing. So next night, when all the house were asleep, she crept out of bed, and set herself to watch at the back garret door. There she saw just what the maid told her--the little men with the torches, and the little ladies with the crystal lamps, come in to the dog, and the same words pass, only he said to the one, "Now prepare the presents," and to the other, "Prepare the jewels." When they were gone, the dog stretched himself on the straw, Childe Charity turned in her sleep, and the moon shone in on the back garret. The mistress could not close her eyes any more than the maid, so eager was she to tell the story. She woke up Childe Charity's rich uncle before cock-crow. But when he heard it, he laughed at her for a foolish woman, and advised her not to repeat the like before her neighbours, lest they should think she had lost her senses. The mistress could say no more, and the day passed. But that night the master thought he would like to see what went on in the garret. So when all the house were asleep he slipped out of bed, and set himself to watch at the hole in the door. The same thing happened again that the maid and the mistress saw. The little men in crimson with their torches, and the little ladies in rose-coloured velvet with their lamps, came in at the window and bowed low to the dog, the one saying, "Royal Prince, we have prepared the presents," and the other, "Royal Prince, we have prepared the jewels." The dog said to them all: "You have done well. To-morrow, come and meet me and the Princess with horses and chariots, and let all things be done in the best way. For we will bring a stranger from this house who has never travelled with us, nor feasted in our halls before." The little men and the little ladies said: "Your Highness's commands shall be obeyed." When they had gone out through the window, the ugly dog stretched himself out on the straw, Childe Charity turned in her sleep, and the moon shone in on the back garret. The master could not close his eyes any more than the maid or the mistress. He remembered to have heard his grandfather say, that somewhere near his meadows there lay a path leading to the fairies' country, and the haymakers used to see it shining through the grey summer morning, as the fairy bands went home. Nobody had heard or seen the like for many years; but the master thought that the doings in his back garret must be a fairy business, and the ugly dog a person of great account. His chief wonder was, however, what visitor the fairies intended to take from his house; and after thinking the matter over, he was sure it must be one of his daughters--they were so handsome, and had such fine clothes. So Childe Charity's rich uncle made it his first business that morning to get ready a breakfast of roast mutton for the ugly dog, and carry it to him in the cow-house. But not a morsel would the dog taste. "The fairies have strange ways," said the master to himself. But he called his daughters and bade them dress themselves in their best, for he could not say which of them might be called into great company before nightfall. Childe Charity's cousins, hearing this, put on the richest of their silks and laces, and strutted like peacocks from kitchen to parlour all day. They were in very bad humour when night fell, and nobody had come. But just as the family were sitting down to supper the ugly dog began to bark, and the old woman's knock was heard at the back door. Childe Charity opened it, and was going to offer her bed and supper as usual, when the old woman said: "This is the shortest day in all the year, and I am going home to hold a feast after my travels. I see you have taken good care of my dog, and now if you will come with me to my house, he and I will do our best to entertain you. Here is our company." As the old woman spoke there was a sound of far-off flutes and bugles, then a glare of lights. And a great company, clad so grandly that they shone with gold and jewels, came in open chariots, covered with gilding and drawn by snow-white horses. The first and finest of the chariots was empty. The old woman led Childe Charity to it by the hand, and the ugly dog jumped in before her. The proud cousins, in all their finery, had by this time come to the door, but nobody wanted them. No sooner was the old woman and her dog within the chariot than a wonderful change passed over them, for the ugly old woman turned at once to a beautiful young princess, with long yellow curls and a robe of green and gold; while the ugly dog at her side started up a fair young prince, with nut-brown hair and a robe of purple and silver. "We are," said they, as the chariots drove on, "a prince and princess of Fairyland, and there was a wager between us whether or not there were good people still to be found in these false and greedy times. One said 'Yes', and the other said 'No'." "And I have lost," said the Prince, "and must pay the feast and presents." Childe Charity never heard any more of that story. Some of the farmer's household, who were looking after them, said the chariots had gone one way across the meadows, some said they had gone another, and till this day they cannot agree upon the way they went. But Childe Charity went with that noble company into a country such as she had never seen--for primroses covered all the ground, and the light was always like that of a summer evening. They took her to a royal palace, where there was nothing but feasting and dancing for seven days. She had robes of pale green and velvet to wear, and slept in a room inlaid with ivory. When the feast was done, the Prince and Princess gave her such heaps of gold and jewels that she could not carry them; but they gave her a chariot to go home in, drawn by six white horses. On the seventh night, which happened to be Christmas time, when the farmer's family had settled in their own minds that she would never come back, and were sitting down to supper, they heard the sound of her coachman's bugle, and saw her alight with all the jewels and gold at the very back door where she had brought in the ugly old woman. The fairy chariot drove away, and never again came back to that farmhouse after. But Childe Charity scoured and scrubbed no more, for she grew a great lady, even in the eyes of her proud cousins. CHAPTER V SOUR AND CIVIL Once again King Winwealth wished to hear a story told by the wonderful chair, and orders were given for Snowflower to bring it to the King's hall. She again brought the chair and laid her head on the cushion, saying: "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story." The voice from under the cushion at once said: "Listen to the story of Sour and Civil." Once upon a time there stood upon the seacoast of the west country a small village of low cottages, where no one lived but fishermen. All round it was a broad beach of snow-white sand, where nothing was to be seen but gulls and other seabirds, and long tangled seaweeds cast up by the tide that came and went night and day, summer and winter. There was no harbour or port on all that shore. Ships passed by at a distance, with their white sails set, and on the land side there lay wide grassy downs, where peasants lived and shepherds fed their flocks. There families never wanted for plenty of herrings and mackerel; and what they had to spare the landsmen bought from them at the village markets on the downs, giving them in exchange butter, cheese, and corn. The two best fishermen in that village were the sons of two old widows, who had no other children, and happened to be near neighbours. Their family names were short, for they called the one Sour and the other Civil. They were not related to one another so far as I ever heard. But they had only one boat, and always fished together, though their names expressed the difference of their natures--for Civil never used a hard word where a soft one would do, and when Sour was not snarling at somebody, he was sure to be grumbling at everything. Nevertheless they agreed very well, and were lucky fishers. Both were strong, active, and of good courage. On winter's night or summer's morning they would steer out to sea far beyond the boats of their neighbours, and never came home without some fish to cook and some to spare. Their mothers were proud of them, each in her own way--for the saying held good, "Like mother, like son". Dame Civil thought the whole world didn't hold a better than her son; and her boy was the only creature at whom Dame Sour didn't scold and frown. The village was divided in opinion about the young fishermen. Some thought Civil the better; some said, without Sour he would catch nothing. So things went on, till one day about the fall of winter, when mists were gathering darkly on sea and sky, and the air was chill and frosty, all the boat-men of the hamlet went out to fish, and so did Sour and Civil. That day they had not their usual luck. Cast their nets where they would, not a single fish came in. Their neighbours caught boatfuls, and went home, Sour said, laughing at them. But when the sea was growing crimson with the sunset, their nets were empty, and they were tired. Civil himself did not like to go home without fish--it would hurt the high opinion formed of them in the village. Besides, the sea was calm and the evening fair, and, as a last attempt, they steered still farther out, and cast their nets beside a rock which rose rough and grey above the water, and was called the Merman's Seat--from an old report that the fishermen's fathers had seen the mermen, or sea-people, sitting there on moonlight nights. Nobody believed that rumour now, but the villagers did not like to fish there. The water was said to be very deep, and sudden squalls were apt to trouble it. But Sour and Civil were right glad to see by the moving of their lines that there was something in their net, and gladder still when they found it so heavy that all their strength was required to draw it up. Scarcely had they landed it on the Merman's Seat, when their joy was changed to sorrow, for besides a few starved mackerel, the net held nothing but a huge ugly fish as long as Civil (who was taller than Sour), with a large snout, a long beard, and a skin covered with prickles. "Such a horrid ugly creature!" said Sour, as they shook it out of the net on the rough rock, and gathered up the mackerel. "We needn't fish here any more. How they will mock us in the village for staying out so late, and bringing home so little!" "Let us try again," said Civil, as he set his creel of mackerel in the boat. "Not another cast will I make to-night;" and what more Sour would have said, was cut short by the great fish, for, looking round at them, it spoke out: "I suppose you don't think me worth taking home in your dirty boat; but I can tell you that if you were down in my country, neither of you would be thought fit to keep me company." Sour and Civil were very much surprised to hear the fish speak. The first could not think of a cross word to say, but Civil made answer in his usual way. "Indeed, my lord, we beg your pardon, but our boat is too light to carry such a fish as you." "You do well to call me lord," said the fish, "for so I am, though it was hard to expect you could have known how great I was in this dress. However, help me off the rock, for I must go home; and for your civil way of speaking I will give you my daughter in marriage, if you will come and see me this day twelvemonth." Civil helped the great fish off the rock with as great respect as his fear would allow him. Sour was so frightened at the whole business, that he said not a word till they got safe home. But from that day forward, when he wanted to put Civil down, it was his custom to tell him and his mother that he would get no wife but the ugly fish's daughter. Old Dame Sour heard this story from her son, and told it over the whole village. Some people wondered, but the most part laughed at it as a good joke; and Civil and his mother were never known to be angry but on that day. Dame Civil advised her son never to fish with Sour again; and Civil got an old skiff which one of the fishermen was going to break up for firewood, and cobbled it up for himself. In that skiff he went to sea all the winter, and all the summer. But though Civil was brave and skilful, he could catch little, because his boat was bad--and everybody but his mother began to think him of no value. Sour having the good boat, got a new comrade, and had the praise of being the best fisherman. Poor Civil's heart was getting low as the summer wore away. The fish had grown scarce on that coast, and the fishermen had to steer farther out to sea. One evening when he had toiled all day and caught nothing, Civil thought he would go farther too, and try his fortune beside the Merman's rock. The sea was calm and the evening fair. Civil did not remember that it was the very day on which his troubles began by the great fish talking to him twelve months before. As he neared the rock the sun was setting, and much surprised was the fisherman to see upon it three fair ladies, with sea-green gowns and strings of great pearls wound round their long fair hair. Two of them were waving their hands to him. They were the tallest and most stately ladies he had ever seen. But Civil could perceive as he came nearer that there was no colour in their cheeks, that their hair had a strange bluish shade, like that of deep sea-water, and there was a fiery look in their eyes that frightened him. The third, who was not so tall, did not notice him at all, but kept her eyes fixed on the setting sun. Though her look was full of sadness, Civil could see that there was a faint rosy bloom on her cheek, that her hair was a golden yellow, and her eyes were mild and clear like those of his mother. "Welcome! welcome! noble fisherman!" cried the two ladies. "Our father has sent us for you to visit him." With one bound they leaped into his boat, bringing with them the smaller lady, who said: "Oh! bright sun and brave sky that I see so seldom!" But Civil heard no more, for his boat went down miles deep in the sea, and he thought himself drowning. But one lady had caught him by the right arm, and the other by the left, and pulled him into the mouth of a rocky cave, still down and down, as if on a steep hillside. The cave was very long, but it grew wider as they came to the bottom. Then Civil saw a faint light, and walked out with his fair company into the country of the sea-people. In that land there grew neither grass nor flowers, bushes nor trees, but the ground was covered with bright-coloured shells and pebbles. There were hills of marble, and rocks of spar. Over all was a cold blue sky with no sun, but a light clear and silvery as that of the harvest moon. The fisherman could see no smoking chimneys, but there were caves in the rocks of spar, and halls in the marble hills, where lived the sea-people--with whom, as old stories say, fishermen and sailors used to meet on lonely capes and headlands in the simple times of the world. Forth they came from all parts to see the stranger. Mermen with long white beards, and mermaids such as walk with the fishermen, all clad in sea-green and decked with strings of pearls; but every one with the same colourless face, and the same wild light in their eyes. The mermaids led Civil up one of the marble hills to a great cavern with halls and rooms like a palace. Their floors were of white marble, their walls of red granite, and the roofs inlaid with coral. Thousands of crystal lamps lit the palace. There were seats and tables hewn out of shining spar, and a great company sat feasting. But what most amazed Civil was the number of cups, flagons, and goblets, made of gold and silver, of such different shapes and patterns that they seemed to have been gathered from all the countries in the world. In the chief hall there sat a merman on a stately chair, with more jewels than all the rest about him. Before him the mermaids brought Civil, saying: "Father, here is our guest." "Welcome, noble fisherman!" cried the merman, in a voice which Civil remembered with terror, for it was that of the great ugly fish; "welcome to our halls! Sit down and feast with us, and then choose which of my daughters you will have for a bride." Civil had never felt himself so greatly frightened in all his life. How was he to get home to his mother? and what would the old dame think when the dark night came without bringing him home? There was no use in talking--Civil had wisdom enough to see that. He therefore tried to take things quietly; and, having thanked the merman for so kindly inviting him, he took the seat set apart for him on his right hand. Civil was hungry with the long day at sea, but there was no want of fare on that table; meats and wines, such as he had never tasted, were set before him in the richest of golden dishes, but, hungry as he was, the fisherman felt that everything there had the taste and smell of the sea. If the fisherman had been the lord of lands and castles he would not have been treated with more respect. The two mermaids sat by him--one filled his plate, another filled his goblet; but the third only looked at him in a hidden, warning way when nobody saw her. Civil soon finished his share of the feast, and then the merman showed him all the fine things of his cavern. The halls were full of company, some feasting, some dancing, and some playing all kinds of games, and in every hall there was a large number of gold and silver vessels. But Civil was most surprised when the merman brought him to a marble room full of heaps of precious stones. There were diamonds there whose value the fisherman knew not--pearls larger than ever a diver had gathered--emeralds and rubies, that would have made the jewellers of the world wonder. The merman then said: "This is my eldest daughter's dowry." "Good luck attend her!" said Civil. "It is the dowry of a queen." But the merman led him on to another room. It was filled with heaps of gold coin, which seemed gathered from all times and nations. The images of all the kings that ever reigned were there. The merman said: "This is my second daughter's dowry." "Good luck attend her!" said Civil. "It is a dowry for a princess." "So you may say," replied the merman. "But make up your mind which of the maidens you will marry, for the third has no portion at all, because she is not my daughter; but only, as you may see, a poor silly girl taken into my family for charity." "Truly, my lord," said Civil, whose mind was already made up, "both your daughters are too rich and far too noble for me; therefore I choose the third. Since she is poor she will best do for a poor fisherman." "If you choose her," said the merman, "you must wait long for a wedding. I cannot allow a girl of lower estate to be married before my own daughters." And he said a great deal more to persuade him. But Civil would not change his mind, and they returned to the hall. There was no more attention for the fisherman, but everybody watched him well. Turn where he would, master or guest had their eyes upon him, though he made them the best speeches he could remember, and praised all their splendid things. One thing, however, was strange--there was no end to the fun and feasting. Nobody seemed tired, and nobody thought of sleep. When Civil's very eyes closed with weariness, and he slept on one of the marble benches--no matter how many hours--there were the company feasting and dancing away; there were the thousand lamps within, and the cold moonlight without. Civil wished himself back with his mother, his net, and his cobbled skiff. Fishing would have been easier than those everlasting feasts; but there was nothing else among the sea-people--no night of rest, no working day. Civil knew not how time went on, till, waking up from a long sleep, he saw, for the first time, that the feast was over, and the company gone. The lamps still burned, and the tables, with all their riches, stood in the empty halls; but there was no face to be seen, no sound to be heard, only a low voice singing beside the outer door. And there, sitting all alone, he found the mild-eyed maiden. "Fair lady," said Civil, "tell me what means this quietness, and where are all the merry company?" "You are a man of the land," said the lady, "and know not the sea-people. They never sleep but once a year, and that is at Christmas time. Then they go into the deep caverns, where there is always darkness, and sleep till the new year comes." "It is a strange habit," said Civil; "but all folks have their way. Fair lady, as you and I are to be good friends, tell me, whence come all the wines and meats, and gold and silver vessels, seeing there are neither cornfields nor flocks here, nor any workmen?" "The sea-people are heirs of the sea," replied the maiden; "to them come all the stores and riches that are lost in it. I know not the ways by which they come; but the lord of these halls keeps the keys of seven gates, where they go out and in. But one of the gates, which has not been open for thrice seven years, leads to a path under the sea, by which, I heard the merman say in his cups, one might reach the land. "Good fisherman," she went on, "if by chance you gain his favour, and ever open that gate, let me bear you company; for I was born where the sun shines and the grass grows, though my country and my parents are unknown to me. All I remember is sailing in a great ship, when a storm arose, and it was wrecked, and not one soul escaped drowning but me. I was then a little child, and a brave sailor had bound me to a floating plank before he was washed away. Here the sea-people came round me like great fishes, and I went down with them to this rich and weary country. Sometimes, as a great favour, they take me up with them to see the sun; but that is seldom, for they never like to part with one who has seen their country; and, fisherman, if you ever leave them, remember to take nothing with you that belongs to them, for if it were but a shell or a pebble, that will give them power over you and yours." "Thanks for your news, fair lady," said Civil. "A lord's daughter, doubtless, you must have been, while I am but a poor fisherman. Yet, as we have fallen into the same misfortune, let us be friends, and it may be we shall find means to get back to the sunshine together." "You are a man of good manners," said the lady, "therefore I shall gladly be your friend; but my fear is that we shall never see the sunshine again." "Fair speeches brought me here," said Civil, "and fair speeches may help me back, but be sure I will not go without you." This promise cheered the lady's heart, and she and Civil spent that Christmas time seeing the wonders of the sea country. They wandered through caves like that of the great merman. The feast that had been left was spread in every hall; the tables were covered with the most costly vessels; and heaps of jewels lay on the floors of unlocked rooms. But for the lady's warning, Civil would have liked to put away some of them for his mother. The poor woman was sad of heart by this time, believing her son to be drowned. On the first night when he did not come home, she had gone to the sea and watched till morning. Then the fishermen steered out again, and Sour having found the skiff floating about, brought it home, saying the foolish young man was no doubt lost; but what better could be expected when he had no discreet person to take care of him? This vexed Dame Civil sore. She never expected to see her son again; but, feeling lonely in her cottage at the evening hour when he used to come home, the good woman got into the habit of going down at sunset and sitting beside the sea. That winter happened to be mild on the coast of the west country, and one evening when the Christmas time was near, and the rest of the village preparing to make merry, Dame Civil sat, as usual, on the sands. The tide was ebbing and the sun going down, when from the eastward came a lady clad in black, mounted on a black horse, and followed by a squire in the same sad clothing. As the lady came near, she said: "Woe is me for my daughter, and for all that I have lost by the sea!" "You say well, noble lady," said Dame Civil. "Woe is me also for my son, for I have none beside him." When the lady heard that, she alighted from her horse, and sat down by the fisherman's mother, saying: "Listen to my story. I was the widow of a great lord in the heart of the east country. He left me a fair castle, and an only daughter, who was the joy of my heart. Her name was Faith Feignless. But, while she was yet a child, a great fortune-teller told me that my daughter would marry a fisherman. I thought this would be a great disgrace to my noble family, and therefore sent my daughter with her nurse in a good ship, bound for a far-away city where my relations live, intending to follow myself as soon as I could get my lands and castles sold. "But the ship was wrecked," the lady went on, "and my daughter drowned; and I have wandered over the world with my good Squire Trusty, mourning on every shore with those who have lost friends by the sea. Some with whom I have mourned grew to forget their sorrow, and would lament with me no more. Others being sour and selfish, mocked me, saying, my grief was nothing to them. But you have good manners, and I will remain with you, however humble be your dwelling. My squire carries gold enough to pay for all I need." So the mourning lady and her good Squire Trusty went home with Dame Civil, and she was no longer lonely in her sorrow, for when the dame said: "Oh! if my son were alive, I should never let him go to sea in a cobbled skiff!" the lady answered: "Oh! if my daughter were but living, I should never think it a disgrace though she married a fisherman!" The Christmas passed as it always does in the west country--shepherds made merry on the downs, and fishermen on the shore. But when the merrymakings and ringing of bells were over in all the land, the sea-people woke up to their feasts and dances. Like one who had forgotten all that was past, the merman again showed Civil the room of gold and the room of jewels, advising him to choose between his two daughters. But the fisherman still answered that the ladies were too noble, and far too rich for him. Yet as he looked at the glittering heap, Civil could not help remembering the poor people of the west country, and the thought slipped out, "How happy my old neighbours would be to find themselves here!" "Say you so?" said the merman, who always wanted visitors. "Yes," said Civil, "I have neighbours up yonder in the west country, whom it would be hard to send home again if they got sight of half this wealth." And the honest fisherman thought of Dame Sour and her son. The merman was greatly pleased with these speeches--he thought there was a chance of getting many land-people down, and by and by said to Civil, "Suppose you took up a few jewels, and went up to tell your poor neighbours how welcome we might make them?" The hope of getting back to his country made Civil's heart glad, but he had promised not to go without the lady, and therefore answered prudently what was indeed true. "Many thanks, my lord," he said, "for choosing such a humble man as I am to carry your message. But the people of the west country never believe anything without two witnesses at the least. Yet if the poor maid whom I have chosen could be allowed to go with me, I think they would believe us both." The merman said nothing in reply; but his people, who had heard Civil's speech, talked it over among themselves till they grew sure that the whole west country would come down, if they only had news of the riches, and asked their lord to send up Civil and the poor maid in order to let them know. As it seemed for the public good, the great merman agreed. But, having made up his mind to have them back, he gathered out of his rich rooms some of the largest pearls and diamonds, and said: "Take these as a present from me, to let the west-country people see what I can do for my visitors." Civil and the lady took the presents, saying: "Oh, my lord, you are too kind. We want nothing but the pleasure of telling of your wonderful riches up yonder." "Tell everybody to come down, and they will get the like," said the merman; "and follow my eldest daughter, for she carries the key of the land gate." Civil and the lady followed the mermaid through a winding gallery, which led from the chief hall far into the marble hill. All was dark, and they had neither lamp nor torch, but at the end of the gallery they came to a great stone gate, which creaked like thunder on its hinges. Beyond that there was a narrow cave, sloping up and up like a steep hillside. Civil and the lady thought they would never reach the top. But at last they saw a gleam of daylight, then a strip of blue sky, and the mermaid bade them stoop and creep through what seemed a narrow crack in the ground, and both stood on the broad seabeach as the day was breaking and the tide ebbing fast away. "Good times to you among your west-country people," said the mermaid. "Tell any of them that would like to come down to visit us, that they must come here midway between the high and low watermark, when the tide is going out at morning or evening. Call thrice on the sea-people, and we will show them the way." Before they could make answer, she had sunk down from their sight, and there was no track or passage there, but all was covered by the loose sand and seashells. "Now," said the lady to Civil, "we have seen the heavens once more, and we will not go back. Cast in the merman's present quickly before the sun rises." Taking the bag of pearls and diamonds, she flung it as far as she could into the sea. Civil never was so unwilling to part with anything as that bag, but he thought it better to do as the lady had done, and tossed his into the sea also. They thought they heard a long moan come up from the waters; but Civil saw his mother's chimney beginning to smoke, and with the fair lady in her sea-green gown he hastened to the good dame's cottage. The whole village were awakened that morning with cries of "Welcome back, my son!" "Welcome back, my daughter!" for the mournful lady knew it was her lost daughter, Faith Feignless, whom the fisherman had brought back, and all the neighbours gathered together to hear their story. When it was told, everybody praised Civil for the prudence he had shown, except Sour and his mother. They did nothing but rail upon him for losing such great chances of making himself and the whole country rich. At last, when they heard over and over again of the merman's riches, neither mother nor son would stay any longer in the west country; and as nobody persuaded them, and they would not do what Civil told them, Sour got out his boat and steered away with his mother toward the Merman's rock. From that voyage they never came back to the hamlet. Some say they went down and lived among the sea-people. Others say--I know not how they learned it--that Sour and his mother grumbled and growled so much that even the sea-people grew weary of them, and turned them and their boat out on the open sea. What part of the world they chose to land on nobody is sure of. By all accounts they have been seen everywhere, and I should not be surprised if they were in this good company. As for Civil he married Faith Feignless, and became a great lord. CHAPTER VI PRINCE WISEWIT'S RETURN King Winwealth was so pleased with the stories told by the wonderful chair that he gave Snowflower many presents, among which was a golden girdle, and promised that she should no longer go into low company, but feast with him and his nobles in the chief hall, and sleep in one of the best rooms of the palace. Snowflower was delighted at the promise of feasting with those noble lords and ladies, whose wonderful stories she had heard from the chair. She bowed very low, and thanked King Winwealth from the bottom of her heart. All the company were glad to make room for her, and when her golden girdle was put on, little Snowflower looked as fine as the best of them. "Mamma," whispered the Princess Greedalind, while she looked ready to cry for spite, "only see that low little girl who came here in a coarse frock and barefooted, what finery and favour she has gained by her story-telling chair! All the Court are praising her and overlooking me, though the feast was made in honour of my birthday. Mamma, I must have that chair from her. What business has a common little girl with anything so amusing?" "So you shall, my daughter," said Queen Wantall--for by this time she saw that King Winwealth had, according to custom, fallen asleep on his throne. So calling two of her pages, Screw and Hardhands, she ordered them to bring the chair from the other end of the hall where Snowflower sat, and at once made it a present to Princess Greedalind. Nobody in that Court ever thought of disputing Queen Wantall's commands, and poor Snowflower sat down in a corner to cry. While Princess Greedalind, putting on what she thought a very grand air, laid down her head on the cushion, saying: "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story." "Where did you get a grandmother?" cried the clear voice from under the cushion. And up went the chair with such force as to throw Princess Greedalind off on the floor, where she lay screaming, a good deal more angry than hurt. All those at Court tried in vain to comfort her. But Queen Wantall, whose temper was still worse, vowed that she would punish the impudent thing, and sent for Sturdy, her chief woodman, to chop it up with his axe. At the first stroke the cushion was cut open, and to the surprise of everybody a bird, whose snow-white feathers were tipped with purple, darted out, and flew away through an open window. "Catch it! catch it!" cried the Queen and the Princess; and all but King Winwealth, who still slept on his throne, rushed out after the bird. It flew over the palace garden and into a wild common, where houses had been before Queen Wantall pulled them down to search for a gold mine, which Her Majesty never found, though three deep pits were dug to come at it. To make the place look smart at the feast time, these pits had been covered over with loose branches and turf. All the rest of the company remembered this but Queen Wantall and Princess Greedalind. They were nearest to the bird, and poor Snowflower, by running hard, came close behind them, but Fairfortune, one of the King's pages, drew her back by the purple mantle, when, coming to the covered pit, branches and turf gave way, and down went the Queen and the Princess. Everybody looked for the bird, but it was nowhere to be seen. But on the common where the people saw it alight, there stood a fair and royal Prince, clad in a robe of purple and a crown of changing colours, for sometimes it seemed of gold and sometimes of forest leaves. Most of the people stood not knowing what to think, but all the fairy people and all the lords and ladies of the chair's stories, knew him, and cried: "Welcome to Prince Wisewit!" King Winwealth heard that sound where he slept, and came out glad of heart to welcome back his brother. When her own pages came out with ropes and lanterns to search for Queen Wantall and Princess Greedalind, they found them safe and well at the bottom of the pit, having fallen on a heap of loose sand. The pit was of great depth, but some daylight shone down, and whatever were the yellow grains they saw glittering among the sand, the Queen and the Princess believed it was full of gold. They called the miners false knaves, lazy rogues, and a score of bad names beside, for leaving so much wealth behind them, and utterly refused to come out of the pit; saying, that since Prince Wisewit was come, they could find no pleasure in the palace, but would stay there and dig for gold, and buy the world with it for themselves. King Winwealth thought the plan was a good one for keeping peace in his palace. He commanded shovels and picks to be lowered to the Queen and Princess. The two pages, Screw and Hardhands, went down to help them, in hopes of halving the profits; and there they stayed, digging for gold. Some of the people about the Court said they would find it. Others believed they never could, and the gold was not found when this story was written. As for Prince Wisewit, he went home with the rest of the company, leading Snowflower by the hand, and telling them all how he had been turned into a bird by the cunning fairy Fortunetta, who found him off his guard in the forest; how she had shut him up under the cushion of that curious chair, and given it to old Dame Frostyface; and how all his comfort had been in little Snowflower, to whom he told so many stories. King Winwealth was so rejoiced to find his brother again, that he commanded another feast to be held for many days. All that time the gates of the palace stood open; all-comers were welcome, all complaints heard. The houses and lands which Queen Wantall had taken away, were given back to their rightful owners. Everybody got what they wanted most. There were no more noises of strife without, nor discontents within the palace; and on the last day of the feast who should arrive but Dame Frostyface, in her grey hood and cloak. Snowflower was right glad to see her grandmother--so were the King and Prince, for they had known the Dame in their youth. They kept the feast for a few days more; and when it was ended everything was right in the kingdom. King Winwealth and Prince Wisewit reigned once more together; and because Snowflower was the best girl in all that country, they chose her to be their heiress, instead of Princess Greedalind. From that day forward she wore white velvet and satin; she had seven pages, and lived in the grandest part of the palace. Dame Frostyface, too, was made a great lady. They put a new velvet cushion on her chair, and she sat in a gown of grey cloth, edged with gold, spinning on an ivory wheel in a fine painted parlour. Prince Wisewit built a great summer-house covered with vines and roses, on the spot where her old cottage stood. He also made a highway through the forest, that all good people might come and go there at their leisure; and the cunning fairy Fortunetta, finding that her reign was over in those parts, set off on a journey round the world, and did not return in the time of this story. Good boys and girls, who may chance to read it, that time is long ago. Great wars, work, and learning have passed over the world since then, and changed all its fashions. Kings make no seven-day feasts for all-comers now. Queens and princesses, however greedy, do not mine for gold. Chairs tell no tales. Wells work no wonders; and there are no such doings on hills and forests, for the fairies dance no more. Some say it was the hum of schools--some think it was the din of factories that frightened them. But nobody has seen them for many a year, except, it is said, one Hans Christian Andersen, in Denmark, whose tales of the fairies are so good that they must have been heard from themselves. It is certain that no living man knows the later history of King Winwealth's country, nor what became of the people who lived and visited at his palace. Yet there are people who believe that the King still falls asleep on his throne and into low spirits in the evening; that Queen Wantall and Princess Greedalind have found the gold, and begun to buy; that Dame Frostyface yet spins--they cannot tell where; that Snowflower may still be seen at the new year's time in her dress of white velvet, looking out for the early spring; that Prince Wisewit has somehow fallen under a stronger spell and a thicker cushion, that he still tells stories to Snowflower and her friends, and when cushion and spell are broken by another stroke of Sturdy's hatchet--which they expect will happen some time--the Prince will make all things right again, and bring back the fairy times to the world. PRINTED AND BOUND IN GREAT BRITAIN _By Blackie & Son, Limited, Glasgow_ * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The original lacked a Table of Contents. One was created for this edition. This text often closed a quote before adding the final punctuation. An example may be found on page 7: Then Snowflower remembered her grandmother's words, and, laying her head gently down, she said: "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story". 
23661	----	[Illustration: THE BOOK OF DRAGONS] The Book of DRAGONS E. Nesbit With illustrations by H. R. Millar Decorations by H. Granville Fell DOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC. Mineola, New York Contents PAGE I. The Book of Beasts 1 II. Uncle James, or The Purple Stranger 19 III. The Deliverers of Their Country 39 IV. The Ice Dragon, or Do as You Are Told 57 V. The Island of the Nine Whirlpools 79 VI. The Dragon Tamers 99 VII. The Fiery Dragon, or The Heart of Stone and the Heart of Gold 119 VIII. Kind Little Edmund, or The Caves and the Cockatrice 139 List of Illustrations The Book of Dragons _frontispiece_ The Book of Beasts PAGE 1 "The dragon flew away across the garden." PAGE 9 "The Manticora took refuge in the General Post Office." PAGE 14 Uncle James, or The Purple Stranger PAGE 19 "By-and-by he began to wander." PAGE 30 "The dragon ran after her." PAGE 36 The Deliverers of Their Country PAGE 39 "The largest elephant in the zoo was carried off." PAGE 44 "He rose into the air, rattling like a third-class carriage." PAGE 51 The Ice Dragon, or Do as You Are Told PAGE 57 "Sure enough, it was a dragon." PAGE 69 "The dwarfs seized the children." PAGE 73 The Island of the Nine Whirlpools PAGE 79 "The lone tower on the Island of the Nine Whirlpools." PAGE 89 "Little children play around him and over him." PAGE 97 The Dragon Tamers PAGE 99 "The dragon's purring pleased the baby." PAGE 107 "He brought something in his mouth--it was a bag of gold." PAGE 117 The Fiery Dragon, or The Heart of Stone and the Heart of Gold PAGE 119 "The junior secretary cried out, 'Look at the bottle!'" PAGE 130 "They saw a cloud of steam." PAGE 136 Kind Little Edmund, or The Caves and the Cockatrice PAGE 139 "Creeping across the plain." PAGE 148 "That smells good, eh?" PAGE 153 _To Rosamund, chief among those for whom these tales are told, The Book of Dragons is dedicated in the confident hope that she, one of these days, will dedicate a book of her very own making to the one who now bids eight dreadful dragons crouch in all humbleness at those little brown feet._ The Book of DRAGONS [Illustration: THE BOOK OF BEASTS] I. The Book of Beasts He happened to be building a Palace when the news came, and he left all the bricks kicking about the floor for Nurse to clear up--but then the news was rather remarkable news. You see, there was a knock at the front door and voices talking downstairs, and Lionel thought it was the man come to see about the gas, which had not been allowed to be lighted since the day when Lionel made a swing by tying his skipping rope to the gas bracket. And then, quite suddenly, Nurse came in and said, "Master Lionel, dear, they've come to fetch you to go and be King." Then she made haste to change his smock and to wash his face and hands and brush his hair, and all the time she was doing it Lionel kept wriggling and fidgeting and saying, "Oh, don't, Nurse," and, "I'm sure my ears are quite clean," or, "Never mind my hair, it's all right," and, "That'll do." "You're going on as if you was going to be an eel instead of a King," said Nurse. The minute Nurse let go for a moment Lionel bolted off without waiting for his clean handkerchief, and in the drawing room there were two very grave-looking gentlemen in red robes with fur, and gold coronets with velvet sticking up out of the middle like the cream in the very expensive jam tarts. They bowed low to Lionel, and the gravest one said: "Sire, your great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, the King of this country, is dead, and now you have got to come and be King." "Yes, please, sir," said Lionel, "when does it begin?" "You will be crowned this afternoon," said the grave gentleman who was not quite so grave-looking as the other. "Would you like me to bring Nurse, or what time would you like me to be fetched, and hadn't I better put on my velvet suit with the lace collar?" said Lionel, who had often been out to tea. "Your Nurse will be removed to the Palace later. No, never mind about changing your suit; the Royal robes will cover all that up." The grave gentlemen led the way to a coach with eight white horses, which was drawn up in front of the house where Lionel lived. It was No. 7, on the left-hand side of the street as you go up. Lionel ran upstairs at the last minute, and he kissed Nurse and said: "Thank you for washing me. I wish I'd let you do the other ear. No--there's no time now. Give me the hanky. Good-bye, Nurse." "Good-bye, ducky," said Nurse. "Be a good little King now, and say 'please' and 'thank you,' and remember to pass the cake to the little girls, and don't have more than two helps of anything." So off went Lionel to be made a King. He had never expected to be a King any more than you have, so it was all quite new to him--so new that he had never even thought of it. And as the coach went through the town he had to bite his tongue to be quite sure it was real, because if his tongue was real it showed he wasn't dreaming. Half an hour before he had been building with bricks in the nursery; and now--the streets were all fluttering with flags; every window was crowded with people waving handkerchiefs and scattering flowers; there were scarlet soldiers everywhere along the pavements, and all the bells of all the churches were ringing like mad, and like a great song to the music of their ringing he heard thousands of people shouting, "Long live Lionel! Long live our little King!" He was a little sorry at first that he had not put on his best clothes, but he soon forgot to think about that. If he had been a girl he would very likely have bothered about it the whole time. As they went along, the grave gentlemen, who were the Chancellor and the Prime Minister, explained the things which Lionel did not understand. "I thought we were a Republic," said Lionel. "I'm sure there hasn't been a King for some time." "Sire, your great-great-great-great-great-grandfather's death happened when my grandfather was a little boy," said the Prime Minister, "and since then your loyal people have been saving up to buy you a crown--so much a week, you know, according to people's means--sixpence a week from those who have first-rate pocket money, down to a halfpenny a week from those who haven't so much. You know it's the rule that the crown must be paid for by the people." "But hadn't my great-great-however-much-it-is-grandfather a crown?" "Yes, but he sent it to be tinned over, for fear of vanity, and he had had all the jewels taken out, and sold them to buy books. He was a strange man; a very good King he was, but he had his faults--he was fond of books. Almost with his last breath he sent the crown to be tinned--and he never lived to pay the tinsmith's bill." Here the Prime Minister wiped away a tear, and just then the carriage stopped and Lionel was taken out of the carriage to be crowned. Being crowned is much more tiring work than you would suppose, and by the time it was over, and Lionel had worn the Royal robes for an hour or two and had had his hand kissed by everybody whose business it was to do it, he was quite worn out, and was very glad to get into the Palace nursery. Nurse was there, and tea was ready: seedy cake and plummy cake, and jam and hot buttered toast, and the prettiest china with red and gold and blue flowers on it, and real tea, and as many cups of it as you liked. After tea Lionel said: "I think I should like a book. Will you get me one, Nurse?" "Bless the child," said Nurse. "You don't suppose you've lost the use of your legs with just being a King? Run along, do, and get your books yourself." So Lionel went down into the library. The Prime Minister and the Chancellor were there, and when Lionel came in they bowed very low, and were beginning to ask Lionel most politely what on earth he was coming bothering for now--when Lionel cried out: "Oh, what a worldful of books! Are they yours?" "They are yours, Your Majesty," answered the Chancellor. "They were the property of the late King, your great-great--" "Yes, I know," Lionel interrupted. "Well, I shall read them all. I love to read. I am so glad I learned to read." "If I might venture to advise Your Majesty," said the Prime Minister, "I should not read these books. Your great--" "Yes?" said Lionel, quickly. "He was a very good King--oh, yes, really a very superior King in his way, but he was a little--well, strange." "Mad?" asked Lionel, cheerfully. "No, no"--both the gentlemen were sincerely shocked. "Not mad; but if I may express it so, he was--er--too clever by half. And I should not like a little King of mine to have anything to do with his books." Lionel looked puzzled. "The fact is," the Chancellor went on, twisting his red beard in an agitated way, "your great--" "Go on," said Lionel. "--was called a wizard." "But he wasn't?" "Of course not--a most worthy King was your great--" "I see." "But I wouldn't touch his books." "Just this one," cried Lionel, laying his hands on the cover of a great brown book that lay on the study table. It had gold patterns on the brown leather, and gold clasps with turquoises and rubies in the twists of them, and gold corners, so that the leather should not wear out too quickly. "I must look at this one," Lionel said, for on the back in big letters he read: _The Book of Beasts_. The Chancellor said, "Don't be a silly little King." But Lionel had got the gold clasps undone, and he opened the first page, and there was a beautiful Butterfly all red, and brown, and yellow, and blue, so beautifully painted that it looked as if it were alive. "There," said Lionel, "Isn't that lovely? Why--" But as he spoke the beautiful Butterfly fluttered its many-colored wings on the yellow old page of the book, and flew up and out of the window. "Well!" said the Prime Minister, as soon as he could speak for the lump of wonder that had got into his throat and tried to choke him, "that's magic, that is." But before he had spoken, the King had turned the next page, and there was a shining bird complete and beautiful in every blue feather of him. Under him was written, "Blue Bird of Paradise," and while the King gazed enchanted at the charming picture the Blue Bird fluttered his wings on the yellow page and spread them and flew out of the book. Then the Prime Minister snatched the book away from the King and shut it up on the blank page where the bird had been, and put it on a very high shelf. And the Chancellor gave the King a good shaking, and said: "You're a naughty, disobedient little King!" and was very angry indeed. "I don't see that I've done any harm," said Lionel. He hated being shaken, as all boys do; he would much rather have been slapped. "No harm?" said the Chancellor. "Ah--but what do you know about it? That's the question. How do you know what might have been on the next page--a snake or a worm, or a centipede or a revolutionist, or something like that." "Well, I'm sorry if I've vexed you," said Lionel. "Come, let's kiss and be friends." So he kissed the Prime Minister, and they settled down for a nice quiet game of noughts and crosses while the Chancellor went to add up his accounts. But when Lionel was in bed he could not sleep for thinking of the book, and when the full moon was shining with all her might and light he got up and crept down to the library and climbed up and got _The Book of Beasts_. He took it outside to the terrace, where the moonlight was as bright as day, and he opened the book, and saw the empty pages with "Butterfly" and "Blue Bird of Paradise" underneath, and then he turned the next page. There was some sort of red thing sitting under a palm tree, and under it was written "Dragon." The Dragon did not move, and the King shut up the book rather quickly and went back to bed. But the next day he wanted another look, so he took the book out into the garden, and when he undid the clasps with the rubies and turquoises, the book opened all by itself at the picture with "Dragon" underneath, and the sun shone full on the page. And then, quite suddenly, a great Red Dragon came out of the book and spread vast scarlet wings and flew away across the garden to the far hills, and Lionel was left with the empty page before him, for the page was quite empty except for the green palm tree and the yellow desert, and the little streaks of red where the paintbrush had gone outside the pencil outline of the Red Dragon. And then Lionel felt that he had indeed done it. He had not been King twenty-four hours, and already he had let loose a Red Dragon to worry his faithful subjects' lives out. And they had been saving up so long to buy him a crown, and everything! Lionel began to cry. [Illustration: "The dragon flew away across the garden." _See page 8._] The Chancellor and the Prime Minister and the Nurse all came running to see what was the matter. And when they saw the book they understood, and the Chancellor said: "You naughty little King! Put him to bed, Nurse, and let him think over what he's done." "Perhaps, my Lord," said the Prime Minister, "we'd better first find out just exactly what he has done." Then Lionel, in floods of tears, said: "It's a Red Dragon, and it's gone flying away to the hills, and I am so sorry, and, oh, do forgive me!" But the Prime Minister and the Chancellor had other things to think of than forgiving Lionel. They hurried off to consult the police and see what could be done. Everyone did what they could. They sat on committees and stood on guard, and lay in wait for the Dragon, but he stayed up in the hills, and there was nothing more to be done. The faithful Nurse, meanwhile, did not neglect her duty. Perhaps she did more than anyone else, for she slapped the King and put him to bed without his tea, and when it got dark she would not give him a candle to read by. "You are a naughty little King," she said, "and nobody will love you." Next day the Dragon was still quiet, though the more poetic of Lionel's subjects could see the redness of the Dragon shining through the green trees quite plainly. So Lionel put on his crown and sat on his throne and said he wanted to make some laws. And I need hardly say that though the Prime Minister and the Chancellor and the Nurse might have the very poorest opinion of Lionel's private judgement, and might even slap him and send him to bed, the minute he got on his throne and set his crown on his head, he became infallible--which means that everything he said was right, and that he couldn't possibly make a mistake. So when he said: "There is to be a law forbidding people to open books in schools or elsewhere"--he had the support of at least half of his subjects, and the other half--the grown-up half--pretended to think he was quite right. Then he made a law that everyone should always have enough to eat. And this pleased everyone except the ones who had always had too much. And when several other nice new laws were made and written down he went home and made mud-houses and was very happy. And he said to his Nurse: "People will love me now I've made such a lot of pretty new laws for them." But Nurse said: "Don't count your chickens, my dear. You haven't seen the last of that Dragon yet." Now, the next day was Saturday. And in the afternoon the Dragon suddenly swooped down upon the common in all his hideous redness, and carried off the Soccer Players, umpires, goal-posts, ball, and all. Then the people were very angry indeed, and they said: "We might as well be a Republic. After saving up all these years to get his crown, and everything!" And wise people shook their heads and foretold a decline in the National Love of Sport. And, indeed, soccer was not at all popular for some time afterward. Lionel did his best to be a good King during the week, and the people were beginning to forgive him for letting the Dragon out of the book. "After all," they said, "soccer is a dangerous game, and perhaps it is wise to discourage it." Popular opinion held that the Soccer Players, being tough and hard, had disagreed with the Dragon so much that he had gone away to some place where they only play cats' cradle and games that do not make you hard and tough. All the same, Parliament met on the Saturday afternoon, a convenient time, for most of the Members would be free to attend, to consider the Dragon. But unfortunately the Dragon, who had only been asleep, woke up because it was Saturday, and he considered the Parliament, and afterwards there were not any Members left, so they tried to make a new Parliament, but being a member of Parliament had somehow grown as unpopular as soccer playing, and no one would consent to be elected, so they had to do without a Parliament. When the next Saturday came around everyone was a little nervous, but the Red Dragon was pretty quiet that day and only ate an Orphanage. Lionel was very, very unhappy. He felt that it was his disobedience that had brought this trouble on the Parliament and the Orphanage and the Soccer Players, and he felt that it was his duty to try and do something. The question was, what? The Blue Bird that had come out of the book used to sing very nicely in the Palace rose garden, and the Butterfly was very tame, and would perch on his shoulder when he walked among the tall lilies: so Lionel saw that all the creatures in _The Book of Beasts_ could not be wicked, like the Dragon, and he thought: "Suppose I could get another beast out who would fight the Dragon?" So he took _The Book of Beasts_ out into the rose garden and opened the page next to the one where the Dragon had been just a tiny bit to see what the name was. He could only see "cora," but he felt the middle of the page swelling up thick with the creature that was trying to come out, and it was only by putting the book down and sitting on it suddenly, very hard, that he managed to get it shut. Then he fastened the clasps with the rubies and turquoises in them and sent for the Chancellor, who had been ill since Saturday, and so had not been eaten with the rest of the Parliament, and he said: "What animal ends in 'cora'?" The Chancellor answered: "The Manticora, of course." "What is he like?" asked the King. "He is the sworn foe of Dragons," said the Chancellor. "He drinks their blood. He is yellow, with the body of a lion and the face of a man. I wish we had a few Manticoras here now. But the last died hundreds of years ago--worse luck!" Then the King ran and opened the book at the page that had "cora" on it, and there was the picture--Manticora, all yellow, with a lion's body and a man's face, just as the Chancellor had said. And under the picture was written, "Manticora." In a few minutes the Manticora came sleepily out of the book, rubbing its eyes with its hands and mewing piteously. It seemed very stupid, and when Lionel gave it a push and said, "Go along and fight the Dragon, do," it put its tail between its legs and fairly ran away. It went and hid behind the Town Hall, and at night when the people were asleep it went around and ate all the pussy-cats in the town. And then it mewed more than ever. And on the Saturday morning, when people were a little timid about going out, because the Dragon had no regular hour for calling, the Manticora went up and down the streets and drank all the milk that was left in the cans at the doors for people's teas, and it ate the cans as well. And just when it had finished the very last little halfpenny worth, which was short measure, because the milkman's nerves were quite upset, the Red Dragon came down the street looking for the Manticora. It edged off when it saw him coming, for it was not at all the Dragon-fighting kind; and, seeing no other door open, the poor, hunted creature took refuge in the General Post Office, and there the Dragon found it, trying to conceal itself among the ten o'clock mail. The Dragon fell on the Manticora at once, and the mail was no defense. The mewings were heard all over the town. All the kitties and the milk the Manticora had had seemed to have strengthened its mew wonderfully. Then there was a sad silence, and presently the people whose windows looked that way saw the Dragon come walking down the steps of the General Post Office spitting fire and smoke, together with tufts of Manticora fur, and the fragments of the registered letters. Things were growing very serious. However popular the King might become during the week, the Dragon was sure to do something on Saturday to upset the people's loyalty. [Illustration "The Manticora took refuge in the General Post Office." _See page 13._] The Dragon was a perfect nuisance for the whole of Saturday, except during the hour of noon, and then he had to rest under a tree or he would have caught fire from the heat of the sun. You see, he was very hot to begin with. At last came a Saturday when the Dragon actually walked into the Royal nursery and carried off the King's own pet Rocking Horse. Then the King cried for six days, and on the seventh he was so tired that he had to stop. He heard the Blue Bird singing among the roses and saw the Butterfly fluttering among the lilies, and he said: "Nurse, wipe my face, please. I am not going to cry any more." Nurse washed his face, and told him not to be a silly little King. "Crying," said she, "never did anyone any good yet." "I don't know," said the little King, "I seem to see better, and to hear better now that I've cried for a week. Now, Nurse, dear, I know I'm right, so kiss me in case I never come back. I _must_ try to see if I can't save the people." "Well, if you must, you must," said Nurse, "but don't tear your clothes or get your feet wet." So off he went. The Blue Bird sang more sweetly than ever, and the Butterfly shone more brightly, as Lionel once more carried _The Book of Beasts_ out into the rose garden, and opened it--very quickly, so that he might not be afraid and change his mind. The book fell open wide, almost in the middle, and there was written at the bottom of the page, "Hippogriff," and before Lionel had time to see what the picture was, there was a fluttering of great wings and a stamping of hoofs, and a sweet, soft, friendly neighing; and there came out of the book a beautiful white horse with a long, long, white mane and a long, long, white tail, and he had great wings like swan's wings, and the softest, kindest eyes in the world, and he stood there among the roses. The Hippogriff rubbed its silky-soft, milky white nose against the little King's shoulder, and the little King thought: "But for the wings you are very like my poor, dear lost Rocking Horse." And the Blue Bird's song was very loud and sweet. Then suddenly the King saw coming through the sky the great straggling, sprawling, wicked shape of the Red Dragon. And he knew at once what he must do. He caught up _The Book of Beasts_ and jumped on the back of the gentle, beautiful Hippogriff, and leaning down he whispered in the sharp, white ear: "Fly, dear Hippogriff, fly your very fastest to the Pebbly Waste." And when the Dragon saw them start, he turned and flew after them, with his great wings flapping like clouds at sunset, and the Hippogriff's wide wings were snowy as clouds at moonrise. When the people in the town saw the Dragon fly off after the Hippogriff and the King they all came out of their houses to look, and when they saw the two disappear they made up their minds to the worst, and began to think what they would wear for Court mourning. But the Dragon could not catch the Hippogriff. The red wings were bigger than the white ones, but they were not so strong, and so the white-winged horse flew away and away and away, with the Dragon pursuing, till he reached the very middle of the Pebbly Waste. Now, the Pebbly Waste is just like the parts of the seaside where there is no sand--all round, loose, shifting stones, and there is no grass there and no tree within a hundred miles of it. Lionel jumped off the white horse's back in the very middle of the Pebbly Waste, and he hurriedly unclasped _The Book of Beasts_ and laid it open on the pebbles. Then he clattered among the pebbles in his haste to get back on to his white horse, and had just jumped on when up came the Dragon. He was flying very feebly, and looking around everywhere for a tree, for it was just on the stroke of twelve, the sun was shining like a gold guinea in the blue sky, and there was not a tree for a hundred miles. The white-winged horse flew around and around the Dragon as he writhed on the dry pebbles. He was getting very hot: indeed, parts of him even had begun to smoke. He knew that he must certainly catch fire in another minute unless he could get under a tree. He made a snatch with his red claws at the King and Hippogriff, but he was too feeble to reach them, and besides, he did not dare to overexert himself for fear he should get any hotter. It was then that he saw _The Book of Beasts_ lying on the pebbles, open at the page with "Dragon" written at the bottom. He looked and he hesitated, and he looked again, and then, with one last squirm of rage, the Dragon wriggled himself back into the picture and sat down under the palm tree, and the page was a little singed as he went in. As soon as Lionel saw that the Dragon had really been obliged to go and sit under his own palm tree because it was the only tree there, he jumped off his horse and shut the book with a bang. "Oh, hurrah!" he cried. "Now we really have done it." And he clasped the book very tightly with the turquoise and ruby clasps. "Oh, my precious Hippogriff," he cried. "You are the bravest, dearest, most beautiful--" "Hush," whispered the Hippogriff modestly. "Don't you see that we are not alone?" And indeed there was quite a crowd round them on the Pebbly Waste: the Prime Minister and the Parliament and the Soccer Players and the Orphanage and the Manticora and the Rocking Horse, and indeed everyone who had been eaten by the Dragon. You see, it was impossible for the Dragon to take them into the book with him--it was a tight fit even for one Dragon--so, of course, he had to leave them outside. * * * * * They all got home somehow, and all lived happy ever after. When the King asked the Manticora where he would like to live he begged to be allowed to go back into the book. "I do not care for public life," he said. Of course he knew his way onto his own page, so there was no danger of his opening the book at the wrong page and letting out a Dragon or anything. So he got back into his picture and has never come out since: That is why you will never see a Manticora as long as you live, except in a picture-book. And of course he left the kitties outside, because there was no room for them in the book--and the milk cans too. Then the Rocking Horse begged to be allowed to go and live on the Hippogriff's page of the book. "I should like," he said, "to live somewhere where Dragons can't get at me." So the beautiful, white-winged Hippogriff showed him the way in, and there he stayed till the King had him taken out for his great-great-great-great-grandchildren to play with. As for the Hippogriff, he accepted the position of the King's Own Rocking Horse--a situation left vacant by the retirement of the wooden one. And the Blue Bird and the Butterfly sing and flutter among the lilies and roses of the Palace garden to this very day. [Illustration: UNCLE JAMES OR THE PURPLE STRANGER] II. Uncle James, or The Purple Stranger The Princess and the gardener's boy were playing in the backyard. "What will you do when you grow up, Princess?" asked the gardener's boy. "I should like to marry you, Tom," said the Princess. "Would you mind?" "No," said the gardener's boy. "I shouldn't mind much. I'll marry you if you like--if I have time." For the gardener's boy meant, as soon as he was grown up, to be a general and a poet and a Prime Minister and an admiral and a civil engineer. Meanwhile, he was top of all his classes at school, and tip-top of the geography class. As for the Princess Mary Ann, she was a very good little girl, and everyone loved her. She was always kind and polite, even to her Uncle James and to other people whom she did not like very much; and though she was not very clever, for a Princess, she always tried to do her lessons. Even if you know perfectly well that you can't do your lessons, you may as well try, and sometimes you find that by some fortunate accident they really _are_ done. Then the Princess had a truly good heart: She was always kind to her pets. She never slapped her hippopotamus when it broke her dolls in its playful gambols, and she never forgot to feed her rhinoceroses in their little hutch in the backyard. Her elephant was devoted to her, and sometimes Mary Ann made her nurse quite cross by smuggling the dear little thing up to bed with her and letting it go to sleep with its long trunk laid lovingly across her throat, and its pretty head cuddled under the Royal right ear. When the Princess had been good all through the week--for, like all real, live, nice children, she was sometimes naughty, but never bad--Nurse would allow her to ask her little friends to come on Wednesday morning early and spend the day, because Wednesday is the end of the week in that country. Then, in the afternoon, when all the little dukes and duchesses and marquises and countesses had finished their rice pudding and had had their hands and faces washed after it, Nurse would say: "Now, my dears, what would you like to do this afternoon?" just as if she didn't know. And the answer would be always the same: "Oh, do let's go to the Zoological Gardens and ride on the big guinea pig and feed the rabbits and hear the dormouse asleep." So their pinafores were taken off and they all went to the Zoological Gardens, where twenty of them could ride at a time on the guinea pig, and where even the little ones could feed the great rabbits if some grown-up person were kind enough to lift them up for the purpose. There always was some such person, because in Rotundia everybody was kind--except one. Now that you have read as far as this you know, of course, that the Kingdom of Rotundia was a very remarkable place; and if you are a thoughtful child--as of course you are--you will not need me to tell you what was the most remarkable thing about it. But in case you are not a thoughtful child--and it is just possible of course that you are not--I will tell you at once what that most remarkable thing was. _All the animals were the wrong sizes!_ And this was how it happened. In old, old, olden times, when all our world was just loose earth and air and fire and water mixed up anyhow like a pudding, and spinning around like mad trying to get the different things to settle into their proper places, a round piece of earth got loose and went spinning away by itself across the water, which was just beginning to try to get spread out smooth into a real sea. And as the great round piece of earth flew away, going around and around as hard as it could, it met a long piece of hard rock that had got loose from another part of the puddingy mixture, and the rock was so hard, and was going so fast, that it ran its point through the round piece of earth and stuck out on the other side of it, so that the two together were like a very-very-much-too-big spinning top. I am afraid all this is very dull, but you know geography is never quite lively, and after all, I must give you a little information even in a fairy tale--like the powder in jam. Well, when the pointed rock smashed into the round bit of earth the shock was so great that it set them spinning together through the air--which was just getting into its proper place, like all the rest of the things--only, as luck would have it, they forgot which way around they had been going, and began to spin around the wrong way. Presently Center of Gravity--a great giant who was managing the whole business--woke up in the middle of the earth and began to grumble. "Hurry up," he said. "Come down and lie still, can't you?" So the rock with the round piece of earth fell into the sea, and the point of the rock went into a hole that just fitted it in the stony sea bottom, and there it spun around the wrong way seven times and then lay still. And that round piece of land became, after millions of years, the Kingdom of Rotundia. This is the end of the geography lesson. And now for just a little natural history, so that we may not feel that we are quite wasting our time. Of course, the consequence of the island having spun around the wrong way was that when the animals began to grow on the island they all grew the wrong sizes. The guinea pig, as you know, was as big as our elephants, and the elephant--dear little pet--was the size of the silly, tiny, black-and-tan dogs that ladies carry sometimes in their muffs. The rabbits were about the size of our rhinoceroses, and all about the wild parts of the island they had made their burrows as big as railway tunnels. The dormouse, of course, was the biggest of all the creatures. I can't tell you how big he was. Even if you think of elephants it will not help you at all. Luckily there was only one of him, and he was always asleep. Otherwise I don't think the Rotundians could have borne with him. As it was, they made him a house, and it saved the expense of a brass band, because no band could possibly have been heard when the dormouse was talking in his sleep. The men and women and children in this wonderful island were quite the right size, because their ancestors had come over with the Conqueror long after the island had settled down and the animals grown on it. Now the natural history lesson is over, and if you have been attending, you know more about Rotundia than anyone there did, except three people: the Lord Chief Schoolmaster, the Princess's uncle--who was a magician, and knew everything without learning it--and Tom, the gardener's son. Tom had learned more at school than anyone else, because he wished to take a prize. The prize offered by the Lord Chief Schoolmaster was a _History of Rotundia_, beautifully bound, with the Royal arms on the back. But after that day when the Princess said she meant to marry Tom, the gardener's boy thought it over, and he decided that the best prize in the world would be the Princess, and this was the prize Tom meant to take; and when you are a gardener's son and have decided to marry a Princess, you will find that the more you learn at school the better. The Princess always played with Tom on the days when the little dukes and marquises did not come to tea--and when he told her he was almost sure of the first prize, she clapped her hands and said: "Dear Tom, dear good, clever Tom, you deserve all the prizes. And I will give you my pet elephant--and you can keep him till we're married." The pet elephant was called Fido, and the gardener's son took him away in his coat pocket. He was the dearest little elephant you ever saw--about six inches long. But he was very, very wise--he could not have been wiser if he had been a mile high. He lay down comfortably in Tom's pocket, and when Tom put in his hand, Fido curled his little trunk around Tom's fingers with an affectionate confidence that made the boy's heart warm to his new little pet. What with the elephant, and the Princess's affection, and the knowledge that the very next day he would receive the _History of Rotundia_, beautifully bound, with the Royal arms on the cover, Tom could hardly sleep a wink. And, besides, the dog did bark so terribly. There was only one dog in Rotundia--the kingdom could not afford to keep more than one: He was a Mexican lapdog of the kind that in most parts of the world only measures seven inches from the end of his dear nose to the tip of his darling tail--but in Rotundia he was bigger than I can possibly expect you to believe. And when he barked, his bark was so large that it filled up all the night and left no room for sleep or dreams or polite conversation, or anything else at all. He never barked at things that went on in the island--he was too large-minded for that; but when ships went blundering by in the dark, tumbling over the rocks at the end of the island, he would bark once or twice, just to let the ships know that they couldn't come playing about there just as they liked. But on this particular night he barked and barked and barked--and the Princess said, "Oh dear, oh dear, I wish he wouldn't, I am so sleepy." And Tom said to himself, "I wonder whatever is the matter. As soon as it's light I'll go and see." So when it began to be pretty pink-and-yellow daylight, Tom got up and went out. And all the time the Mexican lapdog barked so that the houses shook, and the tiles on the roof of the palace rattled like milk cans in a cart whose horse is frisky. "I'll go to the pillar," thought Tom, as he went through the town. The pillar, of course, was the top of the piece of rock that had stuck itself through Rotundia millions of years before, and made it spin around the wrong way. It was quite in the middle of the island, and stuck up ever so far, and when you were at the top you could see a great deal farther than when you were not. As Tom went out from the town and across the downs, he thought what a pretty sight it was to see the rabbits in the bright, dewy morning, frisking with their young ones by the mouths of their burrows. He did not go very near the rabbits, of course, because when a rabbit of that size is at play it does not always look where it is going, and it might easily have crushed Tom with its foot, and then it would have been very sorry afterward. And Tom was a kind boy, and would not have liked to make even a rabbit unhappy. Earwigs in our country often get out of the way when they think you are going to walk on them. They too have kind hearts, and they would not like you to be sorry afterward. So Tom went on, looking at the rabbits and watching the morning grow more and more red and golden. And the Mexican lapdog barked all the time, till the church bells tinkled, and the chimney of the apple factory rocked again. But when Tom got to the pillar, he saw that he would not need to climb to the top to find out what the dog was barking at. For there, by the pillar, lay a very large purple dragon. His wings were like old purple umbrellas that have been very much rained on, and his head was large and bald, like the top of a purple toadstool, and his tail, which was purple too, was very, very, very long and thin and tight, like the lash of a carriage whip. It was licking one of its purple umbrella-y wings, and every now and then it moaned and leaned its head back against the rocky pillar as though it felt faint. Tom saw at once what had happened. A flight of purple dragons must have crossed the island in the night, and this poor one must have knocked its wing and broken it against the pillar. Everyone is kind to everyone in Rotundia, and Tom was not afraid of the dragon, although he had never spoken to one before. He had often watched them flying across the sea, but he had never expected to get to know one personally. So now he said: "I am afraid you don't feel quite well." The dragon shook his large purple head. He could not speak, but like all other animals, he could understand well enough when he liked. "Can I get you anything?" asked Tom, politely. The dragon opened his purple eyes with an inquiring smile. "A bun or two, now," said Tom, coaxingly. "There's a beautiful bun tree quite close." The dragon opened a great purple mouth and licked his purple lips, so Tom ran and shook the bun tree, and soon came back with an armful of fresh currant buns, and as he came he picked a few of the Bath kind, which grow on the low bushes near the pillar. Because, of course, another consequence of the island's having spun the wrong way is that all the things we have to make--buns and cakes and shortbread--grow on trees and bushes, but in Rotundia they have to make their cauliflowers and cabbages and carrots and apples and onions, just as our cooks make puddings and turnovers. Tom gave all the buns to the dragon, saying: "Here, try to eat a little. You'll soon feel better then." The dragon ate up the buns, nodded rather ungraciously, and began to lick his wing again. So Tom left him and went back to the town with the news, and everyone was so excited at a real live dragon's being on the island--a thing that had never happened before--that they all went out to look at it, instead of going to the prize-giving, and the Lord Chief Schoolmaster went with the rest. Now, he had Tom's prize, the _History of Rotundia_, in his pocket--the one bound in calf, with the Royal arms on the cover--and it happened to drop out, and the dragon ate it, so Tom never got the prize after all. But the dragon, when he had gotten it, did not like it. "Perhaps it's all for the best," said Tom. "I might not have liked that prize either, if I had gotten it." It happened to be a Wednesday, so when the Princess's friends were asked what they would like to do, all the little dukes and marquises and earls said, "Let's go and see the dragon." But the little duchesses and marchionesses and countesses said they were afraid. Then Princess Mary Ann spoke up royally, and said, "Don't be silly, because it's only in fairy stories and histories of England and things like that, that people are unkind and want to hurt each other. In Rotundia everyone is kind, and no one has anything to be afraid of, unless they're naughty; and then we know it's for our own good. Let's all go and see the dragon. We might take him some acid drops." So they went. And all the titled children took it in turns to feed the dragon with acid drops, and he seemed pleased and flattered, and wagged as much of his purple tail as he could get at conveniently; for it was a very, very long tail indeed. But when it came to the Princess's turn to give an acid drop to the dragon, he smiled a very wide smile, and wagged his tail to the very last long inch of it, as much as to say, "Oh, you nice, kind, pretty little Princess." But deep down in his wicked purple heart he was saying, "Oh, you nice, fat, pretty little Princess, I should like to eat you instead of these silly acid drops." But of course nobody heard him except the Princess's uncle, and he was a magician, and accustomed to listening at doors. It was part of his trade. Now, you will remember that I told you there was one wicked person in Rotundia, and I cannot conceal from you any longer that this Complete Bad was the Princess's Uncle James. Magicians are always bad, as you know from your fairy books, and some uncles are bad, as you see by the _Babes in the Wood_, or the _Norfolk Tragedy_, and one James at least was bad, as you have learned from your English history. And when anyone is a magician, and is also an uncle, and is named James as well, you need not expect anything nice from him. He is a Threefold Complete Bad--and he will come to no good. Uncle James had long wanted to get rid of the Princess and have the kingdom to himself. He did not like many things--a nice kingdom was almost the only thing he cared for--but he had never seen his way quite clearly, because everyone is so kind in Rotundia that wicked spells will not work there, but run off those blameless islanders like water off a duck's back. Now, however, Uncle James thought there might be a chance for him--because he knew that now there were two wicked people on the island who could stand by each other--himself and the dragon. He said nothing, but he exchanged a meaningful glance with the dragon, and everyone went home to tea. And no one had seen the meaningful glance except Tom. Tom went home, and told his elephant all about it. The intelligent little creature listened carefully, and then climbed from Tom's knee to the table, on which stood an ornamental calendar that the Princess had given Tom for a Christmas present. With its tiny trunk the elephant pointed out a date--the fifteenth of August, the Princess's birthday, and looked anxiously at its master. "What is it, Fido--good little elephant--then?" said Tom, and the sagacious animal repeated its former gesture. Then Tom understood. "Oh, something is to happen on her birthday? All right. I'll be on the lookout." And he was. [Illustration: "By-and-by he began to wander." _See page 29._] At first the people of Rotundia were quite pleased with the dragon, who lived by the pillar and fed himself from the bun trees, but by-and-by he began to wander. He would creep into the burrows made by the great rabbits; and excursionists, sporting on the downs, would see his long, tight, whiplike tail wriggling down a burrow and out of sight, and before they had time to say, "There he goes," his ugly purple head would come poking out from another rabbit-hole--perhaps just behind them--or laugh softly to itself just in their ears. And the dragon's laugh was not a merry one. This sort of hide-and-seek amused people at first, but by-and-by it began to get on their nerves: and if you don't know what that means, ask Mother to tell you next time you are playing blind man's buff when she has a headache. Then the dragon got into the habit of cracking his tail, as people crack whips, and this also got on people's nerves. Then, too, little things began to be missed. And you know how unpleasant that is, even in a private school, and in a public kingdom it is, of course, much worse. The things that were missed were nothing much at first--a few little elephants, a hippopotamus or two, and some giraffes, and things like that. It was nothing much, as I say, but it made people feel uncomfortable. Then one day a favorite rabbit of the Princess's, called Frederick, mysteriously disappeared, and then came a terrible morning when the Mexican lapdog was missing. He had barked ever since the dragon came to the island, and people had grown quite used to the noise. So when his barking suddenly ceased it woke everybody up--and they all went out to see what was the matter. And the lapdog was gone! A boy was sent to wake the army, so that it might look for him. But the army was gone too! And now the people began to be frightened. Then Uncle James came out onto the terrace of the palace, and he made the people a speech. He said: "Friends--fellow citizens--I cannot disguise from myself or from you that this purple dragon is a poor penniless exile, a helpless alien in our midst, and, besides, he is a--is no end of a dragon." The people thought of the dragon's tail and said, "Hear, hear." Uncle James went on: "Something has happened to a gentle and defenseless member of our community. We don't know what has happened." Everyone thought of the rabbit named Frederick, and groaned. "The defenses of our country have been swallowed up," said Uncle James. Everyone thought of the poor army. "There is only one thing to be done." Uncle James was warming to his subject. "Could we ever forgive ourselves if by neglecting a simple precaution we lost more rabbits--or even, perhaps, our navy, our police, and our fire brigade? For I warn you that the purple dragon will respect nothing, however sacred." Everyone thought of themselves--and they said, "What is the simple precaution?" Then Uncle James said: "Tomorrow is the dragon's birthday. He is accustomed to have a present on his birthday. If he gets a nice present he will be in a hurry to take it away and show it to his friends, and he will fly off and never come back." The crowd cheered wildly--and the Princess from her balcony clapped her hands. "The present the dragon expects," said Uncle James, cheerfully, "is rather an expensive one. But, when we give, it should not be in a grudging spirit, especially to visitors. What the dragon wants is a Princess. We have only one Princess, it is true; but far be it from us to display a miserly temper at such a moment. And the gift is worthless that costs the giver nothing. Your readiness to give up your Princess will only show how generous you are." The crowd began to cry, for they loved their Princess, though they quite saw that their first duty was to be generous and give the poor dragon what it wanted. The Princess began to cry, for she did not want to be anybody's birthday present--especially a purple dragon's. And Tom began to cry because he was so angry. He went straight home and told his little elephant; and the elephant cheered him up so much that presently the two grew quite absorbed in a top that the elephant was spinning with his little trunk. Early in the morning Tom went to the palace. He looked out across the downs--there were hardly any rabbits playing there now--and then he gathered white roses and threw them at the Princess's window till she woke up and looked out. "Come up and kiss me," she said. So Tom climbed up the white rosebush and kissed the Princess through the window, and said: "Many happy returns of the day." Then Mary Ann began to cry, and said: "Oh, Tom--how can you? When you know quite well--" "Oh, don't," said Tom. "Why, Mary Ann, my precious, my Princess--what do you think I should be doing while the dragon was getting his birthday present? Don't cry, my own little Mary Ann! Fido and I have arranged everything. You've only got to do as you are told." "Is that all?" said the Princess. "Oh--that's easy--I've often done that!" Then Tom told her what she was to do. And she kissed him again and again. "Oh, you dear, good, clever Tom," she said. "How glad I am that I gave you Fido. You two have saved me. You dears!" The next morning Uncle James put on his best coat and hat and the vest with the gold snakes on it--he was a magician, and he had a bright taste in vests--and he called with a cab to take the Princess out. "Come, little birthday present," he said tenderly. "The dragon will be so pleased. And I'm glad to see you're not crying. You know, my child, we cannot begin too young to learn to think of the happiness of others rather than our own. I should not like my dear little niece to be selfish, or to wish to deny a trivial pleasure to a poor, sick dragon, far from his home and friends." The Princess said she would try not to be selfish. Presently the cab drew up near the pillar, and there was the dragon, his ugly purple head shining in the sun, and his ugly purple mouth half open. Uncle James said: "Good morning, sir. We have brought you a small present for your birthday. We do not like to let such an anniversary go by without some suitable testimonial, especially to one who is a stranger in our midst. Our means are small, but our hearts are large. We have but one Princess, but we give her freely--do we not, my child?" The Princess said she supposed so, and the dragon came a little nearer. Suddenly a voice cried: "Run!" and there was Tom, and he had brought the Zoological guinea pig and a pair of Belgian hares with him. "Just to see fair," said Tom. Uncle James was furious. "What do you mean, sir," he cried, "by intruding on a State function with your common rabbits and things? Go away, naughty little boy, and play with them somewhere else." But while he was speaking the rabbits had come up one on each side of him, their great sides towering ever so high, and now they pressed him between them so that he was buried in their thick fur and almost choked. The Princess, meantime, had run to the other side of the pillar and was peeping around it to see what was going on. A crowd had followed the cab out of the town; now they reached the scene of the "State Function"--and they all cried out: "Fair play--play fair! We can't go back on our word like this. Give a thing and take a thing? Why, it's never done. Let the poor exiled stranger dragon have his birthday present." And they tried to get at Tom--but the guinea pig stood in the way. "Yes," Tom cried. "Fair play is a jewel. And your helpless exile shall have the Princess--if he can catch her. Now then, Mary Ann." Mary Ann looked around the big pillar and called to the dragon: "Bo! you can't catch me," and began to run as fast as ever she could, and the dragon ran after her. When the Princess had run a half mile she stopped, dodged around a tree, and ran back to the pillar and around it, and the dragon after her. You see, he was so long he could not turn as quickly as she could. Around and around the pillar ran the Princess. The first time she ran around a long way from the pillar, and then nearer and nearer--with the dragon after her all the time; and he was so busy trying to catch her that he never noticed that Tom had tied the very end of his long, tight, whipcordy tail to the rock, so that the more the dragon ran around, the more times he twisted his tail around the pillar. It was exactly like winding a top--only the peg was the pillar, and the dragon's tail was the string. And the magician was safe between the Belgian hares, and couldn't see anything but darkness, or do anything but choke. When the dragon was wound onto the pillar as much as he possibly could be, and as tight--like cotton on a reel--the Princess stopped running, and though she had very little breath left, she managed to say, "Yah--who's won now?" This annoyed the dragon so much that he put out all his strength--spread his great purple wings, and tried to fly at her. Of course this pulled his tail, and pulled it very hard, so hard that as he pulled the tail _had_ to come, and the pillar _had_ to come around with the tail, and the island _had_ to come around with the pillar, and in another minute the tail was loose, and the island was spinning around exactly like a top. It spun so fast that everyone fell flat on their faces and held on tight to themselves, because they felt something was going to happen. All but the magician, who was choking between the Belgian hares, and felt nothing but fur and fury. And something did happen. The dragon had sent the kingdom of Rotundia spinning the way it ought to have gone at the beginning of the world, and as it spun around, all the animals began to change sizes. The guinea pigs got small, and the elephants got big, and the men and women and children would have changed sizes too, if they had not had the sense to hold on to themselves, very tight indeed, with both hands; which, of course, the animals could not be expected to know how to do. And the best of it was that when the small beasts got big and the big beasts got small the dragon got small too, and fell at the Princess's feet--a little, crawling, purple newt with wings. [Illustration: "The dragon ran after her." _See page 34._] "Funny little thing," said the Princess, when she saw it. "I will take it for a birthday present." But while all the people were still on their faces, holding on tight to themselves, Uncle James, the magician, never thought of holding tight--he only thought of how to punish Belgian hares and the sons of gardeners; so when the big beasts grew small, he grew small with the other beasts, and the little purple dragon, when he fell at the Princess's feet, saw there a very small magician named Uncle James. And the dragon took him because it wanted a birthday present. So now all the animals were new sizes--and at first it seemed very strange to everyone to have great lumbering elephants and a tiny little dormouse, but they have gotten used to it now, and think no more of it than we do. All this happened several years ago, and the other day I saw in the _Rotundia Times_ an account of the wedding of the Princess with Lord Thomas Gardener, K.C.D., and I knew she could not have married anyone but Tom, so I suppose they made him a Lord on purpose for the wedding--and _K.C.D._, of course, means Clever Conqueror of the Dragon. If you think that is wrong it is only because you don't know how they spell in Rotundia. The paper said that among the beautiful presents of the bridegroom to the bride was an enormous elephant, on which the bridal pair made their wedding tour. This must have been Fido. You remember Tom promised to give him back to the Princess when they were married. The _Rotundia Times_ called the married couple "the happy pair." It was clever of the paper to think of calling them that--it is such a pretty and novel expression, and I think it is truer than many of the things you see in papers. Because, you see, the Princess and the gardener's son were so fond of each other they could not help being happy--and besides, they had an elephant of their very own to ride on. If that is not enough to make people happy, I should like to know what is. Though, of course, I know there are some people who could not be happy unless they had a whale to sail on, and perhaps not even then. But they are greedy, grasping people, the kind who would take four helps of pudding, as likely as not, which neither Tom nor Mary Ann ever did. [Illustration: THE DELIVERERS OF THEIR COUNTRY] III. The Deliverers of Their Country It all began with Effie's getting something in her eye. It hurt very much indeed, and it felt something like a red-hot spark--only it seemed to have legs as well, and wings like a fly. Effie rubbed and cried--not real crying, but the kind your eye does all by itself without your being miserable inside your mind--and then she went to her father to have the thing in her eye taken out. Effie's father was a doctor, so of course he knew how to take things out of eyes--he did it very cleverly with a soft paintbrush dipped in castor oil. When he had gotten the thing out, he said: "This is very curious." Effie had often got things in her eye before, and her father had always seemed to think it was natural--rather tiresome and naughty perhaps, but still natural. He had never before thought it curious. Effie stood holding her handkerchief to her eye, and said: "I don't believe it's out." People always say this when they have had something in their eyes. "Oh, yes--it's out," said the doctor. "Here it is, on the brush. This is very interesting." Effie had never heard her father say that about anything that she had any share in. She said: "What?" The doctor carried the brush very carefully across the room, and held the point of it under his microscope--then he twisted the brass screws of the microscope, and looked through the top with one eye. "Dear me," he said. "Dear, dear me! Four well-developed limbs; a long caudal appendage; five toes, unequal in lengths, almost like one of the _Lacertidae_, yet there are traces of wings." The creature under his eye wriggled a little in the castor oil, and he went on: "Yes; a batlike wing. A new specimen, undoubtedly. Effie, run round to the professor and ask him to be kind enough to step in for a few minutes." "You might give me sixpence, Daddy," said Effie, "because I did bring you the new specimen. I took great care of it inside my eye, and my eye _does_ hurt." The doctor was so pleased with the new specimen that he gave Effie a shilling, and presently the professor stepped round. He stayed to lunch, and he and the doctor quarreled very happily all the afternoon about the name and the family of the thing that had come out of Effie's eye. But at teatime another thing happened. Effie's brother Harry fished something out of his tea, which he thought at first was an earwig. He was just getting ready to drop it on the floor, and end its life in the usual way, when it shook itself in the spoon--spread two wet wings, and flopped onto the tablecloth. There it sat, stroking itself with its feet and stretching its wings, and Harry said: "Why, it's a tiny newt!" The professor leaned forward before the doctor could say a word. "I'll give you half a crown for it, Harry, my lad," he said, speaking very fast; and then he picked it up carefully on his handkerchief. "It is a new specimen," he said, "and finer than yours, Doctor." It was a tiny lizard, about half an inch long--with scales and wings. So now the doctor and the professor each had a specimen, and they were both very pleased. But before long these specimens began to seem less valuable. For the next morning, when the knife-boy was cleaning the doctor's boots, he suddenly dropped the brushes and the boot and the blacking, and screamed out that he was burnt. And from inside the boot came crawling a lizard as big as a kitten, with large, shiny wings. "Why," said Effie, "I know what it is. It is a dragon like the one St. George killed." And Effie was right. That afternoon Towser was bitten in the garden by a dragon about the size of a rabbit, which he had tried to chase, and the next morning all the papers were full of the wonderful "winged lizards" that were appearing all over the country. The papers would not call them dragons, because, of course, no one believes in dragons nowadays--and at any rate the papers were not going to be so silly as to believe in fairy stories. At first there were only a few, but in a week or two the country was simply running alive with dragons of all sizes, and in the air you could sometimes see them as thick as a swarm of bees. They all looked alike except as to size. They were green with scales, and they had four legs and a long tail and great wings like bats' wings, only the wings were a pale, half-transparent yellow, like the gear-boxes on bicycles. They breathed fire and smoke, as all proper dragons must, but still the newspapers went on pretending they were lizards, until the editor of the _Standard_ was picked up and carried away by a very large one, and then the other newspaper people had not anyone left to tell them what they ought not to believe. So when the largest elephant in the Zoo was carried off by a dragon, the papers gave up pretending--and put ALARMING PLAGUE OF DRAGONS at the top of the paper. [Illustration: "The largest elephant in the zoo was carried off." _See page 43._] You have no idea how alarming it was, and at the same time how aggravating. The large-size dragons were terrible certainly, but when once you had found out that the dragons always went to bed early because they were afraid of the chill night air, you had only to stay indoors all day, and you were pretty safe from the big ones. But the smaller sizes were a perfect nuisance. The ones as big as earwigs got in the soap, and they got in the butter. The ones as big as dogs got in the bath, and the fire and smoke inside them made them steam like anything when the cold water tap was turned on, so that careless people were often scalded quite severely. The ones that were as large as pigeons would get into workbaskets or corner drawers and bite you when you were in a hurry to get a needle or a handkerchief. The ones as big as sheep were easier to avoid, because you could see them coming; but when they flew in at the windows and curled up under your eiderdown, and you did not find them till you went to bed, it was always a shock. The ones this size did not eat people, only lettuce, but they always scorched the sheets and pillowcases dreadfully. Of course, the County Council and the police did everything that could be done: It was no use offering the hand of the Princess to anyone who killed a dragon. This way was all very well in olden times--when there was only one dragon and one Princess; but now there were far more dragons than Princesses--although the Royal Family was a large one. And besides, it would have been a mere waste of Princesses to offer rewards for killing dragons, because everybody killed as many dragons as they could quite out of their own heads and without rewards at all, just to get the nasty things out of the way. The County Council undertook to cremate all dragons delivered at their offices between the hours of ten and two, and whole wagonloads and cartloads and truckloads of dead dragons could be seen any day of the week standing in a long line in the street where the County Council had their offices. Boys brought barrowloads of dead dragons, and children on their way home from morning school would call in to leave the handful or two of little dragons they had brought in their satchels, or carried in their knotted pocket handkerchiefs. And yet there seemed to be as many dragons as ever. Then the police stuck up great wood and canvas towers covered with patent glue. When the dragons flew against these towers, they stuck fast, as flies and wasps do on the sticky papers in the kitchen; and when the towers were covered all over with dragons, the police inspector used to set fire to the towers, and burnt them and dragons and all. And yet there seemed to be more dragons than ever. The shops were full of patent dragon poison and anti-dragon soap, and dragonproof curtains for the windows; and indeed, everything that could be done was done. And yet there seemed to be more dragons than ever. It was not very easy to know what would poison a dragon, because, you see, they ate such different things. The largest kind ate elephants as long as there were any, and then went on with horses and cows. Another size ate nothing but lilies of the valley, and a third size ate only Prime Ministers if they were to be had, and, if not, would feed freely on servants in livery. Another size lived on bricks, and three of them ate two thirds of the South Lambeth Infirmary in one afternoon. But the size Effie was most afraid of was about as big as your dining room, and that size ate little girls and boys. At first Effie and her brother were quite pleased with the change in their lives. It was so amusing to sit up all night instead of going to sleep, and to play in the garden lighted by electric lamps. And it sounded so funny to hear Mother say, when they were going to bed: "Good night, my darlings, sleep sound all day, and don't get up too soon. You must not get up before it's quite dark. You wouldn't like the nasty dragons to catch you." But after a time they got very tired of it all: They wanted to see the flowers and trees growing in the fields, and to see the pretty sunshine out of doors, and not just through glass windows and patent dragonproof curtains. And they wanted to play on the grass, which they were not allowed to do in the electric lamp-lighted garden because of the night-dew. And they wanted so much to get out, just for once, in the beautiful, bright, dangerous daylight, that they began to try and think of some reason why they ought to go out. Only they did not like to disobey their mother. But one morning their mother was busy preparing some new dragon poison to lay down in the cellars, and their father was bandaging the hand of the boot boy, which had been scratched by one of the dragons who liked to eat Prime Ministers when they were to be had, so nobody remembered to say to the children: "Don't get up till it is quite dark!" "Go now," said Harry. "It would not be disobedient to go. And I know exactly what we ought to do, but I don't know how we ought to do it." "What ought we to do?" said Effie. "We ought to wake St. George, of course," said Harry. "He was the only person in his town who knew how to manage dragons; the people in the fairy tales don't count. But St. George is a real person, and he is only asleep, and he is waiting to be waked up. Only nobody believes in St. George now. I heard father say so." "We do," said Effie. "Of course we do. And don't you see, Ef, that's the very reason why we could wake him? You can't wake people if you don't believe in them, can you?" Effie said no, but where could they find St. George? "We must go and look," said Harry boldly. "You shall wear a dragonproof frock, made of stuff like the curtains. And I will smear myself all over with the best dragon poison, and--" Effie clasped her hands and skipped with joy and cried: "Oh, Harry! I know where we can find St. George! In St. George's Church, of course." "Um," said Harry, wishing he had thought of it for himself, "you have a little sense sometimes, for a girl." So the next afternoon, quite early, long before the beams of sunset announced the coming night, when everybody would be up and working, the two children got out of bed. Effie wrapped herself in a shawl of dragonproof muslin--there was no time to make the frock--and Harry made a horrid mess of himself with the patent dragon poison. It was warranted harmless to infants and invalids, so he felt quite safe. Then they joined hands and set out to walk to St. George's Church. As you know, there are many St. George's churches, but fortunately they took the turning that leads to the right one, and went along in the bright sunlight, feeling very brave and adventurous. There was no one about in the streets except dragons, and the place was simply swarming with them. Fortunately none of the dragons were just the right size for eating little boys and girls, or perhaps this story might have had to end here. There were dragons on the pavement, and dragons on the roadway, dragons basking on the front doorsteps of public buildings, and dragons preening their wings on the roofs in the hot afternoon sun. The town was quite green with them. Even when the children had gotten out of the town and were walking in the lanes, they noticed that the fields on each side were greener than usual with the scaly legs and tails; and some of the smaller sizes had made themselves asbestos nests in the flowering hawthorn hedges. Effie held her brother's hand very tight, and once when a fat dragon flopped against her ear she screamed out, and a whole flight of green dragons rose from the field at the sound, and sprawled away across the sky. The children could hear the rattle of their wings as they flew. "Oh, I want to go home," said Effie. "Don't be silly," said Harry. "Surely you haven't forgotten about the Seven Champions and all the princes. People who are going to be their country's deliverers never scream and say they want to go home." "And are we," asked Effie--"deliverers, I mean?" "You'll see," said her brother, and on they went. When they came to St. George's Church they found the door open, and they walked right in--but St. George was not there, so they walked around the churchyard outside, and presently they found the great stone tomb of St. George, with the figure of him carved in marble outside, in his armor and helmet, and with his hands folded on his breast. "How ever can we wake him?" they said. Then Harry spoke to St. George--but he would not answer; and he called, but St. George did not seem to hear; and then he actually tried to waken the great dragon-slayer by shaking his marble shoulders. But St. George took no notice. Then Effie began to cry, and she put her arms around St. George's neck as well as she could for the marble, which was very much in the way at the back, and she kissed the marble face, and she said: "Oh, dear, good, kind St. George, please wake up and help us." And at that St. George opened his eyes sleepily, and stretched himself and said: "What's the matter, little girl?" So the children told him all about it; he turned over in his marble and leaned on one elbow to listen. But when he heard that there were so many dragons he shook his head. "It's no good," he said, "they would be one too many for poor old George. You should have waked me before. I was always for a fair fight--one man one dragon, was my motto." Just then a flight of dragons passed overhead, and St. George half drew his sword. But he shook his head again and pushed the sword back as the flight of dragons grew small in the distance. "I can't do anything," he said. "Things have changed since my time. St. Andrew told me about it. They woke him up over the engineers' strike, and he came to talk to me. He says everything is done by machinery now; there must be some way of settling these dragons. By the way, what sort of weather have you been having lately?" This seemed so careless and unkind that Harry would not answer, but Effie said patiently, "It has been very fine. Father says it is the hottest weather there has ever been in this country." "Ah, I guessed as much," said the Champion, thoughtfully. "Well, the only thing would be ... dragons can't stand wet and cold, that's the only thing. If you could find the taps." St. George was beginning to settle down again on his stone slab. "Good night, very sorry I can't help you," he said, yawning behind his marble hand. "Oh, but you can," cried Effie. "Tell us--what taps?" "Oh, like in the bathroom," said St. George, still more sleepily. "And there's a looking glass, too; shows you all the world and what's going on. St. Denis told me about it; said it was a very pretty thing. I'm sorry I can't--good night." And he fell back into his marble and was fast asleep again in a moment. "We shall never find the taps," said Harry. "I say, wouldn't it be awful if St. George woke up when there was a dragon near, the size that eats champions?" Effie pulled off her dragonproof veil. "We didn't meet any the size of the dining room as we came along," she said. "I daresay we shall be quite safe." So she covered St. George with the veil, and Harry rubbed off as much as he could of the dragon poison onto St. George's armor, so as to make everything quite safe for him. "We might hide in the church till it is dark," he said, "and then--" But at that moment a dark shadow fell on them, and they saw that it was a dragon exactly the size of the dining room at home. So then they knew that all was lost. The dragon swooped down and caught the two children in his claws; he caught Effie by her green silk sash, and Harry by the little point at the back of his Eton jacket--and then, spreading his great yellow wings, he rose into the air, rattling like a third-class carriage when the brake is hard on. "Oh, Harry," said Effie, "I wonder when he will eat us!" The dragon was flying across woods and fields with great flaps of his wings that carried him a quarter of a mile at each flap. [Illustration: "He rose into the air, rattling like a third-class carriage." _See page 50._] Harry and Effie could see the country below, hedges and rivers and churches and farmhouses flowing away from under them, much faster than you see them running away from the sides of the fastest express train. And still the dragon flew on. The children saw other dragons in the air as they went, but the dragon who was as big as the dining room never stopped to speak to any of them, but just flew on quite steadily. "He knows where he wants to go," said Harry. "Oh, if he would only drop us before he gets there!" But the dragon held on tight, and he flew and flew and flew until at last, when the children were quite giddy, he settled down, with a rattling of all his scales, on the top of a mountain. And he lay there on his great green scaly side, panting, and very much out of breath, because he had come such a long way. But his claws were fast in Effie's sash and the little point at the back of Harry's Eton jacket. Then Effie took out the knife Harry had given her on her birthday. It had cost only sixpence to begin with, and she had had it a month, and it never could sharpen anything but slate-pencils; but somehow she managed to make that knife cut her sash in front, and crept out of it, leaving the dragon with only a green silk bow in one of his claws. That knife would never have cut Harry's jacket-tail off, though, and when Effie had tried for some time she saw that this was so and gave it up. But with her help Harry managed to wriggle quietly out of his sleeves, so that the dragon had only an Eton jacket in his other claw. Then the children crept on tiptoe to a crack in the rocks and got in. It was much too narrow for the dragon to get in also, so they stayed in there and waited to make faces at the dragon when he felt rested enough to sit up and begin to think about eating them. He was very angry, indeed, when they made faces at him, and blew out fire and smoke at them, but they ran farther into the cave so that he could not reach them, and when he was tired of blowing he went away. But they were afraid to come out of the cave, so they went farther in, and presently the cave opened out and grew bigger, and the floor was soft sand, and when they had come to the very end of the cave there was a door, and on it was written: UNIVERSAL TAPROOM. PRIVATE. NO ONE ALLOWED INSIDE. So they opened the door at once just to peep in, and then they remembered what St. George had said. "We can't be worse off than we are," said Harry, "with a dragon waiting for us outside. Let's go in." They went boldly into the taproom, and shut the door behind them. And now they were in a sort of room cut out of the solid rock, and all along one side of the room were taps, and all the taps were labeled with china labels like you see in baths. And as they could both read words of two syllables or even three sometimes, they understood at once that they had gotten to the place where the weather is turned on from. There were six big taps labeled "Sunshine," "Wind," "Rain," "Snow," "Hail," "Ice," and a lot of little ones, labeled "Fair to moderate," "Showery," "South breeze," "Nice growing weather for the crops," "Skating," "Good open weather," "South wind," "East wind," and so on. And the big tap labeled "Sunshine" was turned full on. They could not see any sunshine--the cave was lighted by a skylight of blue glass--so they supposed the sunlight was pouring out by some other way, as it does with the tap that washes out the underneath parts of patent sinks in kitchens. Then they saw that one side of the room was just a big looking glass, and when you looked in it you could see everything that was going on in the world--and all at once, too, which is not like most looking glasses. They saw the carts delivering the dead dragons at the County Council offices, and they saw St. George asleep under the dragonproof veil. And they saw their mother at home crying because her children had gone out in the dreadful, dangerous daylight, and she was afraid a dragon had eaten them. And they saw the whole of England, like a great puzzle map--green in the field parts and brown in the towns, and black in the places where they make coal and crockery and cutlery and chemicals. All over it, on the black parts, and on the brown, and on the green, there was a network of green dragons. And they could see that it was still broad daylight, and no dragons had gone to bed yet. Effie said, "Dragons do not like cold." And she tried to turn off the sunshine, but the tap was out of order, and that was why there had been so much hot weather, and why the dragons had been able to be hatched. So they left the sunshine tap alone, and they turned on the snow and left the tap full on while they went to look in the glass. There they saw the dragons running all sorts of ways like ants if you are cruel enough to pour water into an ant-heap, which, of course, you never are. And the snow fell more and more. Then Effie turned the rain tap quite full on, and presently the dragons began to wriggle less, and by-and-by some of them lay quite still, so the children knew the water had put out the fires inside them, and they were dead. So then they turned on the hail--only half on, for fear of breaking people's windows--and after a while there were no more dragons to be seen moving. Then the children knew that they were indeed the deliverers of their country. "They will put up a monument to us," said Harry, "as high as Nelson's! All the dragons are dead." "I hope the one that was waiting outside for us is dead!" said Effie. "And about the monument, Harry, I'm not so sure. What can they do with such a lot of dead dragons? It would take years and years to bury them, and they could never be burnt now they are so soaking wet. I wish the rain would wash them off into the sea." But this did not happen, and the children began to feel that they had not been so frightfully clever after all. "I wonder what this old thing's for," said Harry. He had found a rusty old tap, which seemed as though it had not been used for ages. Its china label was quite coated over with dirt and cobwebs. When Effie had cleaned it with a bit of her skirt--for curiously enough both the children had come out without pocket handkerchiefs--she found that the label said "Waste." "Let's turn it on," she said. "It might carry off the dragons." The tap was very stiff from not having been used for such a long time, but together they managed to turn it on, and then ran to the mirror to see what happened. Already a great, round black hole had opened in the very middle of the map of England, and the sides of the map were tilting themselves up, so that the rain ran down toward the hole. "Oh, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" cried Effie, and she hurried back to the taps and turned on everything that seemed wet. "Showery," "Good open weather," "Nice growing weather for the crops," and even "South" and "South-West," because she had heard her father say that those winds brought rain. And now the floods of rain were pouring down on the country, and great sheets of water flowed toward the center of the map, and cataracts of water poured into the great round hole in the middle of the map, and the dragons were being washed away and disappearing down the waste pipe in great green masses and scattered green shoals--single dragons and dragons by the dozen; of all sizes, from the ones that carry off elephants down to the ones that get in your tea. Presently there was not a dragon left. So then they turned off the tap named "Waste," and they half-turned off the one labeled "Sunshine"--it was broken, so that they could not turn it off altogether--and they turned on "Fair to moderate" and "Showery" and both taps stuck, so that they could not be turned off, which accounts for our climate. * * * * * How did they get home again? By the Snowdon railway of course. And was the nation grateful? Well--the nation was very wet. And by the time the nation had gotten dry again it was interested in the new invention for toasting muffins by electricity, and all the dragons were almost forgotten. Dragons do not seem so important when they are dead and gone, and, you know, there never was a reward offered. And what did Father and Mother say when Effie and Harry got home? My dear, that is the sort of silly question you children always will ask. However, just for this once I don't mind telling you. Mother said: "Oh, my darlings, my darlings, you're safe--you're safe! You naughty children--how could you be so disobedient? Go to bed at once!" And their father the doctor said: "I wish I had known what you were going to do! I should have liked to preserve a specimen. I threw away the one I got out of Effie's eye. I intended to get a more perfect specimen. I did not anticipate this immediate extinction of the species." The professor said nothing, but he rubbed his hands. He had kept his specimen--the one the size of an earwig that he gave Harry half a crown for--and he has it to this day. You must get him to show it to you! [Illustration: THE ICE DRAGON] IV. The Ice Dragon, or Do as You Are Told This is the tale of the wonders that befell on the evening of the eleventh of December, when they did what they were told not to do. You may think that you know all the unpleasant things that could possibly happen to you if you are disobedient, but there are some things which even you do not know, and they did not know them either. Their names were George and Jane. There were no fireworks that year on Guy Fawkes' Day, because the heir to the throne was not well. He was cutting his first tooth, and that is a very anxious time for any person--even for a Royal one. He was really very poorly, so that fireworks would have been in the worst possible taste, even at Land's End or in the Isle of Man, whilst in Forest Hill, which was the home of Jane and George, anything of the kind was quite out of the question. Even the Crystal Palace, empty-headed as it is, felt that this was no time for Catherine-wheels. But when the Prince had cut his tooth, rejoicings were not only admissible but correct, and the eleventh of December was proclaimed firework day. All the people were most anxious to show their loyalty, and to enjoy themselves at the same time. So there were fireworks and torchlight processions, and set pieces at the Crystal Palace, with "Blessings on our Prince" and "Long Live our Royal Darling" in different-colored fires; and the most private of boarding schools had a half holiday; and even the children of plumbers and authors had tuppence each given them to spend as they liked. George and Jane had sixpence each--and they spent the whole amount on a golden rain, which would not light for ever so long, and when it did light went out almost at once, so they had to look at the fireworks in the gardens next door, and at the ones at the Crystal Palace, which were very glorious indeed. All their relations had colds in their heads, so Jane and George were allowed to go out into the garden alone to let off their firework. Jane had put on her fur cape and her thick gloves, and her hood with the silver fox fur on it that was made out of Mother's old muff; and George had his overcoat with the three capes, and his comforter, and Father's sealskin traveling cap with the pieces that come down over your ears. It was dark in the garden, but the fireworks all about made it seem very gay, and though the children were cold they were quite sure that they were enjoying themselves. They got up on the fence at the end of the garden to see better; and then they saw, very far away, where the edge of the dark world is, a shining line of straight, beautiful lights arranged in a row, as if they were the spears carried by a fairy army. "Oh, how pretty," said Jane. "I wonder what they are. It looks as if the fairies were planting little shining baby poplar trees and watering them with liquid light." "Liquid fiddlestick!" said George. He had been to school, so he knew that these were only the Aurora Borealis, or Northern Lights. And he said so. "But what is the Rory Bory what's-its-name?" asked Jane. "Who lights it, and what's it there for?" George had to own that he had not learned that. "But I know," said he, "that it has something to do with the Great Bear, and the Dipper, and the Plough, and Charles's Wain." "And what are they?" asked Jane. "Oh, they're the surnames of some of the star families. There goes a jolly rocket," answered George, and Jane felt as if she almost understood about the star families. The fairy spears of light twinkled and gleamed: They were much prettier than the big, blaring, blazing bonfire that was smoking and flaming and spluttering in the next-door-but-one garden--prettier even than the colored fires at the Crystal Palace. "I wish we could see them nearer," Jane said. "I wonder if the star families are nice families--the kind that Mother would like us to go to tea with, if we were little stars?" "They aren't that sort of families at all, Silly," said her brother, kindly trying to explain. "I only said 'families' because a kid like you wouldn't have understood if I'd said constel ... and, besides, I've forgotten the end of the word. Anyway, the stars are all up in the sky, so you can't go to tea with them." "No," said Jane. "I said if we were little stars." "But we aren't," said George. "No," said Jane, with a sigh. "I know that. I'm not so stupid as you think, George. But the Tory Bories are somewhere at the edge. Couldn't we go and see them?" "Considering you're eight, you haven't much sense." George kicked his boots against the fencing to warm his toes. "It's half the world away." "It looks very near," said Jane, hunching up her shoulders to keep her neck warm. "They're close to the North Pole," said George. "Look here--I don't care a straw about the Aurora Borealis, but I shouldn't mind discovering the North Pole: It's awfully difficult and dangerous, and then you come home and write a book about it with a lot of pictures, and everybody says how brave you are." Jane got off the fence. "Oh, George, _let's_," she said. "We shall never have such a chance again--all alone by ourselves--and quite late, too." "I'd go right enough if it wasn't for you," George answered gloomily, "but you know they always say I lead you into mischief--and if we went to the North Pole we should get our boots wet, as likely as not, and you remember what they said about not going on the grass." "They said the _lawn_," said Jane. "We're not going on the _lawn_. Oh, George, do, do let's. It doesn't look so _very_ far--we could be back before they had time to get dreadfully angry." "All right," said George, "but mind, I don't want to go." So off they went. They got over the fence, which was very cold and white and shiny because it was beginning to freeze, and on the other side of the fence was somebody else's garden, so they got out of that as quickly as they could, and beyond that was a field where there was another big bonfire, with people standing around it who looked quite dark-skinned. "It's like Indians," said George, and wanted to stop and look, but Jane pulled him on, and they passed by the bonfire and got through a gap in the hedge into another field--a dark one; and far away, beyond quite a number of other dark fields, the Northern Lights shone and sparkled and twinkled. Now, during the winter the Arctic regions come much farther south than they are marked on the map. Very few people know this, though you would think they could tell it by the ice in the jugs of a morning. And just when George and Jane were starting for the North Pole, the Arctic regions had come down very nearly as far as Forest Hill, so that, as the children walked on, it grew colder and colder, and presently they saw that the fields were covered with snow, and there were great icicles hanging from all the hedges and gates. And the Northern Lights still seemed some way off. They were crossing a very rough, snowy field when Jane first noticed the animals. There were white rabbits and white hares and all sorts and sizes of white birds, and some larger creatures in the shadows of the hedges that Jane was sure were wolves and bears. "Polar bears and Arctic wolves, of course I mean," she said, for she did not want George to think her stupid again. There was a great hedge at the end of this field, all covered with snow and icicles; but the children found a place where there was a hole, and as no bears or wolves seemed to be just in that part of the hedge, they crept through and scrambled out of the frozen ditch on the other side. And then they stood still and held their breath with wonder. For in front of them, running straight and smooth right away to the Northern Lights, lay a great wide road of pure dark ice, and on each side were tall trees all sparkling with white frost, and from the boughs of the trees hung strings of stars threaded on fine moonbeams, and shining so brightly that it was like a beautiful fairy daylight. Jane said so; but George said it was like the electric lights at the Earl's Court Exhibition. The rows of trees went as straight as ruled lines away--away and away--and at the other end of them shone the Aurora Borealis. There was a signpost of silvery snow, and on it in letters of pure ice the children read: THIS WAY TO THE NORTH POLE. Then George said: "Way or no way, I know a slide when I see one--so here goes." And he took a run on the frozen snow, and Jane took a run when she saw him do it, and the next moment they were sliding away, each with feet half a yard apart, along the great slide that leads to the North Pole. This great slide is made for the convenience of the Polar bears, who, during the winter months, get their food from the Army and Navy Stores--and it is the most perfect slide in the world. If you have never come across it, it is because you have never let off fireworks on the eleventh of December, and have never been thoroughly naughty and disobedient. But do not be these things in the hope of finding the great slide--because you might find something quite different, and then you will be sorry. The great slide is like common slides in that when once you have started you have to go on to the end--unless you fall down--and then it hurts just as much as the smaller kind on ponds. The great slide runs downhill all the way, so that you keep on going faster and faster and faster. George and Jane went so fast that they had not time to notice the scenery. They only saw the long lines of frosted trees and the starry lamps, and on each side, rushing back as they slid on, a very broad, white world and a very large, black night; and overhead as well as in the trees the stars were bright like silver lamps, and far ahead shone and trembled and sparkled the line of fairy spears. Jane said that, and George said: "I can see the Northern Lights quite plain." It is very pleasant to slide and slide and slide on clear, dark ice--especially if you feel you are really going somewhere, and more especially if that somewhere is the North Pole. The children's feet made no noise on the ice, and they went on and on in a beautiful white silence. But suddenly the silence was shattered and a cry rang out over the snow. "Hey! You there! Stop!" "Tumble for your life!" cried George, and he fell down at once, because it is the only way to stop. Jane fell on top of him--and then they crawled on hands and knees to the snow at the edge of the slide--and there was a sportsman, dressed in a peaked cap and a frozen moustache, like the one you see in the pictures about Ice-Peter, and he had a gun in his hand. "You don't happen to have any bullets about you?" said he. "No," George said, truthfully. "I had five of father's revolver cartridges, but they were taken away the day Nurse turned out my pockets to see if I had taken the knob of the bathroom door by mistake." "Quite so," said the sportsman, "these accidents will occur. You don't carry firearms, then, I presume?" "I haven't any fire_arms_," said George, "but I have a fire_work_. It's only a squib one of the boys gave me, if that's any good." And he began to feel among the string and peppermints, and buttons and tops and nibs and chalk and foreign postage stamps in his knickerbocker pockets. "One could but try," the sportsman replied, and he held out his hand. But Jane pulled at her brother's jacket-tail and whispered, "Ask him what he wants it for." So then the sportsman had to confess that he wanted the firework to kill the white grouse with; and, when they came to look, there was the white grouse himself, sitting in the snow, looking quite pale and careworn, and waiting anxiously for the matter to be decided one way or the other. George put all the things back in his pockets, and said, "No, I shan't. The reason for shooting him stopped yesterday--I heard Father say so--so it wouldn't be fair, anyhow. I'm very sorry; but I can't--so there!" The sportsman said nothing, only he shook his fist at Jane, and then he got on the slide and tried to go toward the Crystal Palace--which was not easy, because that way is uphill. So they left him trying, and went on. Before they started, the white grouse thanked them in a few pleasant, well-chosen words, and then they took a sideways slanting run and started off again on the great slide, and so away toward the North Pole and the twinkling, beautiful lights. The great slide went on and on, and the lights did not seem to come much nearer, and the white silence wrapped around them as they slid along the wide, icy path. Then once again the silence was broken to bits by someone calling: "Hey! You there! Stop!" "Tumble for your life!" cried George, and tumbled as before, stopping in the only possible way, and Jane stopped on top of him, and they crawled to the edge and came suddenly on a butterfly collector, who was looking for specimens with a pair of blue glasses and a blue net and a blue book with colored plates. "Excuse me," said the collector, "but have you such a thing as a needle about you--a very long needle?" "I have a needle _book_," replied Jane, politely, "but there aren't any needles in it now. George took them all to do the things with pieces of cork--in the 'Boy's Own Scientific Experimenter' and 'The Young Mechanic.' He did not do the things, but he did for the needles." "Curiously enough," said the collector, "I too wish to use the needle in connection with cork." "I have a hatpin in my hood," said Jane. "I fastened the fur with it when it caught in the nail on the greenhouse door. It is very long and sharp--would that do?" "One could but try," said the collector, and Jane began to feel for the pin. But George pinched her arm and whispered, "Ask what he wants it for." Then the collector had to own that he wanted the pin to stick through the great Arctic moth, "a magnificent specimen," he added, "which I am most anxious to preserve." And there, sure enough, in the collector's butterfly net sat the great Arctic moth, listening attentively to the conversation. "Oh, I couldn't!" cried Jane. And while George was explaining to the collector that they would really rather not, Jane opened the blue folds of the butterfly net, and asked the moth quietly if it would please step outside for a moment. And it did. When the collector saw that the moth was free, he seemed less angry than grieved. "Well, well," said he, "here's a whole Arctic expedition thrown away! I shall have to go home and fit out another. And that means a lot of writing to the papers and things. You seem to be a singularly thoughtless little girl." So they went on, leaving him too, trying to go uphill towards the Crystal Palace. When the great white Arctic moth had returned thanks in a suitable speech, George and Jane took a sideways slanting run and started sliding again, between the star-lamps along the great slide toward the North Pole. They went faster and faster, and the lights ahead grew brighter and brighter--so that they could not keep their eyes open, but had to blink and wink as they went--and then suddenly the great slide ended in an immense heap of snow, and George and Jane shot right into it because they could not stop themselves, and the snow was soft, so that they went in up to their very ears. When they had picked themselves out and thumped each other on the back to get rid of the snow, they shaded their eyes and looked, and there, right in front of them, was the wonder of wonders--the North Pole--towering high and white and glistening, like an ice-lighthouse, and it was quite, quite close, so that you had to put your head as far back as it would go, and farther, before you could see the high top of it. It was made entirely of ice. You will hear grown-up people talk a great deal of nonsense about the North Pole, and when you are grown up, it is even possible that you may talk nonsense about it yourself (the most unlikely things do happen) but deep down in your heart you must always remember that the North Pole is made of clear ice, and could not possibly, if you come to think of it, be made of anything else. All around the Pole, making a bright ring about it, were hundreds of little fires, and the flames of them did not flicker and twist, but went up blue and green and rosy and straight like the stalks of dream lilies. Jane said so, but George said they were as straight as ramrods. And these flames were the Aurora Borealis, which the children had seen as far away as Forest Hill. The ground was quite flat, and covered with smooth, hard snow, which shone and sparkled like the top of a birthday cake that has been iced at home. The ones done at the shops do not shine and sparkle, because they mix flour with the icing sugar. "It is like a dream," said Jane. And George said, "It _is_ the North Pole. Just think of the fuss people always make about getting here--and it was no trouble at all, really." "I daresay lots of people have gotten here," said Jane, dismally. "It's not the getting _here_--I see that--it's the getting back again. Perhaps no one will ever know that _we_ have been here, and the robins will cover us with leaves and--" "Nonsense," said George. "There aren't any robins, and there aren't any leaves. It's just the North Pole, that's all, and I've found it; and now I shall try to climb up and plant the British flag on the top--my handkerchief will do; and if it really _is_ the North Pole, my pocket compass Uncle James gave me will spin around and around, and then I shall know. Come on." So Jane came on; and when they got close to the clear, tall, beautiful flames they saw that there was a great, queer-shaped lump of ice all around the bottom of the Pole--clear, smooth, shining ice, that was deep, beautiful Prussian blue, like icebergs, in the thick parts, and all sorts of wonderful, glimmery, shimmery, changing colors in the thin parts, like the cut-glass chandelier in Grandmamma's house in London. "It is a very curious shape," said Jane. "It's almost like"--she moved back a step to get a better view of it--"it's almost like a dragon." "It's much more like the lampposts on the Thames Embankment," said George, who had noticed a curly thing like a tail that went twisting up the North Pole. "Oh, George," cried Jane, "it _is_ a dragon; I can see its wings. Whatever shall we do?" And, sure enough, it _was_ a dragon--a great, shining, winged, scaly, clawy, big-mouthed dragon--made of pure ice. It must have gone to sleep curled around the hole where the warm steam used to come up from the middle of the earth, and then when the earth got colder, and the column of steam froze and was turned into the North Pole, the dragon must have got frozen in his sleep--frozen too hard to move--and there he stayed. And though he was very terrible he was very beautiful too. Jane said so, but George said, "Oh, don't bother; I'm thinking how to get onto the Pole and try the compass without waking the brute." [Illustration: "Sure enough, it was a dragon." _See page 68._] The dragon certainly was beautiful, with his deep, clear Prussian blueness, and his rainbow-colored glitter. And rising from within the cold coil of the frozen dragon the North Pole shot up like a pillar made of one great diamond, and every now and then it cracked a little, from sheer cold. The sound of the cracking was the only thing that broke the great white silence in the midst of which the dragon lay like an enormous jewel, and the straight flames went up all around him like the stalks of tall lilies. And as the children stood there looking at the most wonderful sight their eyes had ever seen, there was a soft padding of feet and a hurry-scurry behind them, and from the outside darkness beyond the flame-stalks came a crowd of little brown creatures running, jumping, scrambling, tumbling head over heels and on all fours, and some even walking on their heads. They joined hands as they came near the fires and danced around in a ring. "It's bears," said Jane. "I know it is. Oh, how I wish we hadn't come; and my boots are so wet." The dancing-ring broke up suddenly, and the next moment hundreds of furry arms clutched at George and Jane, and they found themselves in the middle of a great, soft, heaving crowd of little fat people in brown fur dresses, and the white silence was quite gone. "Bears, indeed," cried a shrill voice. "You'll wish we were bears before you've done with us." This sounded so dreadful that Jane began to cry. Up to now the children had only seen the most beautiful and wondrous things, but now they began to be sorry they had done what they were told not to, and the difference between "lawn" and "grass" did not seem so great as it had at Forest Hill. Directly Jane began to cry, all the brown people started back. No one cries in the Arctic regions for fear of being struck by the frost. So that these people had never seen anyone cry before. "Don't cry for real," whispered George, "or you'll get chilblains in your eyes. But pretend to howl--it frightens them." So Jane went on pretending to howl, and the real crying stopped: It always does when you begin to pretend. You try it. Then, speaking very loud so as to be heard over the howls of Jane, George said: "Yah--who's afraid? We are George and Jane--who are you?" "We are the sealskin dwarfs," said the brown people, twisting their furry bodies in and out of the crowd like the changing glass in kaleidoscopes. "We are very precious and expensive, for we are made, throughout, of the very best sealskin." "And what are those fires for?" bellowed George--for Jane was crying louder and louder. "Those," shouted the dwarfs, coming a step nearer, "are the fires we make to thaw the dragon. He is frozen now--so he sleeps curled up around the Pole--but when we have thawed him with our fires he will wake up and go and eat everybody in the world except us." "WHATEVER--DO--YOU--WANT--HIM--TO--DO--THAT--FOR?" yelled George. "Oh--just for spite," bawled the dwarfs carelessly--as if they were saying, "Just for fun." Jane stopped crying to say: "You are heartless." "No, we aren't," they said. "Our hearts are made of the finest sealskin, just like little fat sealskin purses--" And they all came a step nearer. They were very fat and round. Their bodies were like sealskin jackets on a very stout person; their heads were like sealskin muffs; their legs were like sealskin boas; and their hands and feet were like sealskin tobacco pouches. And their faces were like seals' faces, inasmuch as they, too, were covered with sealskin. "Thank you so much for telling us," said George. "Good evening. (Keep on howling, Jane!)" But the dwarfs came a step nearer, muttering and whispering. Then the muttering stopped--and there was a silence so deep that Jane was afraid to howl in it. But it was a brown silence, and she had liked the white silence better. Then the chief dwarf came quite close and said: "What's that on your head?" And George felt it was all up--for he knew it was his father's sealskin cap. The dwarf did not wait for an answer. "It's made of one of us," he screamed, "or else one of the seals, our poor relations. Boy, now your fate is sealed!" Looking at the wicked seal-faces all around them, George and Jane felt that their fate was sealed indeed. The dwarfs seized the children in their furry arms. George kicked, but it is no use kicking sealskin, and Jane howled, but the dwarfs were getting used to that. They climbed up the dragon's side and dumped the children down on his icy spine, with their backs against the North Pole. You have no idea how cold it was--the kind of cold that makes you feel small and prickly inside your clothes, and makes you wish you had twenty times as many clothes to feel small and prickly inside of. The sealskin dwarfs tied George and Jane to the North Pole, and, as they had no ropes, they bound them with snow-wreaths, which are very strong when they are made in the proper way, and they heaped up the fires very close and said: "Now the dragon will get warm, and when he gets warm he will wake, and when he wakes he will be hungry, and when he is hungry he will begin to eat, and the first thing he will eat will be you." The little, sharp, many-colored flames sprang up like the stalks of dream lilies, but no heat came to the children, and they grew colder and colder. "We shan't be very nice when the dragon does eat us, that's one comfort," said George. "We shall be turned into ice long before that." Suddenly there was a flapping of wings, and the white grouse perched on the dragon's head and said: "Can I be of any assistance?" [Illustration: "The dwarfs seized the children." _See page 72._] Now, by this time the children were so cold, so cold, so very, very cold, that they had forgotten everything but that, and they could say nothing else. So the white grouse said: "One moment. I am only too grateful for this opportunity of showing my sense of your manly conduct about the firework!" And the next moment there was a soft whispering rustle of wings overhead, and then, fluttering slowly, softly down, came hundreds and thousands of little white fluffy feathers. They fell on George and Jane like snowflakes, and, like flakes of fallen snow lying one above another, they grew into a thicker and thicker covering, so that presently the children were buried under a heap of white feathers, and only their faces peeped out. "Oh, you dear, good, kind white grouse," said Jane, "but you'll be cold yourself, won't you, now you have given us all your pretty dear feathers?" The white grouse laughed, and his laugh was echoed by thousands of kind, soft bird voices. "Did you think all those feathers came out of one breast? There are hundreds and hundreds of us here, and every one of us can spare a little tuft of soft breast feathers to help to keep two kind little hearts warm!" Thus spoke the grouse, who certainly had very pretty manners. So now the children snuggled under the feathers and were warm, and when the sealskin dwarfs tried to take the feathers away, the grouse and his friends flew in their faces with flappings and screams, and drove the dwarfs back. They are a cowardly folk. The dragon had not moved yet--but then he might at any moment get warm enough to move, and though George and Jane were now warm they were not comfortable nor easy in their minds. They tried to explain to the grouse; but though he is polite, he is not clever, and he only said: "You've got a warm nest, and we'll see that no one takes it from you. What more can you possibly want?" Just then came a new, strange, jerky fluttering of wings far softer than the grouse's, and George and Jane cried out together: "Oh, _do_ mind your wings in the fires!" For they saw at once that it was the great white Arctic moth. "What's the matter?" he asked, settling on the dragon's tail. So they told him. "Sealskin, are they?" said the moth. "Just you wait a minute!" He flew off very crookedly, dodging the flames, and presently he came back, and there were so many moths with him that it was as if a live sheet of white wingedness were suddenly drawn between the children and the stars. And then the doom of the bad sealskin dwarfs fell suddenly on them. For the great sheet of winged whiteness broke up and fell as snow falls, and it fell upon the sealskin dwarfs; and every snowflake of it was a live, fluttering, hungry moth that buried its greedy nose deep in the sealskin fur. Grown-up people will tell you that it is not moths but moths' children who eat fur--but this is only when they are trying to deceive you. When they are not thinking about you they say, "I fear the moths have got at my ermine tippet," or, "Your poor Aunt Emma had a lovely sable cloak, but it was eaten by moths." And now there were more moths than have ever been together in this world before, all settling on the sealskin dwarfs. The dwarfs did not see their danger till it was too late. Then they called for camphor and bitter apple and oil of lavender and yellow soap and borax; and some of the dwarfs even started to get these things, but long before any of them could get to the chemist's, all was over. The moths ate and ate and ate till the sealskin dwarfs, being sealskin throughout, even to the empty hearts of them, were eaten down to the very life--and they fell one by one on the snow and so came to their end. And all around the North Pole the snow was brown with their flat bare pelts. "Oh, thank you--thank you, darling Arctic moth," cried Jane. "You are good--I do hope you haven't eaten enough to disagree with you afterward!" Millions of moth voices answered, with laughter as soft as moth wings, "We should be a poor set of fellows if we couldn't over eat ourselves once in a while--to oblige a friend." And off they all fluttered, and the white grouse flew off, and the sealskin dwarfs were all dead, and the fires went out, and George and Jane were left alone in the dark with the dragon! "Oh, dear," said Jane, "this is the worst of all!" "We've no friends left to help us," said George. He never thought that the dragon himself might help them--but then that was an idea that would never have occurred to any boy. It grew colder and colder and colder, and even under the grouse feathers the children shivered. Then, when it was so cold that it could not manage to be any colder without breaking the thermometer, it stopped. And then the dragon uncurled himself from around the North Pole, and stretched his long, icy length over the snow, and said: "This is something like! How faint those fires did make me feel!" The fact was, the sealskin dwarfs had gone the wrong way to work: The dragon had been frozen so long that now he was nothing but solid ice all through, and the fires only made him feel as if he were going to die. But when the fires were out he felt quite well, and very hungry. He looked around for something to eat. But he never noticed George and Jane, because they were frozen to his back. He moved slowly off, and the snow-wreaths that bound the children to the Pole gave way with a snap, and there was the dragon, crawling south--with Jane and George on his great, scaly, icy shining back. Of course the dragon had to go south if he went anywhere, because when you get to the North Pole there is no other way to go. The dragon rattled and tinkled as he went, exactly like the cut-glass chandelier when you touch it, as you are strictly forbidden to do. Of course there are a million ways of going south from the North Pole--so you will own that it was lucky for George and Jane when the dragon took the right way and suddenly got his heavy feet on the great slide. Off he went, full speed, between the starry lamps, toward Forest Hill and the Crystal Palace. "He's going to take us home," said Jane. "Oh, he is a good dragon. I _am_ glad!" George was rather glad too, though neither of the children felt at all sure of their welcome, especially as their feet were wet, and they were bringing a strange dragon home with them. They went very fast, because dragons can go uphill as easily as down. You would not understand why if I told you--because you are only in long division at present; yet if you want me to tell you, so that you can show off to other children, I will. It is because dragons can get their tails into the fourth dimension and hold on there, and when you can do that everything else is easy. The dragon went very fast, only stopping to eat the collector and the sportsman, who were still struggling to go up the slide--vainly, because they had no tails, and had never even heard of the fourth dimension. When the dragon got to the end of the slide he crawled very slowly across the dark field beyond the field where there was a bonfire, next to the next-door garden at Forest Hill. * * * * * He went slower and slower, and in the bonfire field he stopped altogether, and because the Arctic regions had not got down so far as that, and because the bonfire was very hot, the dragon began to melt and melt and melt--and before the children knew what he was doing they found themselves sitting in a large pool of water, and their boots were as wet as wet, and there was not a bit of dragon left! So they went indoors. Of course some grown-up or other noticed at once that the boots of George and Jane were wet and muddy, and that they had both been sitting down in a very damp place, so they were sent to bed immediately. It was long past their time, anyhow. Now, if you are of an inquiring mind--not at all a nice thing in a little child who reads fairy tales--you will want to know how it is that since the sealskin dwarfs have all been killed, and the fires all been let out, the Aurora Borealis shines, on cold nights, as brightly as ever. My dear, I do not know! I am not too proud to own that there are some things I know nothing about--and this is one of them. But I do know that whoever has lighted those fires again, it is certainly not the sealskin dwarfs. They were all eaten by moths--and motheaten things are of no use, even to light fires! [Illustration: THE ISLAND OF THE NINE WHIRLPOOLS] V. The Island of the Nine Whirlpools The dark arch that led to the witch's cave was hung with a black-and-yellow fringe of live snakes. As the Queen went in, keeping carefully in the middle of the arch, all the snakes lifted their wicked, flat heads and stared at her with their wicked, yellow eyes. You know it is not good manners to stare, even at Royalty, except of course for cats. And the snakes had been so badly brought up that they even put their tongues out at the poor lady. Nasty, thin, sharp tongues they were too. Now, the Queen's husband was, of course, the King. And besides being a King he was an enchanter, and considered to be quite at the top of his profession, so he was very wise, and he knew that when Kings and Queens want children, the Queen always goes to see a witch. So he gave the Queen the witch's address, and the Queen called on her, though she was very frightened and did not like it at all. The witch was sitting by a fire of sticks, stirring something bubbly in a shiny copper cauldron. "What do you want, my dear?" she said to the Queen. "Oh, if you please," said the Queen, "I want a baby--a very nice one. We don't want any expense spared. My husband said--" "Oh, yes," said the witch. "I know all about him. And so you want a child? Do you know it will bring you sorrow?" "It will bring me joy first," said the Queen. "Great sorrow," said the witch. "Greater joy," said the Queen. Then the witch said, "Well, have your own way. I suppose it's as much as your place is worth to go back without it?" "The King would be very much annoyed," said the poor Queen. "Well, well," said the witch. "What will you give me for the child?" "Anything you ask for, and all I have," said the Queen. "Then give me your gold crown." The Queen took it off quickly. "And your necklace of blue sapphires." The Queen unfastened it. "And your pearl bracelets." The Queen unclasped them. "And your ruby clasps." And the Queen undid the clasps. "Now the lilies from your breast." The Queen gathered together the lilies. "And the diamonds of your little bright shoe buckles." The Queen pulled off her shoes. Then the witch stirred the stuff that was in the cauldron, and, one by one, she threw in the gold crown and the sapphire necklace and the pearl bracelets and the ruby clasps and the diamonds of the little bright shoe buckles, and last of all she threw in the lilies. The stuff in the cauldron boiled up in foaming flashes of yellow and blue and red and white and silver, and sent out a sweet scent, and presently the witch poured it out into a pot and set it to cool in the doorway among the snakes. Then she said to the Queen: "Your child will have hair as golden as your crown, eyes as blue as your sapphires. The red of your rubies will lie on its lips, and its skin will be clear and pale as your pearls. Its soul will be white and sweet as your lilies, and your diamonds will be no clearer than its wits." "Oh, thank you, thank you," said the Queen, "and when will it come?" "You will find it when you get home." "And won't you have something for yourself?" asked the Queen. "Any little thing you fancy--would you like a country, or a sack of jewels?" "Nothing, thank you," said the witch. "I could make more diamonds in a day than I should wear in a year." "Well, but do let me do some little thing for you," the Queen went on. "Aren't you tired of being a witch? Wouldn't you like to be a Duchess or a Princess, or something like that?" "There is one thing I should rather like," said the witch, "but it's hard to get in my trade." "Oh, tell me what," said the Queen. "I should like some one to love me," said the witch. Then the Queen threw her arms around the witch's neck and kissed her half a hundred times. "Why," she said, "I love you better than my life! You've given me the baby--and the baby shall love you too." "Perhaps it will," said the witch, "and when the sorrow comes, send for me. Each of your fifty kisses will be a spell to bring me to you. Now, drink up your medicine, there's a dear, and run along home." So the Queen drank the stuff in the pot, which was quite cool by this time, and she went out under the fringe of snakes, and they all behaved like good Sunday-school children. Some of them even tried to drop a curtsy to her as she went by, though that is not easy when you are hanging wrong way up by your tail. But the snakes knew the Queen was friends with their mistress; so, of course, they had to do their best to be civil. When the Queen got home, sure enough there was the baby lying in the cradle with the Royal arms blazoned on it, crying as naturally as possible. It had pink ribbons to tie up its sleeves, so the Queen saw at once it was a girl. When the King knew this he tore his black hair with fury. "Oh, you silly, silly Queen!" he said. "Why didn't I marry a clever lady? Did you think I went to all the trouble and expense of sending you to a witch to get a girl? You knew well enough it was a boy I wanted--a boy, an heir, a Prince--to learn all my magic and my enchantments, and to rule the kingdom after me. I'll bet a crown--my crown," he said, "you never even thought to tell the witch what kind you wanted! Did you now?" And the Queen hung her head and had to confess that she had only asked for a child. "Very well, madam," said the King, "very well--have your own way. And make the most of your daughter, while she is a child." The Queen did. All the years of her life had never held half so much happiness as now lived in each of the moments when she held her little baby in her arms. And the years went on, and the King grew more and more clever at magic, and more and more disagreeable at home, and the Princess grew more beautiful and more dear every day she lived. The Queen and the Princess were feeding the goldfish in the courtyard fountains with crumbs of the Princess's eighteenth birthday cake, when the King came into the courtyard, looking as black as thunder, with his black raven hopping after him. He shook his fist at his family, as indeed he generally did whenever he met them, for he was not a King with pretty home manners. The raven sat down on the edge of the marble basin and tried to peck the goldfish. It was all he could do to show that he was in the same temper as his master. "A girl indeed!" said the King angrily. "I wonder you can dare to look me in the face, when you remember how your silliness has spoiled everything." "You oughtn't to speak to my mother like that," said the Princess. She was eighteen, and it came to her suddenly and all in a moment that she was a grown-up, so she spoke out. The King could not utter a word for several minutes. He was too angry. But the Queen said, "My dear child, don't interfere," quite crossly, for she was frightened. And to her husband she said, "My dear, why do you go on worrying about it? Our daughter is not a boy, it is true--but she may marry a clever man who could rule your kingdom after you, and learn as much magic as ever you cared to teach him." Then the King found his tongue. "If she does marry," he said, slowly, "her husband will have to be a very clever man--oh, yes, very clever indeed! And he will have to know a very great deal more magic than I shall ever care to teach him." The Queen knew at once by the King's tone that he was going to be disagreeable. "Ah," she said, "don't punish the child because she loves her mother." "I'm not going to punish her for that," said he. "I'm only going to teach her to respect her father." And without another word he went off to his laboratory and worked all night, boiling different-colored things in crucibles, and copying charms in curious twisted letters from old brown books with mold stains on their yellowy pages. The next day his plan was all arranged. He took the poor Princess to the Lone Tower, which stands on an island in the sea, a thousand miles from everywhere. He gave her a dowry, and settled a handsome income on her. He engaged a competent dragon to look after her, and also a respectable griffin whose birth and upbringing he knew all about. And he said: "Here you shall stay, my dear, respectful daughter, till the clever man comes to marry you. He'll have to be clever enough to sail a ship through the Nine Whirlpools that spin around the island, and to kill the dragon and the griffin. Till he comes you'll never get any older or any wiser. No doubt he will soon come. You can employ yourself in embroidering your wedding gown. I wish you joy, my dutiful child." And his carriage, drawn by live thunderbolts (thunder travels very fast), rose in the air and disappeared, and the poor Princess was left, with the dragon and the griffin, on the Island of the Nine Whirlpools. The Queen, left at home, cried for a day and a night, and then she remembered the witch and called to her. And the witch came, and the Queen told her all. "For the sake of the twice twenty-five kisses you gave me," said the witch, "I will help you. But it is the last thing I can do, and it is not much. Your daughter is under a spell, and I can take you to her. But, if I do, you will have to be turned to stone, and to stay so till the spell is taken off the child." "I would be a stone for a thousand years," said the poor Queen, "if at the end of them I could see my dear again." So the witch took the Queen in a carriage drawn by live sunbeams (which travel more quickly than anything else in the world, and much quicker than thunder), and so away and away to the Lone Tower on the Island of the Nine Whirlpools. And there was the Princess sitting on the floor in the best room of the Lone Tower, crying as if her heart would break, and the dragon and the griffin were sitting primly on each side of her. "Oh, Mother, Mother, Mother," she cried, and hung around the Queen's neck as if she would never let go. "Now," said the witch, when they had all cried as much as was good for them, "I can do one or two other little things for you. Time shall not make the Princess sad. All days will be like one day till her deliverer comes. And you and I, dear Queen, will sit in stone at the gate of the tower. In doing this for you I lose all my witch's powers, and when I say the spell that changes you to stone, I shall change with you, and if ever we come out of the stone, I shall be a witch no more, but only a happy old woman." Then the three kissed one another again and again, and the witch said the spell, and on each side of the door there was now a stone lady. One of them had a stone crown on its head and a stone scepter in its hand; but the other held a stone tablet with words on it, which the griffin and the dragon could not read, though they had both had a very good education. And now all days seemed like one day to the Princess, and the next day always seemed the day when her mother would come out of the stone and kiss her again. And the years went slowly by. The wicked King died, and some one else took his kingdom, and many things were changed in the world; but the island did not change, nor the Nine Whirlpools, nor the griffin, nor the dragon, nor the two stone ladies. And all the time, from the very first, the day of the Princess's deliverance was coming, creeping nearer, and nearer, and nearer. But no one saw it coming except the Princess, and she only in dreams. And the years went by in tens and in hundreds, and still the Nine Whirlpools spun around, roaring in triumph the story of many a good ship that had gone down in their swirl, bearing with it some Prince who had tried to win the Princess and her dowry. And the great sea knew all the other stories of the Princes who had come from very far, and had seen the whirlpools, and had shaken their wise young heads and said: "'Bout ship!" and gone discreetly home to their nice, safe, comfortable kingdoms. But no one told the story of the deliverer who was to come. And the years went by. Now, after more scores of years than you would like to add up on your slate, a certain sailor-boy sailed on the high seas with his uncle, who was a skilled skipper. And the boy could reef a sail and coil a rope and keep the ship's nose steady before the wind. And he was as good a boy as you would find in a month of Sundays, and worthy to be a Prince. Now there is Something which is wiser than all the world--and it knows when people are worthy to be Princes. And this Something came from the farther side of the seventh world, and whispered in the boy's ear. And the boy heard, though he did not know he heard, and he looked out over the black sea with the white foam-horses galloping over it, and far away he saw a light. And he said to the skipper, his uncle: "What light is that?" Then the skipper said: "All good things defend you, Nigel, from sailing near that light. It is not mentioned in all charts; but it is marked in the old chart I steer by, which was my father's father's before me, and his father's father's before him. It is the light that shines from the Lone Tower that stands above the Nine Whirlpools. And when my father's father was young he heard from the very old man, his great-great-grandfather, that in that tower an enchanted Princess, fairer than the day, waits to be delivered. But there is no deliverance, so never steer that way; and think no more of the Princess, for that is only an idle tale. But the whirlpools are quite real." So, of course, from that day Nigel thought of nothing else. And as he sailed hither and thither upon the high seas he saw from time to time the light that shone out to sea across the wild swirl of the Nine Whirlpools. And one night, when the ship was at anchor and the skipper asleep in his bunk, Nigel launched the ship's boat and steered alone over the dark sea towards the light. He dared not go very near till daylight should show him what, indeed, were the whirlpools he had to dread. But when the dawn came he saw the Lone Tower standing dark against the pink and primrose of the East, and about its base the sullen swirl of black water, and he heard the wonderful roar of it. So he hung off and on, all that day and for six days besides. And when he had watched seven days he knew something. For you are certain to know something if you give for seven days your whole thought to it, even though it be only the first declension, or the nine-times table, or the dates of the Norman Kings. What he knew was this: that for five minutes out of the 1,440 minutes that make up a day the whirlpools slipped into silence, while the tide went down and left the yellow sand bare. And every day this happened, but every day it was five minutes earlier than it had been the day before. He made sure of this by the ship's chronometer, which he had thoughtfully brought with him. [Illustration: "The Lone Tower on the Island of the Nine Whirlpools." _See page 88._] So on the eighth day, at five minutes before noon, Nigel got ready. And when the whirlpools suddenly stopped whirling and the tide sank, like water in a basin that has a hole in it, he stuck to his oars and put his back into his stroke, and presently beached the boat on the yellow sand. Then he dragged it into a cave, and sat down to wait. By five minutes and one second past noon, the whirlpools were black and busy again, and Nigel peeped out of his cave. And on the rocky ledge overhanging the sea he saw a Princess as beautiful as the day, with golden hair and a green gown--and he went out to meet her. "I've come to save you," he said. "How darling and beautiful you are!" "You are very good, and very clever, and very dear," said the Princess, smiling and giving him both her hands. He shut a little kiss in each hand before he let them go. "So now, when the tide is low again, I will take you away in my boat," he said. "But what about the dragon and the griffin?" asked the Princess. "Dear me," said Nigel. "I didn't know about them. I suppose I can kill them?" "Don't be a silly boy," said the Princess, pretending to be very grown up, for, though she had been on the island time only knows how many years, she was just eighteen, and she still liked pretending. "You haven't a sword, or a shield, or anything!" "Well, don't the beasts ever go to sleep?" "Why, yes," said the Princess, "but only once in twenty-four hours, and then the dragon is turned to stone. But the griffin has dreams. The griffin sleeps at teatime every day, but the dragon sleeps every day for five minutes, and every day it is three minutes later than it was the day before." "What time does he sleep today?" asked Nigel. "At eleven," said the Princess. "Ah," said Nigel, "can you do sums?" "No," said the Princess sadly. "I was never good at them." "Then I must," said Nigel. "I can, but it's slow work, and it makes me very unhappy. It'll take me days and days." "Don't begin yet," said the Princess. "You'll have plenty of time to be unhappy when I'm not with you. Tell me all about yourself." So he did. And then she told him all about herself. "I know I've been here a long time," she said, "but I don't know what Time is. And I am very busy sewing silk flowers on a golden gown for my wedding day. And the griffin does the housework--his wings are so convenient and feathery for sweeping and dusting. And the dragon does the cooking--he's hot inside, so, of course, it's no trouble to him; and though I don't know what Time is I'm sure it's time for my wedding day, because my golden gown only wants one more white daisy on the sleeve, and a lily on the bosom of it, and then it will be ready." Just then they heard a dry, rustling clatter on the rocks above them and a snorting sound. "It's the dragon," said the Princess hurriedly. "Good-bye. Be a good boy, and get your sum done." And she ran away and left him to his arithmetic. Now, the sum was this: "If the whirlpools stop and the tide goes down once in every twenty-four hours, and they do it five minutes earlier every twenty-four hours, and if the dragon sleeps every day, and he does it three minutes later every day, in how many days and at what time in the day will the tide go down three minutes before the dragon falls asleep?" It is quite a simple sum, as you see: You could do it in a minute because you have been to a good school and have taken pains with your lessons; but it was quite otherwise with poor Nigel. He sat down to work out his sum with a piece of chalk on a smooth stone. He tried it by practice and the unitary method, by multiplication, and by rule-of-three-and-three-quarters. He tried it by decimals and by compound interest. He tried it by square root and by cube root. He tried it by addition, simple and otherwise, and he tried it by mixed examples in vulgar fractions. But it was all of no use. Then he tried to do the sum by algebra, by simple and by quadratic equations, by trigonometry, by logarithms, and by conic sections. But it would not do. He got an answer every time, it is true, but it was always a different one, and he could not feel sure which answer was right. And just as he was feeling how much more important than anything else it is to be able to do your sums, the Princess came back. And now it was getting dark. "Why, you've been seven hours over that sum," she said, "and you haven't done it yet. Look here, this is what is written on the tablet of the statue by the lower gate. It has figures in it. Perhaps it is the answer to the sum." She held out to him a big white magnolia leaf. And she had scratched on it with the pin of her pearl brooch, and it had turned brown where she had scratched it, as magnolia leaves will do. Nigel read: AFTER NINE DAYS T ii. 24. D ii. 27 Ans. P.S.--And the griffin is artificial. R. He clapped his hands softly. "Dear Princess," he said, "I know that's the right answer. It says R too, you see. But I'll just prove it." So he hastily worked the sum backward in decimals and equations and conic sections, and all the rules he could think of. And it came right every time. "So now we must wait," said he. And they waited. And every day the Princess came to see Nigel and brought him food cooked by the dragon, and he lived in his cave, and talked to her when she was there, and thought about her when she was not, and they were both as happy as the longest day in summer. Then at last came The Day. Nigel and the Princess laid their plans. "You're sure he won't hurt you, my only treasure?" said Nigel. "Quite," said the Princess. "I only wish I were half as sure that he wouldn't hurt you." "My Princess," he said tenderly, "two great powers are on our side: the power of Love and the power of Arithmetic. Those two are stronger than anything else in the world." So when the tide began to go down, Nigel and the Princess ran out on to the sands, and there, in full sight of the terrace where the dragon kept watch, Nigel took his Princess in his arms and kissed her. The griffin was busy sweeping the stairs of the Lone Tower, but the dragon saw, and he gave a cry of rage--and it was like twenty engines all letting off steam at the top of their voices inside Cannon Street Station. And the two lovers stood looking up at the dragon. He was dreadful to look at. His head was white with age--and his beard had grown so long that he caught his claws in it as he walked. His wings were white with the salt that had settled on them from the spray of the sea. His tail was long and thick and jointed and white, and had little legs to it, any number of them--far too many--so that it looked like a very large fat silkworm; and his claws were as long as lessons and as sharp as bayonets. "Good-bye, love!" cried Nigel, and ran out across the yellow sand toward the sea. He had one end of a cord tied to his arm. The dragon was clambering down the face of the cliff, and next moment he was crawling and writhing and sprawling and wriggling across the beach after Nigel, making great holes in the sand with his heavy feet--and the very end of his tail, where there were no legs, made, as it dragged, a mark in the sand such as you make when you launch a boat; and he breathed fire till the wet sand hissed again, and the water of the little rock pools got quite frightened, and all went off in steam. Still Nigel held on and the dragon after him. The Princess could see nothing for the steam, and she stood crying bitterly, but still holding on tight with her right hand to the other end of the cord that Nigel had told her to hold; while with her left she held the ship's chronometer, and looked at it through her tears as he had bidden her look, so as to know when to pull the rope. On went Nigel over the sand, and on went the dragon after him. And the tide was low, and sleepy little waves lapped the sand's edge. Now at the lip of the water, Nigel paused and looked back, and the dragon made a bound, beginning a scream of rage that was like all the engines of all the railways in England. But it never uttered the second half of that scream, for now it knew suddenly that it was sleepy--it turned to hurry back to dry land, because sleeping near whirlpools is so unsafe. But before it reached the shore sleep caught it and turned it to stone. Nigel, seeing this, ran shoreward for his life--and the tide began to flow in, and the time of the whirlpools' sleep was nearly over, and he stumbled and he waded and he swam, and the Princess pulled for dear life at the cord in her hand, and pulled him up on to the dry shelf of rock just as the great sea dashed in and made itself once more into the girdle of Nine Whirlpools all around the island. But the dragon was asleep under the whirlpools, and when he woke up from being asleep he found he was drowned, so there was an end of him. "Now, there's only the griffin," said Nigel. And the Princess said: "Yes--only--" And she kissed Nigel and went back to sew the last leaf of the last lily on the bosom of her wedding gown. She thought and thought of what was written on the stone about the griffin being artificial--and next day she said to Nigel: "You know a griffin is half a lion and half an eagle, and the other two halves when they've joined make the leo-griff. But I've never seen him. Yet I have an idea." So they talked it over and arranged everything. When the griffin fell asleep that afternoon at teatime, Nigel went softly behind him and trod on his tail, and at the same time the Princess cried: "Look out! There's a lion behind you." And the griffin, waking suddenly from his dreams, twisted his large neck around to look for the lion, saw a lion's flank, and fastened its eagle beak in it. For the griffin had been artificially made by the King-enchanter, and the two halves had never really got used to each other. So now the eagle half of the griffin, who was still rather sleepy, believed that it was fighting a lion, and the lion part, being half asleep, thought it was fighting an eagle, and the whole griffin in its deep drowsiness hadn't the sense to pull itself together and remember what it was made of. So the griffin rolled over and over, one end of it fighting with the other, till the eagle end pecked the lion end to death, and the lion end tore the eagle end with its claws till it died. And so the griffin that was made of a lion and an eagle perished, exactly as if it had been made of Kilkenny cats. "Poor griffin," said the Princess, "it was very good at the housework. I always liked it better than the dragon: It wasn't so hot-tempered." At that moment there was a soft, silky rush behind the Princess, and there was her mother, the Queen, who had slipped out of the stone statue at the moment the griffin was dead, and now came hurrying to take her dear daughter in her arms. The witch was clambering slowly off her pedestal. She was a little stiff from standing still so long. When they had all explained everything over and over to each other as many times as was good for them, the witch said: "Well, but what about the whirlpools?" And Nigel said he didn't know. Then the witch said: "I'm not a witch anymore. I'm only a happy old woman, but I know some things still. Those whirlpools were made by the enchanter-King's dropping nine drops of his blood into the sea. And his blood was so wicked that the sea has been trying ever since to get rid of it, and that made the whirlpools. Now you've only got to go out at low tide." So Nigel understood and went out at low tide, and found in the sandy hollow left by the first whirlpool a great red ruby. That was the first drop of the wicked King's blood. The next day Nigel found another, and next day another, and so on till the ninth day, and then the sea was as smooth as glass. The nine rubies were used afterwards in agriculture. You had only to throw them out into a field if you wanted it plowed. Then the whole surface of the land turned itself over in its anxiety to get rid of something so wicked, and in the morning the field was found to be plowed as thoroughly as any young man at Oxford. So the wicked King did some good after all. When the sea was smooth, ships came from far and wide, bringing people to hear the wonderful story. And a beautiful palace was built, and the Princess was married to Nigel in her gold dress, and they all lived happily as long as was good for them. The dragon still lies, a stone dragon on the sand, and at low tide the little children play around him and over him. But the pieces that were left of the griffin were buried under the herb-bed in the palace garden, because it had been so good at housework, and it wasn't its fault that it had been made so badly and put to such poor work as guarding a lady from her lover. I have no doubt that you will wish to know what the Princess lived on during the long years when the dragon did the cooking. My dear, she lived on her income--and that is a thing that a great many people would like to be able to do. [Illustration: "Little children play around him and over him." _See page 96._] [Illustration: VI THE DRAGON TAMERS] VI. The Dragon Tamers There was once an old, old castle--it was so old that its walls and towers and turrets and gateways and arches had crumbled to ruins, and of all its old splendor there were only two little rooms left; and it was here that John the blacksmith had set up his forge. He was too poor to live in a proper house, and no one asked any rent for the rooms in the ruin, because all the lords of the castle were dead and gone this many a year. So there John blew his bellows and hammered his iron and did all the work which came his way. This was not much, because most of the trade went to the mayor of the town, who was also a blacksmith in quite a large way of business, and had his huge forge facing the square of the town, and had twelve apprentices, all hammering like a nest of woodpeckers, and twelve journeymen to order the apprentices about, and a patent forge and a self-acting hammer and electric bellows, and all things handsome about him. So of course the townspeople, whenever they wanted a horse shod or a shaft mended, went to the mayor. John the blacksmith struggled on as best he could, with a few odd jobs from travelers and strangers who did not know what a superior forge the mayor's was. The two rooms were warm and weather-tight, but not very large; so the blacksmith got into the way of keeping his old iron, his odds and ends, his fagots, and his twopence worth of coal in the great dungeon down under the castle. It was a very fine dungeon indeed, with a handsome vaulted roof and big iron rings whose staples were built into the wall, very strong and convenient for tying captives to, and at one end was a broken flight of wide steps leading down no one knew where. Even the lords of the castle in the good old times had never known where those steps led to, but every now and then they would kick a prisoner down the steps in their lighthearted, hopeful way, and sure enough, the prisoners never came back. The blacksmith had never dared to go beyond the seventh step, and no more have I--so I know no more than he did what was at the bottom of those stairs. John the blacksmith had a wife and a little baby. When his wife was not doing the housework she used to nurse the baby and cry, remembering the happy days when she lived with her father, who kept seventeen cows and lived quite in the country, and when John used to come courting her in the summer evenings, as smart as smart, with a posy in his buttonhole. And now John's hair was getting gray, and there was hardly ever enough to eat. As for the baby, it cried a good deal at odd times; but at night, when its mother had settled down to sleep, it would always begin to cry, quite as a matter of course, so that she hardly got any rest at all. This made her very tired. The baby could make up for its bad nights during the day if it liked, but the poor mother couldn't. So whenever she had nothing to do she used to sit and cry, because she was tired out with work and worry. One evening the blacksmith was busy with his forge. He was making a goat-shoe for the goat of a very rich lady, who wished to see how the goat liked being shod, and also whether the shoe would come to fivepence or sevenpence before she ordered the whole set. This was the only order John had had that week. And as he worked his wife sat and nursed the baby, who, for a wonder, was not crying. Presently, over the noise of the bellows and over the clank of the iron, there came another sound. The blacksmith and his wife looked at each other. "I heard nothing," said he. "Neither did I," said she. But the noise grew louder--and the two were so anxious not to hear it that he hammered away at the goat-shoe harder than he had ever hammered in his life, and she began to sing to the baby--a thing she had not had the heart to do for weeks. But through the blowing and hammering and singing the noise came louder and louder, and the more they tried not to hear it, the more they had to. It was like the noise of some great creature purring, purring, purring--and the reason they did not want to believe they really heard it was that it came from the great dungeon down below, where the old iron was, and the firewood and the twopence worth of coal, and the broken steps that went down into the dark and ended no one knew where. "It can't be anything in the dungeon," said the blacksmith, wiping his face. "Why, I shall have to go down there after more coals in a minute." "There isn't anything there, of course. How could there be?" said his wife. And they tried so hard to believe that there could be nothing there that presently they very nearly did believe it. Then the blacksmith took his shovel in one hand and his riveting hammer in the other, and hung the old stable lantern on his little finger, and went down to get the coals. "I am not taking the hammer because I think there is something there," said he, "but it is handy for breaking the large lumps of coal." "I quite understand," said his wife, who had brought the coal home in her apron that very afternoon, and knew that it was all coal dust. So he went down the winding stairs to the dungeon and stood at the bottom of the steps, holding the lantern above his head just to see that the dungeon really was empty, as usual. Half of it was empty as usual, except for the old iron and odds and ends, and the firewood and the coals. But the other side was not empty. It was quite full, and what it was full of was Dragon. "It must have come up those nasty broken steps from goodness knows where," said the blacksmith to himself, trembling all over, as he tried to creep back up the winding stairs. But the dragon was too quick for him--it put out a great claw and caught him by the leg, and as it moved it rattled like a great bunch of keys, or like the sheet iron they make thunder out of in pantomimes. "No you don't," said the dragon in a spluttering voice, like a damp squib. "Deary, deary me," said poor John, trembling more than ever in the claw of the dragon. "Here's a nice end for a respectable blacksmith!" The dragon seemed very much struck by this remark. "Do you mind saying that again?" said he, quite politely. So John said again, very distinctly: "_Here_--_is_--_a_--_nice_--_end_--_for_--_a_--_respectable_--_blacksmith._" "I didn't know," said the dragon. "Fancy now! You're the very man I wanted." "So I understood you to say before," said John, his teeth chattering. "Oh, I don't mean what you mean," said the dragon, "but I should like you to do a job for me. One of my wings has got some of the rivets out of it just above the joint. Could you put that to rights?" "I might, sir," said John, politely, for you must always be polite to a possible customer, even if he be a dragon. "A master craftsman--you are a master, of course?--can see in a minute what's wrong," the dragon went on. "Just come around here and feel my plates, will you?" John timidly went around when the dragon took his claw away; and sure enough, the dragon's wing was hanging loose, and several of the plates near the joint certainly wanted riveting. The dragon seemed to be made almost entirely of iron armor--a sort of tawny, red-rust color it was; from damp, no doubt--and under it he seemed to be covered with something furry. All the blacksmith welled up in John's heart, and he felt more at ease. "You could certainly do with a rivet or two, sir," said he. "In fact, you want a good many." "Well, get to work, then," said the dragon. "You mend my wing, and then I'll go out and eat up all the town, and if you make a really smart job of it I'll eat you last. There!" "I don't want to be eaten last, sir," said John. "Well then, I'll eat you first," said the dragon. "I don't want that, sir, either," said John. "Go on with you, you silly man," said the dragon, "you don't know your own silly mind. Come, set to work." "I don't like the job, sir," said John, "and that's the truth. I know how easily accidents happen. It's all fair and smooth, and 'Please rivet me, and I'll eat you last'--and then you get to work and you give a gentleman a bit of a nip or a dig under his rivets--and then it's fire and smoke, and no apologies will meet the case." "Upon my word of honor as a dragon," said the other. "I know you wouldn't do it on purpose, sir," said John, "but any gentleman will give a jump and a sniff if he's nipped, and one of your sniffs would be enough for me. Now, if you'd just let me fasten you up?" "It would be so undignified," objected the dragon. "We always fasten a horse up," said John, "and he's the 'noble animal.'" "It's all very well," said the dragon, "but how do I know you'd untie me again when you'd riveted me? Give me something in pledge. What do you value most?" "My hammer," said John. "A blacksmith is nothing without a hammer." "But you'd want that for riveting me. You must think of something else, and at once, or I'll eat you first." At this moment the baby in the room above began to scream. Its mother had been so quiet that it thought she had settled down for the night, and that it was time to begin. "Whatever's that?" said the dragon, starting so that every plate on his body rattled. "It's only the baby," said John. "What's that?" asked the dragon. "Something you value?" "Well, yes, sir, rather," said the blacksmith. "Then bring it here," said the dragon, "and I'll take care of it till you've done riveting me, and you shall tie me up." "All right, sir," said John, "but I ought to warn you. Babies are poison to dragons, so I don't deceive you. It's all right to touch--but don't you go putting it into your mouth. I shouldn't like to see any harm come to a nice-looking gentleman like you." The dragon purred at this compliment and said: "All right, I'll be careful. Now go and fetch the thing, whatever it is." So John ran up the steps as quickly as he could, for he knew that if the dragon got impatient before it was fastened, it could heave up the roof of the dungeon with one heave of its back, and kill them all in the ruins. His wife was asleep, in spite of the baby's cries; and John picked up the baby and took it down and put it between the dragon's front paws. "You just purr to it, sir," he said, "and it'll be as good as gold." So the dragon purred, and his purring pleased the baby so much that it stopped crying. Then John rummaged among the heap of old iron and found there some heavy chains and a great collar that had been made in the days when men sang over their work and put their hearts into it, so that the things they made were strong enough to bear the weight of a thousand years, let alone a dragon. John fastened the dragon up with the collar and the chains, and when he had padlocked them all on safely he set to work to find out how many rivets would be needed. "Six, eight, ten--twenty, forty," said he. "I haven't half enough rivets in the shop. If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll step around to another forge and get a few dozen. I won't be a minute." [Illustration: "The dragon's purring pleased the baby." _See page 106._] And off he went, leaving the baby between the dragon's fore-paws, laughing and crowing with pleasure at the very large purr of it. John ran as hard as he could into the town, and found the mayor and corporation. "There's a dragon in my dungeon," he said; "I've chained him up. Now come and help to get my baby away." And he told them all about it. But they all happened to have engagements for that evening; so they praised John's cleverness, and said they were quite content to leave the matter in his hands. "But what about my baby?" said John. "Oh, well," said the mayor, "if anything should happen, you will always be able to remember that your baby perished in a good cause." So John went home again, and told his wife some of the tale. "You've given the baby to the dragon!" she cried. "Oh, you unnatural parent!" "Hush," said John, and he told her some more. "Now," he said, "I'm going down. After I've been down you can go, and if you keep your head the boy will be all right." So down went the blacksmith, and there was the dragon purring away with all his might to keep the baby quiet. "Hurry up, can't you?" he said. "I can't keep up this noise all night." "I'm very sorry, sir," said the blacksmith, "but all the shops are shut. The job must wait till the morning. And don't forget you've promised to take care of that baby. You'll find it a little wearing, I'm afraid. Good night, sir." The dragon had purred till he was quite out of breath--so now he stopped, and as soon as everything was quiet the baby thought everyone must have settled for the night, and that it was time to begin to scream. So it began. "Oh, dear," said the dragon, "this is awful." He patted the baby with his claw, but it screamed more than ever. "And I am so tired too," said the dragon. "I did so hope I should have a good night." The baby went on screaming. "There'll be no peace for me after this," said the dragon. "It's enough to ruin one's nerves. Hush, then--did 'ums, then." And he tried to quiet the baby as if it had been a young dragon. But when he began to sing "Hush-a-by, Dragon," the baby screamed more and more and more. "I can't keep it quiet," said the dragon; and then suddenly he saw a woman sitting on the steps. "Here, I say," said he, "do you know anything about babies?" "I do, a little," said the mother. "Then I wish you'd take this one, and let me get some sleep," said the dragon, yawning. "You can bring it back in the morning before the blacksmith comes." So the mother picked up the baby and took it upstairs and told her husband, and they went to bed happy, for they had caught the dragon and saved the baby. And next day John went down and explained carefully to the dragon exactly how matters stood, and he got an iron gate with a grating to it and set it up at the foot of the steps, and the dragon mewed furiously for days and days, but when he found it was no good he was quiet. So now John went to the mayor, and said: "I've got the dragon and I've saved the town." "Noble preserver," cried the mayor, "we will get up a subscription for you, and crown you in public with a laurel wreath." So the mayor put his name down for five pounds, and the corporation each gave three, and other people gave their guineas and half guineas and half crowns and crowns, and while the subscription was being made the mayor ordered three poems at his own expense from the town poet to celebrate the occasion. The poems were very much more admired, especially by the mayor and corporation. The first poem dealt with the noble conduct of the mayor in arranging to have the dragon tied up. The second described the splendid assistance rendered by the corporation. And the third expressed the pride and joy of the poet in being permitted to sing such deeds, beside which the actions of St. George must appear quite commonplace to all with a feeling heart or a well-balanced brain. When the subscription was finished there was a thousand pounds, and a committee was formed to settle what should be done with it. A third of it went to pay for a banquet to the mayor and corporation; another third was spent in buying a gold collar with a dragon on it for the mayor and gold medals with dragons on them for the corporation; and what was left went in committee expenses. So there was nothing for the blacksmith except the laurel wreath and the knowledge that it really was he who had saved the town. But after this things went a little better with the blacksmith. To begin with, the baby did not cry so much as it had before. Then the rich lady who owned the goat was so touched by John's noble action that she ordered a complete set of shoes at 2 shillings, 4 pence, and even made it up to 2 shillings, 6 pence, in grateful recognition of his public-spirited conduct. Then tourists used to come in breaks from quite a long way off, and pay twopence each to go down the steps and peep through the iron grating at the rusty dragon in the dungeon--and it was threepence extra for each party if the blacksmith let off colored fire to see it by, which, as the fire was extremely short, was twopence-halfpenny clear profit every time. And the blacksmith's wife used to provide teas at ninepence a head, and altogether things grew brighter week by week. The baby--named John, after his father, and called Johnnie for short--began presently to grow up. He was great friends with Tina, the daughter of the whitesmith, who lived nearly opposite. She was a dear little girl with yellow pigtails and blue eyes, and she was tired of hearing the story of how Johnnie, when he was a baby, had been minded by a real dragon. The two children used to go together to peep through the iron grating at the dragon, and sometimes they would hear him mew piteously. And they would light a halfpenny's worth of colored fire to look at him by. And they grew older and wiser. At last one day the mayor and corporation, hunting the hare in their gold gowns, came screaming back to the town gates with the news that a lame, humpy giant, as big as a tin church, was coming over the marshes toward the town. "We're lost," said the mayor. "I'd give a thousand pounds to anyone who could keep that giant out of the town. I know what he eats--by his teeth." No one seemed to know what to do. But Johnnie and Tina were listening, and they looked at each other, and ran off as fast as their boots would carry them. They ran through the forge, and down the dungeon steps, and knocked at the iron door. "Who's there?" said the dragon. "It's only us," said the children. And the dragon was so dull from having been alone for ten years that he said: "Come in, dears." "You won't hurt us, or breathe fire at us or anything?" asked Tina. And the dragon said, "Not for worlds." So they went in and talked to him, and told him what the weather was like outside, and what there was in the papers, and at last Johnnie said: "There's a lame giant in the town. He wants you." "Does he?" said the dragon, showing his teeth. "If only I were out of this!" "If we let you loose you might manage to run away before he could catch you." "Yes, I might," answered the dragon, "but then again I mightn't." "Why--you'd never fight him?" said Tina. "No," said the dragon; "I'm all for peace, I am. You let me out, and you'll see." So the children loosed the dragon from the chains and the collar, and he broke down one end of the dungeon and went out--only pausing at the forge door to get the blacksmith to rivet his wing. He met the lame giant at the gate of the town, and the giant banged on the dragon with his club as if he were banging an iron foundry, and the dragon behaved like a smelting works--all fire and smoke. It was a fearful sight, and people watched it from a distance, falling off their legs with the shock of every bang, but always getting up to look again. At last the dragon won, and the giant sneaked away across the marshes, and the dragon, who was very tired, went home to sleep, announcing his intention of eating the town in the morning. He went back into his old dungeon because he was a stranger in the town, and he did not know of any other respectable lodging. Then Tina and Johnnie went to the mayor and corporation and said, "The giant is settled. Please give us the thousand pounds reward." But the mayor said: "No, no, my boy. It is not you who have settled the giant, it is the dragon. I suppose you have chained him up again? When he comes to claim the reward he shall have it." "He isn't chained up yet," said Johnnie. "Shall I send him to claim the reward?" But the mayor said he need not trouble; and now he offered a thousand pounds to anyone who would get the dragon chained up again. "I don't trust you," said Johnnie. "Look how you treated my father when he chained up the dragon." But the people who were listening at the door interrupted, and said that if Johnnie could fasten up the dragon again they would turn out the mayor and let Johnnie be mayor in his place. For they had been dissatisfied with the mayor for some time, and thought they would like a change. So Johnnie said, "Done," and off he went, hand in hand with Tina, and they called on all their little friends and said: "Will you help us to save the town?" And all the children said: "Yes, of course we will. What fun!" "Well, then," said Tina, "you must all bring your basins of bread and milk to the forge tomorrow at breakfast time." "And if ever I am mayor," said Johnnie, "I will give a banquet, and you shall be invited. And we'll have nothing but sweet things from beginning to end." All the children promised, and next morning Tina and Johnnie rolled their big washing tub down the winding stair. "What's that noise?" asked the dragon. "It's only a big giant breathing," said Tina, "He's gone by now." Then, when all the town children brought their bread and milk, Tina emptied it into the wash tub, and when the tub was full Tina knocked at the iron door with the grating in it and said: "May we come in?" "Oh, yes," said the dragon, "it's very dull here." So they went in, and with the help of nine other children they lifted the washing tub in and set it down by the dragon. Then all the other children went away, and Tina and Johnnie sat down and cried. "What's this?" asked the dragon. "And what's the matter?" "This is bread and milk," said Johnnie; "it's our breakfast--all of it." "Well," said the dragon, "I don't see what you want with breakfast. I'm going to eat everyone in the town as soon as I've rested a little." "Dear Mr. Dragon," said Tina, "I wish you wouldn't eat us. How would you like to be eaten yourself?" "Not at all," the dragon confessed, "but nobody will eat me." "I don't know," said Johnnie, "there's a giant--" "I know. I fought with him, and licked him." "Yes, but there's another come now--the one you fought was only this one's little boy. This one is half as big again." "He's seven times as big," said Tina. "No, nine times," said Johnnie. "He's bigger than the steeple." "Oh, dear," said the dragon. "I never expected this." "And the mayor has told him where you are," Tina went on, "and he is coming to eat you as soon as he has sharpened his big knife. The mayor told him you were a wild dragon--but he didn't mind. He said he only ate wild dragons--with bread sauce." "That's tiresome," said the dragon. "And I suppose this sloppy stuff in the tub is the bread sauce?" The children said it was. "Of course," they added, "bread sauce is only served with wild dragons. Tame ones are served with apple sauce and onion stuffing. What a pity you're not a tame one: He'd never look at you then," they said. "Good-bye, poor dragon, we shall never see you again, and now you'll know what it's like to be eaten." And they began to cry again. "Well, but look here," said the dragon, "couldn't you pretend I was a tame dragon? Tell the giant that I'm just a poor little timid tame dragon that you kept for a pet." "He'd never believe it," said Johnnie. "If you were our tame dragon we should keep you tied up, you know. We shouldn't like to risk losing such a dear, pretty pet." Then the dragon begged them to fasten him up at once, and they did so: with the collar and chains that were made years ago--in the days when men sang over their work and made it strong enough to bear any strain. And then they went away and told the people what they had done, and Johnnie was made mayor, and had a glorious feast exactly as he had said he would--with nothing in it but sweet things. It began with Turkish delight and halfpenny buns, and went on with oranges, toffee, coconut ice, peppermints, jam puffs, raspberry-noyeau, ice creams, and meringues, and ended with bull's-eyes and gingerbread and acid drops. This was all very well for Johnnie and Tina; but if you are kind children with feeling hearts you will perhaps feel sorry for the poor deceived, deluded dragon--chained up in the dull dungeon, with nothing to do but to think over the shocking untruths that Johnnie had told him. When he thought how he had been tricked, the poor captive dragon began to weep--and the large tears fell down over his rusty plates. And presently he began to feel faint, as people sometimes do when they have been crying, especially if they have not had anything to eat for ten years or so. And then the poor creature dried his eyes and looked about him, and there he saw the tub of bread and milk. So he thought, "If giants like this damp, white stuff, perhaps I should like it too," and he tasted a little, and liked it so much that he ate it all up. And the next time the tourists came, and Johnnie let off the colored fire, the dragon said shyly: "Excuse my troubling you, but could you bring me a little more bread and milk?" So Johnnie arranged that people should go around with carts every day to collect the children's bread and milk for the dragon. The children were fed at the town's expense--on whatever they liked; and they ate nothing but cake and buns and sweet things, and they said the poor dragon was very welcome to their bread and milk. Now, when Johnnie had been mayor ten years or so he married Tina, and on their wedding morning they went to see the dragon. He had grown quite tame, and his rusty plates had fallen off in places, and underneath he was soft and furry to stroke. So now they stroked him. And he said, "I don't know how I could ever have liked eating anything but bread and milk. I _am_ a tame dragon now, aren't I?" And when they said that yes, he was, the dragon said: "I am so tame, won't you undo me?" And some people would have been afraid to trust him, but Johnnie and Tina were so happy on their wedding day that they could not believe any harm of anyone in the world. So they loosened the chains, and the dragon said: "Excuse me a moment, there are one or two little things I should like to fetch," and he moved off to those mysterious steps and went down them, out of sight into the darkness. And as he moved, more and more of his rusty plates fell off. In a few minutes they heard him clanking up the steps. He brought something in his mouth--it was a bag of gold. "It's no good to me," he said. "Perhaps you might find it useful." So they thanked him very kindly. "More where that came from," said he, and fetched more and more and more, till they told him to stop. So now they were rich, and so were their fathers and mothers. Indeed, everyone was rich, and there were no more poor people in the town. And they all got rich without working, which is very wrong; but the dragon had never been to school, as you have, so he knew no better. And as the dragon came out of the dungeon, following Johnnie and Tina into the bright gold and blue of their wedding day, he blinked his eyes as a cat does in the sunshine, and he shook himself, and the last of his plates dropped off, and his wings with them, and he was just like a very, very extra-sized cat. And from that day he grew furrier and furrier, and he was the beginning of all cats. Nothing of the dragon remained except the claws, which all cats have still, as you can easily ascertain. And I hope you see now how important it is to feed your cat with bread and milk. If you were to let it have nothing to eat but mice and birds it might grow larger and fiercer, and scalier and tailier, and get wings and turn into the beginning of dragons. And then there would be all the bother over again. [Illustration: "He brought something in his mouth--it was a bag of gold." _See page 116._] [Illustration: VII THE FIERY DRAGON] VII. The Fiery Dragon, or The Heart of Stone and the Heart of Gold The little white Princess always woke in her little white bed when the starlings began to chatter in the pearl gray morning. As soon as the woods were awake, she used to run up the twisting turret-stairs with her little bare feet, and stand on the top of the tower in her white bed-gown, and kiss her hands to the sun and to the woods and to the sleeping town, and say: "Good morning, pretty world!" Then she would run down the cold stone steps and dress herself in her short skirt and her cap and apron, and begin the day's work. She swept the rooms and made the breakfast, she washed the dishes and she scoured the pans, and all this she did because she was a real Princess. For of all who should have served her, only one remained faithful--her old nurse, who had lived with her in the tower all the Princess's life. And, now the nurse was old and feeble, the Princess would not let her work any more, but did all the housework herself, while Nurse sat still and did the sewing, because this was a real Princess with skin like milk and hair like flax and a heart like gold. Her name was Sabrinetta, and her grandmother was Sabra, who married St. George after he had killed the dragon, and by real rights all the country belonged to her: the woods that stretched away to the mountains, the downs that sloped down to the sea, the pretty fields of corn and maize and rye, the olive orchards and the vineyards, and the little town itself--with its towers and its turrets, its steep roofs and strange windows--that nestled in the hollow between the sea, where the whirlpool was, and the mountains, white with snow and rosy with sunrise. But when her father and mother had died, leaving her cousin to take care of the kingdom till she grew up, he, being a very evil Prince, took everything away from her, and all the people followed him, and now nothing was left her of all her possessions except the great dragon proof tower that her grandfather, St. George, had built, and of all who should have been her servants only the good nurse. This was why Sabrinetta was the first person in all the land to get a glimpse of the wonder. Early, early, early, while all the townspeople were fast asleep, she ran up the turret-steps and looked out over the field, and at the other side of the field there was a green, ferny ditch and a rose-thorny hedge, and then came the wood. And as Sabrinetta stood on her tower she saw a shaking and a twisting of the rose-thorny hedge, and then something very bright and shining wriggled out through it into the ferny ditch and back again. It only came out for a minute, but she saw it quite plainly, and she said to herself: "Dear me, what a curious, shiny, bright-looking creature! If it were bigger, and if I didn't know that there have been no fabulous monsters for quite a long time now, I should almost think it was a dragon." The thing, whatever it was, did look rather like a dragon--but then it was too small; and it looked rather like a lizard--only then it was too big. It was about as long as a hearthrug. "I wish it had not been in such a hurry to get back into the wood," said Sabrinetta. "Of course, it's quite safe for me, in my dragonproof tower; but if it is a dragon, it's quite big enough to eat people, and today's the first of May, and the children go out to get flowers in the wood." When Sabrinetta had done the housework (she did not leave so much as a speck of dust anywhere, even in the corneriest corner of the winding stair) she put on her milk white, silky gown with the moon-daisies worked on it, and went up to the top of her tower again. Across the fields troops of children were going out to gather the may, and the sound of their laughter and singing came up to the top of the tower. "I do hope it wasn't a dragon," said Sabrinetta. The children went by twos and by threes and by tens and by twenties, and the red and blue and yellow and white of their frocks were scattered on the green of the field. "It's like a green silk mantle worked with flowers," said the Princess, smiling. Then by twos and by threes, by tens and by twenties, the children vanished into the wood, till the mantle of the field was left plain green once more. "All the embroidery is unpicked," said the Princess, sighing. The sun shone, and the sky was blue, and the fields were quite green, and all the flowers were very bright indeed, because it was May Day. Then quite suddenly a cloud passed over the sun, and the silence was broken by shrieks from far off; and, like a many-colored torrent, all the children burst from the wood and rushed, a red and blue and yellow and white wave, across the field, screaming as they ran. Their voices came up to the Princess on her tower, and she heard the words threaded on their screams like beads on sharp needles: "The dragon, the dragon, the dragon! Open the gates! The dragon is coming! The fiery dragon!" And they swept across the field and into the gate of the town, and the Princess heard the gate bang, and the children were out of sight--but on the other side of the field the rose-thorns crackled and smashed in the hedge, and something very large and glaring and horrible trampled the ferns in the ditch for one moment before it hid itself again in the covert of the wood. The Princess went down and told her nurse, and the nurse at once locked the great door of the tower and put the key in her pocket. "Let them take care of themselves," she said, when the Princess begged to be allowed to go out and help to take care of the children. "My business is to take care of you, my precious, and I'm going to do it. Old as I am, I can turn a key still." So Sabrinetta went up again to the top of her tower, and cried whenever she thought of the children and the fiery dragon. For she knew, of course, that the gates of the town were not dragonproof, and that the dragon could just walk in whenever he liked. The children ran straight to the palace, where the Prince was cracking his hunting whip down at the kennels, and told him what had happened. "Good sport," said the Prince, and he ordered out his pack of hippopotamuses at once. It was his custom to hunt big game with hippopotamuses, and people would not have minded that so much--but he would swagger about in the streets of the town with his pack yelping and gamboling at his heels, and when he did that, the green-grocer, who had his stall in the marketplace, always regretted it; and the crockery merchant, who spread his wares on the pavement, was ruined for life every time the Prince chose to show off his pack. The Prince rode out of the town with his hippopotamuses trotting and frisking behind him, and people got inside their houses as quickly as they could when they heard the voices of his pack and the blowing of his horn. The pack squeezed through the town gates and off across country to hunt the dragon. Few of you who had not seen a pack of hippopotamuses in full cry will be able to imagine at all what the hunt was like. To begin with, hippopotamuses do not bay like hounds: They grunt like pigs, and their grunt is very big and fierce. Then, of course, no one expects hippopotamuses to jump. They just crash through the hedges and lumber through the standing corn, doing serious injury to the crops, and annoying the farmers very much. All the hippopotamuses had collars with their name and address on, but when the farmers called at the palace to complain of the injury to their standing crops, the Prince always said it served them right for leaving their crops standing about in people's way, and he never paid anything at all. So now, when he and his pack went out, several people in the town whispered, "I wish the dragon would eat him"--which was very wrong of them, no doubt, but then he was such a very nasty Prince. They hunted by field, and they hunted by wold; they drew the woods blank, and the scent didn't lie on the downs at all. The dragon was shy, and would not show himself. But just as the Prince was beginning to think there was no dragon at all, but only a cock and bull, his favourite old hippopotamus gave tongue. The Prince blew his horn and shouted: "Tally ho! Hark forward! Tantivy!" and the whole pack charged downhill toward the hollow by the wood. For there, plain to be seen, was the dragon, as big as a barge, glowing like a furnace, and spitting fire and showing his shining teeth. "The hunt is up!" cried the Prince. And indeed it was. For the dragon--instead of behaving as a quarry should, and running away--ran straight at the pack, and the Prince, on his elephant, had the mortification of seeing his prize pack swallowed up one by one in the twinkling of an eye, by the dragon they had come out to hunt. The dragon swallowed all the hippopotamuses just as a dog swallows bits of meat. It was a shocking sight. Of the whole of the pack that had come out sporting so merrily to the music of the horn, now not even a puppy-hippopotamus was left, and the dragon was looking anxiously around to see if he had forgotten anything. The Prince slipped off his elephant on the other side and ran into the thickest part of the wood. He hoped the dragon could not break through the bushes there, since they were very strong and close. He went crawling on hands and knees in a most un-Prince-like way, and at last, finding a hollow tree, he crept into it. The wood was very still--no crashing of branches and no smell of burning came to alarm the Prince. He drained the silver hunting bottle slung from his shoulder, and stretched his legs in the hollow tree. He never shed a single tear for his poor tame hippopotamuses who had eaten from his hand and followed him faithfully in all the pleasures of the chase for so many years. For he was a false Prince, with a skin like leather and hair like hearth brushes and a heart like a stone. He never shed a tear, but he just went to sleep. When he awoke it was dark. He crept out of the tree and rubbed his eyes. The wood was black about him, but there was a red glow in a dell close by. It was a fire of sticks, and beside it sat a ragged youth with long, yellow hair; all around lay sleeping forms which breathed heavily. "Who are you?" said the Prince. "I'm Elfin, the pig keeper," said the ragged youth. "And who are you?" "I'm Tiresome, the Prince," said the other. "And what are you doing out of your palace at this time of night?" asked the pig keeper, severely. "I've been hunting," said the Prince. The pig keeper laughed. "Oh, it was you I saw, then? A good hunt, wasn't it? My pigs and I were looking on." All the sleeping forms grunted and snored, and the Prince saw that they were pigs: He knew it by their manners. "If you had known as much as I do," Elfin went on, "you might have saved your pack." "What do you mean?" said Tiresome. "Why, the dragon," said Elfin. "You went out at the wrong time of day. The dragon should be hunted at night." "No, thank you," said the Prince, with a shudder. "A daylight hunt is quite good enough for me, you silly pig keeper." "Oh, well," said Elfin, "do as you like about it--the dragon will come and hunt you tomorrow, as likely as not. I don't care if he does, you silly Prince." "You're very rude," said Tiresome. "Oh, no, only truthful," said Elfin. "Well, tell me the truth, then. What is it that, if I had known as much as you do about, I shouldn't have lost my hippopotamuses?" "You don't speak very good English," said Elfin. "But come, what will you give me if I tell you?" "If you tell me what?" said the tiresome Prince. "What you want to know." "I don't want to know anything," said Prince Tiresome. "Then you're more of a silly even than I thought," said Elfin. "Don't you want to know how to settle the dragon before he settles you?" "It might be as well," the Prince admitted. "Well, I haven't much patience at any time," said Elfin, "and now I can assure you that there's very little left. What will you give me if I tell you?" "Half my kingdom," said the Prince, "and my cousin's hand in marriage." "Done," said the pig keeper. "Here goes! The dragon grows small at night! He sleeps under the root of this tree. I use him to light my fire with." And, sure enough, there under the tree was the dragon on a nest of scorched moss, and he was about as long as your finger. "How can I kill him?" asked the Prince. "I don't know that you can kill him," said Elfin, "but you can take him away if you've brought anything to put him in. That bottle of yours would do." So between them they managed, with bits of stick and by singeing their fingers a little, to poke and shove the dragon till they made it creep into the silver hunting bottle, and then the Prince screwed on the top tight. "Now we've got him," said Elfin. "Let's take him home and put Solomon's seal on the mouth of the bottle, and then he'll be safe enough. Come along--we'll divide up the kingdom tomorrow, and then I shall have some money to buy fine clothes to go courting in." But when the wicked Prince made promises he did not make them to keep. "Go on with you! What do you mean?" he said. "I found the dragon and I've imprisoned him. I never said a word about courtings or kingdoms. If you say I did, I shall cut your head off at once." And he drew his sword. "All right," said Elfin, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm better off than you are, anyhow." "What do you mean?" spluttered the Prince. "Why, you've only got a kingdom (and a dragon), but I've got clean hands (and five and seventy fine black pigs)." So Elfin sat down again by his fire, and the Prince went home and told his Parliament how clever and brave he had been, and though he woke them up on purpose to tell them, they were not angry, but said: "You are indeed brave and clever." For they knew what happened to people with whom the Prince was not pleased. Then the Prime Minister solemnly put Solomon's seal on the mouth of the bottle, and the bottle was put in the Treasury, which was the strongest building in the town, and was made of solid copper, with walls as thick as Waterloo Bridge. The bottle was set down among the sacks of gold, and the junior secretary to the junior clerk of the last Lord of the Treasury was appointed to sit up all night with it and see if anything happened. The junior secretary had never seen a dragon, and, what was more, he did not believe the Prince had ever seen a dragon either. The Prince had never been a really truthful boy, and it would have been just like him to bring home a bottle with nothing in it and then to pretend that there was a dragon inside. So the junior secretary did not at all mind being left. They gave him the key, and when everyone in the town had gone back to bed he let in some of the junior secretaries from other Government departments, and they had a jolly game of hide-and-seek among the sacks of gold, and played marbles with the diamonds and rubies and pearls in the big ivory chests. They enjoyed themselves very much, but by-and-by the copper treasury began to get warmer and warmer, and suddenly the junior secretary cried out, "Look at the bottle!" The bottle sealed with Solomon's seal had swollen to three times its proper size and seemed to be nearly red hot, and the air got warmer and warmer and the bottle bigger and bigger, till all the junior secretaries agreed that the place was too hot to hold them, and out they went, tumbling over each other in their haste, and just as the last got out and locked the door the bottle burst, and out came the dragon, very fiery, and swelling more and more every minute, and he began to eat the sacks of gold and crunch up the pearls and diamonds and rubies as if they were sugar. By breakfasttime he had devoured the whole of the Prince's treasures, and when the Prince came along the street at about eleven, he met the dragon coming out of the broken door of the Treasury, with molten gold still dripping from his jaws. Then the Prince turned and ran for his life, and as he ran toward the dragonproof tower the little white Princess saw him coming, and she ran down and unlocked the door and let him in, and slammed the dragonproof door in the fiery face of the dragon, who sat down and whined outside, because he wanted the Prince very much indeed. The Princess took Prince Tiresome into the best room, and laid the cloth, and gave him cream and eggs and white grapes and honey and bread, with many other things, yellow and white and good to eat, and she served him just as kindly as she would have done if he had been anyone else instead of the bad Prince who had taken away her kingdom and kept it for himself--because she was a true Princess and had a heart of gold. When he had eaten and drunk, he begged the Princess to show him how to lock and unlock the door. The nurse was asleep, so there was no one to tell the Princess not to, and she did. [Illustration: "The junior secretary cried out, 'Look at the bottle!'" _See page 129._] "You turn the key like this," she said, "and the door keeps shut. But turn it nine times around the wrong way, and the door flies open." And so it did. And the moment it opened, the Prince pushed the white Princess out of her tower, just as he had pushed her out of her kingdom, and shut the door. For he wanted to have the tower all for himself. And there she was, in the street, and on the other side of the way the dragon was sitting whining, but he did not try to eat her, because--though the old nurse did not know it--dragons cannot eat white Princesses with hearts of gold. The Princess could not walk through the streets of the town in her milky-silky gown with the daisies on it, and with no hat and no gloves, so she turned the other way, and ran out across the meadows, toward the wood. She had never been out of her tower before, and the soft grass under her feet felt like grass of Paradise. She ran right into the thickest part of the wood, because she did not know what her heart was made of, and she was afraid of the dragon, and there in a dell she came on Elfin and his five and seventy fine pigs. He was playing his flute, and around him the pigs were dancing cheerfully on their hind legs. "Oh, dear," said the Princess, "do take care of me. I am so frightened." "I will," said Elfin, putting his arms around her. "Now you are quite safe. What were you frightened of?" "The dragon," she said. "So it's gotten out of the silver bottle," said Elfin. "I hope it's eaten the Prince." "No," said Sabrinetta. "But why?" He told her of the mean trick that the Prince had played on him. "And he promised me half his kingdom and the hand of his cousin the Princess," said Elfin. "Oh, dear, what a shame!" said Sabrinetta, trying to get out of his arms. "How dare he?" "What's the matter?" he asked, holding her tighter. "It _was_ a shame, or at least _I_ thought so. But now he may keep his kingdom, half and whole, if I may keep what I have." "What's that?" asked the Princess. "Why, you--my pretty, my dear," said Elfin, "and as for the Princess, his cousin--forgive me, dearest heart, but when I asked for her I hadn't seen the real Princess, the _only_ Princess, _my_ Princess." "Do you mean me?" said Sabrinetta. "Who else?" he asked. "Yes, but five minutes ago you hadn't seen me!" "Five minutes ago I was a pig keeper--now I've held you in my arms I'm a Prince, though I should have to keep pigs to the end of my days." "But you haven't asked _me_," said the Princess. "You asked me to take care of you," said Elfin, "and I will--all my life long." So that was settled, and they began to talk of really important things, such as the dragon and the Prince, and all the time Elfin did not know that this was the Princess, but he knew that she had a heart of gold, and he told her so, many times. "The mistake," said Elfin, "was in not having a dragonproof bottle. I see that now." "Oh, is that all?" said the Princess. "I can easily get you one of those--because everything in my tower is dragonproof. We ought to do something to settle the dragon and save the little children." So she started off to get the bottle, but she would not let Elfin come with her. "If what you say is true," she said, "if you are sure that I have a heart of gold, the dragon won't hurt me, and somebody must stay with the pigs." Elfin was quite sure, so he let her go. She found the door of her tower open. The dragon had waited patiently for the Prince, and the moment he opened the door and came out--though he was only out for an instant to post a letter to his Prime Minister saying where he was and asking them to send the fire brigade to deal with the fiery dragon--the dragon ate him. Then the dragon went back to the wood, because it was getting near his time to grow small for the night. So Sabrinetta went in and kissed her nurse and made her a cup of tea and explained what was going to happen, and that she had a heart of gold, so the dragon couldn't eat her; and the nurse saw that of course the Princess was quite safe, and kissed her and let her go. She took the dragonproof bottle, made of burnished brass, and ran back to the wood, and to the dell, where Elfin was sitting among his sleek black pigs, waiting for her. "I thought you were never coming back," he said. "You have been away a year, at least." The Princess sat down beside him among the pigs, and they held each other's hands till it was dark, and then the dragon came crawling over the moss, scorching it as he came, and getting smaller as he crawled, and curled up under the root of the tree. "Now then," said Elfin, "you hold the bottle." Then he poked and prodded the dragon with bits of stick till it crawled into the dragonproof bottle. But there was no stopper. "Never mind," said Elfin. "I'll put my finger in for a stopper." "No, let me," said the Princess. But of course Elfin would not let her. He stuffed his finger into the top of the bottle, and the Princess cried out: "The sea--the sea--run for the cliffs!" And off they went, with the five and seventy pigs trotting steadily after them in a long black procession. The bottle got hotter and hotter in Elfin's hands, because the dragon inside was puffing fire and smoke with all his might--hotter and hotter and hotter--but Elfin held on till they came to the cliff edge, and there was the dark blue sea, and the whirlpool going around and around. Elfin lifted the bottle high above his head and hurled it out between the stars and the sea, and it fell in the middle of the whirlpool. "We've saved the country," said the Princess. "You've saved the little children. Give me your hands." "I can't," said Elfin. "I shall never be able to take your dear hands again. My hands are burnt off." And so they were: There were only black cinders where his hands ought to have been. The Princess kissed them, and cried over them, and tore pieces of her silky-milky gown to tie them up with, and the two went back to the tower and told the nurse all about everything. And the pigs sat outside and waited. "He is the bravest man in the world," said Sabrinetta. "He has saved the country and the little children; but, oh, his hands--his poor, dear, darling hands!" Here the door of the room opened, and the oldest of the five and seventy pigs came in. It went up to Elfin and rubbed itself against him with little loving grunts. "See the dear creature," said the nurse, wiping away a tear. "It knows, it knows!" Sabrinetta stroked the pig, because Elfin had no hands for stroking or for anything else. "The only cure for a dragon burn," said the old nurse, "is pig's fat, and well that faithful creature knows it----" "I wouldn't for a kingdom," cried Elfin, stroking the pig as best he could with his elbow. "Is there no other cure?" asked the Princess. Here another pig put its black nose in at the door, and then another and another, till the room was full of pigs, a surging mass of rounded blackness, pushing and struggling to get at Elfin, and grunting softly in the language of true affection. "There is one other," said the nurse. "The dear, affectionate beasts--they all want to die for you." "What is the other cure?" said Sabrinetta anxiously. "If a man is burnt by a dragon," said the nurse, "and a certain number of people are willing to die for him, it is enough if each should kiss the burn and wish it well in the depths of his loving heart." "The number! The number!" cried Sabrinetta. "Seventy-seven," said the nurse. "We have only seventy-five pigs," said the Princess, "and with me that's seventy-six!" "It must be seventy-seven--and I really can't die for him, so nothing can be done," said the nurse, sadly. "He must have cork hands." "I knew about the seventy-seven loving people," said Elfin. "But I never thought my dear pigs loved me so much as all this, and my dear too--and, of course, that only makes it more impossible. There's one other charm that cures dragon burns, though; but I'd rather be burnt black all over than marry anyone but you, my dear, my pretty." "Why, who must you marry to cure your dragon burns?" asked Sabrinetta. "A Princess. That's how St. George cured his burns." "There now! Think of that!" said the nurse. "And I never heard tell of that cure, old as I am." But Sabrinetta threw her arms round Elfin's neck, and held him as though she would never let him go. "Then it's all right, my dear, brave, precious Elfin," she cried, "for I am a Princess, and you shall be my Prince. Come along, Nurse--don't wait to put on your bonnet. We'll go and be married this very moment." So they went, and the pigs came after, moving in stately blackness, two by two. And, the minute he was married to the Princess, Elfin's hands got quite well. And the people, who were weary of Prince Tiresome and his hippopotamuses, hailed Sabrinetta and her husband as rightful Sovereigns of the land. [Illustration: "They saw a cloud of steam." _See page 135._] Next morning the Prince and Princess went out to see if the dragon had been washed ashore. They could see nothing of him; but when they looked out toward the whirlpool they saw a cloud of steam; and the fishermen reported that the water for miles around was hot enough to shave with! And as the water is hot there to this day, we may feel pretty sure that the fierceness of that dragon was such that all the waters of all the sea were not enough to cool him. The whirlpool is too strong for him to be able to get out of it, so there he spins around and around forever and ever, doing some useful work at last, and warming the water for poor fisher-folk to shave with. * * * * * The Prince and Princess rule the land well and wisely. The nurse lives with them, and does nothing but fine sewing, and only that when she wants to very much. The Prince keeps no hippopotamuses, and is consequently very popular. The five and seventy devoted pigs live in white marble sties with brass knockers and Pig on the doorplate, and are washed twice a day with Turkish sponges and soap scented with violets, and no one objects to their following the Prince when he walks abroad, for they behave beautifully, and always keep to the footpath, and obey the notices about not walking on the grass. The Princess feeds them every day with her own hands, and her first edict on coming to the throne was that the word _pork_ should never be uttered on pain of death, and should, besides, be scratched out of all the dictionaries. [Illustration: VIII KIND LITTLE EDMUND] VIII. Kind Little Edmund, or The Caves and the Cockatrice Edmund was a boy. The people who did not like him said that he was the most tiresome boy that ever lived, but his grandmother and his other friends said that he had an inquiring mind. And his granny often added that he was the best of boys. But she was very kind and very old. Edmund loved to find out about things. Perhaps you will think that in that case he was constant in his attendance at school, since there, if anywhere, we may learn whatever there is to be learned. But Edmund did not want to learn things: He wanted to find things out, which is quite different. His inquiring mind led him to take clocks to pieces to see what made them go, to take locks off doors to see what made them stick. It was Edmund who cut open the India rubber ball to see what made it bounce, and he never did see, any more than you did when you tried the same experiment. Edmund lived with his grandmother. She loved him very much, in spite of his inquiring mind, and hardly scolded him at all when he frizzled up her tortoiseshell comb in his anxiety to find out whether it was made of real tortoiseshell or of something that would burn. Edmund went to school, of course, now and then, and sometimes he could not prevent himself from learning something, but he never did it on purpose. "It is such waste of time," said he. "They only know what everybody knows. I want to find out new things that nobody has thought of but me." "I don't think you're likely to find out anything that none of the wise men in the whole world have thought of all these thousands of years," said Granny. But Edmund did not agree with her. He played truant whenever he could, for he was a kindhearted boy, and could not bear to think of a master's time and labor being thrown away on a boy like himself--who did not wish to learn, only to find out--when there were so many worthy lads thirsting for instruction in geography and history and reading and ciphering, and Mr. Smiles's "Self-Help." Other boys played truant too, of course--and these went nutting or blackberrying or wild plum gathering, but Edmund never went on the side of the town where the green woods and hedges grew. He always went up the mountain where the great rocks were, and the tall, dark pine trees, and where other people were afraid to go because of the strange noises that came out of the caves. Edmund was not afraid of these noises--though they were very strange and terrible. He wanted to find out what made them. One day he did. He had invented, all by himself, a very ingenious and new kind of lantern, made with a turnip and a tumbler, and when he took the candle out of Granny's bedroom candlestick to put in it, it gave quite a splendid light. He had to go to school next day, and he was caned for being absent without leave--although he very straightforwardly explained that he had been too busy making the lantern to have time to come to school. But the day after he got up very early and took the lunch Granny had ready for him to take to school--two boiled eggs and an apple turnover--and he took his lantern and went off as straight as a dart to the mountains to explore the caves. The caves were very dark, but his lantern lighted them up beautifully; and they were most interesting caves, with stalactites and stalagmites and fossils, and all the things you read about in the instructive books for the young. But Edmund did not care for any of these things just then. He wanted to find out what made the noises that people were afraid of, and there was nothing in the caves to tell him. Presently he sat down in the biggest cave and listened very carefully, and it seemed to him that he could distinguish three different sorts of noises. There was a heavy rumbling sound, like a very large old gentleman asleep after dinner; and there was a smaller sort of rumble going on at the same time; and there was a sort of crowing, clucking sound, such as a chicken might make if it happened to be as big as a haystack. "It seems to me," said Edmund to himself, "that the clucking is nearer than the others." So he started up again and explored the caves once more. He found out nothing, but about halfway up the wall of the cave, he saw a hole. And, being a boy, he climbed up to it and crept in; and it was the entrance to a rocky passage. And now the clucking sounded more plainly than before, and he could hardly hear the rumbling at all. "I _am_ going to find out something at last," said Edmund, and on he went. The passage wound and twisted, and twisted and turned, and turned and wound, but Edmund kept on. "My lantern's burning better and better," said he presently, but the next minute he saw that all the light did not come from his lantern. It was a pale yellow light, and it shone down the passage far ahead of him through what looked like the chink of a door. "I expect it's the fire in the middle of the earth," said Edmund, who had not been able to help learning about that at school. But quite suddenly the fire ahead gave a pale flicker and went down; and the clucking ceased. The next moment Edmund turned a corner and found himself in front of a rocky door. The door was ajar. He went in, and there was a round cave, like the dome of St. Paul's. In the middle of the cave was a hole like a very big hand-washing basin, and in the middle of the basin Edmund saw a large pale person sitting. This person had a man's face and a griffin's body, and big feathery wings, and a snake's tail, and a cock's comb and neck feathers. "Whatever are you?" said Edmund. "I'm a poor starving cockatrice," answered the pale person in a very faint voice, "and I shall die--oh, I know I shall! My fire's gone out! I can't think how it happened; I must have been asleep. I have to stir it seven times round with my tail once in a hundred years to keep it alight, and my watch must have been wrong. And now I shall die." I think I have said before what a kindhearted boy Edmund was. "Cheer up," said he. "I'll light your fire for you." And off he went, and in a few minutes he came back with a great armful of sticks from the pine trees outside, and with these and a lesson book or two that he had forgotten to lose before, and which, quite by an oversight, were safe in his pocket, he lit a fire all around the cockatrice. The wood blazed up, and presently something in the basin caught fire, and Edmund saw that it was a sort of liquid that burned like the brandy in a snapdragon. And now the cockatrice stirred it with his tail and flapped his wings in it so that some of it splashed out on Edmund's hand and burnt it rather badly. But the cockatrice grew red and strong and happy, and its comb grew scarlet, and its feathers glossy, and it lifted itself up and crowed "Cock-a-trice-a-doodle-doo!" very loudly and clearly. Edmund's kindly nature was charmed to see the cockatrice so much improved in health, and he said: "Don't mention it; delighted, I'm sure," when the cockatrice began to thank him. "But what can I do for you?" said the creature. "Tell me stories," said Edmund. "What about?" said the cockatrice. "About true things that they don't know at school," said Edmund. So the cockatrice began, and he told him about mines and treasures and geological formations, and about gnomes and fairies and dragons, and about glaciers and the Stone Age and the beginning of the world, and about the unicorn and the phoenix, and about Magic, black and white. And Edmund ate his eggs and his turnover, and listened. And when he got hungry again he said good-bye and went home. But he came again the next day for more stories, and the next day, and the next, for a long time. He told the boys at school about the cockatrice and his wonderful true tales, and the boys liked the stories; but when he told the master he was caned for untruthfulness. "But it's true," said Edmund. "Just you look where the fire burnt my hand." "I see you've been playing with fire--into mischief as usual," said the master, and he caned Edmund harder than ever. The master was ignorant and unbelieving: but I am told that some schoolmasters are not like that. Now, one day Edmund made a new lantern out of something chemical that he sneaked from the school laboratory. And with it he went exploring again to see if he could find the things that made the other sorts of noises. And in quite another part of the mountain he found a dark passage, all lined with brass, so that it was like the inside of a huge telescope, and at the very end of it he found a bright green door. There was a brass plate on the door that said MRS. D. KNOCK AND RING, and a white label that said CALL ME AT THREE. Edmund had a watch: It had been given to him on his birthday two days before, and he had not yet had time to take it to pieces and see what made it go, so it was still going. He looked at it now. It said a quarter to three. Did I tell you before what a kindhearted boy Edmund was? He sat down on the brass doorstep and waited till three o'clock. Then he knocked and rang, and there was a rattling and puffing inside. The great door flew open, and Edmund had only just time to hide behind it when out came an immense yellow dragon, who wriggled off down the brass cave like a long, rattling worm--or perhaps more like a monstrous centipede. Edmund crept slowly out and saw the dragon stretching herself on the rocks in the sun, and he crept past the great creature and tore down the hill into the town and burst into school, crying out: "There's a great dragon coming! Somebody ought to do something, or we shall all be destroyed." He was caned for untruthfulness without any delay. His master was never one for postponing a duty. "But it's true," said Edmund. "You just see if it isn't." He pointed out of the window, and everyone could see a vast yellow cloud rising up into the air above the mountain. "It's only a thunder shower," said the master, and caned Edmund more than ever. This master was not like some masters I know: He was very obstinate, and would not believe his own eyes if they told him anything different from what he had been saying before his eyes spoke. So while the master was writing _Lying is very wrong, and liars must be caned. It is all for their own good_ on the black-board for Edmund to copy out seven hundred times, Edmund sneaked out of school and ran for his life across the town to warn his granny, but she was not at home. So then he made off through the back door of the town, and raced up the hill to tell the cockatrice and ask for his help. It never occurred to him that the cockatrice might not believe him. You see, he had heard so many wonderful tales from him and had believed them all--and when you believe all a person's stories they ought to believe yours. This is only fair. At the mouth of the cockatrice's cave Edmund stopped, very much out of breath, to look back at the town. As he ran he had felt his little legs tremble and shake, while the shadows of the great yellow cloud fell upon him. Now he stood once more between warm earth and blue sky, and looked down on the green plain dotted with fruit trees and red-roofed farms and plots of gold corn. In the middle of that plain the gray town lay, with its strong walls with the holes pierced for the archers, and its square towers with holes for dropping melted lead on the heads of strangers; its bridges and its steeples; the quiet river edged with willow and alder; and the pleasant green garden place in the middle of the town, where people sat on holidays to smoke their pipes and listen to the band. Edmund saw it all; and he saw, too, creeping across the plain, marking her way by a black line as everything withered at her touch, the great yellow dragon--and he saw that she was many times bigger than the whole town. "Oh, my poor, dear granny," said Edmund, for he had a feeling heart, as I ought to have told you before. The yellow dragon crept nearer and nearer, licking her greedy lips with her long red tongue, and Edmund knew that in the school his master was still teaching earnestly and still not believing Edmund's tale the least little bit. "He'll jolly well have to believe it soon, anyhow," said Edmund to himself, and though he was a very tender-hearted boy--I think it only fair to tell you that he was this--I am afraid he was not as sorry as he ought to have been to think of the way in which his master was going to learn how to believe what Edmund said. Then the dragon opened her jaws wider and wider and wider. Edmund shut his eyes, for though his master was in the town, the amiable Edmund shrank from beholding the awful sight. When he opened his eyes again there was no town--only a bare place where it had stood, and the dragon licking her lips and curling herself up to go to sleep, just as Kitty does when she has quite finished with a mouse. Edmund gasped once or twice, and then ran into the cave to tell the cockatrice. "Well," said the cockatrice thoughtfully, when the tale had been told. "What then?" "I don't think you quite understand," said Edmund gently. "The dragon has swallowed up the town." "Does it matter?" said the cockatrice. [Illustration: "Creeping across the plain." _See page 147._] "But I live there," said Edmund blankly. "Never mind," said the cockatrice, turning over in the pool of fire to warm its other side, which was chilly, because Edmund had, as usual, forgotten to close the cave door. "You can live here with me." "I'm afraid I haven't made my meaning clear," said Edmund patiently. "You see, my granny is in the town, and I can't bear to lose my granny like this." "I don't know what a granny may be," said the cockatrice, who seemed to be growing weary of the subject, "but if it's a possession to which you attach any importance----" "Of course it is," said Edmund, losing patience at last. "Oh--do help me. What can I do?" "If I were you," said his friend, stretching itself out in the pool of flame so that the waves covered him up to his chin, "I should find the drakling and bring it here." "But why?" said Edmund. He had gotten into the habit of asking why at school, and the master had always found it trying. As for the cockatrice, he was not going to stand that sort of thing for a moment. "Oh, don't talk to me!" he said, splashing angrily in the flames. "I give you advice; take it or leave it--I shan't bother about you anymore. If you bring the drakling here to me, I'll tell you what to do next. If not, not." And the cockatrice drew the fire up close around his shoulders, tucked himself up in it, and went to sleep. Now this was exactly the right way to manage Edmund, only no one had ever thought of trying to do it before. He stood for a moment looking at the cockatrice; the cockatrice looked at Edmund out of the corner of his eye and began to snore very loudly, and Edmund understood, once and for all, that the cockatrice wasn't going to put up with any nonsense. He respected the cockatrice very much from that moment, and set off at once to do exactly as he was told--for perhaps the first time in his life. Though he had played truant so often, he knew one or two things that perhaps you don't know, though you have always been so good and gone to school regularly. For instance, he knew that a drakling is a dragon's baby, and he felt sure that what he had to do was to find the third of the three noises that people used to hear coming from the mountains. Of course, the clucking had been the cockatrice, and the big noise like a large gentleman asleep after dinner had been the big dragon. So the smaller rumbling must have been the drakling. He plunged boldly into the caves and searched and wandered and wandered and searched, and at last he came to a third door in the mountain, and on it was written THE BABY IS ASLEEP. Just before the door stood fifty pairs of copper shoes, and no one could have looked at them for a moment without seeing what sort of feet they were made for, for each shoe had five holes in it for the drakling's five claws. And there were fifty pairs because the drakling took after his mother, and had a hundred feet--no more and no less. He was the kind called _Draco centipedis_ in the learned books. Edmund was a good deal frightened, but he remembered the grim expression of the cockatrice's eye, and the fixed determination of his snore still rang in his ears, in spite of the snoring of the drakling, which was, in itself, considerable. He screwed up his courage, flung the door open, and called out: "Hello, you drakling. Get out of bed this minute." The drakling stopped snoring and said sleepily: "It ain't time yet." "Your mother says you are to, anyhow; and look sharp about it, what's more," said Edmund, gaining courage from the fact that the drakling had not yet eaten him. The drakling sighed, and Edmund could hear it getting out of bed. The next moment it began to come out of its room and to put on its shoes. It was not nearly so big as its mother; only about the size of a Baptist chapel. "Hurry up," said Edmund, as it fumbled clumsily with the seventeenth shoe. "Mother said I was never to go out without my shoes," said the drakling; so Edmund had to help it to put them on. It took some time, and was not a comfortable occupation. At last the drakling said it was ready, and Edmund, who had forgotten to be frightened, said, "Come on then," and they went back to the cockatrice. The cave was rather narrow for the drakling, but it made itself thin, as you may see a fat worm do when it wants to get through a narrow crack in a piece of hard earth. "Here it is," said Edmund, and the cockatrice woke up at once and asked the drakling very politely to sit down and wait. "Your mother will be here presently," said the cockatrice, stirring up its fire. The drakling sat down and waited, but it watched the fire with hungry eyes. "I beg your pardon," it said at last, "but I am always accustomed to having a little basin of fire as soon as I get up, and I feel rather faint. Might I?" It reached out a claw toward the cockatrice's basin. "Certainly not," said the cockatrice sharply. "Where were you brought up? Did they never teach you that 'we must not ask for all we see'? Eh?" "I beg your pardon," said the drakling humbly, "but I am really _very_ hungry." The cockatrice beckoned Edmund to the side of the basin and whispered in his ear so long and so earnestly that one side of the dear boy's hair was quite burnt off. And he never once interrupted the cockatrice to ask why. But when the whispering was over, Edmund--whose heart, as I may have mentioned, was very tender--said to the drakling: "If you are really hungry, poor thing, I can show you where there is plenty of fire." And off he went through the caves, and the drakling followed. When Edmund came to the proper place he stopped. There was a round iron thing in the floor, like the ones the men shoot the coals down into your cellar, only much larger. Edmund heaved it up by a hook that stuck out at one side, and a rush of hot air came up that nearly choked him. But the drakling came close and looked down with one eye and sniffed, and said: "That smells good, eh?" "Yes," said Edmund, "well, that's the fire in the middle of the earth. There's plenty of it, all done to a turn. You'd better go down and begin your breakfast, hadn't you?" So the drakling wriggled through the hole, and began to crawl faster and faster down the slanting shaft that leads to the fire in the middle of the earth. And Edmund, doing exactly as he had been told, for a wonder, caught the end of the drakling's tail and ran the iron hook through it so that the drakling was held fast. And it could not turn around and wriggle up again to look after its poor tail, because, as everyone knows, the way to the fires below is very easy to go down, but quite impossible to come back on. There is something about it in Latin, beginning: "_Facilis descensus_." So there was the drakling, fast by the silly tail of it, and there was Edmund very busy and important and very pleased with himself, hurrying back to the cockatrice. "Now," said he. "Well, now," said the cockatrice. "Go to the mouth of the cave and laugh at the dragon so that she hears you." Edmund very nearly said "Why?" but he stopped in time, and instead, said: "She won't hear me--" "Oh, very well," said the cockatrice. "No doubt you know best," and he began to tuck himself up again in the fire, so Edmund did as he was bid. And when he began to laugh his laughter echoed in the mouth of the cave till it sounded like the laughter of a whole castleful of giants. And the dragon, lying asleep in the sun, woke up and said very crossly: "What are you laughing at?" [Illustration: "That smells good, eh?" _See page 152._] "At you," said Edmund, and went on laughing. The dragon bore it as long as she could, but, like everyone else, she couldn't stand being made fun of, so presently she dragged herself up the mountain very slowly, because she had just had a rather heavy meal, and stood outside and said, "What are you laughing at?" in a voice that made Edmund feel as if he should never laugh again. Then the good cockatrice called out: "At you! You've eaten your own drakling--swallowed it with the town. Your own little drakling! He, he, he! Ha, ha, ha!" And Edmund found the courage to cry "Ha, ha!" which sounded like tremendous laughter in the echo of the cave. "Dear me," said the dragon. "I _thought_ the town stuck in my throat rather. I must take it out, and look through it more carefully." And with that she coughed--and choked--and there was the town, on the hillside. Edmund had run back to the cockatrice, and it had told him what to do. So before the dragon had time to look through the town again for her drakling, the voice of the drakling itself was heard howling miserably from inside the mountain, because Edmund was pinching its tail as hard as he could in the round iron door, like the one where the men pour the coals out of the sacks into the cellar. And the dragon heard the voice and said: "Why, whatever's the matter with Baby? He's not here!" and made herself thin, and crept into the mountain to find her drakling. The cockatrice kept on laughing as loud as it could, and Edmund kept on pinching, and presently the great dragon--very long and narrow she had made herself--found her head where the round hole was with the iron lid. Her tail was a mile or two off--outside the mountain. When Edmund heard her coming he gave one last nip to the drakling's tail, and then heaved up the lid and stood behind it, so that the dragon could not see him. Then he loosed the drakling's tail from the hook, and the dragon peeped down the hole just in time to see her drakling's tail disappear down the smooth, slanting shaft with one last squeak of pain. Whatever may have been the poor dragon's other faults, she was an excellent mother. She plunged headfirst into the hole, and slid down the shaft after her baby. Edmund watched her head go--and then the rest of her. She was so long, now she had stretched herself thin, that it took all night. It was like watching a goods train go by in Germany. When the last joint of her tail had gone Edmund slammed down the iron door. He was a kindhearted boy, as you have guessed, and he was glad to think that dragon and drakling would now have plenty to eat of their favorite food, forever and ever. He thanked the cockatrice for his kindness, and got home just in time to have breakfast and get to school by nine. Of course, he could not have done this if the town had been in its old place by the river in the middle of the plain, but it had taken root on the hillside just where the dragon left it. "Well," said the master, "where were you yesterday?" Edmund explained, and the master at once caned him for not speaking the truth. "But it _is_ true," said Edmund. "Why, the whole town was swallowed by the dragon. You know it was--" "Nonsense," said the master. "There was a thunderstorm and an earthquake, that's all." And he caned Edmund more than ever. "But," said Edmund, who always would argue, even in the least favorable circumstances, "how do you account for the town being on the hillside now, instead of by the river as it used to be?" "It was _always_ on the hillside," said the master. And all the class said the same, for they had more sense than to argue with a person who carried a cane. "But look at the maps," said Edmund, who wasn't going to be beaten in argument, whatever he might be in the flesh. The master pointed to the map on the wall. There was the town, on the hillside! And nobody but Edmund could see that of course the shock of being swallowed by the dragon had upset all the maps and put them wrong. And then the master caned Edmund again, explaining that this time it was not for untruthfulness, but for his vexatious argumentative habits. This will show you what a prejudiced and ignorant man Edmund's master was--how different from the revered Head of the nice school where your good parents are kind enough to send you. The next day Edmund thought he would prove his tale by showing people the cockatrice, and he actually persuaded some people to go into the cave with him; but the cockatrice had bolted himself in and would not open the door--so Edmund got nothing by that except a scolding for taking people on a wild-goose chase. "A wild goose," said they, "is nothing like a cockatrice." And poor Edmund could not say a word, though he knew how wrong they were. The only person who believed him was his granny. But then she was very old and very kind, and had always said he was the best of boys. Only one good thing came of all this long story. Edmund has never been quite the same boy since. He does not argue quite so much, and he agreed to be apprenticed to a locksmith, so that he might one day be able to pick the lock of the cockatrice's front door--and learn some more of the things that other people don't know. But he is quite an old man now, and he hasn't gotten that door open yet! * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 23, "around" changed to "round" (round piece of land) Page 152, "chocked" changed to "choked" (nearly choked him) Page 154, "he" changed to "she" (that she coughed) 
30120	----	by Internet Archive (http://www.archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations including twelve full-color plates. See 30120-h.htm or 30120-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/30120/30120-h/30120-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/30120/30120-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See http://www.archive.org/details/happyprinceother00wild3 Transcriber's note: In addition to the twelve full-color Plates, most pages have a line drawing either in the margin or surrounding the text. These have not been individually noted. The cover reads "... and Other Stories"; all interior pages read "... and Other Tales". THE HAPPY PRINCE And Other Tales [Illustration: THE KING OF THE MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON] THE HAPPY PRINCE And Other Tales by OSCAR WILDE Illustrated by Charles Robinson NEW YORK: BRENTANO'S First published by David Nutt, May, 1888 Reprinted January, 1889; February, 1902; September, 1905; February, 1907; March, 1908; March, 1910 Reset and published by arrangement with David Nutt by Duckworth & Co., 1920 Special Edition, reset. With illustrations by Charles Robinson, published by arrangement with David Nutt by Duckworth & Co., 1913. Reprinted 1920 Printed in Great Britain By Hazell, Watson and Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury. _To_ _CARLOS BLACKER_ CONTENTS _Page_ The Happy Prince 15 The Nightingale and the Rose 41 The Selfish Giant 59 The Devoted Friend 73 The Remarkable Rocket 105 LIST OF COLOUR PLATES The King of the Mountains of the Moon _Frontis._ _Facing page_ The Palace of Sans-Souci 20 The Loveliest of the Queen's Maids of Honour 26 The Rich Making Merry in Their Beautiful Houses while the Beggars were Sitting at the Gates 32 She will Pass me by 42 His Lips are Sweet as Honey 48 In every Tree he could see there was a Little Child 64 The Little Boy he had Loved 68 The Green Linnet 76 Hans in his Garden 92 The Russian Princess 106 "Let the Fireworks Begin," said the King 122 THE HAPPY PRINCE High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt. He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a weathercock," remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; "only not quite so useful," he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not. "Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything." "I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue. "He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores. "How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master, "you have never seen one." "Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming. One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her. "Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer. "It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows; "she has no money, and far too many relations;" and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away. After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. "She has no conversation," he said, "and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. "I admit that she is domestic," he continued, "but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also." "Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home. "You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!" and he flew away. All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations." Then he saw the statue on the tall column. "I will put up there," he cried; "it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air." So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince. "I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious thing!" he cried; "there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness." Then another drop fell. "What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said; "I must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away. But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw-- Ah! what did he see? The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity. "Who are you?" he said. "I am the Happy Prince." "Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite drenched me." [Illustration: THE PALACE OF SANS-SOUCI] "When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep." "What! is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud. "Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move." "I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad." "I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect." But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. "It is very cold here," he said; "but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger." "Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince. So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town. He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of love!" "I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball," she answered; "I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy." He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. "How cool I feel!" said the boy, "I must be getting better;" and he sank into a delicious slumber. Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. "It is curious," he remarked, "but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold." "That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy. When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. "A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand. "To-night I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!" so he enjoyed himself very much. When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any commissions for Egypt?" he cried; "I am just starting." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?" [Illustration: THE LOVELIEST OF THE QUEEN'S MAIDS OF HONOUR] "I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint." "I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?" "Alas! I have no ruby now," said the Prince; "my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play." "Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I cannot do that"; and he began to weep. "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you." So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets. "I am beginning to be appreciated," he cried; "this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play," and he looked quite happy. The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as each chest came up. "I am going to Egypt!" cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried. "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?" "It is winter," answered the Swallow, "and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea." "In the square below," said the Happy Prince, "there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye and give it to her, and her father will not beat her." "I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you." So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. "What a lovely bit of glass!" cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing. Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said, "so I will stay with you always." "No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt." "I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet. All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies. "Dear little Swallow," said the Prince, "you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there." [Illustration: THE RICH MAKING MERRY IN THEIR BEAUTIFUL HOUSES, WHILE THE BEGGARS WERE SITTING AT THE GATES] So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. "How hungry we are!" they said. "You must not lie here," shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain. Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen. "I am covered with fine gold," said the Prince, "you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy." Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. "We have bread now!" they cried. Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice. The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door when the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings. But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear Prince!" he murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?" "I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow," said the Prince, "you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you." "It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?" And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet. At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost. Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!" he said. "How shabby, indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it. "The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer," said the Mayor; "in fact, he is little better than a beggar!" "Little better than a beggar," said the Town Councillors. "And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!" continued the Mayor. "We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here." And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion. So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the University. Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue of myself." "Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still. "What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. "This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away." So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying. "Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird. "You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me." * * * * * THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE "She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the young Student; "but in all my garden there is no red rose." From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered. "No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched." "Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow." "The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night," murmured the young Student, "and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break." [Illustration: SHE WILL PASS ME BY] "Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I sing of, he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold." "The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Student, "and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her;" and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept. "Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air. "Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam. "Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice. "He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale. "For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright. But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love. Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden. In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray. "Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song." But the Tree shook its head. "My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want." So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial. "Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song." But the Tree shook its head. "My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want." So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window. "Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song." But the Tree shook its head. "My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year." "One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?" "There is a way," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you." "Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid." "If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine." "Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?" So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove. The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes. "Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though he is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense." [Illustration: HIS LIPS ARE SWEET AS HONEY] The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books. But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches. "Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely when you are gone." So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar. When she had finished her song, the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket. "She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove--"that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good!" And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep. And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her. She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river--pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree. But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished." So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid. And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose. And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished." So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb. And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart. But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat. Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea. "Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now;" but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart. And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out. "Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;" and he leaned down and plucked it. Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand. The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet. "You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you." But the girl frowned. "I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers." "Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it. "Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has;" and she got up from her chair and went into the house. "What a silly thing Love is!" said the Student as he walked away. "It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics." So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read. * * * * * THE SELFISH GIANT Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden. It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. "How happy we are here!" they cried to each other. One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden. "What are you doing here?" he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away. "My own garden is my own garden," said the Giant; "any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself." So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED He was a very selfish Giant. The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. "How happy we were there!" they said to each other. Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. "Spring has forgotten this garden," they cried, "so we will live here all the year round." The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. "This is a delightful spot," he said, "we must ask the Hail on a visit." So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice. "I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming," said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; "I hope there will be a change in the weather." But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. "He is too selfish," she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees. One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. "I believe the Spring has come at last," said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out. What did he see? He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. [Illustration: IN EVERY TREE HE COULD SEE THERE WAS A LITTLE CHILD] He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. "Climb up! little boy," said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny. And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. "How selfish I have been!" he said; "now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's playground for ever and ever." He was really very sorry for what he had done. So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. "It is your garden now, little children," said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at twelve o'clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen. All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye. "But where is your little companion?" he said: "the boy I put into the tree." The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him. "We don't know," answered the children; "he has gone away." "You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow," said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad. Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. "How I would like to see him!" he used to say. Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. "I have many beautiful flowers," he said; "but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all." One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting. Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved. [Illustration: THE LITTLE BOY HE HAD LOVED] Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, "Who hath dared to wound thee?" For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet. "Who hath dared to wound thee?" cried the Giant; "tell me, that I might take my big sword and slay him." "Nay!" answered the child; "but these are the wounds of Love." "Who art thou?" said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child. And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, "You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise." And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms. * * * * * THE DEVOTED FRIEND One morning the old Water-rat put his head out of his hole. He had bright beady eyes and stiff grey whiskers and his tail was like a long bit of black india-rubber. The little ducks were swimming about in the pond, looking just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their mother, who was pure white with real red legs, was trying to teach them how to stand on their heads in the water. "You will never be in the best society unless you can stand on your heads," she kept saying to them; and every now and then she showed them how it was done. But the little ducks paid no attention to her. They were so young that they did not know what an advantage it is to be in society at all. "What disobedient children!" cried the old Water-rat; "they really deserve to be drowned." "Nothing of the kind," answered the Duck, "every one must make a beginning, and parents cannot be too patient." "Ah! I know nothing about the feelings of parents," said the Water-rat; "I am not a family man. In fact, I have never been married, and I never intend to be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is much higher. Indeed, I know of nothing in the world that is either nobler or rarer than a devoted friendship." "And what, pray, is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend?" asked a green Linnet, who was sitting in a willow-tree hard by, and had overheard the conversation. "Yes, that is just what I want to know," said the Duck; and she swam away to the end of the pond, and stood upon her head, in order to give her children a good example. "What a silly question!" cried the Water-rat. "I should expect my devoted friend to be devoted to me, of course." "And what would you do in return?" said the little bird, swinging upon a silver spray, and flapping his tiny wings. "I don't understand you," answered the Water-rat. "Let me tell you a story on the subject," said the Linnet. "Is the story about me?" asked the Water-rat. "If so, I will listen to it, for I am extremely fond of fiction." "It is applicable to you," answered the Linnet; and he flew down, and alighting upon the bank, he told the story of The Devoted Friend. "Once upon a time," said the Linnet, "there was an honest little fellow named Hans." "Was he very distinguished?" asked the Water-rat. "No," answered the Linnet, "I don't think he was distinguished at all, except for his kind heart, and his funny round good-humoured face. He lived in a tiny cottage all by himself, and every day he worked in his garden. In all the country-side there was no garden so lovely as his. Sweet-william grew there, and Gilly-flowers, and Shepherds'-purses, and Fair-maids of France. There were damask Roses, and yellow Roses, lilac Crocuses and gold, purple Violets and white. Columbine and Ladysmock, Marjoram and Wild Basil, the Cowslip and the Flower-de-luce, the Daffodil and the Clove-Pink bloomed or blossomed in their proper order as the months went by, one flower taking another flower's place, so that there were always beautiful things to look at, and pleasant odours to smell. [Illustration: THE GREEN LINNET] "Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted friend of all was big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so devoted was the rich Miller to little Hans, that he would never go by his garden without leaning over the wall and plucking a large nosegay, or a handful of sweet herbs, or filling his pockets with plums and cherries if it was the fruit season. "'Real friends should have everything in common,' the Miller used to say, and little Hans nodded and smiled, and felt very proud of having a friend with such noble ideas. "Sometimes, indeed, the neighbours thought it strange that the rich Miller never gave little Hans anything in return, though he had a hundred sacks of flour stored away in his mill, and six milch cows, and a large flock of woolly sheep; but Hans never troubled his head about these things, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to listen to all the wonderful things the Miller used to say about the unselfishness of true friendship. "So little Hans worked away in his garden. During the spring, the summer, and the autumn he was very happy, but when the winter came, and he had no fruit or flowers to bring to the market, he suffered a good deal from cold and hunger, and often had to go to bed without any supper but a few dried pears or some hard nuts. In the winter, also, he was extremely lonely, as the Miller never came to see him then. "'There is no good in my going to see little Hans as long as the snow lasts,' the Miller used to say to his wife, 'for when people are in trouble they should be left alone and not be bothered by visitors. That at least is my idea about friendship, and I am sure I am right. So I shall wait till the spring comes, and then I shall pay him a visit, and he will be able to give me a large basket of primroses, and that will make him so happy.' "'You are certainly very thoughtful about others,' answered the Wife, as she sat in her comfortable armchair by the big pinewood fire; 'very thoughtful indeed. It is quite a treat to hear you talk about friendship. I am sure the clergyman himself could not say such beautiful things as you do, though he does live in a three-storied house, and wear a gold ring on his little finger.' "'But could we not ask little Hans up here?' said the Miller's youngest son. 'If poor Hans is in trouble I will give him half my porridge, and show him my white rabbits.' "'What a silly boy you are!' cried the Miller; 'I really don't know what is the use of sending you to school. You seem not to learn anything. Why, if little Hans came up here, and saw our warm fire, and our good supper, and our great cask of red wine, he might get envious, and envy is a most terrible thing, and would spoil anybody's nature. I certainly will not allow Hans' nature to be spoiled. I am his best friend, and I will always watch over him, and see that he is not led into any temptations. Besides, if Hans came here, he might ask me to let him have some flour on credit, and that I could not do. Flour is one thing and friendship is another, and they should not be confused. Why, the words are spelt differently, and mean quite different things. Everybody can see that.' "'How well you talk!' said the Miller's Wife, pouring herself out a large glass of warm ale; 'really I feel quite drowsy. It is just like being in church.' "'Lots of people act well,' answered the Miller; 'but very few people talk well, which shows that talking is much the more difficult thing of the two, and much the finer thing also'; and he looked sternly across the table at his little son, who felt so ashamed of himself that he hung his head down, and grew quite scarlet, and began to cry into his tea. However, he was so young that you must excuse him." "Is that the end of the story?" asked the Water-rat. "Certainly not," answered the Linnet, "that is the beginning." "Then you are quite behind the age," said the Water-rat. "Every good story-teller nowadays starts with the end, and then goes on to the beginning, and concludes with the middle. That is the new method. I heard all about it the other day from a critic who was walking round the pond with a young man. He spoke of the matter at great length, and I am sure he must have been right, for he had blue spectacles and a bald head, and whenever the young man made any remark, he always answered 'Pooh!' But pray go on with your story. I like the Miller immensely. I have all kinds of beautiful sentiments myself, so there is a great sympathy between us." "Well," said the Linnet, hopping now on one leg and now on the other, "as soon as the winter was over, and the primroses began to open their pale yellow stars, the Miller said to his wife that he would go down and see little Hans. "'Why, what a good heart you have!' cried his Wife; 'you are always thinking of others. And mind you take the big basket with you for the flowers.' "So the Miller tied the sails of the windmill together with a strong iron chain, and went down the hill with the basket on his arm. "'Good morning, little Hans,' said the Miller. "'Good morning,' said Hans, leaning on his spade, and smiling from ear to ear. "'And how have you been all the winter?' said the Miller. "'Well, really,' cried Hans, 'it is very good of you to ask, very good indeed. I am afraid I had rather a hard time of it, but now the spring has come, and I am quite happy, and all my flowers are doing well.' "'We often talked of you during the winter, Hans,' said the Miller, 'and wondered how you were getting on.' "'That was kind of you,' said Hans; 'I was half afraid you had forgotten me.' "'Hans, I am surprised at you,' said the Miller; 'friendship never forgets. That is the wonderful thing about it, but I am afraid you don't understand the poetry of life. How lovely your primroses are looking, by-the-bye!' "'They are certainly very lovely,' said Hans, 'and it is a most lucky thing for me that I have so many. I am going to bring them into the market and sell them to the Burgomaster's daughter, and buy back my wheelbarrow with the money.' "'Buy back your wheelbarrow? You don't mean to say you have sold it? What a very stupid thing to do!' "'Well, the fact is,' said Hans, 'that I was obliged to. You see the winter was a very bad time for me, and I really had no money at all to buy bread with. So I first sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat, and then I sold my silver chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at last I sold my wheelbarrow. But I am going to buy them all back again now.' "'Hans,' said the Miller, 'I will give you my wheelbarrow. It is not in very good repair; indeed, one side is gone, and there is something wrong with the wheel-spokes; but in spite of that I will give it to you. I know it is very generous of me, and a great many people would think me extremely foolish for parting with it, but I am not like the rest of the world. I think that generosity is the essence of friendship, and, besides, I have got a new wheelbarrow for myself. Yes, you may set your mind at ease, I will give you my wheelbarrow.' "'Well, really, that is generous of you,' said little Hans, and his funny round face glowed all over with pleasure. 'I can easily put it in repair, as I have a plank of wood in the house.' "'A plank of wood!' said the Miller; 'why, that is just what I want for the roof of my barn. There is a very large hole in it, and the corn will all get damp if I don't stop it up. How lucky you mentioned it! It is quite remarkable how one good action always breeds another. I have given you my wheelbarrow, and now you are going to give me your plank. Of course, the wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true friendship never notices things like that. Pray get it at once, and I will set to work at my barn this very day.' "'Certainly,' cried little Hans, and he ran into the shed and dragged the plank out. "'It is not a very big plank,' said the Miller, looking at it, 'and I am afraid that after I have mended my barn-roof there won't be any left for you to mend the wheelbarrow with; but, of course, that is not my fault. And now, as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I am sure you would like to give me some flowers in return. Here is the basket, and mind you fill it quite full.' "'Quite full?' said little Hans, rather sorrowfully, for it was really a very big basket, and he knew that if he filled it he would have no flowers left for the market, and he was very anxious to get his silver buttons back. "'Well, really,' answered the Miller, 'as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I don't think that it is much to ask you for a few flowers. I may be wrong, but I should have thought that friendship, true friendship, was quite free from selfishness of any kind.' "'My dear friend, my best friend,' cried little Hans, 'you are welcome to all the flowers in my garden. I would much sooner have your good opinion than my silver buttons, any day;' and he ran and plucked all his pretty primroses, and filled the Miller's basket. "'Good-bye, little Hans,' said the Miller, as he went up the hill with the plank on his shoulder, and the big basket in his hand. "'Good-bye,' said little Hans, and he began to dig away quite merrily, he was so pleased about the wheelbarrow. "The next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against the porch, when he heard the Miller's voice calling to him from the road. So he jumped off the ladder, and ran down the garden, and looked over the wall. "There was the Miller with a large sack of flour on his back. "'Dear little Hans,' said the Miller, 'would you mind carrying this sack of flour for me to market?' "'Oh, I am so sorry,' said Hans, 'but I am really very busy to-day. I have got all my creepers to nail up, and all my flowers to water, and all my grass to roll.' "'Well, really,' said the Miller, 'I think that, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, it is rather unfriendly of you to refuse.' "'Oh, don't say that,' cried little Hans, 'I wouldn't be unfriendly for the whole world;' and he ran in for his cap, and trudged off with the big sack on his shoulders. "It was a very hot day, and the road was terribly dusty, and before Hans had reached the sixth milestone he was so tired that he had to sit down and rest. However, he went on bravely, and at last he reached the market. After he had waited there some time, he sold the sack of flour for a very good price, and then he returned home at once, for he was afraid that if he stopped too late he might meet some robbers on the way. "'It has certainly been a hard day,' said little Hans to himself as he was going to bed, 'but I am glad I did not refuse the Miller, for he is my best friend, and, besides, he is going to give me his wheelbarrow.' "Early the next morning the Miller came down to get the money for his sack of flour, but little Hans was so tired that he was still in bed. "'Upon my word,' said the Miller, 'you are very lazy. Really, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, I think you might work harder. Idleness is a great sin, and I certainly don't like any of my friends to be idle or sluggish. You must not mind my speaking quite plainly to you. Of course I should not dream of doing so if I were not your friend. But what is the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means? Anybody can say charming things and try to please and to flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things, and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.' "'I am very sorry,' said little Hans, rubbing his eyes and pulling off his night-cap, 'but I was so tired that I thought I would lie in bed for a little time, and listen to the birds singing. Do you know that I always work better after hearing the birds sing?' "'Well, I am glad of that,' said the Miller, clapping little Hans on the back, 'for I want you to come up to the mill as soon as you are dressed and mend my barn-roof for me.' "Poor little Hans was very anxious to go and work in his garden, for his flowers had not been watered for two days, but he did not like to refuse the Miller as he was such a good friend to him. "'Do you think it would be unfriendly of me if I said I was busy?' he inquired in a shy and timid voice. "'Well, really,' answered the Miller, 'I do not think it is much to ask of you, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow; but of course if you refuse I will go and do it myself.' "'Oh! on no account,' cried little Hans; and he jumped out of bed, and dressed himself, and went up to the barn. "He worked there all day long, till sunset, and at sunset the Miller came to see how he was getting on. [Illustration: HANS IN HIS GARDEN] "'Have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little Hans?' cried the Miller in a cheery voice. "'It is quite mended,' answered little Hans, coming down the ladder. "'Ah!' said the Miller, 'there is no work so delightful as the work one does for others.' "'It is certainly a great privilege to hear you talk,' answered little Hans, sitting down and wiping his forehead, 'a very great privilege. But I am afraid I shall never have such beautiful ideas as you have.' "'Oh! they will come to you,' said the Miller, 'but you must take more pains. At present you have only the practice of friendship; some day you will have the theory also.' "'Do you really think I shall?' asked little Hans. "'I have no doubt of it,' answered the Miller, 'but now that you have mended the roof, you had better go home and rest, for I want you to drive my sheep to the mountain to-morrow.' "Poor little Hans was afraid to say anything to this, and early the next morning the Miller brought his sheep round to the cottage, and Hans started off with them to the mountain. It took him the whole day to get there and back; and when he returned he was so tired that he went off to sleep in his chair, and did not wake up till it was broad daylight. "'What a delightful time I shall have in my garden!' he said, and he went to work at once. "But somehow he was never able to look after his flowers at all, for his friend the Miller was always coming round and sending him off on long errands, or getting him to help at the mill. Little Hans was very much distressed at times, as he was afraid his flowers would think he had forgotten them, but he consoled himself by the reflection that the Miller was his best friend. 'Besides,' he used to say, 'he is going to give me his wheelbarrow, and that is an act of pure generosity.' "So little Hans worked away for the Miller, and the Miller said all kinds of beautiful things about friendship, which Hans took down in a notebook, and used to read over at night, for he was a very good scholar. "Now it happened that one evening little Hans was sitting by his fireside when a loud rap came at the door. It was a very wild night, and the wind was blowing and roaring round the house so terribly that at first he thought it was merely the storm. But a second rap came, and then a third, louder than any of the others. "'It is some poor traveller,' said little Hans to himself, and he ran to the door. "There stood the Miller with a lantern in one hand and a big stick in the other. "'Dear little Hans,' cried the Miller, 'I am in great trouble. My little boy has fallen off a ladder and hurt himself, and I am going for the Doctor. But he lives so far away, and it is such a bad night, that it has just occurred to me that it would be much better if you went instead of me. You know I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so it is only fair that you should do something for me in return.' "'Certainly,' cried little Hans, 'I take it quite as a compliment your coming to me, and I will start off at once. But you must lend me your lantern, as the night is so dark that I am afraid I might fall into the ditch.' "'I am very sorry,' answered the Miller, 'but it is my new lantern and it would be a great loss to me if anything happened to it.' "'Well, never mind, I will do without it,' cried little Hans, and he took down his great fur coat, and his warm scarlet cap, and tied a muffler round his throat, and started off. "What a dreadful storm it was! The night was so black that little Hans could hardly see, and the wind was so strong that he could scarcely stand. However, he was very courageous, and after he had been walking about three hours, he arrived at the Doctor's house, and knocked at the door. "'Who is there?' cried the Doctor, putting his head out of his bedroom window. "'Little Hans, Doctor.' "'What do you want, little Hans?' "'The Miller's son has fallen from a ladder, and has hurt himself, and the Miller wants you to come at once.' "'All right!' said the Doctor; and he ordered his horse, and his big boots, and his lantern, and came downstairs, and rode off in the direction of the Miller's house, little Hans trudging behind him. "But the storm grew worse and worse, and the rain fell in torrents, and little Hans could not see where he was going, or keep up with the horse. At last he lost his way, and wandered off on the moor, which was a very dangerous place, as it was full of deep holes, and there poor little Hans was drowned. His body was found the next day by some goatherds, floating in a great pool of water, and was brought back by them to the cottage. "Everybody went to little Hans' funeral, as he was so popular, and the Miller was the chief mourner. "'As I was his best friend,' said the Miller, 'it is only fair that I should have the best place;' so he walked at the head of the procession in a long black cloak, and every now and then he wiped his eyes with a big pocket-handkerchief. "'Little Hans is certainly a great loss to every one,' said the Blacksmith, when the funeral was over, and they were all seated comfortably in the inn, drinking spiced wine and eating sweet cakes. "'A great loss to me at any rate,' answered the Miller, 'why, I had as good as given him my wheelbarrow, and now I really don't know what to do with it. It is very much in my way at home, and it is in such bad repair that I could not get anything for it if I sold it. I will certainly take care not to give away anything again. One always suffers for being generous.'" "Well?" said the Water-rat, after a long pause. "Well, that is the end," said the Linnet. "But what became of the Miller?" asked the Water-rat. "Oh! I really don't know," replied the Linnet; "and I am sure that I don't care." "It is quite evident then that you have no sympathy in your nature," said the Water-rat. "I am afraid you don't quite see the moral of the story," remarked the Linnet. "The what?" screamed the Water-rat. "The moral." "Do you mean to say that the story has a moral?" "Certainly," said the Linnet. "Well, really," said the Water-rat, in a very angry manner, "I think you should have told me that before you began. If you had done so, I certainly would not have listened to you; in fact, I should have said 'Pooh,' like the critic. However, I can say it now;" so he shouted out "Pooh" at the top of his voice, gave a whisk with his tail, and went back into his hole. "And how do you like the Water-rat?" asked the Duck, who came paddling up some minutes afterwards. "He has a great many good points, but for my own part I have a mother's feelings, and I can never look at a confirmed bachelor without the tears coming into my eyes." "I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him," answered the Linnet. "The fact is, that I told him a story with a moral." "Ah! that is always a very dangerous thing to do," said the Duck. And I quite agree with her. * * * * * THE REMARKABLE ROCKET The King's son was going to be married, so there were general rejoicings. He had waited a whole year for his bride, and at last she had arrived. She was a Russian Princess, and had driven all the way from Finland in a sledge drawn by six reindeer. The sledge was shaped like a great golden swan, and between the swan's wings lay the little Princess herself. Her long ermine cloak reached right down to her feet, on her head was a tiny cap of silver tissue, and she was as pale as the Snow Palace in which she had always lived. So pale was she that as she drove through the streets all the people wondered. "She is like a white rose!" they cried, and they threw down flowers on her from the balconies. At the gate of the Castle the Prince was waiting to receive her. He had dreamy violet eyes, and his hair was like fine gold. When he saw her he sank upon one knee, and kissed her hand. "Your picture was beautiful," he murmured, "but you are more beautiful than your picture;" and the little Princess blushed. "She was like a white rose before," said a young page to his neighbour, "but she is like a red rose now;" and the whole Court was delighted. [Illustration: THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS] For the next three days everybody went about saying, "White rose, Red rose, Red rose, White rose;" and the King gave orders that the Page's salary was to be doubled. As he received no salary at all this was not of much use to him, but it was considered a great honour, and was duly published in the Court Gazette. When the three days were over the marriage was celebrated. It was a magnificent ceremony, and the bride and bridegroom walked hand in hand under a canopy of purple velvet embroidered with little pearls. Then there was a State Banquet, which lasted for five hours. The Prince and Princess sat at the top of the Great Hall and drank out of a cup of clear crystal. Only true lovers could drink out of this cup, for if false lips touched it, it grew grey and dull and cloudy. "It is quite clear that they love each other," said the little Page, "as clear as crystal!" and the King doubled his salary a second time. "What an honour!" cried all the courtiers. After the banquet there was to be a Ball. The bride and bridegroom were to dance the Rose-dance together, and the King had promised to play the flute. He played very badly, but no one had ever dared to tell him so, because he was the King. Indeed, he knew only two airs, and was never quite certain which one he was playing; but it made no matter, for, whatever he did, everybody cried out, "Charming! charming!" The last item on the programme was a grand display of fireworks, to be let off exactly at midnight. The little Princess had never seen a firework in her life, so the King had given orders that the Royal Pyrotechnist should be in attendance on the day of her marriage. "What are fireworks like?" she had asked the Prince, one morning, as she was walking on the terrace. "They are like the Aurora Borealis," said the King, who always answered questions that were addressed to other people, "only much more natural. I prefer them to stars myself, as you always know when they are going to appear, and they are as delightful as my own flute-playing. You must certainly see them." So at the end of the King's garden a great stand had been set up, and as soon as the Royal Pyrotechnist had put everything in its proper place, the fireworks began to talk to each other. "The world is certainly very beautiful," cried a little Squib. "Just look at those yellow tulips. Why! if they were real Crackers they could not be lovelier. I am very glad I have travelled. Travel improves the mind wonderfully, and does away with all one's prejudices." "The King's garden is not the world, you foolish Squib," said a big Roman Candle; "the world is an enormous place, and it would take you three days to see it thoroughly." "Any place you love is the world to you," exclaimed the pensive Catherine Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life, and prided herself on her broken heart; "but love is not fashionable any more, the poets have killed it. They wrote so much about it that nobody believed them, and I am not surprised. True love suffers, and is silent. I remember myself once---- But it is no matter now. Romance is a thing of the past." "Nonsense!" said the Roman Candle, "Romance never dies. It is like the moon, and lives for ever. The bride and bridegroom, for instance, love each other very dearly. I heard all about them this morning from a brown-paper cartridge, who happened to be staying in the same drawer as myself, and he knew the latest Court news." But the Catherine Wheel shook her head. "Romance is dead, Romance is dead, Romance is dead," she murmured. She was one of those people who think that, if you say the same thing over and over a great many times, it becomes true in the end. Suddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, and they all looked round. It came from a tall, supercilious-looking Rocket, who was tied to the end of a long stick. He always coughed before he made any observation, so as to attract attention. "Ahem! ahem!" he said, and everybody listened except the poor Catherine Wheel, who was still shaking her head, and murmuring, "Romance is dead." "Order! order!" cried out a Cracker. He was something of a politician, and had always taken a prominent part in the local elections, so he knew the proper Parliamentary expressions to use. "Quite dead," whispered the Catherine Wheel, and she went off to sleep. As soon as there was perfect silence, the Rocket coughed a third time and began. He spoke with a very slow, distinct voice, as if he was dictating his memoirs, and always looked over the shoulder of the person to whom he was talking. In fact, he had a most distinguished manner. "How fortunate it is for the King's son," he remarked, "that he is to be married on the very day on which I am to be let off! Really, if it had been arranged beforehand, it could not have turned out better for him; but Princes are always lucky." "Dear me!" said the little Squib, "I thought it was quite the other way, and that we were to be let off in the Prince's honour." "It may be so with you," he answered; "indeed, I have no doubt that it is, but with me it is different. I am a very remarkable Rocket, and come of remarkable parents. My mother was the most celebrated Catherine Wheel of her day, and was renowned for her graceful dancing. When she made her great public appearance she spun round nineteen times before she went out, and each time that she did so she threw into the air seven pink stars. She was three feet and a half in diameter, and made of the very best gunpowder. My father was a Rocket like myself, and of French extraction. He flew so high that the people were afraid that he would never come down again. He did, though, for he was of a kindly disposition, and he made a most brilliant descent in a shower of golden rain. The newspapers wrote about his performance in very flattering terms. Indeed, the Court Gazette called him a triumph of Pylotechnic art." "Pyrotechnic, Pyrotechnic, you mean," said a Bengal Light; "I know it is Pyrotechnic, for I saw it written on my own canister." "Well, I said Pylotechnic," answered the Rocket, in a severe tone of voice, and the Bengal Light felt so crushed that he began at once to bully the little squibs, in order to show that he was still a person of some importance. "I was saying," continued the Rocket, "I was saying---- What was I saying?" "You were talking about yourself," replied the Roman Candle. "Of course; I knew I was discussing some interesting subject when I was so rudely interrupted. I hate rudeness and bad manners of every kind, for I am extremely sensitive. No one in the whole world is so sensitive as I am, I am quite sure of that." "What is a sensitive person?" said the Cracker to the Roman Candle. "A person who, because he has corns himself, always treads on other people's toes," answered the Roman Candle in a low whisper; and the Cracker nearly exploded with laughter. "Pray, what are you laughing at?" inquired the Rocket; "I am not laughing." "I am laughing because I am happy," replied the Cracker. "That is a very selfish reason," said the Rocket angrily. "What right have you to be happy? You should be thinking about others. In fact, you should be thinking about me. I am always thinking about myself, and I expect everybody else to do the same. That is what is called sympathy. It is a beautiful virtue, and I possess it in a high degree. Suppose, for instance, anything happened to me to-night, what a misfortune that would be for every one! The Prince and Princess would never be happy again, their whole married life would be spoiled; and as for the King, I know he would not get over it. Really, when I begin to reflect on the importance of my position, I am almost moved to tears." "If you want to give pleasure to others," cried the Roman Candle, "you had better keep yourself dry." "Certainly," exclaimed the Bengal Light, who was now in better spirits; "that is only common sense." "Common sense, indeed!" said the Rocket indignantly; "you forget that I am very uncommon, and very remarkable. Why, anybody can have common sense, provided that they have no imagination. But I have imagination, for I never think of things as they really are; I always think of them as being quite different. As for keeping myself dry, there is evidently no one here who can at all appreciate an emotional nature. Fortunately for myself, I don't care. The only thing that sustains one through life is the consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and this is a feeling I have always cultivated. But none of you have any hearts. Here you are laughing and making merry just as if the Prince and Princess had not just been married." "Well, really," exclaimed a small Fire-balloon, "why not? It is a most joyful occasion, and when I soar up into the air I intend to tell the stars all about it. You will see them twinkle when I talk to them about the pretty bride." "Ah! what a trivial view of life!" said the Rocket; "but it is only what I expected. There is nothing in you; you are hollow and empty. Why, perhaps the Prince and Princess may go to live in a country where there is a deep river, and perhaps they may have one only son, a little fair-haired boy with violet eyes like the Prince himself; and perhaps some day he may go out to walk with his nurse; and perhaps the nurse may go to sleep under a great elder-tree; and perhaps the little boy may fall into the deep river and be drowned. What a terrible misfortune! Poor people, to lose their only son! It is really too dreadful! I shall never get over it." "But they have not lost their only son," said the Roman Candle; "no misfortune has happened to them at all." "I never said that they had," replied the Rocket; "I said that they might. If they had lost their only son there would be no use in saying anything more about the matter. I hate people who cry over spilt milk. But when I think that they might lose their only son, I certainly am much affected." "You certainly are!" cried the Bengal Light. "In fact, you are the most affected person I ever met." "You are the rudest person I ever met," said the Rocket, "and you cannot understand my friendship for the Prince." "Why, you don't even know him," growled the Roman Candle. "I never said I knew him," answered the Rocket. "I dare say that if I knew him I should not be his friend at all. It is a very dangerous thing to know one's friends." "You had really better keep yourself dry," said the Fire-balloon. "That is the important thing." "Very important for you, I have no doubt," answered the Rocket, "but I shall weep if I choose;" and he actually burst into real tears, which flowed down his stick like rain-drops, and nearly drowned two little beetles, who were just thinking of setting up house together, and were looking for a nice dry spot to live in. "He must have a truly romantic nature," said the Catherine Wheel, "for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about;" and she heaved a deep sigh and thought about the deal box. But the Roman Candle and the Bengal Light were quite indignant, and kept saying, "Humbug! humbug!" at the top of their voices. They were extremely practical, and whenever they objected to anything they called it humbug. Then the moon rose like a wonderful silver shield; and the stars began to shine, and a sound of music came from the palace. The Prince and Princess were leading the dance. They danced so beautifully that the tall white lilies peeped in at the window and watched them, and the great red poppies nodded their heads and beat time. Then ten o'clock struck, and then eleven, and then twelve, and at the last stroke of midnight every one came out on the terrace, and the King sent for the Royal Pyrotechnist. "Let the fireworks begin," said the King; and the Royal Pyrotechnist made a low bow, and marched down to the end of the garden. He had six attendants with him, each of whom carried a lighted torch at the end of a long pole. It was certainly a magnificent display. Whizz! Whizz! went the Catherine Wheel, as she spun round and round. Boom! Boom! went the Roman Candle. Then the Squibs danced all over the place, and the Bengal Lights made everything look scarlet. "Good-bye," cried the Fire-balloon as he soared away, dropping tiny blue sparks. Bang! Bang! answered the Crackers, who were enjoying themselves immensely. Every one was a great success except the Remarkable Rocket. He was so damp with crying that he could not go off at all. The best thing in him was the gunpowder, and that was so wet with tears that it was of no use. All his poor relations, to whom he would never speak, except with a sneer, shot up into the sky like wonderful golden flowers with blossoms of fire. Huzza! Huzza! cried the Court; and the little Princess laughed with pleasure. "I suppose they are reserving me for some grand occasion," said the Rocket; "no doubt that is what it means," and he looked more supercilious than ever. [Illustration: "LET THE FIREWORKS BEGIN," SAID THE KING] The next day the workmen came to put everything tidy. "This is evidently a deputation," said the Rocket; "I will receive them with becoming dignity": so he put his nose in the air, and began to frown severely as if he were thinking about some very important subject. But they took no notice of him at all till they were just going away. Then one of them caught sight of him. "Hallo!" he cried, "what a bad rocket!" and he threw him over the wall into the ditch. "BAD Rocket? BAD Rocket?" he said, as he whirled through the air; "impossible! GRAND Rocket, that is what the man said. BAD and GRAND sound very much the same, indeed they often are the same;" and he fell into the mud. "It is not comfortable here," he remarked, "but no doubt it is some fashionable watering-place, and they have sent me away to recruit my health. My nerves are certainly very much shattered, and I require rest." Then a little Frog, with bright jewelled eyes, and a green mottled coat, swam up to him. "A new arrival, I see!" said the Frog. "Well, after all there is nothing like mud. Give me rainy weather and a ditch, and I am quite happy. Do you think it will be a wet afternoon? I am sure I hope so, but the sky is quite blue and cloudless. What a pity!" "Ahem! ahem!" said the Rocket, and he began to cough. "What a delightful voice you have!" cried the Frog. "Really it is quite like a croak, and croaking is of course the most musical sound in the world. You will hear our glee-club this evening. We sit in the old duck pond close by the farmer's house, and as soon as the moon rises we begin. It is so entrancing that everybody lies awake to listen to us. In fact, it was only yesterday that I heard the farmer's wife say to her mother that she could not get a wink of sleep at night on account of us. It is most gratifying to find oneself so popular." "Ahem! ahem!" said the Rocket angrily. He was very much annoyed that he could not get a word in. "A delightful voice, certainly," continued the Frog; "I hope you will come over to the duck-pond. I am off to look for my daughters. I have six beautiful daughters, and I am so afraid the Pike may meet them. He is a perfect monster, and would have no hesitation in breakfasting off them. Well, good-bye: I have enjoyed our conversation very much, I assure you." "Conversation, indeed!" said the Rocket. "You have talked the whole time yourself. That is not conversation." "Somebody must listen," answered the Frog, "and I like to do all the talking myself. It saves time, and prevents arguments." "But I like arguments," said the Rocket. "I hope not," said the Frog complacently. "Arguments are extremely vulgar, for everybody in good society holds exactly the same opinions. Good-bye a second time; I see my daughters in the distance;" and the little Frog swam away. "You are a very irritating person," said the Rocket, "and very ill-bred. I hate people who talk about themselves, as you do, when one wants to talk about oneself, as I do. It is what I call selfishness, and selfishness is a most detestable thing, especially to any one of my temperament, for I am well known for my sympathetic nature. In fact, you should take example by me; you could not possibly have a better model. Now that you have the chance you had better avail yourself of it, for I am going back to Court almost immediately. I am a great favourite at Court; in fact, the Prince and Princess were married yesterday in my honour. Of course you know nothing of these matters, for you are a provincial." "There is no good talking to him," said a dragon-fly, who was sitting on the top of a large brown bulrush; "no good at all, for he has gone away." "Well, that is his loss, not mine," answered the Rocket. "I am not going to stop talking to him merely because he pays no attention. I like hearing myself talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures. I often have long conversations all by myself, and I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying." "Then you should certainly lecture on Philosophy," said the Dragon-fly, and he spread a pair of lovely gauze wings and soared away into the sky. "How very silly of him not to stay here!" said the Rocket. "I am sure that he has not often got such a chance of improving his mind. However, I don't care a bit. Genius like mine is sure to be appreciated some day;" and he sank down a little deeper into the mud. After some time a large White Duck swam up to him. She had yellow legs, and webbed feet, and was considered a great beauty on account of her waddle. "Quack, quack, quack," she said. "What a curious shape you are! May I ask were you born like that, or is it the result of an accident?" "It is quite evident that you have always lived in the country," answered the Rocket, "otherwise you would know who I am. However, I excuse your ignorance. It would be unfair to expect other people to be as remarkable as oneself. You will no doubt be surprised to hear that I can fly up into the sky, and come down in a shower of golden rain." "I don't think much of that," said the Duck, "as I cannot see what use it is to any one. Now, if you could plough the fields like the ox, or draw a cart like the horse, or look after the sheep like the collie-dog, that would be something." "My good creature," cried the Rocket in a very haughty tone of voice, "I see that you belong to the lower orders. A person of my position is never useful. We have certain accomplishments, and that is more than sufficient. I have no sympathy myself with industry of any kind, least of all with such industries as you seem to recommend. Indeed, I have always been of opinion that hard work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do." "Well, well," said the Duck, who was of a very peaceable disposition, and never quarrelled with any one, "everybody has different tastes. I hope, at any rate, that you are going to take up your residence here." "Oh! dear no," cried the Rocket. "I am merely a visitor, a distinguished visitor. The fact is that I find this place rather tedious. There is neither society here, nor solitude. In fact, it is essentially suburban. I shall probably go back to Court, for I know that I am destined to make a sensation in the world." "I had thoughts of entering public life once myself," remarked the Duck; "there are so many things that need reforming. Indeed, I took the chair at a meeting some time ago, and we passed resolutions condemning everything that we did not like. However, they did not seem to have much effect. Now I go in for domesticity, and look after my family." "I am made for public life," said the Rocket, "and so are all my relations, even the humblest of them. Whenever we appear we excite great attention. I have not actually appeared myself, but when I do so it will be a magnificent sight. As for domesticity, it ages one rapidly, and distracts one's mind from higher things." "Ah! the higher things of life, how fine they are!" said the Duck; "and that reminds me how hungry I feel:" and she swam away down the stream, saying, "Quack, quack, quack." "Come back! come back!" screamed the Rocket, "I have a great deal to say to you;" but the Duck paid no attention to him. "I am glad that she has gone," he said to himself, "she has a decidedly middle-class mind;" and he sank a little deeper still into the mud, and began to think about the loneliness of genius, when suddenly two little boys in white smocks came running down the bank, with a kettle and some faggots. "This must be the deputation," said the Rocket, and he tried to look very dignified. "Hallo!" cried one of the boys, "look at this old stick! I wonder how it came here;" and he picked the Rocket out of the ditch. "OLD Stick!" said the Rocket, "impossible! GOLD Stick, that is what he said. Gold Stick is very complimentary. In fact, he mistakes me for one of the Court dignitaries!" "Let us put it into the fire!" said the other boy, "it will help to boil the kettle." So they piled the faggots together, and put the Rocket on top, and lit the fire. "This is magnificent," cried the Rocket, "they are going to let me off in broad daylight, so that everyone can see me." "We will go to sleep now," they said, "and when we wake up the kettle will be boiled;" and they lay down on the grass, and shut their eyes. The Rocket was very damp, so he took a long time to burn. At last, however, the fire caught him. "Now I am going off!" he cried, and he made himself very stiff and straight. "I know I shall go much higher than the stars, much higher than the moon, much higher than the sun. In fact, I shall go so high that----" Fizz! Fizz! Fizz! and he went straight up into the air. "Delightful," he cried, "I shall go on like this for ever. What a success I am!" But nobody saw him. Then he began to feel a curious tingling sensation all over him. "Now I am going to explode," he cried. "I shall set the whole world on fire, and make such a noise that nobody will talk about anything else for a whole year." And he certainly did explode. Bang! Bang! Bang! went the gunpowder. There was no doubt about it. But nobody heard him, not even the two little boys, for they were sound asleep. Then all that was left of him was the stick, and this fell down on the back of a Goose who was taking a walk by the side of the ditch. "Good heavens!" cried the Goose. "It is going to rain sticks;" and she rushed into the water. "I knew I should create a great sensation," gasped the Rocket, and he went out. PRINTED BY HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD. LONDON AND AYLESBURY. * * * * * Errors Noted by Transcriber: "What a remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology [_comma invisible_] all my flowers are doing well." [_" for ' in nested quote_] 
30272	----	VERY SHORT STORIES MRS. W. K. CLIFFORD [Illustration] [Illustration: "APPLE BLOSSOM, I AM WAITING; ARE YOU HERE?" _P_. 14] VERY SHORT STORIES AND VERSES FOR CHILDREN. BY MRS. W. K. CLIFFORD, AUTHOR OF "ANYHOW STORIES," &c. _With Illustrations by Edith Campbell._ LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 24 WARWICK LANE, PATERNOSTER ROW. 1886. Preface. These stories, with the exception of the first one, are reprinted from two little books--"Children Busy," etc., and "Under Mother's Wing." They were then only signed with my initials. Some of the verses appear now for the first time. L. C. _TO YOU--AND ETHEL AND ALICE_ CONTENTS. PAGE MASTER WILLIE 9 SWINGING 17 THE WOODEN DOLL 18 WATCHING 20 THE LIGHT ON THE HILLS 22 WRITING A BOOK 25 THE RABBIT 27 THE SANDY CAT 28 ON THE WAY TO THE SUN 30 IN THE MOONLIGHT 33 THE POOR LITTLE DOLL 35 THE VIOLETS 37 THE FIDDLER 39 THE BROKEN HORSE 40 THE RAINBOW-MAKER 41 OVER THE PORRIDGE 43 A-COMING DOWN THE STREET 45 THE PROUD BOY 47 SEEKING THE VIOLETS 49 TOMMY'S STOCKINGS 51 MIDSUMMER-NIGHT 52 THE LITTLE MAID 54 WAR 55 PEACE 56 MY LITTLE BROTHER 58 THE KITE 59 THE TINKER'S MARRIAGE 61 THE CHILDREN AND THE GARLAND 62 ROUND THE TEA-TABLE 64 TOMMY 67 THE SWALLOWS 69 A FIRST LOVE-MAKING 71 SMUT 72 SEE-SAW 74 THE BAD GIRL 75 MORNING TIME 78 THE PINK PARASOL 80 THE SISTERS 82 THE WHITE RABBITS 83 THE WOODEN HORSE 84 THE DUCK POND 86 THE LITTLE MAID 88 THE DONKEY ON WHEELS 89 COCK-A-DOODLE 91 THE BOY AND LITTLE GREAT LADY 92 GOOD-DAY, GENTLE FOLK 94 MASTER WILLIE. There was once a little boy called Willie. I never knew his other name, and as he lived far off behind the mountain, we cannot go to inquire. He had fair hair and blue eyes, and there was something in his face that, when you had looked at him, made you feel quite happy and rested, and think of all the things you meant to do by-and-by when you were wiser and stronger. He lived all alone with the tall aunt, who was very rich, in the big house at the end of the village. Every morning he went down the street with his little goat under his arm, and the village folk looked after him and said, "There goes Master Willie." The tall aunt had a very long neck; on the top of it was her head, on the top of her head she wore a white cap. Willie used often to look up at her and think that the cap was like snow upon the mountain. She was very fond of Willie, but she had lived a great many years and was always sitting still to think them over, and she had forgotten all the games she used to know, all the stories she had read when she was little, and when Willie asked her about them, would say, "No, dear, no, I can't remember; go to the woods and play." Sometimes she would take his face between her two hands and look at him well while Willie felt quite sure that she was not thinking of him, but of someone else he did not know, and then she would kiss him, and turn away quickly, saying, "Go to the woods, dear; it is no good staying with an old woman." Then he, knowing that she wanted to be alone, would pick up his goat and hurry away. He had had a dear little sister, called Apple-blossom, but a strange thing had happened to her. One day she over-wound her very big doll that talked and walked, and the consequence was quite terrible. No sooner was the winding-up key out of the doll's side than it blinked its eyes, talked very fast, made faces, took Apple-blossom by the hand, saying, "I am not your doll any longer, but you are my little girl," and led her right away no one could tell whither, and no one was able to follow. The tall aunt and Willie only knew that she had gone to be the doll's little girl in some strange place, where dolls were stronger and more important than human beings. After Apple-blossom left him, Willie had only his goat to play with; it was a poor little thing with no horns, no tail and hardly any hair, but still he loved it dearly, and put it under his arm every morning while he went along the street. "It is only made of painted wood and a little hair, Master Willie," said the blacksmith's wife one day. "Why should you care for it; it is not even alive." "But if it were alive, anyone could love it." "And living hands made it," the miller's wife said. "I wonder what strange hands they were;--take care of it for the sake of them, little master." "Yes, dame, I will," he answered gratefully, and he went on his way thinking of the hands, wondering what tasks had been set them to do since they fashioned the little goat. He stayed all day in the woods helping the children to gather nuts and blackberries. In the afternoon he watched them go home with their aprons full; he looked after them longingly as they went on their way singing. If he had had a father and mother, or brothers and sisters, to whom he could have carried home nuts and blackberries, how merry he would have been. Sometimes he told the children how happy they were to live in a cottage with the door open all day, and the sweet breeze blowing in, and the cocks and hens strutting about outside, and the pigs grunting in the styes at the end of the garden; to see the mother scrubbing and washing, to know that the father was working in the fields, and to run about and help and play, and be cuffed and kissed, just as it happened. Then they would answer, "But you have the tall lady for your aunt, and the big house to live in, and the grand carriage to drive in, while we are poor, and sometimes have little to eat and drink; mother often tells us how fine it must be to be you." "But the food that you eat is sweet because you are very hungry," he answered them, "and no one sorrows in your house. As for the grand carriage, it is better to have a carriage if your heart is heavy, but when it is light, then you can run swiftly on your own two legs." Ah, poor Willie, how lonely he was, and yet the tall aunt loved him dearly. On hot drowsy days he had many a good sleep with his head resting against her high thin shoulders, and her arms about him. One afternoon, clasping his goat as usual, he sat down by the pond. All the children had gone home, so he was quite alone, but he was glad to look at the pond and think. There were so many strange things in the world, it seemed as if he would never have done thinking about them, not if he lived to be a hundred. He rested his elbows on his knees and sat staring at the pond. Overhead the trees were whispering; behind him, in and out of their holes the rabbits whisked; far off he could hear the twitter of a swallow; the foxglove was dead, the bracken was turning brown, the cones from the fir trees were lying on the ground. As he watched, a strange thing happened. Slowly and slowly the pond lengthened out and out, stretching away and away until it became a river--a long river that went on and on, right down the woods, past the great black firs, past the little cottage that was a ruin and only lived in now and then by a stray gipsy or a tired tramp, past the setting sun, till it dipped into space beyond. Then many little boats came sailing towards Willie, and one stopped quite close to where he sat, just as if it were waiting for him. He looked at it well; it had a snow-white sail and a little man with a drawn-sword for a figure-head. A voice that seemed to come from nowhere asked-- "Are you ready, Willie?" Just as if he understood he answered back-- "Not yet,--not quite, dear Queen, but I shall be soon. I should like to wait a little longer." "No, no, come now, dear child; they are all waiting for you." So he got up and stepped into the boat, and it put out before he had even time to sit down. He looked at the rushes as the boat cut its way through them; he saw the hearts of the lilies as they lay spread open on their great wide leaves; he went on and on beneath the crimson sky towards the setting sun, until he slipped into space with the river. He saw land at last far on a-head, and as he drew near it he understood whither the boat was bound. All along the shore there were hundreds and hundreds of dolls crowding down to the water's edge, looking as if they had expected him. They stared at him with their shining round eyes; but he just clasped his little goat tighter and closer, and sailed on nearer and nearer to the land. The dolls did not move; they stood still, smiling at him with their painted lips, then suddenly they opened their painted mouths and put out their painted tongues at him; but still he was not afraid. He clasped the goat yet a little closer, and called out, "Apple-blossom, I am waiting; are you here?" Just as he had expected, he heard Apple-blossom's voice answering from the back of the toy-town-- "Yes, dear brother, I am coming." So he drew close to the shore, and waited for her. He saw her a long way off, and waved his hand. "I have come to fetch you," he said. "But I cannot go with you unless I am bought," she answered, sadly, "for now there is a wire spring inside me; and look at my arms, dear brother;" and pulling up her pink muslin sleeves, she showed him that they were stuffed with sawdust. "Go home, and bring the money to pay for me," she cried, "and then I can come home again." But the dolls had crowded up behind, so that he might not turn his boat round. "Straight on," cried Apple-blossom, in despair; "what does it matter whether you go backwards or forwards if you only keep straight when you live in a world that is round?" So he sailed on once more beneath the sky that was getting grey, through all the shadows that gathered round, beneath the pale moon, and the little stars that came out one by one and watched him from the sky. I saw him coming towards the land of story-books. That was how I knew about him, dear children. He was very tired and had fallen asleep, but the boat stopped quite naturally, as if it knew that I had been waiting for him. I stooped, and kissed his eyes, and looked at his little pale face, and lifting him softly in my arms, put him into this book to rest. That is how he came to be here for you to know. But in the toy-land Apple-blossom waits with the wire spring in her breast and the sawdust in her limbs; and at home, in the big house at the end of the village, the tall aunt weeps and wails and wonders if she will ever see again the children she loves so well. She will not wait very long, dear children. I know how it will all be. When it is quite dark to-night, and she is sitting in the leather chair with the high back, her head on one side, and her poor long neck aching, quite suddenly she will hear two voices shouting for joy. She will start up and listen, wondering how long she has been sleeping, and then she will call out-- "Oh, my darlings, is it you?" And they will answer back-- "Yes, it is us, we have come, we have come!" and before her will stand Willie and Apple-blossom. For the big doll will have run down, and the wire spring and the sawdust will have vanished, and Apple-blossom will be the doll's little girl no more. Then the tall aunt will look at them both and kiss them; and she will kiss the poor little goat too, wondering if it is possible to buy him a new tail. But though she will say little, her heart will sing for joy. Ah, children, there is no song that is sung by bird or bee, or that ever burst from the happiest lips, that is half so sweet as the song we sometimes sing in our hearts--a song that is learnt by love, and sang only to those who love us. SWINGING. I. Swing, swing, swing, Through the drowsy afternoon; Swing, swing, swing, Up I go to meet the moon. Swing, swing, swing, I can see as I go high Far along the crimson sky; I can see as I come down The tops of houses in the town; High and low, Fast and slow, Swing, swing, swing. II. Swing, swing, swing, See! the sun is gone away; Swing, swing, swing, Gone to make a bright new day. Swing, swing, swing. I can see as up I go The poplars waving to and fro, I can see as I come down The lights are twinkling in the town, High and low, Fast and slow, Swing, swing, swing. THE WOODEN DOLL. The wooden doll had no peace. My dears, if ever you are a doll, hope to be a rag doll, or a wax doll, or a doll full of sawdust apt to ooze out, or a china doll easy to break--anything in the world rather than a good strong wooden doll with a painted head and movable joints, for that is indeed a sad thing to be. Many a time the poor wooden doll wished it were a tin train, or a box of soldiers, or a woolly lamb, or anything on earth rather than what it was. It never had any peace; it was taken up and put down at all manners of odd moments, made to go to bed when the children went to bed, to get up when they got up, be bathed when they were bathed, dressed when they were dressed, taken out in all weathers, stuffed into their satchels when they went to school, left about in corners, dropped on stairs, forgotten, neglected, bumped, banged, broken, glued together,--anything and everything it suffered, until many a time it said sadly enough to its poor little self, "I might as well be a human being at once and be done with it!" And then it fell to thinking about human beings; what strange creatures they were, always going about, though none carried them save when they were very little; always sleeping and waking, and eating and drinking, and laughing and crying, and talking and walking, and doing this and that and the other, never resting for long together, or seeming as if they could be still for even a single day. "They are always making a noise," thought the wooden doll; "they are always talking and walking about, always moving things and doing things, building up and pulling down, and making and unmaking for ever and for ever, and never are they quiet. It is lucky that we are not all human beings, or the world would be worn out in no time, and there would not be a corner left in which to rest a poor doll's head." WATCHING. Dear father's ship is very near, We'll blow him kisses, baby dear,-- He may come home to-day. A happy wind that journeys south Seems just to linger round my mouth, Then bear a kiss away. Come, baby, I will hold you--so, We'll watch the waves that outward go, And call, "Come back to-day!" For father's heart seems always near, And who can tell but he may hear, Or know the words we say? All round and up the cottage wall The honeysuckle's grown so tall, It sees above the gate; The flowers came hurrying up so sweet-- We told the little seeds they'd meet Dear father,--and they wait. We first shall see a speck of white, Far, far away, there where the light Has swept the morning dim; So silent will his coming seem, 'Twill be like waking from a dream To wave our hands to him. And then, and then he'll hoist you high, And swiftly pass the people by, Just stopping here and there To shake the neighbours by the hand, And tell them of the southern land, And ask them how they fare. He is not very far away, For mother said he'd come to-day-- We knew it by her face; She caught you up and kissed you so, And now she's busy to and fro, And sings about the place. THE LIGHT ON THE HILLS. "I want to work at my picture," he said, and went into the field. The little sister went too, and stood by him watching while he painted. "The trees are not quite straight," she said, presently, "and oh, dear brother, the sky is not blue enough." "It will all come right soon," he answered. "Will it be of any good?" "Oh yes," she said, wondering that he should even ask, "it will make people happy to look at it. They will feel as if they were in the field." "If I do it badly, will it make them unhappy?" "Not if you do your very best," she answered; "for they will know how hard you have tried. Look up," she said suddenly, "look up at the light upon the hills," and they stood together looking at all he was trying to paint, at the trees and the field, at the deep shadows and the hills beyond, and the light that rested upon them. "It is a beautiful world," the girl said. "It is a great honour to make things for it." "It is a beautiful world," the boy echoed sadly. "It is a sin to disgrace it with things that are badly done." "But you will do things well?" "I get so tired," he said, "and long to leave off so much. What do you do when you want to do your best,--your very, very best?" he asked, suddenly. "I think that I am doing it for the people I love," she answered. "It makes you very strong if you think of them; you can bear pain, and walk far, and do all manner of things, and you don't get tired so soon." He thought for a moment. "Then I shall paint my picture for you," he said; "I shall think of you all the time I am doing it." Once more they looked at the hills that seemed to rise up out of the deep shadows into the light, and then together they went home. Soon afterwards a great sorrow came to the boy. While the little sister slept, she wandered into another world, and journeyed on so far that she lost the clue to earth, and came back no more. The boy painted many pictures before he saw the field again, but in the long hours, as he sat and worked, there came to him a strange power that answered more and more truly to the longing in his heart--the longing to put into the world something of which he was not ashamed, something which should make it, if only in the person of its meanest, humblest citizen, a little happier or better. At last, when he knew that his eye was true and his touch sure, he took up the picture he had promised to paint for the dear sister, and worked at it until he was finished. "This is better than all he has done before," the beholders said. "It is surely beautiful, for it makes one happy to look at it." "And yet my heart ached as I did it," the boy said, as he went back to the field. "I thought of her all the time I worked,--it was sorrow that gave me power." It seemed as if a soft voice, that spoke only to his heart, answered back-- "Not sorrow but love, and perfect love has all things in its gift, and of it are all things born save happiness, and though that may be born too----" "How does one find happiness?" interrupted the boy. "It is a strange chase," the answer seemed to be; "to find it for one's own self, one must seek it for others. We all throw the ball for each other." "But it is so difficult to seize." "Perfect love helps one to live without happiness," his own heart answered to himself; "and above all things it helps one to work and to wait." "But if it gives one happiness too?" he asked eagerly. "Ah, then it is called Heaven." WRITING A BOOK. "Let us write a book," they said; "but what shall it be about?" "A fairy story," said the elder sister. "A book about kings and queens," said the other. "Oh, no," said the brother, "let's write about animals." "We will write about them all," they cried together. So they put the paper, and pens, and ink ready. The elder sister took up a fairy story and looked at it, and put it down again. "I have never known any fairies," she said, "except in books; but, of course, it would not do to put one book inside another--anyone could do that." "I shall not begin to-day," the little one said, "for I must know a few kings and queens before I write about them, or I may say something foolish." "I shall write about the pig, and the pony, and the white rabbit," said the brother; "but first I must think a bit. It would never do to write a book without thinking." Then the elder sister took up the fairy story again, to see how many things were left out, for those, she thought, would do to go into her book. The little one said to herself, "Really, it is no good thinking about kings and queens until I have known some, so I must wait;" and while the brother was considering about the pig, and the pony, and the white rabbit, he fell asleep. So the book is not written yet, but when it is we shall know a great deal. THE RABBIT. The moon is shining o'er the field, A little breeze is blowing, The radish leaves are crisp and green, The lettuces are growing. The owl is in the ivy-bush, With both his eyes a-winking; The rabbit shakes his little tail, And sits him down a-thinking-- "Oh! where are all the dormice gone? And are the frogs a-wooing? Will no one come to play with me? What are they all a-doing?" Poor little rabbit, all alone, Don't let the master meet you; He'll shoot you with his little gun, And merrily he'll eat you! THE SANDY CAT. The sandy cat sat by the kitchen fire. Yesterday it had had no supper; this morning everyone had forgotten it. All night it had caught no mice; all day as yet it had tasted no milk. A little grey mouse, a saucerful of milk, a few fish or chicken bones, would have satisfied it; but no grey mouse, with its soft stringy tail behind it, ran across the floor; no milk was near, no chicken bones, no fish, no anything. The serving-maid had been washing clothes, and was hanging them out to dry. The children had loitered on their way to school, and were wondering what the master would say to them. The father had gone to the fair to help a neighbour to choose a horse. The mother sat making a patchwork quilt. No one thought of the sandy cat; it sat by the fire alone and hungry. At last the clothes were all a-drying, the children had been scolded, and sat learning a lesson for the morrow. The father came from the fair, and the patchwork quilt was put away. The serving-maid put on a white apron with a frill, and a clean cap, then taking the sandy cat in her arms, said, "Pussy, shall we go into the garden?" So they went and walked up and down, up and down the pathway, till at last they stopped before a rose tree; the serving-maid held up the cat to smell the roses, but with one long bound it leaped from her arms and away--away--away. Whither? Ah, dear children, I cannot tell, for I was not there to see; but if ever you are a sandy cat you will know that it is a terrible thing to be asked to smell roses when you are longing for a saucerful of milk and a grey mouse with a soft stringy tail. ON THE WAY TO THE SUN. He had journeyed a long way, and was very tired. It seemed like a dream when he stood up after a sleep in the field, and looked over the wall, and saw the garden, and the flowers, and the children playing all about. He looked at the long road behind him, at the dark wood and the barren hills; it was the world to which he belonged. He looked at the garden before him, at the big house, and the terrace, and the steps that led down to the smooth lawn--it was the world which belonged to the children. "Poor boy," said the elder child, "I will get you something to eat." "But where did he come from?" the gardener asked. "We do not know," the child answered; "but he is very hungry, and mother says we may give him some food." "I will take him some milk," said the little one; in one hand she carried a mug and with the other she pulled along her little broken cart. "But what is he called?" asked the gardener. "We do not know," the little one answered; "but he is very thirsty, and mother says we may give him some milk." "Where is he going?" asked the gardener. "We do not know," the children said; "but he is very tired." When the boy had rested well, he got up saying, "I must not stay any longer," and turned to go on his way. "What have you to do?" the children asked. "I am one of the crew, and must help to make the world go round," he answered. "Why do we not help too?" "You are the passengers." "How far have you to go?" they asked. "Oh, a long way!" he answered. "On and on until I can touch the sun." "Will you really touch it?" they said, awestruck. "I dare say I shall tire long before I get there," he answered sadly. "Perhaps without knowing it, though, I shall reach it in my sleep," he added. But they hardly heard the last words, for he was already far off. "Why did you talk to him?" the gardener said. "He is just a working boy." "And we do nothing! It was very good of him to notice us," they said, humbly. "Good!" said the gardener in despair. "Why, between you and him there is a great difference." "There was only a wall," they answered. "Who set it up?" they asked curiously. "Why, the builders, of course. Men set it up." "And who will pull it down?" "It will not want any pulling down," the man answered grimly. "Time will do that." As the children went back to their play, they looked up at the light towards which the boy was journeying. "Perhaps we too shall reach it some day," they said. IN THE MOONLIGHT. He picked a buttercup, and held it up to her chin. "Do you like butter?" he asked. "Butter!" she exclaimed. "They are not made into butter. They are made into crowns for the Queen; she has a new one every morning." "I'll make you a crown," he said. "You shall wear it to-night." "But where will my throne be?" she asked. "It shall be on the middle step of the stile by the corn-field." So when the moon rose I went out to see. He wore a red jacket and his cap with the feather in it. Round her head there was a wreath of buttercups; it was not much like a crown. On one side of the wreath there were some daisies, and on the other was a little bunch of blackberry-blossom. "Come and dance in the moonlight," he said; so she climbed up and over the stile, and stood in the corn-field holding out her two hands to him. He took them in his, and then they danced round and round all down the pathway, while the wheat nodded wisely on either side, and the poppies awoke and wondered. On they went, on and on through the corn-field towards the broad green meadows stretching far into the distance. On and on, he shouting for joy, and she laughing out so merrily that the sound travelled to the edge of the wood, and the thrushes heard, and dreamed of Spring. On they went, on and on, and round and round, he in his red jacket, and she with the wild flowers dropping one by one from her wreath. On and on in the moonlight, on and on till they had danced all down the corn-field, till they had crossed the green meadows, till they were hidden in the mist beyond. That is all I know; but I think that in the far far off somewhere, where the moon is shining, he and she still dance along a corn-field, he in his red jacket, and she with the wild flowers dropping from her hair. THE POOR LITTLE DOLL. It was a plain little doll that had been bought for sixpence at a stall in the market-place. It had scanty hair and a weak composition face, a calico body and foolish feet that always turned inwards instead of outwards, and from which the sawdust now and then oozed. Yet in its glass eyes there was an expression of amusement; they seemed to be looking not at you but through you, and the pursed-up red lips were always smiling at what the glass eyes saw. "Well, you _are_ a doll," the boy said, looking up from his French exercise. "And what are you staring at me for--is there anything behind?" he asked, looking over his shoulder. The doll made no answer. "And whatever are you smiling for?" he asked; "I believe you are always smiling. I believe you'd go on if I didn't do my exercise till next year, or if the cat died, or the monument tumbled down." But still the doll smiled in silence, and the boy went on with his exercise. Presently he looked up again and yawned. "I think I'll go for a stroll," he said, and put his book by. "I know what I'll do," he said, suddenly; "I'll take that doll and hang it up to the apple tree to scare away the sparrows." And calling out, "Sis, I have taken your doll; I'm going to make a scarecrow of it," he went off to the garden. His sister rushed after him, crying out, "Oh, my poor doll! oh, my dear little doll! What are you doing to it, you naughty boy?" "It's so ugly," he said. "No, it is not ugly," she cried. "And it's so stupid,--it never does anything but smile,--it can't even grow,--it never gets any bigger." "Poor darling doll," Sis said, as she got it once more safely into her arms, "of course you can't grow, but it is not your fault, they did not make any tucks in you to let out." "And it's so unfeeling. It went smiling away like anything when I could not do my French." "It has no heart. Of course it can't feel." "Why hasn't it got a heart?" "Because it isn't alive. You ought to be sorry for it, and very, very kind to it, poor thing." "Well, what is it always smiling for?" "Because it is so good," answered Sis, bursting into tears. "It is never bad-tempered; it never complains, and it never did anything unkind," and, kissing it tenderly, "you are always good and sweet," she said, "and always look smiling, though you must be very unhappy at not being alive." THE VIOLETS. The sun came out and shone down on the leafless trees that cast hardly any shadows on the pathway through the woods. "Surely the Spring is coming," the birds said; "it must be time to wake the flowers." The thrush, and the lark, and the linnet sang sweetly. A robin flew up from the snow, and perched upon a branch; a little ragged boy at the end of the wood stopped and listened. "Surely the Spring is coming," he too said; "and mother will get well." The flowers that all through the Winter had been sleeping in the ground heard the birds, but they were drowsy, and longed to sleep on. At last the snowdrops came up and looked shiveringly about; and a primrose leaf peeped through the ground, and died of cold. Then some violets opened their blue eyes, and, hidden beneath the tangle of the wood, listened to the twittering of the birds. The little ragged boy came by; he saw the tender flowers, and, stooping down, gathered them one by one, and put them into a wicker basket that hung upon his arm. "Dear flowers," he said, with a sigh, as if loth to pick them, "you will buy poor mother some breakfast," and, tying them up into little bunches, he carried them to the town. All the morning he stood by the road-side, offering his flowers to the passers-by, but no one took any notice of him; and his face grew sad and troubled. "Poor mother!" he said, longingly; and the flowers heard him, and sighed. "Those violets are very sweet," a lady said as she passed; the boy ran after her. "Only a penny," he said, "just one penny, for mother is at home." Then the lady bought them, and carried them to the beautiful house in which she lived, and gave them some water, touching them so softly that the poor violets forgot to long for the woods, and looked gratefully up into her face. "Mother," said the boy, "see, I have brought some bread for your breakfast. The violets sent it to you," and he put the little loaf down before her. The birds knew nothing of all this, and went on singing till the ground was covered with flowers, till the leaves had hidden the brown branches of the trees, and the pathway through the woods was all shade, save for the sunshine that flecked it with light. THE FIDDLER. The fiddler played upon his fiddle All through that leafy June, He always played hey-diddle-diddle, And played it out of tune. And down the hill the children came, And down the valley too: I never heard the fiddler's name, So cannot tell it you. Hey-diddle-diddle, diddle-diddle-dee. On--on they came, and when they heard That tune so swift and sweet, They did not say a single word, But shuffled with their feet. Then round they went, and round and round, All to that cracked old fiddle, And still was heard the magic sound, Hey-diddle-diddle-diddle, Hey-diddle-diddle, diddle-diddle-dee. THE BROKEN HORSE. They were all very sad, and the girl in the pink frock was crying bitterly, for they had been to the woods, and on the way home the wooden horse had fallen over on one side and broken off his head. "Don't cry so, pray don't cry so," the little one said, as she knelt down in front of her sister, and tried to kiss her. "And oh, sister," said the brother, "it would have been far worse if he had lost his tail too. Besides, perhaps he does not mind much; it is not as if he were alive." "Ah, yes," sobbed the tall girl. "But when you are as old as I am you will know that it is a terrible thing to lose your head, even if it is only wooden." THE RAINBOW-MAKER. The children stood under an archway. Behind them was the blue sky; in front of them the clear, still lake that wandered and wound about the garden; above their heads the leaves of a tree whispered and told strange stories to the breeze. "Poor tree! it is sighing for the blossoms the wind has carried away," they said to each other, and they looked back at the garden. "And, poor flowers, too," they said, "all your bright colours are gone, and your petals lie scattered on the ground; to-morrow they will be dead." "Ah, no," the flowers sighed, "the rainbow-maker will gather them up, and once more they will see the sun." Before the children could answer, a tall fair maiden came down the pathway. They could see her plainly in the twilight. Her eyes were dim with gathering tears, but on her lips there was a smile that came and went and flickered round her mouth. All down her back hung her pale golden hair; round her neck was a kerchief of many colours; her dress was soft and white, and her snowy apron was gathered up in one hand. She looked neither to the right nor to the left. She did not utter a single word; and the children could hear no sound of her footstep, no rustling from her dress. She stooped, and picking up the fading petals, looked at them tenderly for a moment, while the tears fell slowly down her cheeks; but the smile hovered round her mouth; for she knew that they would shine again in the sight of their beloved sun. When her apron was quite full, she turned round and left the garden. Hand-in-hand the children followed. She went slowly on by the side of the lake, far, far away across the meadows and up the farthest hill, until at last she found her home behind a cloud just opposite the sun. There she sat all through the summer days making rainbows. When the children had watched her for a long long time, they went softly back to their own home. The rainbow-maker had not even seen them. "Mother," they said one day, "we know now where the colours go from the flowers. See, they are there," and as they spoke they thought of the maiden sitting silently at work in her cloud-home. They knew that she was weeping at sending forth her most beautiful one, and yet smiling as she watched the soft archway she had made. "See, they are all there, dear mother," the children repeated, looking at the falling rain and the shining sun, and pointing to the rainbow that spanned the river. OVER THE PORRIDGE. They sat down to eat their porridge. The naughty little girl turned her back upon her sister, and put a large spoonful into her mouth. "Oh--oh--oh!" she cried, "I have burnt my tongue." "Eat it slowly," said the good little sister. _She_ took up her porridge carefully, and after blowing it very gently, and waiting for a minute or two while it cooled, ate it, and found it very nice. "I shall not eat mine until it is quite cold," said Totsey, getting cross. "Then it will be nasty," said the good little sister, still going on with her own porridge. "Oh, dear," said Totsey, "if I eat it too hot it burns me, and if I eat it too cold it's nasty. What shall I do?" "Take it as I do mine," said the good little sister. "It is the right way." "There are two wrong ways and only one right way; it isn't fair," sighed the naughty little girl. "And, oh! my porridge is so nasty." Then she asked, "Did you ever eat your porridge too hot and burn your tongue?" "No," answered the good little sister; "I never ate my porridge too hot and burnt my tongue." "Did you ever eat your porridge when it was quite cold and very nasty?" "No," answered the good little sister again; "I never ate my porridge when it was quite cold and very nasty." "Well, I have," said Totsey; "and so I know about two things that you do not know about." And the naughty little sister got up and walked away, and the good little sister sat still and thought about many things. A-COMING DOWN THE STREET. I. The baby she has golden hair, Her cheeks are like a rose, And she sits fastened in her chair, A-counting of her toes. The mother she stands by the door, And all the place is neat, She says, "When it is half-past four, He'll come along the street." And O! in all this happy world There's not a sight so sweet, As 'tis to see the master, dear, A-coming down the street. A-coming O! a-coming O! A-coming down the street. II. The baby's sister toddles round, And sings a little song, And every word and every sound Says, "Father won't be long." And when he comes we'll laugh for glee, And then his bonnie face, However dark the day may be, Makes sunshine in the place. And O! in all this happy world There's not a sight so sweet, As 'tis to see the master, dear, A-coming down the street, A-coming O! a-coming O! A-coming down the street. THE PROUD BOY. There was once a very proud boy. He always walked through the village with his eyes turned down and his hands in his pockets. The boys used to stare at him, and say nothing; and when he was out of sight, they breathed freely. So the proud boy was lonely, and would have had no friends out of doors if it had not been for two stray dogs, the green trees, and a flock of geese upon the common. One day, just by the weaver's cottage, he met the tailor's son. Now the tailor's son made more noise than any other boy in the village, and when he had done anything wrong he stuck to it, and said he didn't care; so the neighbours thought that he was very brave, and would do wonders when he came to be a man, and some of them hoped he would be a great traveller, and stay long in distant lands. When the tailor's son saw the proud boy he danced in front of him, and made faces, and provoked him sorely, until, at last, the proud boy turned round and suddenly boxed the ears of the tailor's son, and threw his hat into the road. The tailor's son was surprised, and, without waiting to pick up his hat, ran away, and sitting down in the carpenter's yard, cried bitterly. After a few minutes, the proud boy came to him and returned him his hat, saying politely-- "There is no dust on it; you deserved to have your ears boxed, but I am sorry I was so rude as to throw your hat on to the road." "I thought you were proud," said the tailor's son, astonished; "I didn't think you'd say that--I wouldn't." "Perhaps you are not proud?" "No, I am not." "Ah, that makes a difference," said the proud boy, still more politely. "When you are proud, and have done a foolish thing, you make a point of owning it." "But it takes a lot of courage," said the tailor's son. "Oh, dear, no," answered the proud boy; "it only takes a lot of cowardice not to;" and then turning his eyes down again, he softly walked away. SEEKING THE VIOLETS. All the wood had been blue with violets, but now they were nearly gone. The birds sang louder and louder to keep them and to call them back, but soon there was not a violet left in all the wood from end to end. The snowdrops died, and the primrose faded, the cowslips and blue-bells vanished, the thorn grew white with blossom, the wild honeysuckle filled the wood with its fragrance, and soon the fruit began to ripen. The blackbirds and the swallows and the chaffinches, and all the birds they knew, gathered round the garden trees and bushes, and forgot the woods, until suddenly one day they espied a little child. She was sitting on a chair under a tree; she had a little table before her and a pink ribbon round her hat; she was eating fruit with a large silver spoon. The birds were afraid, and held aloof until a sparrow chirped and the child looked up, and when they saw how blue her eyes were, they sang out bravely and fluttered round her, thinking that she had brought them news from the violets. But she never looked up again, though the birds crowded on to the branch above her, and perched upon the table, and rubbed their little beaks against her plate. She just held on her hat with one hand, and with the other went on taking up fruit with a silver spoon. "Ah, dear child," a swallow twittered, "perhaps you do not know what is written in your eyes; so many of us carry secrets that we ourselves know last of all." TOMMY'S STOCKINGS. Two little maids went out one day, And really it was shocking! They met poor Tommy on the way, With holes in either stocking. They sat down on a low stone seat, And to and fro kept rocking, While they knitted, swift and neat, Each of them a stocking. And sweet they sang a little song, The dickie-birds kept mocking; And Tommy wished that all day long They'd sit and knit a stocking. MIDSUMMER-NIGHT. The children were very much puzzled what to do, for it was Midsummer-night, and they knew that there was a dream belonging to it; but how to come across it they could not tell. They knew that the dream had something to do with fairies, a queen, and all manner of lovely things; but that was all. At first they thought they would sit up with the doors and windows open, and the dog on the steps ready to bark if he saw anything unusual. Then they felt sure that they could not dream while they were wide-awake, so three of them went to bed, and one dozed in a corner of the porch, with her clothes on. Presently the dog barked, and two children in their night-gowns ran out to see, and one took off her night-cap and looked out of window; but it was only old Nurse coming back from a long gossip with the village blacksmith's wife and mother-in-law. So the dog looked foolish, and Nurse was angry, and put them all to bed without any more ado. "Oh," they cried, "but the fairies, and the queen, and the flowers! What shall we do to see them?" "Go to sleep," said Nurse, "and the dream may come to you;--you can't go to a dream," she added, for you see she was just a peasant woman, and had never travelled far, or into any land but her own. So the children shut their eyes tightly and went to sleep, and I think that they saw something, for their eyes were very bright next morning, and one of them whispered to me, softly, "The queen wore a wreath of flowers last night, dear mother, and, oh, she was very beautiful." THE LITTLE MAID. A little maid went to market, She went into the town, And all the things she had to buy She carefully wrote down. The coffee, sugar, tea, and rice-- The currant cake for tea, And then she had to reckon up, And see how much they'd be. She sat her down as she came back, She sat her down to see What they had cost--the currant cake, The coffee, and the tea. She could not make her money right, And yet, how she did try! She could not make her money right, And oh! how she did cry. She's counting still, my dears, my dears, She's counting day and night, But though she counts for years and years, She'll never make it right. She'll never make it right--right--right, Oh! never any more, Though she sits counting--count--count--count, Till she is ninety-four. WAR. "I don't like you," said he, in a rage. "You are a naughty boy," said she, crossly. "I shall never speak to you again." "I shall never play with you any more." "I don't care." "And I don't care." "I shall tell of you." "All right. I shall tell of you." "Nasty mean thing to threaten." "You threatened first." "Nasty, disagreeable thing." "Ugly, unkind boy." Then they turned back to back, and stood sulking. He put his hands into his pockets, and she sucked her finger. "That's the worst of a girl," thought he; "I shan't give in." "I can't bear boys," thought she; "and I won't make it up to-day." "We might have had good fun all this afternoon if she hadn't been so silly," he thought presently. "It would have been so nice if he hadn't been disagreeable," she thought after a bit. Then he began to fidget and to kick the floor a little with one foot, and she began to cry and to wipe her tears away very softly and quickly, so that he might not see them. PEACE. He looked over his shoulder quickly. She saw him, and turned still more quickly away. "I shall go and take a long walk in the woods," he said. "You don't know where the rabbit-holes are," she answered. "Yes, I do; I found them out the other day." "I shall go out with Mary." "All right." "And I shall never go into the woods with you any more." "Very well. I don't care," he said. Then she broke down and sobbed. "You are a very unkind boy." "It's all your fault." "No, it's all yours. You began." "No, you began." "You don't like me now," she sobbed. "Yes, I do." "You said I was a nasty, disagreeable thing." "Well, I didn't mean it if I did. You said I was an ugly, unkind boy." "Oh, but I didn't mean it," she said. "You know I'm very fond of you." "So am I of you." "All right, then, let's make it up." So he turned round quickly and she turned round slowly, and he put his arms round her waist, and she put her hands up on to his shoulders, and they kissed each other, and hugged each other, and rubbed noses, and laughed. "Shall we go to the woods?" she asked, doubtfully. "Yes, come along." "You said you'd go without me," she pouted. "Oh, but I shouldn't have liked it a bit." "And I should have been so unhappy," she said. "And now we just will have a game," he answered, as hand-in-hand they went off as fast as they could scamper. MY LITTLE BROTHER. My baby brother's fat, as fat As any boy can be, And he is just the sweetest duck That ever you did see. I count the dimples in his hands A dozen times a-day, And often wonder when he coos What he would like to say. I comb the down upon his head-- He hasn't any hair,-- It must be cold without, and yet He never seems to care. It is so nice to see him kick, He has such pretty feet; I think if we might eat him up It would be quite a treat. THE KITE. It was the most tiresome kite in the world, always wagging its tail, shaking its ears, breaking its string, sitting down on the tops of houses, getting stuck in trees, entangled in hedges, flopping down on ponds, or lying flat on the grass, and refusing to rise higher than a yard from the ground. I have often sat and thought about that kite, and wondered who its father and mother were. Perhaps they were very poor people, just made of newspaper and little bits of common string knotted together, obliged to fly day and night for a living, and never able to give any time to their children or to bring them up properly. It was pretty, for it had a snow-white face, and pink and white ears; and, with these, no one, let alone a kite, could help being pretty. But though the kite was pretty, it was not good, and it did not prosper; it came to a bad end, oh! a terrible end indeed. It stuck itself on a roof one day, a common red roof with a broken chimney and three tiles missing. It stuck itself there, and it would not move; the children tugged and pulled and coaxed and cried, but still it would not move. At last they fetched a ladder, and had nearly reached it when suddenly the kite started and flew away--right away over the field and over the heath, and over the far far woods, and it never came back again--never--never. Dear, that is all. But I think sometimes that perhaps beyond the dark pines and the roaring sea the kite is flying still, on and on, farther and farther away, for ever and for ever. THE TINKER'S MARRIAGE. Two beaux and a belle, a goat and a carriage, They all set off to the tinker's marriage. Two three-cornered hats, and one with a feather, They looked very fine in the sweet summer weather. But the carriage turned over, the poor goat shied, The little belle laughed, the silly beaux cried, And the tinker fumed, "Oh, why do they tarry? And why don't they come to see me marry? I shall throw my bride right into the sea, If they are not here by half-past three." But the belle was laughing, "Oh, what shall we do!" And the beaux were crying, "Bee-bee-bee-boo." THE CHILDREN AND THE GARLAND. "To-morrow is May-day," the children said; "the birds must call us very early, and we will go to the woods and make a garland." And in the morning, long before the sun had looked over the tops of the houses into the village street, they were far away in the woods. "I will give them some roses as they come back," the gardener said. "They shall put them among the spring flowers, as a swallow among the thrushes, to show that summer is on its way." When the children had made their garland and a posy for each one of them, they went singing all down the village street, over the grey stone bridge, beyond the hayricks, and past the houses on the hill-side. In one of the houses there was a pale little child with a sad, thin face. "Mother," he said, "here are some children with a garland. Will it be summer when they have gone by?" He called after them as they went on, "Come back, oh, come back again!" "Yes, we will come back," they answered, but they went on their way singing. All through the day he waited for them, but they did not come; and at last, when it was evening, the mother took him up into her arms to carry him to his bed. Suddenly he heard the children singing in the distance. "Oh, mother," he exclaimed, "they are coming;" and he watched till they came up the hill again and stood before him. "But where is your garland?" he asked. "We gave it to lame Mary, the postman's wife, for she is always longing to see the fields," they answered; "but these roses are for you, dear little boy; they are all for you," and putting them into his hands they went back to the village. "You are very tired," the child said to the roses; "all your leaves are drooping. Poor roses, perhaps you are lonely away from the garden; but you shall sleep near me, and there is a star rising up in the sky; it will watch us all through the night." Then the child nestled down in his white bed--he and his little warm heart, in which there was love for all things. While he slept the roses looked at his pale little face and sighed, and presently they stole softly on to his cheeks and rested there. The children saw them still there when the summer was over; when the garland was quite dead, and lame Mary longed for the fields no more. ROUND THE TEA-TABLE. A nice little party we're seated at tea, The dollies all seem very glad, Save the poor little thing who is leaning on me; I fear that she feels rather bad; Poor limp little thing! she wants a back-bone, She's only just made up of rag. There's little Miss Prim sitting up all alone, And the Japanese looks like a wag. Now what shall we talk of, my own dollies fair? And what shall we give you for tea? That queer little thing with the short frizzy hair, Why does he keep looking at me? My sister and I we will sing you a song Before we get up from the table; It shall not be sad, and it shall not be long-- We'll sing it as well as we're able. SONG. The darkness is stealing all over the place, The flowers are weeping for sorrow, The daisy is hiding its little round face, The sun has gone seeking to-morrow. So while you are seated all round the tea-table, Please join in the chorus as well as you're able; O! sing! sing away for your life. CHORUS. It's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, Time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, It's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, So bring me the carving-knife. The darkness is hiding the birds on the trees, The thrushes are weary of singing, A strange little rumour is borne on the breeze Of Summer the swallows are bringing. So while you are seated all round the tea-table, Please join in the chorus as well as you're able; O! sing! sing away for your life. CHORUS. It's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, Time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, It's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, So bring me the carving-knife. The Summer is stealing all over the place, The wind is all scented with roses, The dear little birds are all flying a race, On purpose to give us their noses. So while you are seated all round the tea-table, Please join in the chorus as well as you're able; O! sing! sing away for your life. CHORUS. It's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses Time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, It's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, So bring me the carving-knife. TOMMY. Tommy was sitting on the bench near the end of the lane. By his side was a basin tied up in a cotton handkerchief; in the buttonhole of his coat there was a sprig of sweet-william. The girls from the big house came and stood still in front of him, staring at him rudely, but he did not speak. "Tommy, are you tired?" they asked. "Yes," Tommy answered, crossly, "I'm very tired, and father's working in the fields, and I have got to take him his dinner before I go to the fair." "Why don't the servants take it?" "Servants!" said Tommy scornfully; "we've no servants. We are not rich people!" "Wouldn't you like to be rich?" the eldest sister asked, while the two little ones walked slowly round Tommy, looking at the feather in his hat; he had put it there so that he might look smart when he went on to the village. "No, it's too expensive," said Tommy, shaking his head; "rich people have to buy such a lot of things, and to wear fine clothes, and they can't have dinner in the fields." "My father has his dinner in a room," said the girl. "That's because he's rich," answered Tommy, "and people would talk if he didn't; rich people can't do as they like, as poor can." "And my father lives in a big house," the girl went on, for she was vulgar, and liked to boast. "Yes, and it takes up a lot of room; my father's got the whole world to live in if he likes; that's better than a house." "But my father doesn't work," said the girl, scornfully. "Mine does," said Tommy, proudly. "Rich people can't work," he went on, "so they are obliged to get the poor folk to do it. Why, we have made everything in the world. Oh! it's a fine thing to be poor." "But suppose all the rich folk died, what would the poor folk do?" "But suppose all the poor folk died," cried Tommy, "what would the rich folk do? They can sit in carriages, but can't build them, and eat dinners, but can't cook them." And he got up and went his way. "Poor folk ought to be very kind to rich folk, for it's hard to be the like of them," he said to himself as he went along. THE SWALLOWS. There were some children in the north looking at the swallows flying south. "Why are they going away?" the little one asked. "The summer is over," the elder sister answered, "and if they stayed here they would be starved and die of cold, and so, when the summer goes, they journey south." "Our mother and sisters are in the south," the little one said, as they looked after the birds. "Dear little swallows, tell mother that we are watching for her!" But they were already flying over the sea. The chilly winds tried to follow, but the swallows flew so swiftly they were not overtaken; they went on, with the summer always before them. They were tired many a time; once they stayed to rest upon the French coast, and once, in the Bay of Biscay, they clung to the rigging of a ship all through the night, but in the morning they went on again. Far away in the south, two English children were looking from the turret window of an old castle. "Here are the swallows," they said; "perhaps they have come from England. Dear swallows, have you brought us a message?" they asked. "It was very cold, we had no time for messages; and we must not lose the track of summer," the swallows twittered, and they flew on till they reached the African shore. "Poor little swallows," said the English children, as they watched the ship come into port that was to take them back to their own land; "they have to chase the summer and the sun, but we do not mind whether it is summer or winter, for if we only keep our hearts warm, the rest does not matter." "It is very good of the swallows to come to us," the elder sister said, in the next spring, when she heard their first soft twitter beneath the eaves, "for the summer is in many places, and we are so far from the south." "Yes, it is very good of them to come," the children answered; "dear little swallows, perhaps they love us!" A FIRST LOVE-MAKING. A land there is beyond the sea That I have never seen, But Johnny says he'll take me there, And I shall be a queen. He'll build for me a palace there, Its roof will be of thatch, And it will have a little porch And everything to match. And he'll give me a garden-green, And he'll give me a crown Of flowers that love the wood and field And never grow in town. And we shall be so happy there, And never, never part, And I shall be the grandest queen-- The queen of Johnny's heart. Then, Johnny, man your little boat To sail across the sea; There's only room for king and queen-- For Johnny and for me. And, Johnny dear, I'm not afraid Of any wind or tide, For I am always safe, my dear, If you are by my side. SMUT. Now, this story is quite true. Once upon a time there was a cat called Mr. Puff; he lived in a grand house, quite close to the Turkish Embassy. A lord and a lady and several servants lived with Mr. Puff; he was very kind to them, letting them do in all things as they liked, and never sending them away or keeping the house to himself. One day Mr. Puff, being out in the rain, found a poor little kitten, covered with mud, and crying bitterly: so Mr. Puff took the kitten between his teeth, carried it home, and set it down on the drawing-room hearth-rug. The lord and the lady had the kitten washed, and gave it food, and called it Smut. Then Smut went and sat him down on the lord's writing-table. When Smut grew to be a cat, but before he was yet a large one, the lord and the lady thought awhile, and spoke, "We have a dear friend," they said, "and he is catless; therefore, if Mr. Puff will agree, we will take Smut to him as a present." And Mr. Puff agreed. So Smut was put into a birdcage, for there was nothing else to serve him for a travelling carriage, and taken to the dear friend's house. The dear friend had a little girl with golden hair, and when she saw Smut, she cried out for joy, and said, "Never before did I see a dicky-bird with a furry coat, a long tail, and little white teeth." But Smut shook his head, as if to say, "I am not a dicky-bird, sweet maid, but only a four-legged cat;" then they opened the birdcage door, and he walked out, waving his tail. Now, when Smut grew up, his gravity and dignity made all who knew his history wonder, and few could believe that he had once been a dirty kitten, covered with mud, glad to accept the charity of Mr. Puff. When a year had gone, or perhaps even a longer time, there was a great war in Turkey, and terrible battles were fought. Then Smut looked very anxious, and went quite bald, and his coat fell off in little patches; but none could tell why. At last he died, and the little girl wept sorely, and all who had known him grieved and lamented. And when Smut had been sleeping only a little while beneath the lilac tree, accident revealed that, instead of a lowly foundling, he had been of high degree, for the little vagrant Mr. Puff had found was no less a person than the Turkish Ambassador's coachman's wife's cat's kitten. SEE-SAW. Get into the boat and away to the west, See-saw! see-saw! For they've cut down the tree with the poor linnet's nest, See-saw! see-saw! The bulrushes nod and the water-lilies sigh, See-saw! see-saw! And all of us know the sad reason why, See-saw! see-saw! For, oh! the tree--the tree's cut down, And every one of its leaves are brown; And in the field the children play, But the little linnet has flown away: Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear! THE BAD GIRL. She was always called the bad girl, for she had once, when she was very little, put out her tongue at the postman. She lived alone with her grandmother and her three brothers in the cottage beyond the field, and the girls in the village took no notice of her. The bad girl did not mind this, for she was always thinking of the cuckoo clock. The clock stood in one corner of the cottage, and every hour a door opened at the top of its face, and a little cuckoo came out and called its name just the same number of times that the clock ought to have struck, and called it so loudly and in so much haste that the clock was afraid to strike at all. The bad girl was always wondering whether it was worse for the clock to have a cupboard in its forehead, and a bird that was always hopping in and out, or for the poor cuckoo to spend so much time in a dark little prison. "If it could only get away to the woods," she said to herself, "who knows but its voice might grow sweet, and even life itself might come to it!" She thought of the clock so much that her grandmother used to say-- "Ah, lassie, if you would only think of me sometimes!" But the bad girl would answer-- "You are not in prison, granny dear, and you have not even a bee in your bonnet, let alone a bird in your head. Why should I think of you?" One day, close by the farm, she saw the big girls from the school gathering flowers. "Give me one," she said; "perhaps the cuckoo would like it." But they all cried, "No, no!" and tried to frighten her away. "They are for the little one's birthday. To-morrow she will be seven years old," they said, "and she is to have a crown of flowers and a cake, and all the afternoon we shall play merry games with her." "Is she unhappy, that you are taking so much trouble for her?" asked the bad girl. "Oh, no; she is very happy: but it will be her birthday, and we want to make her happier." "Why?" "Because we love her," said one; "Because she is so little," said another; "Because she is alive," said a third. "Are all things that live to be loved and cared for?" the bad girl asked, but they were too busy to listen, so she went on her way thinking; and it seemed as if all things round--the birds, and bees, and the rustling leaves, and the little tender wild flowers, half hidden in the grass--answered, as she went along-- "Yes, they are all to be cared for and made happier, if it be possible." "The cuckoo clock is not alive," she thought. "Oh, no; it is not alive," the trees answered; "but many things that do not live have voices, and many others are just sign-posts, pointing the way." "The way! The way to what, and where?" "We find out for ourselves;--we must all find out for ourselves," the trees sighed and whispered to each other. As the bad girl entered the cottage, the cuckoo called out its name eleven times, but she did not even look up. She walked straight across to the chair by the fireside, and kneeling down, kissed her granny's hands. MORNING TIME. I. Awake, my pet! What! slumbering yet, When the day's so warm and bright? The flowers that wept Before they slept O'er the darkness of yesternight, Have listened long To the lark's wild song, And awoke with the morning light. II. Again and again Through the window-pane The jasmine flowers kept peeping, And in at the door, And along the floor, The sunny rays came creeping, So I opened wide The sash, and tried To tell them you were sleeping. III. Awake, my dear, The winter drear Has fled with all things dreary, But quickly by The spring will fly, And soon the birds will weary.-- Awake while yet The dew is wet And day is young, my deary. THE PINK PARASOL. The pink parasol had tender whalebone ribs and a slender stick of cherry-wood. It lived with the wilful child in the white-house, just beyond the third milestone. All about the trees were green, and the flowers grew tall; in the pond behind the willows the ducks swam round and round and dipped their heads beneath the water. Every bird and bee, every leaf and flower, loved the child and the pink parasol as they wandered in the garden together, listening to the birds and seeking the shady spots to rest in, or walking up and down the long trim pathway in the sunshine. Yet the child tired of it all, and before the summer was over, was always standing by the gate, watching the straight white road that stretched across the plain. "If I might but see the city, with the busy streets and the eager crowds," he was always saying to himself. Then all that lived in the garden knew that the child would not be with them long. At last the day came when he flung down the pink parasol, and, without even one last look at the garden, ran out at the gate. The flowers died, and the swallows journeyed south; the trees stretched higher and higher, to see the child come back across the plain, but he never came. "Ah, dear child!" they sighed many a time, "why are you staying? and are your eyes as blue as ever; or have the sad tears dimmed them? and is your hair golden still? and your voice, is it like the singing of the birds? And your heart--oh! my dear, my dear, what is in your heart now, that once was so full of summer and the sun?" The pink parasol lay on the pathway, where the child left it, spoilt by the rain, and splashed by the gravel, faded and forgotten. At last, a gipsy lad, with dark eyes, a freckled face, and little gold rings in his ears, came by; he picked up the pink parasol, hid it under his coat, and carried it to the gipsy tent. There it stayed till one day the cherry-wood stick was broken into three pieces, and the pink parasol was put on the fire to make the water boil for the gipsy's tea. THE SISTERS. The little sisters went into the room to play at ball. "We must be careful not to wake the white cat," the tall one said, softly. "Or to spoil the roses," the fat one whispered; "but throw high, dear sister, or we shall never hit the ceiling." "You dear children," thought the white cat, "why do you come to play here at all? Only just round the corner are the shady trees, and the birds singing on the branches, and the sunshine is flecking the pathway. Who knows but what, out there, your ball might touch the sky? Here you will only disturb me, and perhaps spoil the roses; and at best you can but hit the ceiling!" THE WHITE RABBITS. All the white rabbits but two, my dears, All the white rabbits but two, Away they all sailed in a cockle-shell boat, Painted a beautiful blue. All the white rabbits so snowy and sleek, Away they went down to the shore; Little they thought, so happy and meek, They'd never come up from it more. Oh, the white rabbits they wept and they sobbed, Till the boat it shook up in the sails; Oh, the white rabbits they sobbed and they shook From their poor loppy ears to their tails. Away they all sailed to a desolate land Where never a lettuce-leaf grew, All the white rabbits but two, my dears, All the white rabbits but two. THE WOODEN HORSE. "Come and have a ride," the big brother said. "I am afraid," the little one answered; "the horse's mouth is wide open." "But it's only wooden. That is the best of a horse that isn't real. If his mouth is ever so wide open, he cannot shut it. So come," and the big brother lifted the little one up, and dragged him about. "Oh, do stop!" the little one cried out in terror; "does the horse make that noise along the floor?" "Yes." "And is it a real noise?" "Of course it is," the big brother answered. "But I thought only real things could make real things," the little one said; "where does the imitation horse end and the real sound begin?" At this the big brother stood still for a few minutes. "I was thinking about real and imitation things," he said presently. "It's very difficult to tell which is which sometimes. You see they get so close together that the one often grows into the other, and some imitated things become real and some real ones become imitation as they go on. But I should say that you are a real coward for not having a ride." "No, I am not," the little one laughed; and, getting astride the wooden horse, he sat up bravely. "Oh, Jack, dear," he said to his brother, "we will always be glad that we are real boys, or we too might have been made with mouths we were never able to shut!" THE DUCK POND. So little Bridget took the baby on her right arm and a jug in her left hand, and went to the farm to get the milk. On her way she went by the garden-gate of a large house that stood close to the farm, and she told the baby a story:-- "Last summer," she said, "a little girl, bigger than you, for she was just able to walk, came to stay in that house--she and her father and mother. All about the road just here, the ducks and the chickens from the farm, and an old turkey, used to walk about all the day long, but the poor little ducks were very unhappy, for they had no pond to swim about in, only that narrow ditch through which the streamlet is flowing. When the little girl's father saw this, he took a spade, and worked and worked very hard, and out of the ditch and the streamlet he made a little pond for the ducks, and they swam about and were very happy all through the summer days. Every morning I used to stand and watch, and presently the garden-gate would open, and then the father would come out, leading the little girl by the hand, and the mother brought a large plateful of bits of broken bread. The little girl used to throw the bread to the ducks, and they ran after it and ate it up quickly, while she laughed out with glee, and the father and the mother laughed too just as merrily. Baby, the father had blue eyes, and a voice that you seemed to hear with your heart. "The little girl used to feed the chickens too, and the foolish old turkey that was so fond of her it would run after her until she screamed and was afraid. The dear father and the little girl came out every morning, while the black pigs looked through the bars of the farm-yard gate and grunted at them, as if they were glad, and I think the ducks knew that the father had made the pond, for they swam round and round it proudly while he watched them, but when he went away they seemed tired and sad. "The pond is not there now, baby, for a man came by one day and made it into a ditch again; and the chickens and the ducks from the farm are kept in another place. "The little girl is far away in her own home, which the father made for her, and the dear father lives in his own home too--in the hearts of those he loved." That was the story that Bridget told the baby. THE LITTLE MAID. There is a sweet maiden asleep by the sea, Her lips are as red as a cherry; The roses are resting upon her brown cheeks-- Her cheeks that are brown as a berry. She's tired of building up castles of sand, Her hands they are gritty and grubby; Her shoes, they are wet, and her legs, they are bare, Her legs that are sturdy and chubby. I'll wrap a shawl round you, my dear little maid, To keep the wind off you completely, And soft I will sing you a lullaby song, And soon you will slumber most sweetly. THE DONKEY ON WHEELS. There was once a poor little donkey on wheels. It had never wagged its tail, or tossed its head, or said, "Hee-haw!" or tasted a tender thistle. It always went about, anywhere that anyone pulled it, on four wooden wheels, carrying a foolish knight, who wore a large cocked hat and a long cloak, because he had no legs. Now, a man who has no legs, and rides a donkey on wheels, has little cause for pride; but the knight was haughty, and seldom remembered his circumstances. So the donkey suffered sorely, and in many ways. One day the donkey and the knight were on the table in front of the child to whom they both belonged. She was cutting out a little doll's frock with a large pair of scissors. "Mistress," said the knight, "this donkey tries my temper. Will you give me some spurs?" "Oh, no, sir knight," the child answered. "You would hurt the poor donkey; besides, you have no heels to put them on." "Cruel knight!" exclaimed the donkey. "Make him get off, dear mistress; I will carry him no longer." "Let him stay," said the child, gently; "he has no legs, and cannot walk." "Then why did he want spurs?" "Just the way of the world, dear donkey; just the way of the world." "Ah!" sighed the donkey, "some ways are very trying, especially the world's;" and then it said no more, but thought of the fields it would never see, and the thistles it would never taste. COCK-A-DOODLE. I know a lovely dicky-bird, A cock-a-doodle-doo;-- My father and my mother And my sister know it too. It struts about so gaily, And it is brave and strong; And when it crows, it is a crow, Both very loud and long. Oh, "Cock-a-doodle-doo," it crows, And cock-a-doodle won't Leave off its cock-a-doodling, When mother dear cries "Don't!" THE BOY AND LITTLE GREAT LADY. She was always called the "little great lady," for she lived in a grand house, and was very rich. He was a strange boy; the little great lady never knew whence he came, or whither he went. She only saw him when the snow lay deep upon the ground. Then in the early morning he swept a pathway to the stable in which she had once kept a white rabbit. When it was quite finished, she came down the steps in her white dress and little thin shoes, with bows on them, and walked slowly along the pathway. It was always swept so dry she might have worn paper shoes without getting them wet. At the far end he always stood waiting till she came, and smiled and said, "Thank you, little boy," and passed on. Then he was no more seen till the next snowy morning, when again he swept the pathway; and again the little great lady came down the steps in her dainty shoes, and went on her way to the stable. But at last, one morning when the snow lay white and thick, and she came down the steps as usual, there was no pathway. The little boy stood leaning on a spade, his feet buried deep in the snow. "Where is your broom? and where is the pathway to the rabbit house?" she asked. "The rabbit is dead, and the broom is worn out," he answered; "and I am tired of making pathways that lead to empty houses." "But why have you done it so long?" she asked. "You have bows on your shoes," he said; "and they are so thin you could not walk over the snow in them--why, you would catch your death of cold," he added, scornfully. "What would you do if I wore boots?" "I should go and learn how to build ships, or paint pictures, or write books. But I should not think of you so much," he said. The little great lady answered eagerly, "Go and learn how to do all those things; I will wait till you come back and tell me what you have done," and she turned and went into the house. "Good-bye," the boy said, as he stood watching for a moment the closed door; "dear little great lady, good-bye." And he went along the unmade pathway beyond the empty rabbit house. GOOD-DAY, GENTLE FOLK. Oh, yes, sir and miss, I have been to the town; It really was pleasant and gay; But now I must hurry, the sun's going down, And so I will wish you good-day. And so I will wish you good-day, gentle folk, And so I will wish you good-day. I know a white rabbit just over the hill, He's eating a lettuce for tea; And a fat speckled duck, with a very large bill, Is quacking, "Oh, where can she be?" And two little mice are there, standing quite still, They're all of them waiting for me. For we all love the stars and the little pale moon, Beneath them we frolic and play; My friends have been waiting the whole afternoon, And so I will wish you good-day. And so I will wish you good-day, gentle folk, And so I will wish you good-day. * * * * * NEW BOOKS FOR CHILDREN. Foolscap 8vo, Paper Boards, price One Shilling each. VERY SHORT STORIES AND VERSES FOR CHILDREN. BY MRS. W. K. CLIFFORD, _Author of "Anyhow Stories," etc._ WITH AN ILLUSTRATION BY EDITH CAMPBELL. A NEW NATURAL HISTORY OF BIRDS, BEASTS, AND FISHES. BY JOHN K. LEYS, M.A. LIFE STORIES OF FAMOUS CHILDREN. ADAPTED FROM THE FRENCH. _By the Author of "Spenser for Children."_ LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 24 Warwick Lane, Paternoster Row. The Canterbury Poets. THE CHILDREN OF THE POETS: AN ANTHOLOGY, _From English and American Writers of Three Centuries._ EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTION, BY ERIC ROBERTSON, M.A. This Volume contains contributions by Lord Tennyson, William Bell Scott, Robert Browning, James Russell Lowell, George Macdonald, Algernon Charles Swinburne, Theodore Watts, Austin Dobson, Hon. Roden Noel, Edmund Gosse, Robert Louis Stevenson, etc., etc. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 24 Warwick Lane, Paternoster Row. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Page 58: Corrected typo has'nt to hasn't: (He has'nt any hair,--). Page 61: Added a (probably missing) period: (They looked very fine in the sweet summer weather.) 
36178	----	EARLY LESSONS. PART X. PRICE SIX-PENCE. THE LITTLE DOG TRUSTY; THE ORANGE MAN; AND THE CHERRY ORCHARD: BEING THE TENTH PART OF EARLY LESSONS. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE PARENT'S ASSISTANT, SIX VOLUMES. _LONDON:_ PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, _By H. Bryer, Bridewell-Hospital, Bridge-Street._ 1801. THE LITTLE DOG TRUSTY; OR, THE LIAR AND THE BOY OF TRUTH. Very, very little children must not read this story; for they cannot understand it: they will not know what is meant by a liar and a boy of truth. Very little children, when they are asked a question, say "yes," and "no," without knowing the meaning of the words; but you, children, who can speak quite plain, and who can tell, by words, what you wish for, and what you want, and what you have seen, and what you have done; you who understand what is meant by the words "I have done it," or "I have not," you may read this story; for--you can understand it. Frank and Robert were two little boys, about eight years old. Whenever Frank did any thing wrong, he always told his father and mother of it; and when any body asked him about any thing which he had done or said, he always told the truth; so that every body who knew him, believed him: but nobody who knew his brother Robert, believed a word which he said, because he used to tell lies. Whenever he did any thing wrong, he never ran to his father and mother to tell them of it; but when they asked him about it, he denied it, and said he had not done the things which he had done. The reason that Robert told lies was, because he was afraid of being punished for his faults, if he confessed them. He was a coward, and could not bear the least pain; but Frank was a brave boy, and could bear to be punished for little faults: his mother never punished him so much for such little faults, as she did Robert for the lies which he told, and which she found out afterward. One evening, these two little boys were playing together, in a room by themselves; their mother was ironing in a room next to them, and their father was out at work in the fields, so there was nobody in the room with Robert and Frank; but there was a little dog, Trusty, lying by the fire-side. Trusty was a pretty playful little dog, and the children were very fond of him. "Come," said Robert to Frank, "there is Trusty lying beside the fire asleep; let us go and waken him, and he will play with us." "O yes, do, let us," said Frank. So they both ran together, towards the hearth, to waken the dog. Now there was a basin of milk standing upon the hearth; and the little boys did not see where-abouts it stood; for it was behind them: as they were both playing with the dog, they kicked it with their feet, and threw it down; and the basin broke, and all the milk ran out of it over the hearth, and about the floor; and when the little boys saw what they had done, they were very sorry, and frightened; but they did not know what to do: they stood for some time, looking at the broken basin and the milk, without speaking. Robert spoke first. "So, we shall have no milk for supper to-night," said he; and he sighed---- "No milk for supper!----why not?" said Frank; "is there no more milk in the house?" "Yes, but we shall have none of it; for, do not you remember, last Monday, when we threw down the milk, my mother said we were very careless, and that the next time we did so, we should have no more; and this is the next time; so we shall have no milk for supper to-night." "Well, then," said Frank, "we must do without it, that's all: we will take more care another time; there's no great harm done; come, let us run and tell my mother. You know she bid us always tell her directly when we broke any thing; so come," said he, taking hold of his brother's hand. "I will come, just now," said Robert; "don't be in such a hurry, Frank--Can't you stay a minute?" So Frank staid; and then he said, "Come now, Robert." But Robert answered, "Stay a little longer; for I dare not go yet--I am afraid." Little boys, I advise you, never be afraid to tell the truth; never say, "_Stay a minute_," and, "_Stay a little longer_," but run directly, and tell of what you have done that is wrong. The longer you stay, the more afraid you will grow, till at last, perhaps, you will not dare to tell the truth at all.--Hear what happened to Robert. The longer he staid, the more unwilling he was to go to tell his mother that he had thrown the milk down; and at last he pulled his hand away from his brother, and cried, "I won't go at all; Frank, can't you go by yourself?" "Yes," said Frank, "so I will; I am not afraid to go by myself: I only waited for you out of good-nature, because I thought you would like to tell the truth too." "Yes, so I will; I mean to tell the truth when I am asked; but I need not go now, when I do not choose it:--and why need you go either?--Can't you wait here?--Surely my mother can see the milk when she comes in." Frank said no more; but, as his brother would not come, he went without him. He opened the door of the next room, where he thought his mother was ironing; but when he went in, he saw that she was gone; and he thought she was gone to fetch some more clothes to iron. The clothes, he knew, were hanging on the bushes in the garden; so he thought his mother was gone there; and he ran after her, to tell what had happened. Now whilst Frank was gone, Robert was left in the room by himself; and all the while he was alone, he was thinking of some excuses to make to his mother; and he was sorry that Frank was gone to tell her the truth. He said to himself, "If Frank and I both were to say, that we did not throw down the basin, she would believe us, and we should have milk for supper. I am very sorry Frank would go to tell her about it." Just as he said this to himself, he heard his mother coming down stairs--"Oh ho!" said he to himself, "then my mother has not been out in the garden, and so Frank has not met her, and cannot have told her; so now I may say what I please." Then this naughty, cowardly boy, determined to tell his mother a lie. She came into the room; but when she saw the broken basin, and the milk spilled, she stopped short, and cried; "So, so!--What a piece of work is here!--Who did this, Robert?" "I don't know, ma'am," said Robert, in a very low voice. "You don't know, Robert!--tell me the truth--I shall not be angry with you, child--You will only lose the milk at supper; and as for the basin, I would rather have you break all the basins I have, than tell me one lie.--So don't tell me a lie.--I ask you, Robert, did you break the basin?" "_No, ma'am_, I did not," said Robert; and he coloured as red as fire. "Then, where's Frank?--did he do it?" "No mother, he did not," said Robert; for he was in hopes, that when Frank came in, he should persuade him to say that he did not do it. "How do you know," said his mother, "that Frank did not do it?" "Because--because--because, ma'am," said Robert, hesitating, as liars do for an excuse--"because I was in the room all the time, and I did not see him do it." "Then how was the basin thrown down? If you have been in the room all the time, you can tell." Then Robert, going on from one lie to another, answered, "I suppose the dog must have done it."-- "Did you see him do it?" says his mother. "Yes," said this wicked boy. "Trusty, Trusty," said his mother, turning round; and Trusty, who was lying before the fire, drying his legs, which were wet with the milk, jumped up, and came to her. Then she said, "Fie! fie! Trusty!" and she pointed to the milk.--"Get me a switch out of the garden, Robert; Trusty must be beat for this." Robert ran for the switch, and in the garden he met his brother: he stopped him, and told him, in a great hurry, all that he had said to his mother; and he begged of him not to tell the truth, but to say the same as he had done. "No, I will not tell a lie," said Frank.--"What! and is Trusty to be beat!--He did not throw down the milk, and he shan't be beat for it--Let me go to my mother." They both ran toward the house--Robert got first home, and he locked the house-door, that Frank might not come in. He gave the switch to his mother. Poor Trusty! he looked up as the switch was lifted over his head; but _he_ could not speak, to tell the truth. Just as the blow was falling upon him, Frank's voice was heard at the window. "Stop, stop! dear mother, stop!" cried he, as loud as ever he could call; "Trusty did not do it--let me in--I and Robert did it--but do not beat Robert." "Let us in, let us in," cried another voice, which Robert knew to be his father's; "I am just come from work, and here's the door locked." Robert turned as pale as ashes when he heard his father's voice; for his father always whipped him when he told a lie. His mother went to the door, and unlocked it. "What's all this?" cried his father, as he came in; so his mother told him all that had happened;--how the milk had been thrown down; how she had asked Robert whether he had done it; and he said that he had not, nor that Frank had not done it, but that Trusty, the dog, had done it; how she was just going to beat Trusty, when Frank came to the window and told the truth. "Where is the switch with which you were going to beat Trusty?" said the father. Then Robert, who saw, by his father's look, that he was going to beat him, fell upon his knees, and cried for mercy, saying, "Forgive me this time, and I will never tell a lie again." But his father caught hold of him by the arm--"I will whip you now," said he, "and then, I hope, you will not." So Robert was whipped, till he cried so loud with the pain, that the whole neighbourhood could hear him. "There," said his father, when he had done, "now go to supper; you are to have no milk to-night, and you have been whipped. See how liars are served!" Then, turning to Frank, "Come here, and shake hands with me, Frank; you will have no milk for supper; but that does not signify; you have told the truth, and have not been whipped, and every body is pleased with you. And now I'll tell you what I will do for you--I will give you the little dog Trusty, to be your own dog. You shall feed him, and take care of him, and he shall be your dog; you have saved him a beating; and, I'll answer for it, you'll be a good master to him. Trusty, Trusty, come here." Trusty came; then Frank's father took off Trusty's collar--"To-morrow I'll go to the brazier's," added he, "and get a new collar made for your dog: from this day forward he shall always be called after you, _Frank_!----And, wife, whenever any of the neighbours' children ask you why the dog _Trusty_ is to be called _Frank_, tell them this story of our two boys: let them know the difference between a liar and a boy of truth." THE ORANGE MAN; OR, THE HONEST BOY AND THE THIEF. Charles was the name of the honest boy; and Ned was the name of the thief. Charles never touched what was not his own: _this_ is being an honest boy. Ned often took what was not his own: this is being a thief. Charles's father and mother, when he was a very little boy, had taught him to be honest, by always punishing him when he meddled with what was not his own: but when Ned took what was not his own, his father and mother did not punish him; so he grew up to be a thief. Early one summer's morning, as Charles was going along the road to school, he met a man leading a horse, which was laden with panniers. The man stopped at the door of a public-house which was by the road side; and he said to the landlord, who came to the door, "I won't have my horse unloaded; I shall only stop with you whilst I eat my breakfast.--Give my horse to some one to hold here on the road, and let the horse have a little hay to eat." The landlord called; but there was no one in the way; so he beckoned to Charles, who was going by, and begged him to hold the horse. "Oh," said the man, "but can you engage him to be an honest boy? for these are oranges in my baskets; and it is not every little boy one can leave with oranges." "Yes," said the landlord, "I have known Charles from the cradle upwards, and I never caught him in a lie or a theft; all the parish knows him to be an honest boy; I'll engage your oranges will be as safe with him as if you were by yourself." "Can you so?" said the orange man; "then I'll engage, my lad, to give you the finest orange in my basket, when I come from breakfast, if you'll watch the rest whilst I am away."-- "Yes," said Charles, "I _will_ take care of your oranges." So the man put the bridle into his hand, and he went into the house to eat his breakfast. Charles had watched the horse and the oranges about five minutes, when he saw one of his school-fellows coming towards him. As he came nearer, Charles saw that it was Ned. Ned stopped as he passed, and said, "Good-morrow to you, Charles; what are you doing there? whose horse is that? and what have you got in the baskets?" "There are oranges in the baskets," said Charles; "and a man, who has just gone into the inn, here, to eat his breakfast, bid me take care of them, and so I did; because he said he would give me an orange when he came back again." "An orange!" cried Ned; "are you to have a whole orange?--I wish I was to have one! However, let me look how large they are." Saying this, Ned went towards the pannier, and lifted up the cloth that covered it. "La! what fine oranges!" he exclaimed, the moment he saw them: "Let me touch them, to feel if they are ripe." "No," said Charles, "you had better not; what signifies it to you whether they are ripe, you know, since you are not to eat them. You should not meddle with them; they are not yours--You must not touch them." "Not touch them! surely," said Ned, "there's no harm in _touching_ them. You don't think I mean to steal them, I suppose." So Ned put his hand into the orange-man's basket, and he took up an orange, and he felt it; and when he had felt it, he smelled it. "It smells very sweet," said he, "and it feels very ripe; I long to taste it; I will only just suck one drop of juice at the top." Saying these words, he put the orange to his mouth. Little boys, who wish to be honest, beware of temptation; do not depend too much upon yourselves; and remember, that it is easier to resolve to do right at first, than at last. People are led on, by little and little, to do wrong. The _sight_ of the oranges tempted Ned to _touch_ them; the touch tempted him to _smell_ them; and the smell tempted him to _taste_ them. "What are you about, Ned?" cried Charles, taking hold of his arm. "You said, you only wanted to smell the orange; do, put it down, for shame!" "Don't say _for shame_ to me," cried Ned, in a surly tone; "the oranges are not yours, Charles!" "No, they are not mine; but I promised to take care of them, and so I will:--so put down that orange!" "Oh, if it comes to that, I won't," said Ned, "and let us see who can make me, if I don't choose it;--I'm stronger than you." "I am not afraid of you for all that," replied Charles, "for I am in the right." Then he snatched the orange out of Ned's hand, and he pushed him with all his force from the basket. Ned, immediately returning, hit him a violent blow, which almost stunned him. Still, however, this good boy, without minding the pain, persevered in defending what was left in his care; he still held the bridle with one hand, and covered the basket with his other arm, as well as he could. Ned struggled in vain, to get his hands into the pannier again; he could not; and, finding that he could not win by strength, he had recourse to cunning. So he pretended to be out of breath and to desist; but he meant, as soon as Charles looked away, to creep softly round to the basket, on the other side. Cunning people, though they think themselves very wise, are almost always very silly. Ned, intent upon one thing, the getting round to steal the oranges, forgot that if he went too close to the horse's heels, he should startle him. The horse indeed, disturbed by the bustle near him, had already left off eating his hay, and began to put down his ears; but when he felt something touch his hind legs, he gave a sudden kick, and Ned fell backwards, just as he had seized the orange. Ned screamed with the pain; and at the scream all the people came out of the public house to see what was the matter; and amongst them came the orange-man. Ned was now so much ashamed, that he almost forgot the pain, and wished to run away; but he was so much hurt, that he was obliged to sit down again. The truth of the matter was soon told by Charles, and as soon believed by all the people present who knew him: for he had the character of being an honest boy; and Ned was known to be a thief and a liar. So nobody pitied Ned for the pain he felt. "He deserves it," says one. "Why did he meddle with what was not his own?"--"Pugh! he is not much hurt, I'll answer for it," said another. "And if he was, it's a lucky kick for him, if it keeps him from the gallows," says a third. Charles was the only person who said nothing; he helped Ned away to a bank: for brave boys are always good-natured. "Oh, come here," said the orange-man, calling him; "come here, my honest lad! what! you got that black eye in keeping my oranges, did you?--that's a stout little fellow," said he, taking him by the hand, and leading him into the midst of the people. Men, women, and children, had gathered around, and all the children fixed their eyes upon Charles, and wished to be in his place. In the mean time, the orange-man took Charles's hat off his head, and filled it with fine China oranges. "There, my little friend," said he, "take them, and God bless you with them! If I could but afford it, you should have all that is in my basket." Then the people, and especially the children, shouted for joy; but as soon as there was silence, Charles said to the orange-man, "Thank'e, master, with all my heart; but I can't take your oranges, only that one I earned; take the rest back again: as for a black eye, that's nothing! but I won't be paid for it; no more than for doing what's honest. So I can't take your oranges, master; but I thank you as much as if I had them." Saying these words, Charles offered to pour the oranges back into the basket; but the man would not let him. "Then," said Charles, "if they are honestly mine, I may give them away;" so he emptied the hat amongst the children, his companions. "Divide them amongst you," said he; and without waiting for their thanks, he pressed through the crowd, and ran towards home. The children all followed him, clapping their hands, and thanking him. The little thief came limping after. Nobody praised him, nobody thanked him; he had no oranges to eat, nor had he any to give away. _People must be honest, before they can be generous._ Ned sighed as he went towards home; "And all this," said he to himself, "was for one orange; it was not worth while." No: it is never worth while to do wrong. Little boys who read this story, consider which would you rather have been, _the honest boy_, or _the thief_. THE CHERRY ORCHARD. Marianne was a little girl of about eight years old; she was remarkably good-tempered; she could bear to be disappointed, or to be contradicted, or to be blamed, without looking or feeling peevish, or sullen, or angry.--Her parents, and her school-mistress and companions, all loved her, because she was obedient and obliging. Marianne had a cousin, a year younger than herself, named Owen, who was an ill-tempered boy; almost every day he was crying, or pouting, or in a passion, about some trifle or other; he was neither obedient nor obliging.--His playfellows could not love him; for he was continually quarrelling with them; he would never, either when he was at play or at work, do what they wished; but he always tried to force them to yield to his will and his humour. One fine summer's evening, Marianne and Owen were setting out, with several of their little companions, to school. It was a walk of about a mile from the town in which their fathers and mothers lived to the school-house, if they went by the high-road; but there was another way, through a lane, which was a quarter of a mile shorter. Marianne, and most of the children, liked to go by the lane, because they could gather the pretty flowers which grew on the banks, and in the hedges; but Owen preferred going by the high-road, because he liked to see the carts and carriages, and horsemen, which usually were seen upon this road. Just when they were setting out, Owen called to Marianne, who was turning into the lane. "Marianne," said he, "you _must_ not go by the lane to-day; you must go by the road." "Why must not I go by the lane to-day?" said Marianne; "you know, yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, we all went by the high-road, only to please you; and now let us go by the lane, because we want to gather some honey-suckles and dog-roses, to fill our dame's flower-pots." "I don't care for that; I don't want to fill our dame's flower-pots; I don't want to gather honey-suckles and dog-roses; I want to see the coaches and chaises on the road; and you _must_ go my way, Marianne." "_Must!_ Oh, you should not say _must_," replied Marianne, in a gentle tone. "No, indeed!" cried one of her companions, "you should not; nor should you look so cross: that is not the way to make us do what you like." "And, besides," said another, "what right has he always to make us do as he pleases?--He never will do any thing that we wish." Owen grew quite angry when he heard this; and he was just going to make some sharp answer, when Marianne, who was good-natured, and always endeavoured to prevent quarrels, said, "Let us do what he asks, this once; and I dare say he will do what we please the next time--We will go by the high-road to school, and we can come back by the lane, in the cool of the evening." To please Marianne, whom they all loved, they agreed to this proposal. They went by the high-road; but Owen was not satisfied, because he saw that his companions did not comply for his sake; and as he walked on, he began to kick up the dust with his feet, saying, "I'm sure it is much pleasanter here than in the lane; I wish we were to come back this way--I'm sure it is much pleasanter here than in the lane: is not it, Marianne?" Marianne could not say that she thought so. Owen kicked up the dust more and more. "Do not make such a dust, dear Owen," said she; "look how you have covered my shoes and my clean stockings with dust." "Then, say, it is pleasanter here than in the lane. I shall go on, making this dust, till you say that." "I cannot say that, because I do not think so, Owen." "I'll make you think so, and say so too." "You are not taking the right way to make me think so: you know that I cannot think this dust agreeable." Owen persisted; and he raised continually a fresh cloud of dust, in spite of all that Marianne or his companions could say to him.--They left him, and went to the opposite side of the road; but wherever they went, he pursued--At length they came to a turnpike-gate, on one side of which there was a turn-stile; Marianne and the rest of the children passed, one by one, through the turn-stile, whilst Owen was emptying his shoes of dust. When this was done, he looked up, and saw all his companions on the other side of the gate, holding the turn-stile, to prevent him from coming through. "Let me through, let me through," cried he, "I must and will come through." "No, no, Owen," said they, "_must_ will not do now; we have you safe; here are ten of us; and we will not let you come through till you have promised that you will not make any more dust." Owen, without making any answer, began to kick, and push, and pull, and struggle, with all his might; but in vain he struggled, pulled, pushed and kicked; he found that ten people are stronger than one.--When he felt that he could not conquer them by force, he began to cry; and he roared as loud as he possibly could. No one but the turnpike-man was within hearing; and he stood laughing at Owen. Owen tried to climb the gate; but he could not get over it, because there were iron spikes at the top. "Only promise that you will not kick up the dust, and they will let you through," said Marianne. Owen made no answer, but continued to struggle till his whole face was scarlet, and till both his wrists ached: he could not move the turn-stile an inch. "Well," said he, stopping short, "now you are all of you joined together; you are stronger than I; but I am as cunning as you." He left the stile, and began to walk homewards. "Where are you going? You will be too late at school, if you turn back and go by the lane," said Marianne. "I know that, very well; but that will be your fault, and not mine--I shall tell our dame, that you all of you held the turn-stile against me, and would not let me through." "And we shall tell our dame why we held the turn-stile against you," replied one of the children; "and then it will be plain that it was your fault." Perhaps Owen did not hear this; for he was now at some distance from the gate. Presently he heard some one running after him--It was Marianne. "Oh, I am so much out of breath with running after you!--I can hardly speak!--But I am come back," said this good-natured girl, "to tell you that you will be sorry if you do not come with us; for there is something that you like very much, just at the turn of the road, a little beyond the turnpike-gate." "Something that I like very much!--What can that be?" "Come with _me_, and you shall _see_," said Marianne; "that is both rhyme and reason--Come with _me_, and you shall _see_." She looked so good-humoured, as she smiled and nodded at him, that he could not be sullen any longer. "I don't know how it is, cousin Marianne," said he; "but when I am cross, you are never cross; and you can always bring me back to good-humour again, you are so good-humoured yourself--I wish I was like you--But we need not talk any more of that now--What is it that I shall see on the other side of the turnpike-gate?--What is it that I like very much?" "Don't you like ripe cherries very much?" "Yes; but they do not grow in these hedges." "No; but there is an old woman sitting by the road-side, with a board before her, which is covered with red ripe cherries." "Red ripe cherries! Let us make haste then," cried Owen. He ran on, as fast as he could; but as soon as the children saw him running, they also began to run back to the turn-stile; and they reached it before he did; and they held it fast as before, saying, "Promise you will not kick up the dust, or we will not let you through." "The cherries are very ripe," said Marianne. "Well, well, I will not kick up the dust--Let me through," said Owen. They did so, and he kept his word; for though he was ill-humoured, he was a boy of truth; and he always kept his promises--He found the cherries looked red and ripe, as Marianne had described them. The old woman took up a long stick, which lay on the board before her. Bunches of cherries were tied with white thread to this stick; and as she shook it in the air, over the heads of the children, they all looked up with longing eyes. "A halfpenny a bunch!--Who will buy? Who will buy? Who will buy?--Nice ripe cherries!" cried the old woman. The children held out their halfpence; and "Give me a bunch," and "give me a bunch!" was heard on all sides. "Here are eleven of you," said the old woman, "and there are just eleven bunches on this stick." She put the stick into Marianne's hand, as she spoke. Marianne began to untie the bunches; and her companions pressed closer and closer to her, each eager to have the particular bunches which they thought the largest and the ripest. Several fixed upon the uppermost, which looked indeed extremely ripe. "You cannot all have this bunch," said Marianne; "to which of you must I give it? You all wish for it." "Give it to me, give it to _me_," was the first cry of each; but the second was, "Keep it yourself, Marianne; keep it yourself." "Now, Owen, see what it is to be good-natured, and good-humoured, like Marianne," said Cymon, the eldest of the boys, who stood near him--"We all are ready to give up the ripest cherries to Marianne; but we should never think of doing so for you, because you are so cross and disagreeable." "I am not cross _now_; I am not disagreeable _now_," replied Owen; "and I do not intend to be cross and disagreeable any more." This was a good resolution; but Owen did not keep it many minutes.--In the bunch of cherries which Marianne gave to him for his share, there was one which, though red on one side, was entirely white and hard on the other. "This cherry is not ripe; and here's another that has been half eaten away by the birds.--Oh, Marianne, you gave me this bad bunch on purpose--I will not have this bunch." "Somebody must have it," said Cymon; "and I do not see that it is worse than the others; we shall all have some cherries that are not so good as the rest; but we shall not grumble and look so cross about it as you do." "Give me your bad cherries, and I will give you two out of my fine bunch, instead of them," said the good-natured Marianne. "No, no, no!" cried the children; "Marianne, keep your own cherries." "Are not you ashamed, Owen?" said Cymon--"How can you be so greedy?" "Greedy!--I am not greedy," cried Owen, angrily; "but I will not have the worst cherries; I will have another bunch." He tried to snatch another bunch from the stick.--Cymon held it above his head.--Owen leaped up, reached it, and when his companions closed round him, exclaiming against his violence, he grew still more angry; he threw the stick down upon the ground, and trampled upon every bunch of the cherries in his fury, scarcely knowing what he did, or what he said. When his companions saw the ground stained with the red juice of their cherries, which he had trampled under his feet, they were both sorry and angry. The children had not any more halfpence; they could not buy any more cherries; and the old woman said that she could not _give_ them any. As they went away sorrowfully, they said, "Owen is so ill-tempered, that we will not play with him, or speak to him, or have any thing to do with him." Owen thought that he could make himself happy without his companions; and he told them so.--But he soon found that he was mistaken. When they arrived at the school-house, their dame was sitting in the thatched porch before her own door, reading a paper that was printed in large letters--"My dears," said she to her little scholars, "here is something that you will be glad to see; but say your lessons first--One thing at a time--Duty first, and pleasure afterwards----Which ever of you says your lesson best, shall know first what is in this paper, and shall have the pleasure of telling the good news." Owen always learned his lessons very well, and quickly: he now said his lesson better than any of his companions said theirs; and he looked round him with joy and triumph; but no eye met his with pleasure; nobody smiled upon him, no one was glad that he had succeeded: on the contrary, he heard those near him whisper, "I should have been very glad if it had been Marianne who had said her lesson, because she is so good-natured." The printed paper, which Owen read aloud, was as follows: "On Thursday evening next, the gate of the cherry-orchard will be opened; and all who have tickets will be let in, from six o'clock till eight.--Price of tickets, six-pence." The children wished extremely to go to this cherry orchard, where they knew that they might gather as many cherries as they liked, and where they thought that they should be very happy, sitting down under the trees, and eating fruit--But none of these children had any money; for they had spent their last halfpence in paying for those cherries which they never tasted--those cherries which Owen, in the fury of his passion, trampled in the dust. The children asked their dame what they could do to earn six-pence a piece; and she told them, that they might perhaps be able to earn this money by plaiting straw for hats, which they had all been taught to make by their good dame. Immediately the children desired to set to work. Owen, who was very eager to go to the cherry orchard, was the most anxious to get forward with the business: he found, however, that nobody liked to work along with him; his companions said, "We are afraid that you should quarrel with us--We are afraid that you should fly into a passion about the straws, as you did about the cherries; therefore we will not work with you." "Will not you? then I will work by myself," said Owen; "and I dare say that I shall have done my work long before you have any of you finished yours; for I can plait quicker and better than any of you." It was true that Owen could plait quicker and better than any of his companions; but he was soon surprised to find that his work did not go on so fast as theirs. After they had been employed all the remainder of this evening, and all the next day, Owen went to his companions, and compared his work with theirs. "How is this?" said he; "how comes it, that you have all done so much, and I have not done nearly so much, though I work quicker than any one of you, and I have worked as hard as I possibly could?--What is the reason that you have done so much more than I have?" "Because we have all been helping one another, and you have had no one to help you: you have been obliged to do every thing for yourself." "But still, I do not understand how your helping one another can make such a difference," said Owen: "I plait faster than any of you." His companions were so busy at their work, that they did not listen to what he was saying--He stood behind Marianne, in a melancholy posture, looking at them, and trying to find out why they went on so much faster than he could--He observed that one picked the outside off the straws; another cut them to the proper length; another sorted them, and laid them in bundles; another flattened them; another (the youngest of the little girls, who was not able to do any thing else) held the straws ready for those who were plaiting; another cut off the rough ends of the straws when the plaits were finished; another ironed the plaits with a hot smoothing-iron; others sewed the plaits together. Each did what he could do best, and quickest; and none of them lost any time in going from one work to another, or in looking for what they wanted. On the contrary, Owen had lost a great deal of time in looking for all the things that he wanted; he had nobody to hold the straws ready for him as he plaited; therefore he was forced to go for them himself, every time he wanted them; and his straws were not sorted in nice bundles for him; the wind blew them about; and he wasted half an hour, at least, in running after them. Besides this, he had no friend to cut off the rough ends for him; nor had he any one to sew the plaits together; and though he could plait quickly, he could not sew quickly; for he was not used to this kind of work. He wished extremely for Marianne to do it for him. He was once a full quarter of an hour in threading his needle, of which the eye was too small--Then he spent another quarter of an hour in looking for one with a larger eye; and he could not find it at last, and nobody would lend him another--When he had done sewing, he found that _his hand was out for plaiting_; that is, he could not plait so quickly after his fingers had just been used to another kind of work; and when he had been smoothing the straws with a heavy iron, his hand trembled afterwards for some minutes, during which time he was forced to be idle; thus it was that he lost time by doing every thing for himself; and though he lost but few minutes or seconds in each particular, yet, when all these minutes and seconds were added together, they made a great difference. "How fast, how very fast, they go on! and how merrily!" said Owen; as he looked at his former companions--"I am sure I shall never earn sixpence for myself before Thursday; and I shall not be able to go to the cherry-orchard--I am very sorry that I trampled on your cherries; I am very sorry that I was so ill-humoured--I will never be cross any more." "He is very sorry, that he was so ill-humoured; he is very sorry that he trampled on our cherries," cried Marianne; "do you hear what he says; he will never be cross any more." "Yes, we hear what he says," answered Cymon; "but how can we be sure that he will do as he says." "Oh," cried another of his companions, "he has found out at last that he must do as he would be done by." "Aye," said another; "and he finds that we who are good-humoured and good-natured to one another, do better even than he who is so quick and so clever." "But if, besides being so quick and so clever, he was good-humoured and good-natured," said Marianne, "he would be of great use to us; he plaits a vast deal faster than Mary does, and Mary plaits faster than any of us--Come, let us try him, let him come in amongst us." "No, No, No," cried many voices; "he will quarrel with us; and we have no time for quarrelling--We are all so quiet and happy without him!--Let him work by himself, as he said he would." Owen went on, working by himself; he made all the haste that he possibly could; but Thursday came, and his work was not nearly finished--His companions passed by him with their finished work in their hands--Each, as they passed, said, "What, have not you done yet, Owen?" and then they walked on to the table where their Dame was sitting ready to pay them their sixpences. She measured their work, and examined it; and when she saw that it was well done, she gave to each of her little workmen and workwomen the sixpence which they had earned, and she said, "I hope, my dears, that you will be happy this evening." They all looked joyful; and as they held their sixpences in their hands they said, "If we had not helped one another, we should not have earned this money; and we should not be able to go to the cherry-orchard." "Poor Owen!" whispered Marianne to her companions, "look how melancholy he is, sitting there alone at his work!--See! his hands tremble, so that he can scarcely hold the straws; he will not have nearly finished his work in time, he cannot go with us." "He should not have trampled upon our cherries; and then perhaps we might have helped him," said Cymon. "Let us help him, though he did trample on our cherries," said the good-natured Marianne,--"He is sorry for what he did, and he will never be so ill-humoured or ill-natured again--Come, let us go and help him--If we all help, we shall have his work finished in time, and then we shall all be happy together." As Marianne spoke, she drew Cymon near to the corner where Owen was sitting; and all her companions followed. "Before we offer to help him, let us try whether he is now inclined to be good-humoured, and good-natured." "Yes, yes, let us try that first," said his companions. "Owen, you will not have done time enough to go with us,"--said Cymon. "No, indeed," said Owen, "I shall not; therefore I may as well give up all thoughts of it--It is my own fault, I know." "Well, but as you cannot go yourself, you will not want your pretty little basket; will you lend it to us to hold our cherries?" "Yes, I will with pleasure," cried Owen, jumping up to fetch it: "Now he is good-natured, I am sure," said Marianne. "This plaiting of yours is not nearly so well done as ours," said Cymon, "look how uneven it is." "Yes, it is rather uneven, indeed," replied Owen. Cymon began to untwist some of Owen's work; and Owen bore this trial of his patience with good temper. "Oh, you are pulling it all to pieces, Cymon," said Marianne; "this is not fair." "Yes, it is fair," said Cymon; "for I have undone only an inch; and I will do as many inches for Owen as he pleases, now that I see he is good-humoured." Marianne immediately sat down to work for Owen; and Cymon and all his companions followed her example--It was now two hours before the time when the cherry-orchard was to be opened; and during these two hours, they went on so expeditiously, that they completed the work. Owen went with them to the cherry-orchard, where they spent the evening all together very happily--As he was sitting under a tree with his companions eating the ripe cherries, he said to them,--"Thank you all, for helping me; I should not have been here now eating these ripe cherries, if you had not been so good-natured to me--I hope I shall never be cross to any of you again, whenever I feel inclined to be cross, I will think of your good-nature to me, and of THE CHERRY-ORCHARD." _Printed by H. Bryer, Bridewell-Hospital, Bridge-Street._ Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected as follows: Page 36: "your's" changed to "yours" Page 39: "your's" changed to "yours" Page 61: "childen" changed to "children" Page 96: "good natured" changed to "good-natured" Page 103: "your's" changed to "yours" and "in" changed to "is" Punctuation has been corrected without note. 
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50466	----	[Illustration] =The Fireside Library.= ANIMAL CHUMS True Tales about Four-footed Friends BY JEAN McINTOSH [Illustration] NEW YORK SULLY AND KLEINTEICH (PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN) CONTENTS. John Willie 5 "Hurry Up, Jack!" 14 Brer Rabbit's Adventure 18 The Greedy Lamb 28 The Sparrow Hawks 38 Jacko 48 The Horse that went to Church 61 The Weasel and the Rabbit 68 The Saucy Squirrels 76 The Owl in the Dovecot 84 A True Story of a Canary 92 [Illustration] ANIMAL CHUMS. _John Willie._ "=Have= you ever heard of any one having a real live goose for a pet?" said Uncle John to Willie and Tommy. "Oh! do tell us all about it, uncle," said Tommy. Now these two little boys loved to hear a nice story; and whenever their uncle came to live with them, they made him promise to come to their nursery every evening and tell them a story. "Well," said Uncle John, when they had settled down, "this is a _true_ story that I am going to tell you to-night." "I know it is true, because I saw the goose not very long ago, and very funny he did look with his--" "But I must begin at the beginning." * * * * * [Illustration] In a country village not very far from the seaside lived a little boy and girl with their father and mother. Now these people were very, very poor. It was drawing very near to Christmas time, and they were thinking of all the nice presents and things that little boys like you would be sure to get on Christmas morning. Said Robbie (for that was the boy's name) to his sister,-- "Mamie, do you think Father Christmas will bring _us_ anything this year?" "I do hope so," said Mamie. "I _have_ tried to be good." "What would _you_ like?" said Robbie. "Well," said Mamie, who was thinking hard, "I think I should like something that we could all share--father and mother as well." "But what could that be?" asked Robbie in surprise. "Well, I _have_ thought of something," said Mamie, "but I am afraid you will laugh at me if I tell you." "Oh no, I won't," cried Robbie. "Do tell me what it is." "I shall tell you," said Mamie, "if you promise faithfully not to laugh." "I promise faithfully," answered Robbie. [Illustration] "Well," Mamie went on, "I thought that I should like Father Christmas to send me a _goose_, and then we could all have it for dinner on Christmas day." [Illustration] "That would be jolly," said Robbie. "What a surprise father and mother would get!" "Yes, that is what I thought," said Mamie, much relieved that Robbie did not laugh. "Let us both call up the chimney now and ask Father Christmas if he will send us one." So Robbie and Mamie shouted up the chimney together, and what a noise they did make! This is what they said:-- "Please, Father Christmas, we should like a lovely big goose for Christmas instead of a present for our stockings." [Illustration] "I wonder if he heard," said Robbie and Mamie together. But Father Christmas did hear. For there was a tiny little fairy listening all the time, and she caught the message in one of her wings, and flew right away there and then to give it to Santa Claus. The next morning Robbie and Mamie ran out into the garden, and what do you think they saw? "Oh, oh!" cried Mamie. "Oh, oh!" cried Robbie. "It _has_ come," they both said together. And there waddling about on the grass was a large goose. They ran away to tell their mother, and she said,-- "Well, we must give it something to eat." So Robbie and Mamie fed it, not only that morning, but every morning. By-and-by this goose became very tame, and was soon the pet of the family. "I am afraid we shall never have him for dinner now," said Robbie. "Oh no," answered Mamie; "I could not bear to eat him, he is such a darling." So they kept him and gave him the name of John Willie. * * * * * [Illustration] "And now," said Uncle John, "if you are good children, I will take you to see this strange pet some fine day. "You will see it going for a walk with its master. It sometimes walks along beside him for miles and miles, with a slow, stately tread. "Or you may see it sitting on its master's shoulder while he sits and reads. "It will also feed out of your hand as dainty as--well, as a goose can." "What a jolly story!" said Tommy. "I wish _I_ had a goose," said Willie. [Illustration] "_Hurry Up, Jack!_" =A lady= who lived in the country had a son who was a sailor boy. Once when he came home from a long, long voyage he brought his mother a parrot. Now this parrot was very, very wise indeed, and the lady had taught her to say all manner of things. In the mornings the master of the house had to get up very early, and the parrot used to wake him by crying out,-- "Hurry up, Jack! It is time to get up!" [Illustration] One day Polly got out of her cage, and, as the door was standing open, she flew very quickly through it and out of sight. The lady hunted high and low for her pet, but she was not to be found. At last, just when she had given up all hope of ever seeing Polly again, a boy came to the door of the house. [Illustration] "Please, Mrs. Brown" (for that was the lady's name), "I think your parrot is in Farmer Day's orchard. She is sitting in an old apple tree screeching for all she is worth." "Oh, I do hope it is she," said Mrs. Brown, and off she went to seek the bird as fast as she could. Sure enough, there was Polly perched high up in the tree crying out,-- "Oh dear me, poor Polly's lost--poor Polly's lost!" As soon as she saw her mistress Polly cried out,-- [Illustration] "Hullo, Sally! Poor Polly's lost. Take Polly home!" And the bird flew down to her. Now, don't you wish you had a parrot so clever? [Illustration] _Brer Rabbit's Adventure._ =Said= Brer Rabbit to his wife one day, "Oh, how I should like to see the world! It is very dreary living in this green field, and always having the same thing over and over again." [Illustration] "My dear," answered his wife, "it is a dangerous world beyond the green fields, where all manner of strange things dwell, and two-footed animals lie in wait to gobble you up. _I_ do not want to leave my little burrow." And Brer Rabbit's wife tucked herself up in her little bed and went to sleep. But Brer Rabbit kept thinking and thinking, and longing and longing to go beyond the green field in which he had his home; and one fine morning he popped out of his hole and ran away with all his might and main. [Illustration] Over the fields he went faster and faster. On the way he passed whole families of rabbits, and when they called after him, "Where are you going to, Brer Rabbit?" never a word he answered. At last Brer Rabbit began to feel tired. It was long since he had left his home, and he had travelled many, many miles, and now felt very hungry. "I wonder where I could get something to eat," he said to himself. But he looked about in vain. Not a blade of nice sweet grass could he see anywhere, and he began to feel very sad. "Oh, what shall I do?" thought poor Brer Rabbit. "How I wish I had never left my nice home!" But now he was too tired to go back; and even if he would, he could not go, for, in his haste, he had not noticed by which way he had come. Just then he spied a nice box with a lot of straw in it. "Ah," said Brer Rabbit, "this looks a nice quiet bed. I will just pop in here and have a good sleep." So in he popped, and curled himself up in the corner, and soon fell fast asleep. Brer Rabbit must have been sleeping for a long time when he awoke with a fearful start. And what do you think had happened? Some one had put a chair inside the box and packed it in with more straw, and now the lid was being hammered on, and poor Brer Rabbit was too terrified to move. There he was held fast in a prison, and no one to let him out. "Oh dear, _dear_ me!" wailed Brer Rabbit. "If only I had taken my wife's advice and never left my nice little home!" But Brer Rabbit wailed in vain, for never an answer was there to his cry. Presently Brer Rabbit felt the box being lifted and put into a train. Then the door was shut, the whistle blown, and away he went, far, far across the country to a strange land. Brer Rabbit shivered and shook with fright, and he got so ill with hunger that he was forced to eat the hard coarse straw. How he longed for some green grass and a nice cool drink! After many hours the train stopped and the box was taken out; then it was put into a van and taken to a big shop in a town. There, with poor Brer Rabbit still in it, the box was put into a dark cellar. After a long time a man came to the box and took off the lid; then he took out the chair. "I am lost now," said Brer Rabbit, "for surely this is a two-footed animal come to gobble me up." So he huddled himself up in the corner, but it was so dark in the cellar that the man never saw him, and he took the chair away, and left Brer Rabbit all alone, and _the lid off the box_. "Now," said Brer Rabbit, "I am at least free of this box, but I will just wait awhile before I pop out in case any one should come in and see me." So he waited till all was quiet, and then popped out of his prison. Oh, how weak and ill he did feel! He could scarcely hop round the floor. He looked all over for something to eat, and found some crumbs, but no water to drink. So Brer Rabbit stayed there all that night and the next day, until he was almost dead and had lost count of time. * * * * * "O sir," said Bob, the errand boy, to his master, "there is a great big rat in the cellar. I have never seen such a big one before, and I am almost afraid of it." "I will come and see," said the master. And off he went with Bob to the cellar. Bob opened the door very gently and peeped in. "It is still there," said he. "Let _me_ look," exclaimed the master, and he too peeped in at the door. "Why," he said, "that is not a rat; it is a _wild rabbit_." Bob's eyes nearly dropped out with surprise. And no wonder, for here was poor Brer Rabbit sitting in the corner, too weak and ill to run away. "Now," he thought, "I must surely die, for I am caught at last." [Illustration] But Bob's master was a kind man, and he loved animals very much. He took Brer Rabbit up in his arms, and gave him some milk to drink and biscuits to eat, and then put him into a warm basket, and took him home for his little girls and boys to look at. That same day they took Brer Rabbit away into the country, and put him down in a lovely green field, and gave him his freedom. And this was the end of Brer Rabbit's adventure. After many long days he found his wife and family again, and when he had told them all about it, he said,-- "I shall never, never again want to see the world." _The Greedy Lamb._ "=Have= you ever seen a pet lamb?" said Bobs to his mother one day. Bobs was a little boy who was always asking questions; and if he could only get his mother to tell him a story, he was quite content. He would sit so still that he scarcely so much as winked. "Yes," answered his mother; "I had a pet lamb for my very own when I was a little girl." "Oh, do tell me all about it," cried Bobs. "Was it very tiny?" [Illustration] So Bobs and his mother sat down in a chair by the fire, and she began,-- "A long, long time ago, when I was quite a little girl, I had a great longing to have a pet lamb. "My father owned a farm, and although I had lots of other pets, I was not content, and still wanted a lamb for my own. "'Very well,' said my father, 'you may have a pet lamb, but I am sure you will get tired of it and never want another.' [Illustration] "But I did not believe what father said, for I thought nothing could be so nice as a little woolly lamb. "One day we went for a picnic to a lovely valley where a beautiful waterfall leaped and dimpled in the sunlight, and then fell down, down, down hundreds of feet into the river below. "Father and I were standing on a rock watching this waterfall and thinking how lovely it looked, when, all at once, I saw something that made me jump. "'Look, look, father!' I cried; 'there is something lying in the pool below. What can it be?' "'Why, I do believe it is a sheep,' said father. 'You stay just there, and I will go nearer and see.' "'O father, it _is_ a sheep,' I cried, 'and there is its little lamb.' And I pointed to a ledge of rock where a tiny lamb was standing nibbling at some green leaves on a tree that grew by the water-side. "Every few moments it bleated most piteously, and looked all round for its mother. "But never again would it hear her bleat, for there, in the deep pool at the foot of the waterfall, she was lying drowned. "'O father,' I cried in great distress, 'what if the poor lamb should fall in too?' "But father had gone to try to save it. "Down, down he went, slipping and sliding on the wet rocks. "At last he reached the lamb, and, putting it on his shoulder, he began to climb up the steep rocks to a place of safety. "After much hard and dangerous climbing, he came back to me and said,-- "'Now, my little girl, you have got your wish at last, for here is a lamb, and you must take care of it until it is old enough to look after itself.' "How pleased I was, although I felt very sad when I thought of the poor sheep that had fallen into the water and lost its life. "Well, we took the lamb home, and very soon it got to know me quite well. "It would come running to me as soon as I called, and would drink milk out of a bottle in a very funny way. [Illustration] "But oh, it _was_ a mischief; and Jane, the kitchen maid, used to be very angry when it came trotting into her kitchen on wet days and dirtied the floor with its feet. "One day Jane had made the chickens' food all ready, and put it in a pail, and placed it outside the door to cool. "The chickens were all waiting for their meal and feeling very hungry. Jane went to the door for the food, and to her surprise and horror she found the pail upset and not a bit of food left. [Illustration] "'Bother that lamb!' cried Jane. 'It has gone and eaten up all the chickens' food.' "And just then we saw the lamb trotting off to the field quite content. "At last it grew to be a very big sheep--too big to come trotting into the farm kitchen, for it was so strong and bumped against Jane so much that she would often chase it out with a broom. "Then father said it must go into the field and stay there for good. [Illustration] "'I am glad,' said Jane, when she heard about it; 'I hope we shall never have another pet lamb.' "But I did not think so, for I loved it very much. "Long afterwards, when I went to the field, it would come running to me when I called. "So that was how I got my pet lamb," said Bobs's mother. "How lovely it must have been!" said Bobs. "I wish _I_ lived in the country." [Illustration] _The Sparrow Hawks._ "=George=, George! Where are you?" called Frank as he went through the wood. "I am here," answered George. "Where? I can't see you," shouted Frank at the top of his voice. "I am here, up a tree," said George. "Whatever are you doing there?" said Frank as he spied George's fat legs through the branches of a tree. "I shall be down in a minute," said George, "and I will tell you." Presently George came scrambling down so quickly that Frank thought he would be sure to fall. [Illustration] But George was not afraid of this, for had he not been used to climbing trees all his life? But then, you see, George lived in the country, and Frank had only come to stay with him for his summer holiday. And what a surprise this holiday was to Frank, who lived in a town where he could not see the green fields nor hear the birds sing! [Illustration] "Frank," said George in a whisper, "there is a hawk's nest up that tree." "Did you see it?" asked Frank. "Yes," answered George, "but I could not get close to it; I must try again to-morrow." The next day being fine, George and Frank hurried to the wood. They soon came to the tree where the nest was, and George began to climb. Up, up, he went, higher and higher, until Frank could not see him any more, for it was a very high tree. "I have found it," shouted George, "and there are young ones in it." "Oh! do bring one down," called Frank. "I _should_ like to see it." "I will try," answered George, "but they are very savage." However, George managed to get hold of one of the young hawks, and he started to come down the tree once more. It was not so easy to climb down this time, and he had many scratches and bruises before he reached the ground again. "Look!" said George; "this is a young hawk." And he held it out for Frank to see. It was very pretty but very angry, and it had given George some hard pecks, so that his fingers were bleeding. Well, George and Frank took the young hawk home and put it into a cage. Now, I think these two boys were very cruel to rob the nest; but if you read the rest of this story you will see what happened. The next day Frank said to George, "I wish I had another hawk to take home to my brother Fred. He would be _so_ pleased." So, sad to say, George climbed the tree again, and took out of the nest another bird, and they put it into the cage beside its mate. The next week Frank went back to town, for he had spent a long holiday, and it was now time to go back to school. What must have been the feelings of the poor hawks when they found themselves shut up in a cage and taken away in the train to a smoky town? Fred was delighted when he saw them, although he was rather afraid to go near them, for they ruffled their feathers and looked so angry if any one attempted to touch them. [Illustration] So the poor birds were put in an outhouse, and given raw meat to eat, and very miserable they looked. After a few days Frank began to wish that he had never asked George to take them from their nest. You see, after Fred had seen them there was no more fun, and Frank thought that they might die if they were shut up for a long time in a cage. "Fred," said Frank, "what do _you_ think we should do with these birds?" "Well," said Fred, "I think we ought to take them into the country and set them free again." "Hurrah!" shouted Frank; "that is just what I was thinking. Let us do it now." So Frank and Fred covered up the cage, and off they went. I think the sparrow hawks must have been saying to each other, "Oh dear me! What are they going to do with us now?" After a very, very long walk the two boys came to the green fields. They were very tired and hot and dusty, so Frank said, "Oh, let us open the cage now, for I cannot go any further." [Illustration] But Fred answered, "There is a wood not far away. Let us go there, and then the birds will feel more at home." So they went on until they came to the wood. Frank took the cover off the cage, and Fred opened the door. The hawks looked out for a few seconds, and then made one dash for liberty. They mounted higher and higher, and then soared away out of sight. Frank looked at Fred, and Fred looked at Frank, and then both together they said,-- "I am glad they are free." "I wonder where they will go," said Fred. [Illustration] But they never knew, for the birds were never seen again. Frank and Fred were two happy boys as they trudged back to town again. Never, never again will they keep a hawk in prison, or indeed any other free and happy bird of the woods. _Jacko._ "=Oh=, look, look!" cried Tony; "here are some real live bears." "Where?" said Elsie, as she came running round the corner. "Oh, what funny-looking things they are!" It was a fine day in June, and Tony and Elsie had come with their mother to see all the animals at the Zoo. And what a jolly time they were having! When they had paid their money and passed through the turnstile, the first thing they saw was a strange-looking bird perched on a branch beside a seat where one of the keepers was sitting. [Illustration] "_That_ is not a real bird," said Tony. "It is only put there to make fun of people." Just then it turned its head right round and stared steadily at Tony. "Why, it _is_ real!" said Tony in surprise. "What a funny-looking bird!" "It is an owl," said the keeper, "and there are a lot more in the cages there." So Tony and Elsie went on and saw the rest of the owls. Next, they came to the parrot house. Oh! what screeching and screaming there was! "Hullo!" said a voice so close to Elsie that it made her jump. "It is only a parrot," said Tony, laughing; "he _can_ talk." There were parrots outside too, swinging on perches, and they looked very beautiful in the sunlight. Then Tony, Elsie, and mother went on and on and saw all kinds of animals. They had a ride on an elephant, and when it was time to get off, mother was standing with a bag of buns in her hand, and before she could speak Jumbo had put out his trunk and taken one. What a surprise she got! [Illustration] Inside the elephant house was another Jumbo, and when they told him to dance he went round and round in his cage in the most comical manner. Then he opened his mouth wide for Tony to throw a bun into it. Well, well, what heaps of things there were to see! At last Tony and Elsie came to the bears. And there, sitting in a cage, was a lovely brown bear. "Oh, isn't he a darling?" said Elsie. "Yes," answered Tony. "Let us give him something to eat." So he threw a piece of bun to him, and he caught it in his paw. Then mother said, "Sit up, then;" and greatly to their surprise the bear sat up on his hind legs and begged. "Now," said Elsie, "I should like to see the monkeys." "Come on, then," cried Tony; "I'll race you." And away they ran. Just inside the door of the monkey house was a great big monkey sitting all alone in his cage. "Ugh!" said Elsie; "isn't he ugly?" And what do you think happened? Up got the monkey, and picking up a handful of gravel, threw it at Elsie. You see the monkey did not like being called names, and was very much hurt. Well, there were all kinds of monkeys--big monkeys and little monkeys--running and climbing about their cages. Tony gave them nuts and pieces of carrot, and one sly old monkey took his share and hid it in a corner under the straw. "I do wish I had a monkey, all for my very own," said Tony, as they went home that day. "Do you?" asked Elsie. "I do not think _I_ should like one." The next day Tony and Elsie had been playing in the garden, and as they were coming into the house Tony spied a queer-looking bundle in the corner of the door-way. "What is this?" he said. "Look, Elsie; why, I do declare it is a _monkey_." "A monkey!" exclaimed Elsie. "Yes," said Tony. "Poor little thing, how he does shake!" "Mother, mother!" they both called out, "come and see this monkey!" "Why, Tony," said mother, "you have got your wish. Here is a monkey come to you. But let us take him inside." So Tony picked the monkey up in his arms and took him into the house. They found the poor little thing was suffering from a wounded foot, and when they had bathed and dressed it they gave it some food. Just then father came in, and when he saw the monkey he said,-- "Hullo! what have you got here? A monkey!" "O father!" said Tony and Elsie together. "One at a time," said father. So Elsie told the story whilst father listened. "Well," said father, "I think I know where this poor little monkey has come from." "As I came through the village I saw a man looking for a monkey. He told me it had run away from him, and he could not afford to lose it, as it earned a lot of money by doing tricks." [Illustration] "Well," said Tony, "the man must have been very cruel to it, for it is very thin and tired." "O father, _don't_ send it back," said Elsie. "But I thought _you_ did not like monkeys," said father. "Yes, yes, I do," replied Elsie; "I like this one very much." "Then," said father, "I shall ask the man if we may buy him." The next day the man was sent for, and he willingly sold the monkey to father. "For," he said, "Jacko will never do much good now." So Jacko was tenderly cared for and fed, and very soon his foot got all better, and he began to grow fat. [Illustration] He was very kind to the children, and would play with them, but sometimes he was very mischievous. One day, when the maid was washing, she went into the garden and found the clothes all lying about on the grass. "Dear me," she said, "I cannot have hung them up right." So she pinned them up again, and went into the house. Presently, out she came once more, and what was her surprise to find the clothes all down again! The maid said, "I will put them up again, and this time I will watch." So she pinned the clothes up again, and hid behind the door. Presently, along the garden wall came Jacko. Away he ran along the clothes-line, picking out all the pegs as he went, and down dropped the clothes upon the grass. "Oh, you villain!" cried the maid; "take that!" And she threw a bowl of water at Jacko. But Jacko only made a face at her as he scampered away. So Jacko had recovered his spirits, and was very happy. Let us hope he will live for many, many years. _The Horse that went to Church._ =Maggie= and May had a dear old horse which was a great pet, and its name was Bobbie. [Illustration] Now Bobbie was very, very wise, and if I were to tell you all the funny things he did, why, I should fill this book so that there would not be room for anything else. Of course, these two little girls lived in the country; for boys and girls who live in towns very seldom have a horse to play with. [Illustration] It was harvest time, and the reapers were very busy cutting down the golden corn and binding it into sheaves. Have you ever been in a harvest field on a summer afternoon? I can tell you it is delightful, and those of you who have not been there have missed something very nice indeed. Now every afternoon there was great running to and fro in the farm kitchen, for Mollie, the cook, was putting into a basket tea, and bread and butter, and scones, and all sorts of good things for Maggie and May to take to the workers in the harvest field. At four o'clock the stable boy opened the stable door, and out trotted Bobbie, saddled; for he, too, was going to the harvest field. Maggie would ride upon his back, and May would carry the basket; and when the workers saw them coming they would all sit down in a corner of the field waiting to have tea. [Illustration] Bobbie knew the road to the field quite well, but, sad to say, he was very lazy, and would not hurry at all. Then Maggie would drive him close to the hedge, and pretend she was getting a stick to whip him with. When she did this he began to trot, and never stopped until he came to the gate in the field. When tea was over, and all the things were gathered into the basket again, these two little girls would both get on Bobbie's back, one behind the other; and he galloped off, for he was thinking to himself, "Now I am going back to my stable and to a good feed of hay." When all the corn was gathered in and sent away to be made into flour, Maggie and May went back to school. Bobbie went with them every day, for it was too far away for little girls to walk. They would both jump upon his back, and with a "Gee-up, Bobbie," off he trotted. [Illustration] Every Sunday Bobbie went to church. I do not mean that he went into church, for I am afraid the seat would not have held him, and he would have looked rather funny. As soon as the first bell rang, the stable boy harnessed him to the trap, and round trotted Bobbie to the door of the house. When the second bell began to ring Maggie and May got into the dogcart and drove off to church. When they got there Bobbie was put into a stable not far away until the service was over. Now one Sunday morning these two little girls could not go to church, so that Bobbie was not harnessed as usual. When the first bell began to ring Maggie said to May, "Listen, May; I think I hear Bobbie crying for us. Let us look out of the window." There, with his head looking over the stable door, was Bobbie, whinnying as loudly as he could. "Look, look!" cried May; "he is trying to get out." Just then Bobbie gave a great jump over the door, and was trotting off to church. He went straight to his stall in the stable, and remained there until the service was over; and when the other horses backed out, Bobbie did the same, and came home, no doubt feeling that he had done his duty. _The Weasel and the Rabbit._ =Freda= and Max were having a holiday in a lovely country town. Every day they went for a walk, sometimes climbing hills, and at other times going down by the river. One morning Uncle Jim said,-- "Let us all go down to Hope's Farm and see the farmer, and I may just fish a little in the river before coming home." "Hurrah! hurrah!" cried Freda and Max together. "I should love to see you catch a fish." So off they went. There were Freda and Max, Uncle Jim, and father and mother--quite a jolly party. It was a lovely morning, and the banks at the sides of the road were clad with all kinds of flowers. Freda and Max gathered big bunches, and Don, the sheep-dog, kept poking his nose into every rabbit hole he came to. Sometimes he got so far down the hole that only his hind legs were sticking out. Don was very anxious to catch a rabbit, and sometimes he sat outside poor bunny's house for quite a long time, with his ears pricked up and his head on one side, listening. He _did_ catch a rabbit once, but I will tell you about that some other time. [Illustration] Well, after Freda and Max and all the others had walked for some miles, they came to the farm. It stood at the foot of a high hill, and quite near to the river. Max said how jolly it would be to jump out of bed in the mornings and fish for trout for breakfast. Uncle Jim saw the farmer, who gave each of them a glass of milk to drink. It was fresh from the cow and still warm. They all sat down on the grass before the house to drink it. The sun was shining, and the birds were singing, and Freda said it would be lovely to sit there for ever and ever. Max said _he_ did not think so. He wanted to go fishing some day like Uncle Jim. But Freda said, "Of course, Max is only a boy." I am afraid these two children would have begun to quarrel there and then, had not Uncle Jim cried out,-- "Look! look! there are some trout jumping out of the water." And it was quite true. The river was sparkling in the sunshine, and the trout were leaping out of it high into the air to catch the flies for food. Suddenly, it seemed as if the whole world had stopped moving. The birds ceased their singing, and all was silent. They all sat and looked, and presently, away at the other side of the broad river, near the edge of the wood, a rabbit came hopping along as though in great pain. They all watched until it disappeared into the wood. [Illustration] "What is the matter with the poor rabbit?" said Max. "Hush!" said Uncle Jim. "See what is coming now." And there, creeping along swiftly and silently, in the very track of the poor rabbit, was a large weasel. They all watched it with bated breath. Nearer and nearer the weasel got to the place where the rabbit had fled, and presently it, too, went out of sight. "Oh! I do hope poor bunny is safe now," cried Freda. But alas, just then a loud scream rang through the wood, and they knew then that at last the weasel had caught the rabbit. Uncle Jim then waded across the river, and went into the wood to see if he could find the weasel, but he came back without being able to do so. "But how could a small weasel kill a large rabbit?" asked Max. "Well, you see," said Uncle Jim, "when a weasel hunts a rabbit, the rabbit is so much afraid that it loses all its strength, so that it is unable to run fast and get to a place of safety." "Then the weasel very soon catches the rabbit and kills it." "I hate weasels," said Freda. "So do I," said Max. "Oh, well, you see," said Uncle Jim, "the weasel must get food; and I know some little people who are very fond of rabbit pie." _The Saucy Squirrels._ "=Do= tell me a true story, auntie," said Maggie one evening. [Illustration] "Very well," answered auntie. "It is just half an hour before bed-time. Now what shall I tell you?" "It must be a true story," said Maggie, "because, you know, we agreed that bed-time stories must be true. Do you know anything about squirrels?" "Yes, I do," answered auntie, "and I will tell you about them. "One day, not very long ago, Auntie Jessie and I went for a walk in Regent's Park. "Now you may remember that this park is quite near to the Zoo, and as you walk along you can hear the roaring of the lions and the shrieking of the different animals in their cages not far away. "It was a beautiful spring day, and Auntie Jessie and I were sauntering along one of the walks, when suddenly she said,-- "'Look, look! there is one of the squirrels out of the Zoo! It must have escaped.' "And there, sitting in the middle of the path before us was a lovely gray squirrel, with its bushy tail curled up its back. "'Ah, how pretty it is,' I cried. 'See, it is not a bit afraid!' "Auntie Jessie threw some biscuit to it, and it came close up to us. [Illustration] "'Why,' I cried, 'I do believe there are some more coming to us.' "And down the trees they came, helter-skelter, along the grass as fast as they could. "'Well,' said Auntie Jessie, 'I had no idea there were squirrels here.' "'Nor I,' I said. 'Let us go and buy some nuts and buns for them to eat.' "'Yes, do,' said Auntie Jessie, and off we went. "We came back in a very short time, and when the squirrels saw us they came scampering along once more. "I stood with my back to the railings, and one bold little squirrel climbed up my back. Then it ran along my arm as I held it out, and took nuts out of my hand. "Then some would climb up my dress, and when I looked up I saw one saucy little squirrel sitting on Auntie Jessie's shoulder. [Illustration] "Another one who was not very hungry took a nut and ran along the grass, scratched away some leaves with his foot, made a little hole, dropped the nut inside, covered it all up again with the earth and leaves, and then came back for more. "Oh, he was a funny little fellow! You see that was his cupboard, and he kept all his food there until he was hungry enough to eat it." "How pretty they must have been!" said Maggie. [Illustration] "Yes, they were indeed," answered auntie, "and some day I shall take you there, and you can then feed them yourself. "After we had fed the squirrels, it was time for us to come home. As we were coming along the lane I found something awfully nice. Can you guess what it was?" "A purse," answered Maggie. "Wrong," said auntie. "Try again." "A bracelet." "Wrong again," said auntie. "I will tell you. "Just as Auntie Jessie and I were coming past the orchard we spied a black-looking object in the path before us. As we got nearer to it we found it was a tiny young blackbird. It had flown down from its nest in the tree, and now it was too afraid to move. [Illustration] "I took it in my hand, and how its little heart did beat! It was very much afraid. Then I went into the orchard, and put it in a place of safety, and it fluttered away. "We had not gone very far along the road again when Auntie Jessie gave a squeal and jumped back. "Just then down dropped a young thrush from another tree. But just as I was going to pick it up it flew across the road. So I left it there, as it was quite able to take care of itself. "And now there is not time to tell you any more to-night, for it is time to go to bed." [Illustration] _The Owl in the Dovecot._ "=Father=," said Jack, when he came home from school one day, "I have had a lesson to-day about the owl." "Have you?" said Jack's father. "And what did the teacher tell you?" [Illustration] "Well," said Jack, "the teacher told us how it slept in the day time and only came out after dusk. Have you ever seen an owl, father?" "Yes I have," answered Jack's father. "Come and I will tell you about it." So Jack sat himself down on the mat before the fire, and father cleared his throat and began,-- "Once upon a time, when I was a boy like you, I had a little brother, and his name was Bob. "Now Bob and I used to play together, go to school together, go to bed together--in fact, we did nearly everything together. "Bob said one day to his mother, 'Mother, I should _love_ to have some real doves. Do, please, get me some.' "So mother said, 'Well, I will help you to get some, but you must save up all your pennies as well.' "Bob and I saved up our Saturday pennies for a long time. At last, with mother's help, we had enough to buy some doves. They _were_ pretty, all white, with rings round their necks. [Illustration] "I can remember what fun we had putting up the dovecot. We placed it against the wall of the house, and not far from our bed-room window. "Our house was in the country, and when Bob and I were in bed at night we could hear the owls hooting and crying to one another. It was a weird sound, and if Bob and I had not known what it was, I think we should have been very much afraid. But then, you know, it was only the owls' way of talking to one another. "Well, one night, a long time after Bob and I had gone to bed, we heard a very strange noise. "'Did you hear that noise, Bob?' I said. "'Yes,' said Bob. 'I wonder what it is.' "The noise still went on, so Bob said,-- "'Let's get up. I believe the noise is in the dovecot.' "So we both jumped out of bed, and got into our clothes as fast as ever we could. "Bob picked up the candle, and we ran out, and what do you think had happened? "First of all, we saw the door of the dovecot wide open. Bob had forgotten to close it for the first time. There, lying dead upon the floor, was one of our pretty doves. "By this time father and mother came rushing out to see what all the noise was about. "They brought a lantern, and we looked inside. The other doves were trying to hide in the corners, or clinging to the wire-netting in a great state of fear. [Illustration] "At last we could see a great dusky owl crouching on a box near the roof. Its feathers were all ruffled up, and its great black eyes staring at us as it kept rocking to and fro. Then it lay down on its back and pretended it was dead. "All at once it got up in a great rage, struggling, scratching, and flapping its wings to try to escape. "'Let us carry the box to the summer-house,' said Bob. "So we took the box out with the owl in it, and carried it to the summer-house, and left it there for the rest of the night. You see we wanted to see the owl in daylight. "Very, very early in the morning there came another owl to seek its mate; and when it could not find it, the bird sat upon the roof of the house and called and called again in very mournful tones for quite a long time. "The next morning Bob and I went straight to the summer-house to see our captive. "It was now quite quiet, and sat on Bob's hand letting him stroke it gently. "'What shall we do with it?' said Bob to me. "'Let us take it to the old tree in the field,' I answered. "So Bob put it down near the hollow of the tree, and it shuffled away into the darkness. "And that is the end of the story," said Jack's father. "But why did you let it go?" cried Jack. "Well, the farmer does not like people to kill owls, as they eat up the mice that do harm to his corn-fields." [Illustration] _A True Story of a Canary._ =It= was the day after New Year's Day, and we had all gathered at Uncle Jim's house to have a tea-party. When I say _we_, I mean Ethel, and Mabel, and Godfrey, and myself. Of course, Ethel's mother was there, as well as _her_ uncle and aunt, and altogether we had a lot of people. Presently, Ida came. Now Ida is Ethel's very dear friend, and she lives at the sea-side. She had to come in the train to get to our party. Uncle Jim has two canaries, and they are such dear little things. One is called Dicky and the other Fluffy. Dicky is a beautiful singer and very proud; he is always preening his feathers to make himself look nice. Fluffy cannot sing at all. She sometimes tries to imitate Dicky, and all the sound she makes is a croak. Then she looks quite ashamed of herself. These two little birds are so tame, they come out of their cages and fly about the room. They sometimes alight on the table and pick up crumbs, and Fluffy will even hop on to the edge of your plate and steal your dinner. They look very tiny when they hop about the table. Fluffy is a very greedy bird. She is always eating, and whenever she sees a loaf of bread on the table she cheeps and cheeps until she gets some crumbs. Now when Ida saw these birds she looked very sad. "Why, Ida," said Godfrey, "you look quite ready to cry. Whatever is the matter?" "Well," said Ida, "a most dreadful thing happened yesterday. A lady asked me to take care of her canary while she went away to do some shopping. I did so, and was teaching it to fly about the room like Fluffy and Dicky. "It was a very valuable bird, and she prized it greatly. "In the afternoon I thought I would let it out of its cage. It flew round the room a few times, and then to my horror it went straight into the fire. There was just a little squeak, and it was gone." The bright fire had attracted this little bird, and now Ida did not know how she would tell the owner when she came back for her pet. So this is a warning to all little boys and girls who have birds to keep--to be sure to put a guard before the fire before letting them out of their cages. THE END. +Transcriber's Notes+ 1. Typographical errors have been silently corrected. 2. Variations of spelling and hyphenation are as in the original. 3. The text version is coded for italics and the like mark-ups i.e., a) italics are indicated thus _italic_; b) small caps are indicated thus =small-caps=; c) strong/bold text is indicated thus +strong+ d) Images in the book are indicated as [Illustration] at the respective place, between paragraphs. 
37121	----	[Illustration: _Frontispiece._ LITTLE NELL AND HER GRANDFATHER.] CHARLES DICKENS' CHILDREN STORIES RE-TOLD BY HIS GRANDDAUGHTER AND OTHERS WITH TWELVE FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS PHILADELPHIA HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY TROTTY VECK AND HIS DAUGHTER MEG. "Trotty" seems a strange name for an old man, but it was given to Toby Veck because of his always going at a trot to do his errands; for he was a porter, and carried letters and messages for people who were in too great a hurry to send them by the post. He did not earn very much, and had to be out in all weathers and all day long. But Toby was of a cheerful disposition, and looked on the bright side of everything. His greatest joy was his dear daughter Meg, who loved him dearly. One cold day Toby had been trotting up and down in his usual place before the church, when the bells chimed twelve o'clock, which made Toby think of dinner. "There's nothing," he remarked, "more regular in coming round than dinner-time, and nothing less regular in coming round than dinner. That's the great difference between 'em." He went on talking to himself never noticing who was coming near to him. "Why, father, father," said a pleasant voice, and Toby turned to find his daughter's sweet, bright eyes close to his. "Why, pet," said he, kissing her, "what's-to-do? I didn't expect you to-day, Meg." "Neither did I expect to come, father," said Meg, smiling. "But here I am! And not alone, not alone!" "Why, you don't mean to say," observed Trotty, looking curiously at the covered basket she carried, "that you?----" "Smell it, father dear," said Meg; "only smell it, and guess what it is." Toby took the shortest possible sniff at the edge of the basket. "Why, it's hot," he said. But to Meg's great delight he could not guess what it was that smelt so good. At last he exclaimed in triumph, "Why, what am I a-thinking of? It's tripe!" And it was. Just as Toby was about to sit down to his dinner on the doorsteps of a big house close by, the chimes rang out again, and Toby took off his hat and said, "Amen." "Amen to the bells, father?" "They broke in like a grace, my dear," said Trotty, "they'd say a good one if they could, I'm sure. Many's the kind thing they say to me. How often have I heard them bells say, 'Toby Veck, Toby Veck, keep a good heart, Toby!' A millions times? More!" "Well, I never!" cried Meg. While Toby ate his unexpected dinner with immense relish, Meg told him how her lover Richard, a young blacksmith, had brought his dinner to share with her, and had begged her to marry him on New Year's Day, "the best and happiest day of the whole year." "So," went on Meg, "I wanted to make this a sort of holiday to you, as well as a dear and happy day to me, father, and I made a little treat and brought it to surprise you." Just then, Richard himself came up to persuade Toby to agree to their plan; and almost at the same moment, a footman came out of the house and ordered them all off the steps, and some gentleman came out who called up Trotty, and gave him a letter to carry. Toby trotted off to a very grand house, where he was told to take the letter in to the gentleman. While he was waiting, he heard the letter read. It was from Alderman Cute, to tell Sir Joseph Bowley that one of his tenants named Will Fern who had come to London to try and get work, had been brought before him charged with sleeping in a shed, and asking if Sir Joseph wished him to be dealt leniently with or otherwise. To Toby's great disappointment the answer was given that Will Fern might be sent to prison as a vagabond, though his only fault was poverty. On his way home, Toby ran against a man dressed like a countryman, carrying a fair-haired little girl. The man asked him the way to Alderman Cute's house. "It's impossible," cried Toby, "that your name is Will Fern?" "That's my name," said the man. Thereupon Toby told him what he had just heard, and said "Don't go there." [Illustration: TROTTY VECK'S DINNER. TOBY TOOK A SNIFF AT THE EDGE OF THE BASKET.] Poor Will told him how he could not make a living in the country, and had come to London with his orphan niece to try and find a friend of her mother's and to endeavor to get some work, and wishing Toby a happy New Year, was about to trudge wearily off again, when Trotty caught his hand saying-- "Stay! The New Year never can be happy to me if I see the child and you go wandering away without a shelter for your heads. Come home with me. I'm a poor man, living in a poor place, but I can give you lodging for one night and never miss it," and lifting up the pretty little one, he trotted towards home, and rushing in, he set the child down before his daughter. The little girl ran into her arms at once, while Trotty ran round the room, saying, "Here we are and here we go. Here, Uncle Will, come to the fire. Meg, my precious darling, where's the kettle? Here it is and here it goes, and it'll bile in no time!" "Why, father!" said Meg, "you're crazy to-night, I think. Poor little feet, how cold they are!" "Oh, they're warmer now!" exclaimed the child. "They're quite warm now!" "No, no, no," said Meg. "We haven't rubbed 'em half enough. And when they're done, we'll brush out the damp hair; and we'll bring some color to the poor pale face with fresh water; and then we'll be so gay and brisk and happy!" The child sobbing, clasped her round the neck, saying, "O Meg, O dear Meg!" "Good gracious me!" said Meg, presently, "father's crazy! He's put the dear child's bonnet on the kettle, and hung the lid behind the door!" Trotty hastily repaired this mistake, and went off to find some tea and a rasher of bacon he fancied "he had seen lying somewhere on the stairs." He soon came back and made the tea, and before long they were all enjoying the meal. After tea Meg took Lilian to bed, and Toby showed Will Fern where he was to sleep. Then he went to sit by the fire and read his paper, and fell asleep, to have a wonderful dream so terrible and sad, that it was a great relief when he woke to find Meg sitting near him, putting some ribbons on her simple gown for her wedding, and looking so happy and young and blooming, that he jumped up to clasp her in his arms. But somebody came rushing in between them, crying,--"No! Not even you. The first kiss of Meg in the New Year is mine. Meg, my precious prize, a happy year! A life of happy years, my darling wife!" Then in came Lilian and Will Fern, and a band of music with a flock of neighbors burst into the room, shouting, "A Happy New Year, Meg." "A happy wedding!" "Many of 'em," and the Drum stepped forward and said-- "Trotty Veck, it's got about that your daughter is to be married to-morrow. And there ain't a soul that knows you both that don't wish you both all the happiness the New Year can bring. And here we are, to play it in and dance it in accordingly." Then Mrs. Chickenstalker came in (a good-humored, comely woman, who, to the delight of all, turned out to be the friend of Lilian's mother for whom Will Fern had come to look), to wish Meg joy, and then the music struck up, and Trotty, making Meg and Richard second couple, led off Mrs. Chickenstalker down the dance, and danced it in a step unknown before or since, founded on his own peculiar trot. TINY TIM. There was once a man who did not like Christmas. His name was Scrooge, and he was a hard sour-tempered man of business, intent only on saving and making money, and caring nothing for anyone. He paid the poor, hard-working clerk in his office as little as he could possibly get the work done for, and lived on as little as possible himself, alone, in two dismal rooms. He was never merry or comfortable, or happy, and he hated other people to be so, and that was the reason why he hated Christmas, because people will be happy at Christmas, you know, if they possibly can. Well, it was Christmas eve, a very cold and foggy one, and Mr. Scrooge, having given his poor clerk unwilling permission to spend Christmas day at home, locked up his office and went home himself in a very bad temper. After having taken some gruel as he sat over a miserable fire in his dismal room, he got into bed, and had some wonderful and disagreeable dreams, to which we will leave him, whilst we see how Tiny Tim, the son of his poor clerk, spent Christmas day. The name of this clerk was Bob Cratchet. He had a wife and five other children beside Tim, who was a weak and delicate little cripple, gentle and patient and loving, with a sweet face of his own, which no one could help looking at. It was Mr. Cratchet's delight to carry his little boy out on his shoulder to see the shops and the people; and to-day he had taken him to church for the first time. "Whatever has got your precious father, and your brother Tiny Tim!" exclaimed Mrs. Cratchet, "here's dinner all ready to be dished up. I've never known him so late on Christmas day before." "Here he is, mother!" cried Belinda, and "here he is!" cried the other children, as Mr. Cratchet came in, his long comforter hanging three feet from under his threadbare coat; for cold as it was the poor clerk had no top-coat. Tiny Tim was perched on his father's shoulder. "And how did Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchet. "As good as gold and better," replied his father. "He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people in church, who saw he was a cripple, would be pleased to remember on Christmas day who it was who made the lame to walk." "Bless his sweet heart!" said the mother in a trembling voice. Dinner was waiting to be dished up. Mrs. Cratchet proudly placed a goose upon the table. Belinda brought in the apple sauce, and Peter the mashed potatoes; the other children set chairs, Tim's as usual close to his father's; and Tim was so excited that he rapped the table with his knife, and carried "Hurrah." After the goose came the pudding, all ablaze, with its sprig of holly in the middle, and was eaten to the last morsel; then apples and oranges were set upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the fire, and Mr. Cratchet served round some hot sweet stuff out of a jug as they closed round the fire, and said, "A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears, God bless us." "God bless us, every one," echoed Tiny Tim, and then they drank each other's health, and Mr. Scrooge's health, and told stories and sang songs. [Illustration: TINY TIM. TINY TIM WAS PERCHED ON HIS FATHER'S SHOULDER.] Now in one of Mr. Scrooge's dreams on Christmas eve a Christmas spirit showed him his clerk's home; he saw them all, heard them drink his health, and he took special note of Tiny Tim himself. How Mr. Scrooge spent Christmas day we do not know; but on Christmas night he had more dreams, and the spirit took him again to his clerk's poor home. Upstairs, the father, with his face hidden in his hands, sat beside a little bed, on which lay a tiny figure, white and still. "Tiny Tim died because his father was too poor to give him what was necessary to make him well; _you_ kept him poor," said the dream-spirit to Mr. Scrooge. The father kissed the cold, little face on the bed, and went down-stairs, where the sprays of holly still remained about the humble room; and taking his hat, went out, with a wistful glance at the little crutch in the corner as he shut the door. Mr. Scrooge saw all this, but, wonderful to relate, he woke the next morning feeling as he had never felt in his life before. "Why, I am as light as a feather, and as happy as an angel, and as merry as a schoolboy," he said to himself. "I hope everybody had a merry Christmas, and here's a happy New Year to all the world." Poor Bob Cratchet crept into the office a few minutes late, expecting to be scolded for it, but his master was there with his back to a good fire, and actually smiling, and he shook hands with his clerk, telling him heartily he was going to raise his salary, and asking quite affectionately after Tiny Tim! "And mind you make up a good fire in your room before you set to work, Bob," he said, as he closed his own door. Bob could hardly believe his eyes and ears, but it was all true. Such doings as they had on New Year's day had never been seen before in the Cratchet's home, nor such a turkey as Mr. Scrooge sent them for dinner. Tiny Tim had his share too, for Tiny Tim did not die, not a bit of it. Mr. Scrooge was a second father to him from that day, he wanted for nothing, and grew up strong and hearty. Mr. Scrooge loved him, and well he might, for was it not Tiny Tim who had unconsciously, through the Christmas dream-spirit, touched his hard heart, and caused him to become a good and happy man? LITTLE DOMBEY. Little Dombey was the son of a rich city merchant, a cold, stern, and pompous man, whose life and interests were entirely absorbed in his business. He was so desirous of having a son to associate with himself in the business, and make the house once more Dombey & Son in fact, as it was in name, that the little boy who was at last born to him was eagerly welcomed. There was a pretty little girl six years old, but her father had taken little notice of her. Of what use was a girl to Dombey & Son? She could not go into the business. Little Dombey's mother died when he was born, but the event did not greatly disturb Mr. Dombey; and since his son lived, what did it matter to him that his little daughter Florence was breaking her heart in loneliness for the mother who had loved and cherished her! During the first few months of his life, little Dombey grew and flourished; and as soon as he was old enough to take notice, there was no one he loved so well as his sister Florence. In due time the baby was taken to church, and baptized by the name of Paul (his father's name). A grand and stately christening it was, followed by a grand and stately feast; and little Paul was declared by his godmother to be "an angel, and the perfect picture of his own papa." But from that time Paul seemed to waste and pine; his healthy and thriving babyhood had received a check, and as for illnesses, "There never was a blessed dear so put upon," his nurse said. By the time he was five years old, though he had the prettiest, sweetest little face in the world, there was always a patient, wistful look upon it, and he was thin and tiny and delicate. He soon got tired, and had such old-fashioned ways of speaking and doing things, that his nurse often shook her head sadly over him. When he sat in his little arm-chair with his father, after dinner, they were a strange pair,--so like, and so unlike each other. "What is money, papa?" asked Paul on one of these occasions, crossing his tiny arms as well as he could--just as his father's were crossed. "Why, gold, silver and copper; you know what it is well enough, Paul," answered his father. "Oh yes; I mean, what can money do?" "Anything, everything--almost," replied Mr. Dombey, taking one of his son's wee hands. Paul drew his hand gently away. "It didn't save me my mamma, and it can't make me strong and big," said he. "Why, you _are_ strong and big, as big as such little people usually are," returned Mr. Dombey. "No," replied Paul, sighing; "when Florence was as little as me, she was strong and tall, and did not get tired of playing as I do. I am so tired sometimes, papa." Mr. Dombey's anxiety was aroused, and the doctor was sent for to examine Paul. "The child is hardly so stout as we could wish," said the doctor; "his mind is too big for his body, he thinks too much--let him try sea air--sea air does wonders for children." So it was arranged that Florence, Paul, and nurse should go to Brighton, and stay in the house of a lady named Mrs. Pipchin, who kept a very select boarding-house for children. There is no doubt that, apart from his importance to the house of Dombey & Son, little Paul had crept into his father's heart, cold though it still was towards his daughter, colder than ever now, for there was in it a sort of unacknowledged jealousy of the warm love lavished on her by Paul, which he himself was unable to win. Mrs. Pipchin was a marvellously ugly old lady, with a hook nose and stern cold eyes. "Well, Master Paul, how do you think you will like me?" said Mrs. Pipchin, seeing the child intently regarding her. "I don't think I shall like you at all," replied Paul, shaking his head. "I want to go away. I do not like your house." Paul did not like Mrs. Pipchin, but he would sit in his arm-chair and look at her. Her ugliness seemed to fascinate him. As the weeks went by little Paul grew more healthy-looking, but he did not seem any stronger, and could not run about out of doors. A little carriage was therefore got for him, in which he could be wheeled down to the beach, where he would pass the greater part of the day. He took a great fancy to a queer crab-faced old man, smelling of sea-weed, who wheeled his carriage, and held long conversations with him; but Florence was the only child companion whom he ever cared to have with him, though he liked to watch other children playing in the distance. "I love you, Floy," he said one day to her. Florence laid her head against his pillow, and whispered how much stronger he was growing. "Oh, yes, I know, I am a great deal better," said Paul, "a very great deal better. Listen, Floy; what is it the sea keeps saying?" "Nothing, dear, it is only the rolling of the waves you hear." "Yes, but they are always saying something, and always the same thing. What place is over there, Floy?" She told him there was another country opposite, but Paul said he did not mean that, he meant somewhere much farther away, oh, much farther away--and often he would break off in the midst of their talk to listen to the sea and gaze out towards that country "farther away." After having lived at Brighton for a year, Paul was certainly much stronger, though still thin and delicate. And on one of his weekly visits, Mr. Dombey explained to Mrs. Pipchin, with pompous condescension, that Paul's weak health having kept him back in his studies, he had made arrangements to place him at the educational establishment of Dr. Blimber, which was close by. Florence was, for the present, to remain under Mrs. Pipchin's care, and see her brother every week. Dr. Blimber's school was a great hot-house for the forcing of boy's brains; and Dr. Blimber promised speedily to make a man of Paul. "Shall you like to be made a man of, my son?" asked Mr. Dombey. "I'd rather be a child and stay with Floy," answered Paul. Miss Blimber, the doctor's daughter, a learned lady in spectacles, was his special tutor, and from morning till night his poor little brains were forced and crammed till his head was heavy and always had a dull ache in it, and his small legs grew weak again--every day he looked a little thinner and a little paler, and became more old-fashioned than ever in his looks and ways--"old-fashioned" was a distinguishing title which clung to him. He was gentle and polite to every one--always looking out for small kindnesses which he might do to any inmate of the house. "The oddest and most old-fashioned child in the world," Dr. Blimber would say to his daughter; "but bring him on, Cornelia--bring him on." And Cornelia did bring him on; and Florence, seeing how pale and weary the little fellow looked when he came to her on Saturdays, and how he could not rest from anxiety about his lessons, would lighten his labors a little, and ease his mind by helping him to prepare his week's work. But one day, when his lessons were over, little Paul laid his weary and aching head against the knee of a schoolfellow of whom he was very fond; and the first thing he noticed when he opened his eyes was that the window was open, his face and hair were wet with water, and that Dr. Blimber and the usher were both standing looking at him. "Ah, that's well," said Dr. Blimber, as Paul opened his eyes, "and how is my little friend now?" "Oh, quite well, thank you, sir," answered Paul, but when he got up there seemed something the matter with the floor, and the walls were dancing about, and Dr. Blimber's head was twice its natural size. He was put to bed, and presently the doctor came and said he was not to do any more lessons for the present. In a few days Paul was able to get up and creep about the house. He wondered sometimes why every one looked at and spoke so very kindly to him, and was more than ever careful to do any little kindnesses he could think of for them: even the rough, ugly dog Diogenes, who lived in the yard, came in for a share of his attentions. There was a party at Dr. Blimber's on the evening before the boys went home. Paul sat in a corner of the sofa all the evening, and every one was very kind to him indeed, it was quite extraordinary, Paul thought, and he was very happy; he liked to see how pretty Florence was, and how every one admired and wished to dance with her. After resting for a night at Mrs. Pipchin's house, little Paul went home, and was carried straight upstairs to his bed. [Illustration: LITTLE PAUL AND FLORENCE. A LITTLE CARRIAGE WAS GOT FOR HIM.] He lay in his bed day after day quite happily and patiently, content to watch and talk to Florence. He would tell her his dreams, and how he always saw the sunlit ripples of a river rolling, rolling fast in front of him; sometimes he seemed to be rocking in a little boat on the water, and its motion lulled him to rest, and then he would be floating away, away to that shore farther off, which he could not see. One day he told Florence that the water was rippling brighter and faster than ever, and that he could not see anything else. "My own boy, cannot you see your poor father?" said Mr. Dombey, bending over him. "Oh yes, but don't be so sorry, dear papa. I am so happy,--good-bye, dear papa." Presently he opened his eyes again, and said, "Floy, mamma is like you, I can see her. Come close to me, Floy, and tell them," whispered the dying boy, "that the face of the picture of Christ on the staircase at school is not divine enough; the light from it is shining on me now, and the water is shining too, and rippling so fast, so fast." The evening light shone into the room, but little Paul's spirit had gone out on the rippling water, and the Divine Face was shining on him from the farther shore. THE RUNAWAY COUPLE. "Supposing a young gentleman not eight years old was to run away with a fine young woman of seven, would you consider that a queer start? That there is a start as I--the boots at the Holly-Tree Inn--have seen with my own eyes; and I cleaned the shoes they ran away in, and they was so little that I couldn't get my hand into 'em. [Illustration: THE RUNAWAY COUPLE.] "Master Harry Walmers's father, he lived at the Elms, away by Shooter's Hill, six or seven miles from London. He was uncommon proud of Master Harry, as was his only child; but he didn't spoil him neither. He was a gentleman that had a will of his own, and an eye of his own, and that would be minded. Consequently, though he made quite a companion of the fine bright boy, still he kept the command over him, and the child _was_ a child. I was under gardener there at that time I and one morning Master Harry, he comes to me and says-- "'Cobbs, how should you spell Norah, if you were asked?' and he took out his little knife and began cutting that name in print all over the fence. The next day as it might be, he stops, along with Miss Norah, where I was hoeing weeds in the gravel, and says, speaking up-- "'Cobbs, I like you! Why do I like you do you think, Cobbs? Because Norah likes you.' "'Indeed, sir,' says I. 'That's very gratifying.' "'Gratifying, Cobbs?' says Master Harry. 'It's better than a million of the brightest diamonds, to be liked by Norah. You're going away ain't you, Cobbs? Then you shall be our head gardener when we're married.' And he tucks her, in her little sky-blue mantle, under his arm, and walks away. "I was the boots at this identical Holly-Tree Inn when one summer afternoon the coach drives up, and out of the coach gets these two children. The young gentleman gets out; hands his lady out; gives the guard something for himself; says to my governor, the landlord: 'We're to stop here to-night, please. Sitting room and two bed-rooms will be required. Mutton chops and cherry pudding for two!' and tucks her under his arm, and walks into the house, much bolder than brass. "I had seen 'em without their seeing me, and I gave the governor my views of the expedition they was upon. 'Cobbs,' says the governor, 'if this is so, I must set off myself and quiet their friends' minds. In which case you must keep your eye upon 'em, and humor 'em, until I come back. But before I take these measures, Cobbs, I should wish you to find out from themselves whether your opinion is correct.' "So I goes upstairs, and there I finds Master Harry on an e-nor-mous sofa a-drying the eyes of Miss Norah with his pocket handkercher. Their little legs was entirely off the ground, of course, and it really is not possible to express how small them children looked. 'It's Cobbs! it's Cobbs!' cries Master Harry, and he comes a-runing to me, and catching hold of my hand. Miss Norah, she comes running to me on t'other side, and catching hold of my t'other hand, and they both jump for joy. And what I had took to be the case was the case. "'We're going to be married, Cobbs, at Gretna Green,' says the boy. 'We've run away on purpose. Norah has been in rather low spirits, Cobbs; but she'll be happy now we have found you to be our friend.' "'I give you my word and honor upon it that, by way of luggage the lady had got a parasol, a smelling-bottle, a round and a half of cold buttered toast, eight peppermint drops, and a doll's hair-brush. The gentleman had got about a dozen yards of string, a knife, three or four sheets of writing-paper folded up surprisingly small, a orange, and a chaney mug with his name on it. "'What may be the exact nature of your plans, sir?' says I. "'To go on,' replies the boy, 'in the morning, and be married to-morrow.' "'Just so, sir. Well, sir, if you will excuse my having the freedom to give an opinion, what I should recommend would be this. I'm acquainted with a pony, sir, which would take you and Mrs. Harry Walmers junior to the end of your journey in a very short space of time. I am not altogether sure, sir, that the pony will be at liberty to-morrow, but even if you had to wait for him it might be worth your while.' "They clapped their hands and jumped for joy, and called me 'Good Cobbs!' and 'Dear Cobbs!' and says I, 'Is there anything you want at present, sir?' "'We should like some cakes after dinner,' answers Mr. Harry, 'and two apples--and jam. With dinner we should like to have toast and water. But Norah has always been accustomed to half a glass of currant wine at dessert, and so have I.' "'They shall be ordered, sir,' I answered, and away I went; and the way in which all the women in the house went on about that boy and his bold spirit was a thing to see. They climbed up all sorts of places to get a look at him, and they peeped, seven deep, through the keyhole. "In the evening, after the governor had set off for the Elms, I went into the room to see how the run-away couple was getting on. The gentleman was on the window seat, supporting the lady in his arms. She had tears upon her face, and was lying very tired and half asleep, with her head upon his shoulder. "'Mrs. Harry Walmers junior fatigued, sir?' "'Yes, she's tired, Cobbs; she's been in low spirits again; she isn't used to being in a strange place, you see. Could you bring a Norfolk biffin, Cobbs? I think that would do her good.' "Well, I fetched the biffin, and Master Harry fed her with a spoon; but the lady being heavy with sleep and rather cross, I suggested bed, and called a chambermaid, but Master Harry must needs escort her himself, and carry the candle for her. After embracing her at her own door he retired to his room, where I softly locked him in. "They consulted me at breakfast (they had ordered sweet milk and water, and toast and currant jelly, over night) about the pony, and I told 'em that it did unfortunately happen that the pony was half clipped, but that he'd be finished clipping in the course of the day, and that to-morrow morning at eight o'clock he would be ready. My own opinion is that Mrs. Harry Walmers junior was beginning to give in. She hadn't had her hair curled when she went to bed, and she didn't seem quite up to brushing it herself, and it getting into her eyes put her out. But nothing put out Mr. Harry. He sat behind his breakfast cup tearing away at the jelly, as if he'd been his own father. "In the course of the morning, Master Harry rung the bell,--it was surprising how that there boy did carry on,--and said in a sprightly way, 'Cobbs, is there any good walks in the neighborhood?' "'Yes, sir, there's Love Lane.' "'Get out with you, Cobbs!'--that was that there mite's expression--'you're joking.' "'Begging your pardon, sir, there really is a Love Lane, and a pleasant walk it is; and proud shall I be to show it to yourself and Mrs. Harry Walmers junior.' "Well, I took him down Love Lane to the water meadows, and there Master Harry would have drowned himself in another minute a getting out a water-lily for her. But they was tired out. All being so new and strange to them, they were as tired as tired could be. And they laid down on a bank of daisies and fell asleep. "They woke up at last, and then one thing was getting pretty clear to me, namely, that Mrs. Harry Walmers junior's temper was on the move. When Master Harry took her round the waist, she said he 'teased her so'; and when he says, 'Norah, my young May moon, your Harry tease you?' she tells him, 'Yes, and I want to go home.' "A boiled fowl, and baked bread and butter pudding, brought Mrs. Walmers up a little; but I could have wished, I must privately own, to have seen her more sensible to the voice of love and less abandoning herself to the currants in the pudding. However, Master Harry, he kep' up, and his noble heart was as fond as ever. Mrs. Walmers turned very sleepy about dusk, and began to cry. Therefore, Mrs. Walmers went off to bed as per yesterday; and Master Harry ditto repeated. "About eleven at night comes back the governor in a chaise, along of Master Harry's father and a elderly lady. And Master Harry's door being unlocked by me, Master Harry's father goes in, goes up to the bedside, bends gently down, and kisses the little sleeping face. Then he stands looking at it for a moment, looking wonderfully like it; and then he gently shakes the little shoulder. 'Harry, my dear boy! Harry!' "Master Harry starts up and looks at his pa. Such is the honor of that mite, that he looks at me, too, to see whether he has brought me into trouble. "'I am not angry, my child. I only want you to dress yourself and come home.' "'Yes, Pa.' Master Harry dresses himself quick. "'Please may I--please, dear pa--may I--kiss Norah before I go?' "Master Harry's father he takes Master Harry in his hand, and I leads the way with the candle to that other bedroom where the elderly lady is seated by the bed, and poor little Mrs. Harry Walmers junior is fast asleep. There the father lifts the boy up to the pillow, and he lays his little face down for an instant by the little warm face of poor little Mrs. Harry Walmers junior, and gently draws it to him. "And that's all about it. Master Harry's father drove away in the chaise having hold of Master Harry's hand. The elderly lady Mrs. Harry Walmers junior that was never to be (she married a captain long after and went to India) went off next day." POOR JO! Jo was a crossing-sweeper; every day he swept up the mud, and begged for pennies from the people who passed. Poor Jo wasn't pretty and he wasn't clean. His clothes were only a few poor rags that hardly protected him from the cold and the rain. He had never been to school, and he could neither write nor read--could not even spell his own name. Poor Jo! He was ugly and dirty and ignorant; but he knew one thing, that it was wicked to tell a lie, and knowing this, he always told the truth. One other thing poor Jo knew too well, and that was what being hungry means. For little Jo was very poor. He lived in Tom-all-Alones, one of the most horrible places in all London. The people who live in this dreadful den are the poorest of London poor. All miserably clad, all dirty, all very hungry. They know and like Jo, for he is always willing to go on errands for them, and does them many little acts of kindness. No one in Tom-all-Alones is spoken of by his name. Thus it is that if you inquired there for a boy named Jo, you would be asked whether you meant Carrots, or the Colonel, or Gallows, or young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or Lanky, or the Brick. Jo was generally called Toughy, although a few superior persons who affected a dignified style of speaking called him "the tough subject." Jo used to say he had never had but one friend. It was one cold Winter night, when he was shivering in a door-way near his crossing, that a dark-haired, rough-bearded man turned to look at him, and then came back and began to talk to him. "Have you a friend, boy?" he asked presently. "No, never 'ad none." "Neither have I. Not one. Take this, and Good-night," and so saying the man, who looked very poor and shabby, put into Jo's hand the price of a supper and a night's lodging. Often afterwards the stranger would stop to talk with Jo, and give him money, Jo firmly believed, whenever he had any to give. When he had none, he would merely say, "I am as poor as you are to-day, Jo," and pass on. One day, Jo was fetched away from his crossing to a public-house, where the Coroner was holding an Inquest--an "Inkwich" Jo called it. "Did the boy know the deceased?" asked the Coroner. Indeed Jo had known him; it was his only friend who was dead. "He was very good to me, he was," was all poor Jo could say. The next day they buried the dead man in the churchyard hard by. But that night there came a slouching figure through the court to the iron gate. It stood looking in for a little while, then with an old broom it softly swept the step and made the archway clean. It was poor Jo; and as he went away, he softly said to himself, "He was very good to me, he was." Now, there happened to be at the Inquest a kind-hearted little man named Snagsby, and he pitied Jo so much that he gave him half-a-crown. Jo was very sad after the death of his one friend. The more so as his friend had died in great poverty and misery, with no one near him to care whether he lived or not. A few days after the funeral, while Jo was still living on Mr. Snagsby's half-crown, he was standing at his crossing as the day closed in, when a lady, closely veiled and plainly dressed, came up to him. "Are you the boy Jo who was examined at the Inquest?" she asked. "That's me," said Jo. "Come farther up the court, I want to speak to you." "Wot, about him as was dead? Did you know him?" "How dare you ask me if I knew him?" "No offence, my lady," said Jo humbly. "Listen and hold your tongue. Show me the place where he lived, then where he died, then where they buried him. Go in front of me, don't look back once, and I'll pay you well." [Illustration: JO AND THE POLICEMAN. "I'M ALWAYS A MOVING ON."] Jo takes her to each of the places she wants to see. Then she draws off her glove, and Jo sees that she has sparkling rings on her fingers. She drops a coin into his hand and is gone. Jo holds the coin to the light and sees to his joy that it is a golden sovereign. But people in Jo's position in life find it hard to change a sovereign, for who will believe that they can come by it honestly? So poor little Jo didn't get much of the sovereign for himself, for, as he afterwards told Mr. Snagsby-- "I had to pay five bob down in Tom-all-Alones before they'd square it for to give me change, and then a young man he thieved another five while I was asleep, and a boy he thieved ninepence, and the landlord he stood drains round with a lot more of it." As time went on Jo's troubles began in earnest. The police turned him away from his crossing, and wheresoever they met him ordered him "to move on." Once a policeman, angry to find that Jo hadn't moved on, seized him by the arm and dragged him down to Mr. Snagsby's. "What's the matter, constable?" asked Mr. Snagsby. "This boy's as obstinate a young gonoph as I know: although repeatedly told to, he won't move on." "I'm always amoving on," cried Jo. "Oh, my eye, where am I to move to?" "My instructions don't go to that," the constable answered; "my instructions are that you're to keep moving on. Now the simple question is, sir," turning to Mr. Snagsby, "whether you know him. He says you do." "Yes, I know him." "Very well, I leave him here; but mind you keep moving on." The constable then moved on himself, leaving Jo at Mr. Snagsby's. There was a little tea-party there that evening, and when Jo was at last allowed to go, Mr. Snagsby followed him to the door and filled his hands with the remains of the little feast they had had upstairs. And now Jo began to find life harder and rougher than ever. He lost his crossing altogether, and spent day after day in moving on. He remembered a poor woman he had once done a kindness to, who had told him she lived at St. Albans, and that a lady there had been very good to her. "Perhaps she'll be good to me," thought Jo, and he started off to go to St. Albans. One Saturday night Jo reached that town very tired and very ill. Happily for him the woman met him and took him into her cottage. While he was resting there a lady came in and asked him very kindly what was the matter. "I'm abeing froze and then burnt up, and then froze and burnt up again, ever so many times over in an hour. And my head's all sleepy, and all agoing round like, and I'm so dry, and my bones is nothing half so much bones as pain." "Where are you going?" "Somewheres," replied Jo, "I'm a-being moved on, I am." "Well, to-night you must come with me, and I'll make you comfortable." So Jo went with the lady to a great house not far off, and there they made a bed for him, and brought him tempting wholesome food. Everyone was very kind to him, but something frightened Jo, and he felt he could not stay there, and he ran out into the cold night air. Where he went he could never remember, for when he next came to his senses he found himself in a hospital. He stayed there for some weeks, and was then discharged, though still weak and ill. He was very thin, and when he drew a breath his chest was very painful. "It draws," said Jo, "as heavy as a cart." Now, a certain young doctor who was very kind to poor people, was walking through Tom-all-Alones one morning, when he saw a ragged figure coming along, crouching close to the dirty wall. It was Jo. The young doctor took pity on Jo. "Come with me," he said, "and I will find you a better place than this to stay in," for he saw that the lad was very, very ill. So Jo was taken to a clean little room, and bathed, and had clean clothes, and good food, and kind people about him once more, but he was too ill now, far too ill, for anything to do him any good. "Let me lie here quiet," said poor Jo, "and be so kind anyone as is passin' nigh where I used to sweep, as to say to Mr. Snagsby as Jo, wot he knew once, is amoving on." One day the young doctor was sitting by him, when suddenly Jo made a strong effort to get out of bed. "Stay, Jo--where now?" "It's time for me to go to that there burying-ground." "What burying-ground, Jo?" "Where they laid him as was very good to me, very good to me indeed he was. It's time for me to go down to that there burying-ground, sir, and ask to be put along of him. I wants to go there and be buried. Will you promise to have me took there and laid along with him?" "I will indeed." "Thankee, sir. There's a step there as I used to sweep with my broom. It's turned very dark, sir, is there any light coming?" "It's coming fast, Jo." Then silence for a while. "Jo, my poor fellow----!" "I can hear you, sir, in the dark." "Jo, can you say what I say?" "I'll say anything you say, sir, for I knows it's good." "Our Father." "Our Father--yes, that's very good, sir." "Which art in Heaven." "Art in Heaven. Is the light a-coming, sir?" "It's close at hand. Hallowed be Thy name." "Hallowed be Thy"-- The light had come. Oh yes! the light had come, for Jo was dead. THE LITTLE KENWIGS. Mrs. Kenwigs was the wife of an ivory turner, and though they only had a very humble home of two rooms in a dingy-looking house in a small street, they had great pretensions to being "genteel." The little Miss Kenwigs had their flaxen hair plaited into pig-tails and tied with blue ribbons, and wore little white trousers with frills round their ankles, the highest fashion of that day; besides being dressed with such elegance, the two eldest girls went twice a week to a dancing school. Mrs. Kenwigs, too, had an uncle who collected the water rate, and she was therefore considered a person of great distinction, with quite the manners of a lady. On the eighth anniversary of their wedding day, Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs invited a party of friends to supper to celebrate the occasion. The four eldest children were to be allowed to sit up to supper, and the uncle, Mr. Lillyvick, had promised to come. The baby was put to bed in a little room lent by one of the lady guests, and a little girl hired to watch him. All the company had assembled when a ring was heard, and Morleena, whose name had been _invented by Mrs. Kenwigs_ specially for her, ran down to open the door and lead in her distinguished great-uncle, then the supper was brought in. The table was cleared; Mr. Lillyvick established in the arm-chair by the fireside; the four little girls arranged on a small form in front of the company with their flaxen tails towards them; Mrs. Kenwigs was suddenly dissolved in tears and sobbed out-- "They are so beautiful!" "Oh, dear," said all the ladies, "so they are; it's very natural you should feel proud of that; but don't give way, don't." "I can--not help it, and it don't signify," sobbed Mrs. Kenwigs: "oh! they're too beautiful to live, much too beautiful." On hearing this dismal prophecy, all four little girls screamed until their light flaxen tails vibrated again, and rushed to bury their heads in their mother's lap. At length she was soothed, and the children calmed down; while the ladies and gentlemen all said they were sure they would live for many many years, and there was no occasion for their mother's distress: and as the children were not so remarkably lovely, this was quite true. Then Mr. Lillyvick talked to the company about his niece's marriage, and said graciously that he had always found Mr. Kenwigs a very honest, well-behaved, upright, and respectable sort of man, and shook hands with him, and then Morleena and her sisters kissed their uncle and most of the guests. Then Miss Petowker, who could sing and recite in a way that brought tears to Mrs. Kenwigs' eyes, remarked-- "Oh, dear Mrs. Kenwigs, while Mr. Noggs is making that punch to drink happy returns in, do let Morleena go through that figure dance before Mr. Lillyvick." "Well, I'll tell you what," said Mrs. Kenwigs. "Morleena shall do the steps, if uncle can persuade Miss Petowker to recite us the 'Blood-Drinker's Burial' afterwards." Everyone clapped their hands and stamped their feet at this proposal, but Miss Petowker said, "You know I dislike doing anything professional at private parties." "Oh, but not here!" said Mrs. Kenwigs. "You might as well be going through it in your own room: besides, the occasion." "I can't resist that," interrupted Miss Petowker, "anything in my humble power, I shall be delighted to do." In reality Mrs. Kenwigs and Miss Petowker had arranged all the entertainment between them beforehand, but had settled that a little pressing on each side would look more natural. Then Miss Petowker hummed a tune, and Morleena danced. It was a very beautiful figure, with a great deal of work for the arms, and gained much applause. Then Miss Petowker was entreated to begin her recitation, so she let down her back hair, and went through the performance with great spirit, and died raving mad in the arms of a bachelor friend who was to rush out and catch her at the words "in death expire," to the great delight of the audience and the terror of the little Kenwigses, who were nearly frightened into fits. Just as the punch was ready, a knock at the door startled them all. But it was only a friend of Mr. Noggs, who lived upstairs, and who had come down to say that Mr. Noggs was wanted. Mr. Noggs hurried out, saying he would be back soon, and presently startled them all by rushing in, snatching up a candle and a tumbler of hot punch, and darting out again. Now, it happened unfortunately that the tumbler of punch was the very one that Mr. Lillyvick was just going to lift to his lips, and the great man--the rich relation--who had it in his power to make Morleena and her sisters heiresses--and whom everyone was most anxious to please--was offended. Poor Mr. Kenwigs endeavored to soothe him, but only made matters worse. Mr. Lillyvick demanded his hat, and was only induced to remain by Mrs. Kenwigs' tears and the entreaties of the entire company. [Illustration: THE LITTLE KENWIGS. "THEY ARE SO BEAUTIFUL."] "There, Kenwigs," said Mr. Lillyvick, "and let me tell you, to show you how much out of temper I was, that if I had gone away without another word, it would have made no difference respecting that pound or two which I shall leave among your children when I die." "Morleena Kenwigs," cried her mother, "go down on your knees to your dear uncle, and beg him to love you all his life through; for he's more an angel than a man, and I've always said so." Just as all were happy again, everyone was startled by a rapid succession of the loudest and shrillest shrieks, apparently coming from the room where the baby was asleep. "My baby, my blessed, blessed, blessed, blessed baby! My own darling, sweet, innocent Lillyvick! Let me go-o-o-o," screamed Mrs. Kenwigs. Mr. Kenwigs rushed out, and was met at the door of the bedroom by a young man with the baby (upside down) in his arms, who came out so quickly that he knocked Mr. Kenwigs down; handing the child to his mother, he said, "Don't be alarmed, it's all out, it's all over--the little girl, being tired, I suppose, fell asleep and set her hair on fire. I heard her cries and ran up in time to prevent her setting fire to anything else. The child is not hurt: I took it off the bed myself and brought it here to convince you." After they had all talked over this last excitement, and discussed little Lillyvick's deliverer, the collector pulled out his watch and announced that it was nearly two o'clock, and as the poor children had been for some time obliged to keep their little eyes open with their little forefingers, the company took leave, declaring they had never spent such a delightful evening, and that they wished Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs had a wedding-day once a week. LITTLE DORRIT. Many years ago, when people could be put in prison for debt, a poor gentleman, who was unfortunate enough to lose all his money, was brought to the Marshalsea prison. As there seemed no prospect of being able to pay his debts, his wife and their two little children came to live there with him. The elder child was a boy of three; the younger a little girl of two years old, and not long afterwards another little girl was born. The three children played in the courtyard, and were happy, on the whole, for they were too young to remember a happier state of things. But the youngest child, who had never been outside the prison walls, was a thoughtful little creature, and wondered what the outside world could be like. Her great friend, the turnkey, who was also her godfather, became very fond of her, and as soon as she could walk and talk, he bought a little arm-chair and stood it by his fire at the lodge, and coaxed her with cheap toys to come and sit with him. One day, she was sitting in the lodge gazing wistfully up at the sky through the barred window. The turnkey, after watching her some time, said:-- "Thinking of the fields, ain't you?" "Where are they?" she asked. "Why, they're--over there, my dear," said the turnkey, waving his key vaguely, "just about there." "Does anybody open them and shut them? Are they locked?" "Well," said the turnkey, discomfited, "not in general." "Are they pretty, Bob?" She called him Bob, because he wished it. "Lovely. Full of flowers. There's buttercups, and there's daisies, and there's--" here he hesitated, not knowing the names of many flowers--"there's dandelions, and all manner of games." "Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob?" "Prime," said the turnkey. "Was father ever there?" "Hem!" coughed the turnkey. "O yes, he was there, sometimes." "Is he sorry not to be there now?" "N--not particular," said the turnkey. "Nor any of the people?" she asked, glancing at the listless crowd within. "O are you quite sure and certain, Bob?" At this point, Bob gave in and changed the subject. But after this chat, the turnkey and little Amy would go out on his free Sunday afternoons to some meadows or green lanes, and she would pick grass and flowers to bring home, while he smoked his pipe. When Amy was only eight years old, her mother died, and the poor father was more helpless and broken-down than ever, and as Fanny was a careless child, and Edward idle, the little one, who had the bravest and truest heart, was inspired by her love and unselfishness to be the little mother of the forlorn family, and struggled to get some little education for herself and her brother and sister. She went as often as she could to an evening school outside, and managed to get her brother and sister sent to a day-school at intervals, during three or four years. At thirteen, she could read and keep accounts. Once, amongst the debtors, a dancing-master came in, and as Fanny had a great desire to learn dancing, little Amy went timidly to the new prisoner, and said, "If you please, I was born here, sir." "Oh! You are the young lady, are you?" said he. "Yes, sir." "And what can I do for you?" "Nothing for me, sir, thank you; but if, while you stay here, you could be so kind as to teach my sister cheap." "My child, I'll teach her for nothing," said the dancing-master. Fanny was a very apt pupil, and the good-natured dancing-master went on giving her lessons even after his release, and Amy was so emboldened with the success of her attempt that, when a milliner came in, she went to her on her own behalf, and begged her to teach her. "I am afraid you are so weak, you see," the milliner objected. "I don't think I am weak, ma'am." "And you are so very, very little, you see," the milliner still objected. [Illustration: THE BLIND TOY MAKER.] [Illustration: LITTLE DORRIT AND MAGGIE. "SHE HAS NEVER GROWN OLDER SINCE."] "Yes, I am afraid I am very little indeed," returned the child, and began to sob, so that the milliner was touched, and took her in hand and made her a clever workwoman. But the father could not bear the idea that his children should work for their living, so they had to keep it all secret. Fanny became a dancer, and lived with a poor old uncle, who played the clarionet at the small theatre where Fanny was engaged. Amy, or little Dorrit as she was generally called, her father's name being Dorrit, earned small sums by going out to do needlework. She got Edward into a great many situations, but he was an idle, careless fellow, and always came back to be a burden and care to his poor little sister. At last she saved up enough to send him out to Canada. "God bless you, dear Tip" (his name had been shortened to Tip), "don't be too proud to come and see us when you have made your fortune," she said. But Tip only went as far as Liverpool, and appeared once more before his poor little second mother, in rags, and with no shoes. In the end, after another trial, Tip returned telling Amy, that this time he was "one of the regulars." "Oh! Don't say you are a prisoner, Tip. Don't, don't!" But he was--and Amy nearly broke her heart. So with all these cares and worries struggling bravely on, little Dorrit passed the first twenty-two years of her life. Then the son of a lady, Mrs. Clennem, to whose house Amy went to do needlework, was interested in the pale, patient little creature, and learning her history resolved to do his best to try and get her father released, and to help them all. One day when he was walking home with little Dorrit a voice was heard calling, "Little Mother, Little Mother," and a strange figure came bouncing up to them and fell down, scattering her basketful of potatoes on the ground. "Oh Maggie," said Little Dorrit, "what a clumsy child you are!" She was about eight and twenty, with large bones, large features, large hands and feet, large eyes and no hair. Little Dorrit told Mr. Clennem that Maggie was the grand-daughter of her old nurse, and that her grandmother had been very unkind to her and beat her. "When Maggie was ten years old, she had a fever, and she has never grown older since." "Ten years old," said Maggie. "But what a nice hospital! So comfortable wasn't it? Such a Ev'nly place! Such beds there is there! Such lemonades! Such oranges! Such delicious broth and wine! Such chicking! Oh, AIN'T it a delightful place to stop at!" "Then when she came out, her grandmother did not know what to do with her, and was very unkind. But after some time, Maggie tried to improve, and was very attentive and industrious, and now she can earn her own living entirely, sir!" Little Dorrit did not say who had taken pains to teach and encourage the poor half-witted creature, but Mr. Clennem guessed from the name Little Mother, and the fondness of the poor creature for Amy. Thanks to Mr. Clennem, a great change took place in the fortunes of the family, and not long after this wretched night, it was discovered that Mr. Dorrit was owner of a large property, and they became very rich. When, in his turn, Mr. Clennem became a prisoner in the Marshalsea little Dorrit came to comfort and console him, and after many changes of fortune, she became his wife, and they lived happy ever after. THE BLIND TOY-MAKER. Caleb Plummer and his blind daughter lived alone in a little cracked nutshell of a house. They were toy-makers, and their house was stuck like a toadstool on to the premises of Messrs. Gruff & Tackleton, the Toy Merchants for whom they worked,--the latter of whom was himself both Gruff and Tackleton in one. I am saying that Caleb and his blind daughter lived here. I should say Caleb did, his daughter lived in an enchanted palace, which her father's love had created for her. She did not know that the ceilings were cracked, the plaster tumbling down, and the wood work rotten; that everything was old and ugly and poverty-stricken about her and that her father was a grey-haired stooping old man, and the master for whom they worked a hard and brutal taskmaster;--oh, dear no, she fancied a pretty, cosy, compact little home full of tokens of a kind master's care, a smart, brisk, gallant-looking father, and a handsome and noble-looking Toy Merchant who was an angel of goodness. This was all Caleb's doings. When his blind daughter was a baby he had determined in his great love and pity for her, that her deprivation should be turned into a blessing, and her life as happy as he could make it. And she was happy; everything about her she saw with her father's eyes, in the rainbow-coloured light with which it was his care and pleasure to invest it. Bertha sat busily at work, making a doll's frock, whilst Caleb bent over the opposite side of the table painting a doll's house. "You were out in the rain last night in your beautiful new great-coat," said Bertha. "Yes, in my beautiful new great-coat," answered Caleb, glancing to where a roughly made garment of sack-cloth was hung up to dry. "How glad I am you bought it, father." "And of such a tailor! quite a fashionable tailor, a bright blue cloth, with bright buttons; it's a deal too good a coat for me." "Too good!" cried the blind girl, stopping to laugh and clap her hands--"as if anything was too good for my handsome father, with his smiling face, and black hair, and his straight figure." Caleb began to sing a rollicking song. "What, you are singing, are you?" growled a gruff voice, as Mr. Tackleton put his head in at the door. "_I_ can't afford to sing, I hope you can afford to work too. Hardly time for both, I should say." "You don't see how the master is winking at me," whispered Caleb in his daughter's ear--"such a joke, pretending to scold, you know." The blind girl laughed and nodded, and taking Mr. Tackleton's reluctant hand, kissed it gently. "What is the idiot doing?" grumbled the Toy Merchant, pulling his hand roughly away. "I am thanking you for the beautiful little tree," replied Bertha, bringing forward a tiny rose-tree in blossom, which Caleb had made her believe was her master's gift, though he himself had gone without a meal or two to buy it. "Here's Bedlam broke loose. What does the idiot mean?" snarled Mr. Tackleton; and giving Caleb some rough orders, he departed without the politeness of a farewell. "If you could only have seen him winking at me all the time, pretending to be so rough to escape thanking," exclaimed Caleb, when the door was shut. Now a very sad and curious thing had happened. Caleb, in his love for Bertha, had so successfully deceived her as to the real character of Mr. Tackleton, that she had fallen in love, not with her master, but with what she imagined him to be, and was happy in an innocent belief in his affection for her; but one day she accidently heard he was going to be married, and could not hide from her father the pain and bewilderment she felt at the news. "Bertha, my dear," said Caleb at length, "I have a confession to make to you; hear me kindly though I have been cruel to you." "You cruel to me!" cried Bertha, turning her sightless face towards him. "Not meaning it, my child! and I never suspected it till the other day. I have concealed things from you which would have given pain, I have invented things to please you, and have surrounded you with fancies." "But living people are not fancies, father, you cannot change them." "I have done so, my child, God forgive me! Bertha, the man who is married to-day is a hard master to us both, ugly in his looks and in his nature, and hard and heartless as he can be." "Oh heavens! how blind I have been, how could you father, and I so helpless!" Poor Caleb hung his head. "Answer me father," said Bertha. "What is my home like?" "A poor place, Bertha, a very poor and bare place! indeed as little able to keep out wind and weather as my sackcloth coat." "And the presents that I took such care of, that came at my wish, and were so dearly welcome?" Caleb did not answer. "I see, I understand," said Bertha, "and now I am looking at you, at my kind, loving compassionate father, tell me what is he like?" "An old man, my child, thin, bent, grey-haired, worn-out with hard work and sorrow, a weak, foolish, deceitful old man." The blind girl threw herself on her knees before him, and took his grey head in her arms. "It is my sight, it is my sight restored," she cried. "I have been blind, but now I see, I have never till now truly seen my father. Father, there is not a grey hair on your head that shall be forgotten in my prayers and thanks to Heaven." "My Bertha!" sobbed Caleb, "and the brisk smart father in the blue coat--he's gone, my child." "Dearest father, no, he's not gone, nothing is gone. I have been happy and contented, but I shall be happier and more contented still, now that I know what you are. I am _not_ blind, father, any longer." LITTLE NELL. The house was one of those receptacles for old and curious things, which seem to crouch in odd corners of the town; and in the old, dark, murky rooms, there lived alone together an old man and a child--his grandchild, little Nell. Solitary and monotonous as was her life, the innocent and cheerful spirit of the child found happiness in all things, and through the dim rooms of the old curiosity shop little Nell went singing, moving with gay and lightsome step. But gradually over the old man, to whom she was so tenderly attached, there stole a sad change. He became thoughtful, dejected, and wretched. He had no sleep or rest but that which he took by day in his easy chair; for every night, and all night long, he was away from home. At last a raging fever seized him, and as he lay delirious or insensible through many weeks, Nell learned that the house which sheltered them was theirs no longer; that in the future they would be very poor; that they would scarcely have bread to eat. At length the old man began to mend, but his mind was weakened. As the time drew near when they must leave the house, he made no reference to the necessity of finding other shelter. But a change came upon him one evening, as he and Nell sat silently together. "Let us speak softly, Nell," he said. "Hush! for if they knew our purpose they would say that I was mad, and take thee from me. We will not stop here another day. We will travel afoot through the fields and woods, and trust ourselves to God in the places where He dwells." The child's heart beat high with hope and confidence. To her it seemed that they might beg their way from door to door in happiness, so that they were together. When the day began to glimmer they stole out of the house, and passing into the street stood still. "Which way?" asked the child. The old man looked irresolutely and helplessly at her, and shook his head. It was plain that she was thenceforth his guide and leader. The child felt it, but had no doubts or misgivings, and putting her hand in his, led him gently away. They passed through the long, deserted streets, until these streets dwindled away, and the open country was about them. They walked all day, and slept that night at a small cottage where beds were let to travellers. The sun was setting on the second day of their journey, when, following a path which led to the town where they were to spend the night, they fell in with two travelling showmen, bound for the races at a neighboring town. They made two long days' journey with their new companions. The men were rough and strange in their ways, but they were kindly, too; and in the bewildering noise and movement of the race-course, where she tried to sell some little nosegays, Nell would have clung to them for protection, had she not learned that these men suspected that she and the old man had left their home secretly, and that they meant to take steps to have them sent back and taken care of. Separation from her grandfather was the greatest evil Nell could dread. She seized her opportunity to evade the watchfulness of the two men, and hand in hand she and the old man fled away together. That night they reached a little village in a woody hollow. The village schoolmaster, attracted by the child's sweetness and modesty, gave them a lodging for the night; nor would he let them leave him until two days more had passed. They journeyed on when the time came that they must wander forth again, by pleasant country lanes. The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful evening, when they came to a caravan drawn up by the road. It was a smart little house upon wheels, and at the door sat a stout and comfortable lady, taking tea. The tea-things were set out upon a drum, covered with a white napkin. And there, as if at the most convenient table in the world, sat this roving lady, taking her tea and enjoying the prospect. Of this stout lady Nell ventured to ask how far it was to the neighboring town. And the lady, noticing that the tired child could hardly repress a tear at hearing that eight weary miles lay still before them, not only gave them tea, but offered to take them on in the caravan. Now this lady of the caravan was the owner of a wax-work show, and her name was Mrs. Jarley. She offered Nell employment in pointing out the figures in the wax-work show to the visitors who came to see it, promising in return both board and lodging for the child and her grandfather, and some small sum of money. This offer Nell was thankful to accept, and for some time her life and that of the poor, vacant, fond old man, passed quietly and almost happily. One night Nell and her grandfather went out to walk. A terrible thunder-storm coming on, they were forced to take refuge in a small public-house where men played cards. The old man watched them with increasing interest and excitement, until his whole appearance underwent a complete change. His face was flushed and eager, his teeth set. He seized Nell's little purse, and in spite of her entreaties joined in the game, gambling with such a savage thirst for gain that the distressed and frightened child could almost better have borne to see him dead. The night was far advanced before the play came to an end, and they were forced to remain where they were until the morning. And in the night the child was awakened from her troubled sleep to find a figure in the room. It was her grandfather himself, his white face pinched and sharpened by the greediness which made his eyes unnaturally bright, counting the money of which his hands were robbing her. Evening after evening, after that night, the old man would steal away, not to return until the night was far spent, demanding, wildly, money. And at last there came an hour when the child overheard him, tempted beyond his feeble powers of resistence, undertake to find more money to feed the desperate passion which had laid hold upon his weakness by robbing Mrs. Jarley. That night the child took her grandfather by the hand and led him forth; sustained by one idea--that they were flying from disgrace and crime, and that her grandfather's preservation must depend solely upon her firmness; the old man following as though she had been an angel messenger sent to lead him where she would. They slept in the open air that night, and on the following morning some men offered to take them a long distance on their barge. These men, though they were not unkindly, drank and quarrelled among themselves, to Nell's inexpressible terror. It rained, too, heavily, and she was wet and cold. At last they reached the great city whither the barge was bound, and here they wandered up and down, being now penniless, and watched the faces of those who passed, to find among them a ray of encouragement or hope. They laid down that night, and the next night too, with nothing between them and the sky; a penny loaf was all they had had that day, and when the third morning came, it found the child much weaker, yet she made no complaint. Faint and spiritless as they were, the streets were insupportable; and the child, throughout the remainder of that hard day, compelled herself to press on, that they might reach the country. Evening was drawing on; they were dragging themselves through the last street. Seeing a traveller on foot before them, she shot on before her grandfather and began in a few faint words to implore the stranger's help. He turned his head, the child uttered a wild shriek, and fell senseless at his feet. It was the village schoolmaster who had been so kind to them before. The good man took her in his arms and carried her quickly to a little inn hard by, where she was tenderly put to bed and where a doctor arrived with all speed. The schoolmaster, as it appeared, was on his way to a new home. And when the child had recovered somewhat from her exhaustion, it was arranged that she and her grandfather should accompany him to the village whither he was bound, and that he should endeavor to find them some humble occupation by which they could subsist. It was a secluded village, lying among the quiet country scenes Nell loved. And here, her grandfather being tranquil and at rest, a great peace fell upon the spirit of the child. Often she would steal into the church, and sit down among the quiet figures carved upon the tombs. What if the spot awakened thoughts of death? It would be no pain to sleep here. For the time was drawing nearer every day when Nell was to rest indeed. She never murmured or complained, but faded like a light upon a summer's evening and died. Day after day and all day long, the old man, broken-hearted and with no love or care for anything in life, would sit beside her grave with her straw hat and the little basket she had been used to carry, waiting till she should come to him again. At last they found him lying dead upon the stone. And in the church where they had often prayed and mused and lingered, hand in hand, the child and the old man slept together. LITTLE DAVID COPPERFIELD. Little David Copperfield lived with his mother in a pretty house in the village of Blunderstone in Suffolk. His father died before David could remember anything and he had neither brothers nor sisters. He was fondly loved by his pretty young mother, and their kind, good servant Peggotty, and David was a very happy little fellow. They had very few friends, and the only relation Mrs. Copperfield talked about was an aunt of David's father, a tall and rather terrible old lady, from all accounts. One visitor, a tall dark gentleman, David did not like at all, and he was rather inclined to be jealous that his mother should be friendly with the stranger. One day Peggotty, the servant, asked David if he would like to go with her on a visit to her brother at Yarmouth. "Is your brother an agreeable man, Peggotty?" he enquired. "Oh, what an agreeable man he is!" cried Peggotty. "Then there's the sea, and the boats and ships, and the fishermen, and the beach. And 'Am to play with." Ham was her nephew. David was quite anxious to go when he heard of all these delights; but his mother, what would she do all alone? Peggotty told him his mother was going to pay a visit to some friends, and would be sure to let him go. So all was arranged, and they were to start the next day in the carrier's cart. When they arrived at Yarmouth, they found Ham waiting to meet them. He was a great strong fellow, six feet high, and took David on his back and the box under his arm to carry both to the house. David was delighted to find that this house was made of a real big black boat, with a door and windows cut in the side, and an iron funnel sticking out of the roof for a chimney. Inside, it was very cosy and clean, and David had a tiny bedroom in the stern. He was very much pleased to find a dear little girl, about his own age, to play with, and soon discovered that she and Ham were orphans, children of Mr. Peggotty's brother and sister, whose fathers had been drowned at sea, so kind Mr. Peggotty had taken them to live with him. David was very happy in this queer house, playing on the beach with Em'ly, as they called the little girl, and told her all about his happy home; and she told him how her father had been drowned at sea before she came to live with her uncle. David said he thought Mr. Peggotty must be a very good man. "Good!" said Em'ly. "If ever I was to be a lady, I'd give him a sky-blue coat with diamond buttons, nankeen trousers, a red velvet waistcoat, a cocked hat, a large gold watch, a silver pipe, and a box of money!" David was quite sorry to leave these kind people and his dear little companion, but still he was glad to think he should get back to his own dear mamma. When he reached home, however, he found a great change. His mother was married to the dark man David did not like, whose name was Mr. Murdstone, and he was a stern, hard man, who had no love for little David, and did not allow his mother to pet and indulge him as she had done before. Mr. Murdstone's sister came to live with them, and as she was even more difficult to please than her brother, and disliked boys, David's life was no longer a happy one. He had always had lessons with his mother, and as she was patient and gentle, he had enjoyed learning to read, but now he had a great many very hard lessons to do, and was so frightened and shy when Mr. and Miss Murdstone were in the room, that he did not get on at all well, and was continually in disgrace. His only pleasure was to go up into the little room at the top of the house where he had found a number of books that had belonged to his own father, and he would sit and read Robinson Crusoe, and many tales of travels and adventures. But one day he got into sad trouble over his lessons, and Mr. Murdstone was very angry, and took him away from his mother and beat him with a cane. David had never been beaten in his life before, and was so maddened by pain and rage that he bit Mr. Murdstone's hand! Now, indeed, he had done something to deserve the punishment, and Mr. Murdstone in a fury, beat him savagely, and left him sobbing and crying on the floor. David was kept locked up in his room for some days, seeing no one but Miss Murdstone, who brought him his food. At last, one night, he heard his name whispered at the key hole. "Is that you, Peggotty?" he asked, groping his way to the door. "Yes, my precious Davy. Be as soft as a mouse or the cat will hear us." David understood she meant Miss Murdstone, whose room was quite near. "How's mamma, Peggotty dear? Is she very angry with me?" he whispered. "No--not very," she said. "What is going to be done with me, dear Peggotty, do you know?" asked poor David, who had been wondering all these long, lonely days. "School--near London--" "When, Peggotty?" "To-morrow," answered Peggotty. "Shan't I see mamma?" "Yes--morning," she said, and went on to promise David she would always love him, and take the greatest care of his dear mamma, and write him every week. The next morning David saw his mother, very pale and with red eyes. He ran to her arms and begged her to forgive him. "Oh, Davy," she said, "that you should hurt anyone I love! I forgive you, Davy, but it grieves me so that you should have such bad passions in your heart. Try to be better, pray to be better." David was very unhappy that his mother should think him so wicked, and though she kissed him, and said, "I forgive you, my dear boy, God bless you," he cried so bitterly when he was on his way in the carrier's cart, that his pocket handkerchief had to be spread out on the horse's back to dry. After they had gone a little way the cart stopped, and Peggotty came running up, with a parcel of cakes and a purse for David. After giving him a good hug, she ran off. Davy found three bright shillings in the purse, and two half-crowns wrapped in paper on which was written, in his mother's hand--"For Davy. With my love." Davy shared his cakes with the carrier, who asked if Peggotty made them, and David told him yes, she did all their cooking. The carrier looked thoughtful, and then asked David if he would send a message to Peggotty from him. David agreed, and the message was "Barkis is willing." While David was waiting for the coach at Yarmouth, he wrote to Peggotty: MY DEAR PEGGOTTY,--I have come here safe. Barkis is willing. My love to mamma.--Yours affectionately." "_P. S._--He says he particularly wanted you to know _Barkis is willing_." At Yarmouth he found dinner was ordered for him, and felt very shy at having a table all to himself, and very much alarmed when the waiter told him he had seen a gentleman fall down dead, after drinking some of their beer. David said he would have some water, and was quite grateful to the waiter for drinking the ale that had been ordered for him, for fear the people of the hotel should be offended. He also helped David to eat his dinner and accepted one of his bright shillings. When they got to Salem House, as the School was called, David found that he had been sent before the holidays were over as a punishment, and was also to wear a placard on his back, on which was written--"Take care of him. He bites." This made David miserable, and he dreaded the return of the boys. Some of the boys teased David by pretending he was a dog, calling him Towser, and patting and stroking him; but, on the whole, it was not so bad as David had expected. The head boy, Steerforth, promised to take care of him, and David loved him dearly, and thought him a great hero. Steerforth took a great fancy to the pretty bright-eyed little fellow, and David became a favorite with all the boys, by telling them all he could remember of the tales he had read. One day David had a visit from Mr. Peggotty and Ham, who had brought two enormous lobsters, a huge crab, and a large canvas bag of shrimps, as they "remembered he was partial to a relish with his meals." David was proud to introduce his friend Steerforth to these kind simple friends, and told them how good Steerforth was to him, and the "relish" was much appreciated by the boys at supper that night. When he got home for the holidays David found he had a little baby brother, and his mother and Peggotty were very much pleased to see him again. Mr. and Miss Murdstone were out, and David sat with his mother and Peggotty, and told them all about his school and Steerforth, and took the little baby in his arms and nursed it lovingly. But when the Murdstones came back they showed plainly they disliked him, and thought him in the way, and scolded him, and would not allow him to touch the baby, or even to sit with Peggotty in the kitchen, so he was not sorry when the time came for him to go back to school, except for leaving his dear mamma and the baby. About two months after he had been back at school he was sent for one day and told that his dear mamma had died! The wife of the head-master was very kind and gentle to the desolate little boy, and the boys were very sorry for him. David went home the next day, and heard that the dear baby had died too. Peggotty received him with great tenderness, and told him about his mother's illness and how she had sent a loving message. "Tell my dearest boy that his mother, as she lay here, blessed him not once, but a thousand times," and she had prayed to God to protect and keep her fatherless boy. Mr. Murdstone did not take any notice of poor little David, nor had Miss Murdstone a word of kindness for the orphan. Peggotty was to leave in a month, and, to their great joy, David was allowed to go with her on a visit to Mr. Peggotty. On their way David found out that the mysterious message he had given to Peggotty meant that Barkis wanted to marry her, and Peggotty had consented. Everyone in Mr. Peggotty's cottage was pleased to see David, and did their best to comfort him. Little Em'ly was at school when he arrived, and he went out to meet her, but when he saw her coming along, her blue eyes bluer, and her bright face prettier than ever, he pretended not to know her, and was passing by, when Em'ly laughed and ran away, so of course he was obliged to run and catch her and try to kiss her, but she would not let him, saying she was not a baby now. But she was kind to him all the same, and when they spoke about the loss of his dear mother, David saw that her eyes were full of tears. During this visit Peggotty was married to Mr. Barkis, and had a nice little house of her own, and Davy spent the night before he was to return home in a little room in the roof. "Young or old, Davy dear, so long as I have this house over my head," said Peggotty, "you shall find it as if I expected you here directly every minute. I shall keep it as I used to keep your old little room, my darling, and if you was to go to China, you might think of its being kept just the same all the time you were away." David felt how good and true a friend she was, and thanked her as well as he could, for they had brought him to the gate of his home, and Peggotty had him clasped in her arms. How utterly wretched and forlorn he felt! He found he was not to go back to school any more, and wandered about sad and solitary, neglected and uncared for. Peggotty's weekly visits were his only comfort. No one took any pains with him, and he had no friends near who could help him. At last one day, after some weary months had passed, Mr. Murdstone told him he was to go to London and earn his own living. There was a place for him at Murdstone & Grinby's, a firm in the wine trade. His lodging and clothes would be provided for him by his step-father, and he would earn enough for his food and pocket money. The next day David was sent up to London with the manager, dressed in a shabby little white hat with black crape round it for his mother, a black jacket, and hard, stiff corduroy trousers, a little fellow of ten years old to fight his own battles in the world! His place, he found, was one of the lowest, with boys of no education and in quite an inferior station to himself--his duties were to wash bottles, stick on labels, and so on. David was utterly miserable at being degraded in this way, and shed bitter tears, as he feared he would forget all he had learnt at school. His lodging, one bare little room, was in the house of some people named Micawber, shiftless, careless, good-natured people, who were always in debt and difficulties. David felt great pity for their misfortunes and did what he could to help poor Mrs. Micawber to sell her books and other little things she could spare, to buy food for herself, her husband, and their four children. If he had not been a very innocent-minded, good little boy, he might easily have fallen into bad ways at this time. But God took care of the orphan boy and kept him from harm. The troubles of the Micawbers increased more and more, until at last they were obliged to leave London. The last Sunday the Micawbers were in town David dined with them. After he had seen them off the next morning by the coach, he wrote to Peggotty to ask her if she knew where his aunt, Miss Betsy Trotwood, lived, and to borrow half a guinea; for he had resolved to run away from Murdstone & Grinby's, and go to his aunt and tell her his story. Peggotty wrote, enclosing the half-guinea, and saying she only knew Miss Trotwood lived near Dover, but whether in that place itself, or at Folkestone, Sandgate, or Hythe, she could not tell. Hearing that all these places were close together, David made up his mind to start. As he had received his week's wages in advance, he waited till the following Saturday, thinking it would not be honest to go before. He went out to look for some one to carry his box to the coach office, and unfortunately employed a wicked young man who not only ran off with his box, but robbed him of his half-guinea, leaving poor David in dire distress. In despair, he started off to walk to Dover, and was forced to sell his waistcoat to buy some bread. The first night he found his way to his old school at Blackheath, and slept on a haystack close by, feeling some comfort in the thought of the boys being near. He knew Steerforth had left, or he would have tried to see him. On he trudged the next day and sold his jacket for one shilling and fourpence. He was afraid to buy anything but bread or to spend any money on a bed or a shelter for the night. After six days, he arrived at Dover, ragged, dusty, and half-dead with hunger and fatigue. But here, at first, he could get no tidings of his aunt, and, in despair, was going to try some of the other places Peggotty had mentioned, when the driver of a fly dropped his horsecloth, and as David was handing it up to him, he saw something kind in the man's face that encouraged him to ask once more if he knew where Miss Trotwood lived. [Illustration: LITTLE DAVID COPPERFIELD.] The man directed him towards some houses on the heights, and thither David toiled; a forlorn little creature, without a jacket or waistcoat, his white hat crushed out of shape, his shoes worn out, his shirt and trousers torn and stained, his pretty curly hair tangled, his face and hands sunburnt, and covered with dust. Lifting his big, wistful eyes to one of the windows above, he saw a pleasant faced gentleman with grey hair, who nodded at him several times, then shook his head and went away. David was just turning away to think what he should do, when a tall, erect, elderly lady, with a gardening apron on and a knife in her hand, came out of the house, and began to dig up a root in the garden. "Go away," she cried. "Go away. No boys here." But David felt desperate. Going in softly, he stood beside her, and touched her with his finger, and said timidly, "If you please, ma'am--" and when she looked up, he went on-- "Please, aunt, I am your nephew." "Oh, Lord!" she exclaimed in astonishment, and sat flat down on the path, staring at him, while he went on-- "I am David Copperfield, of Blunderstone, in Suffolk, where you came the night I was born, and saw my dear mamma. I have been unhappy since she died. I have been slighted and taught nothing, and thrown upon myself, and put to work not fit for me. It made me run away to you. I was robbed at first starting out and have walked all the way, and have never slept in a bed since I began the journey." Here he broke into a passion of crying, and his aunt jumped up and took him into the house, where she put him on the sofa and sent the servant to ask "Mr. Dick" to come down. The gentleman whom David had seen at the window came in and was told who the ragged little object on the sofa was. "Now here you see young David Copperfield, and the question is What shall I do with him?" "Do with him?" answered Mr. Dick. Then, after some consideration, and looking at David, he said, "Well, if I was you, I would wash him!" David knelt down to say his prayers that night in a pleasant room facing the sea, and as he lay in the clean, snow-white bed, he prayed he might never be homeless again, and might never forget the homeless. The next morning his aunt told him she had written to Mr. Murdstone, and at last Mr. and Miss Murdstone arrived. Mr. Murdstone told Miss Betsy that David was a very bad, stubborn, violent-tempered boy, whom he had tried to improve, but could not succeed. If Miss Trotwood chose to protect and encourage him now, she must do it always, for he had come to fetch him away. "Are you ready to go, David?" asked his aunt. But David answered no, and begged and prayed her for his father's sake to befriend and protect him, for neither Mr. nor Miss Murdstone had ever liked him or been kind to him. "Mr. Dick," said Miss Trotwood, "what shall I do with this child?" Mr. Dick considered. "Have him measured for a suit of clothes directly." "Mr. Dick," said Miss Trotwood, "your common sense is invaluable." Then she pulled David towards her, and said to Mr. Murdstone, "You can go when you like. I'll take my chance with the boy. If he's all you say he is I can at least do as much for him as you have done. But I don't believe a word of it." Some clothes were bought for him that same day and marked "Trotwood Copperfield," for his aunt wished to call him by her name. Now David felt his troubles were over, and he began quite a new life, well cared for and kindly treated. He was sent to a very nice school in Canterbury, where his aunt left him with these words, which David never forgot. "Trot, be a credit to yourself, to me, and Mr. Dick, and Heaven be with you. Never be mean in anything, never be false, never be cruel. Avoid these three vices, Trot, and I shall always be hopeful of you." David did his best to show his gratitude to his dear aunt by studying hard, and trying to be all she could wish. When you are older you can read how he grew up to be a good, clever man, and met again all his old friends, and made many new ones. JENNY WREN. One day, a great many years ago, a gentleman ran up the steps of a tall house in the neighborhood of St. Mary Axe. The gentleman knocked and rang several times before any one came, but at last an old man opened the door. "What were you up to that you did not hear me?" said Mr. Fledgeby irritably. "I was taking the air at the top of the house, sir," said the old man meekly, "it being a holiday. What might you please to want, sir?" "Humph! Holiday indeed," grumbled his master, who was a toy merchant amongst other things. He then seated himself and gave the old man--a Jew and Riah by name--directions about the dressing of some dolls, and, as he rose to go, exclaimed-- "By the bye, how _do_ you take the air? Do you stick your head out of a chimney-pot?" "No, sir, I have made a little garden on the roof." "Let's look at it," said Mr. Fledgeby. "Sir, I have company there," returned Riah hesitating, "but will you please come up and see them?" Mr. Fledgeby nodded, and the old man led the way up flight after flight of stairs, till they arrived at the house-top. Seated on a carpet, and leaning against a chimney-stack, were two girls bending over books. Some creepers were trained round the chimney-pots, and evergreens were placed round the roof, and a few more books, a basket of gaily colored scraps, and bits of tinsel, lay near. One of the girls rose on seeing that Riah had brought a visitor, but the other remarked, "I'm the person of the house downstairs, but I can't get up, whoever you are, because my back is bad, and my legs are queer." "This is my master," said Riah speaking to the two girls, "and this," he added, turning to Mr. Fledgeby, "is Miss Jenny Wren; she lives in this house, and is a clever little dressmaker for little people. Her friend Lizzie," continued Riah, introducing the second girl. "They are good girls, both, and as busy as they are good; in spare moments they come up here, and take to book learning." "Humph!" said Mr. Fledgeby, looking round, "Humph!" He was so much surprised that apparently he couldn't get beyond that word. Lizzie, the elder of these two girls, was strong and handsome, but the little Jenny Wren, whom she so loved and protected, was small, and deformed, though she had a beautiful little face, and the longest and loveliest golden hair in the world, which fell about her like a cloak of shining curls, as though to hide the poor little misshapen figure. The Jew Riah, as well as Lizzie, was always kind and gentle to Jenny Wren, who called him godfather. She had a father, who shared her poor little rooms, whom she called her child, for he was a bad, drunken, disreputable old man, and the poor girl had to care for him, and earn money to keep them both. Sometimes the two girls, Jenny helping herself along with a crutch, would go and walk about the fashionable streets. As they walked along, Jenny would tell her friend of the fancies she had when sitting alone at her work. "I imagine birds till I can hear them sing," she said one day, "and flowers till I can smell them. And oh! the beautiful children that come to me, in the early mornings! They are quite different to other children, not like me, never cold, or anxious, or tired, or hungry, never any pain; they come in numbers, in long bright slanting rows, all dressed in white, with shiny heads. 'Who is this in pain?' they say, and they sweep around and about me, take me up in their arms, and I feel so light, and all the pain goes. I know they are coming a long way off, by hearing them say, 'Who is this in pain?' and I answer, 'Oh my blessed children, it's poor me! have pity on me, and take me up and then the pain will go.'" [Illustration: JENNIE WREN. "THE BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN THAT COME TO ME."] Lizzie sat stroking and brushing the beautiful hair, when they were at home again, and as she kissed her good-night, a miserable old man stumbled into the room. "How's my Jenny Wren, best of children?" he mumbled, as he shuffled unsteadily towards her, but Jenny pointed her small finger towards him exclaiming--"Go along with you, you bad, wicked, old child, you troublesome, wicked, old thing, _I_ know where you have been; ain't you ashamed of yourself, you disgraceful boy?" "Yes; my dear, yes," stammered the tipsy old father, tumbling into a corner. One day when Jenny was on her way home with Riah, they came on a small crowd of people. A tipsy man had been knocked down and badly hurt--"Let us see what it is!" said Jennie. The next moment she exclaimed--"Oh, gentlemen--gentlemen, he is my child, he belongs to me, my poor, bad, old child!" "Your child--belongs to you--" repeated the man who was about to lift the helpless figure on to a stretcher. "Aye, it's old Dolls--tipsy old Dolls--" cried some one in the crowd, for it was by this name that they knew the old man. "He's her father, sir," said Riah in a low tone to the doctor who was now bending over the stretcher. "So much the worse," answered the doctor, "for the man is dead." Yes, "Mr. Dolls" was dead, and many were the dresses which the weary fingers of the sorrowful little worker must make in order to pay for his humble funeral, and buy a black frock for herself. Often the tears rolled down on to her work. "My poor child," she said to Riah, "my poor old child, and to think I scolded him so." "You were always a good, brave, patient girl," returned Riah, "always good and patient, however tired." And so the poor little "person of the house" was left alone but for the faithful affection of the kind Jew, and her friend Lizzie. Her room grew pretty comfortable, for she was in great request in her "profession" as she called it, and there was now no one to spend and waste her earnings. But nothing could make her life otherwise than a suffering one till the happy morning, when her child-angels visited her for the last time and carried her away to the land where all such pain as hers is healed for evermore. PIP'S ADVENTURE. All that little Philip Pirrip, usually called Pip, knew about his father and mother, and five little brothers, was from seeing their tombstones in the churchyard. He was taken care of by his sister, who was twenty years older than himself. She had married a blacksmith, named Joe Gargery, a kind, good man, while she, unfortunately, was a hard, stern woman, and treated her little brother and her amiable husband with great harshness. They lived in a marshy part of the country, about twenty miles from the sea. One cold raw day towards evening, when Pip was about six years old, he wandered into the churchyard, and trying to make out what he could of the inscriptions on his family tombstones, and the darkness coming on, he felt very lonely and frightened, and began to cry. "Hold your noise!" cried a terrible voice, and a man started up from among the graves close to him. "Keep still, you little imp, or I'll cut your throat!" He was a dreadful looking man, dressed in coarse grey cloth, with a great iron on his leg. Wet, muddy and miserable, his teeth chattered in his head, as he seized Pip by the chin. "Oh! don't cut my throat, sir," cried Pip, in terror. "Tell us your name!" said the man. "Quick!" "Pip, sir." "Once more," said the man, staring at him. "Give it mouth." "Pip. Pip, sir." "Show us where you live," said the man. "Point out the place." Pip showed him the village, about a mile or more from the church. The man looked at him for a moment, and then turned him upside down and emptied his pockets. He found nothing in them but a piece of bread, which he ate ravenously. "Now lookee here," said the man. "Where's your mother?" "There, sir," said Pip. At this the man started to run away, but stopped and looked over his shoulder. "There, sir," explained Pip, showing him the tombstone. "Oh, and is that your father along of your mother?" "Yes, sir," said Pip. "Ha!" muttered the man, "then who d'ye live with--supposin' you're kindly let to live, which I han't made up my mind about?" "My sister, sir, Mrs. Joe Gargery, wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir." "Blacksmith, eh?" said the man, and looked down at his leg. Then he seized the trembling little boy by both arms, and glaring down at him, he said,-- "Now lookee here, the question being whether you're to be let to live--You know what a file is?" "Yes, sir." "And you know what wittles is?" "Yes, sir." "You get me a file, and you get me wittles--you bring 'em both to me." All this time he was tilting poor Pip backwards till he was dreadfully frightened and giddy. "You bring me, to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles--You do it, and you never dare to say a word or dare to make a sign concerning your having seen such a person as me, or any person sumever, and you shall be let to live." Then he let him go, saying--"You remember what you've undertook, and you get home." Pip ran home without stopping. Joe was sitting in the chimney corner, and told him Mrs. Joe had been out to look for him, and taken Tickler with her. Tickler was a cane, and Pip was rather depressed by this piece of news. Mrs. Joe came in almost directly, and after having given Pip a taste of Tickler, she sat down to prepare the tea, and cutting a huge slice of bread and butter, she gave half of it to Joe and half to Pip. Pip managed, after some time, to slip his down the leg of his trousers, and Joe, thinking he had swallowed it, was dreadfully alarmed and begged him not to bolt his food like that. "Pip, old chap, you'll do yourself a mischief,--it'll stick somewhere, you can't have chewed it, Pip. You know, Pip, you and me is always friends, and I'd be the last to tell upon you at any time, but such a--such a most uncommon bolt as that." [Illustration: PIP AND THE CONVICT. HALF DEAD WITH COLD AND HUNGER.] "Been bolting his food, has he?" cried Mrs. Joe. "You know, old chap," said Joe, "I bolted myself when I was your age--frequent--and as a boy I've been among many bolters; but I never see your bolting equal yet, Pip, and it's a mercy you ain't bolted dead." Poor Pip passed a wretched night, thinking of the dreadful promise he had made, and as soon as it was beginning to get light outside he got up and crept downstairs. As quickly as he could he took some bread, some cheese, about half a jar of mince-meat he tied up in a handkerchief, with the slice of bread and butter, some brandy from a stone bottle, a meat bone with very little on it, and a pork pie, which he found on an upper shelf. Then he got a file from among Joe's tools, and ran for the marshes. Pip found the man waiting for him, half dead with cold and hunger, and he ate the food in such a ravenous way that Pip, in spite of his terror, was quite pitiful over him, and said, "I am glad you enjoy it." "Thankee, my boy, I do." Pip watched him trying to file the iron off his leg, and then, being afraid of stopping longer away from home, he ran off. Pip passed a wretched morning expecting every moment that the disappearance of the pie would be found out. But Mrs. Joe was too much taken up with preparing the dinner, for they were expecting visitors. Just at the end of the dinner Pip thought his time had come to be found out, for his sister said graciously to her guests-- "You must taste a most delightful and delicious present I have had. It's a pie, a savory pork pie." Pip could bear it no longer, and ran for the door, and there ran head foremost into a party of soldiers with their muskets, one of whom held out a pair of handcuffs to him saying--"Here you are, look sharp, come on." But they had not come for him, they only wanted Joe to mend the handcuffs, for they were on the search for two convicts who had escaped and were somewhere hid in the marshes. This turned the attention of Mrs. Joe from the disappearance of the pie without which she had come back, in great astonishment. When the handcuffs were mended the soldiers went off, accompanied by Joe and one of the visitors, and Joe took Pip and carried him on his back. Pip whispered, "I hope, Joe, we shan't find them," and Joe answered "I'd give a shilling if they had cut and run, Pip." But the soldiers soon caught them, and one was Pip's miserable acquaintance, and once when the man looked at Pip, the child shook his head to try and let him know he had said nothing. But the convict, without looking at anyone, told the Sergeant he wanted to say something to prevent other people being under suspicion, and said he had taken some "wittles" from the blacksmith's. "It was some broken wittles, that's what it was, and a dram of liquor, and a pie." "Have you happened to miss such an article as a pie, blacksmith?" enquired the Sergeant. "My wife did, at the very moment when you came in." "So," said the convict, looking at Joe, "you're the blacksmith, are you? Then I'm sorry to say, I've eat your pie." "God knows you're welcome to it," said Joe. "We don't know what you have done, but we wouldn't have you starved to death for it, poor miserable fellow creature. Would us, Pip?" Then the boat came, and the convicts were taken back to prison, and Joe carried Pip home. Some years after, some mysterious friend sent money for Pip to be educated and brought up as a gentleman, but it was only when Pip was quite grown up that he discovered this mysterious friend was the wretched convict who had frightened him so dreadfully that cold, dark Christmas Eve. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Text in italics is indicated with underscores: _italics_. Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. Punctuation has been corrected without note. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected as follows: Page 7: Fren changed to Fern Page 25: Joe changed to Jo Page 31: DORRITT changed to DORRIT Page 34: needlwork changed to needlework Page 40: distresed changed to distressed Page 41: grandfaather changed to grandfather Page 56: hugh changed to huge 
32488	----	[Illustration: JUST SO STORIES] [Illustration: How the Whale Got His Throat] Transcriber's Note: Not being able to ascertain which words were Kipling being clever and which were his printer's creativity, all spelling anomalies except the few glaringly obvious ones noted at the end have been retained. For example, "He married ever so many wifes" was retained on page 227. For the HTML version, the page images have been included so that the reader may make comparisons. JVST SO STORIES BY RVDYARD KIPLING [Illustration] _Pictures by Joseph M. Gleeson_ Doubleday Page & Company 1912 Copyright, 1912, by Rudyard Kipling "Just So Stories," have also been copyrighted separately as follows: How the Whale Got His Tiny Throat. Copyright, 1897, by the Century Company. How the Camel Got His Hump. Copyright, 1897, by the Century Company. How the Rhinoceros Got His Wrinkly Skin. Copyright, 1898, by the Century Company. The Elephant's Child. Copyright, 1900, by Rudyard Kipling; Copyright, 1900, by the Curtis Publishing Company. The Beginning of the Armadillos. Copyright, 1900, by Rudyard Kipling. The Sing Song of Old Man Kangaroo. Copyright, 1900 by Rudyard Kipling. How the Leopard Got His Spots, Copyright, 1901, by Rudyard Kipling. How the First Letter Was Written. Copyright, 1901, by Rudyard Kipling. The Cat That Walked by Himself, Copyright, 1902, by Rudyard Kipling. [Illustration] CONTENTS PAGE How the Whale Got His Throat 1 How the Camel Got His Hump 15 How the Rhinoceros Got His Skin 29 How the Leopard Got His Spots 43 The Elephant's Child 63 The Sing-Song of Old Man Kangaroo 85 The Beginning of the Armadillos 101 How the First Letter was Written 123 How the Alphabet was Made 145 The Crab that Played with the Sea 171 The Cat that Walked by Himself 197 The Butterfly that Stamped 225 [Illustration] HOW THE WHALE GOT HIS THROAT IN the sea, once upon a time, O my Best Beloved, there was a Whale, and he ate fishes. He ate the starfish and the garfish, and the crab and the dab, and the plaice and the dace, and the skate and his mate, and the mackereel and the pickereel, and the really truly twirly-whirly eel. All the fishes he could find in all the sea he ate with his mouth--so! Till at last there was only one small fish left in all the sea, and he was a small 'Stute Fish, and he swam a little behind the Whale's right ear, so as to be out of harm's way. Then the Whale stood up on his tail and said, 'I'm hungry.' And the small 'Stute Fish said in a small 'stute voice, 'Noble and generous Cetacean, have you ever tasted Man?' 'No,' said the Whale. 'What is it like?' 'Nice,' said the small 'Stute Fish. 'Nice but nubbly.' 'Then fetch me some,' said the Whale, and he made the sea froth up with his tail. 'One at a time is enough,' said the 'Stute Fish. 'If you swim to latitude Fifty North, longitude Forty West (that is magic), you will find, sitting _on_ a raft, _in_ the middle of the sea, with nothing on but a pair of blue canvas breeches, a pair of suspenders (you must _not_ forget the suspenders, Best Beloved), and a jack-knife, one shipwrecked Mariner, who, it is only fair to tell you, is a man of infinite-resource-and-sagacity.' So the Whale swam and swam to latitude Fifty North, longitude Forty West, as fast as he could swim, and _on_ a raft, _in_ the middle of the sea, _with_ nothing to wear except a pair of blue canvas breeches, a pair of suspenders (you must particularly remember the suspenders, Best Beloved), _and_ a jack-knife, he found one single, solitary shipwrecked Mariner, trailing his toes in the water. (He had his mummy's leave to paddle, or else he would never have done it, because he was a man of infinite-resource-and-sagacity.) Then the Whale opened his mouth back and back and back till it nearly touched his tail, and he swallowed the shipwrecked Mariner, and the raft he was sitting on, and his blue canvas breeches, and the suspenders (which you _must_ not forget), _and_ the jack-knife--He swallowed them all down into his warm, dark, inside cupboards, and then he smacked his lips--so, and turned round three times on his tail. But as soon as the Mariner, who was a man of infinite-resource-and-sagacity, found himself truly inside the Whale's warm, dark, inside cupboards, he stumped and he jumped and he thumped and he bumped, and he pranced and he danced, and he banged and he clanged, and he hit and he bit, and he leaped and he creeped, and he prowled and he howled, and he hopped and he dropped, and he cried and he sighed, and he crawled and he bawled, and he stepped and he lepped, and he danced hornpipes where he shouldn't, and the Whale felt most unhappy indeed. (_Have_ you forgotten the suspenders?) [Illustration: THIS is the picture of the Whale swallowing the Mariner with his infinite-resource-and-sagacity, and the raft and the jack-knife _and_ his suspenders, which you must _not_ forget. The buttony-things are the Mariner's suspenders, and you can see the knife close by them. He is sitting on the raft, but it has tilted up sideways, so you don't see much of it. The whity thing by the Mariner's left hand is a piece of wood that he was trying to row the raft with when the Whale came along. The piece of wood is called the jaws-of-a-gaff. The Mariner left it outside when he went in. The Whale's name was Smiler, and the Mariner was called Mr. Henry Albert Bivvens, A.B. The little 'Stute Fish is hiding under the Whale's tummy, or else I would have drawn him. The reason that the sea looks so ooshy-skooshy is because the Whale is sucking it all into his mouth so as to suck in Mr. Henry Albert Bivvens and the raft and the jack-knife and the suspenders. You must never forget the suspenders.] So he said to the 'Stute Fish, 'This man is very nubbly, and besides he is making me hiccough. What shall I do?' 'Tell him to come out,' said the 'Stute Fish. So the Whale called down his own throat to the shipwrecked Mariner, 'Come out and behave yourself. I've got the hiccoughs.' 'Nay, nay!' said the Mariner. 'Not so, but far otherwise. Take me to my natal-shore and the white-cliffs-of-Albion, and I'll think about it.' And he began to dance more than ever. 'You had better take him home,' said the 'Stute Fish to the Whale. 'I ought to have warned you that he is a man of infinite-resource-and-sagacity.' [Illustration: HERE is the Whale looking for the little 'Stute Fish, who is hiding under the Door-sills of the Equator. The little 'Stute Fish's name was Pingle. He is hiding among the roots of the big seaweed that grows in front of the Doors of the Equator. I have drawn the Doors of the Equator. They are shut. They are always kept shut, because a door ought always to be kept shut. The ropy-thing right across is the Equator itself; and the things that look like rocks are the two giants Moar and Koar, that keep the Equator in order. They drew the shadow-pictures on the doors of the Equator, and they carved all those twisty fishes under the Doors. The beaky-fish are called beaked Dolphins, and the other fish with the queer heads are called Hammer-headed Sharks. The Whale never found the little 'Stute Fish till he got over his temper, and then they became good friends again.] So the Whale swam and swam and swam, with both flippers and his tail, as hard as he could for the hiccoughs; and at last he saw the Mariner's natal-shore and the white-cliffs-of-Albion, and he rushed half-way up the beach, and opened his mouth wide and wide and wide, and said, 'Change here for Winchester, Ashuelot, Nashua, Keene, and stations on the _Fitch_burg Road;' and just as he said 'Fitch' the Mariner walked out of his mouth. But while the Whale had been swimming, the Mariner, who was indeed a person of infinite-resource-and-sagacity, had taken his jack-knife and cut up the raft into a little square grating all running criss-cross, and he had tied it firm with his suspenders (_now_ you know why you were not to forget the suspenders!), and he dragged that grating good and tight into the Whale's throat, and there it stuck! Then he recited the following _Sloka_, which, as you have not heard it, I will now proceed to relate-- By means of a grating I have stopped your ating. For the Mariner he was also an Hi-ber-ni-an. And he stepped out on the shingle, and went home to his mother, who had given him leave to trail his toes in the water; and he married and lived happily ever afterward. So did the Whale. But from that day on, the grating in his throat, which he could neither cough up nor swallow down, prevented him eating anything except very, very small fish; and that is the reason why whales nowadays never eat men or boys or little girls. The small 'Stute Fish went and hid himself in the mud under the Door-sills of the Equator. He was afraid that the Whale might be angry with him. The Sailor took the jack-knife home. He was wearing the blue canvas breeches when he walked out on the shingle. The suspenders were left behind, you see, to tie the grating with; and that is the end of _that_ tale. [Illustration] WHEN the cabin port-holes are dark and green Because of the seas outside; When the ship goes _wop_ (with a wiggle between) And the steward falls into the soup-tureen, And the trunks begin to slide; When Nursey lies on the floor in a heap, And Mummy tells you to let her sleep, And you aren't waked or washed or dressed, Why, then you will know (if you haven't guessed) You're 'Fifty North and Forty West!' [Illustration: How the Camel Got His Hump] HOW THE CAMEL GOT HIS HUMP NOW this is the next tale, and it tells how the Camel got his big hump. In the beginning of years, when the world was so new and all, and the Animals were just beginning to work for Man, there was a Camel, and he lived in the middle of a Howling Desert because he did not want to work; and besides, he was a Howler himself. So he ate sticks and thorns and tamarisks and milkweed and prickles, most 'scruciating idle; and when anybody spoke to him he said 'Humph!' Just 'Humph!' and no more. Presently the Horse came to him on Monday morning, with a saddle on his back and a bit in his mouth, and said, 'Camel, O Camel, come out and trot like the rest of us.' 'Humph!' said the Camel; and the Horse went away and told the Man. Presently the Dog came to him, with a stick in his mouth, and said, 'Camel, O Camel, come and fetch and carry like the rest of us.' 'Humph!' said the Camel; and the Dog went away and told the Man. Presently the Ox came to him, with the yoke on his neck and said, 'Camel, O Camel, come and plough like the rest of us.' 'Humph!' said the Camel; and the Ox went away and told the Man. At the end of the day the Man called the Horse and the Dog and the Ox together, and said, 'Three, O Three, I'm very sorry for you (with the world so new-and-all); but that Humph-thing in the Desert can't work, or he would have been here by now, so I am going to leave him alone, and you must work double-time to make up for it.' That made the Three very angry (with the world so new-and-all), and they held a palaver, and an _indaba_, and a _punchayet_, and a pow-wow on the edge of the Desert; and the Camel came chewing milkweed _most_ 'scruciating idle, and laughed at them. Then he said 'Humph!' and went away again. Presently there came along the Djinn in charge of All Deserts, rolling in a cloud of dust (Djinns always travel that way because it is Magic), and he stopped to palaver and pow-pow with the Three. 'Djinn of All Deserts,' said the Horse, '_is_ it right for any one to be idle, with the world so new-and-all?' 'Certainly not,' said the Djinn. 'Well,' said the Horse, 'there's a thing in the middle of your Howling Desert (and he's a Howler himself) with a long neck and long legs, and he hasn't done a stroke of work since Monday morning. He won't trot.' 'Whew!' said the Djinn, whistling, 'that's my Camel, for all the gold in Arabia! What does he say about it?' 'He says "Humph!"' said the Dog; 'and he won't fetch and carry.' 'Does he say anything else?' [Illustration: THIS is the picture of the Djinn making the beginnings of the Magic that brought the Humph to the Camel. First he drew a line in the air with his finger, and it became solid; and then he made a cloud, and then he made an egg--you can see them both at the bottom of the picture--and then there was a magic pumpkin that turned into a big white flame. Then the Djinn took his magic fan and fanned that flame till the flame turned into a magic by itself. It was a good Magic and a very kind Magic really, though it had to give the Camel a Humph because the Camel was lazy. The Djinn in charge of All Deserts was one of the nicest of the Djinns, so he would never do anything really unkind.] [Illustration] 'Only "Humph!"; and he won't plough,' said the Ox. 'Very good,' said the Djinn. 'I'll humph him if you will kindly wait a minute.' The Djinn rolled himself up in his dust-cloak, and took a bearing across the desert, and found the Camel most 'scruciatingly idle, looking at his own reflection in a pool of water. 'My long and bubbling friend,' said the Djinn, 'what's this I hear of your doing no work, with the world so new-and-all?' 'Humph!' said the Camel. The Djinn sat down, with his chin in his hand, and began to think a Great Magic, while the Camel looked at his own reflection in the pool of water. 'You've given the Three extra work ever since Monday morning, all on account of your 'scruciating idleness,' said the Djinn; and he went on thinking Magics, with his chin in his hand. 'Humph!' said the Camel. 'I shouldn't say that again if I were you,' said the Djinn; 'you might say it once too often. Bubbles, I want you to work.' [Illustration: HERE is the picture of the Djinn in charge of All Deserts guiding the Magic with his magic fan. The camel is eating a twig of acacia, and he has just finished saying "humph" once too often (the Djinn told him he would), and so the Humph is coming. The long towelly-thing growing out of the thing like an onion is the Magic, and you can see the Humph on its shoulder. The Humph fits on the flat part of the Camel's back. The Camel is too busy looking at his own beautiful self in the pool of water to know what is going to happen to him. Underneath the truly picture is a picture of the World-so-new-and-all. There are two smoky volcanoes in it, some other mountains and some stones and a lake and a black island and a twisty river and a lot of other things, as well as a Noah's Ark. I couldn't draw all the deserts that the Djinn was in charge of, so I only drew one, but it is a most deserty desert.] And the Camel said 'Humph!' again; but no sooner had he said it than he saw his back, that he was so proud of, puffing up and puffing up into a great big lolloping humph. 'Do you see that?' said the Djinn. 'That's your very own humph that you've brought upon your very own self by not working. To-day is Thursday, and you've done no work since Monday, when the work began. Now you are going to work.' 'How can I,' said the Camel, 'with this humph on my back?' 'That's made a-purpose,' said the Djinn, 'all because you missed those three days. You will be able to work now for three days without eating, because you can live on your humph; and don't you ever say I never did anything for you. Come out of the Desert and go to the Three, and behave. Humph yourself!' And the Camel humphed himself, humph and all, and went away to join the Three. And from that day to this the Camel always wears a humph (we call it 'hump' now, not to hurt his feelings); but he has never yet caught up with the three days that he missed at the beginning of the world, and he has never yet learned how to behave. THE Camel's hump is an ugly lump Which well you may see at the Zoo; But uglier yet is the hump we get From having too little to do. Kiddies and grown-ups too-oo-oo, If we haven't enough to do-oo-oo, We get the hump-- Cameelious hump-- The hump that is black and blue! We climb out of bed with a frouzly head And a snarly-yarly voice. We shiver and scowl and we grunt and we growl At our bath and our boots and our toys; And there ought to be a corner for me (And I know there is one for you) When we get the hump-- Cameelious hump-- The hump that is black and blue! The cure for this ill is not to sit still, Or frowst with a book by the fire; But to take a large hoe and a shovel also, And dig till you gently perspire; And then you will find that the sun and the wind, And the Djinn of the Garden too, Have lifted the hump-- The horrible hump-- The hump that is black and blue! I get it as well as you-oo-oo-- If I haven't enough to do-oo-oo-- We all get hump-- Cameelious hump-- Kiddies and grown-ups too! [Illustration: How the Rhinoceros Got His Skin] HOW THE RHINOCEROS GOT HIS SKIN ONCE upon a time, on an uninhabited island on the shores of the Red Sea, there lived a Parsee from whose hat the rays of the sun were reflected in more-than-oriental splendour. And the Parsee lived by the Red Sea with nothing but his hat and his knife and a cooking-stove of the kind that you must particularly never touch. And one day he took flour and water and currants and plums and sugar and things, and made himself one cake which was two feet across and three feet thick. It was indeed a Superior Comestible (_that's_ magic), and he put it on the stove because _he_ was allowed to cook on that stove, and he baked it and he baked it till it was all done brown and smelt most sentimental. But just as he was going to eat it there came down to the beach from the Altogether Uninhabited Interior one Rhinoceros with a horn on his nose, two piggy eyes, and few manners. In those days the Rhinoceros's skin fitted him quite tight. There were no wrinkles in it anywhere. He looked exactly like a Noah's Ark Rhinoceros, but of course much bigger. All the same, he had no manners then, and he has no manners now, and he never will have any manners. He said, 'How!' and the Parsee left that cake and climbed to the top of a palm tree with nothing on but his hat, from which the rays of the sun were always reflected in more-than-oriental splendour. And the Rhinoceros upset the oil-stove with his nose, and the cake rolled on the sand, and he spiked that cake on the horn of his nose, and he ate it, and he went away, waving his tail, to the desolate and Exclusively Uninhabited Interior which abuts on the islands of Mazanderan, Socotra, and the Promontories of the Larger Equinox. Then the Parsee came down from his palm-tree and put the stove on its legs and recited the following _Sloka_, which, as you have not heard, I will now proceed to relate:-- Them that takes cakes Which the Parsee-man bakes Makes dreadful mistakes. And there was a great deal more in that than you would think. _Because_, five weeks later, there was a heat-wave in the Red Sea, and everybody took off all the clothes they had. The Parsee took off his hat; but the Rhinoceros took off his skin and carried it over his shoulder as he came down to the beach to bathe. In those days it buttoned underneath with three buttons and looked like a waterproof. He said nothing whatever about the Parsee's cake, because he had eaten it all; and he never had any manners, then, since, or henceforward. He waddled straight into the water and blew bubbles through his nose, leaving his skin on the beach. [Illustration: THIS is the picture of the Parsee beginning to eat his cake on the Uninhabited Island in the Red Sea on a very hot day; and of the Rhinoceros coming down from the Altogether Uninhabited Interior, which, as you can truthfully see, is all rocky. The Rhinoceros's skin is quite smooth, and the three buttons that button it up are underneath, so you can't see them. The squiggly things on the Parsee's hat are the rays of the sun reflected in more-than-oriental splendour, because if I had drawn real rays they would have filled up all the picture. The cake has currants in it; and the wheel-thing lying on the sand in front belonged to one of Pharaoh's chariots when he tried to cross the Red Sea. The Parsee found it, and kept it to play with. The Parsee's name was Pestonjee Bomonjee, and the Rhinoceros was called Strorks, because he breathed through his mouth instead of his nose. I wouldn't ask anything about the cooking-stove if _I_ were you.] Presently the Parsee came by and found the skin, and he smiled one smile that ran all round his face two times. Then he danced three times round the skin and rubbed his hands. Then he went to his camp and filled his hat with cake-crumbs, for the Parsee never ate anything but cake, and never swept out his camp. He took that skin, and he shook that skin, and he scrubbed that skin, and he rubbed that skin just as full of old, dry, stale, tickly cake-crumbs and some burned currants as ever it could _possibly_ hold. Then he climbed to the top of his palm-tree and waited for the Rhinoceros to come out of the water and put it on. [Illustration: THIS is the Parsee Pestonjee Bomonjee sitting in his palm-tree and watching the Rhinoceros Strorks bathing near the beach of the Altogether Uninhabited Island after Strorks had taken off his skin. The Parsee has put the cake-crumbs into the skin, and he is smiling to think how they will tickle Strorks when Strorks puts it on again. The skin is just under the rocks below the palm-tree in a cool place; that is why you can't see it. The Parsee is wearing a new more-than-oriental-splendour hat of the sort that Parsees wear; and he has a knife in his hand to cut his name on palm-trees. The black things on the islands out at sea are bits of ships that got wrecked going down the Red Sea; but all the passengers were saved and went home. The black thing in the water close to the shore is not a wreck at all. It is Strorks the Rhinoceros bathing without his skin. He was just as black underneath his skin as he was outside. I wouldn't ask anything about the cooking-stove if _I_ were you.] And the Rhinoceros did. He buttoned it up with the three buttons, and it tickled like cake-crumbs in bed. Then he wanted to scratch, but that made it worse; and then he lay down on the sands and rolled and rolled and rolled, and every time he rolled the cake-crumbs tickled him worse and worse and worse. Then he ran to the palm-tree and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed himself against it. He rubbed so much and so hard that he rubbed his skin into a great fold over his shoulders, and another fold underneath, where the buttons used to be (but he rubbed the buttons off), and he rubbed some more folds over his legs. And it spoiled his temper, but it didn't make the least difference to the cake-crumbs. They were inside his skin and they tickled. So he went home, very angry indeed and horribly scratchy; and from that day to this every rhinoceros has great folds in his skin and a very bad temper, all on account of the cake-crumbs inside. But the Parsee came down from his palm-tree, wearing his hat, from which the rays of the sun were reflected in more-than-oriental splendour, packed up his cooking-stove, and went away in the direction of Orotavo, Amygdala, the Upland Meadows of Anantarivo, and the Marshes of Sonaput. [Illustration] THIS Uninhabited Island Is off Cape Gardafui, By the Beaches of Socotra And the Pink Arabian Sea: But it's hot--too hot from Suez For the likes of you and me Ever to go In a P. and O. And call on the Cake-Parsee! [Illustration: How the Leopard Got His Spots] HOW THE LEOPARD GOT HIS SPOTS IN the days when everybody started fair, Best Beloved, the Leopard lived in a place called the High Veldt. 'Member it wasn't the Low Veldt, or the Bush Veldt, or the Sour Veldt, but the 'sclusively bare, hot, shiny High Veldt, where there was sand and sandy-coloured rock and 'sclusively tufts of sandy-yellowish grass. The Giraffe and the Zebra and the Eland and the Koodoo and the Hartebeest lived there; and they were 'sclusively sandy-yellow-brownish all over; but the Leopard, he was the 'sclusivest sandiest-yellowish-brownest of them all--a greyish-yellowish catty-shaped kind of beast, and he matched the 'sclusively yellowish-greyish-brownish colour of the High Veldt to one hair. This was very bad for the Giraffe and the Zebra and the rest of them; for he would lie down by a 'sclusively yellowish-greyish-brownish stone or clump of grass, and when the Giraffe or the Zebra or the Eland or the Koodoo or the Bush-Buck or the Bonte-Buck came by he would surprise them out of their jumpsome lives. He would indeed! And, also, there was an Ethiopian with bows and arrows (a 'sclusively greyish-brownish-yellowish man he was then), who lived on the High Veldt with the Leopard; and the two used to hunt together--the Ethiopian with his bows and arrows, and the Leopard 'sclusively with his teeth and claws--till the Giraffe and the Eland and the Koodoo and the Quagga and all the rest of them didn't know which way to jump, Best Beloved. They didn't indeed! After a long time--things lived for ever so long in those days--they learned to avoid anything that looked like a Leopard or an Ethiopian; and bit by bit--the Giraffe began it, because his legs were the longest--they went away from the High Veldt. They scuttled for days and days and days till they came to a great forest, 'sclusively full of trees and bushes and stripy, speckly, patchy-blatchy shadows, and there they hid: and after another long time, what with standing half in the shade and half out of it, and what with the slippery-slidy shadows of the trees falling on them, the Giraffe grew blotchy, and the Zebra grew stripy, and the Eland and the Koodoo grew darker, with little wavy grey lines on their backs like bark on a tree trunk; and so, though you could hear them and smell them, you could very seldom see them, and then only when you knew precisely where to look. They had a beautiful time in the 'sclusively speckly-spickly shadows of the forest, while the Leopard and the Ethiopian ran about over the 'sclusively greyish-yellowish-reddish High Veldt outside, wondering where all their breakfasts and their dinners and their teas had gone. At last they were so hungry that they ate rats and beetles and rock-rabbits, the Leopard and the Ethiopian, and then they had the Big Tummy-ache, both together; and then they met Baviaan--the dog-headed, barking Baboon, who is Quite the Wisest Animal in All South Africa. [Illustration: THIS is Wise Baviaan, the dog-headed Baboon, Who is Quite the Wisest Animal in All South Africa. I have drawn him from a statue that I made up out of my own head, and I have written his name on his belt and on his shoulder and on the thing he is sitting on. I have written it in what is not called Coptic and Hieroglyphic and Cuneiformic and Bengalic and Burmic and Hebric, all because he is so wise. He is not beautiful, but he is very wise; and I should like to paint him with paint-box colours, but I am not allowed. The umbrella-ish thing about his head is his Conventional Mane.] Said Leopard to Baviaan (and it was a very hot day), 'Where has all the game gone?' And Baviaan winked. _He_ knew. Said the Ethiopian to Baviaan, 'Can you tell me the present habitat of the aboriginal Fauna?' (That meant just the same thing, but the Ethiopian always used long words. He was a grown-up.) And Baviaan winked. _He_ knew. Then said Baviaan, 'The game has gone into other spots; and my advice to you, Leopard, is to go into other spots as soon as you can.' And the Ethiopian said, 'That is all very fine, but I wish to know whither the aboriginal Fauna has migrated.' Then said Baviaan, 'The aboriginal Fauna has joined the aboriginal Flora because it was high time for a change; and my advice to you, Ethiopian, is to change as soon as you can.' That puzzled the Leopard and the Ethiopian, but they set off to look for the aboriginal Flora, and presently, after ever so many days, they saw a great, high, tall forest full of tree trunks all 'sclusively speckled and sprottled and spottled, dotted and splashed and slashed and hatched and cross-hatched with shadows. (Say that quickly aloud, and you will see how _very_ shadowy the forest must have been.) 'What is this,' said the Leopard, 'that is so 'sclusively dark, and yet so full of little pieces of light?' 'I don't know,' said the Ethiopian, 'but it ought to be the aboriginal Flora. I can smell Giraffe, and I can hear Giraffe, but I can't see Giraffe.' 'That's curious,' said the Leopard. 'I suppose it is because we have just come in out of the sunshine. I can smell Zebra, and I can hear Zebra, but I can't see Zebra.' 'Wait a bit,' said the Ethiopian. 'It's a long time since we've hunted 'em. Perhaps we've forgotten what they were like.' 'Fiddle!' said the Leopard. 'I remember them perfectly on the High Veldt, especially their marrow-bones. Giraffe is about seventeen feet high, of a 'sclusively fulvous golden-yellow from head to heel; and Zebra is about four and a half feet high, of a 'sclusively grey-fawn colour from head to heel.' 'Umm,' said the Ethiopian, looking into the speckly-spickly shadows of the aboriginal Flora-forest. 'Then they ought to show up in this dark place like ripe bananas in a smoke-house.' But they didn't. The Leopard and the Ethiopian hunted all day; and though they could smell them and hear them, they never saw one of them. 'For goodness' sake,' said the Leopard at tea-time, 'let us wait till it gets dark. This daylight hunting is a perfect scandal.' So they waited till dark, and then the Leopard heard something breathing sniffily in the starlight that fell all stripy through the branches, and he jumped at the noise, and it smelt like Zebra, and it felt like Zebra, and when he knocked it down it kicked like Zebra, but he couldn't see it. So he said, 'Be quiet, O you person without any form. I am going to sit on your head till morning, because there is something about you that I don't understand.' Presently he heard a grunt and a crash and a scramble, and the Ethiopian called out, 'I've caught a thing that I can't see. It smells like Giraffe, and it kicks like Giraffe, but it hasn't any form.' 'Don't you trust it,' said the Leopard. 'Sit on its head till the morning--same as me. They haven't any form--any of 'em.' * * * * * So they sat down on them hard till bright morning-time, and then Leopard said, 'What have you at your end of the table, Brother?' The Ethiopian scratched his head and said, 'It ought to be 'sclusively a rich fulvous orange-tawny from head to heel, and it ought to be Giraffe; but it is covered all over with chestnut blotches. What have you at _your_ end of the table, Brother?' And the Leopard scratched his head and said, 'It ought to be 'sclusively a delicate greyish-fawn, and it ought to be Zebra; but it is covered all over with black and purple stripes. What in the world have you been doing to yourself, Zebra? Don't you know that if you were on the High Veldt I could see you ten miles off? You haven't any form.' 'Yes,' said the Zebra, 'but this isn't the High Veldt. Can't you see?' 'I can now,' said the Leopard. 'But I couldn't all yesterday. How is it done?' 'Let us up,' said the Zebra, 'and we will show you.' They let the Zebra and the Giraffe get up; and Zebra moved away to some little thorn-bushes where the sunlight fell all stripy, and Giraffe moved off to some tallish trees where the shadows fell all blotchy. 'Now watch,' said the Zebra and the Giraffe. 'This is the way it's done. One--two--three! And where's your breakfast?' Leopard stared, and Ethiopian stared, but all they could see were stripy shadows and blotched shadows in the forest, but never a sign of Zebra and Giraffe. They had just walked off and hidden themselves in the shadowy forest. 'Hi! Hi!' said the Ethiopian. 'That's a trick worth learning. Take a lesson by it, Leopard. You show up in this dark place like a bar of soap in a coal-scuttle.' 'Ho! Ho!' said the Leopard. 'Would it surprise you very much to know that you show up in this dark place like a mustard-plaster on a sack of coals?' Well, calling names won't catch dinner, said the Ethiopian. 'The long and the little of it is that we don't match our backgrounds. I'm going to take Baviaan's advice. He told me I ought to change; and as I've nothing to change except my skin I'm going to change that.' 'What to?' said the Leopard, tremendously excited. 'To a nice working blackish-brownish colour, with a little purple in it, and touches of slaty-blue. It will be the very thing for hiding in hollows and behind trees.' So he changed his skin then and there, and the Leopard was more excited than ever; he had never seen a man change his skin before. 'But what about me?' he said, when the Ethiopian had worked his last little finger into his fine new black skin. 'You take Baviaan's advice too. He told you to go into spots.' 'So I did,' said the Leopard. 'I went into other spots as fast as I could. I went into this spot with you, and a lot of good it has done me.' 'Oh,' said the Ethiopian, 'Baviaan didn't mean spots in South Africa. He meant spots on your skin.' 'What's the use of that?' said the Leopard. 'Think of Giraffe,' said the Ethiopian. 'Or if you prefer stripes, think of Zebra. They find their spots and stripes give them perfect satisfaction.' 'Umm,' said the Leopard. 'I wouldn't look like Zebra--not for ever so.' 'Well, make up your mind,' said the Ethiopian, 'because I'd hate to go hunting without you, but I must if you insist on looking like a sun-flower against a tarred fence.' 'I'll take spots, then,' said the Leopard; 'but don't make 'em too vulgar-big. I wouldn't look like Giraffe--not for ever so.' 'I'll make 'em with the tips of my fingers,' said the Ethiopian. 'There's plenty of black left on my skin still. Stand over!' Then the Ethiopian put his five fingers close together (there was plenty of black left on his new skin still) and pressed them all over the Leopard, and wherever the five fingers touched they left five little black marks, all close together. You can see them on any Leopard's skin you like, Best Beloved. Sometimes the fingers slipped and the marks got a little blurred; but if you look closely at any Leopard now you will see that there are always five spots--off five fat black finger-tips. [Illustration: THIS is the picture of the Leopard and the Ethiopian after they had taken Wise Baviaan's advice and the Leopard had gone into other spots and the Ethiopian had changed his skin. The Ethiopian was really a negro, and so his name was Sambo. The Leopard was called Spots, and he has been called Spots ever since. They are out hunting in the spickly-speckly forest, and they are looking for Mr. One-Two-Three-Where's-your-Breakfast. If you look a little you will see Mr. One-Two-Three not far away. The Ethiopian has hidden behind a splotchy-blotchy tree because it matches his skin, and the Leopard is lying beside a spickly-speckly bank of stones because it matches his spots. Mr. One-Two-Three-Where's-your-Breakfast is standing up eating leaves from a tall tree. This is really a puzzle-picture like 'Find the Cat.'] 'Now you _are_ a beauty!' said the Ethiopian. 'You can lie out on the bare ground and look like a heap of pebbles. You can lie out on the naked rocks and look like a piece of pudding-stone. You can lie out on a leafy branch and look like sunshine sifting through the leaves; and you can lie right across the centre of a path and look like nothing in particular. Think of that and purr!' 'But if I'm all this,' said the Leopard, 'why didn't you go spotty too?' 'Oh, plain black's best for a nigger,' said the Ethiopian. 'Now come along and we'll see if we can't get even with Mr. One-Two-Three-Where's-your-Breakfast!' * * * * * So they went away and lived happily ever afterward, Best Beloved. That is all. Oh, now and then you will hear grown-ups say, 'Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the Leopard his spots?' I don't think even grown-ups would keep on saying such a silly thing if the Leopard and the Ethiopian hadn't done it once--do you? But they will never do it again, Best Beloved. They are quite contented as they are. I AM the Most Wise Baviaan, saying in most wise tones, 'Let us melt into the landscape--just us two by our lones.' People have come--in a carriage--calling. But Mummy is there.... Yes, I can go if you take me--Nurse says _she_ don't care. Let's go up to the pig-sties and sit on the farmyard rails! Let's say things to the bunnies, and watch 'em skitter their tails! Let's--oh, _anything_, daddy, so long as it's you and me, And going truly exploring, and not being in till tea! Here's your boots (I've brought 'em), and here's your cap and stick, And here's your pipe and tobacco. Oh, come along out of it--quick. [Illustration: The Elephant's Child] THE ELEPHANT'S CHILD IN the High and Far-Off Times the Elephant, O Best Beloved, had no trunk. He had only a blackish, bulgy nose, as big as a boot, that he could wriggle about from side to side; but he couldn't pick up things with it. But there was one Elephant--a new Elephant--an Elephant's Child--who was full of 'satiable curtiosity, and that means he asked ever so many questions. _And_ he lived in Africa, and he filled all Africa with his 'satiable curtiosities. He asked his tall aunt, the Ostrich, why her tail-feathers grew just so, and his tall aunt the Ostrich spanked him with her hard, hard claw. He asked his tall uncle, the Giraffe, what made his skin spotty, and his tall uncle, the Giraffe, spanked him with his hard, hard hoof. And still he was full of 'satiable curtiosity! He asked his broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, why her eyes were red, and his broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, spanked him with her broad, broad hoof; and he asked his hairy uncle, the Baboon, why melons tasted just so, and his hairy uncle, the Baboon, spanked him with his hairy, hairy paw. And _still_ he was full of 'satiable curtiosity! He asked questions about everything that he saw, or heard, or felt, or smelt, or touched, and all his uncles and his aunts spanked him. And still he was full of 'satiable curtiosity! One fine morning in the middle of the Precession of the Equinoxes this 'satiable Elephant's Child asked a new fine question that he had never asked before. He asked, 'What does the Crocodile have for dinner?' Then everybody said, 'Hush!' in a loud and dretful tone, and they spanked him immediately and directly, without stopping, for a long time. By and by, when that was finished, he came upon Kolokolo Bird sitting in the middle of a wait-a-bit thorn-bush, and he said, 'My father has spanked me, and my mother has spanked me; all my aunts and uncles have spanked me for my 'satiable curtiosity; and _still_ I want to know what the Crocodile has for dinner!' Then Kolokolo Bird said, with a mournful cry, 'Go to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, and find out.' That very next morning, when there was nothing left of the Equinoxes, because the Precession had preceded according to precedent, this 'satiable Elephant's Child took a hundred pounds of bananas (the little short red kind), and a hundred pounds of sugar-cane (the long purple kind), and seventeen melons (the greeny-crackly kind), and said to all his dear families, 'Good-bye. I am going to the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, to find out what the Crocodile has for dinner.' And they all spanked him once more for luck, though he asked them most politely to stop. Then he went away, a little warm, but not at all astonished, eating melons, and throwing the rind about, because he could not pick it up. He went from Graham's Town to Kimberley, and from Kimberley to Khama's Country, and from Khama's Country he went east by north, eating melons all the time, till at last he came to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, precisely as Kolokolo Bird had said. Now you must know and understand, O Best Beloved, that till that very week, and day, and hour, and minute, this 'satiable Elephant's Child had never seen a Crocodile, and did not know what one was like. It was all his 'satiable curtiosity. The first thing that he found was a Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake curled round a rock. ''Scuse me,' said the Elephant's Child most politely, 'but have you seen such a thing as a Crocodile in these promiscuous parts?' '_Have_ I seen a Crocodile?' said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, in a voice of dretful scorn. 'What will you ask me next?' ''Scuse me,' said the Elephant's Child, 'but could you kindly tell me what he has for dinner?' Then the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake uncoiled himself very quickly from the rock, and spanked the Elephant's Child with his scalesome, flailsome tail. 'That is odd,' said the Elephant's Child, 'because my father and my mother, and my uncle and my aunt, not to mention my other aunt, the Hippopotamus, and my other uncle, the Baboon, have all spanked me for my 'satiable curtiosity--and I suppose this is the same thing.' So he said good-bye very politely to the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, and helped to coil him up on the rock again, and went on, a little warm, but not at all astonished, eating melons, and throwing the rind about, because he could not pick it up, till he trod on what he thought was a log of wood at the very edge of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees. But it was really the Crocodile, O Best Beloved, and the Crocodile winked one eye--like this! ''Scuse me,' said the Elephant's Child most politely, 'but do you happen to have seen a Crocodile in these promiscuous parts?' Then the Crocodile winked the other eye, and lifted half his tail out of the mud; and the Elephant's Child stepped back most politely, because he did not wish to be spanked again. 'Come hither, Little One,' said the Crocodile. 'Why do you ask such things?' ''Scuse me,' said the Elephant's Child most politely, 'but my father has spanked me, my mother has spanked me, not to mention my tall aunt, the Ostrich, and my tall uncle, the Giraffe, who can kick ever so hard, as well as my broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, and my hairy uncle, the Baboon, _and_ including the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, with the scalesome, flailsome tail, just up the bank, who spanks harder than any of them; and _so_, if it's quite all the same to you, I don't want to be spanked any more.' 'Come hither, Little One,' said the Crocodile, 'for I am the Crocodile,' and he wept crocodile-tears to show it was quite true. Then the Elephant's Child grew all breathless, and panted, and kneeled down on the bank and said, 'You are the very person I have been looking for all these long days. Will you please tell me what you have for dinner?' 'Come hither, Little One,' said the Crocodile, 'and I'll whisper.' Then the Elephant's Child put his head down close to the Crocodile's musky, tusky mouth, and the Crocodile caught him by his little nose, which up to that very week, day, hour, and minute, had been no bigger than a boot, though much more useful. 'I think,' said the Crocodile--and he said it between his teeth, like this--'I think to-day I will begin with Elephant's Child!' At this, O Best Beloved, the Elephant's Child was much annoyed, and he said, speaking through his nose, like this, 'Led go! You are hurtig be!' Then the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake scuffled down from the bank and said, 'My young friend, if you do not now, immediately and instantly, pull as hard as ever you can, it is my opinion that your acquaintance in the large-pattern leather ulster' (and by this he meant the Crocodile) 'will jerk you into yonder limpid stream before you can say Jack Robinson.' This is the way Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snakes always talk. Then the Elephant's Child sat back on his little haunches, and pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and his nose began to stretch. And the Crocodile floundered into the water, making it all creamy with great sweeps of his tail, and _he_ pulled, and pulled, and pulled. And the Elephant's Child's nose kept on stretching; and the Elephant's Child spread all his little four legs and pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and his nose kept on stretching; and the Crocodile threshed his tail like an oar, and _he_ pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and at each pull the Elephant's Child's nose grew longer and longer--and it hurt him hijjus! Then the Elephant's Child felt his legs slipping, and he said through his nose, which was now nearly five feet long, 'This is too butch for be!' Then the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake came down from the bank, and knotted himself in a double-clove-hitch round the Elephant's Child's hind legs, and said, 'Rash and inexperienced traveller, we will now seriously devote ourselves to a little high tension, because if we do not, it is my impression that yonder self-propelling man-of-war with the armour-plated upper deck' (and by this, O Best Beloved, he meant the Crocodile), 'will permanently vitiate your future career.' That is the way all Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snakes always talk. So he pulled, and the Elephant's Child pulled, and the Crocodile pulled; but the Elephant's Child and the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake pulled hardest; and at last the Crocodile let go of the Elephant's Child's nose with a plop that you could hear all up and down the Limpopo. Then the Elephant's Child sat down most hard and sudden; but first he was careful to say 'Thank you' to the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake; and next he was kind to his poor pulled nose, and wrapped it all up in cool banana leaves, and hung it in the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo to cool. 'What are you doing that for?' said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. ''Scuse me,' said the Elephant's Child, 'but my nose is badly out of shape, and I am waiting for it to shrink.' 'Then you will have to wait a long time,' said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. 'Some people do not know what is good for them.' The Elephant's Child sat there for three days waiting for his nose to shrink. But it never grew any shorter, and, besides, it made him squint. For, O Best Beloved, you will see and understand that the Crocodile had pulled it out into a really truly trunk same as all Elephants have to-day. [Illustration: THIS is the Elephant's Child having his nose pulled by the Crocodile. He is much surprised and astonished and hurt, and he is talking through his nose and saying, 'Led go! You are hurtig be!' He is pulling very hard, and so is the Crocodile; but the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake is hurrying through the water to help the Elephant's Child. All that black stuff is the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River (but I am not allowed to paint these pictures), and the bottly-tree with the twisty roots and the eight leaves is one of the fever-trees that grow there. Underneath the truly picture are shadows of African animals walking into an African ark. There are two lions, two ostriches, two oxen, two camels, two sheep, and two other things that look like rats, but I think they are rock-rabbits. They don't mean anything. I put them in because I thought they looked pretty. They would look very fine if I were allowed to paint them.] At the end of the third day a fly came and stung him on the shoulder, and before he knew what he was doing he lifted up his trunk and hit that fly dead with the end of it. ''Vantage number one!' said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. 'You couldn't have done that with a mere-smear nose. Try and eat a little now.' Before he thought what he was doing the Elephant's Child put out his trunk and plucked a large bundle of grass, dusted it clean against his fore-legs, and stuffed it into his own mouth. ''Vantage number two!' said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. 'You couldn't have done that with a mear-smear nose. Don't you think the sun is very hot here?' 'It is,' said the Elephant's Child, and before he thought what he was doing he schlooped up a schloop of mud from the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo, and slapped it on his head, where it made a cool schloopy-sloshy mud-cap all trickly behind his ears. ''Vantage number three!' said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. 'You couldn't have done that with a mere-smear nose. Now how do you feel about being spanked again?' ''Scuse me,' said the Elephant's Child, 'but I should not like it at all.' 'How would you like to spank somebody?' said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. 'I should like it very much indeed,' said the Elephant's Child. 'Well,' said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, 'you will find that new nose of yours very useful to spank people with.' 'Thank you,' said the Elephant's Child, 'I'll remember that; and now I think I'll go home to all my dear families and try.' So the Elephant's Child went home across Africa frisking and whisking his trunk. When he wanted fruit to eat he pulled fruit down from a tree, instead of waiting for it to fall as he used to do. When he wanted grass he plucked grass up from the ground, instead of going on his knees as he used to do. When the flies bit him he broke off the branch of a tree and used it as a fly-whisk; and he made himself a new, cool, slushy-squshy mud-cap whenever the sun was hot. When he felt lonely walking through Africa he sang to himself down his trunk, and the noise was louder than several brass bands. He went especially out of his way to find a broad Hippopotamus (she was no relation of his), and he spanked her very hard, to make sure that the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake had spoken the truth about his new trunk. The rest of the time he picked up the melon rinds that he had dropped on his way to the Limpopo--for he was a Tidy Pachyderm. One dark evening he came back to all his dear families, and he coiled up his trunk and said, 'How do you do?' They were very glad to see him, and immediately said, 'Come here and be spanked for your 'satiable curtiosity.' 'Pooh,' said the Elephant's Child. 'I don't think you peoples know anything about spanking; but _I_ do, and I'll show you.' Then he uncurled his trunk and knocked two of his dear brothers head over heels. 'O Bananas!' said they, 'where did you learn that trick, and what have you done to your nose?' 'I got a new one from the Crocodile on the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River,' said the Elephant's Child. 'I asked him what he had for dinner, and he gave me this to keep.' [Illustration: THIS is just a picture of the Elephant's Child going to pull bananas off a banana-tree after he had got his fine new long trunk. I don't think it is a very nice picture; but I couldn't make it any better, because elephants and bananas are hard to draw. The streaky things behind the Elephant's Child mean squoggy marshy country somewhere in Africa. The Elephant's Child made most of his mud-cakes out of the mud that he found there. I think it would look better if you painted the banana-tree green and the Elephant's Child red.] 'It looks very ugly,' said his hairy uncle, the Baboon. 'It does,' said the Elephant's Child. 'But it's very useful,' and he picked up his hairy uncle, the Baboon, by one hairy leg, and hove him into a hornet's nest. Then that bad Elephant's Child spanked all his dear families for a long time, till they were very warm and greatly astonished. He pulled out his tall Ostrich aunt's tail-feathers; and he caught his tall uncle, the Giraffe, by the hind-leg, and dragged him through a thorn-bush; and he shouted at his broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, and blew bubbles into her ear when she was sleeping in the water after meals; but he never let any one touch Kolokolo Bird. At last things grew so exciting that his dear families went off one by one in a hurry to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, to borrow new noses from the Crocodile. When they came back nobody spanked anybody any more; and ever since that day, O Best Beloved, all the Elephants you will ever see, besides all those that you won't, have trunks precisely like the trunk of the 'satiable Elephant's Child. I KEEP six honest serving-men; (They taught me all I knew) Their names are What and Where and When And How and Where and Who. I send them over land and sea, I send them east and west; But after they have worked for me, _I_ give them all a rest. _I_ let them rest from nine till five. For I am busy then, As well as breakfast, lunch, and tea, For they are hungry men: But different folk have different views; I know a person small-- She keeps ten million serving-men, Who get no rest at all! She sends 'em abroad on her own affairs, From the second she opens her eyes-- One million Hows, two million Wheres, And seven million Whys! [Illustration: The Sing-song of Old Man Kangaroo] THE SING-SONG OF OLD MAN KANGAROO NOT always was the Kangaroo as now we do behold him, but a Different Animal with four short legs. He was grey and he was woolly, and his pride was inordinate: he danced on an outcrop in the middle of Australia, and he went to the Little God Nqa. He went to Nqa at six before breakfast, saying, 'Make me different from all other animals by five this afternoon.' Up jumped Nqa from his seat on the sand-flat and shouted, 'Go away!' He was grey and he was woolly, and his pride was inordinate: he danced on a rock-ledge in the middle of Australia, and he went to the Middle God Nquing. He went to Nquing at eight after breakfast, saying, 'Make me different from all other animals; make me, also, wonderfully popular by five this afternoon.' Up jumped Nquing from his burrow in the spinifex and shouted, 'Go away!' He was grey and he was woolly, and his pride was inordinate: he danced on a sandbank in the middle of Australia, and he went to the Big God Nqong. He went to Nqong at ten before dinner-time, saying, 'Make me different from all other animals; make me popular and wonderfully run after by five this afternoon.' Up jumped Nqong from his bath in the salt-pan and shouted, 'Yes, I will!' Nqong called Dingo--Yellow-Dog Dingo--always hungry, dusty in the sunshine, and showed him Kangaroo. Nqong said, 'Dingo! Wake up, Dingo! Do you see that gentleman dancing on an ashpit? He wants to be popular and very truly run after. Dingo, make him so!' Up jumped Dingo--Yellow-Dog Dingo--and said, 'What, _that_ cat-rabbit?' Off ran Dingo--Yellow-Dog Dingo--always hungry, grinning like a coal-scuttle,--ran after Kangaroo. Off went the proud Kangaroo on his four little legs like a bunny. This, O Beloved of mine, ends the first part of the tale! He ran through the desert; he ran through the mountains; he ran through the salt-pans; he ran through the reed-beds; he ran through the blue gums; he ran through the spinifex; he ran till his front legs ached. He had to! Still ran Dingo--Yellow-Dog Dingo--always hungry, grinning like a rat-trap, never getting nearer, never getting farther,--ran after Kangaroo. He had to! Still ran Kangaroo--Old Man Kangaroo. He ran through the ti-trees; he ran through the mulga; he ran through the long grass; he ran through the short grass; he ran through the Tropics of Capricorn and Cancer; he ran till his hind legs ached. He had to! [Illustration: THIS is a picture of Old Man Kangaroo when he was the Different Animal with four short legs. I have drawn him grey and woolly, and you can see that he is very proud because he has a wreath of flowers in his hair. He is dancing on an outcrop (that means a ledge of rock) in the middle of Australia at six o'clock before breakfast. You can see that it is six o'clock, because the sun is just getting up. The thing with the ears and the open mouth is Little God Nqa. Nqa is very much surprised, because he has never seen a Kangaroo dance like that before. Little God Nqa is just saying, 'Go away,' but the Kangaroo is so busy dancing that he has not heard him yet. The Kangaroo hasn't any real name except Boomer. He lost it because he was so proud.] Still ran Dingo--Yellow-Dog Dingo--hungrier and hungrier, grinning like a horse-collar, never getting nearer, never getting farther; and they came to the Wollgong River. Now, there wasn't any bridge, and there wasn't any ferry-boat, and Kangaroo didn't know how to get over; so he stood on his legs and hopped. He had to! He hopped through the Flinders; he hopped through the Cinders; he hopped through the deserts in the middle of Australia. He hopped like a Kangaroo. First he hopped one yard; then he hopped three yards; then he hopped five yards; his legs growing stronger; his legs growing longer. He hadn't any time for rest or refreshment, and he wanted them very much. Still ran Dingo--Yellow-Dog Dingo--very much bewildered, very much hungry, and wondering what in the world or out of it made Old Man Kangaroo hop. For he hopped like a cricket; like a pea in a saucepan; or a new rubber ball on a nursery floor. He had to! [Illustration: THIS is the picture of Old Man Kangaroo at five in the afternoon, when he had got his beautiful hind legs just as Big God Nqong had promised. You can see that it is five o'clock, because Big God Nqong's pet tame clock says so. That is Nqong, in his bath, sticking his feet out. Old Man Kangaroo is being rude to Yellow-Dog Dingo. Yellow-Dog Dingo has been trying to catch Kangaroo all across Australia. You can see the marks of Kangaroo's big new feet running ever so far back over the bare hills. Yellow-Dog Dingo is drawn black, because I am not allowed to paint these pictures with real colours out of the paint-box; and besides, Yellow-Dog Dingo got dreadfully black and dusty after running through the Flinders and the Cinders. I don't know the names of the flowers growing round Nqong's bath. The two little squatty things out in the desert are the other two gods that Old Man Kangaroo spoke to early in the morning. That thing with the letters on it is Old Man Kangaroo's pouch. He had to have a pouch just as he had to have legs.] He tucked up his front legs; he hopped on his hind legs; he stuck out his tail for a balance-weight behind him; and he hopped through the Darling Downs. He had to! Still ran Dingo--Tired-Dog Dingo--hungrier and hungrier, very much bewildered, and wondering when in the world or out of it would Old Man Kangaroo stop. Then came Nqong from his bath in the salt-pans, and said, 'It's five o'clock.' Down sat Dingo--Poor Dog Dingo--always hungry, dusky in the sunshine; hung out his tongue and howled. Down sat Kangaroo--Old Man Kangaroo--stuck out his tail like a milking-stool behind him, and said, 'Thank goodness _that's_ finished!' Then said Nqong, who is always a gentleman, 'Why aren't you grateful to Yellow-Dog Dingo? Why don't you thank him for all he has done for you?' Then said Kangaroo--Tired Old Kangaroo--'He's chased me out of the homes of my childhood; he's chased me out of my regular meal-times; he's altered my shape so I'll never get it back; and he's played Old Scratch with my legs.' Then said Nqong, 'Perhaps I'm mistaken, but didn't you ask me to make you different from all other animals, as well as to make you very truly sought after? And now it is five o'clock.' 'Yes,' said Kangaroo. 'I wish that I hadn't. I thought you would do it by charms and incantations, but this is a practical joke.' 'Joke!' said Nqong from his bath in the blue gums. 'Say that again and I'll whistle up Dingo and run your hind legs off.' 'No,' said the Kangaroo. 'I must apologise. Legs are legs, and you needn't alter 'em so far as I am concerned. I only meant to explain to Your Lordliness that I've had nothing to eat since morning, and I'm very empty indeed.' 'Yes,' said Dingo--Yellow-Dog Dingo,--'I am just in the same situation. I've made him different from all other animals; but what may I have for my tea?' Then said Nqong from his bath in the salt-pan, 'Come and ask me about it to-morrow, because I'm going to wash.' So they were left in the middle of Australia, Old Man Kangaroo and Yellow-Dog Dingo, and each said, 'That's _your_ fault.' THIS is the mouth-filling song Of the race that was run by a Boomer, Run in a single burst--only event of its kind-- Started by big God Nqong from Warrigaborrigarooma, Old Man Kangaroo first: Yellow-Dog Dingo behind. Kangaroo bounded away, His back-legs working like pistons-- Bounded from morning till dark, Twenty-five feet to a bound. Yellow-Dog Dingo lay Like a yellow cloud in the distance-- Much too busy to bark. My! but they covered the ground! Nobody knows where they went, Or followed the track that they flew in, For that Continent Hadn't been given a name. They ran thirty degrees, From Torres Straits to the Leeuwin (Look at the Atlas, please), And they ran back as they came. S'posing you could trot From Adelaide to the Pacific, For an afternoon's run-- Half what these gentlemen did-- You would feel rather hot, But your legs would develop terrific-- Yes, my importunate son, You'd be a Marvellous Kid! [Illustration: The Beginning of the Armadillos] THE BEGINNING OF THE ARMADILLOS THIS, O Best Beloved, is another story of the High and Far-Off Times. In the very middle of those times was a Stickly-Prickly Hedgehog, and he lived on the banks of the turbid Amazon, eating shelly snails and things. And he had a friend, a Slow-Solid Tortoise, who lived on the banks of the turbid Amazon, eating green lettuces and things. And so _that_ was all right, Best Beloved. Do you see? But also, and at the same time, in those High and Far-Off Times, there was a Painted Jaguar, and he lived on the banks of the turbid Amazon too; and he ate everything that he could catch. When he could not catch deer or monkeys he would eat frogs and beetles; and when he could not catch frogs and beetles he went to his Mother Jaguar, and she told him how to eat hedgehogs and tortoises. She said to him ever so many times, graciously waving her tail, 'My son, when you find a Hedgehog you must drop him into the water and then he will uncoil, and when you catch a Tortoise you must scoop him out of his shell with your paw.' And so that was all right, Best Beloved. One beautiful night on the banks of the turbid Amazon, Painted Jaguar found Stickly-Prickly Hedgehog and Slow-Solid Tortoise sitting under the trunk of a fallen tree. They could not run away, and so Stickly-Prickly curled himself up into a ball, because he was a Hedgehog, and Slow-Solid Tortoise drew in his head and feet into his shell as far as they would go, because he was a Tortoise; and so _that_ was all right, Best Beloved. Do you see? 'Now attend to me,' said Painted Jaguar, 'because this is very important. My mother said that when I meet a Hedgehog I am to drop him into the water and then he will uncoil, and when I meet a Tortoise I am to scoop him out of his shell with my paw. Now which of you is Hedgehog and which is Tortoise? because to save my spots, I can't tell.' 'Are you sure of what your Mummy told you?' said Stickly-Prickly Hedgehog. 'Are you quite sure? Perhaps she said that when you uncoil a Tortoise you must shell him out of the water with a scoop, and when you paw a Hedgehog you must drop him on the shell.' 'Are you sure of what your Mummy told you?' said Slow-and-Solid Tortoise. 'Are you quite sure? Perhaps she said that when you water a Hedgehog you must drop him into your paw, and when you meet a Tortoise you must shell him till he uncoils.' 'I don't think it was at all like that,' said Painted Jaguar, but he felt a little puzzled; 'but, please, say it again more distinctly.' 'When you scoop water with your paw you uncoil it with a Hedgehog,' said Stickly-Prickly. 'Remember that, because it's important.' '_But_,' said the Tortoise, 'when you paw your meat you drop it into a Tortoise with a scoop. Why can't you understand?' [Illustration: THIS is an inciting map of the Turbid Amazon done in Red and Black. It hasn't anything to do with the story except that there are two Armadillos in it--up by the top. The inciting part are the adventures that happened to the men who went along the road marked in red. I meant to draw Armadillos when I began the map, and I meant to draw manatees and spider-tailed monkeys and big snakes and lots of Jaguars, but it was more inciting to do the map and the venturesome adventures in red. You begin at the bottom left-hand corner and follow the little arrows all about, and then you come quite round again to where the adventuresome people went home in a ship called the _Royal Tiger_. This is a most adventuresome picture, and all the adventures are told about in writing, so you can be quite sure which is an adventure and which is a tree or a boat.] 'You are making my spots ache,' said Painted Jaguar; 'and besides, I didn't want your advice at all. I only wanted to know which of you is Hedgehog and which is Tortoise.' 'I shan't tell you,' said Stickly-Prickly, 'but you can scoop me out of my shell if you like.' 'Aha!' said Painted Jaguar. 'Now I know you're Tortoise. You thought I wouldn't! Now I will.' Painted Jaguar darted out his paddy-paw just as Stickly-Prickly curled himself up, and of course Jaguar's paddy-paw was just filled with prickles. Worse than that, he knocked Stickly-Prickly away and away into the woods and the bushes, where it was too dark to find him. Then he put his paddy-paw into his mouth, and of course the prickles hurt him worse than ever. As soon as he could speak he said, 'Now I know he isn't Tortoise at all. But'--and then he scratched his head with his un-prickly paw--'how do I know that this other is Tortoise?' 'But I _am_ Tortoise,' said Slow-and-Solid. 'Your mother was quite right. She said that you were to scoop me out of my shell with your paw. Begin.' 'You didn't say she said that a minute ago,' said Painted Jaguar, sucking the prickles out of his paddy-paw. 'You said she said something quite different.' 'Well, suppose you say that I said that she said something quite different, I don't see that it makes any difference; because if she said what you said I said she said, it's just the same as if I said what she said she said. On the other hand, if you think she said that you were to uncoil me with a scoop, instead of pawing me into drops with a shell, I can't help that, can I?' 'But you said you wanted to be scooped out of your shell with my paw,' said Painted Jaguar. 'If you'll think again you'll find that I didn't say anything of the kind. I said that your mother said that you were to scoop me out of my shell,' said Slow-and-Solid. 'What will happen if I do?' said the Jaguar most sniffily and most cautious. 'I don't know, because I've never been scooped out of my shell before; but I tell you truly, if you want to see me swim away you've only got to drop me into the water.' 'I don't believe it,' said Painted Jaguar. 'You've mixed up all the things my mother told me to do with the things that you asked me whether I was sure that she didn't say, till I don't know whether I'm on my head or my painted tail; and now you come and tell me something I _can_ understand, and it makes me more mixy than before. My mother told me that I was to drop one of you two into the water, and as you seem so anxious to be dropped I think you don't want to be dropped. So jump into the turbid Amazon and be quick about it.' 'I warn you that your Mummy won't be pleased. Don't tell her I didn't tell you,' said Slow-Solid. 'If you say another word about what my mother said--' the Jaguar answered, but he had not finished the sentence before Slow-and-Solid quietly dived into the turbid Amazon, swam under water for a long way, and came out on the bank where Stickly-Prickly was waiting for him. 'That was a very narrow escape,' said Stickly-Prickly. 'I don't like Painted Jaguar. What did you tell him that you were?' 'I told him truthfully that I was a truthful Tortoise, but he wouldn't believe it, and he made me jump into the river to see if I was, and I was, and he is surprised. Now he's gone to tell his Mummy. Listen to him!' They could hear Painted Jaguar roaring up and down among the trees and the bushes by the side of the turbid Amazon, till his Mummy came. 'Son, son!' said his mother ever so many times, graciously waving her tail, 'what have you been doing that you shouldn't have done?' 'I tried to scoop something that said it wanted to be scooped out of its shell with my paw, and my paw is full of per-ickles,' said Painted Jaguar. 'Son, son!' said his mother ever so many times, graciously waving her tail, 'by the prickles in your paddy-paw I see that that must have been a Hedgehog. You should have dropped him into the water.' 'I did that to the other thing; and he said he was a Tortoise, and I didn't believe him, and it was quite true, and he has dived under the turbid Amazon, and he won't come up again, and I haven't anything at all to eat, and I think we had better find lodgings somewhere else. They are too clever on the turbid Amazon for poor me!' 'Son, son!' said his mother ever so many times, graciously waving her tail, 'now attend to me and remember what I say. A Hedgehog curls himself up into a ball and his prickles stick out every which way at once. By this you may know the Hedgehog.' 'I don't like this old lady one little bit,' said Stickly-Prickly, under the shadow of a large leaf. 'I wonder what else she knows?' 'A Tortoise can't curl himself up,' Mother Jaguar went on, ever so many times, graciously waving her tail. 'He only draws his head and legs into his shell. By this you may know the Tortoise.' 'I don't like this old lady at all--at all,' said Slow-and-Solid Tortoise. 'Even Painted Jaguar can't forget those directions. It's a great pity that you can't swim, Stickly-Prickly.' 'Don't talk to me,' said Stickly-Prickly. 'Just think how much better it would be if you could curl up. This _is_ a mess! Listen to Painted Jaguar.' Painted Jaguar was sitting on the banks of the turbid Amazon sucking prickles out of his paws and saying to himself-- 'Can't curl, but can swim-- Slow-Solid, that's him! Curls up, but can't swim-- Stickly-Prickly, that's him!' 'He'll never forget that this month of Sundays,' said Stickly-Prickly. 'Hold up my chin, Slow-and-Solid. I'm going to try to learn to swim. It may be useful.' 'Excellent!' said Slow-and-Solid; and he held up Stickly-Prickly's chin, while Stickly-Prickly kicked in the waters of the turbid Amazon. 'You'll make a fine swimmer yet,' said Slow-and-Solid. 'Now, if you can unlace my back-plates a little, I'll see what I can do towards curling up. It may be useful.' Stickly-Prickly helped to unlace Tortoise's back-plates, so that by twisting and straining Slow-and-Solid actually managed to curl up a tiddy wee bit. 'Excellent!' said Stickly-Prickly; 'but I shouldn't do any more just now. It's making you black in the face. Kindly lead me into the water once again and I'll practise that side-stroke which you say is so easy.' And so Stickly-Prickly practised, and Slow-Solid swam alongside. 'Excellent!' said Slow-and-Solid. 'A little more practice will make you a regular whale. Now, if I may trouble you to unlace my back and front plates two holes more, I'll try that fascinating bend that you say is so easy. Won't Painted Jaguar be surprised!' 'Excellent!' said Stickly-Prickly, all wet from the turbid Amazon. 'I declare, I shouldn't know you from one of my own family. Two holes, I think, you said? A little more expression, please, and don't grunt quite so much, or Painted Jaguar may hear us. When you've finished, I want to try that long dive which you say is so easy. Won't Painted Jaguar be surprised!' And so Stickly-Prickly dived, and Slow-and-Solid dived alongside. 'Excellent!' said Slow-and-Solid. 'A leetle more attention to holding your breath and you will be able to keep house at the bottom of the turbid Amazon. Now I'll try that exercise of wrapping my hind legs round my ears which you say is so peculiarly comfortable. Won't Painted Jaguar be surprised!' 'Excellent!' said Stickly-Prickly. 'But it's straining your back-plates a little. They are all overlapping now, instead of lying side by side.' 'Oh, that's the result of exercise,' said Slow-and-Solid. 'I've noticed that your prickles seem to be melting into one another, and that you're growing to look rather more like a pine-cone, and less like a chestnut-burr, than you used to.' 'Am I?' said Stickly-Prickly. 'That comes from my soaking in the water. Oh, won't Painted Jaguar be surprised!' They went on with their exercises, each helping the other, till morning came; and when the sun was high they rested and dried themselves. Then they saw that they were both of them quite different from what they had been. 'Stickly-Prickly,' said Tortoise after breakfast, 'I am not what I was yesterday; but I think that I may yet amuse Painted Jaguar.' 'That was the very thing I was thinking just now,' said Stickly-Prickly. 'I think scales are a tremendous improvement on prickles--to say nothing of being able to swim. Oh, _won't_ Painted Jaguar be surprised! Let's go and find him.' By and by they found Painted Jaguar, still nursing his paddy-paw that had been hurt the night before. He was so astonished that he fell three times backward over his own painted tail without stopping. 'Good morning!' said Stickly-Prickly. 'And how is your dear gracious Mummy this morning?' 'She is quite well, thank you,' said Painted Jaguar; 'but you must forgive me if I do not at this precise moment recall your name.' 'That's unkind of you,' said Stickly-Prickly, 'seeing that this time yesterday you tried to scoop me out of my shell with your paw.' 'But you hadn't any shell. It was all prickles,' said Painted Jaguar. 'I know it was. Just look at my paw!' 'You told me to drop into the turbid Amazon and be drowned,' said Slow-Solid. 'Why are you so rude and forgetful to-day?' 'Don't you remember what your mother told you?' said Stickly-Prickly,-- 'Can't curl, but can swim-- Stickly-Prickly, that's him! Curls up, but can't swim-- Slow-Solid, that's him!' Then they both curled themselves up and rolled round and round Painted Jaguar till his eyes turned truly cart-wheels in his head. Then he went to fetch his mother. [Illustration: THIS is a picture of the whole story of the Jaguar and the Hedgehog and the Tortoise _and_ the Armadillo all in a heap. It looks rather the same any way you turn it. The Tortoise is in the middle, learning how to bend, and that is why the shelly plates on his back are so spread apart. He is standing on the Hedgehog, who is waiting to learn how to swim. The Hedgehog is a Japanesy Hedgehog, because I couldn't find our own Hedgehogs in the garden when I wanted to draw them. (It was daytime, and they had gone to bed under the dahlias.) Speckly Jaguar is looking over the edge, with his paddy-paw carefully tied up by his mother, because he pricked himself scooping the Hedgehog. He is much surprised to see what the Tortoise is doing, and his paw is hurting him. The snouty thing with the little eye that Speckly Jaguar is trying to climb over is the Armadillo that the Tortoise and the Hedgehog are going to turn into when they have finished bending and swimming. It is all a magic picture, and that is one of the reasons why I haven't drawn the Jaguar's whiskers. The other reason was that he was so young that his whiskers had not grown. The Jaguar's pet name with his Mummy was Doffles.] 'Mother,' he said, 'there are two new animals in the woods to-day, and the one that you said couldn't swim, swims, and the one that you said couldn't curl up, curls; and they've gone shares in their prickles, I think, because both of them are scaly all over, instead of one being smooth and the other very prickly; and, besides that, they are rolling round and round in circles, and I don't feel comfy.' 'Son, son!' said Mother Jaguar ever so many times, graciously waving her tail, 'a Hedgehog is a Hedgehog, and can't be anything but a Hedgehog; and a Tortoise is a Tortoise, and can never be anything else.' 'But it isn't a Hedgehog, and it isn't a Tortoise. It's a little bit of both, and I don't know its proper name.' 'Nonsense!' said Mother Jaguar. 'Everything has its proper name. I should call it "Armadillo" till I found out the real one. And I should leave it alone.' So Painted Jaguar did as he was told, especially about leaving them alone; but the curious thing is that from that day to this, O Best Beloved, no one on the banks of the turbid Amazon has ever called Stickly-Prickly and Slow-Solid anything except Armadillo. There are Hedgehogs and Tortoises in other places, of course (there are some in my garden); but the real old and clever kind, with their scales lying lippety-lappety one over the other, like pine-cone scales, that lived on the banks of the turbid Amazon in the High and Far-Off Days, are always called Armadillos, because they were so clever. So _that's_ all right, Best Beloved. Do you see? [Illustration] I'VE never sailed the Amazon, I've never reached Brazil; But the _Don_ and _Magdalena_, They can go there when they will! Yes, weekly from Southampton, Great steamers, white and gold, Go rolling down to Rio (Roll down--roll down to Rio!) And I'd like to roll to Rio Some day before I'm old! I've never seen a Jaguar, Nor yet an Armadill-- O dilloing in his armour, And I s'pose I never will, Unless I go to Rio These wonders to behold-- Roll down--roll down to Rio-- Roll really down to Rio! Oh, I'd love to roll to Rio Some day before I'm old! [Illustration: How the First Letter Was Written] HOW THE FIRST LETTER WAS WRITTEN ONCE upon a most early time was a Neolithic man. He was not a Jute or an Angle, or even a Dravidian, which he might well have been, Best Beloved, but never mind why. He was a Primitive, and he lived cavily in a Cave, and he wore very few clothes, and he couldn't read and he couldn't write and he didn't want to, and except when he was hungry he was quite happy. His name was Tegumai Bopsulai, and that means, 'Man-who-does-not-put-his-foot-forward-in-a-hurry'; but we, O Best Beloved, will call him Tegumai, for short. And his wife's name was Teshumai Tewindrow, and that means, 'Lady-who-asks-a-very-many-questions'; but we, O Best Beloved, will call her Teshumai, for short. And his little girl-daughter's name was Taffimai Metallumai, and that means, 'Small-person-without-any-manners-who-ought-to-be-spanked'; but I'm going to call her Taffy. And she was Tegumai Bopsulai's Best Beloved and her own Mummy's Best Beloved, and she was not spanked half as much as was good for her; and they were all three very happy. As soon as Taffy could run about she went everywhere with her Daddy Tegumai, and sometimes they would not come home to the Cave till they were hungry, and then Teshumai Tewindrow would say, 'Where in the world have you two been to, to get so shocking dirty? Really, my Tegumai, you're no better than my Taffy.' Now attend and listen! One day Tegumai Bopsulai went down through the beaver-swamp to the Wagai river to spear carp-fish for dinner, and Taffy went too. Tegumai's spear was made of wood with shark's teeth at the end, and before he had caught any fish at all he accidentally broke it clean across by jabbing it down too hard on the bottom of the river. They were miles and miles from home (of course they had their lunch with them in a little bag), and Tegumai had forgotten to bring any extra spears. 'Here's a pretty kettle of fish!' said Tegumai. 'It will take me half the day to mend this.' 'There's your big black spear at home,' said Taffy. 'Let me run back to the Cave and ask Mummy to give it me.' 'It's too far for your little fat legs,' said Tegumai. 'Besides, you might fall into the beaver-swamp and be drowned. We must make the best of a bad job.' He sat down and took out a little leather mendy-bag, full of reindeer-sinews and strips of leather, and lumps of bee's-wax and resin, and began to mend the spear. Taffy sat down too, with her toes in the water and her chin in her hand, and thought very hard. Then she said-- 'I say, Daddy, it's an awful nuisance that you and I don't know how to write, isn't it? If we did we could send a message for the new spear.' 'Taffy,' said Tegumai, 'how often have I told you not to use slang? "Awful" isn't a pretty word,--but it _would_ be a convenience, now you mention it, if we could write home.' Just then a Stranger-man came along the river, but he belonged to a far tribe, the Tewaras, and he did not understand one word of Tegumai's language. He stood on the bank and smiled at Taffy, because he had a little girl-daughter of his own at home. Tegumai drew a hank of deer-sinews from his mendy-bag and began to mend his spear. 'Come here,' said Taffy. 'Do you know where my Mummy lives?' And the Stranger-man said 'Um!'--being, as you know, a Tewara. 'Silly!' said Taffy, and she stamped her foot, because she saw a shoal of very big carp going up the river just when her Daddy couldn't use his spear. 'Don't bother grown-ups,' said Tegumai, so busy with his spear-mending that he did not turn round. 'I aren't,' said Taffy. 'I only want him to do what I want him to do, and he won't understand.' 'Then don't bother me,' said Tegumai, and he went on pulling and straining at the deer-sinews with his mouth full of loose ends. The Stranger-man--a genuine Tewara he was--sat down on the grass, and Taffy showed him what her Daddy was doing. The Stranger-man thought, 'This is a very wonderful child. She stamps her foot at me and she makes faces. She must be the daughter of that noble Chief who is so great that he won't take any notice of me.' So he smiled more politely than ever. 'Now,' said Taffy, 'I want you to go to my Mummy, because your legs are longer than mine, and you won't fall into the beaver-swamp, and ask for Daddy's other spear--the one with the black handle that hangs over our fireplace.' The Stranger-man (_and_ he was a Tewara) thought, 'This is a very, very wonderful child. She waves her arms and she shouts at me, but I don't understand a word of what she says. But if I don't do what she wants, I greatly fear that that haughty Chief, Man-who-turns-his-back-on-callers, will be angry.' He got up and twisted a big flat piece of bark off a birch-tree and gave it to Taffy. He did this, Best Beloved, to show that his heart was as white as the birch-bark and that he meant no harm; but Taffy didn't quite understand. 'Oh!' said she. 'Now I see! You want my Mummy's living address? Of course I can't write, but I can draw pictures if I've anything sharp to scratch with. Please lend me the shark's tooth off your necklace.' The Stranger-man (and _he_ was a Tewara) didn't say anything, so Taffy put up her little hand and pulled at the beautiful bead and seed and shark-tooth necklace round his neck. The Stranger-man (and he _was_ a Tewara) thought, 'This is a very, very, very wonderful child. The shark's tooth on my necklace is a magic shark's tooth, and I was always told that if anybody touched it without my leave they would immediately swell up or burst, but this child doesn't swell up or burst, and that important Chief, Man-who-attends-strictly-to-his-business, who has not yet taken any notice of me at all, doesn't seem to be afraid that she will swell up or burst. I had better be more polite.' So he gave Taffy the shark's tooth, and she lay down flat on her tummy with her legs in the air, like some people on the drawing-room floor when they want to draw pictures, and she said, 'Now I'll draw you some beautiful pictures! You can look over my shoulder, but you mustn't joggle. First I'll draw Daddy fishing. It isn't very like him; but Mummy will know, because I've drawn his spear all broken. Well, now I'll draw the other spear that he wants, the black-handled spear. It looks as if it was sticking in Daddy's back, but that's because the shark's tooth slipped and this piece of bark isn't big enough. That's the spear I want you to fetch; so I'll draw a picture of me myself 'splaining to you. My hair doesn't stand up like I've drawn, but it's easier to draw that way. Now I'll draw you. _I_ think you're very nice really, but I can't make you pretty in the picture, so you mustn't be 'fended. Are you 'fended?' The Stranger-man (and he was _a_ Tewara) smiled. He thought, 'There must be a big battle going to be fought somewhere, and this extraordinary child, who takes my magic shark's tooth but who does not swell up or burst, is telling me to call all the great Chief's tribe to help him. He _is_ a great Chief, or he would have noticed me.' 'Look,' said Taffy, drawing very hard and rather scratchily, 'now I've drawn you, and I've put the spear that Daddy wants into your hand, just to remind you that you're to bring it. Now I'll show you how to find my Mummy's living-address. You go along till you come to two trees (those are trees), and then you go over a hill (that's a hill), and then you come into a beaver-swamp all full of beavers. I haven't put in all the beavers, because I can't draw beavers, but I've drawn their heads, and that's all you'll see of them when you cross the swamp. Mind you don't fall in! Then our Cave is just beyond the beaver-swamp. It isn't as high as the hills really, but I can't draw things very small. That's my Mummy outside. She is beautiful. She is the most beautifullest Mummy there ever was, but she won't be 'fended when she sees I've drawn her so plain. She'll be pleased of me because I can draw. Now, in case you forget, I've drawn the spear that Daddy wants _outside_ our Cave. It's _inside_ really, but you show the picture to my Mummy and she'll give it you. I've made her holding up her hands, because I know she'll be so pleased to see you. Isn't it a beautiful picture? And do you quite understand, or shall I 'splain again?' The Stranger-man (and he was a _Tewara_) looked at the picture and nodded very hard. He said to himself, 'If I do not fetch this great Chief's tribe to help him, he will be slain by his enemies who are coming up on all sides with spears. Now I see why the great Chief pretended not to notice me! He feared that his enemies were hiding in the bushes and would see him deliver a message to me. Therefore he turned his back, and let the wise and wonderful child draw the terrible picture showing me his difficulties. I will away and get help for him from his tribe.' He did not even ask Taffy the road, but raced off into the bushes like the wind, with the birch-bark in his hand, and Taffy sat down most pleased. Now this is the picture that Taffy had drawn for him! [Illustration] 'What have you been doing, Taffy?' said Tegumai. He had mended his spear and was carefully waving it to and fro. 'It's a little berangement of my own, Daddy dear,' said Taffy. 'If you won't ask me questions, you'll know all about it in a little time, and you'll be surprised. You don't know how surprised you'll be, Daddy! Promise you'll be surprised.' 'Very well,' said Tegumai, and went on fishing. The Stranger-man--did you know he was a Tewara?--hurried away with the picture and ran for some miles, till quite by accident he found Teshumai Tewindrow at the door of her Cave, talking to some other Neolithic ladies who had come in to a Primitive lunch. Taffy was very like Teshumai, especially about the upper part of the face and the eyes, so the Stranger-man--always a pure Tewara--smiled politely and handed Teshumai the birch-bark. He had run hard, so that he panted, and his legs were scratched with brambles, but he still tried to be polite. As soon as Teshumai saw the picture she screamed like anything and flew at the Stranger-man. The other Neolithic ladies at once knocked him down and sat on him in a long line of six, while Teshumai pulled his hair. 'It's as plain as the nose on this Stranger-man's face,' she said. 'He has stuck my Tegumai all full of spears, and frightened poor Taffy so that her hair stands all on end; and not content with that, he brings me a horrid picture of how it was done. Look!' She showed the picture to all the Neolithic ladies sitting patiently on the Stranger-man. 'Here is my Tegumai with his arm broken; here is a spear sticking into his back; here is a man with a spear ready to throw; here is another man throwing a spear from a Cave, and here are a whole pack of people' (they were Taffy's beavers really, but they did look rather like people) 'coming up behind Tegumai. Isn't it shocking!' 'Most shocking!' said the Neolithic ladies, and they filled the Stranger-man's hair with mud (at which he was surprised), and they beat upon the Reverberating Tribal Drums, and called together all the chiefs of the Tribe of Tegumai, with their Hetmans and Dolmans, all Neguses, Woons, and Akhoonds of the organisation, in addition to the Warlocks, Angekoks, Juju-men, Bonzes, and the rest, who decided that before they chopped the Stranger-man's head off he should instantly lead them down to the river and show them where he had hidden poor Taffy. By this time the Stranger-man (in spite of being a Tewara) was really annoyed. They had filled his hair quite solid with mud; they had rolled him up and down on knobby pebbles; they had sat upon him in a long line of six; they had thumped him and bumped him till he could hardly breathe; and though he did not understand their language, he was almost sure that the names the Neolithic ladies called him were not ladylike. However, he said nothing till all the Tribe of Tegumai were assembled, and then he led them back to the bank of the Wagai river, and there they found Taffy making daisy-chains, and Tegumai carefully spearing small carp with his mended spear. 'Well, you _have_ been quick!' said Taffy. 'But why did you bring so many people? Daddy dear, this is my surprise. _Are_ you surprised, Daddy?' 'Very,' said Tegumai; 'but it has ruined all my fishing for the day. Why, the whole dear, kind, nice, clean, quiet Tribe is here, Taffy.' And so they were. First of all walked Teshumai Tewindrow and the Neolithic ladies, tightly holding on to the Stranger-man, whose hair was full of mud (although he was a Tewara). Behind them came the Head Chief, the Vice-Chief, the Deputy and Assistant Chiefs (all armed to the upper teeth), the Hetmans and Heads of Hundreds, Platoffs with their Platoons, and Dolmans with their Detachments; Woons, Neguses, and Akhoonds ranking in the rear (still armed to the teeth). Behind them was the Tribe in hierarchical order, from owners of four caves (one for each season), a private reindeer-run, and two salmon-leaps, to feudal and prognathous Villeins, semi-entitled to half a bearskin of winter nights, seven yards from the fire, and adscript serfs, holding the reversion of a scraped marrow-bone under heriot (Aren't those beautiful words, Best Beloved?). They were all there, prancing and shouting, and they frightened every fish for twenty miles, and Tegumai thanked them in a fluid Neolithic oration. Then Teshumai Tewindrow ran down and kissed and hugged Taffy very much indeed; but the Head Chief of the Tribe of Tegumai took Tegumai by the top-knot feathers and shook him severely. 'Explain! Explain! Explain!' cried all the Tribe of Tegumai. 'Goodness' sakes alive!' said Tegumai. 'Let go of my top-knot. Can't a man break his carp-spear without the whole countryside descending on him? You're a very interfering people.' 'I don't believe you've brought my Daddy's black-handled spear after all,' said Taffy. 'And what _are_ you doing to my nice Stranger-man?' They were thumping him by twos and threes and tens till his eyes turned round and round. He could only gasp and point at Taffy. 'Where are the bad people who speared you, my darling?' said Teshumai Tewindrow. 'There weren't any,' said Tegumai. 'My only visitor this morning was the poor fellow that you are trying to choke. Aren't you well, or are you ill, O Tribe of Tegumai?' 'He came with a horrible picture,' said the Head Chief,--'a picture that showed you were full of spears.' 'Er--um--Pr'aps I'd better 'splain that I gave him that picture,' said Taffy, but she did not feel quite comfy. 'You!' said the Tribe of Tegumai all together. 'Small-person-with-no-manners-who-ought-to-be-spanked! You?' 'Taffy dear, I'm afraid we're in for a little trouble,' said her Daddy, and put his arm round her, so she didn't care. 'Explain! Explain! Explain!' said the Head Chief of the Tribe of Tegumai, and he hopped on one foot. 'I wanted the Stranger-man to fetch Daddy's spear, so I drawded it,' said Taffy. 'There wasn't lots of spears. There was only one spear. I drawded it three times to make sure. I couldn't help it looking as if it stuck into Daddy's head--there wasn't room on the birch-bark; and those things that Mummy called bad people are my beavers. I drawded them to show him the way through the swamp; and I drawded Mummy at the mouth of the Cave looking pleased because he is a nice Stranger-man, and _I_ think you are just the stupidest people in the world,' said Taffy. 'He is a very nice man. Why have you filled his hair with mud? Wash him!' Nobody said anything at all for a long time, till the Head Chief laughed; then the Stranger-man (who was at least a Tewara) laughed; then Tegumai laughed till he fell down flat on the bank; then all the Tribe laughed more and worse and louder. The only people who did not laugh were Teshumai Tewindrow and all the Neolithic ladies. They were very polite to all their husbands, and said 'idiot!' ever so often. Then the Head Chief of the Tribe of Tegumai cried and said and sang, 'O Small-person-without-any-manners-who-ought-to-be-spanked, you've hit upon a great invention!' 'I didn't intend to; I only wanted Daddy's black-handled spear,' said Taffy. 'Never mind. It _is_ a great invention, and some day men will call it writing. At present it is only pictures, and, as we have seen to-day, pictures are not always properly understood. But a time will come, O Babe of Tegumai, when we shall make letters--all twenty-six of 'em,--and when we shall be able to read as well as to write, and then we shall always say exactly what we mean without any mistakes. Let the Neolithic ladies wash the mud out of the stranger's hair. 'I shall be glad of that,' said Taffy, 'because, after all, though you've brought every single other spear in the Tribe of Tegumai, you've forgotten my Daddy's black-handled spear.' Then the Head Chief cried and said and sang, 'Taffy dear, the next time you write a picture-letter, you'd better send a man who can talk our language with it, to explain what it means. I don't mind it myself, because I am a Head Chief, but it's very bad for the rest of the Tribe of Tegumai, and, as you can see, it surprises the stranger.' Then they adopted the Stranger-man (a genuine Tewara of Tewar) into the Tribe of Tegumai, because he was a gentleman and did not make a fuss about the mud that the Neolithic ladies had put into his hair. But from that day to this (and I suppose it is all Taffy's fault), very few little girls have ever liked learning to read or write. Most of them prefer to draw pictures and play about with their Daddies--just like Taffy. [Illustration: THIS is the story of Taffimai Metallumai carved on an old tusk a very long time ago by the Ancient Peoples. If you read my story, or have it read to you, you can see how it is all told out on the tusk. The tusk was part of an old tribal trumpet that belonged to the Tribe of Tegumai. The pictures were scratched on it with a nail or something, and then the scratches were filled up with black wax, but all the dividing lines and the five little rounds at the bottom were filled with red wax. When it was new there was a sort of network of beads and shells and precious stones at one end of it; but now that has been broken and lost--all except the little bit that you see. The letters round the tusk are magic--Runic magic,--and if you can read them you will find out something rather new. The tusk is of ivory--very yellow and scratched. It is two feet long and two feet round, and weighs eleven pounds nine ounces.] THERE runs a road by Merrow Down-- A grassy track to-day it is-- An hour out of Guildford town, Above the river Wey it is. Here, when they heard the horse-bells ring, The ancient Britons dressed and rode To watch the dark Phoenicians bring Their goods along the Western Road. And here, or hereabouts, they met To hold their racial talks and such-- To barter beads for Whitby jet, And tin for gay shell torques and such. But long and long before that time (When bison used to roam on it) Did Taffy and her Daddy climb That down, and had their home on it. Then beavers built in Broadstonebrook And made a swamp where Bramley stands: And bears from Shere would come and look For Taffimai where Shamley stands. The Wey, that Taffy called Wagai, Was more than six times bigger then; And all the Tribe of Tegumai They cut a noble figure then! [Illustration: How the Alphabet Was Made] HOW THE ALPHABET WAS MADE THE week after Taffimai Metallumai (we will still call her Taffy, Best Beloved) made that little mistake about her Daddy's spear and the Stranger-man and the picture-letter and all, she went carp-fishing again with her Daddy. Her Mummy wanted her to stay at home and help hang up hides to dry on the big drying-poles outside their Neolithic Cave, but Taffy slipped away down to her Daddy quite early, and they fished. Presently she began to giggle, and her Daddy said, 'Don't be silly, child.' 'But wasn't it inciting!' said Taffy. 'Don't you remember how the Head Chief puffed out his cheeks, and how funny the nice Stranger-man looked with the mud in his hair?' 'Well do I,' said Tegumai. 'I had to pay two deerskins--soft ones with fringes--to the Stranger-man for the things we did to him.' '_We_ didn't do anything,' said Taffy. 'It was Mummy and the other Neolithic ladies--and the mud.' 'We won't talk about that,' said her Daddy. 'Let's have lunch.' Taffy took a marrow-bone and sat mousy-quiet for ten whole minutes, while her Daddy scratched on pieces of birch-bark with a shark's tooth. Then she said, 'Daddy, I've thinked of a secret surprise. You make a noise--any sort of noise.' 'Ah!' said Tegumai. 'Will that do to begin with?' 'Yes,' said Taffy. 'You look just like a carp-fish with its mouth open. Say it again, please.' 'Ah! ah! ah!' said her Daddy. 'Don't be rude, my daughter.' 'I'm not meaning rude, really and truly,' said Taffy. 'It's part of my secret-surprise-think. _Do_ say _ah_, Daddy, and keep your mouth open at the end, and lend me that tooth. I'm going to draw a carp-fish's mouth wide-open.' 'What for?' said her Daddy. 'Don't you see?' said Taffy, scratching away on the bark. 'That will be our little secret s'prise. When I draw a carp-fish with his mouth open in the smoke at the back of our Cave--if Mummy doesn't mind--it will remind you of that ah-noise. Then we can play that it was me jumped out of the dark and s'prised you with that noise--same as I did in the beaver-swamp last winter.' 'Really?' said her Daddy, in the voice that grown-ups use when they are truly attending. 'Go on, Taffy.' [Illustration: 1] 'Oh bother!' she said. 'I can't draw all of a carp-fish, but I can draw something that means a carp-fish's mouth. Don't you know how they stand on their heads rooting in the mud? Well, here's a pretence carp-fish (we can play that the rest of him is drawn). Here's just his mouth, and that means _ah_.' And she drew this. (1.) 'That's not bad,' said Tegumai, and scratched on his own piece of bark for himself; but you've forgotten the feeler that hangs across his mouth.' 'But I can't draw, Daddy.' 'You needn't draw anything of him except just the opening of his mouth and the feeler across. Then we'll know he's a carp-fish, 'cause the perches and trouts haven't got feelers. Look here, Taffy.' And he drew this. (2.) [Illustration: 2] 'Now I'll copy it.' said Taffy. 'Will you understand _this_ when you see it?' And she drew this. (3.) [Illustration: 3] 'Perfectly,' said her Daddy. 'And I'll be quite as s'prised when I see it anywhere, as if you had jumped out from behind a tree and said "Ah!"' 'Now, make another noise,' said Taffy, very proud. 'Yah!' said her Daddy, very loud. 'H'm,' said Taffy. 'That's a mixy noise. The end part is _ah_-carp-fish-mouth; but what can we do about the front part? _Yer-yer-yer_ and _ah! Ya!'_ 'It's very like the carp-fish-mouth noise. Let's draw another bit of the carp-fish and join 'em,' said her Daddy. _He_ was quite incited too. 'No. If they're joined, I'll forget. Draw it separate. Draw his tail. If he's standing on his head the tail will come first. 'Sides, I think I can draw tails easiest,' said Taffy. 'A good notion,' said Tegumai. 'Here's a carp-fish tail for the _yer_-noise.' And he drew this. (4.) [Illustration: 4] 'I'll try now,' said Taffy. ''Member I can't draw like you, Daddy. Will it do if I just draw the split part of the tail, and the sticky-down line for where it joins?' And she drew this. (5.) [Illustration: 5] Her Daddy nodded, and his eyes were shiny bright with 'citement. 'That's beautiful,' she said. 'Now make another noise, Daddy.' 'Oh!' said her Daddy, very loud. 'That's quite easy,' said Taffy. 'You make your mouth all around like an egg or a stone. So an egg or a stone will do for that.' 'You can't always find eggs or stones. We'll have to scratch a round something like one.' And he drew this. (6.) [Illustration: 6] 'My gracious!' said Taffy, 'what a lot of noise-pictures we've made,--carp-mouth, carp-tail, and egg! Now, make another noise, Daddy.' 'Ssh!' said her Daddy, and frowned to himself, but Taffy was too incited to notice. 'That's quite easy,' she said, scratching on the bark. 'Eh, what?' said her Daddy. 'I meant I was thinking, and didn't want to be disturbed.' 'It's a noise just the same. It's the noise a snake makes, Daddy, when it is thinking and doesn't want to be disturbed. Let's make the _ssh_-noise a snake. Will this do?' And she drew this. (7.) [Illustration: 7] 'There,' she said. 'That's another s'prise-secret. When you draw a hissy-snake by the door of your little back-cave where you mend the spears, I'll know you're thinking hard; and I'll come in most mousy-quiet. And if you draw it on a tree by the river when you're fishing, I'll know you want me to walk most _most_ mousy-quiet, so as not to shake the banks.' 'Perfectly true,' said Tegumai. 'And there's more in this game than you think. Taffy, dear, I've a notion that your Daddy's daughter has hit upon the finest thing that there ever was since the Tribe of Tegumai took to using shark's teeth instead of flints for their spear-heads. I believe we've found out _the_ big secret of the world.' 'Why?' said Taffy, and her eyes shone too with incitement. 'I'll show,' said her Daddy. 'What's water in the Tegumai language?' '_Ya_, of course, and it means river too--like Wagai-_ya_--the Wagai river.' 'What is bad water that gives you fever if you drink it--black water--swamp-water?' '_Yo_, of course.' 'Now look,' said her Daddy. 'S'pose you saw this scratched by the side of a pool in the beaver-swamp?' And he drew this. (8.) [Illustration: 8] 'Carp-tail and round egg. Two noises mixed! _Yo_, bad water,' said Taffy. ''Course I wouldn't drink that water because I'd know you said it was bad.' 'But I needn't be near the water at all. I might be miles away, hunting, and still----' 'And _still_ it would be just the same as if you stood there and said, "G'way, Taffy, or you'll get fever." All that in a carp-fish-tail and a round egg! O Daddy, we must tell Mummy, quick!' and Taffy danced all round him. 'Not yet,' said Tegumai; 'not till we've gone a little further. Let's see. _Yo_ is bad water, but _so_ is food cooked on the fire, isn't it?' And he drew this. (9.) [Illustration: 9] 'Yes. Snake and egg,' said Taffy 'So that means dinner's ready. If you saw that scratched on a tree you'd know it was time to come to the Cave. So'd I.' 'My Winkie!' said Tegumai. 'That's true too. But wait a minute. I see a difficulty. _So_ means "come and have dinner," but _sho_ means the drying-poles where we hang our hides.' 'Horrid old drying-poles!' said Taffy. 'I hate helping to hang heavy, hot, hairy hides on them. If you drew the snake and egg, and I thought it meant dinner, and I came in from the wood and found that it meant I was to help Mummy hang the two hides on the drying-poles, what _would_ I do?' 'You'd be cross. So'd Mummy. We must make a new picture for _sho_. We must draw a spotty snake that hisses _sh-sh_, and we'll play that the plain snake only hisses _ssss_.' 'I couldn't be sure how to put in the spots,' said Taffy. 'And p'raps if _you_ were in a hurry you might leave them out, and I'd think it was _so_ when it was _sho_, and then Mummy would catch me just the same. _No!_ I think we'd better draw a picture of the horrid high drying-poles their very selves, and make _quite_ sure. I'll put them in just after the hissy-snake. Look!' And she drew this. (10.) [Illustration: 10] 'P'raps that's safest. It's very like our drying-poles, anyhow,' said her Daddy, laughing. 'Now I'll make a new noise with a snake and drying-pole sound in it. I'll say _shi_. That's Tegumai for spear, Taffy.' And he laughed. 'Don't make fun of me,' said Taffy, as she thought of her picture-letter and the mud in the Stranger-man's hair. '_You_ draw it, Daddy.' 'We won't have beavers or hills this time, eh?' said her Daddy. 'I'll just draw a straight line for my spear.' and he drew this, (11.) [Illustration: 11] 'Even Mummy couldn't mistake that for me being killed.' '_Please_ don't, Daddy. It makes me uncomfy. Do some more noises. We're getting on beautifully.' 'Er-hm!' said Tegumai, looking up. 'We'll say _shu_. That means sky.' Taffy drew the snake and the drying-pole. Then she stopped. 'We must make a new picture for that end sound, mustn't we?' '_Shu-shu-u-u-u!_' said her Daddy. 'Why, it's just like the round-egg-sound made thin.' 'Then s'pose we draw a thin round egg, and pretend it's a frog that hasn't eaten anything for years.' 'N-no,' said her Daddy. 'If we drew that in a hurry we might mistake it for the round egg itself. _Shu-shu-shu!_ _I'll_ tell you what we'll do. We'll open a little hole at the end of the round egg to show how the O-noise runs out all thin, _ooo-oo-oo_. Like this.' And he drew this. (12.) [Illustration: 12] 'Oh, that's lovely! Much better than a thin frog. Go on,' said Taffy, using her shark's tooth. Her Daddy went on drawing, and his hand shook with excitement. He went on till he had drawn this. (13.) [Illustration: 13] 'Don't look up, Taffy,' he said. 'Try if you can make out what that means in the Tegumai language. If you can, we've found the Secret.' 'Snake--pole--broken-egg--carp-tail and carp-mouth,' said Taffy. '_Shu-ya._ Sky-water (rain).' Just then a drop fell on her hand, for the day had clouded over. 'Why, Daddy, it's raining. Was _that_ what you meant to tell me?' 'Of course,' said her Daddy. 'And I told it you without saying a word, didn't I?' 'Well, I _think_ I would have known it in a minute, but that raindrop made me quite sure. I'll always remember now. _Shu-ya_ means rain or "it is going to rain." Why, Daddy!' She got up and danced round him. 'S'pose you went out before I was awake, and drawed _shu-ya_ in the smoke on the wall, I'd know it was going to rain and I'd take my beaver-skin hood. Wouldn't Mummy be surprised!' Tegumai got up and danced. (Daddies didn't mind doing those things in those days.) 'More than that! More than that!' he said. 'S'pose I wanted to tell you it wasn't going to rain much and you must come down to the river, what would we draw? Say the words in Tegumai-talk first.' '_Shu-ya-las, ya maru._ (Sky-water ending. River come to.) _What_ a lot of new sounds! _I_ don't see how we can draw them.' 'But I do--but I do!' said Tegumai. 'Just attend a minute, Taffy, and we won't do any more to-day. We've got _shu-ya_ all right, haven't we? but this _las_ is a teaser. _La-la-la!'_ and he waved his shark-tooth. 'There's the hissy-snake at the end and the carp-mouth before the snake--_as-as-as_. We only want _la-la_,' said Taffy. 'I know it, but we have to make la-la. And we're the first people in all the world who've ever tried to do it, Taffimai!' 'Well,' said Taffy, yawning, for she was rather tired. '_Las_ means breaking or finishing as well as ending, doesn't it?' 'So it does,' said Tegumai. '_Yo-las_ means that there's no water in the tank for Mummy to cook with--just when I'm going hunting, too.' 'And _shi-las_ means that your spear is broken. If I'd only thought of _that_ instead of drawing silly beaver pictures for the Stranger!' '_La! La! La!_' said Tegumai, waving his stick and frowning. 'Oh bother!' 'I could have drawn _shi_ quite easily,' Taffy went on. 'Then I'd have drawn your spear all broken--this way!' And she drew. (14.) [Illustration: 14] [Illustration: 15] [Illustration: 16] 'The very thing,' said Tegumai. 'That's _la_ all over. It isn't like any of the other marks, either.' And he drew this. (15.) 'Now for _ya_. Oh, we've done that before. Now for _maru_. _Mum-mum-mum_. _Mum_ shuts one's mouth up, doesn't it? We'll draw a shut mouth like this.' And he drew. (16.) 'Then the carp-mouth open. That makes _Ma-ma-ma!_ But what about this _rrrrr_-thing, Taffy?' 'It sounds all rough and edgy, like your shark-tooth saw when you're cutting out a plank for the canoe,' said Taffy. 'You mean all sharp at the edges, like this?' said Tegumai. And he drew. (17.) [Illustration: 17] ''Xactly,' said Taffy. 'But we don't want all those teeth: only put two.' 'I'll only put in one,' said Tegumai. 'If this game of ours is going to be what I think it will, the easier we make our sound-pictures the better for everybody.' And he drew. (18.) [Illustration: 18] '_Now_ we've got it,' said Tegumai, standing on one leg. 'I'll draw 'em all in a string like fish.' 'Hadn't we better put a little bit of stick or something between each word, so's they won't rub up against each other and jostle, same as if they were carps?' 'Oh, I'll leave a space for that,' said her Daddy. And very incitedly he drew them all without stopping, on a big new bit of birch-bark. (19.) '_Shu-ya-las ya-maru_,' said Taffy, reading it out sound by sound. [Illustration] 'That's enough for to-day,' said Tegumai. 'Besides, you're getting tired, Taffy. Never mind, dear. We'll finish it all to-morrow, and then we'll be remembered for years and years after the biggest trees you can see are all chopped up for firewood.' So they went home, and all that evening Tegumai sat on one side of the fire and Taffy on the other, drawing _ya's_ and _yo's_ and _shu's_ and _shi's_ in the smoke on the wall and giggling together till her Mummy said, 'Really, Tegumai, you're worse than my Taffy.' 'Please don't mind,' said Taffy. 'It's only our secret-s'prise, Mummy dear, and we'll tell you all about it the very minute it's done; but _please_ don't ask me what it is now, or else I'll have to tell.' So her Mummy most carefully didn't; and bright and early next morning Tegumai went down to the river to think about new sound-pictures, and when Taffy got up she saw _Ya-las_ (water is ending or running out) chalked on the side of the big stone water-tank, outside the Cave. 'Um,' said Taffy. 'These picture-sounds are rather a bother! Daddy's just as good as come here himself and told me to get more water for Mummy to cook with.' She went to the spring at the back of the house and filled the tank from a bark bucket, and then she ran down to the river and pulled her Daddy's left ear--the one that belonged to her to pull when she was good. 'Now come along and we'll draw all the left-over sound-pictures,' said her Daddy, and they had a most inciting day of it, and a beautiful lunch in the middle, and two games of romps. When they came to T, Taffy said that as her name, and her Daddy's, and her Mummy's all began with that sound, they should draw a sort of family group of themselves holding hands. That was all very well to draw once or twice; but when it came to drawing it six or seven times, Taffy and Tegumai drew it scratchier and scratchier, till at last the T-sound was only a thin long Tegumai with his arms out to hold Taffy and Teshumai. You can see from these three pictures partly how it happened. (20, 21, 22.) [Illustration: 20] [Illustration: 21] [Illustration: 22] [Illustration: 23] [Illustration: 24] [Illustration: 25] [Illustration: 26] [Illustration: 27] Many of the other pictures were much too beautiful to begin with, especially before lunch, but as they were drawn over and over again on birch-bark, they became plainer and easier, till at last even Tegumai said he could find no fault with them. They turned the hissy-snake the other way round for the Z-sound, to show it was hissing backwards in a soft and gentle way (23); and they just made a twiddle for E, because it came into the pictures so often (24); and they drew pictures of the sacred Beaver of the Tegumais for the B-sound (25, 26, 27, 28); and because it was a nasty, nosy noise, they just drew noses for the N-sound, till they were tired (29); and they drew a picture of the big lake-pike's mouth for the greedy Ga-sound (30); and they drew the pike's mouth again with a spear behind it for the scratchy, hurty Ka-sound (31); and they drew pictures of a little bit of the winding Wagai river for the nice windy-windy Wa-sound (32, 33); and so on and so forth and so following till they had done and drawn all the sound-pictures that they wanted, and there was the Alphabet, all complete. [Illustration: 28] [Illustration: 29] [Illustration: 30] [Illustration: 31] [Illustration: 32] [Illustration: 33] And after thousands and thousands and thousands of years, and after Hieroglyphics and Demotics, and Nilotics, and Cryptics, and Cufics, and Runics, and Dorics, and Ionics, and all sorts of other ricks and tricks (because the Woons, and the Neguses, and the Akhoonds, and the Repositories of Tradition would never leave a good thing alone when they saw it), the fine old easy, understandable Alphabet--A, B, C, D, E, and the rest of 'em--got back into its proper shape again for all Best Beloveds to learn when they are old enough. But _I_ remember Tegumai Bopsulai, and Taffimai Metallumai and Teshumai Tewindrow, her dear Mummy, and all the days gone by. And it was so--just so--a little time ago--on the banks of the big Wagai! ONE of the first things that Tegumai Bopsulai did after Taffy and he had made the Alphabet was to make a magic Alphabet-necklace of all the letters, so that it could be put in the Temple of Tegumai and kept for ever and ever. All the Tribe of Tegumai brought their most precious beads and beautiful things, and Taffy and Tegumai spent five whole years getting the necklace in order. This is a picture of the magic Alphabet-necklace. The string was made of the finest and strongest reindeer-sinew, bound round with thin copper wire. Beginning at the top, the first bead is an old silver one that belonged to the Head Priest of the Tribe of Tegumai; then come three black mussel-pearls; next is a clay bead (blue and gray); next a nubbly gold bead sent as a present by a tribe who got it from Africa (but it must have been Indian really); the next is a long flat-sided glass bead from Africa (the Tribe of Tegumai took it in a fight); then come two clay beads (white and green), with dots on one, and dots and bands on the other; next are three rather chipped amber beads; then three clay beads (red and white), two with dots, and the big one in the middle with a toothed pattern. Then the letters begin, and between each letter is a little whitish clay bead with the letter repeated small. Here are the letters-- A is scratched on a tooth--an elk-tusk I think. B is the Sacred Beaver of Tegumai on a bit of old glory. C is a pearly oyster-shell--inside front. D must be a sort of mussel-shell--outside front. E is a twist of silver wire. F is broken, but what remains of it is a bit of stag's horn. G is painted black on a piece of wood. (The bead after G is a small shell, and not a clay bead. I don't know why they did that.) H is a kind of a big brown cowie-shell. I is the inside part of a long shell ground down by hand. (It took Tegumai three months to grind it down.) J is a fish hook in mother-of-pearl. L is the broken spear in silver. (K ought to follow J of course, but the necklace was broken once and they mended it wrong.) K is a thin slice of bone scratched and rubbed in black. M is on a pale gray shell. N is a piece of what is called porphyry with a nose scratched on it. (Tegumai spent five months polishing this stone.) O is a piece of oyster-shell with a hole in the middle. P and Q are missing. They were lost, a long time ago, in a great war, and the tribe mended the necklace with the dried rattles of a rattlesnake, but no one ever found P and Q. That is how the saying began, 'You must mind your P's. and Q's.' R is, of course, just a shark's tooth. S is a little silver snake. T is the end of a small bone, polished brown and shiny. U is another piece of oyster-shell. W is a twisty piece of mother-of-pearl that they found inside a big mother-of-pearl shell, and sawed off with a wire dipped in sand and water. It took Taffy a month and a half to polish it and drill the holes. X is silver wire joined in the middle with a raw garnet. (Taffy found the garnet.) Y is the carp's tail in ivory. Z is a bell-shaped piece of agate marked with Z-shaped stripes. They made the Z-snake out of one of the stripes by picking out the soft stone and rubbing in red sand and bee's-wax. Just in the mouth of the bell you see the clay bead repeating the Z-letter. These are all the letters. The next bead is a small round greeny lump of copper ore; the next is a lump of rough turquoise; the next is a rough gold nugget (what they call water-gold); the next is a melon-shaped clay bead (white with green spots). Then come four flat ivory pieces, with dots on them rather like dominoes; then come three stone beads, very badly worn; then two soft iron beads with rust-holes at the edges (they must have been magic, because they look very common); and last is a very very old African bead, like glass--blue, red, white, black, and yellow. Then comes the loop to slip over the big silver button at the other end, and that is all. I have copied the necklace very carefully. It weighs one pound seven and a half ounces. The black squiggle behind is only put in to make the beads and things look better. [Illustration] OF all the Tribe of Tegumai Who cut that figure, none remain,-- On Merrow Down the cuckoos cry-- The silence and the sun remain. But as the faithful years return And hearts unwounded sing again, Comes Taffy dancing through the fern To lead the Surrey spring again. Her brows are bound with bracken-fronds, And golden elf-locks fly above; Her eyes are bright as diamonds And bluer than the skies above. In mocassins and deer-skin cloak, Unfearing, free and fair she flits, And lights her little damp-wood smoke To show her Daddy where she flits. For far--oh, very far behind, So far she cannot call to him, Comes Tegumai alone to find The daughter that was all to him. [Illustration: The Crab that Played With the Sea] THE CRAB THAT PLAYED WITH THE SEA BEFORE the High and Far-Off Times, O my Best Beloved, came the Time of the Very Beginnings; and that was in the days when the Eldest Magician was getting Things ready. First he got the Earth ready; then he got the Sea ready; and then he told all the Animals that they could come out and play. And the Animals said, 'O Eldest Magician, what shall we play at?' and he said, 'I will show you.' He took the Elephant--All-the-Elephant-there-was--and said, 'Play at being an Elephant,' and All-the-Elephant-there-was played. He took the Beaver--All-the-Beaver-there-was--and said, 'Play at being a Beaver,' and All-the-Beaver-there-was played. He took the Cow--All-the-Cow-there-was--and said, 'Play at being a Cow,' and All-the-Cow-there-was played. He took the Turtle--All-the-Turtle-there-was--and said, 'Play at being a Turtle,' and All-the-Turtle-there-was played. One by one he took all the beasts and birds and fishes and told them what to play at. But towards evening, when people and things grow restless and tired, there came up the Man (With his own little girl-daughter?)--Yes, with his own best beloved little girl-daughter sitting upon his shoulder, and he said, 'What is this play, Eldest Magician?' And the Eldest Magician said, 'Ho, Son of Adam, this is the play of the Very Beginning; but you are too wise for this play.' And the Man saluted and said, 'Yes, I am too wise for this play; but see that you make all the Animals obedient to me.' Now, while the two were talking together, Pau Amma the Crab, who was next in the game, scuttled off sideways and stepped into the sea, saying to himself, 'I will play my play alone in the deep waters, and I will never be obedient to this son of Adam.' Nobody saw him go away except the little girl-daughter where she leaned on the Man's shoulder. And the play went on till there were no more Animals left without orders; and the Eldest Magician wiped the fine dust off his hands and walked about the world to see how the Animals were playing. He went North, Best Beloved, and he found All-the-Elephant-there-was digging with his tusks and stamping with his feet in the nice new clean earth that had been made ready for him. '_Kun?_' said All-the-Elephant-there-was, meaning, 'Is this right?' '_Payah kun_,' said the Eldest Magician, meaning, 'That is quite right'; and he breathed upon the great rocks and lumps of earth that All-the-Elephant-there-was had thrown up, and they became the great Himalayan Mountains, and you can look them out on the map. He went East, and he found All-the-Cow-there-was feeding in the field that had been made ready for her, and she licked her tongue round a whole forest at a time, and swallowed it and sat down to chew her cud. [Illustration: THIS is a picture of Pau Amma the Crab running away while the Eldest Magician was talking to the Man and his Little Girl Daughter. The Eldest Magician is sitting on his magic throne, wrapped up in his Magic Cloud. The three flowers in front of him are the three Magic Flowers. On the top of the hill you can see All-the-Elephant-there-was, and All-the-Cow-there-was, and All-the-Turtle-there-was going off to play as the Eldest Magician told them. The Cow has a hump, because she was All-the-Cow-there-was; so she had to have all there was for all the cows that were made afterwards. Under the hill there are Animals who have been taught the game they were to play. You can see All-the-Tiger-there-was smiling at All-the-Bones-there-were, and you can see All-the-Elk-there-was, and All-the-Parrot-there-was, and All-the-Bunnies-there-were on the hill. The other Animals are on the other side of the hill, so I haven't drawn them. The little house up the hill is All-the-House-there-was. The Eldest Magician made it to show the Man how to make houses when he wanted to. The Snake round that spiky hill is All-the-Snake-there-was, and he is talking to All-the-Monkey-there-was, and the Monkey is being rude to the Snake, and the Snake is being rude to the Monkey. The Man is very busy talking to the Eldest Magician. The Little Girl Daughter is looking at Pau Amma as he runs away. That humpy thing in the water in front is Pau Amma. He wasn't a common Crab in those days. He was a King Crab. That is why he looks different. The thing that looks like bricks that the Man is standing in, is the Big Miz-Maze. When the Man has done talking with the Eldest Magician he will walk in the Big Miz-Maze, because he has to. The mark on the stone under the Man's foot is a magic mark; and down underneath I have drawn the three Magic Flowers all mixed up with the Magic Cloud. All this picture is Big Medicine and Strong Magic.] '_Kun?_' said All-the-Cow-there-was. '_Payah kun_,' said the Eldest Magician; and he breathed upon the bare patch where she had eaten, and upon the place where she had sat down, and one became the great Indian Desert, and the other became the Desert of Sahara, and you can look them out on the map. He went West, and he found All-the-Beaver-there-was making a beaver-dam across the mouths of broad rivers that had been got ready for him. '_Kun?_' said All-the-Beaver-there-was. '_Payah kun_,' said the Eldest Magician; and he breathed upon the fallen trees and the still water, and they became the Everglades in Florida, and you may look them out on the map. Then he went South and found All-the-Turtle-there-was scratching with his flippers in the sand that had been got ready for him, and the sand and the rocks whirled through the air and fell far off into the sea. '_Kun?_' said All-the-Turtle-there-was. '_Payah kun_,' said the Eldest Magician; and he breathed upon the sand and the rocks, where they had fallen in the sea, and they became the most beautiful islands of Borneo, Celebes, Sumatra, Java, and the rest of the Malay Archipelago, and you can look _them_ out on the map! By and by the Eldest Magician met the Man on the banks of the Perak river, and said, 'Ho! Son of Adam, are all the Animals obedient to you?' 'Yes,' said the Man. 'Is all the Earth obedient to you?' 'Yes,' said the Man. 'Is all the Sea obedient to you?' 'No,' said the Man. 'Once a day and once a night the Sea runs up the Perak river and drives the sweet-water back into the forest, so that my house is made wet; once a day and once a night it runs down the river and draws all the water after it, so that there is nothing left but mud, and my canoe is upset. Is that the play you told it to play?' 'No,' said the Eldest Magician. 'That is a new and a bad play.' 'Look!' said the Man, and as he spoke the great Sea came up the mouth of the Perak river, driving the river backwards till it overflowed all the dark forests for miles and miles, and flooded the Man's house. 'This is wrong. Launch your canoe and we will find out who is playing with the Sea,' said the Eldest Magician. They stepped into the canoe; the little girl-daughter came with them; and the Man took his _kris_--a curving, wavy dagger with a blade like a flame,--and they pushed out on the Perak river. Then the sea began to run back and back, and the canoe was sucked out of the mouth of the Perak river, past Selangor, past Malacca, past Singapore, out and out to the Island of Bingtang, as though it had been pulled by a string. Then the Eldest Magician stood up and shouted, 'Ho! beasts, birds, and fishes, that I took between my hands at the Very Beginning and taught the play that you should play, which one of you is playing with the Sea?' Then all the beasts, birds, and fishes said together, 'Eldest Magician, we play the plays that you taught us to play--we and our children's children. But not one of us plays with the Sea.' Then the Moon rose big and full over the water, and the Eldest Magician said to the hunchbacked old man who sits in the Moon spinning a fishing-line with which he hopes one day to catch the world, 'Ho! Fisher of the Moon, are you playing with the Sea?' 'No,' said the Fisherman, 'I am spinning a line with which I shall some day catch the world; but I do not play with the Sea.' And he went on spinning his line. Now there is also a Rat up in the Moon who always bites the old Fisherman's line as fast as it is made, and the Eldest Magician said to him, 'Ho! Rat of the Moon, are _you_ playing with the Sea?' And the Rat said, 'I am too busy biting through the line that this old Fisherman is spinning. I do not play with the Sea.' And he went on biting the line. Then the little girl-daughter put up her little soft brown arms with the beautiful white shell bracelets and said, 'O Eldest Magician! when my father here talked to you at the Very Beginning, and I leaned upon his shoulder while the beasts were being taught their plays, one beast went away naughtily into the Sea before you had taught him his play.' And the Eldest Magician said, 'How wise are little children who see and are silent! What was the beast like?' And the little girl-daughter said, 'He was round and he was flat; and his eyes grew upon stalks; and he walked sideways like this; and he was covered with strong armour upon his back.' And the Eldest Magician said, 'How wise are little children who speak truth! Now I know where Pau Amma went. Give me the paddle!' So he took the paddle; but there was no need to paddle, for the water flowed steadily past all the islands till they came to the place called Pusat Tasek--the Heart of the Sea--where the great hollow is that leads down to the heart of the world, and in that hollow grows the Wonderful Tree, Pauh Janggi, that bears the magic twin nuts. Then the Eldest Magician slid his arm up to the shoulder through the deep warm water, and under the roots of the Wonderful Tree he touched the broad back of Pau Amma the Crab. And Pau Amma settled down at the touch, and all the Sea rose up as water rises in a basin when you put your hand into it. 'Ah!' said the Eldest Magician. 'Now I know who has been playing with the Sea;' and he called out, 'What are you doing, Pau Amma?' And Pau Amma, deep down below, answered, 'Once a day and once a night I go out to look for my food. Once a day and once a night I return. Leave me alone.' Then the Eldest Magician said, 'Listen, Pau Amma. When you go out from your cave the waters of the Sea pour down into Pusat Tasek, and all the beaches of all the islands are left bare, and the little fish die, and Raja Moyang Kaban, the King of the Elephants, his legs are made muddy. When you come back and sit in Pusat Tasek, the waters of the Sea rise, and half the little islands are drowned, and the Man's house is flooded, and Raja Abdullah, the King of the Crocodiles, his mouth is filled with the salt water. Then Pau Amma, deep down below, laughed and said, 'I did not know I was so important. Henceforward I will go out seven times a day, and the waters shall never be still.' And the Eldest Magician said, 'I cannot make you play the play you were meant to play, Pau Amma, because you escaped me at the Very Beginning; but if you are not afraid, come up and we will talk about it.' 'I am not afraid,' said Pau Amma, and he rose to the top of the sea in the moonlight. There was nobody in the world so big as Pau Amma--for he was the King Crab of all Crabs. Not a common Crab, but a King Crab. One side of his great shell touched the beach at Sarawak; the other touched the beach at Pahang; and he was taller than the smoke of three volcanoes! As he rose up through the branches of the Wonderful Tree he tore off one of the great twin-fruits--the magic double-kernelled nuts that make people young,--and the little girl-daughter saw it bobbing alongside the canoe, and pulled it in and began to pick out the soft eyes of it with her little golden scissors. 'Now,' said the Magician, 'make a Magic, Pau Amma, to show that you are really important.' Pau Amma rolled his eyes and waved his legs, but he could only stir up the Sea, because, though he was a King Crab, he was nothing more than a Crab, and the Eldest Magician laughed. [Illustration: THIS is the picture of Pau Amma the Crab rising out of the sea as tall as the smoke of three volcanoes. I haven't drawn the three volcanoes, because Pau Amma was so big. Pau Amma is trying to make a Magic, but he is only a silly old King Crab, and so he can't do anything. You can see he is all legs and claws and empty hollow shell. The canoe is the canoe that the Man and the Girl Daughter and the Eldest Magician sailed from the Perak river in. The sea is all black and bobbly, because Pau Amma has just risen up out of Pusat Tasek. Pusat Tasek is underneath, so I haven't drawn it. The Man is waving his curvy _kris_-knife at Pau Amma. The Little Girl Daughter is sitting quietly in the middle of the canoe. She knows she is quite safe with her Daddy. The Eldest Magician is standing up at the other end of the canoe beginning to make a Magic. He has left his magic throne on the beach, and he has taken off his clothes so as not to get wet, and he has left the Magic Cloud behind too, so as not to tip the boat over. The thing that looks like another little canoe outside the real canoe is called an outrigger. It is a piece of wood tied to sticks, and it prevents the canoe from being tipped over. The canoe is made out of one piece of wood, and there is a paddle at one end of it.] 'You are not so important after all, Pau Amma,' he said. 'Now, let _me_ try,' and he made a Magic with his left hand--with just the little finger of his left hand--and--lo and behold, Best Beloved, Pau Amma's hard, blue-green-black shell fell off him as a husk falls off a cocoa-nut, and Pau Amma was left all soft--soft as the little crabs that you sometimes find on the beach, Best Beloved. 'Indeed, you are very important,' said the Eldest Magician. 'Shall I ask the Man here to cut you with _kris_? Shall I send for Raja Moyang Kaban, the King of the Elephants, to pierce you with his tusks, or shall I call Raja Abdullah, the King of the Crocodiles, to bite you?' And Pau Amma said, 'I am ashamed! Give me back my hard shell and let me go back to Pusat Tasek, and I will only stir out once a day and once a night to get my food.' And the Eldest Magician said, 'No, Pau Amma, I will _not_ give you back your shell, for you will grow bigger and prouder and stronger, and perhaps you will forget your promise, and you will play with the Sea once more.' Then Pau Amma said, 'What shall I do? I am so big that I can only hide in Pusat Tasek, and if I go anywhere else, all soft as I am now, the sharks and the dogfish will eat me. And if I go to Pusat Tasek, all soft as I am now, though I may be safe, I can never stir out to get my food, and so I shall die.' Then he waved his legs and lamented. 'Listen, Pau Amma,' said the Eldest Magician. 'I cannot make you play the play you were meant to play, because you escaped me at the Very Beginning; but if you choose, I can make every stone and every hole and every bunch of weed in all the seas a safe Pusat Tasek for you and your children for always.' Then Pau Amma said, 'That is good, but I do not choose yet. Look! there is that Man who talked to you at the Very Beginning. If he had not taken up your attention I should not have grown tired of waiting and run away, and all this would never have happened. What will _he_ do for me?' And the Man said, 'If you choose, I will make a Magic, so that both the deep water and the dry ground will be a home for you and your children--so that you shall be able to hide both on the land and in the sea.' And Pau Amma said, 'I do not choose yet. Look! there is that girl who saw me running away at the Very Beginning. If she had spoken then, the Eldest Magician would have called me back, and all this would never have happened. What will _she_ do for me?' And the little girl-daughter said, 'This is a good nut that I am eating. If you choose, I will make a Magic and I will give you this pair of scissors, very sharp and strong, so that you and your children can eat cocoa-nuts like this all day long when you come up from the Sea to the land; or you can dig a Pusat Tasek for yourself with the scissors that belong to you when there is no stone or hole near by; and when the earth is too hard, by the help of these same scissors you can run up a tree.' And Pau Amma said, 'I do not choose yet, for, all soft as I am, these gifts would not help me. Give me back my shell, O Eldest Magician, and then I will play your play.' And the Eldest Magician said, 'I will give it back, Pau Amma, for eleven months of the year; but on the twelfth month of every year it shall grow soft again, to remind you and all your children that I can make magics, and to keep you humble, Pau Amma; for I see that if you can run both under the water and on land, you will grow too bold; and if you can climb trees and crack nuts and dig holes with your scissors, you will grow too greedy, Pau Amma.' Then Pau Amma thought a little and said, 'I have made my choice. I will take all the gifts.' Then the Eldest Magician made a Magic with the right hand, with all five fingers of his right hand, and lo and behold, Best Beloved, Pau Amma grew smaller and smaller and smaller, till at last there was only a little green crab swimming in the water alongside the canoe, crying in a very small voice, 'Give me the scissors!' And the girl-daughter picked him up on the palm of her little brown hand, and sat him in the bottom of the canoe and gave him her scissors, and he waved them in his little arms, and opened them and shut them and snapped them, and said, 'I can eat nuts. I can crack shells. I can dig holes. I can climb trees. I can breathe in the dry air, and I can find a safe Pusat Tasek under every stone. I did not know I was so important. _Kun?_' (Is this right?) '_Payah-kun_,' said the Eldest Magician, and he laughed and gave him his blessing; and little Pau Amma scuttled over the side of the canoe into the water; and he was so tiny that he could have hidden under the shadow of a dry leaf on land or of a dead shell at the bottom of the sea. 'Was that well done?' said the Eldest Magician. 'Yes,' said the Man. 'But now we must go back to Perak, and that is a weary way to paddle. If we had waited till Pau Amma had gone out of Pusat Tasek and come home, the water would have carried us there by itself.' 'You are lazy,' said the Eldest Magician. 'So your children shall be lazy. They shall be the laziest people in the world. They shall be called the Malazy--the lazy people;' and he held up his finger to the Moon and said, 'O Fisherman, here is the Man too lazy to row home. Pull his canoe home with your line, Fisherman.' 'No,' said the Man. 'If I am to be lazy all my days, let the Sea work for me twice a day for ever. That will save paddling.' And the Eldest Magician laughed and said, '_Payah kun_' (That is right). And the Rat of the Moon stopped biting the line; and the Fisherman let his line down till it touched the Sea, and he pulled the whole deep Sea along, past the Island of Bintang, past Singapore, past Malacca, past Selangor, till the canoe whirled into the mouth of the Perak River again. '_Kun?_' said the Fisherman of the Moon. '_Payah kun_,' said the Eldest Magician. 'See now that you pull the Sea twice a day and twice a night for ever, so that the Malazy fishermen may be saved paddling. But be careful not to do it too hard, or I shall make a magic on you as I did to Pau Amma.' Then they all went up the Perak River and went to bed, Best Beloved. Now listen and attend! From that day to this the Moon has always pulled the sea up and down and made what we call the tides. Sometimes the Fisher of the Sea pulls a little too hard, and then we get spring-tides; and sometimes he pulls a little too softly, and then we get what are called neap-tides; but nearly always he is careful, because of the Eldest Magician. And Pau Amma? You can see when you go to the beach, how all Pau Amma's babies make little Pusat Taseks for themselves under every stone and bunch of weed on the sands; you can see them waving their little scissors; and in some parts of the world they truly live on the dry land and run up the palm trees and eat cocoa-nuts, exactly as the girl-daughter promised. But once a year all Pau Ammas must shake off their hard armour and be soft--to remind them of what the Eldest Magician could do. And so it isn't fair to kill or hunt Pau Amma's babies just because old Pau Amma was stupidly rude a very long time ago. Oh yes! And Pau Amma's babies hate being taken out of their little Pusat Taseks and brought home in pickle-bottles. That is why they nip you with their scissors, and it serves you right! CHINA-GOING P. and O.'s Pass Pau Amma's playground close, And his Pusat Tasek lies Near the track of most B.I.'s. U.Y.K. and N.D.L. Know Pau Amma's home as well As the fisher of the Sea knows 'Bens,' M.M.'s, and Rubattinos. But (and this is rather queer) A.T.L.'s can _not_ come here; O. and O. and D.O.A. Must go round another way. Orient, Anchor, Bibby, Hall, Never go that way at all. U.C.S. would have a fit If it found itself on it. And if 'Beavers' took their cargoes To Penang instead of Lagos, Or a fat Shaw-Savill bore Passengers to Singapore, Or a White Star were to try a Little trip to Sourabaya, Or a B.S.A. went on Past Natal to Cheribon, Then great Mr. Lloyds would come With a wire and drag them home! You'll know what my riddle means When you've eaten mangosteens. Or if you can't wait till then, ask them to let you have the outside page of the _Times_; turn over to page 2, where it is marked 'Shipping' on the top left hand; then take the Atlas (and that is the finest picture-book in the world) and see how the names of the places that the steamers go to fit into the names of the places on the map. Any steamer-kiddy ought to be able to do that; but if you can't read, ask some one to show it you. [Illustration: The Cat that Walked by Himself] THE CAT THAT WALKED BY HIMSELF HEAR and attend and listen; for this befell and behappened and became and was, O my Best Beloved, when the Tame animals were wild. The Dog was wild, and the Horse was wild, and the Cow was wild, and the Sheep was wild, and the Pig was wild--as wild as wild could be--and they walked in the Wet Wild Woods by their wild lones. But the wildest of all the wild animals was the Cat. He walked by himself, and all places were alike to him. Of course the Man was wild too. He was dreadfully wild. He didn't even begin to be tame till he met the Woman, and she told him that she did not like living in his wild ways. She picked out a nice dry Cave, instead of a heap of wet leaves, to lie down in; and she strewed clean sand on the floor; and she lit a nice fire of wood at the back of the Cave; and she hung a dried wild-horse skin, tail-down, across the opening of the Cave; and she said, 'Wipe your feet, dear, when you come in, and now we'll keep house.' That night, Best Beloved, they ate wild sheep roasted on the hot stones, and flavoured with wild garlic and wild pepper; and wild duck stuffed with wild rice and wild fenugreek and wild coriander; and marrow-bones of wild oxen; and wild cherries, and wild grenadillas. Then the Man went to sleep in front of the fire ever so happy; but the Woman sat up, combing her hair. She took the bone of the shoulder of mutton--the big fat blade-bone--and she looked at the wonderful marks on it, and she threw more wood on the fire, and she made a Magic. She made the First Singing Magic in the world. Out in the Wet Wild Woods all the wild animals gathered together where they could see the light of the fire a long way off, and they wondered what it meant. Then Wild Horse stamped with his wild foot and said, 'O my Friends and O my Enemies, why have the Man and the Woman made that great light in that great Cave, and what harm will it do us?' Wild Dog lifted up his wild nose and smelled the smell of roast mutton, and said, 'I will go up and see and look, and say; for I think it is good. Cat, come with me.' 'Nenni!' said the Cat. 'I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me. I will not come.' 'Then we can never be friends again,' said Wild Dog, and he trotted off to the Cave. But when he had gone a little way the Cat said to himself, 'All places are alike to me. Why should I not go too and see and look and come away at my own liking.' So he slipped after Wild Dog softly, very softly, and hid himself where he could hear everything. [Illustration: THIS is the picture of the Cave where the Man and the Woman lived first of all. It was really a very nice Cave, and much warmer than it looks. The Man had a canoe. It is on the edge of the river, being soaked in the water to make it swell up. The tattery-looking thing across the river is the Man's salmon-net to catch salmon with. There are nice clean stones leading up from the river to the mouth of the Cave, so that the Man and the Woman could go down for water without getting sand between their toes. The things like black-beetles far down the beach are really trunks of dead trees that floated down the river from the Wet Wild Woods on the other bank. The Man and the Woman used to drag them out and dry them and cut them up for firewood. I haven't drawn the horse-hide curtain at the mouth of the Cave, because the Woman has just taken it down to be cleaned. All those little smudges on the sand between the Cave and the river are the marks of the Woman's feet and the Man's feet. The Man and the Woman are both inside the Cave eating their dinner. They went to another cosier Cave when the Baby came, because the Baby used to crawl down to the river and fall in, and the Dog had to pull him out.] When Wild Dog reached the mouth of the Cave he lifted up the dried horse-skin with his nose and sniffed the beautiful smell of the roast mutton, and the Woman, looking at the blade-bone, heard him, and laughed, and said, 'Here comes the first. Wild Thing out of the Wild Woods, what do you want?' Wild Dog said, 'O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy, what is this that smells so good in the Wild Woods?' Then the Woman picked up a roasted mutton-bone and threw it to Wild Dog, and said, 'Wild Thing out of the Wild Woods, taste and try.' Wild Dog gnawed the bone, and it was more delicious than anything he had ever tasted, and he said, 'O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy, give me another.' The Woman said, 'Wild Thing out of the Wild Woods, help my Man to hunt through the day and guard this Cave at night, and I will give you as many roast bones as you need.' 'Ah!' said the Cat, listening. This is a very wise Woman, but she is not so wise as I am.' Wild Dog crawled into the Cave and laid his head on the Woman's lap, and said, 'O my Friend and Wife of my Friend, I will help your Man to hunt through the day, and at night I will guard your Cave.' 'Ah!' said the Cat, listening. 'That is a very foolish Dog.' And he went back through the Wet Wild Woods waving his wild tail, and walking by his wild lone. But he never told anybody. When the Man waked up he said, 'What is Wild Dog doing here?' And the Woman said, 'His name is not Wild Dog any more, but the First Friend, because he will be our friend for always and always and always. Take him with you when you go hunting.' Next night the Woman cut great green armfuls of fresh grass from the water-meadows, and dried it before the fire, so that it smelt like new-mown hay, and she sat at the mouth of the Cave and plaited a halter out of horse-hide, and she looked at the shoulder of mutton-bone--at the big broad blade-bone--and she made a Magic. She made the Second Singing Magic in the world. Out in the Wild Woods all the wild animals wondered what had happened to Wild Dog, and at last Wild Horse stamped with his foot and said, 'I will go and see and say why Wild Dog has not returned. Cat, come with me.' 'Nenni!' said the Cat. 'I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me. I will not come.' But all the same he followed Wild Horse softly, very softly, and hid himself where he could hear everything. When the Woman heard Wild Horse tripping and stumbling on his long mane, she laughed and said, 'Here comes the second. Wild Thing out of the Wild Woods what do you want?' Wild Horse said, 'O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy, where is Wild Dog?' The Woman laughed, and picked up the blade-bone and looked at it, and said, 'Wild Thing out of the Wild Woods, you did not come here for Wild Dog, but for the sake of this good grass.' And Wild Horse, tripping and stumbling on his long mane, said, 'That is true; give it me to eat.' The Woman said, 'Wild Thing out of the Wild Woods, bend your wild head and wear what I give you, and you shall eat the wonderful grass three times a day.' 'Ah,' said the Cat, listening, 'this is a clever Woman, but she is not so clever as I am.' [Illustration: THIS is the picture of the Cat that Walked by Himself, walking by his wild lone through the Wet Wild Woods and waving his wild tail. There is nothing else in the picture except some toadstools. They had to grow there because the woods were so wet. The lumpy thing on the low branch isn't a bird. It is moss that grew there because the Wild Woods were so wet. Underneath the truly picture is a picture of the cozy Cave that the Man and the Woman went to after the Baby came. It was their summer Cave, and they planted wheat in front of it. The Man is riding on the Horse to find the Cow and bring her back to the Cave to be milked. He is holding up his hand to call the Dog, who has swum across to the other side of the river, looking for rabbits.] Wild Horse bent his wild head, and the Woman slipped the plaited hide halter over it, and Wild Horse breathed on the Woman's feet and said, 'O my Mistress, and Wife of my Master, I will be your servant for the sake of the wonderful grass.' 'Ah,' said the Cat, listening, 'that is a very foolish Horse.' And he went back through the Wet Wild Woods, waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone. But he never told anybody. When the Man and the Dog came back from hunting, the Man said, 'What is Wild Horse doing here?' And the Woman said, 'His name is not Wild Horse any more, but the First Servant, because he will carry us from place to place for always and always and always. Ride on his back when you go hunting.' Next day, holding her wild head high that her wild horns should not catch in the wild trees, Wild Cow came up to the Cave, and the Cat followed, and hid himself just the same as before; and everything happened just the same as before; and the Cat said the same things as before, and when Wild Cow had promised to give her milk to the Woman every day in exchange for the wonderful grass, the Cat went back through the Wet Wild Woods waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone, just the same as before. But he never told anybody. And when the Man and the Horse and the Dog came home from hunting and asked the same questions same as before, the Woman said, 'Her name is not Wild Cow any more, but the Giver of Good Food. She will give us the warm white milk for always and always and always, and I will take care of her while you and the First Friend and the First Servant go hunting.' Next day the Cat waited to see if any other Wild thing would go up to the Cave, but no one moved in the Wet Wild Woods, so the Cat walked there by himself; and he saw the Woman milking the Cow, and he saw the light of the fire in the Cave, and he smelt the smell of the warm white milk. Cat said, 'O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy, where did Wild Cow go?' The Woman laughed and said, 'Wild Thing out of the Wild Woods, go back to the Woods again, for I have braided up my hair, and I have put away the magic blade-bone, and we have no more need of either friends or servants in our Cave.' Cat said, 'I am not a friend, and I am not a servant. I am the Cat who walks by himself, and I wish to come into your cave.' Woman said, 'Then why did you not come with First Friend on the first night?' Cat grew very angry and said, 'Has Wild Dog told tales of me?' Then the Woman laughed and said, 'You are the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to you. You are neither a friend nor a servant. You have said it yourself. Go away and walk by yourself in all places alike.' Then Cat pretended to be sorry and said, 'Must I never come into the Cave? Must I never sit by the warm fire? Must I never drink the warm white milk? You are very wise and very beautiful. You should not be cruel even to a Cat.' Woman said, 'I knew I was wise, but I did not know I was beautiful. So I will make a bargain with you. If ever I say one word in your praise you may come into the Cave.' 'And if you say two words in my praise?' said the Cat. 'I never shall,' said the Woman, 'but if I say two words in your praise, you may sit by the fire in the Cave.' 'And if you say three words?' said the Cat. 'I never shall,' said the Woman, 'but if I say three words in your praise, you may drink the warm white milk three times a day for always and always and always.' Then the Cat arched his back and said, 'Now let the Curtain at the mouth of the Cave, and the Fire at the back of the Cave, and the Milk-pots that stand beside the Fire, remember what my Enemy and the Wife of my Enemy has said.' And he went away through the Wet Wild Woods waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone. That night when the Man and the Horse and the Dog came home from hunting, the Woman did not tell them of the bargain that she had made with the Cat, because she was afraid that they might not like it. Cat went far and far away and hid himself in the Wet Wild Woods by his wild lone for a long time till the Woman forgot all about him. Only the Bat--the little upside-down Bat--that hung inside the Cave, knew where Cat hid; and every evening Bat would fly to Cat with news of what was happening. One evening Bat said, 'There is a Baby in the Cave. He is new and pink and fat and small, and the Woman is very fond of him.' 'Ah,' said the Cat, listening, 'but what is the Baby fond of?' 'He is fond of things that are soft and tickle,' said the Bat. 'He is fond of warm things to hold in his arms when he goes to sleep. He is fond of being played with. He is fond of all those things.' 'Ah,' said the Cat, listening, 'then my time has come.' Next night Cat walked through the Wet Wild Woods and hid very near the Cave till morning-time, and Man and Dog and Horse went hunting. The Woman was busy cooking that morning, and the Baby cried and interrupted. So she carried him outside the Cave and gave him a handful of pebbles to play with. But still the Baby cried. Then the Cat put out his paddy paw and patted the Baby on the cheek, and it cooed; and the Cat rubbed against its fat knees and tickled it under its fat chin with his tail. And the Baby laughed; and the Woman heard him and smiled. Then the Bat--the little upside-down Bat--that hung in the mouth of the Cave said, 'O my Hostess and Wife of my Host and Mother of my Host's Son, a Wild Thing from the Wild Woods is most beautifully playing with your Baby.' 'A blessing on that Wild Thing whoever he may be,' said the Woman, straightening her back, 'for I was a busy woman this morning and he has done me a service.' The very minute and second, Best Beloved, the dried horse-skin Curtain that was stretched tail-down at the mouth of the Cave fell down--_woosh!_--because it remembered the bargain she had made with the Cat, and when the Woman went to pick it up--lo and behold!--the Cat was sitting quite comfy inside the Cave. 'O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy and Mother of my Enemy,' said the Cat, 'it is I: for you have spoken a word in my praise, and now I can sit within the Cave for always and always and always. But still I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.' The Woman was very angry, and shut her lips tight and took up her spinning-wheel and began to spin. But the Baby cried because the Cat had gone away, and the Woman could not hush it, for it struggled and kicked and grew black in the face. 'O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy and Mother of my Enemy,' said the Cat, 'take a strand of the wire that you are spinning and tie it to your spinning-whorl and drag it along the floor, and I will show you a magic that shall make your Baby laugh as loudly as he is now crying.' 'I will do so,' said the Woman, 'because I am at my wits' end; but I will not thank you for it.' She tied the thread to the little clay spindle-whorl and drew it across the floor, and the Cat ran after it and patted it with his paws and rolled head over heels, and tossed it backward over his shoulder and chased it between his hind-legs and pretended to lose it, and pounced down upon it again, till the Baby laughed as loudly as it had been crying, and scrambled after the Cat and frolicked all over the Cave till it grew tired and settled down to sleep with the Cat in its arms. 'Now,' said the Cat, 'I will sing the Baby a song that shall keep him asleep for an hour.' And he began to purr, loud and low, low and loud, till the Baby fell fast asleep. The Woman smiled as she looked down upon the two of them and said, 'That was wonderfully done. No question but you are very clever, O Cat.' That very minute and second, Best Beloved, the smoke of the fire at the back of the Cave came down in clouds from the roof--_puff!_--because it remembered the bargain she had made with the Cat, and when it had cleared away--lo and behold!--the Cat was sitting quite comfy close to the fire. 'O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy and Mother of My Enemy,' said the Cat, 'it is I, for you have spoken a second word in my praise, and now I can sit by the warm fire at the back of the Cave for always and always and always. But still I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.' Then the Woman was very very angry, and let down her hair and put more wood on the fire and brought out the broad blade-bone of the shoulder of mutton and began to make a Magic that should prevent her from saying a third word in praise of the Cat. It was not a Singing Magic, Best Beloved, it was a Still Magic; and by and by the Cave grew so still that a little wee-wee mouse crept out of a corner and ran across the floor. 'O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy and Mother of my Enemy,' said the Cat, 'is that little mouse part of your magic?' 'Ouh! Chee! No indeed!' said the Woman, and she dropped the blade-bone and jumped upon the footstool in front of the fire and braided up her hair very quick for fear that the mouse should run up it. 'Ah,' said the Cat, watching, 'then the mouse will do me no harm if I eat it?' 'No,' said the Woman, braiding up her hair, 'eat it quickly and I will ever be grateful to you.' Cat made one jump and caught the little mouse, and the Woman said, 'A hundred thanks. Even the First Friend is not quick enough to catch little mice as you have done. You must be very wise.' That very moment and second, O Best Beloved, the Milk-pot that stood by the fire cracked in two pieces--_ffft_--because it remembered the bargain she had made with the Cat, and when the Woman jumped down from the footstool--lo and behold!--the Cat was lapping up the warm white milk that lay in one of the broken pieces. 'O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy and Mother of my Enemy,' said the Cat, 'it is I; for you have spoken three words in my praise, and now I can drink the warm white milk three times a day for always and always and always. But _still_ I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.' Then the Woman laughed and set the Cat a bowl of the warm white milk and said, 'O Cat, you are as clever as a man, but remember that your bargain was not made with the Man or the Dog, and I do not know what they will do when they come home.' 'What is that to me?' said the Cat. 'If I have my place in the Cave by the fire and my warm white milk three times a day I do not care what the Man or the Dog can do.' That evening when the Man and the Dog came into the Cave, the Woman told them all the story of the bargain while the Cat sat by the fire and smiled. Then the Man said, 'Yes, but he has not made a bargain with _me_ or with all proper Men after me.' Then he took off his two leather boots and he took up his little stone axe (that makes three) and he fetched a piece of wood and a hatchet (that is five altogether), and he set them out in a row and he said, 'Now we will make _our_ bargain. If you do not catch mice when you are in the Cave for always and always and always, I will throw these five things at you whenever I see you, and so shall all proper Men do after me.' 'Ah,' said the Woman, listening, 'this is a very clever Cat, but he is not so clever as my Man.' The Cat counted the five things (and they looked very knobby) and he said, 'I will catch mice when I am in the Cave for always and always and always; but _still_ I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.' 'Not when I am near,' said the Man. 'If you had not said that last I would have put all these things away for always and always and always; but I am now going to throw my two boots and my little stone axe (that makes three) at you whenever I meet you. And so shall all proper Men do after me!' Then the Dog said, 'Wait a minute. He has not made a bargain with _me_ or with all proper Dogs after me.' And he showed his teeth and said, 'If you are not kind to the Baby while I am in the Cave for always and always and always, I will hunt you till I catch you, and when I catch you I will bite you. And so shall all proper Dogs do after me.' 'Ah,' said the Woman, listening, 'this is a very clever Cat, but he is not so clever as the Dog.' Cat counted the Dog's teeth (and they looked very pointed) and he said, 'I will be kind to the Baby while I am in the Cave, as long as he does not pull my tail too hard, for always and always and always. But _still_ I am the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.' 'Not when I am near,' said the Dog. 'If you had not said that last I would have shut my mouth for always and always and always; but _now_ I am going to hunt you up a tree whenever I meet you. And so shall all proper Dogs do after me.' Then the Man threw his two boots and his little stone axe (that makes three) at the Cat, and the Cat ran out of the Cave and the Dog chased him up a tree; and from that day to this, Best Beloved, three proper Men out of five will always throw things at a Cat whenever they meet him, and all proper Dogs will chase him up a tree. But the Cat keeps his side of the bargain too. He will kill mice and he will be kind to Babies when he is in the house, just as long as they do not pull his tail too hard. But when he has done that, and between times, and when the moon gets up and night comes, he is the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to him. Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods or up the Wet Wild Trees or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone. [Illustration] PUSSY can sit by the fire and sing, Pussy can climb a tree, Or play with a silly old cork and string To 'muse herself, not me. But I like _Binkie_ my dog, because He knows how to behave; So, _Binkie's_ the same as the First Friend was And I am the Man in the Cave. Pussy will play man-Friday till It's time to wet her paw And make her walk on the window-sill (For the footprint Crusoe saw); Then she fluffles her tail and mews, And scratches and won't attend. But _Binkie_ will play whatever I choose, And he is my true First Friend. Pussy will rub my knees with her head Pretending she loves me hard; But the very minute I go to my bed Pussy runs out in the yard, And there she stays till the morning-light; So I know it is only pretend; But _Binkie_, he snores at my feet all night, And he is my Firstest Friend! [Illustration] [Illustration: The Butterfly that Stamped] THE BUTTERFLY THAT STAMPED THIS, O my Best Beloved, is a story--a new and a wonderful story--a story quite different from the other stories--a story about The Most Wise Sovereign Suleiman-bin-Daoud--Solomon the Son of David. [Illustration] There are three hundred and fifty-five stories about Suleiman-bin-Daoud; but this is not one of them. It is not the story of the Lapwing who found the Water; or the Hoopoe who shaded Suleiman-bin-Daoud from the heat. It is not the story of the Glass Pavement, or the Ruby with the Crooked Hole, or the Gold Bars of Balkis. It is the story of the Butterfly that Stamped. Now attend all over again and listen! Suleiman-bin-Daoud was wise. He understood what the beasts said, what the birds said, what the fishes said, and what the insects said. He understood what the rocks said deep under the earth when they bowed in towards each other and groaned; and he understood what the trees said when they rustled in the middle of the morning. He understood everything, from the bishop on the bench to the hyssop on the wall, and Balkis, his Head Queen, the Most Beautiful Queen Balkis, was nearly as wise as he was. Suleiman-bin-Daoud was strong. Upon the third finger of the right hand he wore a ring. When he turned it once, Afrits and Djinns came out of the earth to do whatever he told them. When he turned it twice, Fairies came down from the sky to do whatever he told them; and when he turned it three times, the very great angel Azrael of the Sword came dressed as a water-carrier, and told him the news of the three worlds,--Above--Below--and Here. And yet Suleiman-bin-Daoud was not proud. He very seldom showed off, and when he did he was sorry for it. Once he tried to feed all the animals in all the world in one day, but when the food was ready an Animal came out of the deep sea and ate it up in three mouthfuls. Suleiman-bin-Daoud was very surprised and said, 'O Animal, who are you?' And the Animal said, 'O King, live for ever! I am the smallest of thirty thousand brothers, and our home is at the bottom of the sea. We heard that you were going to feed all the animals in all the world, and my brothers sent me to ask when dinner would be ready.' Suleiman-bin-Daoud was more surprised than ever and said, 'O Animal, you have eaten all the dinner that I made ready for all the animals in the world.' And the Animal said, 'O King, live for ever, but do you really call that a dinner? Where I come from we each eat twice as much as that between meals.' Then Suleiman-bin-Daoud fell flat on his face and said, 'O Animal! I gave that dinner to show what a great and rich king I was, and not because I really wanted to be kind to the animals. Now I am ashamed, and it serves me right.' Suleiman-bin-Daoud was a really truly wise man, Best Beloved. After that he never forgot that it was silly to show off; and now the real story part of my story begins. [Illustration: THIS is the picture of the Animal that came out of the sea and ate up all the food that Suleiman-bin-Daoud had made ready for all the animals in all the world. He was really quite a nice Animal, and his Mummy was very fond of him and of his twenty-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine other brothers that lived at the bottom of the sea. You know that he was the smallest of them all, and so his name was Small Porgies. He ate up all those boxes and packets and bales and things that had been got ready for all the animals, without ever once taking off the lids or untying the strings, and it did not hurt him at all. The sticky-up masts behind the boxes of food belong to Suleiman-bin-Daoud's ships. They were busy bringing more food when Small Porgies came ashore. He did not eat the ships. They stopped unloading the foods and instantly sailed away to sea till Small Porgies had quite finished eating. You can see some of the ships beginning to sail away by Small Porgies' shoulder. I have not drawn Suleiman-bin-Daoud, but he is just outside the picture, very much astonished. The bundle hanging from the mast of the ship in the corner is really a package of wet dates for parrots to eat. I don't know the names of the ships. That is all there is in that picture.] He married ever so many wifes. He married nine hundred and ninety-nine wives, besides the Most Beautiful Balkis; and they all lived in a great golden palace in the middle of a lovely garden with fountains. He didn't really want nine-hundred and ninety-nine wives, but in those days everybody married ever so many wives, and of course the King had to marry ever so many more just to show that he was the King. Some of the wives were nice, but some were simply horrid, and the horrid ones quarrelled with the nice ones and made them horrid too, and then they would all quarrel with Suleiman-bin-Daoud, and that was horrid for him. But Balkis the Most Beautiful never quarrelled with Suleiman-bin-Daoud. She loved him too much. She sat in her rooms in the Golden Palace, or walked in the Palace garden, and was truly sorry for him. Of course if he had chosen to turn his ring on his finger and call up the Djinns and the Afrits they would have magicked all those nine hundred and ninety-nine quarrelsome wives into white mules of the desert or greyhounds or pomegranate seeds; but Suleiman-bin-Daoud thought that that would be showing off. So, when they quarrelled too much, he only walked by himself in one part of the beautiful Palace gardens and wished he had never been born. One day, when they had quarrelled for three weeks--all nine hundred and ninety-nine wives together--Suleiman-bin-Daoud went out for peace and quiet as usual; and among the orange trees he met Balkis the Most Beautiful, very sorrowful because Suleiman-bin-Daoud was so worried. And she said to him, 'O my Lord and Light of my Eyes, turn the ring upon your finger and show these Queens of Egypt and Mesopotamia and Persia and China that you are the great and terrible King.' But Suleiman-bin-Daoud shook his head and said, 'O my Lady and Delight of my Life, remember the Animal that came out of the sea and made me ashamed before all the animals in all the world because I showed off. Now, if I showed off before these Queens of Persia and Egypt and Abyssinia and China, merely because they worry me, I might be made even more ashamed than I have been.' And Balkis the Most Beautiful said, 'O my Lord and Treasure of my Soul, what will you do?' And Suleiman-bin-Daoud said, 'O my Lady and Content of my Heart, I shall continue to endure my fate at the hands of these nine hundred and ninety-nine Queens who vex me with their continual quarrelling.' So he went on between the lilies and the loquats and the roses and the cannas and the heavy-scented ginger-plants that grew in the garden, till he came to the great camphor-tree that was called the Camphor Tree of Suleiman-bin-Daoud. But Balkis hid among the tall irises and the spotted bamboos and the red lillies behind the camphor-tree, so as to be near her own true love, Suleiman-bin-Daoud. Presently two Butterflies flew under the tree, quarrelling. Suleiman-bin-Daoud heard one say to the other, 'I wonder at your presumption in talking like this to me. Don't you know that if I stamped with my foot all Suleiman-bin-Daoud's Palace and this garden here would immediately vanish in a clap of thunder.' Then Suleiman-bin-Daoud forgot his nine hundred and ninety-nine bothersome wives, and laughed, till the camphor-tree shook, at the Butterfly's boast. And he held out his finger and said, 'Little man, come here.' The Butterfly was dreadfully frightened, but he managed to fly up to the hand of Suleiman-bin-Daoud, and clung there, fanning himself. Suleiman-bin-Daoud bent his head and whispered very softly, 'Little man, you know that all your stamping wouldn't bend one blade of grass. What made you tell that awful fib to your wife?--for doubtless she is your wife.' The Butterfly looked at Suleiman-bin-Daoud and saw the most wise King's eye twinkle like stars on a frosty night, and he picked up his courage with both wings, and he put his head on one side and said, 'O King, live for ever. She _is_ my wife; and you know what wives are like.' Suleiman-bin-Daoud smiled in his beard and said, 'Yes, _I_ know, little brother.' 'One must keep them in order somehow,' said the Butterfly, 'and she has been quarrelling with me all the morning. I said that to quiet her.' And Suleiman-bin-Daoud said, 'May it quiet her. Go back to your wife, little brother, and let me hear what you say.' Back flew the Butterfly to his wife, who was all of a twitter behind a leaf, and she said, 'He heard you! Suleiman-bin-Daoud himself heard you!' 'Heard me!' said the Butterfly. 'Of course he did. I meant him to hear me.' 'And what did he say? Oh, what did he say?' 'Well,' said the Butterfly, fanning himself most importantly, 'between you and me, my dear--of course I don't blame him, because his Palace must have cost a great deal and the oranges are just ripening,--he asked me not to stamp, and I promised I wouldn't.' 'Gracious!' said his wife, and sat quite quiet; but Suleiman-bin-Daoud laughed till the tears ran down his face at the impudence of the bad little Butterfly. Balkis the Most Beautiful stood up behind the tree among the red lilies and smiled to herself, for she had heard all this talk. She thought, 'If I am wise I can yet save my Lord from the persecutions of these quarrelsome Queens,' and she held out her finger and whispered softly to the Butterfly's Wife, 'Little woman, come here.' Up flew the Butterfly's Wife, very frightened, and clung to Balkis's white hand. Balkis bent her beautiful head down and whispered, 'Little woman, do you believe what your husband has just said?' The Butterfly's Wife looked at Balkis, and saw the most beautiful Queen's eyes shining like deep pools with starlight on them, and she picked up her courage with both wings and said, 'O Queen, be lovely for ever. _You_ know what men-folk are like.' And the Queen Balkis, the Wise Balkis of Sheba, put her hand to her lips to hide a smile and said, 'Little sister, _I_ know.' 'They get angry,' said the Butterfly's Wife, fanning herself quickly, 'over nothing at all, but we must humour them, O Queen. They never mean half they say. If it pleases my husband to believe that I believe he can make Suleiman-bin-Daoud's Palace disappear by stamping his foot, I'm sure _I_ don't care. He'll forget all about it to-morrow.' 'Little sister,' said Balkis, 'you are quite right; but next time he begins to boast, take him at his word. Ask him to stamp, and see what will happen. _We_ know what men-folk are like, don't we? He'll be very much ashamed.' Away flew the Butterfly's Wife to her husband, and in five minutes they were quarrelling worse than ever. 'Remember!' said the Butterfly. 'Remember what I can do if I stamp my foot.' 'I don't believe you one little bit,' said the Butterfly's Wife. 'I should very much like to see it done. Suppose you stamp now.' 'I promised Suleiman-bin-Daoud that I wouldn't,' said the Butterfly, 'and I don't want to break my promise.' 'It wouldn't matter if you did,' said his wife. 'You couldn't bend a blade of grass with your stamping. I dare you to do it,' she said. 'Stamp! Stamp! Stamp!' Suleiman-bin-Daoud, sitting under the camphor-tree, heard every word of this, and he laughed as he had never laughed in his life before. He forgot all about his Queens; he forgot all about the Animal that came out of the sea; he forgot about showing off. He just laughed with joy, and Balkis, on the other side of the tree, smiled because her own true love was so joyful. Presently the Butterfly, very hot and puffy, came whirling back under the shadow of the camphor-tree and said to Suleiman, 'She wants me to stamp! She wants to see what will happen, O Suleiman-bin-Daoud! You know I can't do it, and now she'll never believe a word I say. She'll laugh at me to the end of my days!' 'No, little brother,' said Suleiman-bin-Daoud, 'she will never laugh at you again,' and he turned the ring on his finger--just for the little Butterfly's sake, not for the sake of showing off,--and, lo and behold, four huge Djinns came out of the earth! 'Slaves,' said Suleiman-bin-Daoud, 'when this gentleman on my finger' (that was where the impudent Butterfly was sitting) 'stamps his left front forefoot you will make my Palace and these gardens disappear in a clap of thunder. When he stamps again you will bring them back carefully.' 'Now, little brother,' he said, 'go back to your wife and stamp all you've a mind to.' Away flew the Butterfly to his wife, who was crying, 'I dare you to do it! I dare you to do it! Stamp! Stamp now! Stamp!' Balkis saw the four vast Djinns stoop down to the four corners of the gardens with the Palace in the middle, and she clapped her hands softly and said, 'At last Suleiman-bin-Daoud will do for the sake of a Butterfly what he ought to have done long ago for his own sake, and the quarrelsome Queens will be frightened!' Then the Butterfly stamped. The Djinns jerked the Palace and the gardens a thousand miles into the air: there was a most awful thunder-clap, and everything grew inky-black. The Butterfly's Wife fluttered about in the dark, crying, 'Oh, I'll be good! I'm so sorry I spoke. Only bring the gardens back, my dear darling husband, and I'll never contradict again.' The Butterfly was nearly as frightened as his wife, and Suleiman-bin-Daoud laughed so much that it was several minutes before he found breath enough to whisper to the Butterfly, 'Stamp again, little brother. Give me back my Palace, most great magician.' 'Yes, give him back his Palace,' said the Butterfly's Wife, still flying about in the dark like a moth. 'Give him back his Palace, and don't let's have any more horrid magic.' 'Well, my dear,' said the Butterfly as bravely as he could, 'you see what your nagging has led to. Of course it doesn't make any difference to _me_--I'm used to this kind of thing--but as a favour to you and to Suleiman-bin-Daoud I don't mind putting things right.' [Illustration: THIS is the picture of the four gull-winged Djinns lifting up Suleiman-bin-Daoud's Palace the very minute after the Butterfly had stamped. The Palace and the gardens and everything came up in one piece like a board, and they left a big hole in the ground all full of dust and smoke. If you look in the corner, close to the thing that looks like a lion, you will see Suleiman-bin-Daoud with his magic stick and the two Butterflies behind him. The thing that looks like a lion is really a lion carved in stone, and the thing that looks like a milk-can is really a piece of a temple or a house or something. Suleiman-bin-Daoud stood there so as to be out of the way of the dust and the smoke when the Djinns lifted up the Palace. I don't know the Djinns' names. They were servants of Suleiman-bin-Daoud's magic ring, and they changed about every day. They were just common gull-winged Djinns. The thing at the bottom is a picture of a very friendly Djinn called Akraig. He used to feed the little fishes in the sea three times a day, and his wings were made of pure copper. I put him in to show you what a nice Djinn is like. He did not help to lift the Palace. He was busy feeding little fishes in the Arabian Sea when it happened.] So he stamped once more, and that instant the Djinns let down the Palace and the gardens, without even a bump. The sun shone on the dark-green orange leaves; the fountains played among the pink Egyptian lilies; the birds went on singing, and the Butterfly's Wife lay on her side under the camphor-tree waggling her wings and panting, 'Oh, I'll be good! I'll be good!' Suleiman-bin-Daoud could hardly speak for laughing. He leaned back all weak and hiccoughy, and shook his finger at the Butterfly and said, 'O great wizard, what is the sense of returning to me my Palace if at the same time you slay me with mirth!' Then came a terrible noise, for all the nine hundred and ninety-nine Queens ran out of the Palace shrieking and shouting and calling for their babies. They hurried down the great marble steps below the fountain, one hundred abreast, and the Most Wise Balkis went statelily forward to meet them and said, 'What is your trouble, O Queens?' They stood on the marble steps one hundred abreast and shouted, '_What_ is our trouble? We were living peacefully in our golden palace, as is our custom, when upon a sudden the Palace disappeared, and we were left sitting in a thick and noisome darkness; and it thundered, and Djinns and Afrits moved about in the darkness! _That_ is our trouble, O Head Queen, and we are most extremely troubled on account of that trouble, for it was a troublesome trouble, unlike any trouble we have known.' Then Balkis the Most Beautiful Queen--Suleiman-bin-Daoud's Very Best Beloved--Queen that was of Sheba and Sabie and the Rivers of the Gold of the South--from the Desert of Zinn to the Towers of Zimbabwe--Balkis, almost as wise as the Most Wise Suleiman-bin-Daoud himself, said, 'It is nothing, O Queens! A Butterfly has made complaint against his wife because she quarrelled with him, and it has pleased our Lord Suleiman-bin-Daoud to teach her a lesson in low-speaking and humbleness, for that is counted a virtue among the wives of the butterflies.' Then up and spoke an Egyptian Queen--the daughter of a Pharaoh--and she said, 'Our Palace cannot be plucked up by the roots like a leek for the sake of a little insect. No! Suleiman-bin-Daoud must be dead, and what we heard and saw was the earth thundering and darkening at the news.' Then Balkis beckoned that bold Queen without looking at her, and said to her and to the others, 'Come and see.' They came down the marble steps, one hundred abreast, and beneath his camphor-tree, still weak with laughing, they saw the Most Wise King Suleiman-bin-Daoud rocking back and forth with a Butterfly on either hand, and they heard him say, 'O wife of my brother in the air, remember after this, to please your husband in all things, lest he be provoked to stamp his foot yet again; for he has said that he is used to this magic, and he is most eminently a great magician--one who steals away the very Palace of Suleiman-bin-Daoud himself. Go in peace, little folk!' And he kissed them on the wings, and they flew away. Then all the Queens except Balkis--the Most Beautiful and Splendid Balkis, who stood apart smiling--fell flat on their faces, for they said, 'If these things are done when a Butterfly is displeased with his wife, what shall be done to us who have vexed our King with our loud-speaking and open quarrelling through many days?' Then they put their veils over their heads, and they put their hands over their mouths, and they tiptoed back to the Palace most mousy-quiet. Then Balkis--The Most Beautiful and Excellent Balkis--went forward through the red lilies into the shade of the camphor-tree and laid her hand upon Suleiman-bin-Daoud's shoulder and said, 'O my Lord and Treasure of my Soul, rejoice, for we have taught the Queens of Egypt and Ethiopia and Abyssinia and Persia and India and China with a great and a memorable teaching.' And Suleiman-bin-Daoud, still looking after the Butterflies where they played in the sunlight, said, 'O my Lady and Jewel of my Felicity, when did this happen? For I have been jesting with a Butterfly ever since I came into the garden.' And he told Balkis what he had done. Balkis--The tender and Most Lovely Balkis--said, 'O my Lord and Regent of my Existence, I hid behind the camphor-tree and saw it all. It was I who told the Butterfly's Wife to ask the Butterfly to stamp, because I hoped that for the sake of the jest my Lord would make some great magic and that the Queens would see it and be frightened.' And she told him what the Queens had said and seen and thought. Then Suleiman-bin-Daoud rose up from his seat under the camphor-tree, and stretched his arms and rejoiced and said, 'O my Lady and Sweetener of my Days, know that if I had made a magic against my Queens for the sake of pride or anger, as I made that feast for all the animals, I should certainly have been put to shame. But by means of your wisdom I made the magic for the sake of a jest and for the sake of a little Butterfly, and--behold--it has also delivered me from the vexations of my vexatious wives! Tell me, therefore, O my Lady and Heart of my Heart, how did you come to be so wise?' And Balkis the Queen, beautiful and tall, looked up into Suleiman-bin-Daoud's eyes and put her head a little on one side, just like the Butterfly, and said, 'First, O my Lord, because I loved you; and secondly, O my Lord, because I know what women-folk are.' Then they went up to the Palace and lived happily ever afterwards. But wasn't it clever of Balkis? THERE was never a Queen like Balkis, From here to the wide world's end; But Balkis talked to a butterfly As you would talk to a friend. There was never a King like Solomon, Not since the world began; But Solomon talked to a butterfly As a man would talk to a man. _She_ was Queen of Sabæa-- And _he_ was Asia's Lord-- But they both of 'em talked to butterflies When they took their walks abroad! [Illustration] THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS GARDEN CITY, N. Y. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 157, "waiving" changed to "waving" (Tegumai, waving his) Page 159, caption "19" was added to illustration. Page 198, "you" changed to "your" (Wipe your feet) Page 211, "Your" changed to "You" (You are neither a) Page 213, "ths" changed to "the" (and the Woman heard him) Page 225, word "is" added to text (but this is not one) Page 244, "Pharoah" changed to "Pharaoh" (daughter of a Pharaoh) Page 278, "Sueliman" changed to "Suleiman" (Then Suleiman-bin-Daoud rose up) 
27903	----	[Illustration: He scrambled out of the cupboard, and the boots and goloshes fell off him like spray off a bather.--P. 24.] THE MAGIC WORLD BY E. NESBIT AUTHOR OF 'THE TREASURE SEEKERS,' 'THE WONDERFUL GARDEN,' 'THE MAGIC CITY,' ETC. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. R. MILLAR and SPENCER PRYSE MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON 1924 _First published by Macmillan & Co. 1912_ CONTENTS PAGE 1. The Cat-hood of Maurice 1 2. The Mixed Mine 27 3. Accidental Magic 58 4. The Princess and the Hedge-pig 96 5. Septimus Septimusson 126 6. The White Cat 148 7. Belinda and Bellamant 160 8. Justnowland 185 9. The Related Muff 206 10. The Aunt and Amabel 218 11. Kenneth and the Carp 233 12. The Magician's Heart 260 ILLUSTRATIONS He scrambled out of the cupboard, and the boots and goloshes fell off him like spray off a bather (p. 24) _Frontispiece_ FACE PAGE 'If you think cats have such a jolly time,' said Lord Hugh, 'why not _be_ a cat?' 7 It was Mabel who untied the string and soothed his terrors 14 He landed there on his four padded feet light as a feather 17 When Jane went in to put Mabel's light out, Maurice crept in too 21 Her bow went down suddenly 28 'Look!' he said, 'look!' and pointed 35 Far above him and every one else towered the elephant 39 It became a quite efficient motor 42 Quentin de Ward 58 It landed on the point of the chin of Smithson major 67 'Who are you?' he said. 'Answer, I adjure you by the Sacred Tau!' 79 The cart was drawn by an enormous creature, more like an elephant than anything else 85 'Silence!' cried the priest. 'Chosen of the Immortals, close your eyes!' 91 On the lower terrace the royal nurse was walking up and down with the baby princess that all the fuss was about 98 Instantly a flight of winged arrows crossed the garden 109 'I would kiss you on every one of your thousand spears,' she said, 'to give you what you wish' 123 So we all sat on chairs in the drawing-room, and thought of nothing to say harder than ever 208 We scalped Eliza as she passed through the hall 213 Sidney threw the rug over her, and rolled her over and over 215 Early next morning he tried to catch fish with several pieces of string knotted together and a hairpin 235 A radiant vision stepped into the circle of light 241 There was a splash 248 'Oh, good-bye!' he cried desperately, and snapped at the worm 256 I THE CAT-HOOD OF MAURICE To have your hair cut is not painful, nor does it hurt to have your whiskers trimmed. But round wooden shoes, shaped like bowls, are not comfortable wear, however much it may amuse the onlooker to see you try to walk in them. If you have a nice fur coat like a company promoter's, it is most annoying to be made to swim in it. And if you had a tail, surely it would be solely your own affair; that any one should tie a tin can to it would strike you as an unwarrantable impertinence--to say the least. Yet it is difficult for an outsider to see these things from the point of view of both the persons concerned. To Maurice, scissors in hand, alive and earnest to snip, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to shorten the stiff whiskers of Lord Hugh Cecil by a generous inch. He did not understand how useful those whiskers were to Lord Hugh, both in sport and in the more serious business of getting a living. Also it amused Maurice to throw Lord Hugh into ponds, though Lord Hugh only once permitted this liberty. To put walnuts on Lord Hugh's feet and then to watch him walk on ice was, in Maurice's opinion, as good as a play. Lord Hugh was a very favourite cat, but Maurice was discreet, and Lord Hugh, except under violent suffering, was at that time anyhow, dumb. But the empty sardine-tin attached to Lord Hugh's tail and hind legs--this had a voice, and, rattling against stairs, banisters, and the legs of stricken furniture, it cried aloud for vengeance. Lord Hugh, suffering violently, added his voice, and this time the family heard. There was a chase, a chorus of 'Poor pussy!' and 'Pussy, then!' and the tail and the tin and Lord Hugh were caught under Jane's bed. The tail and the tin acquiesced in their rescue. Lord Hugh did not. He fought, scratched, and bit. Jane carried the scars of that rescue for many a long week. When all was calm Maurice was sought and, after some little natural delay, found--in the boot-cupboard. 'Oh, Maurice!' his mother almost sobbed, 'how _can_ you? What will your father say?' Maurice thought he knew what his father would do. 'Don't you know,' the mother went on, 'how wrong it is to be cruel?' 'I didn't mean to be cruel,' Maurice said. And, what is more, he spoke the truth. All the unwelcome attentions he had showered on Lord Hugh had not been exactly intended to hurt that stout veteran--only it was interesting to see what a cat would do if you threw it in the water, or cut its whiskers, or tied things to its tail. 'Oh, but you must have meant to be cruel,' said mother, 'and you will have to be punished.' 'I wish I hadn't,' said Maurice, from the heart. 'So do I,' said his mother, with a sigh; 'but it isn't the first time; you know you tied Lord Hugh up in a bag with the hedgehog only last Tuesday week. You'd better go to your room and think it over. I shall have to tell your father directly he comes home.' Maurice went to his room and thought it over. And the more he thought the more he hated Lord Hugh. Why couldn't the beastly cat have held his tongue and sat still? That, at the time would have been a disappointment, but now Maurice wished it had happened. He sat on the edge of his bed and savagely kicked the edge of the green Kidderminster carpet, and hated the cat. He hadn't meant to be cruel; he was sure he hadn't; he wouldn't have pinched the cat's feet or squeezed its tail in the door, or pulled its whiskers, or poured hot water on it. He felt himself ill-used, and knew that he would feel still more so after the inevitable interview with his father. But that interview did not take the immediately painful form expected by Maurice. His father did _not_ say, 'Now I will show you what it feels like to be hurt.' Maurice had braced himself for that, and was looking beyond it to the calm of forgiveness which should follow the storm in which he should so unwillingly take part. No; his father was already calm and reasonable--with a dreadful calm, a terrifying reason. 'Look here, my boy,' he said. 'This cruelty to dumb animals must be checked--severely checked.' 'I didn't mean to be cruel,' said Maurice. 'Evil,' said Mr. Basingstoke, for such was Maurice's surname, 'is wrought by want of thought as well as want of heart. What about your putting the hen in the oven?' 'You know,' said Maurice, pale but determined, 'you _know_ I only wanted to help her to get her eggs hatched quickly. It says in "Fowls for Food and Fancy" that heat hatches eggs.' 'But she hadn't any eggs,' said Mr. Basingstoke. 'But she soon would have,' urged Maurice. 'I thought a stitch in time----' 'That,' said his father, 'is the sort of thing that you must learn not to think.' 'I'll try,' said Maurice, miserably hoping for the best. 'I intend that you shall,' said Mr. Basingstoke. 'This afternoon you go to Dr. Strongitharm's for the remaining week of term. If I find any more cruelty taking place during the holidays you will go there permanently. You can go and get ready.' 'Oh, father, _please_ not,' was all Maurice found to say. 'I'm sorry, my boy,' said his father, much more kindly; 'it's all for your own good, and it's as painful to me as it is to you--remember that. The cab will be here at four. Go and put your things together, and Jane shall pack for you.' So the box was packed. Mabel, Maurice's kiddy sister, cried over everything as it was put in. It was a very wet day. 'If it had been any school but old Strong's,' she sobbed. She and her brother knew that school well: its windows, dulled with wire blinds, its big alarm bell, the high walls of its grounds, bristling with spikes, the iron gates, always locked, through which gloomy boys, imprisoned, scowled on a free world. Dr. Strongitharm's was a school 'for backward and difficult boys.' Need I say more? Well, there was no help for it. The box was packed, the cab was at the door. The farewells had been said. Maurice determined that he wouldn't cry and he didn't, which gave him the one touch of pride and joy that such a scene could yield. Then at the last moment, just as father had one leg in the cab, the Taxes called. Father went back into the house to write a cheque. Mother and Mabel had retired in tears. Maurice used the reprieve to go back after his postage-stamp album. Already he was planning how to impress the other boys at old Strong's, and his was really a very fair collection. He ran up into the schoolroom, expecting to find it empty. But some one was there: Lord Hugh, in the very middle of the ink-stained table-cloth. 'You brute,' said Maurice; 'you know jolly well I'm going away, or you wouldn't be here.' And, indeed, the room had never, somehow, been a favourite of Lord Hugh's. 'Meaow,' said Lord Hugh. [Illustration: 'If you think cats have such a jolly time,' said Lord Hugh, 'why not _be_ a cat?'] 'Mew!' said Maurice, with scorn. 'That's what you always say. All that fuss about a jolly little sardine-tin. Any one would have thought you'd be only too glad to have it to play with. I wonder how you'd like being a boy? Lickings, and lessons, and impots, and sent back from breakfast to wash your ears. You wash yours anywhere--I wonder what they'd say to me if I washed my ears on the drawing-room hearthrug?' 'Meaow,' said Lord Hugh, and washed an ear, as though he were showing off. 'Mew,' said Maurice again; 'that's all you can say.' 'Oh, no, it isn't,' said Lord Hugh, and stopped his ear-washing. 'I say!' said Maurice in awestruck tones. 'If you think cats have such a jolly time,' said Lord Hugh, 'why not _be_ a cat?' 'I would if I could,' said Maurice, 'and fight you----' 'Thank you,' said Lord Hugh. 'But I can't,' said Maurice. 'Oh, yes, you can,' said Lord Hugh. 'You've only got to say the word.' 'What word?' Lord Hugh told him the word; but I will not tell you, for fear you should say it by accident and then be sorry. 'And if I say that, I shall turn into a cat?' 'Of course,' said the cat. 'Oh, yes, I see,' said Maurice. 'But I'm not taking any, thanks. I don't want to be a cat for always.' 'You needn't,' said Lord Hugh. 'You've only got to get some one to say to you, "Please leave off being a cat and be Maurice again," and there you are.' Maurice thought of Dr. Strongitharm's. He also thought of the horror of his father when he should find Maurice gone, vanished, not to be traced. 'He'll be sorry, then,' Maurice told himself, and to the cat he said, suddenly:-- 'Right--I'll do it. What's the word, again?' '----,' said the cat. '----,' said Maurice; and suddenly the table shot up to the height of a house, the walls to the height of tenement buildings, the pattern on the carpet became enormous, and Maurice found himself on all fours. He tried to stand up on his feet, but his shoulders were oddly heavy. He could only rear himself upright for a moment, and then fell heavily on his hands. He looked down at them; they seemed to have grown shorter and fatter, and were encased in black fur gloves. He felt a desire to walk on all fours--tried it--did it. It was very odd--the movement of the arms straight from the shoulder, more like the movement of the piston of an engine than anything Maurice could think of at that moment. 'I am asleep,' said Maurice--'I am dreaming this. I am dreaming I am a cat. I hope I dreamed that about the sardine-tin and Lord Hugh's tail, and Dr. Strong's.' 'You didn't,' said a voice he knew and yet didn't know, 'and you aren't dreaming this.' 'Yes, I am,' said Maurice; 'and now I'm going to dream that I fight that beastly black cat, and give him the best licking he ever had in his life. Come on, Lord Hugh.' A loud laugh answered him. 'Excuse my smiling,' said the voice he knew and didn't know, 'but don't you see--you _are_ Lord Hugh!' A great hand picked Maurice up from the floor and held him in the air. He felt the position to be not only undignified but unsafe, and gave himself a shake of mingled relief and resentment when the hand set him down on the inky table-cloth. 'You are Lord Hugh now, my dear Maurice,' said the voice, and a huge face came quite close to his. It was his own face, as it would have seemed through a magnifying glass. And the voice--oh, horror!--the voice was his own voice--Maurice Basingstoke's voice. Maurice shrank from the voice, and he would have liked to claw the face, but he had had no practice. 'You are Lord Hugh,' the voice repeated, 'and I am Maurice. I like being Maurice. I am so large and strong. I could drown you in the water-butt, my poor cat--oh, so easily. No, don't spit and swear. It's bad manners--even in a cat.' 'Maurice!' shouted Mr. Basingstoke from between the door and the cab. Maurice, from habit, leaped towards the door. 'It's no use _your_ going,' said the thing that looked like a giant reflection of Maurice; 'it's _me_ he wants.' 'But I didn't agree to your being me.' 'That's poetry, even if it isn't grammar,' said the thing that looked like Maurice. 'Why, my good cat, don't you see that if you are I, I must be you? Otherwise we should interfere with time and space, upset the balance of power, and as likely as not destroy the solar system. Oh, yes--I'm you, right enough, and shall be, till some one tells you to change from Lord Hugh into Maurice. And now you've got to find some one to do it.' ('Maurice!' thundered the voice of Mr. Basingstoke.) 'That'll be easy enough,' said Maurice. 'Think so?' said the other. 'But I sha'n't try yet. I want to have some fun first. I shall catch heaps of mice!' 'Think so? You forget that your whiskers are cut off--Maurice cut them. Without whiskers, how can you judge of the width of the places you go through? Take care you don't get stuck in a hole that you can't get out of or go in through, my good cat.' 'Don't call me a cat,' said Maurice, and felt that his tail was growing thick and angry. 'You _are_ a cat, you know--and that little bit of temper that I see in your tail reminds me----' Maurice felt himself gripped round the middle, abruptly lifted, and carried swiftly through the air. The quickness of the movement made him giddy. The light went so quickly past him that it might as well have been darkness. He saw nothing, felt nothing, except a sort of long sea-sickness, and then suddenly he was not being moved. He could see now. He could feel. He was being held tight in a sort of vice--a vice covered with chequered cloth. It looked like the pattern, very much exaggerated, of his school knickerbockers. It _was_. He was being held between the hard, relentless knees of that creature that had once been Lord Hugh, and to whose tail he had tied a sardine-tin. Now _he_ was Lord Hugh, and something was being tied to _his_ tail. Something mysterious, terrible. Very well, he would show that he was not afraid of anything that could be attached to tails. The string rubbed his fur the wrong way--it was that that annoyed him, not the string itself; and as for what was at the end of the string, what _could_ that matter to any sensible cat? Maurice was quite decided that he was--and would keep on being--a sensible cat. The string, however, and the uncomfortable, tight position between those chequered knees--something or other was getting on his nerves. 'Maurice!' shouted his father below, and the be-catted Maurice bounded between the knees of the creature that wore his clothes and his looks. 'Coming, father,' this thing called, and sped away, leaving Maurice on the servant's bed--under which Lord Hugh had taken refuge, with his tin-can, so short and yet so long a time ago. The stairs re-echoed to the loud boots which Maurice had never before thought loud; he had often, indeed, wondered that any one could object to them. He wondered now no longer. He heard the front door slam. That thing had gone to Dr. Strongitharm's. That was one comfort. Lord Hugh was a boy now; he would know what it was to be a boy. He, Maurice, was a cat, and he meant to taste fully all catty pleasures, from milk to mice. Meanwhile he was without mice or milk, and, unaccustomed as he was to a tail, he could not but feel that all was not right with his own. There was a feeling of weight, a feeling of discomfort, of positive terror. If he should move, what would that thing that was tied to his tail do? Rattle, of course. Oh, but he could not bear it if that thing rattled. Nonsense; it was only a sardine-tin. Yes, Maurice knew that. But all the same--if it did rattle! He moved his tail the least little soft inch. No sound. Perhaps really there wasn't anything tied to his tail. But he couldn't be sure unless he moved. But if he moved the thing would rattle, and if it rattled Maurice felt sure that he would expire or go mad. A mad cat. What a dreadful thing to be! Yet he couldn't sit on that bed for ever, waiting, waiting, waiting for the dreadful thing to happen. 'Oh, dear,' sighed Maurice the cat. 'I never knew what people meant by "afraid" before.' His cat-heart was beating heavily against his furry side. His limbs were getting cramped--he must move. He did. And instantly the awful thing happened. The sardine-tin touched the iron of the bed-foot. It rattled. 'Oh, I can't bear it, I can't,' cried poor Maurice, in a heartrending meaow that echoed through the house. He leaped from the bed and tore through the door and down the stairs, and behind him came the most terrible thing in the world. People might call it a sardine-tin, but he knew better. It was the soul of all the fear that ever had been or ever could be. _It rattled._ Maurice who was a cat flew down the stairs; down, down--the rattling horror followed. Oh, horrible! Down, down! At the foot of the stairs the horror, caught by something--a banister--a stair-rod--stopped. The string on Maurice's tail tightened, his tail was jerked, he was stopped. But the noise had stopped too. Maurice lay only just alive at the foot of the stairs. It was Mabel who untied the string and soothed his terrors with strokings and tender love-words. Maurice was surprised to find what a nice little girl his sister really was. 'I'll never tease you again,' he tried to say, softly--but that was not what he said. What he said was 'Purrrr.' [Illustration: It was Mabel who untied the string and soothed his terrors.] 'Dear pussy, nice poor pussy, then,' said Mabel, and she hid away the sardine-tin and did not tell any one. This seemed unjust to Maurice until he remembered that, of course, Mabel thought that he was really Lord Hugh, and that the person who had tied the tin to his tail was her brother Maurice. Then he was half grateful. She carried him down, in soft, safe arms, to the kitchen, and asked cook to give him some milk. 'Tell me to change back into Maurice,' said Maurice who was quite worn out by his cattish experiences. But no one heard him. What they heard was, 'Meaow--Meaow--Meeeaow!' Then Maurice saw how he had been tricked. He could be changed back into a boy as soon as any one said to him, 'Leave off being a cat and be Maurice again,' but his tongue had no longer the power to ask any one to say it. He did not sleep well that night. For one thing he was not accustomed to sleeping on the kitchen hearthrug, and the blackbeetles were too many and too cordial. He was glad when cook came down and turned him out into the garden, where the October frost still lay white on the yellowed stalks of sunflowers and nasturtiums. He took a walk, climbed a tree, failed to catch a bird, and felt better. He began also to feel hungry. A delicious scent came stealing out of the back kitchen door. Oh, joy, there were to be herrings for breakfast! Maurice hastened in and took his place on his usual chair. His mother said, 'Down, puss,' and gently tilted the chair so that Maurice fell off it. Then the family had herrings. Maurice said, 'You might give me some,' and he said it so often that his father, who, of course, heard only mewings, said:-- 'For goodness' sake put that cat out of the room.' Maurice breakfasted later, in the dust-bin, on herring heads. But he kept himself up with a new and splendid idea. They would give him milk presently, and then they should see. He spent the afternoon sitting on the sofa in the dining-room, listening to the conversation of his father and mother. It is said that listeners never hear any good of themselves. Maurice heard so much that he was surprised and humbled. He heard his father say that he was a fine, plucky little chap, but he needed a severe lesson, and Dr. Strongitharm was the man to give it to him. He heard his mother say things that made his heart throb in his throat and the tears prick behind those green cat-eyes of his. He had always thought his parents a little bit unjust. Now they did him so much more than justice that he felt quite small and mean inside his cat-skin. [Illustration: He landed there on his four padded feet light as a feather.] 'He's a dear, good, affectionate boy,' said mother. 'It's only his high spirits. Don't you think, darling, perhaps you were a little hard on him?' 'It was for his own good,' said father. 'Of course,' said mother; 'but I can't bear to think of him at that dreadful school.' 'Well----,' father was beginning, when Jane came in with the tea-things on a clattering tray, whose sound made Maurice tremble in every leg. Father and mother began to talk about the weather. Maurice felt very affectionately to both his parents. The natural way of showing this was to jump on to the sideboard and thence on to his father's shoulders. He landed there on his four padded feet, light as a feather, but father was not pleased. 'Bother the cat!' he cried. 'Jane, put it out of the room.' Maurice was put out. His great idea, which was to be carried out with milk, would certainly not be carried out in the dining-room. He sought the kitchen, and, seeing a milk-can on the window-ledge, jumped up beside the can and patted it as he had seen Lord Hugh do. 'My!' said a friend of Jane's who happened to be there, 'ain't that cat clever--a perfect moral, I call her.' 'He's nothing to boast of this time,' said cook. 'I will say for Lord Hugh he's not often taken in with a empty can.' This was naturally mortifying for Maurice, but he pretended not to hear, and jumped from the window to the tea-table and patted the milk-jug. 'Come,' said the cook, 'that's more like it,' and she poured him out a full saucer and set it on the floor. Now was the chance Maurice had longed for. Now he could carry out that idea of his. He was very thirsty, for he had had nothing since that delicious breakfast in the dust-bin. But not for worlds would he have drunk the milk. No. He carefully dipped his right paw in it, for his idea was to make letters with it on the kitchen oil-cloth. He meant to write: 'Please tell me to leave off being a cat and be Maurice again,' but he found his paw a very clumsy pen, and he had to rub out the first 'P' because it only looked like an accident. Then he tried again and actually did make a 'P' that any fair-minded person could have read quite easily. 'I wish they'd notice,' he said, and before he got the 'l' written they did notice. 'Drat the cat,' said cook; 'look how he's messing the floor up.' And she took away the milk. Maurice put pride aside and mewed to have the milk put down again. But he did not get it. Very weary, very thirsty, and very tired of being Lord Hugh, he presently found his way to the schoolroom, where Mabel with patient toil was doing her home-lessons. She took him on her lap and stroked him while she learned her French verb. He felt that he was growing very fond of her. People were quite right to be kind to dumb animals. Presently she had to stop stroking him and do a map. And after that she kissed him and put him down and went away. All the time she had been doing the map, Maurice had had but one thought: _Ink!_ The moment the door had closed behind her--how sensible people were who closed doors gently--he stood up in her chair with one paw on the map and the other on the ink. Unfortunately, the inkstand top was made to dip pens in, and not to dip paws. But Maurice was desperate. He deliberately upset the ink--most of it rolled over the table-cloth and fell pattering on the carpet, but with what was left he wrote quite plainly, across the map:-- 'Please tell Lord Hugh to stop being a cat and be Mau rice again.' 'There!' he said; 'they can't make any mistake about that.' They didn't. But they made a mistake about who had done it, and Mabel was deprived of jam with her supper bread. Her assurance that some naughty boy must have come through the window and done it while she was not there convinced nobody, and, indeed, the window was shut and bolted. Maurice, wild with indignation, did not mend matters by seizing the opportunity of a few minutes' solitude to write:-- 'It was not Mabel it was Maur ice I mean Lord Hugh,' because when that was seen Mabel was instantly sent to bed. 'It's not fair!' cried Maurice. 'My dear,' said Maurice's father, 'if that cat goes on mewing to this extent you'll have to get rid of it.' [Illustration: When Jane went in to put Mabel's light out Maurice crept in too.] Maurice said not another word. It was bad enough to be a cat, but to be a cat that was 'got rid of'! He knew how people got rid of cats. In a stricken silence he left the room and slunk up the stairs--he dared not mew again, even at the door of Mabel's room. But when Jane went in to put Mabel's light out Maurice crept in too, and in the dark tried with stifled mews and purrs to explain to Mabel how sorry he was. Mabel stroked him and he went to sleep, his last waking thought amazement at the blindness that had once made him call her a silly little kid. If you have ever been a cat you will understand something of what Maurice endured during the dreadful days that followed. If you have not, I can never make you understand fully. There was the affair of the fishmonger's tray balanced on the wall by the back door--the delicious curled-up whiting; Maurice knew as well as you do that one mustn't steal fish out of other people's trays, but the cat that he was didn't know. There was an inward struggle--and Maurice was beaten by the cat-nature. Later he was beaten by the cook. Then there was that very painful incident with the butcher's dog, the flight across gardens, the safety of the plum tree gained only just in time. And, worst of all, despair took hold of him, for he saw that nothing he could do would make any one say those simple words that would release him. He had hoped that Mabel might at last be made to understand, but the ink had failed him; she did not understand his subdued mewings, and when he got the cardboard letters and made the same sentence with them Mabel only thought it was that naughty boy who came through locked windows. Somehow he could not spell before any one--his nerves were not what they had been. His brain now gave him no new ideas. He felt that he was really growing like a cat in his mind. His interest in his meals grew beyond even what it had been when they were a schoolboy's meals. He hunted mice with growing enthusiasm, though the loss of his whiskers to measure narrow places with made hunting difficult. He grew expert in bird-stalking, and often got quite near to a bird before it flew away, laughing at him. But all the time, in his heart, he was very, very miserable. And so the week went by. Maurice in his cat shape dreaded more and more the time when Lord Hugh in the boy shape should come back from Dr. Strongitharm's. He knew--who better?--exactly the kind of things boys do to cats, and he trembled to the end of his handsome half-Persian tail. And then the boy came home from Dr. Strongitharm's, and at the first sound of his boots in the hall Maurice in the cat's body fled with silent haste to hide in the boot-cupboard. Here, ten minutes later, the boy that had come back from Dr. Strongitharm's found him. Maurice fluffed up his tail and unsheathed his claws. Whatever this boy was going to do to him Maurice meant to resist, and his resistance should hurt the boy as much as possible. I am sorry to say Maurice swore softly among the boots, but cat-swearing is not really wrong. 'Come out, you old duffer,' said Lord Hugh in the boy shape of Maurice. 'I'm not going to hurt you.' 'I'll see to that,' said Maurice, backing into the corner, all teeth and claws. 'Oh, I've had such a time!' said Lord Hugh. 'It's no use, you know, old chap; I can see where you are by your green eyes. My word, they do shine. I've been caned and shut up in a dark room and given thousands of lines to write out.' 'I've been beaten, too, if you come to that,' mewed Maurice. 'Besides the butcher's dog.' It was an intense relief to speak to some one who could understand his mews. 'Well, I suppose it's Pax for the future,' said Lord Hugh; 'if you won't come out, you won't. Please leave off being a cat and be Maurice again.' And instantly Maurice, amid a heap of goloshes and old tennis bats, felt with a swelling heart that he was no longer a cat. No more of those undignified four legs, those tiresome pointed ears, so difficult to wash, that furry coat, that contemptible tail, and that terrible inability to express all one's feelings in two words--'mew' and 'purr.' He scrambled out of the cupboard, and the boots and goloshes fell off him like spray off a bather. He stood upright in those very chequered knickerbockers that were so terrible when their knees held one vice-like, while things were tied to one's tail. He was face to face with another boy, exactly like himself. '_You_ haven't changed, then--but there can't be two Maurices.' 'There sha'n't be; not if I know it,' said the other boy; 'a boy's life's a dog's life. Quick, before any one comes.' 'Quick what?' asked Maurice. 'Why tell me to leave off being a boy, and to be Lord Hugh Cecil again.' Maurice told him at once. And at once the boy was gone, and there was Lord Hugh in his own shape, purring politely, yet with a watchful eye on Maurice's movements. 'Oh, you needn't be afraid, old chap. It's Pax right enough,' Maurice murmured in the ear of Lord Hugh. And Lord Hugh, arching his back under Maurice's stroking hand, replied with a purrrr-meaow that spoke volumes. 'Oh, Maurice, here you are. It _is_ nice of you to be nice to Lord Hugh, when it was because of him you----' 'He's a good old chap,' said Maurice, carelessly. 'And you're not half a bad old girl. See?' Mabel almost wept for joy at this magnificent compliment, and Lord Hugh himself took on a more happy and confident air. Please dismiss any fears which you may entertain that after this Maurice became a model boy. He didn't. But he was much nicer than before. The conversation which he overheard when he was a cat makes him more patient with his father and mother. And he is almost always nice to Mabel, for he cannot forget all that she was to him when he wore the shape of Lord Hugh. His father attributes all the improvement in his son's character to that week at Dr. Strongitharm's--which, as you know, Maurice never had. Lord Hugh's character is unchanged. Cats learn slowly and with difficulty. Only Maurice and Lord Hugh know the truth--Maurice has never told it to any one except me, and Lord Hugh is a very reserved cat. He never at any time had that free flow of mew which distinguished and endangered the cat-hood of Maurice. II THE MIXED MINE The ship was first sighted off Dungeness. She was labouring heavily. Her paint was peculiar and her rig outlandish. She looked like a golden ship out of a painted picture. 'Blessed if I ever see such a rig--nor such lines neither,' old Hawkhurst said. It was a late afternoon, wild and grey. Slate-coloured clouds drove across the sky like flocks of hurried camels. The waves were purple and blue, and in the west a streak of unnatural-looking green light was all that stood for the splendours of sunset. 'She do be a rum 'un,' said young Benenden, who had strolled along the beach with the glasses the gentleman gave him for saving the little boy from drowning. 'Don't know as I ever see another just like her.' 'I'd give half a dollar to any chap as can tell me where she hails from--and what port it is where they has ships o' that cut,' said middle-aged Haversham to the group that had now gathered. 'George!' exclaimed young Benenden from under his field-glasses, 'she's going.' And she went. Her bow went down suddenly and she stood stern up in the water--like a duck after rain. Then quite slowly, with no unseemly hurry, but with no moment's change of what seemed to be her fixed purpose, the ship sank and the grey rolling waves wiped out the place where she had been. Now I hope you will not expect me to tell you anything more about this ship--because there is nothing more to tell. What country she came from, what port she was bound for, what cargo she carried, and what kind of tongue her crew spoke--all these things are dead secrets. And a dead secret is a secret that nobody knows. No other secrets are dead secrets. Even I do not know this one, or I would tell you at once. For I, at least, have no secrets from you. [Illustration: Her bow went down suddenly.] When ships go down off Dungeness, things from them have a way of being washed up on the sands of that bay which curves from Dungeness to Folkestone, where the sea has bitten a piece out of the land--just such a half-moon-shaped piece as you bite out of a slice of bread-and-butter. Bits of wood tangled with ropes--broken furniture--ships' biscuits in barrels and kegs that have held brandy--seamen's chests--and sometimes sadder things that we will not talk about just now. Now, if you live by the sea and are grown-up you know that if you find anything on the seashore (I don't mean starfish or razor-shells or jellyfish and sea-mice, but anything out of a ship that you would really like to keep) your duty is to take it up to the coast-guard and say, 'Please, I've found this.' Then the coast-guard will send it to the proper authority, and one of these days you'll get a reward of one-third of the value of whatever it was that you picked up. But two-thirds of the value of anything, or even three-thirds of its value, is not at all the same thing as the thing itself--if it happened to be the kind of thing you want. But if you are not grown-up and do not live by the sea, but in a nice little villa in a nice little suburb, where all the furniture is new and the servants wear white aprons and white caps with long strings in the afternoon, then you won't know anything about your duty, and if you find anything by the sea you'll think that findings are keepings. Edward was not grown-up--and he kept everything he found, including sea-mice, till the landlady of the lodgings where his aunt was threw his collection into the pig-pail. Being a quiet and persevering little boy he did not cry or complain, but having meekly followed his treasures to their long home--the pig was six feet from nose to tail, and ate the dead sea-mouse as easily and happily as your father eats an oyster--he started out to make a new collection. And the first thing he found was an oyster-shell that was pink and green and blue inside, and the second was an old boot--very old indeed--and the third was _it_. It was a square case of old leather embossed with odd little figures of men and animals and words that Edward could not read. It was oblong and had no key, but a sort of leather hasp, and was curiously knotted with string--rather like a boot-lace. And Edward opened it. There were several things inside: queer-looking instruments, some rather like those in the little box of mathematical instruments that he had had as a prize at school, and some like nothing he had ever seen before. And in a deep groove of the russet soaked velvet lining lay a neat little brass telescope. T-squares and set-squares and so forth are of little use on a sandy shore. But you can always look through a telescope. Edward picked it out and put it to his eye, and tried to see through it a little tug that was sturdily puffing up Channel. He failed to find the tug, and found himself gazing at a little cloud on the horizon. As he looked it grew larger and darker, and presently a spot of rain fell on his nose. He rubbed it off--on his jersey sleeve, I am sorry to say, and not on his handkerchief. Then he looked through the glass again; but he found he needed both hands to keep it steady, so he set down the box with the other instruments on the sand at his feet and put the glass to his eye again. He never saw the box again. For in his unpractised efforts to cover the tug with his glass he found himself looking at the shore instead of at the sea, and the shore looked so odd that he could not make up his mind to stop looking at it. He had thought it was a sandy shore, but almost at once he saw that it was not sand but fine shingle, and the discovery of this mistake surprised him so much that he kept on looking at the shingle through the little telescope, which showed it quite plainly. And as he looked the shingle grew coarser; it was stones now--quite decent-sized stones, large stones, enormous stones. Something hard pressed against his foot, and he lowered the glass. He was surrounded by big stones, and they all seemed to be moving; some were tumbling off others that lay in heaps below them, and others were rolling away from the beach in every direction. And the place where he had put down the box was covered with great stones which he could not move. Edward was very much upset. He had never been accustomed to great stones that moved about when no one was touching them, and he looked round for some one to ask how it had happened. The only person in sight was another boy in a blue jersey with red letters on its chest. 'Hi!' said Edward, and the boy also said 'Hi!' 'Come along here,' said Edward, 'and I'll show you something.' 'Right-o!' the boy remarked, and came. The boy was staying at the camp where the white tents were below the Grand Redoubt. His home was quite unlike Edward's, though he also lived with his aunt. The boy's home was very dirty and very small, and nothing in it was ever in its right place. There was no furniture to speak of. The servants did not wear white caps with long streamers, because there were no servants. His uncle was a dock-labourer and his aunt went out washing. But he had felt just the same pleasure in being shown things that Edward or you or I might have felt, and he went climbing over the big stones to where Edward stood waiting for him in a sort of pit among the stones with the little telescope in his hand. 'I say,' said Edward, 'did you see any one move these stones?' 'I ain't only just come up on to the sea-wall,' said the boy, who was called Gustus. 'They all came round me,' said Edward, rather pale. 'I didn't see any one shoving them.' 'Who're you a-kiddin' of?' the boy inquired. 'But I _did_,' said Edward, 'honour bright I did. I was just taking a squint through this little telescope I've found--and they came rolling up to me.' 'Let's see what you found,' said Gustus, and Edward gave him the glass. He directed it with inexpert fingers to the sea-wall, so little trodden that on it the grass grows, and the sea-pinks, and even convolvulus and mock-strawberry. 'Oh, look!' cried Edward, very loud. 'Look at the grass!' Gustus let the glass fall to long arm's length and said 'Krikey!' The grass and flowers on the sea-wall had grown a foot and a half--quite tropical they looked. 'Well?' said Edward. 'What's the matter wiv everyfink?' said Gustus. 'We must both be a bit balmy, seems ter me.' 'What's balmy?' asked Edward. 'Off your chump--looney--like what you and me is,' said Gustus. 'First I sees things, then I sees you.' 'It was only fancy, I expect,' said Edward. 'I expect the grass on the sea-wall was always like that, really.' 'Let's have a look through your spy-glass at that little barge,' said Gustus, still holding the glass. 'Come on outer these 'ere paving-stones.' 'There was a box,' said Edward, 'a box I found with lots of jolly things in it. I laid it down somewhere--and----' 'Ain't that it over there?' Gustus asked, and levelled the glass at a dark object a hundred yards away. 'No; it's only an old boot. I say, this is a fine spy-glass. It does make things come big.' 'That's not it. I'm certain I put it down somewhere just here. Oh, _don't_!' [Illustration: 'Look!' he said, 'look!' and pointed.] He snatched the glass from Gustus. 'Look!' he said, 'look!' and pointed. A hundred yards away stood a boot about as big as the bath you see Marat in at Madame Tussaud's. 'S'welp me,' said Gustus, 'we're asleep, both of us, and a-dreaming as things grow while we look at them.' 'But we're not dreaming,' Edward objected. 'You let me pinch you and you'll see.' 'No fun in that,' said Gustus. 'Tell you what--it's the spy-glass--that's what it is. Ever see any conjuring? I see a chap at the Mile End Empire what made things turn into things like winking. It's the spy-glass, that's what it is.' 'It can't be,' said the little boy who lived in a villa. 'But it _is_,' said the little boy who lived in a slum. 'Teacher says there ain't no bounds to the wonders of science. Blest if this ain't one of 'em.' 'Let me look,' said Edward. 'All right; only you mark me. Whatever you sets eyes on'll grow and grow--like the flower-tree the conjurer had under the wipe. Don't you look at _me_, that's all. Hold on; I'll put something up for you to look at--a mark like--something as doesn't matter.' He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a boot-lace. 'I hold this up,' he said, 'and you look.' Next moment he had dropped the boot-lace, which, swollen as it was with the magic of the glass, lay like a snake on the stone at his feet. So the glass _was_ a magic glass, as, of course, you know already. 'My!' said Gustus, 'wouldn't I like to look at my victuals through that there!' * * * * * Thus we find Edward, of the villa--and through him Gustus, of the slum--in possession of a unique instrument of magic. What could they do with it? This was the question which they talked over every time they met, and they met continually. Edward's aunt, who at home watched him as cats watch mice, rashly believed that at the seaside there was no mischief for a boy to get into. And the gentleman who commanded the tented camp believed in the ennobling effects of liberty. After the boot, neither had dared to look at anything through the telescope--and so they looked _at_ it, and polished it on their sleeves till it shone again. Both were agreed that it would be a fine thing to get some money and look at it, so that it would grow big. But Gustus never had any pocket-money, and Edward had had his confiscated to pay for a window he had not intended to break. Gustus felt certain that some one would find out about the spy-glass and take it away from them. His experience was that anything you happened to like was always taken away. Edward knew that his aunt would want to take the telescope away to 'take care of' for him. This had already happened with the carved chessmen that his father had sent him from India. 'I been thinking,' said Gustus, on the third day. 'When I'm a man I'm a-going to be a burglar. You has to use your headpiece in that trade, I tell you. So I don't think thinking's swipes, like some blokes do. And I think p'r'aps it don't turn everything big. An' if we could find out what it don't turn big we could see what we wanted to turn big or what it didn't turn big, and then it wouldn't turn anything big except what we wanted it to. See?' Edward did not see; and I don't suppose you do, either. So Gustus went on to explain that teacher had told him there were some substances impervious to light, and some to cold, and so on and so forth, and that what they wanted was a substance that should be impervious to the magic effects of the spy-glass. 'So if we get a tanner and set it on a plate and squint at it it'll get bigger--but so'll the plate. And we don't want to litter the place up with plates the bigness of cartwheels. But if the plate didn't get big we could look at the tanner till it covered the plate, and then go on looking and looking and looking and see nothing but the tanner till it was as big as a circus. See?' This time Edward did see. But they got no further, because it was time to go to the circus. There was a circus at Dymchurch just then, and that was what made Gustus think of the sixpence growing to that size. It was a very nice circus, and all the boys from the camp went to it--also Edward, who managed to scramble over and wriggle under benches till he was sitting near his friend. [Illustration: Far above him and every one else towered the elephant.] It was the size of the elephant that did it. Edward had not seen an elephant before, and when he saw it, instead of saying, 'What a size he is!' as everybody else did, he said to himself, 'What a size I could make him!' and pulled out the spy-glass, and by a miracle of good luck or bad got it levelled at the elephant as it went by. He turned the glass slowly--as it went out--and the elephant only just got out in time. Another moment and it would have been too big to get through the door. The audience cheered madly. They thought it was a clever trick; and so it would have been, very clever. 'You silly cuckoo,' said Gustus, bitterly, 'now you've turned that great thing loose on the country, and how's his keeper to manage him?' 'I could make the keeper big, too.' 'Then if I was you I should just bunk out and do it.' Edward obeyed, slipped under the canvas of the circus tent, and found himself on the yellow, trampled grass of the field among guy-ropes, orange-peel, banana-skins, and dirty paper. Far above him and every one else towered the elephant--it was now as big as the church. Edward pointed the glass at the man who was patting the elephant's foot--that was as far up as he could reach--and telling it to 'Come down with you!' He was very much frightened. He did not know whether you could be put in prison for making an elephant's keeper about forty times his proper size. But he felt that something must be done to control the gigantic mountain of black-lead-coloured living flesh. So he looked at the keeper through the spy-glass, and the keeper remained his normal size! In the shock of this failure he dropped the spy-glass, picked it up, and tried once more to fix the keeper. Instead he only got a circle of black-lead-coloured elephant; and while he was trying to find the keeper, and finding nothing but more and more of the elephant, a shout startled him and he dropped the glass once more. He was a very clumsy little boy, was Edward. 'Well,' said one of the men, 'what a turn it give me! I thought Jumbo'd grown as big as a railway station, s'welp me if I didn't.' 'Now that's rum,' said another, 'so did I.' 'And he _ain't_,' said a third; 'seems to me he's a bit below his usual figure. Got a bit thin or somethink, ain't he?' Edward slipped back into the tent unobserved. 'It's all right,' he whispered to his friend, 'he's gone back to his proper size, and the man didn't change at all.' 'Ho!' Gustus said slowly--'Ho! All right. Conjuring's a rum thing. You don't never know where you are!' 'Don't you think you might as well be a conjurer as a burglar?' suggested Edward, who had had his friend's criminal future rather painfully on his mind for the last hour. '_You_ might,' said Gustus, 'not me. My people ain't dooks to set me up on any such a swell lay as conjuring. Now I'm going to think, I am. You hold your jaw and look at the 'andsome Dona a-doin' of 'er griceful barebacked hact.' That evening after tea Edward went, as he had been told to do, to the place on the shore where the big stones had taught him the magic of the spy-glass. Gustus was already at the tryst. 'See here,' he said, 'I'm a-goin' to do something brave and fearless, I am, like Lord Nelson and the boy on the fire-ship. You out with that spy-glass, an' I'll let you look at _me_. Then we'll know where we are.' 'But s'pose you turn into a giant?' 'Don't care. 'Sides, I shan't. T'other bloke didn't.' 'P'r'aps,' said Edward, cautiously, 'it only works by the seashore.' 'Ah,' said Gustus, reproachfully, 'you've been a-trying to think, that's what you've been a-doing. What about the elephant, my emernent scientister? Now, then!' Very much afraid, Edward pulled out the glass and looked. And nothing happened. 'That's number one,' said Gustus, 'now, number two.' He snatched the telescope from Edward's hand, and turned it round and looked through the other end at the great stones. Edward, standing by, saw them get smaller and smaller--turn to pebbles, to beach, to sand. When Gustus turned the glass to the giant grass and flowers on the sea-wall, they also drew back into themselves, got smaller and smaller, and presently were as they had been before ever Edward picked up the magic spy-glass. 'Now we know all about it--I _don't_ think,' said Gustus. 'To-morrow we'll have a look at that there model engine of yours that you say works.' [Illustration: It became a quite efficient motor.] They did. They had a look at it through the spy-glass, and it became a quite efficient motor; of rather an odd pattern it is true, and very bumpy, but capable of quite a decent speed. They went up to the hills in it, and so odd was its design that no one who saw it ever forgot it. People talk about that rummy motor at Bonnington and Aldington to this day. They stopped often, to use the spy-glass on various objects. Trees, for instance, could be made to grow surprisingly, and there were patches of giant wheat found that year near Ashford that were never satisfactorily accounted for. Blackberries, too, could be enlarged to a most wonderful and delicious fruit. And the sudden growth of a fugitive toffee-drop found in Edward's pocket and placed on the hand was a happy surprise. When you scraped the pocket dirt off the outside you had a pound of delicious toffee. Not so happy was the incident of the earwig, which crawled into view when Edward was enlarging a wild strawberry, and had grown the size of a rat before the slow but horrified Edward gained courage to shake it off. It was a beautiful drive. As they came home they met a woman driving a weak-looking little cow. It went by on one side of the engine and the woman went by on the other. When they were restored to each other the cow was nearly the size of a cart-horse, and the woman did not recognise it. She ran back along the road after her cow, which must, she said, have taken fright at the beastly motor. She scolded violently as she went. So the boys had to make the cow small again, when she wasn't looking. 'This is all very well,' said Gustus, 'but we've got our fortune to make, I don't think. We've got to get hold of a tanner--or a bob would be better.' But this was not possible, because that broken window wasn't paid for, and Gustus never had any money. 'We ought to be the benefactors of the human race,' said Edward; 'make all the good things more and all the bad things less.' And _that_ was all very well--but the cow hadn't been a great success, as Gustus reminded him. 'I see I shall have to do some of my thinking,' he added. They stopped in a quiet road close by Dymchurch; the engine was made small again, and Edward went home with it under his arm. It was the next day that they found the shilling on the road. They could hardly believe their good luck. They went out on to the shore with it, put it on Edward's hand while Gustus looked at it with the glass, and the shilling began to grow. 'It's as big as a saucer,' said Edward, 'and it's heavy. I'll rest it on these stones. It's as big as a plate; it's as big as a tea-tray; it's as big as a cart-wheel.' And it was. 'Now,' said Gustus, 'we'll go and borrow a cart to take it away. Come on.' But Edward could not come on. His hand was in the hollow between the two stones, and above lay tons of silver. He could not move, and the stones couldn't move. There was nothing for it but to look at the great round lump of silver through the wrong end of the spy-glass till it got small enough for Edward to lift it. And then, unfortunately, Gustus looked a little too long, and the shilling, having gone back to its own size, went a little further--and it went to sixpenny size, and then went out altogether. So nobody got anything by that. And now came the time when, as was to be expected, Edward dropped the telescope in his aunt's presence. She said, 'What's that?' picked it up with quite unfair quickness, and looked through it, and through the open window at a fishing-boat, which instantly swelled to the size of a man-of-war. 'My goodness! what a strong glass!' said the aunt. 'Isn't it?' said Edward, gently taking it from her. He looked at the ship through the glass's other end till she got to her proper size again and then smaller. He just stopped in time to prevent its disappearing altogether. 'I'll take care of it for you,' said the aunt. And for the first time in their lives Edward said 'No' to his aunt. It was a terrible moment. Edward, quite frenzied by his own courage, turned the glass on one object after another--the furniture grew as he looked, and when he lowered the glass the aunt was pinned fast between a monster table-leg and a great chiffonier. 'There!' said Edward. 'And I shan't let you out till you say you won't take it to take care of either.' 'Oh, have it your own way,' said the aunt, faintly, and closed her eyes. When she opened them the furniture was its right size and Edward was gone. He had twinges of conscience, but the aunt never mentioned the subject again. I have reason to suppose that _she_ supposed that she had had a fit of an unusual and alarming nature. Next day the boys in the camp were to go back to their slums. Edward and Gustus parted on the seashore and Edward cried. He had never met a boy whom he liked as he liked Gustus. And Gustus himself was almost melted. 'I will say for you you're more like a man and less like a snivelling white rabbit now than what you was when I met you. Well, we ain't done nothing to speak of with that there conjuring trick of yours, but we've 'ad a right good time. So long. See you 'gain some day.' Edward hesitated, spluttered, and still weeping flung his arms round Gustus. ''Ere, none o' that,' said Gustus, sternly. 'If you ain't man enough to know better, I am. Shake 'ands like a Briton; right about face--and part game.' He suited the action to the word. Edward went back to his aunt snivelling, defenceless but happy. He had never had a friend except Gustus, and now he had given Gustus the greatest treasure that he possessed. For Edward was not such a white rabbit as he seemed. And in that last embrace he had managed to slip the little telescope into the pocket of the reefer coat which Gustus wore, ready for his journey. It was the greatest treasure that Edward had, but it was also the greatest responsibility, so that while he felt the joy of self-sacrifice he also felt the rapture of relief. Life is full of such mixed moments. And the holidays ended and Edward went back to his villa. Be sure he had given Gustus his home address, and begged him to write, but Gustus never did. Presently Edward's father came home from India, and they left his aunt to her villa and went to live at a jolly little house on a sloping hill at Chiselhurst, which was Edward's father's very own. They were not rich, and Edward could not go to a very good school, and though there was enough to eat and wear, what there was was very plain. And Edward's father had been wounded, and somehow had not got a pension. Now one night in the next summer Edward woke up in his bed with the feeling that there was some one in the room. And there was. A dark figure was squeezing itself through the window. Edward was far too frightened to scream. He simply lay and listened to his heart. It was like listening to a cheap American clock. The next moment a lantern flashed in his eyes and a masked face bent over him. 'Where does your father keep his money?' said a muffled voice. 'In the b-b-b-b-bank,' replied the wretched Edward, truthfully. 'I mean what he's got in the house.' 'In his trousers pocket,' said Edward, 'only he puts it in the dressing-table drawer at night.' 'You must go and get it,' said the burglar, for such he plainly was. 'Must I?' said Edward, wondering how he could get out of betraying his father's confidence and being branded as a criminal. 'Yes,' said the burglar in an awful voice, 'get up and go.' '_No_,' said Edward, and he was as much surprised at his courage as you are. 'Bravo!' said the burglar, flinging off his mask. 'I see you _aren't_ such a white rabbit as what I thought you.' 'It's Gustus,' said Edward. 'Oh, Gustus, I'm so glad! Oh, Gustus, I'm so sorry! I always hoped you wouldn't be a burglar. And now you are.' 'I am so,' said Gustus, with pride, 'but,' he added sadly, 'this is my first burglary.' 'Couldn't it be the last?' suggested Edward. 'That,' replied Gustus, 'depends on you.' 'I'll do anything,' said Edward, 'anything.' 'You see,' said Gustus, sitting down on the edge of the bed in a confidential attitude, with the dark lantern in one hand and the mask in the other, 'when you're as hard up as we are, there's not much of a living to be made honest. I'm sure I wonder we don't all of us turn burglars, so I do. And that glass of yours--you little beggar--you did me proper--sticking of that thing in my pocket like what you did. Well, it kept us alive last winter, that's a cert. I used to look at the victuals with it, like what I said I would. A farden's worth o' pease-pudden was a dinner for three when that glass was about, and a penn'orth o' scraps turned into a big beef-steak almost. They used to wonder how I got so much for the money. But I'm always afraid o' being found out--or of losing the blessed spy-glass--or of some one pinching it. So we got to do what I always said--make some use of it. And if I go along and nick your father's dibs we'll make our fortunes right away.' 'No,' said Edward, 'but I'll ask father.' 'Rot.' Gustus was crisp and contemptuous. 'He'd think you was off your chump, and he'd get me lagged.' 'It would be stealing,' said Edward. 'Not when you'll pay it back.' 'Yes, it would,' said Edward. 'Oh, don't ask me--I can't.' 'Then I shall,' said Gustus. 'Where's his room.' 'Oh, don't!' said Edward. 'I've got a half-sovereign of my own. I'll give you that.' 'Lawk!' said Gustus. 'Why the blue monkeys couldn't you say so? Come on.' He pulled Edward out of bed by the leg, hurried his clothes on anyhow, and half-dragged, half-coaxed him through the window and down by the ivy and the chicken-house roof. They stood face to face in the sloping garden and Edward's teeth chattered. Gustus caught him by his hand, and led him away. At the other end of the shrubbery, where the rockery was, Gustus stooped and dragged out a big clinker--then another, and another. There was a hole like a big rabbit-hole. If Edward had really been a white rabbit it would just have fitted him. 'I'll go first,' said Gustus, and went, head-foremost. 'Come on,' he said, hollowly, from inside. And Edward, too, went. It was dreadful crawling into that damp hole in the dark. As his head got through the hole he saw that it led to a cave, and below him stood a dark figure. The lantern was on the ground. 'Come on,' said Gustus, 'I'll catch you if you fall.' With a rush and a scramble Edward got in. 'It's caves,' said Gustus. 'A chap I know that goes about the country bottoming cane-chairs, 'e told me about it. And I nosed about and found he lived here. So then I thought what a go. So now we'll put your half-shiner down and look at it, and we'll have a gold-mine, and you can pretend to find it.' 'Halves!' said Edward, briefly and firmly. 'You're a man,' said Gustus. 'Now, then!' He led the way through a maze of chalk caves till they came to a convenient spot, which he had marked. And now Edward emptied his pockets on the sand--he had brought all the contents of his money-box, and there was more silver than gold, and more copper than either, and more odd rubbish than there was anything else. You know what a boy's pockets are like. Stones and putty, and slate-pencils and marbles--I urge in excuse that Edward was a very little boy--a bit of plasticine, one or two bits of wood. 'No time to sort 'em,' said Gustus, and, putting the lantern in a suitable position, he got out the glass and began to look through it at the tumbled heap. And the heap began to grow. It grew out sideways till it touched the walls of the recess, and outwards till it touched the top of the recess, and then it slowly worked out into the big cave and came nearer and nearer to the boys. Everything grew--stones, putty, money, wood, plasticine. Edward patted the growing mass as though it were alive and he loved it, and Gustus said: 'Here's clothes, and beef, and bread, and tea, and coffee--and baccy--and a good school, and me a engineer. I see it all a-growing and a-growing.' 'Hi--stop!' said Edward suddenly. Gustus dropped the telescope. It rolled away into the darkness. 'Now you've done it,' said Edward. 'What?' said Gustus. 'My hand,' said Edward, 'it's fast between the rock and the gold and things. Find the glass and make it go smaller so that I can get my hand out.' But Gustus could not find the glass. And, what is more, no one ever has found it to this day. 'It's no good,' said Gustus, at last. 'I'll go and find your father. They must come and dig you out of this precious Tom Tiddler's ground.' 'And they'll lag you if they see you. You said they would,' said Edward, not at all sure what lagging was, but sure that it was something dreadful. 'Write a letter and put it in his letter-box. They'll find it in the morning.' 'And leave you pinned by the hand all night? Likely--I _don't_ think,' said Gustus. 'I'd rather,' said Edward, bravely, but his voice was weak. 'I couldn't bear you to be lagged, Gustus. I do love you so.' 'None of that,' said Gustus, sternly. 'I'll leave you the lamp; I can find my way with matches. Keep up your pecker, and never say die.' 'I won't,' said Edward, bravely. 'Oh, Gustus!' * * * * * That was how it happened that Edward's father was roused from slumbers by violent shakings from an unknown hand, while an unknown voice uttered these surprising words:-- 'Edward is in the gold and silver and copper mine that we've found under your garden. Come and get him out.' When Edward's father was at last persuaded that Gustus was not a silly dream--and this took some time--he got up. He did not believe a word that Gustus said, even when Gustus added 'S'welp me!' which he did several times. But Edward's bed was empty--his clothes gone. Edward's father got the gardener from next door--with, at the suggestion of Gustus, a pick--the hole in the rockery was enlarged, and they all got in. And when they got to the place where Edward was, there, sure enough, was Edward, pinned by the hand between a piece of wood and a piece of rock. Neither the father nor the gardener noticed any metal. Edward had fainted. They got him out; a couple of strokes with the pick released his hand, but it was bruised and bleeding. They all turned to go, but they had not gone twenty yards before there was a crash and a loud report like thunder, and a slow rumbling, rattling noise very dreadful to hear. 'Get out of this quick, sir,' said the gardener; 'the roof's fell in; this part of the caves ain't safe.' Edward was very feverish and ill for several days, during which he told his father the whole story--of which his father did not believe a word. But he was kind to Gustus, because Gustus was evidently fond of Edward. When Edward was well enough to walk in the garden his father and he found that a good deal of the shrubbery had sunk, so that the trees looked as though they were growing in a pit. It spoiled the look of the garden, and Edward's father decided to move the trees to the other side. When this was done the first tree uprooted showed a dark hollow below it. The man is not born who will not examine and explore a dark hollow in his own grounds. So Edward's father explored. This is the true story of the discovery of that extraordinary vein of silver, copper, and gold which has excited so much interest in scientific and mining circles. Learned papers have been written about it, learned professors have been rude to each other about it, but no one knows how it came there except Gustus and Edward and you and me. Edward's father is quite as ignorant as any one else, but he is much richer than most of them; and, at any rate, he knows that it was Gustus who first told him of the gold-mine, and who risked being lagged--arrested by the police, that is--rather than let Edward wait till morning with his hand fast between wood and rock. So Edward and Gustus have been to a good school, and now they are at Winchester, and presently they will be at Oxford. And when Gustus is twenty-one he will have half the money that came from the gold-mine. And then he and Edward mean to start a school of their own. And the boys who are to go to it are to be the sort of boys who go to the summer camp of the Grand Redoubt near the sea--the kind of boy that Gustus was. So the spy-glass will do some good after all, though it _was_ so unmanageable to begin with. Perhaps it may even be found again. But I rather hope it won't. It might, really, have done much more mischief than it did--and if any one found it, it might do more yet. There is no moral to this story, except.... But no--there is no moral. [Illustration: Quentin de Ward.] III ACCIDENTAL MAGIC; OR DON'T TELL ALL YOU KNOW Quentin de Ward was rather a nice little boy, but he had never been with other little boys, and that made him in some ways a little different from other little boys. His father was in India, and he and his mother lived in a little house in the New Forest. The house--it was a cottage really, but even a cottage is a house, isn't it?--was very pretty and thatched and had a porch covered with honeysuckle and ivy and white roses, and straight red hollyhocks were trained to stand up in a row against the south wall of it. The two lived quite alone, and as they had no one else to talk to they talked to each other a good deal. Mrs. de Ward read a great many books, and she used to tell Quentin about them afterwards. They were usually books about out of the way things, for Mrs. de Ward was interested in all the things that people are not quite sure about--the things that are hidden and secret, wonderful and mysterious--the things people make discoveries about. So that when the two were having their tea on the little brick terrace in front of the hollyhocks, with the white cloth flapping in the breeze, and the wasps hovering round the jam-pot, it was no uncommon thing for Quentin to say thickly through his bread and jam:-- 'I say, mother, tell me some more about Atlantis.' Or, 'Mother, tell me some more about ancient Egypt and the little toy-boats they made for their little boys.' Or, 'Mother, tell me about the people who think Lord Bacon wrote Shakespeare.' And his mother always told him as much as she thought he could understand, and he always understood quite half of what she told him. They always talked the things out thoroughly, and thus he learned to be fond of arguing, and to enjoy using his brains, just as you enjoy using your muscles in the football field or the gymnasium. Also he came to know quite a lot of odd, out of the way things, and to have opinions of his own concerning the lost Kingdom of Atlantis, and the Man with the Iron Mask, the building of Stonehenge, the Pre-dynastic Egyptians, cuneiform writings and Assyrian sculptures, the Mexican pyramids and the shipping activities of Tyre and Sidon. Quentin did no regular lessons, such as most boys have, but he read all sorts of books and made notes from them, in a large and straggling handwriting. You will already have supposed that Quentin was a prig. But he wasn't, and you would have owned this if you had seen him scampering through the greenwood on his quiet New Forest pony, or setting snares for the rabbits that _would_ get into the garden and eat the precious lettuces and parsley. Also he fished in the little streams that run through that lovely land, and shot with a bow and arrows. And he was a very good shot too. Besides this he collected stamps and birds' eggs and picture post-cards, and kept guinea-pigs and bantams, and climbed trees and tore his clothes in twenty different ways. And once he fought the grocer's boy and got licked and didn't cry, and made friends with the grocer's boy afterwards, and got him to show him all he knew about fighting, so you see he was really not a mug. He was ten years old and he had enjoyed every moment of his ten years, even the sleeping ones, because he always dreamed jolly dreams, though he could not always remember what they were. I tell you all this so that you may understand why he said what he did when his mother broke the news to him. He was sitting by the stream that ran along the end of the garden, making bricks of the clay that the stream's banks were made of. He dried them in the sun, and then baked them under the kitchen stove. (It is quite a good way to make bricks--you might try it sometimes.) His mother came out, looking just as usual, in her pink cotton gown and her pink sunbonnet; and she had a letter in her hand. 'Hullo, boy of my heart,' she said, 'very busy?' 'Yes,' said Quentin importantly, not looking up, and going on with his work. 'I'm making stones to build Stonehenge with. You'll show me how to build it, won't you, mother.' 'Yes, dear,' she said absently. 'Yes, if I can.' 'Of course you can,' he said, 'you can do everything.' She sat down on a tuft of grass near him. 'Quentin dear,' she said, and something in her voice made him look up suddenly. 'Oh, mother, what is it?' he asked. 'Daddy's been wounded,' she said; 'he's all right now, dear--don't be frightened. Only I've got to go out to him. I shall meet him in Egypt. And you must go to school in Salisbury, a very nice school, dear, till I come back.' 'Can't I come too?' he asked. And when he understood that he could not he went on with the bricks in silence, with his mouth shut very tight. After a moment he said, 'Salisbury? Then I shall see Stonehenge?' 'Yes,' said his mother, pleased that he took the news so calmly, 'you will be sure to see Stonehenge some time.' He stood still, looking down at the little mould of clay in his hand--so still that his mother got up and came close to him. 'Quentin,' she said, 'darling, what is it?' He leaned his head against her. 'I won't make a fuss,' he said, 'but you can't begin to be brave the very first minute. Or, if you do, you can't go on being.' And with that he began to cry, though he had not cried after the affair of the grocer's boy. * * * * * The thought of school was not so terrible to Quentin as Mrs. de Ward had thought it would be. In fact, he rather liked it, with half his mind; but the other half didn't like it, because it meant parting from his mother who, so far, had been his only friend. But it was exciting to be taken to Southampton, and have all sorts of new clothes bought for you, and a school trunk, and a little polished box that locked up, to keep your money in and your gold sleeve links, and your watch and chain when you were not wearing them. Also the journey to Salisbury was made in a motor, which was very exciting of course, and rather took Quentin's mind off the parting with his mother, as she meant it should. And there was a very grand lunch at The White Hart Hotel at Salisbury, and then, very suddenly indeed, it was good-bye, good-bye, and the motor snorted, and hooted, and throbbed, and rushed away, and mother was gone, and Quentin was at school. I believe it was quite a nice school. It was in a very nice house with a large quiet garden, and there were only about twenty boys. And the masters were kind, and the boys no worse than other boys of their age. But Quentin hated it from the very beginning. For when his mother had gone the Headmaster said: 'School will be out in half-an-hour; take a book, de Ward,' and gave him _Little Eric and his Friends_, a mere baby book. It was too silly. He could not read it. He saw on a shelf near him, _Smith's Antiquities_, a very old friend of his, so he said: 'I'd rather have this, please.' 'You should say "sir" when you speak to a master,' the Head said to him. 'Take the book by all means.' To himself the Head said, 'I wish you joy of it, you little prig.' When school was over, one of the boys was told to show Quentin his bed and his locker. The matron had already unpacked his box and his pile of books was waiting for him to carry it over. 'Golly, what a lot of books,' said Smithson minor. 'What's this? _Atlantis_? Is it a jolly story?' 'It isn't a story,' said Quentin. And just then the classical master came by. 'What's that about _Atlantis_?' he said. 'It's a book the new chap's got,' said Smithson. The classical master glanced at the book. 'And how much do you understand of this?' he asked, fluttering the leaves. 'Nearly all, I think,' said Quentin. 'You should say "sir" when you speak to a master,' said the classical one; and to himself he added, 'little prig.' Then he said to Quentin: 'I am afraid you will find yourself rather out of your element among ordinary boys.' 'I don't think so,' said Quentin calmly, adding as an afterthought 'sir.' 'I'm glad you're so confident,' said the classical master and went. 'My word,' said Smithson minor in a rather awed voice, 'you did answer him back.' 'Of course I did,' said Quentin. 'Don't _you_ answer when you're spoken to?' Smithson minor informed the interested school that the new chap was a prig, but he had a cool cheek, and that some sport might be expected. After supper the boys had half an hour's recreation. Quentin, who was tired, picked up a book which a big boy had just put down. It was the _Midsummer Night's Dream_. 'Hi, you kid,' said the big boy, 'don't pretend you read Shakespeare for fun. That's simple swank, you know.' 'I don't know what swank is,' said Quentin, 'but I like the _Midsummer_ whoever wrote it.' 'Whoever _what_?' 'Well,' said Quentin, 'there's a good deal to be said for its being Bacon who wrote the plays.' Of course that settled it. From that moment, he was called not de Ward, which was strange enough, but Bacon. He rather liked that. But the next day it was Pork, and the day after Pig, and that was unbearable. He was at the bottom of his class, for he knew no Latin as it is taught in schools, only odd words that English words come from, and some Latin words that are used in science. And I cannot pretend that his arithmetic was anything but contemptible. The book called _Atlantis_ had been looked at by most of the school, and Smithson major, not nearly such an agreeable boy as his brother, hit on a new nickname. 'Atlantic Pork's a good name for a swanker,' he said. 'You know the rotten meat they have in Chicago.' This was in the playground before dinner. Quentin, who had to keep his mouth shut very tight these days, because, of course, a boy of ten cannot cry before other chaps, shut the book he was reading and looked up. 'I won't be called that,' he said quietly. 'Who said you wouldn't?' said Smithson major, who, after all, was only twelve. 'I say you will.' 'If you call me that I shall hit you,' said Quentin, 'as hard as I can.' A roar of laughter went up, and cries of, 'Poor old Smithson'--'Apologise, Smithie, and leave the omnibus.' 'And what should I be doing while you were hitting me?' asked Smithson contemptuously. [Illustration: It landed on the point of the chin of Smithson major.] 'I don't know and I don't care,' said Quentin. Smithson looked round. No master was in sight. It seemed an excellent opportunity to teach young de Ward his place. 'Atlantic pig-swine,' he said very deliberately. And Quentin sprang at him, and instantly it was a fight. Now Quentin had only once fought--really fought--before. Then it was the grocer's boy and he had been beaten. But he had learned something since. And the chief conclusion he now drew from his memories of that fight was that he had not hit half hard enough, an opinion almost universal among those who have fought and not won. As the fist of Smithson major described a half circle and hurt his ear very much, Quentin suddenly screwed himself up and hit out with his right hand, straight, and with his whole weight behind the blow as the grocer's boy had shown him. All his grief for his wounded father, his sorrow at the parting from his mother, all his hatred of his school, and his contempt for his schoolfellows went into that blow. It landed on the point of the chin of Smithson major who fell together like a heap of rags. 'Oh,' said Quentin, gazing with interest at his hand--it hurt a good deal but he looked at it with respect--'I'm afraid I've hurt him.' He had forgotten for a moment that he was in an enemies' country, and so, apparently, had his enemies. 'Well done, Piggy! Bravo, young 'un! Well hit, by Jove!' Friendly hands thumped him on the back. Smithson major was no popular hero. Quentin felt--as his schoolfellows would have put it--bucked. It is one thing to be called Pig in enmity and derision. Another to be called Piggy--an affectionate diminutive, after all--to the chorus of admiring smacks. 'Get up, Smithie,' cried the ring. 'Want any more?' It appeared that Smithie did not want any more. He lay, not moving at all, and very white. 'I say,' the crowd's temper veered, 'you've killed him, I expect. I wouldn't like to be you, Bacon.' Pig, you notice, for aggravation--Piggy in enthusiastic applause. In the moment of possible tragedy the more formal Bacon. 'I haven't,' said Quentin, very white himself, 'but if I have he began--by calling names.' Smithson moved and grunted. A sigh of relief swept the ring as a breeze sweeps a cornfield. 'He's all right. A fair knock out. Piggy's got the use of 'em. Do Smithie good.' The voices hushed suddenly. A master was on the scene--the classical master. 'Fighting?' he said. 'The new boy? Who began it?' 'I did,' said Quentin, 'but he began with calling names.' 'Sneak!' murmured the entire school, and Quentin, who had seen no reason for not speaking the truth, perceived that one should not tell all one knows, and that once more he stood alone in the world. 'You will go to your room, de Ward,' said the classical master, bending over Smithson, who having been 'knocked silly' still remained in that condition, 'and the headmaster will consider your case to-morrow. You will probably be expelled.' Quentin went to his room and thought over his position. It seemed to be desperate. How was he to know that the classical master was even then saying to the Head: 'He's got something in him, prig or no prig, sir.' 'You were quite right to send him to his room,' said the Head, 'discipline must be maintained, as Mr. Ducket says. But it will do Smithson major a world of good. A boy who reads Shakespeare for fun, and has views about Atlantis, and can knock out a bully as well.... He'll be a power in the school. But we mustn't let him know it.' That was rather a pity. Because Quentin, furious at the injustice of the whole thing--Smithson, the aggressor, consoled with; himself punished; expulsion threatened--was maturing plans. 'If mother had known what it was like,' he said to himself, 'she would never have left me here. I've got the two pounds she gave me. I shall go to the White Hart at Salisbury ... no, they'd find me then. I'll go to Lyndhurst; and write to her. It's better to run away than to be expelled. Quentin Durward would never have waited to be expelled from anywhere.' Of course Quentin Durward was my hero's hero. It could not be otherwise since his own name was so like that of the Scottish guardsman. Now the school in Salisbury was a little school for little boys--boys who were used to schools and took the rough with the smooth. But Quentin was not used to schools, and he had taken the rough very much to heart. So much that he did not mean to take any more of it. His dinner was brought up on a tray--bread and water. He put the bread in his pocket. Then when he knew that every one was at dinner in the long dining-room at the back of the house, he just walked very quietly down the stairs, opened the side door and marched out, down the garden path and out at the tradesmen's gate. He knew better than to shut either gate or door. He went quickly down the street, turned the first corner he came to so as to get out of sight of the school. He turned another corner, went through an archway, and found himself in an inn-yard--very quiet indeed. Only a liver-coloured lurcher dog wagged a sleepy tail on the hot flag-stones. Quentin was just turning to go back through the arch, for there was no other way out of the yard, when he saw a big covered cart, whose horse wore a nose-bag and looked as if there was no hurry. The cart bore the name, 'Miles, Carrier, Lyndhurst.' Quentin knew all about lifts. He had often begged them and got them. Now there was no one to ask. But he felt he could very well explain later that he had wanted a lift, much better than now, in fact, when he might be caught at any moment by some one from the school. He climbed up by the shaft. There were boxes and packages of all sorts in the cart, and at the back an empty crate with sacking over it. He got into the crate, pulled the sacking over himself, and settled down to eat his bread. Presently the carrier came out, and there was talk, slow, long-drawn talk. After a long while the cart shook to the carrier's heavy climb into it, the harness rattled, the cart lurched, and the wheels were loud and bumpy over the cobble stones of the yard. Quentin felt safe. The glow of anger was still hot in him, and he was glad to think how they would look for him all over the town, in vain. He lifted the sacking at one corner so that he could look out between the canvas of the cart's back and side, and hoped to see the classical master distractedly looking for him. But the streets were very sleepy. Every one in Salisbury was having dinner--or in the case of the affluent, lunch. The black horse seemed as sleepy as the streets, and went very slowly. Also it stopped very often, and wherever there were parcels to leave there was slow, long talkings to be exchanged. I think, perhaps, Quentin dozed a good deal under his sacks. At any rate it was with a shock of surprise that he suddenly heard the carrier's voice saying, as the horse stopped with a jerk: 'There's a crate for you, Mrs. Baddock, returned empty,' and knew that that crate was not empty, but full--full of boy. 'I'll go and call Joe,' said a voice--Mrs. Baddock's, Quentin supposed, and slow feet stumped away over stones. Mr. Miles leisurely untied the tail of the cart, ready to let the crate be taken out. Quentin spent a paralytic moment. What could he do? And then, luckily or unluckily, a reckless motor tore past, and the black horse plunged and Mr. Miles had to go to its head and 'talk pretty' to it for a minute. And in that minute Quentin lifted the sacking, and looked out. It was low sunset, and the street was deserted. He stepped out of the crate, dropped to the ground, and slipped behind a stout and friendly water-butt that seemed to offer protective shelter. Joe came, and the crate was taken down. 'You haven't seen nothing of that there runaway boy by chance?' said a new voice--Joe's no doubt. 'What boy?' said Mr. Miles. 'Run away from school, Salisbury,' said Joe. 'Telegrams far and near, so they be. Little varmint.' 'I ain't seen no boys, not more'n ordinary,' said Mr. Miles. 'Thick as flies they be, here, there, and everywhere, drat 'em. Sixpence--Correct. So long, Joe.' The cart rattled away. Joe and the crate blundered out of hearing, and Quentin looked cautiously round the water-butt. This was an adventure. But he was cooler now than he had been at starting--his hot anger had died down. He would have been contented, he could not help feeling, with a less adventurous adventure. But he was in for it now. He felt, as I suppose people feel when they jump off cliffs with parachutes, that return was impossible. Hastily turning his school cap inside out--the only disguise he could think of, he emerged from the water-butt seclusion and into the street, trying to look as if there was no reason why he should not be there. He did not know the village. It was not Lyndhurst. And of course asking the way was not to be thought of. There was a piece of sacking lying on the road; it must have dropped from the carrier's cart. He picked it up and put it over his shoulders. 'A deeper disguise,' he said, and walked on. He walked steadily for a long, long way as it seemed, and the world got darker and darker. But he kept on. Surely he must presently come to some village, or some signpost. Anyhow, whatever happened, he could not go back. That was the one certain thing. The broad stretches of country to right and left held no shapes of houses, no glimmer of warm candle-light; they were bare and bleak, only broken by circles of trees that stood out like black islands in the misty grey of the twilight. 'I shall have to sleep behind a hedge,' he said bravely enough; but there did not seem to be any hedges. And then, quite suddenly, he came upon it. A scattered building, half transparent as it seemed, showing black against the last faint pink and primrose of the sunset. He stopped, took a few steps off the road on short, crisp turf that rose in a gentle slope. And at the end of a dozen paces he knew it. Stonehenge! Stonehenge he had always wanted so desperately to see. Well, he saw it now, more or less. He stopped to think. He knew that Stonehenge stands all alone on Salisbury Plain. He was very tired. His mother had told him about a girl in a book who slept all night on the altar stone at Stonehenge. So it was a thing that people did--to sleep there. He was not afraid, as you or I might have been--of that lonely desolate ruin of a temple of long ago. He was used to the forest, and, compared with the forest, any building is homelike. There was just enough light left amid the stones of the wonderful broken circle to guide him to its centre. As he went his hand brushed a plant; he caught at it, and a little group of flowers came away in his hand. 'St. John's wort,' he said, 'that's the magic flower.' And he remembered that it is only magic when you pluck it on Midsummer Eve. 'And this _is_ Midsummer Eve,' he told himself, and put it in his buttonhole. 'I don't know where the altar stone is,' he said, 'but that looks a cosy little crack between those two big stones.' He crept into it, and lay down on a flat stone that stretched between and under two fallen pillars. The night was soft and warm; it was Midsummer Eve. 'Mother isn't going till the twenty-sixth,' he told himself. 'I sha'n't bother about hotels. I shall send her a telegram in the morning, and get a carriage at the nearest stables and go straight back to her. No, she won't be angry when she hears all about it. I'll ask her to let me go to sea instead of to school. It's much more manly. Much more manly ... much much more, much.' He was asleep. And the wild west wind that swept across the plain spared the little corner where he lay asleep, curled up in his sacking with the inside-out school cap, doubled twice, for pillow. He fell asleep on the smooth, solid, steady stone. He awoke on the stone in a world that rocked as sea-boats rock on a choppy sea. He went to sleep between fallen moveless pillars of a ruin older than any world that history knows. He awoke in the shade of a purple awning through which strong sunlight filtered, and purple curtains that flapped and strained in the wind; and there was a smell, a sweet familiar smell, of tarred ropes and the sea. 'I say,' said Quentin to himself, 'here's a rum go.' He had learned that expression in a school in Salisbury, a long time ago as it seemed. The stone on which he lay dipped and rose to a rhythm which he knew well enough. He had felt it when he and his mother went in a little boat from Keyhaven to Alum Bay in the Isle of Wight. There was no doubt in his mind. He was on a ship. But how, but why? Who could have carried him all that way without waking him? Was it magic? Accidental magic? The St. John's wort perhaps? And the stone--it was not the same. It was new, clean cut, and, where the wind displaced a corner of the curtain, dazzlingly white in the sunlight. There was the pat pat of bare feet on the deck, a dull sort of shuffling as though people were arranging themselves. And then people outside the awning began to sing. It was a strange song, not at all like any music you or I have ever heard. It had no tune, no more tune than a drum has, or a trumpet, but it had a sort of wild rough glorious exciting splendour about it, and gave you the sort of intense all-alive feeling that drums and trumpets give. Quentin lifted a corner of the purple curtain and looked out. Instantly the song stopped, drowned in the deepest silence Quentin had ever imagined. It was only broken by the flip-flapping of the sheets against the masts of the ship. For it was a ship, Quentin saw that as the bulwark dipped to show him an unending waste of sea, broken by bigger waves than he had ever dreamed of. He saw also a crowd of men, dressed in white and blue and purple and gold. Their right arms were raised towards the sun, half of whose face showed across the sea--but they seemed to be, as my old nurse used to say, 'struck so,' for their eyes were not fixed on the sun, but on Quentin. And not in anger, he noticed curiously, but with surprise and ... could it be that they were afraid of him? [Illustration: 'Who are you?' he said. 'Answer, I adjure you by the sacred Tau!'] Quentin was shivering with the surprise and newness of it all. He had read about magic, but he had not wholly believed in it, and yet, now, if this was not magic, what was it? You go to sleep on an old stone in a ruin. You wake on the same stone, quite new, on a ship. Magic, magic, if ever there was magic in this wonderful, mysterious world! The silence became awkward. Some one had to say something. 'Good-morning,' said Quentin, feeling that he ought perhaps to be the one. Instantly every one in sight fell on his face on the deck. Only one, a tall man with a black beard and a blue mantle, stood up and looked Quentin in the eyes. 'Who are you?' he said. 'Answer, I adjure you by the Sacred Tau!' Now this was very odd, and Quentin could never understand it, but when this man spoke Quentin understood _him_ perfectly, and yet at the same time he knew that the man was speaking a foreign language. So that his thought was not, 'Hullo, you speak English!' but 'Hullo, I can understand your language.' 'I am Quentin de Ward,' he said. 'A name from other stars! How came you here?' asked the blue-mantled man. '_I_ don't know,' said Quentin. 'He does not know. He did not sail with us. It is by magic that he is here,' said Blue Mantle. 'Rise, all, and greet the Chosen of the Gods.' They rose from the deck, and Quentin saw that they were all bearded men, with bright, earnest eyes, dressed in strange dress of something like jersey and tunic and heavy golden ornaments. 'Hail! Chosen of the Gods,' cried Blue Mantle, who seemed to be the leader. 'Hail, Chosen of the Gods!' echoed the rest. 'Thank you very much, I'm sure,' said Quentin. 'And what is this stone?' asked Blue Mantle, pointing to the stone on which Quentin sat. And Quentin, anxious to show off his knowledge, said: 'I'm not quite sure, but I _think_ it's the altar stone of Stonehenge.' 'It is proved,' said Blue Mantle. 'Thou art the Chosen of the Gods. Is there anything my Lord needs?' he added humbly. 'I ... I'm rather hungry,' said Quentin; 'it's a long time since dinner, you know.' They brought him bread and bananas, and oranges. 'Take,' said Blue Mantle, 'of the fruits of the earth, and specially of this, which gives drink and meat and ointment to man,' suddenly offering a large cocoa-nut. Quentin took, with appropriate 'Thank you's' and 'You're very kind's.' 'Nothing,' said Blue Mantle, 'is too good for the Chosen of the Gods. All that we have is yours, to the very last day of your life you have only to command, and we obey. You will like to eat in seclusion. And afterwards you will let us behold the whole person of the Chosen of the Gods.' Quentin retired into the purple tent, with the fruits and the cocoa-nut. As you know, a cocoa-nut is not handy to get at the inside of, at the best of times, so Quentin set that aside, meaning to ask Blue Mantle later on for a gimlet and a hammer. When he had had enough to eat he peeped out again. Blue Mantle was on the watch and came quickly forward. 'Now,' said he, very crossly indeed, 'tell me how you got here. This Chosen of the Gods business is all very well for the vulgar. But you and I know that there is no such thing as magic.' 'Speak for yourself,' said Quentin. 'If I'm not here by magic I'm not here at all.' 'Yes, you are,' said Blue Mantle. 'I know I am,' said Quentin, 'but if I'm not here by magic what am I here by?' 'Stowawayishness,' said Blue Mantle. 'If you think that why don't you treat me as a stowaway?' 'Because of public opinion,' said Blue Mantle, rubbing his nose in an angry sort of perplexedness. 'Very well,' said Quentin, who was feeling so surprised and bewildered that it was a real relief to him to bully somebody. 'Now look here. I came here by magic, accidental magic. I belong to quite a different world from yours. But perhaps you are right about my being the Chosen of the Gods. And I sha'n't tell you anything about my world. But I command you, by the Sacred Tau' (he had been quick enough to catch and remember the word), 'to tell me who you are, and where you come from, and where you are going.' Blue Mantle shrugged his shoulders. 'Oh, well,' he said, 'if you invoke the sacred names of Power.... But I don't call it fair play. Especially as you know perfectly well, and just want to browbeat me into telling lies. I shall not tell lies. I shall tell you the truth.' 'I hoped you would,' said Quentin gently. 'Well then,' said Blue Mantle, 'I am a Priest of Poseidon, and I come from the great and immortal kingdom of Atlantis.' 'From the temple where the gold statue is, with the twelve sea-horses in gold?' Quentin asked eagerly. 'Ah, I knew you knew all about it,' said Blue Mantle, 'so I don't need to tell you that I am taking the sacred stone, on which you are sitting (profanely if you are a mere stowaway, and not the Chosen of the Gods) to complete the splendid structure of a temple built on a great plain in the second of the islands which are our colonies in the North East.' 'Tell me all about Atlantis,' said Quentin. And the priest, protesting that Quentin knew as much about it as he did, told. And all the time the ship was ploughing through the waves, sometimes sailing, sometimes rowed by hidden rowers with long oars. And Quentin was served in all things as though he had been a king. If he had insisted that he was not the Chosen of the Gods everything might have been different. But he did not. And he was very anxious to show how much he knew about Atlantis. And sometimes he was wrong, the Priest said, but much more often he was right. 'We are less than three days' journey now from the Eastern Isles,' Blue Mantle said one day, 'and I warn you that if you are a mere stowaway you had better own it. Because if you persist in calling yourself the Chosen of the Gods you will be expected to act as such--to the very end.' 'I don't call myself anything,' said Quentin, 'though I am not a stowaway, anyhow, and I don't know how I came here--so of course it was magic. It's simply silly your being so cross. _I_ can't help being here. Let's be friends.' 'Well,' said Blue Mantle, much less crossly, 'I never believed in magic, though I _am_ a priest, but if it is, it is. We may as well be friends, as you call it. It isn't for very long, anyway,' he added mysteriously. [Illustration: The cart was drawn by an enormous creature, more like an elephant than anything else.] And then to show his friendliness he took Quentin all over the ship, and explained it all to him. And Quentin enjoyed himself thoroughly, though every now and then he had to pinch himself to make sure that he was awake. And he was fed well all the time, and all the time made much of, so that when the ship reached land he was quite sorry. The ship anchored by a stone quay, most solid and serviceable, and every one was very busy. Quentin kept out of sight behind the purple curtains. The sailors and the priests and the priests' attendants and everybody on the boat had asked him so many questions, and been so curious about his clothes, that he was not anxious to hear any more questions asked, or to have to invent answers to them. And after a very great deal of talk--almost as much as Mr. Miles's carrying had needed--the altar stone was lifted, Quentin, curtains, awning and all, and carried along a gangway to the shore, and there it was put on a sort of cart, more like what people in Manchester call a lurry than anything else I can think of. The wheels were made of solid circles of wood bound round with copper. And the cart was drawn by--not horses or donkeys or oxen or even dogs--but by an enormous creature more like an elephant than anything else, only it had long hair rather like the hair worn by goats. You, perhaps, would not have known what this vast creature was, but Quentin, who had all sorts of out-of-the-way information packed in his head, knew at once that it was a mammoth. And by that he knew, too, that he had slipped back many thousands of years, because, of course, it is a very long time indeed since there were any mammoths alive, and able to draw lurries. And the car and the priest and the priest's retinue and the stone and Quentin and the mammoth journeyed slowly away from the coast, passing through great green forests and among strange gray mountains. Where were they journeying? Quentin asked the same question you may be sure, and Blue Mantle told him-- 'To Stonehenge.' And Quentin understood him perfectly, though Stonehenge was not the word Blue Mantle used, or anything like it. 'The great temple is now complete,' he said, 'all but the altar stone. It will be the most wonderful temple ever built in any of the colonies of Atlantis. And it will be consecrated on the longest day of the year.' 'Midsummer Day,' said Quentin thoughtlessly--and, as usual, anxious to tell all he knew. 'I know. The sun strikes through the arch on to the altar stone at sunrise. Hundreds of people go to see it: the ruins are quite crowded sometimes, I believe.' 'Ruins?' said the priest in a terrible voice. 'Crowded? Ruins?' 'I mean,' said Quentin hastily, 'the sun will still shine the same way even when the temple is in ruins, won't it?' 'The temple,' said the priest, 'is built to defy time. It will never be in ruins.' 'That's all _you_ know,' said Quentin, not very politely. 'It is not by any means all I know,' said the priest. 'I do not tell all I know. Nor do you.' 'I used to,' said Quentin, 'but I sha'n't any more. It only leads to trouble--I see that now.' Now, though Quentin had been intensely interested in everything he had seen in the ship and on the journey, you may be sure he had not lost sight of the need there was to get back out of this time of Atlantis into his own time. He knew that he must have got into these Atlantean times by some very simple accidental magic, and he felt no doubt that he should get back in the same way. He felt almost sure that the reverse-action, so to speak, of the magic would begin when the stone got back to the place where it had lain for so many thousand years before he happened to go to sleep on it, and to start--perhaps by the St. John's wort--the accidental magic. If only, when he got back there he could think of the compelling, the magic word! And now the slow procession wound over the downs, and far away across the plain, which was almost just the same then as it is now, Quentin saw what he knew must be Stonehenge. But it was no longer the grey pile of ruins that you have perhaps seen--or have, at any rate, seen pictures of. From afar one could see the gleam of yellow gold and red copper; the flutter of purple curtains, the glitter and dazzle of shimmering silver. As they drew near to the spot Quentin perceived that the great stones he remembered were overlaid with ornamental work, with vivid, bright-coloured paintings. The whole thing was a great circular building, every stone in its place. At a mile or two distant lay a town. And in that town, with every possible luxury, served with every circumstance of servile homage, Quentin ate and slept. I wish I had time to tell you what that town was like where he slept and ate, but I have not. You can read for yourself, some day, what Atlantis was like. Plato tells us a good deal, and the Colonies of Atlantis must have had at least a reasonable second-rate copy of the cities of that fair and lovely land. That night, for the first time since he had first gone to sleep on the altar stone, Quentin slept apart from it. He lay on a wooden couch strewn with soft bear-skins, and a woollen coverlet was laid over him. And he slept soundly. In the middle of the night, as it seemed, Blue Mantle woke him. 'Come,' he said, 'Chosen of the Gods--since you _will_ be that, and no stowaway--the hour draws nigh.' The mammoth was waiting. Quentin and Blue Mantle rode on its back to the outer porch of the new temple of Stonehenge. Rows of priests and attendants, robed in white and blue and purple, formed a sort of avenue up which Blue Mantle led the Chosen of the Gods, who was Quentin. They took off his jacket and put a white dress on him, rather like a night-shirt without sleeves. And they put a thick wreath of London Pride on his head and another, larger and longer, round his neck. 'If only the chaps at school could see me now!' he said to himself proudly. And by this time it was gray dawn. 'Lie down now,' said Blue Mantle, 'lie down, O Beloved of the Gods, upon the altar stone, for the last time.' 'I shall be able to go, then?' Quentin asked. This accidental magic was, he perceived, a tricky thing, and he wanted to be sure. 'You will not be able to stay,' said the priest. 'If going is what you desire, the desire of the Chosen of the Gods is fully granted.' The grass on the plain far and near rustled with the tread of many feet; the cold air of dawn thrilled to the awed murmured of many voices. Quentin lay down, with his pink wreaths and his white robe, and watched the quickening pinkiness of the East. And slowly the great circle of the temple filled with white-robed folk, all carrying in their hands the faint pinkiness of the flowers which we nowadays call London Pride. And all eyes were fixed on the arch through which, at sunrise on Midsummer Day, the sun's first beam should fall upon the white, new, clean altar stone. The stone is still there, after all these thousands of years, and at sunrise on Midsummer Day the sun's first ray still falls on it. [Illustration: 'Silence,' cried the priest. 'Chosen of the Immortals, close your eyes!'] The sky grew lighter and lighter, and at last the sun peered redly over the down, and the first ray of the morning sunlight fell full on the altar stone and on the face of Quentin. And, as it did so, a very tall, white-robed priest with a deer-skin apron and a curious winged head-dress stepped forward. He carried a great bronze knife, and he waved it ten times in the shaft of sunlight that shot through the arch and on to the altar stone. 'Thus,' he cried, 'thus do I bathe the sacred blade in the pure fountain of all light, all wisdom, all splendour. In the name of the ten kings, the ten virtues, the ten hopes, the ten fears I make my weapon clean! May this temple of our love and our desire endure for ever, so long as the glory of our Lord the Sun is shed upon this earth. May the sacrifice I now humbly and proudly offer be acceptable to the gods by whom it has been so miraculously provided. Chosen of the Gods! return to the gods who sent thee!' A roar of voices rang through the temple. The bronze knife was raised over Quentin. He could not believe that this, this horror, was the end of all these wonderful happenings. 'No--no,' he cried, 'it's not true. I'm not the Chosen of the Gods! I'm only a little boy that's got here by accidental magic!' 'Silence,' cried the priest, 'Chosen of the Immortals, close your eyes! It will not hurt. This life is only a dream; the other life is the real life. Be strong, be brave!' Quentin was not brave. But he shut his eyes. He could not help it. The glitter of the bronze knife in the sunlight was too strong for him. He could not believe that this could really have happened to him. Every one had been so kind--so friendly to him. And it was all for this! Suddenly a sharp touch at his side told him that for this, indeed, it had all been. He felt the point of the knife. 'Mother!' he cried. And opened his eyes again. He always felt quite sure afterwards that 'Mother' was the master-word, the spell of spells. For when he opened his eyes there was no priest, no white-robed worshippers, no splendour of colour and metal, no Chosen of the Gods, no knife--only a little boy with a piece of sacking over him, damp with the night dews, lying on a stone amid the grey ruins of Stonehenge, and, all about him, a crowd of tourists who had come to see the sun's first shaft strike the age-old altar of Stonehenge on Midsummer Day in the morning. And instead of a knife point at his side there was only the ferrule of the umbrella of an elderly and retired tea merchant in a mackintosh and an Alpine hat,--a ferrule which had prodded the sleeping boy so unexpectedly surprised on the very altar stone where the sun's ray now lingered. And then, in a moment, he knew that he had not uttered the spell in vain, the word of compelling, the word of power: for his mother was there kneeling beside him. I am sorry to say that he cried as he clung to her. _We_ cannot all of us be brave, always. The tourists were very kind and interested, and the tea merchant insisted on giving Quentin something out of a flask, which was so nasty that Quentin only pretended to drink, out of politeness. His mother had a carriage waiting, and they escaped to it while the tourists were saying, 'How romantic!' and asking each other whatever in the world had happened. * * * * * 'But how _did_ you come to be there, darling?' said his mother with warm hands comfortingly round him. 'I've been looking for you all night. I went to say good-bye to you yesterday--Oh, Quentin--and I found you'd run away. How _could_ you?' 'I'm sorry,' said Quentin, 'if it worried you, I'm sorry. Very, very. I was going to telegraph to-day.' 'But where have you been? What have you been doing all night?' she asked, caressing him. 'Is it only one night?' said Quentin. 'I don't know exactly what's happened. It was accidental magic, I think, mother. I'm glad I thought of the right word to get back, though.' And then he told her all about it. She held him very tightly and let him talk. Perhaps she thought that a little boy to whom accidental magic happened all in a minute, like that, was not exactly the right little boy for that excellent school in Salisbury. Anyhow she took him to Egypt with her to meet his father, and, on the way, they happened to see a doctor in London who said: 'Nerves' which is a poor name for accidental magic, and Quentin does not believe it means the same thing at all. Quentin's father is well now, and he has left the army, and father and mother and Quentin live in a jolly, little, old house in Salisbury, and Quentin is a 'day boy' at that very same school. He and Smithson minor are the greatest of friends. But he has never told Smithson minor about the accidental magic. He has learned now, and learned very thoroughly, that it is not always wise to tell all you know. If he had not owned that he knew that it was the Stonehenge altar stone! * * * * * You may think that the accidental magic was all a dream, and that Quentin dreamed it because his mother had told him so much about Atlantis. But then, how do you account for his dreaming so much that his mother had never told him? You think that that part wasn't true, well, it may have been true for anything I know. And I am sure you don't know more about it than I do. IV THE PRINCESS AND THE HEDGE-PIG 'But I don't see what we're to _do_' said the Queen for the twentieth time. 'Whatever we do will end in misfortune,' said the King gloomily; 'you'll see it will.' They were sitting in the honeysuckle arbour talking things over, while the nurse walked up and down the terrace with the new baby in her arms. 'Yes, dear,' said the poor Queen; 'I've not the slightest doubt I shall.' Misfortune comes in many ways, and you can't always know beforehand that a certain way is the way misfortune will come by: but there are things misfortune comes after as surely as night comes after day. For instance, if you let all the water boil away, the kettle will have a hole burnt in it. If you leave the bath taps running and the waste-pipe closed, the stairs of your house will, sooner or later, resemble Niagara. If you leave your purse at home, you won't have it with you when you want to pay your tram-fare. And if you throw lighted wax matches at your muslin curtains, your parent will most likely have to pay five pounds to the fire engines for coming round and blowing the fire out with a wet hose. Also if you are a king and do not invite the wicked fairy to your christening parties, she will come all the same. And if you do ask the wicked fairy, she will come, and in either case it will be the worse for the new princess. So what is a poor monarch to do? Of course there is one way out of the difficulty, and that is not to have a christening party at all. But this offends all the good fairies, and then where are you? All these reflections had presented themselves to the minds of King Ozymandias and his Queen, and neither of them could deny that they were in a most awkward situation. They were 'talking it over' for the hundredth time on the palace terrace where the pomegranates and oleanders grew in green tubs and the marble balustrade is overgrown with roses, red and white and pink and yellow. On the lower terrace the royal nurse was walking up and down with the baby princess that all the fuss was about. The Queen's eyes followed the baby admiringly. 'The darling!' she said. 'Oh, Ozymandias, don't you sometimes wish we'd been poor people?' 'Never!' said the King decidedly. 'Well, I do,' said the Queen; 'then we could have had just you and me and your sister at the christening, and no fear of--oh! I've thought of something.' The King's patient expression showed that he did not think it likely that she would have thought of anything useful; but at the first five words his expression changed. You would have said that he pricked up his ears, if kings had ears that could be pricked up. What she said was-- 'Let's have a secret christening.' 'How?' asked the King. The Queen was gazing in the direction of the baby with what is called a 'far away look' in her eyes. 'Wait a minute,' she said slowly. 'I see it all--yes--we'll have the party in the cellars--you know they're splendid.' 'My great-grandfather had them built by Lancashire men, yes,' interrupted the King. [Illustration: On the lower terrace the royal nurse was walking up and down with the baby princess that all the fuss was about.] 'We'll send out the invitations to look like bills. The baker's boy can take them. He's a very nice boy. He made baby laugh yesterday when I was explaining to him about the Standard Bread. We'll just put "1 loaf 3. A remittance at your earliest convenience will oblige." That'll mean that 1 person is invited for 3 o'clock, and on the back we'll write where and why in invisible ink. Lemon juice, you know. And the baker's boy shall be told to ask to see the people--just as they do when they _really_ mean earliest convenience--and then he shall just whisper: "Deadly secret. Lemon juice. Hold it to the fire," and come away. Oh, dearest, do say you approve!' The King laid down his pipe, set his crown straight, and kissed the Queen with great and serious earnestness. 'You are a wonder,' he said. 'It is the very thing. But the baker's boy is very small. Can we trust him?' 'He is nine,' said the Queen, 'and I have sometimes thought that he must be a prince in disguise. He is so very intelligent.' The Queen's plan was carried out. The cellars, which were really extraordinarily fine, were secretly decorated by the King's confidential man and the Queen's confidential maid and a few of _their_ confidential friends whom they knew they could really trust. You would never have thought they were cellars when the decorations were finished. The walls were hung with white satin and white velvet, with wreaths of white roses, and the stone floors were covered with freshly cut turf with white daisies, brisk and neat, growing in it. The invitations were duly delivered by the baker's boy. On them was written in plain blue ink, 'The Royal Bakeries 1 loaf 3d. An early remittance will oblige.' And when the people held the letter to the fire, as they were whisperingly instructed to do by the baker's boy, they read in a faint brown writing:-- 'King Ozymandias and Queen Eliza invite you to the christening of their daughter Princess Ozyliza at three on Wednesday in the Palace cellars. '_P.S._--We are obliged to be very secret and careful because of wicked fairies, so please come disguised as a tradesman with a bill, calling for the last time before it leaves your hands.' You will understand by this that the King and Queen were not as well off as they could wish; so that tradesmen calling at the palace with that sort of message was the last thing likely to excite remark. But as most of the King's subjects were not very well off either, this was merely a bond between the King and his people. They could sympathise with each other, and understand each other's troubles in a way impossible to most kings and most nations. You can imagine the excitement in the families of the people who were invited to the christening party, and the interest they felt in their costumes. The Lord Chief Justice disguised himself as a shoemaker; he still had his old blue brief-bag by him, and a brief-bag and a boot-bag are very much alike. The Commander-in-Chief dressed as a dog's meat man and wheeled a barrow. The Prime Minister appeared as a tailor; this required no change of dress and only a slight change of expression. And the other courtiers all disguised themselves perfectly. So did the good fairies, who had, of course, been invited first of all. Benevola, Queen of the Good Fairies, disguised herself as a moonbeam, which can go into any palace and no questions asked. Serena, the next in command, dressed as a butterfly, and all the other fairies had disguises equally pretty and tasteful. The Queen looked most kind and beautiful, the King very handsome and manly, and all the guests agreed that the new princess was the most beautiful baby they had ever seen in all their born days. Everybody brought the most charming christening presents concealed beneath their disguises. The fairies gave the usual gifts, beauty, grace, intelligence, charm, and so on. Everything seemed to be going better than well. But of course you know it wasn't. The Lord High Admiral had not been able to get a cook's dress large enough completely to cover his uniform; a bit of an epaulette had peeped out, and the wicked fairy, Malevola, had spotted it as he went past her to the palace back door, near which she had been sitting disguised as a dog without a collar hiding from the police, and enjoying what she took to be the trouble the royal household were having with their tradesmen. Malevola almost jumped out of her dog-skin when she saw the glitter of that epaulette. 'Hullo?' she said, and sniffed quite like a dog. 'I must look into this,' said she, and disguising herself as a toad, she crept unseen into the pipe by which the copper emptied itself into the palace moat--for of course there was a copper in one of the palace cellars as there always is in cellars in the North Country. Now this copper had been a great trial to the decorators. If there is anything you don't like about your house, you can either try to conceal it or 'make a feature of it.' And as concealment of the copper was impossible, it was decided to 'make it a feature' by covering it with green moss and planting a tree in it, a little apple tree all in bloom. It had been very much admired. Malevola, hastily altering her disguise to that of a mole, dug her way through the earth that the copper was full of, got to the top and put out a sharp nose just as Benevola was saying in that soft voice which Malevola always thought so affected,-- 'The Princess shall love and be loved all her life long.' 'So she shall,' said the wicked fairy, assuming her own shape amid the screams of the audience. 'Be quiet, you silly cuckoo,' she said to the Lord Chamberlain, whose screams were specially piercing, 'or I'll give _you_ a christening present too.' Instantly there was a dreadful silence. Only Queen Eliza, who had caught up the baby at Malevola's first word, said feebly,-- 'Oh, _don't_, dear Malevola.' And the King said, 'It isn't exactly a party, don't you know. Quite informal. Just a few friends dropped in, eh, what?' 'So I perceive,' said Malevola, laughing that dreadful laugh of hers which makes other people feel as though they would never be able to laugh any more. 'Well, I've dropped in too. Let's have a look at the child.' The poor Queen dared not refuse. She tottered forward with the baby in her arms. 'Humph!' said Malevola, 'your precious daughter will have beauty and grace and all the rest of the tuppenny halfpenny rubbish those niminy-piminy minxes have given her. But she will be turned out of her kingdom. She will have to face her enemies without a single human being to stand by her, and she shall never come to her own again until she finds----' Malevola hesitated. She could not think of anything sufficiently unlikely--'until she finds,' she repeated---- 'A thousand spears to follow her to battle,' said a new voice, 'a thousand spears devoted to her and to her alone.' A very young fairy fluttered down from the little apple tree where she had been hiding among the pink and white blossom. 'I am very young, I know,' she said apologetically, 'and I've only just finished my last course of Fairy History. So I know that if a fairy stops more than half a second in a curse she can't go on, and some one else may finish it for her. That is so, Your Majesty, isn't it?' she said, appealing to Benevola. And the Queen of the Fairies said Yes, that was the law, only it was such an old one most people had forgotten it. 'You think yourself very clever,' said Malevola, 'but as a matter of fact you're simply silly. That's the very thing I've provided against. She _can't_ have any one to stand by her in battle, so she'll lose her kingdom and every one will be killed, and I shall come to the funeral. It will be enormous,' she added rubbing her hands at the joyous thought. 'If you've quite finished,' said the King politely, 'and if you're sure you won't take any refreshment, may I wish you a very good afternoon?' He held the door open himself, and Malevola went out chuckling. The whole of the party then burst into tears. 'Never mind,' said the King at last, wiping his eyes with the tails of his ermine. 'It's a long way off and perhaps it won't happen after all.' * * * * * But of course it did. The King did what he could to prepare his daughter for the fight in which she was to stand alone against her enemies. He had her taught fencing and riding and shooting, both with the cross bow and the long bow, as well as with pistols, rifles, and artillery. She learned to dive and to swim, to run and to jump, to box and to wrestle, so that she grew up as strong and healthy as any young man, and could, indeed, have got the best of a fight with any prince of her own age. But the few princes who called at the palace did not come to fight the Princess, and when they heard that the Princess had no dowry except the gifts of the fairies, and also what Malevola's gift had been, they all said they had just looked in as they were passing and that they must be going now, thank you. And went. And then the dreadful thing happened. The tradesmen, who had for years been calling for the last time before, etc., really decided to place the matter in other hands. They called in a neighbouring king who marched his army into Ozymandias's country, conquered the army--the soldiers' wages hadn't been paid for years--turned out the King and Queen, paid the tradesmen's bills, had most of the palace walls papered with the receipts, and set up housekeeping there himself. Now when this happened the Princess was away on a visit to her aunt, the Empress of Oricalchia, half the world away, and there is no regular post between the two countries, so that when she came home, travelling with a train of fifty-four camels, which is rather slow work, and arrived at her own kingdom, she expected to find all the flags flying and the bells ringing and the streets decked in roses to welcome her home. Instead of which nothing of the kind. The streets were all as dull as dull, the shops were closed because it was early-closing day, and she did not see a single person she knew. She left the fifty-four camels laden with the presents her aunt had given her outside the gates, and rode alone on her own pet camel to the palace, wondering whether perhaps her father had not received the letter she had sent on ahead by carrier pigeon the day before. And when she got to the palace and got off her camel and went in, there was a strange king on her father's throne and a strange queen sat in her mother's place at his side. 'Where's my father?' said the Princess, bold as brass, standing on the steps of the throne. 'And what are you doing there?' 'I might ask you that,' said the King. 'Who are you, anyway?' 'I am the Princess Ozyliza,' said she. 'Oh, I've heard of you,' said the King. 'You've been expected for some time. Your father's been evicted, so now you know. No, I can't give you his address.' Just then some one came and whispered to the Queen that fifty-four camels laden with silks and velvets and monkeys and parakeets and the richest treasures of Oricalchia were outside the city gate. She put two and two together, and whispered to the King, who nodded and said: 'I wish to make a new law.' Every one fell flat on his face. The law is so much respected in that country. 'No one called Ozyliza is allowed to own property in this kingdom,' said the King. 'Turn out that stranger.' So the Princess was turned out of her father's palace, and went out and cried in the palace gardens where she had been so happy when she was little. And the baker's boy, who was now the baker's young man, came by with the standard bread and saw some one crying among the oleanders, and went to say, 'Cheer up!' to whoever it was. And it was the Princess. He knew her at once. 'Oh, Princess,' he said, 'cheer up! Nothing is ever so bad as it seems.' 'Oh, Baker's Boy,' said she, for she knew him too, 'how can I cheer up? I am turned out of my kingdom. I haven't got my father's address, and I have to face my enemies without a single human being to stand by me.' [Illustration: Instantly a flight of winged arrows crossed the garden.] 'That's not true, at any rate,' said the baker's boy, whose name was Erinaceus, 'you've got me. If you'll let me be your squire, I'll follow you round the world and help you to fight your enemies.' 'You won't be let,' said the Princess sadly, 'but I thank you very much all the same.' She dried her eyes and stood up. 'I must go,' she said, 'and I've nowhere to go to.' Now as soon as the Princess had been turned out of the palace, the Queen said, 'You'd much better have beheaded her for treason.' And the King said, 'I'll tell the archers to pick her off as she leaves the grounds.' So when she stood up, out there among the oleanders, some one on the terrace cried, 'There she is!' and instantly a flight of winged arrows crossed the garden. At the cry Erinaceus flung himself in front of her, clasping her in his arms and turning his back to the arrows. The Royal Archers were a thousand strong and all excellent shots. Erinaceus felt a thousand arrows sticking into his back. 'And now my last friend is dead,' cried the Princess. But being a very strong princess, she dragged him into the shrubbery out of sight of the palace, and then dragged him into the wood and called aloud on Benevola, Queen of the Fairies, and Benevola came. 'They've killed my only friend,' said the Princess, 'at least.... Shall I pull out the arrows?' 'If you do,' said the Fairy, 'he'll certainly bleed to death.' 'And he'll die if they stay in,' said the Princess. 'Not necessarily,' said the Fairy; 'let me cut them a little shorter.' She did, with her fairy pocket-knife. 'Now,' she said, 'I'll do what I can, but I'm afraid it'll be a disappointment to you both. Erinaceus,' she went on, addressing the unconscious baker's boy with the stumps of the arrows still sticking in him, 'I command you, as soon as I have vanished, to assume the form of a hedge-pig. The hedge-pig,' she exclaimed to the Princess, 'is the only nice person who can live comfortably with a thousand spikes sticking out of him. Yes, I know there are porcupines, but porcupines are vicious and ill-mannered. Good-bye!' And with that she vanished. So did Erinaceus, and the Princess found herself alone among the oleanders; and on the green turf was a small and very prickly brown hedge-pig. 'Oh, dear!' she said, 'now I'm all alone again, and the baker's boy has given his life for mine, and mine isn't worth having.' 'It's worth more than all the world,' said a sharp little voice at her feet. 'Oh, can you talk?' she said, quite cheered. 'Why not?' said the hedge-pig sturdily; 'it's only the _form_ of the hedge-pig I've assumed. I'm Erinaceus inside, all right enough. Pick me up in a corner of your mantle so as not to prick your darling hands.' 'You mustn't call names, you know,' said the Princess, 'even your hedge-pigginess can't excuse such liberties.' 'I'm sorry, Princess,' said the hedge-pig, 'but I can't help it. Only human beings speak lies; all other creatures tell the truth. Now I've got a hedge-pig's tongue it won't speak anything but the truth. And the truth is that I love you more than all the world.' 'Well,' said the Princess thoughtfully, 'since you're a hedge-pig I suppose you may love me, and I may love you. Like pet dogs or gold-fish. Dear little hedge-pig, then!' 'Don't!' said the hedge-pig, 'remember I'm the baker's boy in my mind and soul. My hedge-pigginess is only skin-deep. Pick me up, dearest of Princesses, and let us go to seek our fortunes.' 'I think it's my parents I ought to seek,' said the Princess. 'However...' She picked up the hedge-pig in the corner of her mantle and they went away through the wood. They slept that night at a wood-cutter's cottage. The wood-cutter was very kind, and made a nice little box of beech-wood for the hedge-pig to be carried in, and he told the Princess that most of her father's subjects were still loyal, but that no one could fight for him because they would be fighting for the Princess too, and however much they might wish to do this, Malevola's curse assured them that it was impossible. So the Princess put her hedge-pig in its little box and went on, looking everywhere for her father and mother, and, after more adventures than I have time to tell you, she found them at last, living in quite a poor way in a semi-detached villa at Tooting. They were very glad to see her, but when they heard that she meant to try to get back the kingdom, the King said: 'I shouldn't bother, my child, I really shouldn't. We are quite happy here. I have the pension always given to Deposed Monarchs, and your mother is becoming a really economical manager.' The Queen blushed with pleasure, and said, 'Thank you, dear. But if you should succeed in turning that wicked usurper out, Ozyliza, I hope I shall be a better queen than I used to be. I am learning housekeeping at an evening class at the Crown-maker's Institute.' The Princess kissed her parents and went out into the garden to think it over. But the garden was small and quite full of wet washing hung on lines. So she went into the road, but that was full of dust and perambulators. Even the wet washing was better than that, so she went back and sat down on the grass in a white alley of tablecloths and sheets, all marked with a crown in indelible ink. And she took the hedge-pig out of the box. It was rolled up in a ball, but she stroked the little bit of soft forehead that you can always find if you look carefully at a rolled-up hedge-pig, and the hedge-pig uncurled and said: 'I am afraid I was asleep, Princess dear. Did you want me?' 'You're the only person who knows all about everything,' said she. 'I haven't told father and mother about the arrows. Now what do you advise?' Erinaceus was flattered at having his advice asked, but unfortunately he hadn't any to give. 'It's your work, Princess,' he said. 'I can only promise to do anything a hedge-pig _can_ do. It's not much. Of course I could die for you, but that's so useless.' 'Quite,' said she. 'I wish I were invisible,' he said dreamily. 'Oh, where are you?' cried Ozyliza, for the hedge-pig had vanished. 'Here,' said a sharp little voice. 'You can't see me, but I can see everything I want to see. And I can see what to do. I'll crawl into my box, and you must disguise yourself as an old French governess with the best references and answer the advertisement that the wicked king put yesterday in the "Usurpers Journal."' The Queen helped the Princess to disguise herself, which, of course, the Queen would never have done if she had known about the arrows; and the King gave her some of his pension to buy a ticket with, so she went back quite quickly, by train, to her own kingdom. The usurping King at once engaged the French governess to teach his cook to read French cookery books, because the best recipes are in French. Of course he had no idea that there was a princess, _the_ Princess, beneath the governessial disguise. The French lessons were from 6 to 8 in the morning and from 2 to 4 in the afternoon, and all the rest of the time the governess could spend as she liked. She spent it walking about the palace gardens and talking to her invisible hedge-pig. They talked about everything under the sun, and the hedge-pig was the best of company. 'How did you become invisible?' she asked one day, and it said, 'I suppose it was Benevola's doing. Only I think every one gets _one_ wish granted if they only wish hard enough.' On the fifty-fifth day the hedge-pig said, 'Now, Princess dear, I'm going to begin to get you back your kingdom.' And next morning the King came down to breakfast in a dreadful rage with his face covered up in bandages. 'This palace is haunted,' he said. 'In the middle of the night a dreadful spiked ball was thrown in my face. I lighted a match. There was nothing.' The Queen said, 'Nonsense! You must have been dreaming.' But next morning it was her turn to come down with a bandaged face. And the night after, the King had the spiky ball thrown at him again. And then the Queen had it. And then they both had it, so that they couldn't sleep at all, and had to lie awake with nothing to think of but their wickedness. And every five minutes a very little voice whispered: 'Who stole the kingdom? Who killed the Princess?' till the King and Queen could have screamed with misery. And at last the Queen said, 'We needn't have killed the Princess.' And the King said, 'I've been thinking that, too.' And next day the King said, 'I don't know that we ought to have taken this kingdom. We had a really high-class kingdom of our own.' 'I've been thinking that too,' said the Queen. By this time their hands and arms and necks and faces and ears were very sore indeed, and they were sick with want of sleep. 'Look here,' said the King, 'let's chuck it. Let's write to Ozymandias and tell him he can take over his kingdom again. I've had jolly well enough of this.' 'Let's,' said the Queen, 'but we can't bring the Princess to life again. I do wish we could,' and she cried a little through her bandages into her egg, for it was breakfast time. 'Do you mean that,' said a little sharp voice, though there was no one to be seen in the room. The King and Queen clung to each other in terror, upsetting the urn over the toast-rack. 'Do you mean it?' said the voice again; 'answer, yes or no.' 'Yes,' said the Queen, 'I don't know who you are, but, yes, yes, yes. I can't _think_ how we could have been so wicked.' 'Nor I,' said the King. 'Then send for the French governess,' said the voice. 'Ring the bell, dear,' said the Queen. 'I'm sure what it says is right. It is the voice of conscience. I've often heard _of_ it, but I never heard it before.' The King pulled the richly-jewelled bell-rope and ten magnificent green and gold footmen appeared. 'Please ask Mademoiselle to step this way,' said the Queen. The ten magnificent green and gold footmen found the governess beside the marble basin feeding the gold-fish, and, bowing their ten green backs, they gave the Queen's message. The governess who, every one agreed, was always most obliging, went at once to the pink satin breakfast-room where the King and Queen were sitting, almost unrecognisable in their bandages. 'Yes, Your Majesties?' said she curtseying. 'The voice of conscience,' said the Queen, 'told us to send for you. Is there any recipe in the French books for bringing shot princesses to life? If so, will you kindly translate it for us?' 'There is _one_,' said the Princess thoughtfully, 'and it is quite simple. Take a king and a queen and the voice of conscience. Place them in a clean pink breakfast-room with eggs, coffee, and toast. Add a full-sized French governess. The king and queen must be thoroughly pricked and bandaged, and the voice of conscience must be very distinct.' 'Is that all?' asked the Queen. 'That's all,' said the governess, 'except that the king and queen must have two more bandages over their eyes, and keep them on till the voice of conscience has counted fifty-five very slowly.' 'If you would be so kind,' said the Queen, 'as to bandage us with our table napkins? Only be careful how you fold them, because our faces are very sore, and the royal monogram is very stiff and hard owing to its being embroidered in seed pearls by special command.' 'I will be very careful,' said the governess kindly. The moment the King and Queen were blindfolded, the 'voice of conscience' began, 'one, two, three,' and Ozyliza tore off her disguise, and under the fussy black-and-violet-spotted alpaca of the French governess was the simple slim cloth-of-silver dress of the Princess. She stuffed the alpaca up the chimney and the grey wig into the tea-cosy, and had disposed of the mittens in the coffee-pot and the elastic-side boots in the coal-scuttle, just as the voice of conscience said-- 'Fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five!' and stopped. The King and Queen pulled off the bandages, and there, alive and well, with bright clear eyes and pinky cheeks and a mouth that smiled, was the Princess whom they supposed to have been killed by the thousand arrows of their thousand archers. Before they had time to say a word the Princess said: 'Good morning, Your Majesties. I am afraid you have had bad dreams. So have I. Let us all try to forget them. I hope you will stay a little longer in my palace. You are very welcome. I am so sorry you have been hurt.' 'We deserved it,' said the Queen, 'and we want to say we have heard the voice of conscience, and do please forgive us.' 'Not another word,' said the Princess, '_do_ let me have some fresh tea made. And some more eggs. These are quite cold. And the urn's been upset. We'll have a new breakfast. And I _am_ so sorry your faces are so sore.' 'If you kissed them,' said the voice which the King and Queen called the voice of conscience, 'their faces would not be sore any more.' 'May I?' said Ozyliza, and kissed the King's ear and the Queen's nose, all she could get at through the bandages. And instantly they were quite well. They had a delightful breakfast. Then the King caused the royal household to assemble in the throne-room, and there announced that, as the Princess had come to claim the kingdom, they were returning to their own kingdom by the three-seventeen train on Thursday. Every one cheered like mad, and the whole town was decorated and illuminated that evening. Flags flew from every house, and the bells all rang, just as the Princess had expected them to do that day when she came home with the fifty-five camels. All the treasure these had carried was given back to the Princess, and the camels themselves were restored to her, hardly at all the worse for wear. The usurping King and Queen were seen off at the station by the Princess, and parted from her with real affection. You see they weren't completely wicked in their hearts, but they had never had time to think before. And being kept awake at night forced them to think. And the 'voice of conscience' gave them something to think about. They gave the Princess the receipted bills, with which most of the palace was papered, in return for board and lodging. When they were gone a telegram was sent off. Ozymandias Rex, Esq., Chatsworth, Delamere Road, Tooting, England. Please come home at once. Palace vacant. Tenants have left.--Ozyliza P. And they came immediately. When they arrived the Princess told them the whole story, and they kissed and praised her, and called her their deliverer and the saviour of her country. '_I_ haven't done anything,' she said. 'It was Erinaceus who did everything, and....' 'But the fairies said,' interrupted the King, who was never clever at the best of times, 'that you couldn't get the kingdom back till you had a thousand spears devoted to you, to you alone.' 'There are a thousand spears in my back,' said a little sharp voice, 'and they are all devoted to the Princess and to her alone.' 'Don't!' said the King irritably. 'That voice coming out of nothing makes me jump.' 'I can't get used to it either,' said the Queen. 'We must have a gold cage built for the little animal. But I must say I wish it was visible.' 'So do I,' said the Princess earnestly. And instantly it was. I suppose the Princess wished it very hard, for there was the hedge-pig with its long spiky body and its little pointed face, its bright eyes, its small round ears, and its sharp, turned-up nose. It looked at the Princess but it did not speak. 'Say something _now_,' said Queen Eliza. 'I should like to _see_ a hedge-pig speak.' 'The truth is, if speak I must, I must speak the truth,' said Erinaceus. 'The Princess has thrown away her life-wish to make me visible. I wish she had wished instead for something nice for herself.' 'Oh, was that my life-wish?' cried the Princess. 'I didn't know, dear Hedge-pig, I didn't know. If I'd only known, I would have wished you back into your proper shape.' 'If you had,' said the hedge-pig, 'it would have been the shape of a dead man. Remember that I have a thousand spears in my back, and no man can carry those and live.' The Princess burst into tears. [Illustration: 'I would kiss you on every one of your thousand spears,' she said, 'to give you what you wish.'] 'Oh, you can't go on being a hedge-pig for ever,' she said, 'it's not fair. I can't bear it. Oh Mamma! Oh Papa! Oh Benevola!' And there stood Benevola before them, a little dazzling figure with blue butterfly's wings and a wreath of moonshine. 'Well?' she said, 'well?' 'Oh, you know,' said the Princess, still crying. 'I've thrown away my life-wish, and he's still a hedge-pig. Can't you do _anything_!' '_I_ can't,' said the Fairy, 'but you can. Your kisses are magic kisses. Don't you remember how you cured the King and Queen of all the wounds the hedge-pig made by rolling itself on to their faces in the night?' 'But she can't go kissing hedge-pigs,' said the Queen, 'it would be most unsuitable. Besides it would hurt her.' But the hedge-pig raised its little pointed face, and the Princess took it up in her hands. She had long since learned how to do this without hurting either herself or it. She looked in its little bright eyes. 'I would kiss you on every one of your thousand spears,' she said, 'to give you what you wish.' 'Kiss me once,' it said, 'where my fur is soft. That is all I wish, and enough to live and die for.' She stooped her head and kissed it on its forehead where the fur is soft, just where the prickles begin. And instantly she was standing with her hands on a young man's shoulders and her lips on a young man's face just where the hair begins and the forehead leaves off. And all round his feet lay a pile of fallen arrows. She drew back and looked at him. 'Erinaceus,' she said, 'you're different--from the baker's boy I mean.' 'When I was an invisible hedge-pig,' he said, 'I knew everything. Now I have forgotten all that wisdom save only two things. One is that I am a king's son. I was stolen away in infancy by an unprincipled baker, and I am really the son of that usurping King whose face I rolled on in the night. It is a painful thing to roll on your father's face when you are all spiky, but I did it, Princess, for your sake, and for my father's too. And now I will go to him and tell him all, and ask his forgiveness.' 'You won't go away?' said the Princess. 'Ah! don't go away. What shall I do without my hedge-pig?' Erinaceus stood still, looking very handsome and like a prince. 'What is the other thing that you remember of your hedge-pig wisdom?' asked the Queen curiously. And Erinaceus answered, not to her but to the Princess: 'The other thing, Princess, is that I love you.' 'Isn't there a third thing, Erinaceus?' said the Princess, looking down. 'There is, but you must speak that, not I.' 'Oh,' said the Princess, a little disappointed, 'then you knew that I loved you?' 'Hedge-pigs are very wise little beasts,' said Erinaceus, 'but I only knew that when you told it me.' 'I--told you?' 'When you kissed my little pointed face, Princess,' said Erinaceus, 'I knew then.' 'My goodness gracious me,' said the King. 'Quite so,' said Benevola, 'and I wouldn't ask _any one_ to the wedding.' 'Except you, dear,' said the Queen. 'Well, as I happened to be passing ... there's no time like the present,' said Benevola briskly. 'Suppose you give orders for the wedding bells to be rung now, at once!' V SEPTIMUS SEPTIMUSSON The wind was screaming over the marsh. It shook the shutters and rattled the windows, and the little boy lay awake in the bare attic. His mother came softly up the ladder stairs shading the flame of the tallow candle with her hand. 'I'm not asleep, mother,' said he. And she heard the tears in his voice. 'Why, silly lad,' she said, sitting down on the straw-bed beside him and putting the candle on the floor, 'what are you crying for?' 'It's the wind keeps calling me, mother,' he said. 'It won't let me alone. It never has since I put up the little weather-cock for it to play with. It keeps saying, "Wake up, Septimus Septimusson, wake up, you're the seventh son of a seventh son. You can see the fairies and hear the beasts speak, and you must go out and seek your fortune." And I'm afraid, and I don't want to go.' 'I should think not indeed,' said his mother. 'The wind doesn't talk, Sep, not really. You just go to sleep like a good boy, and I'll get father to bring you a gingerbread pig from the fair to-morrow.' But Sep lay awake a long time listening to what the wind really did keep on saying, and feeling ashamed to think how frightened he was of going out all alone to seek his fortune--a thing all the boys in books were only too happy to do. Next evening father brought home the loveliest gingerbread pig with currant eyes. Sep ate it, and it made him less anxious than ever to go out into the world where, perhaps, no one would give him gingerbread pigs ever any more. Before he went to bed he ran down to the shore where a great new harbour was being made. The workmen had been blasting the big rocks, and on one of the rocks a lot of mussels were sticking. He stood looking at them, and then suddenly he heard a lot of little voices crying, 'Oh Sep, we're so frightened, we're choking.' The voices were thin and sharp as the edges of mussel shells. They were indeed the voices of the mussels themselves. 'Oh dear,' said Sep, 'I'm so sorry, but I can't move the rock back into the sea, you know. Can I now?' 'No,' said the mussels, 'but if you speak to the wind,--you know his language and he's very fond of you since you made that toy for him,--he'll blow the sea up till the waves wash us back into deep water.' 'But I'm afraid of the wind,' said Sep, 'it says things that frighten me.' 'Oh very well,' said the mussels, 'we don't want you to be afraid. We can die all right if necessary.' Then Sep shivered and trembled. 'Go away,' said the thin sharp voices. 'We'll die--but we'd rather die in our own brave company.' 'I know I'm a coward,' said Sep. 'Oh, wait a minute.' 'Death won't wait,' said the little voices. 'I can't speak to the wind, I won't,' said Sep, and almost at the same moment he heard himself call out, 'Oh wind, please come and blow up the waves to save the poor mussels.' The wind answered with a boisterous shout-- 'All right, my boy,' it shrieked, 'I'm coming.' And come it did. And when it had attended to the mussels it came and whispered to Sep in his attic. And to his great surprise, instead of covering his head with the bed-clothes, as usual, and trying not to listen, he found himself sitting up in bed and talking to the wind, man to man. 'Why,' he said, 'I'm not afraid of you any more.' 'Of course not, we're friends now,' said the wind. 'That's because we joined together to do a kindness to some one. There's nothing like that for making people friends.' 'Oh,' said Sep. 'Yes,' said the wind, 'and now, old chap, when will you go out and seek your fortune? Remember how poor your father is, and the fortune, if you find it, won't be just for you, but for your father and mother and the others.' 'Oh,' said Sep, 'I didn't think of that.' 'Yes,' said the wind, 'really, my dear fellow, I do hate to bother you, but it's better to fix a time. Now when shall we start?' 'We?' said Sep. 'Are you going with me?' 'I'll see you a bit of the way,' said the wind. 'What do you say now? Shall we start to-night? There's no time like the present.' 'I do hate going,' said Sep. 'Of course you do!' said the wind, cordially. 'Come along. Get into your things, and we'll make a beginning.' So Sep dressed, and he wrote on his slate in very big letters, 'Gone to seek our fortune,' and he put it on the table so that his mother should see it when she came down in the morning. And he went out of the cottage and the wind kindly shut the door after him. The wind gently pushed him down to the shore, and there he got into his father's boat, which was called the _Septimus and Susie_, after his father and mother, and the wind carried him across to another country and there he landed. 'Now,' said the wind, clapping him on the back, 'off you go, and good luck to you!' And it turned round and took the boat home again. When Sep's mother found the writing on the slate, and his father found the boat gone they feared that Sep was drowned, but when the wind brought the boat back wrong way up, they were quite sure, and they both cried for many a long day. The wind tried to tell them that Sep was all right, but they couldn't understand wind-talk, and they only said, 'Drat the wind,' and fastened the shutters up tight, and put wedges in the windows. Sep walked along the straight white road that led across the new country. He had no more idea how to look for _his_ fortune than you would have if you suddenly left off reading this and went out of your front door to seek _yours_. However, he had made a start, and that is always something. When he had gone exactly seven miles on that straight foreign road, between strange trees, and bordered with flowers he did not know the names of, he heard a groaning in the wood, and some one sighing and saying, 'Oh, how hard it is, to have to die and never see my wife and the little cubs again.' The voice was rough as a lion's mane, and strong as a lion's claws, and Sep was very frightened. But he said, 'I'm not afraid,' and then oddly enough he found he had spoken the truth--he wasn't afraid. He broke through the bushes and found that the person who had spoken was indeed a lion. A javelin had pierced its shoulder and fastened it to a great tree. 'All right,' cried Sep, 'hold still a minute, sir.' He got out his knife and cut and cut at the shaft of the javelin till he was able to break it off. Then the lion drew back and the broken shaft passed through the wound and the broken javelin was left sticking in the tree. 'I'm really extremely obliged, my dear fellow,' said the lion warmly. 'Pray command me, if there's any little thing I can do for you at any time.' 'Don't mention it,' said Sep with proper politeness, 'delighted to have been of use to you, I'm sure.' So they parted. As Sep scrambled through the bushes back to the road he kicked against an axe that lay on the ground. 'Hullo,' said he, 'some poor woodman's dropped this, and not been able to find it. I'll take it along--perhaps I may meet him.' He was getting very tired and very hungry, and presently he sat down to rest under a chestnut-tree, and he heard two little voices talking in the branches, voices soft as a squirrel's fur, and bright as a squirrel's eyes. They were, indeed, the voices of two squirrels. 'Hush,' said one, 'there's some one below.' 'Oh,' said the other, 'it's a horrid boy. Let's scurry away.' 'I'm not a horrid boy,' said Sep. 'I'm the seventh son of a seventh son.' 'Oh,' said Mrs. Squirrel, 'of course that makes all the difference. Have some nuts?' 'Rather,' said Sep. 'At least I mean, yes, if you please.' So the squirrels brought nuts down to him, and when he had eaten as many as he wanted they filled his pockets, and then in return he chopped all the lower boughs off the chestnut-tree, so that boys who were _not_ seventh sons could not climb up and interfere with the squirrels' housekeeping arrangements. Then they parted, the best of friends, and Sep went on. 'I haven't found my fortune yet,' said he, 'but I've made a friend or two.' And just as he was saying that, he turned a corner of the road and met an old gentleman in a fur-lined coat riding a fine, big, grey horse. 'Hullo!' said the gentleman. 'Who are you, and where are you off to so bright and early?' 'I'm Septimus Septimusson,' said Sep, 'and I'm going to seek my fortune.' 'And you've taken an axe to help you carve your way to glory?' 'No,' said Sep, 'I found it, and I suppose some one lost it. So I'm bringing it along in case I meet him.' 'Heavy, isn't it?' said the old gentleman. 'Yes,' said Sep. 'Then I'll carry it for you,' said the old gentleman, 'for it's one that my head forester lost yesterday. And now come along with me, for you're the boy I've been looking for for seven years--an honest boy and the seventh son of a seventh son.' So Sep went home with the gentleman, who was a great lord in that country, and he lived in that lord's castle and was taught everything that a gentleman ought to know. And in return he told the lord all about the ways of birds and beasts--for as he understood their talk he knew more about them than any one else in that country. And the lord wrote it all down in a book, and half the people said it was wonderfully clever, and the other half said it was nonsense, and how could he know. This was fame, and the lord was very pleased. But though the old lord was so famous he would not leave his castle, for he had a hump that an enchanter had fastened on to him, and he couldn't bear to be seen with it. 'But you'll get rid of it for me some day, my boy,' he used to say. 'No one but the seventh son of a seventh son and an honest boy can do it. So all the doctors say.' So Sep grew up. And when he was twenty-one--straight as a lance and handsome as a picture--the old lord said to him. 'My boy, you've been like a son to me, but now it's time you got married and had sons of your own. Is there any girl you'd like to marry?' 'No,' said Sep, 'I never did care much for girls.' The old lord laughed. 'Then you must set out again and seek your fortune once more,' he said, 'because no man has really found his fortune till he's found the lady who is his heart's lady. Choose the best horse in the stable, and off you go, lad, and my blessing go with you.' So Sep chose a good red horse and set out, and he rode straight to the great city, that shone golden across the plain, and when he got there he found every one crying. 'Why, whatever is the matter?' said Sep, reining in the red horse in front of a smithy, where the apprentices were crying on to the fires, and the smith was dropping tears on the anvil. 'Why the Princess is dying,' said the blacksmith blowing his nose. 'A nasty, wicked magician--he had a spite against the King, and he got at the Princess when she was playing ball in the garden, and now she's blind and deaf and dumb. And she won't eat.' 'And she'll die,' said the first apprentice. 'And she _is_ such a dear,' said the other apprentice. Sep sat still on the red horse thinking. 'Has anything been done?' he asked. 'Oh yes,' said the blacksmith. 'All the doctors have seen her, but they can't do anything. And the King has advertised in the usual way, that any one who can cure her may marry her. But it's no good. King's sons aren't what they used to be. A silly lot they are nowadays, all taken up with football and cricket and golf.' 'Humph,' said Sep, 'thank you. Which is the way to the palace?' The blacksmith pointed, and then burst into tears again. Sep rode on. When he got to the palace he asked to see the King. Every one there was crying too, from the footman who opened the door to the King, who was sitting upon his golden throne and looking at his fine collection of butterflies through floods of tears. 'Oh dear me yes, young man,' said the King, 'you may _see_ her and welcome, but it's no good.' 'We can but try,' said Sep. So he was taken to the room where the Princess sat huddled up on her silver throne among the white velvet cushions with her crown all on one side, crying out of her poor blind eyes, so that the tears ran down over her green gown with the red roses on it. And directly he saw her he knew that she was the only girl, Princess as she was, with a crown and a throne, who could ever be his heart's lady. He went up to her and kneeled at her side and took her hand and kissed it. The Princess started. She could not see or hear him, but at the touch of his hand and his lips she knew that he was her heart's lord, and she threw her arms round his neck, and cried more than ever. He held her in his arms and stroked her hair till she stopped crying, and then he called for bread and milk. This was brought in a silver basin, and he fed her with it as you feed a little child. The news ran through the city, 'The Princess has eaten,' and all the bells were set ringing. Sep said good-night to his Princess and went to bed in the best bedroom of the palace. Early in the grey morning he got up and leaned out of the open window and called to his old friend the wind. And the wind came bustling in and clapped him on the back, crying, 'Well, my boy, and what can I do for you? Eh?' Sep told him all about the Princess. 'Well,' said the wind, 'you've not done so badly. At any rate you've got her love. And you couldn't have got that with anybody's help but your own. Now, of course, the thing to do is to find the wicked Magician.' 'Of course,' said Sep. 'Well--I travel a good deal--I'll keep my eyes open, and let you know if I hear anything.' Sep spent the day holding the Princess's hand, and feeding her at meal times; and that night the wind rattled his window and said, 'Let me in.' It came in very noisily, and said, 'Well, I've found your Magician, he's in the forest pretending to be a mole.' 'How can I find him?' said Sep. 'Haven't you any friends in the forest?' asked the wind. Then Sep remembered his friends the squirrels, and he mounted his horse and rode away to the chestnut-tree where they lived. They were charmed to see him grown so tall and strong and handsome, and when he had told them his story they said at once-- 'Oh yes! delighted to be of any service to you.' And they called to all their little brothers and cousins, and uncles and nephews to search the forest for a mole that wasn't really a mole, and quite soon they found him, and hustled and shoved him along till he was face to face with Sep, in a green glade. The glade was green, but all the bushes and trees around were red-brown with squirrel fur, and shining bright with squirrel eyes. Then Sep said, 'Give the Princess back her eyes and her hearing and her voice.' But the mole would not. 'Give the Princess back her eyes and her hearing and her voice,' said Sep again. But the mole only gnashed his wicked teeth and snarled. And then in a minute the squirrels fell on the mole and killed it, and Sep thanked them and rode back to the palace, for, of course, he knew that when a magician is killed, all his magic unworks itself instantly. But when he got to his Princess she was still as deaf as a post and as dumb as a stone, and she was still crying bitterly with her poor blind eyes, till the tears ran down her grass-green gown with the red roses on it. 'Cheer up, my sweetheart,' he said, though he knew she couldn't hear him, and as he spoke the wind came in at the open window, and spoke very softly, because it was in the presence of the Princess. 'All right,' it whispered, 'the old villain gave us the slip that journey. Got out of the mole-skin in the very nick of time. He's a wild boar now.' 'Come,' said Sep, fingering his sword-hilt, 'I'll kill that myself without asking it any questions.' So he went and fought it. But it was a most uncommon boar, as big as a horse, with tusks half a yard long; and although Sep wounded it it jerked the sword out of his hand with its tusk, and was just going to trample him out of life with its hard, heavy pigs'-feet, when a great roar sounded through the forest. 'Ah! would ye?' said the lion, and fastened teeth and claws in the great boar's back. The boar turned with a scream of rage, but the lion had got a good grip, and it did not loosen teeth or claws till the boar lay quiet. 'Is he dead?' asked Sep when he came to himself. 'Oh yes, he's _dead_ right enough,' said the lion; but the wind came up puffing and blowing, and said: 'It's no good, he's got away again, and now he's a fish. I was just a minute too late to see _what_ fish. An old oyster told me about it, only he hadn't the wit to notice what particular fish the scoundrel changed into.' So then Sep went back to the palace, and he said to the King: 'Let me marry the dear Princess, and we'll go out and seek our fortune. I've got to kill that Magician, and I'll do it too, or my name's not Septimus Septimusson. But it may take years and years, and I can't be away from the Princess all that time, because she won't eat unless I feed her. You see the difficulty, Sire?' The King saw it. And that very day Sep was married to the Princess in her green gown with the red roses on it, and they set out together. The wind went with them, and the wind, or something else, seemed to say to Sep, 'Go home, take your wife home to your mother.' So he did. He crossed the land and he crossed the sea, and he went up the red-brick path to his father's cottage, and he peeped in at the door and said: 'Father, mother, here's my wife.' They were so pleased to see him--for they had thought him dead, that they didn't notice the Princess at first, and when they did notice her they wondered at her beautiful face and her beautiful gown--but it wasn't till they had all settled down to supper--boiled rabbit it was--and they noticed Sep feeding his wife as one feeds a baby that they saw that she was blind. And then all the story had to be told. 'Well, well,' said the fisherman, 'you and your wife bide here with us. I daresay I'll catch that old sinner in my nets one of these fine days.' But he never did. And Sep and his wife lived with the old people. And they were happy after a fashion--but of an evening Sep used to wander and wonder, and wonder and wander by the sea-shore, wondering as he wandered whether he wouldn't ever have the luck to catch that fish. And one evening as he wandered wondering he heard a little, sharp, thin voice say: 'Sep. I've got it.' 'What?' asked Sep, forgetting his manners. 'I've got it,' said a big mussel on a rock close by him, 'the magic stone that the Magician does his enchantments with. He dropped it out of his mouth and I shut my shells on it--and now he's sweeping up and down the sea like a mad fish, looking for it--for he knows he can never change into anything else unless he gets it back. Here, take the nasty thing, it's making me feel quite ill.' It opened its shells wide, and Sep saw a pearl. He reached out his hand and took it. 'That's better,' said the mussel, washing its shells out with salt water. 'Can _I_ do magic with it?' Sep eagerly asked. 'No,' said the mussel sadly, 'it's of no use to any one but the owner. Now, if I were you, I'd get into a boat, and if your friend the wind will help us, I believe we really can do the trick.' 'I'm at your service, of course,' said the wind, getting up instantly. The mussel whispered to the wind, who rushed off at once; and Sep launched his boat. 'Now,' said the mussel, 'you get into the very middle of the sea--or as near as you can guess it. The wind will warn all the other fishes.' As he spoke he disappeared in the dark waters. Sep got the boat into the middle of the sea--as near as he could guess it--and waited. After a long time he saw something swirling about in a sort of whirlpool about a hundred yards from his boat, but when he tried to move the boat towards it her bows ran on to something hard. 'Keep still, keep still, keep still,' cried thousands and thousands of sharp, thin, little voices. 'You'll kill us if you move.' Then he looked over the boat side, and saw that the hard something was nothing but thousands and thousands of mussels all jammed close together, and through the clear water more and more were coming and piling themselves together. Almost at once his boat was slowly lifted--the top of the mussel heap showed through the water, and there he was, high and dry on a mussel reef. And in all that part of the sea the water was disappearing, and as far as the eye could reach stretched a great plain of purple and gray--the shells of countless mussels. Only at one spot there was still a splashing. Then a mussel opened its shell and spoke. 'We've got him,' it said. 'We've piled our selves up till we've filled this part of the sea. The wind warned all the good fishes--and we've got the old traitor in a little pool over there. Get out and walk over our backs--we'll all lie sideways so as not to hurt you. You must catch the fish--but whatever you do don't kill it till we give the word.' Sep promised, and he got out and walked over the mussels to the pool, and when he saw the wicked soul of the Magician looking out through the round eyes of a big finny fish he remembered all that his Princess had suffered, and he longed to draw his sword and kill the wicked thing then and there. But he remembered his promise. He threw a net about it, and dragged it back to the boat. The mussels dispersed and let the boat down again into the water--and he rowed home, towing the evil fish in the net by a line. He beached the boat, and looked along the shore. The shore looked a very odd colour. And well it might, for every bit of the sand was covered with purple-gray mussels. They had all come up out of the sea--leaving just one little bit of real yellow sand for him to beach the boat on. 'Now,' said millions of sharp thin little voices, 'Kill him, kill him!' Sep drew his sword and waded into the shallow surf and killed the evil fish with one strong stroke. Then such a shout went up all along the shore as that shore had never heard; and all along the shore where the mussels had been, stood men in armour and men in smock-frocks and men in leather aprons and huntsmen's coats and women and children--a whole nation of people. Close by the boat stood a King and Queen with crowns upon their heads. 'Thank you, Sep,' said the King, 'you've saved us all. I am the King Mussel, doomed to be a mussel so long as that wretch lived. You have set us all free. And look!' Down the path from the shore came running his own Princess, who hung round his neck crying his name and looking at him with the most beautiful eyes in the world. 'Come,' said the Mussel King, 'we have no son. You shall be our son and reign after us.' 'Thank you,' said Sep, 'but _this_ is my father,' and he presented the old fisherman to His Majesty. 'Then let him come with us,' said the King royally, 'he can help me reign, or fish in the palace lake, whichever he prefers.' 'Thankee,' said Sep's father, 'I'll come and fish.' 'Your mother too,' said the Mussel Queen, kissing Sep's mother. 'Ah,' said Sep's mother, 'you're a lady, every inch. I'll go to the world's end with you.' So they all went back by way of the foreign country where Sep had found his Princess, and they called on the old lord. He had lost his hump, and they easily persuaded him to come with them. 'You can help me reign if you like, or we have a nice book or two in the palace library,' said the Mussel King. 'Thank you,' said the old lord, 'I'll come and be your librarian if I may. Reigning isn't at all in my line.' Then they went on to Sep's father-in-law, and when he saw how happy they all were together he said: 'Bless my beard but I've half a mind to come with you.' 'Come along,' said the Mussel King, 'you shall help me reign if you like ... or....' 'No, thank you,' said the other King very quickly, 'I've had enough of reigning. My kingdom can buy a President and be a republic if it likes. I'm going to catch butterflies.' And so he does, most happily, up to this very minute. And Sep and his dear Princess are as happy as they deserve to be. Some people say we are all as happy as we deserve to be--but I am not sure. VI THE WHITE CAT The White Cat lived at the back of a shelf at the darkest end of the inside attic which was nearly dark all over. It had lived there for years, because one of its white china ears was chipped, so that it was no longer a possible ornament for the spare bedroom. Tavy found it at the climax of a wicked and glorious afternoon. He had been left alone. The servants were the only other people in the house. He had promised to be good. He had meant to be good. And he had not been. He had done everything you can think of. He had walked into the duck pond, and not a stitch of his clothes but had had to be changed. He had climbed on a hay rick and fallen off it, and had not broken his neck, which, as cook told him, he richly deserved to do. He had found a mouse in the trap and put it in the kitchen tea-pot, so that when cook went to make tea it jumped out at her, and affected her to screams followed by tears. Tavy was sorry for this, of course, and said so like a man. He had only, he explained, meant to give her a little start. In the confusion that followed the mouse, he had eaten all the black-currant jam that was put out for kitchen tea, and for this too, he apologised handsomely as soon as it was pointed out to him. He had broken a pane of the greenhouse with a stone and.... But why pursue the painful theme? The last thing he had done was to explore the attic, where he was never allowed to go, and to knock down the White Cat from its shelf. The sound of its fall brought the servants. The cat was not broken--only its other ear was chipped. Tavy was put to bed. But he got out as soon as the servants had gone downstairs, crept up to the attic, secured the Cat, and washed it in the bath. So that when mother came back from London, Tavy, dancing impatiently at the head of the stairs, in a very wet night-gown, flung himself upon her and cried, 'I've been awfully naughty, and I'm frightfully sorry, and please may I have the White Cat for my very own?' He was much sorrier than he had expected to be when he saw that mother was too tired even to want to know, as she generally did, exactly how naughty he had been. She only kissed him, and said: 'I am sorry you've been naughty, my darling. Go back to bed now. Good-night.' Tavy was ashamed to say anything more about the China Cat, so he went back to bed. But he took the Cat with him, and talked to it and kissed it, and went to sleep with its smooth shiny shoulder against his cheek. In the days that followed, he was extravagantly good. Being good seemed as easy as being bad usually was. This may have been because mother seemed so tired and ill; and gentlemen in black coats and high hats came to see mother, and after they had gone she used to cry. (These things going on in a house sometimes make people good; sometimes they act just the other way.) Or it may have been because he had the China Cat to talk to. Anyhow, whichever way it was, at the end of the week mother said: 'Tavy, you've been a dear good boy, and a great comfort to me. You must have tried very hard to be good.' It was difficult to say, 'No, I haven't, at least not since the first day,' but Tavy got it said, and was hugged for his pains. 'You wanted,' said mother, 'the China Cat. Well, you may have it.' 'For my very own?' 'For your very own. But you must be very careful not to break it. And you mustn't give it away. It goes with the house. Your Aunt Jane made me promise to keep it in the family. It's very, very old. Don't take it out of doors for fear of accidents.' 'I love the White Cat, mother,' said Tavy. 'I love it better'n all my toys.' Then mother told Tavy several things, and that night when he went to bed Tavy repeated them all faithfully to the China Cat, who was about six inches high and looked very intelligent. 'So you see,' he ended, 'the wicked lawyer's taken nearly all mother's money, and we've got to leave our own lovely big White House, and go and live in a horrid little house with another house glued on to its side. And mother does hate it so.' 'I don't wonder,' said the China Cat very distinctly. '_What!_' said Tavy, half-way into his night-shirt. 'I said, I don't wonder, Octavius,' said the China Cat, and rose from her sitting position, stretched her china legs and waved her white china tail. 'You can speak?' said Tavy. 'Can't you see I can?--hear I mean?' said the Cat. 'I belong to you now, so I can speak to you. I couldn't before. It wouldn't have been manners.' Tavy, his night-shirt round his neck, sat down on the edge of the bed with his mouth open. 'Come, don't look so silly,' said the Cat, taking a walk along the high wooden mantelpiece, 'any one would think you didn't _like_ me to talk to you.' 'I _love_ you to,' said Tavy recovering himself a little. 'Well then,' said the Cat. 'May I touch you?' Tavy asked timidly. 'Of course! I belong to you. Look out!' The China Cat gathered herself together and jumped. Tavy caught her. It was quite a shock to find when one stroked her that the China Cat, though alive, was still china, hard, cold, and smooth to the touch, and yet perfectly brisk and absolutely bendable as any flesh and blood cat. 'Dear, dear white pussy,' said Tavy, 'I do love you.' 'And I love you,' purred the Cat, 'otherwise I should never have lowered myself to begin a conversation.' 'I wish you were a real cat,' said Tavy. 'I am,' said the Cat. 'Now how shall we amuse ourselves? I suppose you don't care for sport--mousing, I mean?' 'I never tried,' said Tavy, 'and I think I rather wouldn't.' 'Very well then, Octavius,' said the Cat. 'I'll take you to the White Cat's Castle. Get into bed. Bed makes a good travelling carriage, especially when you haven't any other. Shut your eyes.' Tavy did as he was told. Shut his eyes, but could not keep them shut. He opened them a tiny, tiny chink, and sprang up. He was not in bed. He was on a couch of soft beast-skin, and the couch stood in a splendid hall, whose walls were of gold and ivory. By him stood the White Cat, no longer china, but real live cat--and fur--as cats should be. 'Here we are,' she said. 'The journey didn't take long, did it? Now we'll have that splendid supper, out of the fairy tale, with the invisible hands waiting on us.' She clapped her paws--paws now as soft as white velvet--and a table-cloth floated into the room; then knives and forks and spoons and glasses, the table was laid, the dishes drifted in, and they began to eat. There happened to be every single thing Tavy liked best to eat. After supper there was music and singing, and Tavy, having kissed a white, soft, furry forehead, went to bed in a gold four-poster with a counterpane of butterflies' wings. He awoke at home. On the mantelpiece sat the White Cat, looking as though butter would not melt in her mouth. And all her furriness had gone with her voice. She was silent--and china. Tavy spoke to her. But she would not answer. Nor did she speak all day. Only at night when he was getting into bed she suddenly mewed, stretched, and said: 'Make haste, there's a play acted to-night at my castle.' Tavy made haste, and was rewarded by another glorious evening in the castle of the White Cat. And so the weeks went on. Days full of an ordinary little boy's joys and sorrows, goodnesses and badnesses. Nights spent by a little Prince in the Magic Castle of the White Cat. Then came the day when Tavy's mother spoke to him, and he, very scared and serious, told the China Cat what she had said. 'I knew this would happen,' said the Cat. 'It always does. So you're to leave your house next week. Well, there's only one way out of the difficulty. Draw your sword, Tavy, and cut off my head and tail.' 'And then will you turn into a Princess, and shall I have to marry you?' Tavy asked with horror. 'No, dear--no,' said the Cat reassuringly. 'I sha'n't turn into anything. But you and mother will turn into happy people. I shall just not _be_ any more--for you.' 'Then I won't do it,' said Tavy. 'But you must. Come, draw your sword, like a brave fairy Prince, and cut off my head.' The sword hung above his bed, with the helmet and breast-plate Uncle James had given him last Christmas. 'I'm not a fairy Prince,' said the child. 'I'm Tavy--and I love you.' 'You love your mother better,' said the Cat. 'Come cut my head off. The story always ends like that. You love mother best. It's for her sake.' 'Yes.' Tavy was trying to think it out. 'Yes, I love mother best. But I love _you_. And I won't cut off your head,--no, not even for mother.' 'Then,' said the Cat, 'I must do what I can!' She stood up, waving her white china tail, and before Tavy could stop her she had leapt, not, as before, into his arms, but on to the wide hearthstone. It was all over--the China Cat lay broken inside the high brass fender. The sound of the smash brought mother running. 'What is it?' she cried. 'Oh, Tavy--the China Cat!' 'She would do it,' sobbed Tavy. 'She wanted me to cut off her head'n I wouldn't.' 'Don't talk nonsense, dear,' said mother sadly. 'That only makes it worse. Pick up the pieces.' 'There's only two pieces,' said Tavy. 'Couldn't you stick her together again?' 'Why,' said mother, holding the pieces close to the candle. 'She's been broken before. And mended.' 'I knew that,' said Tavy, still sobbing. 'Oh, my dear White Cat, oh, oh, oh!' The last 'oh' was a howl of anguish. 'Come, crying won't mend her,' said mother. 'Look, there's another piece of her, close to the shovel.' Tavy stooped. 'That's not a piece of cat,' he said, and picked it up. It was a pale parchment label, tied to a key. Mother held it to the candle and read: '_Key of the lock behind the knot in the mantelpiece panel in the white parlour._' 'Tavy! I wonder! But ... where did it come from?' 'Out of my White Cat, I s'pose,' said Tavy, his tears stopping. 'Are you going to see what's in the mantelpiece panel, mother? Are you? Oh, do let me come and see too!' 'You don't deserve,' mother began, and ended,--'Well, put your dressing-gown on then.' They went down the gallery past the pictures and the stuffed birds and tables with china on them and downstairs on to the white parlour. But they could not see any knot in the mantelpiece panel, because it was all painted white. But mother's fingers felt softly all over it, and found a round raised spot. It was a knot, sure enough. Then she scraped round it with her scissors, till she loosened the knot, and poked it out with the scissors point. 'I don't suppose there's any keyhole there really,' she said. But there was. And what is more, the key fitted. The panel swung open, and inside was a little cupboard with two shelves. What was on the shelves? There were old laces and old embroideries, old jewelry and old silver; there was money, and there were dusty old papers that Tavy thought most uninteresting. But mother did not think them uninteresting. She laughed, and cried, or nearly cried, and said: 'Oh, Tavy, this was why the China Cat was to be taken such care of!' Then she told him how, a hundred and fifty years before, the Head of the House had gone out to fight for the Pretender, and had told his daughter to take the greatest care of the China Cat. 'I will send you word of the reason by a sure hand,' he said, for they parted on the open square, where any spy might have overheard anything. And he had been killed by an ambush not ten miles from home,--and his daughter had never known. But she had kept the Cat. 'And now it has saved us,' said mother. 'We can stay in the dear old house, and there are two other houses that will belong to us too, I think. And, oh, Tavy, would you like some pound-cake and ginger-wine, dear?' Tavy did like. And had it. The China Cat was mended, but it was put in the glass-fronted corner cupboard in the drawing-room, because it had saved the House. Now I dare say you'll think this is all nonsense, and a made-up story. Not at all. If it were, how would you account for Tavy's finding, the very next night, fast asleep on his pillow, his own white Cat--the furry friend that the China Cat used to turn into every evening--the dear hostess who had amused him so well in the White Cat's fairy Palace? It was she, beyond a doubt, and that was why Tavy didn't mind a bit about the China Cat being taken from him and kept under glass. You may think that it was just any old stray white cat that had come in by accident. Tavy knows better. It has the very same tender tone in its purr that the magic White Cat had. It will not talk to Tavy, it is true; but Tavy can and does talk to it. But the thing that makes it perfectly certain that it is the White Cat is that the tips of its two ears are missing--just as the China Cat's ears were. If you say that it might have lost its ear-tips in battle you are the kind of person who always _makes_ difficulties, and you may be quite sure that the kind of splendid magics that happened to Tavy will never happen to _you_. VII BELINDA AND BELLAMANT; OR THE BELLS OF CARRILLON-LAND There is a certain country where a king is never allowed to reign while a queen can be found. They like queens much better than kings in that country. I can't think why. If some one has tried to teach you a little history, you will perhaps think that this is the Salic law. But it isn't. In the biggest city of that odd country there is a great bell-tower (higher than the clock-tower of the Houses of Parliament, where they put M.P.'s who forget their manners). This bell-tower had seven bells in it, very sweet-toned splendid bells, made expressly to ring on the joyful occasions when a princess was born who would be queen some day. And the great tower was built expressly for the bells to ring in. So you see what a lot they thought of queens in that country. Now in all the bells there are bell-people--it is their voices that you hear when the bells ring. All that about its being the clapper of the bell is mere nonsense, and would hardly deceive a child. I don't know why people say such things. Most Bell-people are very energetic busy folk, who love the sound of their own voices, and hate being idle, and when nearly two hundred years had gone by, and no princesses had been born, they got tired of living in bells that were never rung. So they slipped out of the belfry one fine frosty night, and left the big beautiful bells empty, and went off to find other homes. One of them went to live in a dinner-bell, and one in a school-bell, and the rest all found homes--they did not mind where--just anywhere, in fact, where they could find any Bell-person kind enough to give them board and lodging. And every one was surprised at the increased loudness in the voices of these hospitable bells. For, of course, the Bell-people from the belfry did their best to help in the housework as polite guests should, and always added their voices to those of their hosts on all occasions when bell-talk was called for. And the seven big beautiful bells in the belfry were left hollow and dark and quite empty, except for the clappers who did not care about the comforts of a home. Now of course a good house does not remain empty long, especially when there is no rent to pay, and in a very short time the seven bells all had tenants, and they were all the kind of folk that no respectable Bell-people would care to be acquainted with. They had been turned out of other bells--cracked bells and broken bells, the bells of horses that had been lost in snowstorms or of ships that had gone down at sea. They hated work, and they were a glum, silent, disagreeable people, but as far as they could be pleased about anything they were pleased to live in bells that were never rung, in houses where there was nothing to do. They sat hunched up under the black domes of their houses, dressed in darkness and cobwebs, and their only pleasure was idleness, their only feasts the thick dusty silence that lies heavy in all belfries where the bells never ring. They hardly ever spoke even to each other, and in the whispers that good Bell-people talk in among themselves, and that no one can hear but the bat whose ear for music is very fine and who has himself a particularly high voice, and when they did speak they quarrelled. And when at last the bells _were_ rung for the birth of a Princess the wicked Bell-people were furious. Of course they had to _ring_--a bell can't help that when the rope is pulled--but their voices were so ugly that people were quite shocked. 'What poor taste our ancestors must have had,' they said, 'to think these were good bells!' (You remember the bells had not rung for nearly two hundred years.) 'Dear me,' said the King to the Queen, 'what odd ideas people had in the old days. I always understood that these bells had beautiful voices.' 'They're quite hideous,' said the Queen. And so they were. Now that night the lazy Bell-folk came down out of the belfry full of anger against the Princess whose birth had disturbed their idleness. There is no anger like that of a lazy person who is made to work against his will. And they crept out of the dark domes of their houses and came down in their dust dresses and cobweb cloaks, and crept up to the palace where every one had gone to bed long before, and stood round the mother-of-pearl cradle where the baby princess lay asleep. And they reached their seven dark right hands out across the white satin coverlet, and the oldest and hoarsest and laziest said: 'She shall grow uglier every day, except Sundays, and every Sunday she shall be seven times prettier than the Sunday before.' 'Why not uglier every day, and a double dose on Sunday?' asked the youngest and spitefullest of the wicked Bell-people. 'Because there's no rule without an exception,' said the eldest and hoarsest and laziest, 'and she'll feel it all the more if she's pretty once a week. And,' he added, 'this shall go on till she finds a bell that doesn't ring, and can't ring, and never will ring, and wasn't made to ring.' 'Why not for ever?' asked the young and spiteful. 'Nothing goes on for ever,' said the eldest Bell-person, 'not even ill-luck. And we have to leave her a way out. It doesn't matter. She'll never know what it is. Let alone finding it.' Then they went back to the belfry and rearranged as well as they could the comfortable web-and-owls' nest furniture of their houses which had all been shaken up and disarranged by that absurd ringing of bells at the birth of a Princess that nobody could really be pleased about. When the Princess was two weeks old the King said to the Queen: 'My love--the Princess is not so handsome as I thought she was.' 'Nonsense, Henry,' said the Queen, 'the light's not good, that's all.' Next day--it was Sunday--the King pulled back the lace curtains of the cradle and said: 'The light's good enough now--and you see she's----' He stopped. 'It _must_ have been the light,' he said, 'she looks all right to-day.' 'Of course she does, a precious,' said the Queen. But on Monday morning His Majesty was quite sure really that the Princess was rather plain, for a Princess. And when Sunday came, and the Princess had on her best robe and the cap with the little white ribbons in the frill, he rubbed his nose and said there was no doubt dress did make a great deal of difference. For the Princess was now as pretty as a new daisy. The Princess was several years old before her mother could be got to see that it really was better for the child to wear plain clothes and a veil on week days. On Sundays, of course she could wear her best frock and a clean crown just like anybody else. Of course nobody ever told the Princess how ugly she was. She wore a veil on week-days, and so did every one else in the palace, and she was never allowed to look in the glass except on Sundays, so that she had no idea that she was not as pretty all the week as she was on the first day of it. She grew up therefore quite contented. But the parents were in despair. 'Because,' said King Henry, 'it's high time she was married. We ought to choose a king to rule the realm--I have always looked forward to her marrying at twenty-one--and to our retiring on a modest competence to some nice little place in the country where we could have a few pigs.' 'And a cow,' said the Queen, wiping her eyes. 'And a pony and trap,' said the King. 'And hens,' said the Queen, 'yes. And now it can never, never be. Look at the child! I just ask you! Look at her!' '_No_,' said the King firmly, 'I haven't done that since she was ten, except on Sundays.' 'Couldn't we get a prince to agree to a "Sundays only" marriage--not let him see her during the week?' 'Such an unusual arrangement,' said the King, 'would involve very awkward explanations, and I can't think of any except the true ones, which would be quite impossible to give. You see, we should want a first-class prince, and no really high-toned Highness would take a wife on those terms.' 'It's a thoroughly comfortable kingdom,' said the Queen doubtfully. 'The young man would be handsomely provided for for life.' 'I couldn't marry Belinda to a time-server or a place-worshipper,' said the King decidedly. Meanwhile the Princess had taken the matter into her own hands. She had fallen in love. You know, of course, that a handsome book is sent out every year to all the kings who have daughters to marry. It is rather like the illustrated catalogues of Liberty's or Peter Robinson's, only instead of illustrations showing furniture or ladies' cloaks and dresses, the pictures are all of princes who are of an age to be married, and are looking out for suitable wives. The book is called the 'Royal Match Catalogue Illustrated,'--and besides the pictures of the princes it has little printed bits about their incomes, accomplishments, prospects, and tempers, and relations. Now the Princess saw this book--which is never shown to princesses, but only to their parents--it was carelessly left lying on the round table in the parlour. She looked all through it, and she hated each prince more than the one before till she came to the very end, and on the last page of all, screwed away in a corner, was the picture of a prince who was quite as good-looking as a prince has any call to be. 'I like _you_,' said Belinda softly. Then she read the little bit of print underneath. _Prince Bellamant, aged twenty-four. Wants Princess who doesn't object to a christening curse. Nature of curse only revealed in the strictest confidence. Good tempered. Comfortably off. Quiet habits. No relations._ 'Poor dear,' said the Princess. 'I wonder what the curse is! I'm sure _I_ shouldn't mind!' The blue dusk of evening was deepening in the garden outside. The Princess rang for the lamp and went to draw the curtain. There was a rustle and a faint high squeak--and something black flopped on to the floor and fluttered there. 'Oh--it's a bat,' cried the Princess, as the lamp came in. 'I don't like bats.' 'Let me fetch a dust-pan and brush and sweep the nasty thing away,' said the parlourmaid. 'No, no,' said Belinda, 'it's hurt, poor dear,' and though she hated bats she picked it up. It was horribly cold to touch, one wing dragged loosely. 'You can go, Jane,' said the Princess to the parlourmaid. Then she got a big velvet-covered box that had had chocolate in it, and put some cotton wool in it and said to the Bat-- 'You poor dear, is that comfortable?' and the Bat said: 'Quite, thanks.' 'Good gracious,' said the Princess jumping. 'I didn't know bats could talk.' 'Every one can talk,' said the Bat, 'but not every one can hear other people talking. You have a fine ear as well as a fine heart.' 'Will your wing ever get well?' asked the Princess. 'I hope so,' said the Bat. 'But let's talk about you. Do you know why you wear a veil every day except Sundays?' 'Doesn't everybody?' asked Belinda. 'Only here in the palace,' said the Bat, 'that's on your account.' 'But why?' asked the Princess. 'Look in the glass and you'll know.' 'But it's wicked to look in the glass except on Sundays--and besides they're all put away,' said the Princess. 'If I were you,' said the Bat, 'I should go up into the attic where the youngest kitchenmaid sleeps. Feel between the thatch and the wall just above her pillow, and you'll find a little round looking-glass. But come back here before you look at it.' The Princess did exactly what the Bat told her to do, and when she had come back into the parlour and shut the door she looked in the little round glass that the youngest kitchen-maid's sweetheart had given her. And when she saw her ugly, ugly, ugly face--for you must remember she had been growing uglier every day since she was born--she screamed and then she said: 'That's not me, it's a horrid picture.' 'It _is_ you, though,' said the Bat firmly but kindly; 'and now you see why you wear a veil all the week--and only look in the glass on Sunday.' 'But why,' asked the Princess in tears, 'why don't I look like that in the Sunday looking-glasses?' 'Because you aren't like that on Sundays,' the Bat replied. 'Come,' it went on, 'stop crying. I didn't tell you the dread secret of your ugliness just to make you cry--but because I know the way for you to be as pretty all the week as you are on Sundays, and since you've been so kind to me I'll tell you. Sit down close beside me, it fatigues me to speak loud.' The Princess did, and listened through her veil and her tears, while the Bat told her all that I began this story by telling you. 'My great-great-great-great-grandfather heard the tale years ago,' he said, 'up in the dark, dusty, beautiful, comfortable, cobwebby belfry, and I have heard scraps of it myself when the evil Bell-people were quarrelling, or talking in their sleep, lazy things!' 'It's very good of you to tell me all this,' said Belinda, 'but what am I to do?' 'You must find the bell that doesn't ring, and can't ring, and never will ring, and wasn't made to ring.' 'If I were a prince,' said the Princess, 'I could go out and seek my fortune.' 'Princesses have fortunes as well as princes,' said the Bat. 'But father and mother would never let me go and look for mine.' 'Think!' said the Bat, 'perhaps you'll find a way.' So Belinda thought and thought. And at last she got the book that had the portraits of eligible princes in it, and she wrote to the prince who had the christening curse--and this is what she said: 'Princess Belinda of Carrillon-land is not afraid of christening curses. If Prince Bellamant would like to marry her he had better apply to her Royal Father in the usual way. '_P.S._--I have seen your portrait.' When the Prince got this letter he was very pleased, and wrote at once for Princess Belinda's likeness. Of course they sent him a picture of her Sunday face, which was the most beautiful face in the world. As soon as he saw it he knew that this was not only the most beautiful face in the world, but the dearest, so he wrote to her father by the next post--applying for her hand in the usual way and enclosing the most respectable references. The King told the Princess. 'Come,' said he, 'what do you say to this young man?' And the Princess, of course, said, 'Yes, please.' So the wedding-day was fixed for the first Sunday in June. But when the Prince arrived with all his glorious following of courtiers and men-at-arms, with two pink peacocks and a crown-case full of diamonds for his bride, he absolutely refused to be married on a Sunday. Nor would he give any reason for his refusal. And then the King lost his temper and broke off the match, and the Prince went away. But he did not go very far. That night he bribed a page-boy to show him which was the Princess's room, and he climbed up by the jasmine through the dark rose-scented night, and tapped at the window. 'Who's dhere?' said the Princess inside in the dark. 'Me,' said the Prince in the dark outside. 'Thed id wasnd't true?' said the Princess. 'They toad be you'd ridded away.' 'What a cold you've got, my Princess,' said the Prince hanging on by the jasmine boughs. 'It's not a cold,' sniffed the Princess. 'Then ... oh you dear ... were you crying because you thought I'd gone?' he said. 'I suppose so,' said she. He said, 'You dear!' again, and kissed her hands. '_Why_ wouldn't you be married on a Sunday?' she asked. 'It's the curse, dearest,' he explained, 'I couldn't tell any one but you. The fact is Malevola wasn't asked to my christening so she doomed me to be ... well, she said "moderately good-looking all the week, and too ugly for words on Sundays." So you see! You _will_ be married on a week-day, won't you?' 'But I can't,' said the Princess, 'because I've got a curse too--only I'm ugly all the week and pretty on Sundays.' 'How extremely tiresome,' said the Prince, 'but can't you be cured?' 'Oh yes,' said the Princess, and told him how. 'And you,' she asked, 'is yours quite incurable?' 'Not at all,' he answered, 'I've only got to stay under water for five minutes and the spell will be broken. But you see, beloved, the difficulty is that I can't do it. I've practised regularly, from a boy, in the sea, and in the swimming bath, and even in my wash-hand basin--hours at a time I've practised--but I never can keep under more than two minutes.' 'Oh dear,' said the Princess, 'this is dreadful.' 'It is rather trying,' the Prince answered. 'You're sure you like me,' she asked suddenly, 'now you know that I'm only pretty once a week?' 'I'd die for you,' said he. 'Then I'll tell you what. Send all your courtiers away, and take a situation as under-gardener here--I know we want one. And then every night I'll climb down the jasmine and we'll go out together and seek our fortune. I'm sure we shall find it.' And they did go out. The very next night, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next. And they did not find their fortunes, but they got fonder and fonder of each other. They could not see each other's faces, but they held hands as they went along through the dark. And on the seventh night, as they passed by a house that showed chinks of light through its shutters, they heard a bell being rung outside for supper, a bell with a very loud and beautiful voice. But instead of saying-- 'Supper's ready,' as any one would have expected, the bell was saying-- Ding dong dell! _I_ could tell Where you ought to go To break the spell. Then some one left off ringing the bell, so of course it couldn't say any more. So the two went on. A little way down the road a cow-bell tinkled behind the wet hedge of the lane. And it said--not, 'Here I am, quite safe,' as a cow-bell should, but-- Ding dong dell All will be well If you... Then the cow stopped walking and began to eat, so the bell couldn't say any more. The Prince and Princess went on, and you will not be surprised to hear that they heard the voices of five more bells that night. The next was a school-bell. The schoolmaster's little boy thought it would be fun to ring it very late at night--but his father came and caught him before the bell could say any more than-- Ding a dong dell You can break up the spell By taking... So that was no good. Then there were the three bells that were the sign over the door of an inn where people were happily dancing to a fiddle, because there was a wedding. These bells said: We are the Merry three Bells, bells, bells. You are two To undo Spells, spells, spells... Then the wind who was swinging the bells suddenly thought of an appointment he had made with a pine forest, to get up an entertaining imitation of sea-waves for the benefit of the forest nymphs who had never been to the seaside, and he went off--so, of course, the bells couldn't ring any more, and the Prince and Princess went on down the dark road. There was a cottage and the Princess pulled her veil closely over her face, for yellow light streamed from its open door--and it was a Wednesday. Inside a little boy was sitting on the floor--quite a little boy--he ought to have been in bed long before, and I don't know why he wasn't. And he was ringing a little tinkling bell that had dropped off a sleigh. And this little bell said: Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, I'm a little sleigh-bell, But I know what I know, and I'll tell, tell, tell. Find the Enchanter of the Ringing Well, He will show you how to break the spell, spell, spell. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, I'm a little sleigh-bell, But I know what I know.... And so on, over and over, again and again, because the little boy was quite contented to go on shaking his sleigh-bell for ever and ever. 'So now we know,' said the Prince, 'isn't that glorious?' 'Yes, very, but where's the Enchanter of the Ringing Well?' said the Princess doubtfully. 'Oh, I've got _his_ address in my pocket-book,' said the Prince. 'He's my god-father. He was one of the references I gave your father.' So the next night the Prince brought a horse to the garden, and he and the Princess mounted, and rode, and rode, and rode, and in the grey dawn they came to Wonderwood, and in the very middle of that the Magician's Palace stands. The Princess did not like to call on a perfect stranger so very early in the morning, so they decided to wait a little and look about them. The castle was very beautiful, decorated with a conventional design of bells and bell ropes, carved in white stone. Luxuriant plants of American bell-vine covered the drawbridge and portcullis. On a green lawn in front of the castle was a well, with a curious bell-shaped covering suspended over it. The lovers leaned over the mossy fern-grown wall of the well, and, looking down, they could see that the narrowness of the well only lasted for a few feet, and below that it spread into a cavern where water lay in a big pool. 'What cheer?' said a pleasant voice behind them. It was the Enchanter, an early riser, like Darwin was, and all other great scientific men. They told him what cheer. 'But,' Prince Bellamant ended, 'it's really no use. I can't keep under water more than two minutes however much I try. And my precious Belinda's not likely to find any silly old bell that doesn't ring, and can't ring, and never will ring, and was never made to ring.' 'Ho, ho,' laughed the Enchanter with the soft full laughter of old age. 'You've come to the right shop. Who told you?' 'The bells,' said Belinda. 'Ah, yes.' The old man frowned kindly upon them. 'You must be very fond of each other?' 'We are,' said the two together. 'Yes,' the Enchanter answered, 'because only true lovers can hear the true speech of the bells, and then only when they're together. Well, there's the bell!' He pointed to the covering of the well, went forward, and touched some lever or spring. The covering swung out from above the well, and hung over the grass grey with the dew of dawn. '_That?_' said Bellamant. 'That,' said his god-father. 'It doesn't ring, and it can't ring, and it never will ring, and it was never made to ring. Get into it.' 'Eh?' said Bellamant forgetting his manners. The old man took a hand of each and led them under the bell. They looked up. It had windows of thick glass, and high seats about four feet from its edge, running all round inside. 'Take your seats,' said the Enchanter. Bellamant lifted his Princess to the bench and leaped up beside her. 'Now,' said the old man, 'sit still, hold each other's hands, and for your lives don't move.' He went away, and next moment they felt the bell swing in the air. It swung round till once more it was over the well, and then it went down, down, down. 'I'm not afraid, with you,' said Belinda, because she was, dreadfully. Down went the bell. The glass windows leaped into light, looking through them the two could see blurred glories of lamps in the side of the cave, magic lamps, or perhaps merely electric, which, curiously enough have ceased to seem magic to us nowadays. Then with a plop the lower edge of the bell met the water, the water rose inside it, a little, then not any more. And the bell went down, down, and above their heads the green water lapped against the windows of the bell. 'You're under water--if we stay five minutes,' Belinda whispered. 'Yes, dear,' said Bellamant, and pulled out his ruby-studded chronometer. 'It's five minutes for you, but oh!' cried Belinda, 'it's _now_ for me. For I've found the bell that doesn't ring, and can't ring, and never will ring, and wasn't made to ring. Oh Bellamant dearest, it's Thursday. _Have_ I got my Sunday face?' She tore away her veil, and his eyes, fixed upon her face, could not leave it. 'Oh dream of all the world's delight,' he murmured, 'how beautiful you are.' Neither spoke again till a sudden little shock told them that the bell was moving up again. 'Nonsense,' said Bellamant, 'it's not five minutes.' But when they looked at the ruby-studded chronometer, it was nearly three-quarters of an hour. But then, of course, the well was enchanted! 'Magic? Nonsense,' said the old man when they hung about him with thanks and pretty words. 'It's only a diving-bell. My own invention.' * * * * * So they went home and were married, and the Princess did not wear a veil at the wedding. She said she had had enough veils to last her time. * * * * * And a year and a day after that a little daughter was born to them. 'Now sweetheart,' said King Bellamant--he was king now because the old king and queen had retired from the business, and were keeping pigs and hens in the country as they had always planned to do--'dear sweetheart and life's love, I am going to ring the bells with my own hands, to show how glad I am for you, and for the child, and for our good life together.' So he went out. It was very dark, because the baby princess had chosen to be born at midnight. The King went out to the belfry, that stood in the great, bare, quiet, moonlit square, and he opened the door. The furry-pussy bell-ropes, like huge caterpillars, hung on the first loft. The King began to climb the curly-wurly stone stair. And as he went up he heard a noise, the strangest noises, stamping and rustling and deep breathings. He stood still in the ringers' loft where the pussy-furry caterpillary bell-robes hung, and from the belfry above he heard the noise of strong fighting, and mixed with it the sound of voices angry and desperate, but with a noble note that thrilled the soul of the hearer like the sound of the trumpet in battle. And the voices cried: Down, down--away, away, When good has come ill may not stay, Out, out, into the night, The belfry bells are ours by right! And the words broke and joined again, like water when it flows against the piers of a bridge. 'Down, down----.' 'Ill may not stay----.' 'Good has come----.' 'Away, away----.' And the joining came like the sound of the river that flows free again. Out, out, into the night, The belfry bells are ours by right! And then, as King Bellamant stood there, thrilled and yet, as it were, turned to stone, by the magic of this conflict that raged above him, there came a sweeping rush down the belfry ladder. The lantern he carried showed him a rout of little, dark, evil people, clothed in dust and cobwebs, that scurried down the wooden steps gnashing their teeth and growling in the bitterness of a deserved defeat. They passed and there was silence. Then the King flew from rope to rope pulling lustily, and from above, the bells answered in their own clear beautiful voices--because the good Bell-folk had driven out the usurpers and had come to their own again. Ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-ring! Ring, bell! A little baby comes on earth to dwell. Ring, bell! Sound, bell! Sound! Swell! Ring for joy and wish her well! May her life tell No tale of ill-spell! Ring, bell! Joy, bell! Love, bell! Ring! * * * * * 'But I don't see,' said King Bellamant, when he had told Queen Belinda all about it, 'how it was that I came to hear them. The Enchanter of the Ringing Well said that only lovers could hear what the bells had to say, and then only when they were together.' 'You silly dear boy,' said Queen Belinda, cuddling the baby princess close under her chin, 'we _are_ lovers, aren't we? And you don't suppose I wasn't with you when you went to ring the bells for our baby--my heart and soul anyway--all of me that matters!' 'Yes,' said the King, 'of course you were. That accounts!' VIII JUSTNOWLAND 'Auntie! No, no, no! I will be good. Oh, I will!' The little weak voice came from the other side of the locked attic door. 'You should have thought of that before,' said the strong, sharp voice outside. 'I didn't mean to be naughty. I didn't, truly.' 'It's not what you mean, miss, it's what you do. I'll teach you not to mean, my lady.' The bitter irony of the last words dried the child's tears. 'Very well, then,' she screamed, 'I won't be good; I won't try to be good. I thought you'd like your nasty old garden weeded. I only did it to please you. How was I to know it was turnips? It looked just like weeds.' Then came a pause, then another shriek. 'Oh, Auntie, don't! Oh, let me out--let me out!' 'I'll not let you out till I've broken your spirit, my girl; you may rely on that.' The sharp voice stopped abruptly on a high note; determined feet in strong boots sounded on the stairs--fainter, fainter; a door slammed below with a dreadful definiteness, and Elsie was left alone, to wonder how soon her spirit would break--for at no less a price, it appeared, could freedom be bought. The outlook seemed hopeless. The martyrs and heroines, with whom Elsie usually identified herself, _their_ spirit had never been broken; not chains nor the rack nor the fiery stake itself had even weakened them. Imprisonment in an attic would to them have been luxury compared with the boiling oil and the smoking faggots and all the intimate cruelties of mysterious instruments of steel and leather, in cold dungeons, lit only by the dull flare of torches and the bright, watchful eyes of inquisitors. A month in the house of 'Auntie' self-styled, and really only an unrelated Mrs. Staines, paid to take care of the child, had held but one interest--Foxe's Book of Martyrs. It was a horrible book--the thick oleographs, their guarding sheets of tissue paper sticking to the prints like bandages to a wound.... Elsie knew all about wounds: she had had one herself. Only a scalded hand, it is true, but a wound is a wound, all the world over. It was a book that made you afraid to go to bed; but it was a book you could not help reading. And now it seemed as though it might at last help, and not merely sicken and terrify. But the help was frail, and broke almost instantly on the thought--'_They_ were brave because they were good: how can I be brave when there's nothing to be brave about except me not knowing the difference between turnips and weeds?' She sank down, a huddled black bunch on the bare attic floor, and called wildly to some one who could not answer her. Her frock was black because the one who always used to answer could not answer any more. And her father was in India, where you cannot answer, or even hear, your little girl, however much she cries in England. 'I won't cry,' said Elsie, sobbing as violently as ever. 'I can be brave, even if I'm not a saint but only a turnip-mistaker. I'll be a Bastille prisoner, and tame a mouse!' She dried her eyes, though the bosom of the black frock still heaved like the sea after a storm, and looked about for a mouse to tame. One could not begin too soon. But unfortunately there seemed to be no mouse at liberty just then. There were mouse-holes right enough, all round the wainscot, and in the broad, time-worn boards of the old floor. But never a mouse. 'Mouse, mouse!' Elsie called softly. 'Mousie, mousie, come and be tamed!' Not a mouse replied. The attic was perfectly empty and dreadfully clean. The other attic, Elsie knew, had lots of interesting things in it--old furniture and saddles, and sacks of seed potatoes,--but in this attic nothing. Not so much as a bit of string on the floor that one could make knots in, or twist round one's finger till it made the red ridges that are so interesting to look at afterwards; not even a piece of paper in the draughty, cold fireplace that one could make paper boats of, or prick letters in with a pin or the tag of one's shoe-laces. As she stooped to see whether under the grate some old match-box or bit of twig might have escaped the broom, she saw suddenly what she had wanted most--a mouse. It was lying on its side. She put out her hand very slowly and gently, and whispered in her softest tones, 'Wake up, Mousie, wake up, and come and be tamed.' But the mouse never moved. And when she took it in her hand it was cold. 'Oh,' she moaned, 'you're dead, and now I can never tame you'; and she sat on the cold hearth and cried again, with the dead mouse in her lap. 'Don't cry,' said somebody. 'I'll find you something to tame--if you really want it.' Elsie started and saw the head of a black bird peering at her through the square opening that leads to the chimney. The edges of him looked ragged and rainbow-coloured, but that was because she saw him through tears. To a tearless eye he was black and very smooth and sleek. 'Oh!' she said, and nothing more. 'Quite so,' said the bird politely. 'You are surprised to hear me speak, but your surprise will be, of course, much less when I tell you that I am really a Prime Minister condemned by an Enchanter to wear the form of a crow till ... till I can get rid of it.' 'Oh!' said Elsie. 'Yes, indeed,' said the Crow, and suddenly grew smaller till he could come comfortably through the square opening. He did this, perched on the top bar, and hopped to the floor. And there he got bigger and bigger, and bigger and bigger and bigger. Elsie had scrambled to her feet, and then a black little girl of eight and of the usual size stood face to face with a crow as big as a man, and no doubt as old. She found words then. 'Oh, don't!' she cried. 'Don't get any bigger. I can't bear it.' '_I_ can't _do_ it,' said the Crow kindly, 'so that's all right. I thought you'd better get used to seeing rather large crows before I take you to Crownowland. We are all life-size there.' 'But a crow's life-size isn't a man's life-size,' Elsie managed to say. 'Oh yes, it is--when it's an enchanted Crow,' the bird replied. 'That makes all the difference. Now you were saying you wanted to tame something. If you'll come with me to Crownowland I'll show you something worth taming.' 'Is Crow-what's-its-name a nice place?' Elsie asked cautiously. She was, somehow, not so very frightened now. 'Very,' said the Crow. 'Then perhaps I shall like it so much I sha'n't want to be taming things.' 'Oh yes, you will, when you know how much depends on it.' 'But I shouldn't like,' said Elsie, 'to go up the chimney. This isn't my best frock, of course, but still....' 'Quite so,' said the Crow. 'I only came that way for fun, and because I can fly. You shall go in by the chief gate of the kingdom, like a lady. Do come.' But Elsie still hesitated. 'What sort of thing is it you want me to tame?' she said doubtfully. The enormous crow hesitated. 'A--a sort of lizard,' it said at last. 'And if you can only tame it so that it will do what you tell it to, you'll save the whole kingdom, and we'll put up a statue to you; but not in the People's Park, unless they wish it,' the bird added mysteriously. 'I should like to save a kingdom,' said Elsie, 'and I like lizards. I've seen lots of them in India.' 'Then you'll come?' said the Crow. 'Yes. But how do we go?' 'There are only two doors out of this world into another,' said the Crow. 'I'll take you through the nearest. Allow me!' It put its wing round her so that her face nestled against the black softness of the under-wing feathers. It was warm and dark and sleepy there, and very comfortable. For a moment she seemed to swim easily in a soft sea of dreams. Then, with a little shock, she found herself standing on a marble terrace, looking out over a city far more beautiful and wonderful than she had ever seen or imagined. The great man-sized Crow was by her side. 'Now,' it said, pointing with the longest of its long black wing-feathers, 'you see this beautiful city?' 'Yes,' said Elsie, 'of course I do.' 'Well ... I hardly like to tell you the story,' said the Crow, 'but it's a long time ago, and I hope you won't think the worse of us--because we're really very sorry.' 'If you're really sorry,' said Elsie primly, 'of course it's all right.' 'Unfortunately it isn't,' said the Crow. 'You see the great square down there?' Elsie looked down on a square of green trees, broken a little towards the middle. 'Well, that's where the ... where _it_ is--what you've got to tame, you know.' 'But what did you do that was wrong?' 'We were unkind,' said the Crow slowly, 'and unjust, and ungenerous. We had servants and workpeople doing everything for us; we had nothing to do _but_ be kind. And we weren't.' 'Dear me,' said Elsie feebly. 'We had several warnings,' said the Crow. 'There was an old parchment, and it said just how you ought to behave and all that. But we didn't care what it said. I was Court Magician as well as Prime Minister, and I ought to have known better, but I didn't. We all wore frock-coats and high hats then,' he added sadly. 'Go on,' said Elsie, her eyes wandering from one beautiful building to another of the many that nestled among the trees of the city. 'And the old parchment said that if we didn't behave well our bodies would grow like our souls. But we didn't think so. And then all in a minute they _did_--and we were crows, and our bodies were as black as our souls. Our souls are quite white now,' it added reassuringly. 'But what was _the_ dreadful thing you'd done?' 'We'd been unkind to the people who worked for us--not given them enough food or clothes or fire, and at last we took away even their play. There was a big park that the people played in, and we built a wall round it and took it for ourselves, and the King was going to set a statue of himself up in the middle. And then before we could begin to enjoy it we were turned into big black crows; and the working people into big white pigeons--and _they_ can go where they like, but we have to stay here till we've tamed the.... We never can go into the park, until we've settled the thing that guards it. And that thing's a big big lizard--in fact ... it's a _dragon_!' '_Oh!_' cried Elsie; but she was not as frightened as the Crow seemed to expect. Because every now and then she had felt sure that she was really safe in her own bed, and that this was a dream. It was not a dream, but the belief that it was made her very brave, and she felt quite sure that she could settle a dragon, if necessary--a dream dragon, that is. And the rest of the time she thought about Foxe's Book of Martyrs and what a heroine she now had the chance to be. 'You want me to kill it?' she asked. 'Oh no! To tame it,' said the Crow. 'We've tried all sorts of means--long whips, like people tame horses with, and red-hot bars, such as lion-tamers use--and it's all been perfectly useless; and there the dragon lives, and will live till some one can tame him and get him to follow them like a tame fawn, and eat out of their hand.' 'What does the dragon _like_ to eat?' Elsie asked. '_Crows_,' replied the other in an uncomfortable whisper. 'At least _I've_ never known it eat anything else!' 'Am I to try to tame it _now_?' Elsie asked. 'Oh dear no,' said the Crow. 'We'll have a banquet in your honour, and you shall have tea with the Princess.' 'How do you know who is a princess and who's not, if you're all crows?' Elsie cried. 'How do you know one human being from another?' the Crow replied. 'Besides ... Come on to the Palace.' It led her along the terrace, and down some marble steps to a small arched door. 'The tradesmen's entrance,' it explained. 'Excuse it--the courtiers are crowding in by the front door.' Then through long corridors and passages they went, and at last into the throne-room. Many crows stood about in respectful attitudes. On the golden throne, leaning a gloomy head upon the first joint of his right wing, the Sovereign of Crownowland was musing dejectedly. A little girl of about Elsie's age sat on the steps of the throne nursing a handsome doll. 'Who is the little girl?' Elsie asked. '_Curtsey!_ That's the Princess,' the Prime Minister Crow whispered; and Elsie made the best curtsey she could think of in such a hurry. 'She wasn't wicked enough to be turned into a crow, or poor enough to be turned into a pigeon, so she remains a dear little girl, just as she always was.' The Princess dropped her doll and ran down the steps of the throne to meet Elsie. 'You dear!' she said. 'You've come to play with me, haven't you? All the little girls I used to play with have turned into crows, and their beaks are _so_ awkward at doll's tea-parties, and wings are no good to nurse dollies with. Let's have a doll's tea-party _now_, shall we?' 'May we?' Elsie looked at the Crow King, who nodded his head hopelessly. So, hand in hand, they went. I wonder whether you have ever had the run of a perfectly beautiful palace and a nursery absolutely crammed with all the toys you ever had or wanted to have: dolls' houses, dolls' china tea-sets, rocking-horses, bricks, nine-pins, paint-boxes, conjuring tricks, pewter dinner-services, and any number of dolls--all most agreeable and distinguished. If you have, you may perhaps be able faintly to imagine Elsie's happiness. And better than all the toys was the Princess Perdona--so gentle and kind and jolly, full of ideas for games, and surrounded by the means for playing them. Think of it, after that bare attic, with not even a bit of string to play with, and no company but the poor little dead mouse! There is no room in this story to tell you of all the games they had. I can only say that the time went by so quickly that they never noticed it going, and were amazed when the Crown nursemaid brought in the royal tea-tray. Tea was a beautiful meal--with pink iced cake in it. Now, all the time that these glorious games had been going on, and this magnificent tea, the wisest crows of Crownowland had been holding a council. They had decided that there was no time like the present, and that Elsie had better try to tame the dragon soon as late. 'But,' the King said, 'she mustn't run any risks. A guard of fifty stalwart crows must go with her, and if the dragon shows the least temper, fifty crows must throw themselves between her and danger, even if it cost fifty-one crow-lives. For I myself will lead that band. Who will volunteer?' Volunteers, to the number of some thousands, instantly stepped forward, and the Field Marshal selected fifty of the strongest crows. And then, in the pleasant pinkness of the sunset, Elsie was led out on to the palace steps, where the King made a speech and said what a heroine she was, and how like Joan of Arc. And the crows who had gathered from all parts of the town cheered madly. Did you ever hear crows cheering? It is a wonderful sound. Then Elsie got into a magnificent gilt coach, drawn by eight white horses, with a crow at the head of each horse. The Princess sat with her on the blue velvet cushions and held her hand. 'I _know_ you'll do it,' said she; 'you're so brave and clever, Elsie!' And Elsie felt braver than before, although now it did not seem so like a dream. But she thought of the martyrs, and held Perdona's hand very tight. At the gates of the green park the Princess kissed and hugged her new friend--her state crown, which she had put on in honour of the occasion, got pushed quite on one side in the warmth of her embrace--and Elsie stepped out of the carriage. There was a great crowd of crows round the park gates, and every one cheered and shouted 'Speech, speech!' Elsie got as far as 'Ladies and gentlemen--Crows, I mean,' and then she could not think of anything more, so she simply added, 'Please, I'm ready.' I wish you could have heard those crows cheer. But Elsie wouldn't have the escort. 'It's very kind,' she said, 'but the dragon only eats crows, and I'm not a crow, thank goodness--I mean I'm not a crow--and if I've got to be brave I'd like to _be_ brave, and none of you to get eaten. If only some one will come with me to show me the way and then run back as hard as he can when we get near the dragon. _Please!_' 'If only one goes _I_ shall be the one,' said the King. And he and Elsie went through the great gates side by side. She held the end of his wing, which was the nearest they could get to hand in hand. The crowd outside waited in breathless silence. Elsie and the King went on through the winding paths of the People's Park. And by the winding paths they came at last to the Dragon. He lay very peacefully on a great stone slab, his enormous bat-like wings spread out on the grass and his goldy-green scales glittering in the pretty pink sunset light. 'Go back!' said Elsie. 'No,' said the King. 'If you don't,' said Elsie, '_I_ won't go _on_. Seeing a crow might rouse him to fury, or give him an appetite, or something. Do--do go!' So he went, but not far. He hid behind a tree, and from its shelter he watched. Elsie drew a long breath. Her heart was thumping under the black frock. 'Suppose,' she thought, 'he takes me for a crow!' But she thought how yellow her hair was, and decided that the dragon would be certain to notice that. 'Quick march!' she said to herself, 'remember Joan of Arc,' and walked right up to the dragon. It never moved, but watched her suspiciously out of its bright green eyes. 'Dragon dear!' she said in her clear little voice. '_Eh?_' said the dragon, in tones of extreme astonishment. 'Dragon dear,' she repeated, 'do you like sugar?' '_Yes_,' said the dragon. 'Well, I've brought you some. You won't hurt me if I bring it to you?' The dragon violently shook its vast head. 'It's not much,' said Elsie, 'but I saved it at tea-time. Four lumps. Two for each of my mugs of milk.' She laid the sugar on the stone slab by the dragon's paw. It turned its head towards the sugar. The pinky sunset light fell on its face, and Elsie saw that it was weeping! Great fat tears as big as prize pears were coursing down its wrinkled cheeks. 'Oh, don't,' said Elsie, '_don't_ cry! Poor dragon, what's the matter?' 'Oh!' sobbed the dragon, 'I'm only so glad you've come. I--I've been so lonely. No one to love me. You _do_ love me, don't you?' 'I--I'm sure I shall when I know you better,' said Elsie kindly. 'Give me a kiss, dear,' said the dragon, sniffing. It is no joke to kiss a dragon. But Elsie did it--somewhere on the hard green wrinkles of its forehead. 'Oh, _thank_ you,' said the dragon, brushing away its tears with the tip of its tail. 'That breaks the charm. I can move now. And I've got back all my lost wisdom. Come along--I _do_ want my tea!' So, to the waiting crowd at the gate came Elsie and the dragon side by side. And at sight of the dragon, tamed, a great shout went up from the crowd; and at that shout each one in the crowd turned quickly to the next one--for it was the shout of men, and not of crows. Because at the first sight of the dragon, tamed, they had left off being crows for ever and ever, and once again were men. The King came running through the gates, his royal robes held high, so that he shouldn't trip over them, and he too was no longer a crow, but a man. And what did Elsie feel after being so brave? Well, she felt that she would like to cry, and also to laugh, and she felt that she loved not only the dragon, but every man, woman, and child in the whole world--even Mrs. Staines. She rode back to the Palace on the dragon's back. And as they went the crowd of citizens who had been crows met the crowd of citizens who had been pigeons, and these were poor men in poor clothes. It would have done you good to see how the ones who had been rich and crows ran to meet the ones who had been pigeons and poor. 'Come and stay at my house, brother,' they cried to those who had no homes. 'Brother, I have many coats, come and choose some,' they cried to the ragged. 'Come and feast with me!' they cried to all. And the rich and the poor went off arm in arm to feast and be glad that night, and the next day to work side by side. 'For,' said the King, speaking with his hand on the neck of the tamed dragon, 'our land has been called Crownowland. But we are no longer crows. We are men: and we will be Just men. And our country shall be called Justnowland for ever and ever. And for the future we shall not be rich and poor, but fellow-workers, and each will do his best for his brothers and his own city. And your King shall be your servant!' I don't know how they managed this, but no one seemed to think that there would be any difficulty about it when the King mentioned it; and when people really make up their minds to do anything, difficulties do most oddly disappear. Wonderful rejoicings there were. The city was hung with flags and lamps. Bands played--the performers a little out of practice, because, of course, crows can't play the flute or the violin or the trombone--but the effect was very gay indeed. Then came the time--it was quite dark--when the King rose up on his throne and spoke; and Elsie, among all her new friends, listened with them to his words. 'Our deliverer Elsie,' he said, 'was brought hither by the good magic of our Chief Mage and Prime Minister. She has removed the enchantment that held us; and the dragon, now that he has had his tea and recovered from the shock of being kindly treated, turns out to be the second strongest magician in the world,--and he will help us and advise us, so long as we remember that we are all brothers and fellow-workers. And now comes the time when our Elsie must return to her own place, or another go in her stead. But we cannot send back our heroine, our deliverer.' (_Long, loud cheering._) 'So one shall take her place. My daughter----' The end of the sentence was lost in shouts of admiration. But Elsie stood up, small and white in her black frock, and said, 'No thank you. Perdona would simply hate it. And she doesn't know my daddy. He'll fetch me away from Mrs. Staines some day....' The thought of her daddy, far away in India, of the loneliness of Willow Farm, where now it would be night in that horrible bare attic where the poor dead untameable little mouse was, nearly choked Elsie. It was so bright and light and good and kind here. And India was so far away. Her voice stayed a moment on a broken note. 'I--I....' Then she spoke firmly. 'Thank you all so much,' she said--'so very much. I do love you all, and it's lovely here. But, please, I'd like to go home now.' The Prime Minister, in a silence full of love and understanding, folded his dark cloak round her. * * * * * It was dark in the attic. Elsie crouching alone in the blackness by the fireplace where the dead mouse had been, put out her hand to touch its cold fur. * * * * * There were wheels on the gravel outside--the knocker swung strongly--'_Rat_-tat-tat-tat--_Tat_! _Tat_!' A pause--voices--hasty feet in strong boots sounded on the stairs, the key turned in the lock. The door opened a dazzling crack, then fully, to the glare of a lamp carried by Mrs. Staines. 'Come down at once. I'm sure you're good now,' she said, in a great hurry and in a new honeyed voice. But there were other feet on the stairs--a step that Elsie knew. 'Where's my girl?' the voice she knew cried cheerfully. But under the cheerfulness Elsie heard something other and dearer. 'Where's my girl?' After all, it takes less than a month to come from India to the house in England where one's heart is. Out of the bare attic and the darkness Elsie leapt into light, into arms she knew. 'Oh, my daddy, my daddy!' she cried. 'How glad I am I came back!' IX THE RELATED MUFF We had never seen our cousin Sidney till that Christmas Eve, and we didn't want to see him then, and we didn't like him when we did see him. He was just dumped down into the middle of us by mother, at a time when it would have been unkind to her to say how little we wanted him. We knew already that there wasn't to be any proper Christmas for us, because Aunt Ellie--the one who always used to send the necklaces and carved things from India, and remembered everybody's birthday--had come home ill. Very ill she was, at a hotel in London, and mother had to go to her, and, of course, father was away with his ship. And then after we had said good-bye to mother, and told her how sorry we were, we were left to ourselves, and told each other what a shame it was, and no presents or anything. And then mother came suddenly back in a cab, and we all shouted 'Hooray' when we saw the cab stop, and her get out of it. And then we saw she was getting something out of the cab, and our hearts leapt up like the man's in the piece of school poetry when he beheld a rainbow in the sky--because we thought she had remembered about the presents, and the thing she was getting out of the cab was _them_. Of course it was not--it was Sidney, very thin and yellow, and looking as sullen as a pig. We opened the front door. Mother didn't even come in. She just said, 'Here's your Cousin Sidney. Be nice to him and give him a good time, there's darlings. And don't forget he's your visitor, so be very extra nice to him.' I have sometimes thought it was the fault of what mother said about the visitor that made what did happen happen, but I am almost sure really that it was the fault of us, though I did not see it at the time, and even now I'm sure we didn't mean to be unkind. Quite the opposite. But the events of life are very confusing, especially when you try to think what made you do them, and whether you really meant to be naughty or not. Quite often it is not--but it turns out just the same. When the cab had carried mother away--Hilda said it was like a dragon carrying away a queen--we said, 'How do you do' to our Cousin Sidney, who replied, 'Quite well, thank you.' And then, curiously enough, no one could think of anything more to say. Then Rupert--which is me--remembered that about being a visitor, and he said: 'Won't you come into the drawing-room?' He did when he had taken off his gloves and overcoat. There was a fire in the drawing-room, because we had been going to have games there with mother, only the telegram came about Aunt Ellie. So we all sat on chairs in the drawing-room, and thought of nothing to say harder than ever. Hilda did say, 'How old are you?' but, of course, we knew the answer to that. It was ten. And Hugh said, 'Do you like England or India best?' And our cousin replied, 'India ever so much, thank you.' I never felt such a duffer. It was awful. With all the millions of interesting things that there are to say at other times, and I couldn't think of one. At last I said, 'Do you like games?' [Illustration: So we all sat on chairs in the drawing-room, and thought of nothing to say harder than ever.] And our cousin replied, 'Some games I do,' in a tone that made me sure that the games he liked wouldn't be our kind, but some wild Indian sort that we didn't know. I could see that the others were feeling just like me, and I knew we could not go on like this till tea-time. And yet I didn't see any other way to go on in. It was Hilda who cut the Gorgeous knot at last. She said: 'Hugh, let you and I go and make a lovely surprise for Rupert and Sidney.' And before I could think of any way of stopping them without being downright rude to our new cousin, they had fled the scene, just like any old conspirators. Rupert--me, I mean--was left alone with the stranger. I said: 'Is there anything you'd like to do?' And he said, 'No, thank you.' Then neither of us said anything for a bit--and I could hear the others shrieking with laughter in the hall. I said, 'I wonder what the surprise will be like.' He said, 'Yes, I wonder'; but I could tell from his tone that he did not wonder a bit. The others were yelling with laughter. Have you ever noticed how very amused people always are when you're not there? If you're in bed--ill, or in disgrace, or anything--it always sounds like far finer jokes than ever occur when you are not out of things. 'Do you like reading?' said I--who am Rupert--in the tones of despair. 'Yes,' said the cousin. 'Then take a book,' I said hastily, for I really could not stand it another second, 'and you just read till the surprise is ready. I think I ought to go and help the others. I'm the eldest, you know.' I did not wait--I suppose if you're ten you can choose a book for yourself--and I went. Hilda's idea was just Indians, but I thought a wigwam would be nice. So we made one with the hall table and the fur rugs off the floor. If everything had been different, and Aunt Ellie hadn't been ill, we were to have had turkey for dinner. The turkey's feathers were splendid for Indians, and the striped blankets off Hugh's and my beds, and all mother's beads. The hall is big like a room, and there was a fire. The afternoon passed like a beautiful dream. When Rupert had done his own feathering and blanketing, as well as brown paper moccasins, he helped the others. The tea-bell rang before we were quite dressed. We got Louisa to go up and tell our cousin that the surprise was ready, and we all got inside the wigwam. It was a very tight fit, with the feathers and the blankets. He came down the stairs very slowly, reading all the time, and when he got to the mat at the bottom of the stairs we burst forth in all our war-paint from the wigwam. It upset, because Hugh and Hilda stuck between the table's legs, and it fell on the stone floor with quite a loud noise. The wild Indians picked themselves up out of the ruins and did the finest war-dance I've ever seen in front of my cousin Sidney. He gave one little scream, and then sat down suddenly on the bottom steps. He leaned his head against the banisters and we thought he was admiring the war-dance, till Eliza, who had been laughing and making as much noise as any one, suddenly went up to him and shook him. 'Stop that noise,' she said to us, 'he's gone off into a dead faint.' He had. Of course we were very sorry and all that, but we never thought he'd be such a muff as to be frightened of three Red Indians and a wigwam that happened to upset. He was put to bed, and we had our teas. 'I wish we hadn't,' Hilda said. 'So do I,' said Hugh. But Rupert said, 'No one _could_ have expected a cousin of ours to be a chicken-hearted duffer. He's a muff. It's bad enough to have a muff in the house at all, and at Christmas time, too. But a related muff!' Still the affair had cast a gloom, and we were glad when it was bed-time. Next day was Christmas Day, and no presents, and nobody but the servants to wish a Merry Christmas to. Our cousin Sidney came down to breakfast, and as it was Christmas Day Rupert bent his proud spirit to own he was sorry about the Indians. Sidney said, 'It doesn't matter. I'm sorry too. Only I didn't expect it.' We suggested two or three games, such as Parlour Cricket, National Gallery, and Grab--but Sidney said he would rather read. So we said would he mind if we played out the Indian game which we had dropped, out of politeness, when he fainted. He said: 'I don't mind at all, now I know what it is you're up to. No, thank you, I'd rather read,' he added, in reply to Rupert's unselfish offer to dress him for the part of Sitting Bull. So he read _Treasure Island_, and we fought on the stairs with no casualties except the gas globes, and then we scalped all the dolls--putting on paper scalps first because Hilda wished it--and we scalped Eliza as she passed through the hall--hers was a white scalp with lacey stuff on it and long streamers. [Illustration: 'We scalped Eliza as she passed through the hall.'] And when it was beginning to get dark we thought of flying machines. Of course Sidney wouldn't play at that either, and Hilda and Hugh were contented with paper wings--there were some rolls of rather decent yellow and pink crinkled paper that mother had bought to make lamp shades of. They made wings of this, and then they played at fairies up and down the stairs, while Sidney sat at the bottom of the stairs and went on reading _Treasure Island_. But Rupert was determined to have a flying machine, with real flipper-flappery wings, like at Hendon. So he got two brass fire-guards out of the spare room and mother's bedroom, and covered them with newspapers fastened on with string. Then he got a tea-tray and fastened it on to himself with rug-straps, and then he slipped his arms in between the string and the fire-guards, and went to the top of the stairs and shouting, 'Look out below there! Beware Flying Machines!' he sat down suddenly on the tray, and tobogganed gloriously down the stairs, flapping his fire-guard wings. It was a great success, and felt more like flying than anything he ever played at. But Hilda had not had time to look out thoroughly, because he did not wait any time between his warning and his descent. So that she was still fluttering, in the character of Queen of the Butterfly Fairies, about half-way down the stairs when the flying machine, composed of the two guards, the tea-tray, and Rupert, started from the top of them, and she could only get out of the way by standing back close against the wall. Unluckily the place where she was, was also the place where the gas was burning in a little recess. You remember we had broken the globe when we were playing Indians. Now, of course, you know what happened, because you have read _Harriett and the Matches_, and all the rest of the stories that have been written to persuade children not to play with fire. No one was playing with fire that day, it is true, or doing anything really naughty at all--but however naughty we had been the thing that happened couldn't have been much worse. For the flying machine as it came rushing round the curve of the staircase banged against the legs of Hilda. She screamed and stumbled back. Her pink paper wings went into the gas that hadn't a globe. They flamed up, her hair frizzled, and her lace collar caught fire. Rupert could not do anything because he was held fast in his flying machine, and he and it were rolling painfully on the mat at the bottom of the stairs. [Illustration: Sidney threw the rug over her, and rolled her over and over.] Hilda screamed. I have since heard that a great yellow light fell on the pages of _Treasure Island_. Next moment _Treasure Island_ went spinning across the room. Sidney caught up the fur rug that was part of the wigwam, and as Hilda, screaming horribly, and with wings not of paper but of flames, rushed down the staircase, and stumbled over the flying machine, Sidney threw the rug over her, and rolled her over and over on the floor. 'Lie down!' he cried. 'Lie down! It's the only way.' But somehow people never will lie down when their clothes are on fire, any more than they will lie still in the water if they think they are drowning, and some one is trying to save them. It came to something very like a fight. Hilda fought and struggled. Rupert got out of his fire-guards and added himself and his tea-tray to the scrimmage. Hugh slid down to the knob of the banisters and sat there yelling. The servants came rushing in. But by that time the fire was out. And Sidney gasped out, 'It's all right. You aren't burned, Hilda, are you?' Hilda was much too frightened to know whether she was burnt or not, but Eliza looked her over, and it turned out that only her neck was a little scorched, and a good deal of her hair frizzled off short. Every one stood, rather breathless and pale, and every one's face was much dirtier than customary, except Hugh's, which he had, as usual, dirtied thoroughly quite early in the afternoon. Rupert felt perfectly awful, ashamed and proud and rather sick. 'You're a regular hero, Sidney,' he said--and it was not easy to say--'and yesterday I said you were a related muff. And I'm jolly sorry I did. Shake hands, won't you?' Sidney hesitated. 'Too proud?' Rupert's feelings were hurt, and I should not wonder if he spoke rather fiercely. 'It's--it's a little burnt, I think,' said Sidney, 'don't be angry,' and he held out the left hand. Rupert grasped it. 'I do beg your pardon,' he said, 'you _are_ a hero!' * * * * * Sidney's hand was bad for ever so long, but we were tremendous chums after that. It was when they'd done the hand up with scraped potato and salad oil--a great, big, fat, wet plaster of it--that I said to him: 'I don't care if you don't like games. Let's be pals.' And he said, 'I do like games, but I couldn't care about anything with mother so ill. I know you'll think I'm a muff, but I'm not really, only I do love her so.' And with that he began to cry, and I thumped him on the back, and told him exactly what a beast I knew I was, to comfort him. When Aunt Ellie was well again we kept Christmas on the 6th of January, which used to be Christmas Day in middle-aged times. Father came home before New Year, and he had a silver medal made, with a flame on one side, and on the other Sidney's name, and 'For Bravery.' If I had not been tied up in fire-guards and tea-trays perhaps I should have thought of the rug and got the medal. But I do not grudge it to Sidney. He deserved it. And he is not a muff. I see now that a person might very well be frightened at finding Indians in the hall of a strange house, especially if the person had just come from the kind of India where the Indians are quite a different sort, and much milder, with no feathers and wigwams and war-dances, but only dusky features and University Degrees. X THE AUNT AND AMABEL It is not pleasant to be a fish out of water. To be a cat in water is not what any one would desire. To be in a temper is uncomfortable. And no one can fully taste the joys of life if he is in a Little Lord Fauntleroy suit. But by far the most uncomfortable thing to be in is disgrace, sometimes amusingly called Coventry by the people who are not in it. We have all been there. It is a place where the heart sinks and aches, where familiar faces are clouded and changed, where any remark that one may tremblingly make is received with stony silence or with the assurance that nobody wants to talk to such a naughty child. If you are only in disgrace, and not in solitary confinement, you will creep about a house that is like the one you have had such jolly times in, and yet as unlike it as a bad dream is to a June morning. You will long to speak to people, and be afraid to speak. You will wonder whether there is anything you can do that will change things at all. You have said you are sorry, and that has changed nothing. You will wonder whether you are to stay for ever in this desolate place, outside all hope and love and fun and happiness. And though it has happened before, and has always, in the end, come to an end, you can never be quite sure that this time it is not going to last for ever. 'It _is_ going to last for ever,' said Amabel, who was eight. 'What shall I do? Oh whatever shall I do?' What she _had_ done ought to have formed the subject of her meditations. And she had done what had seemed to her all the time, and in fact still seemed, a self-sacrificing and noble act. She was staying with an aunt--measles or a new baby, or the painters in the house, I forget which, the cause of her banishment. And the aunt, who was really a great-aunt and quite old enough to know better, had been grumbling about her head gardener to a lady who called in blue spectacles and a beady bonnet with violet flowers in it. 'He hardly lets me have a plant for the table,' said the aunt, 'and that border in front of the breakfast-room window--it's just bare earth--and I expressly ordered chrysanthemums to be planted there. He thinks of nothing but his greenhouse.' The beady-violet-blue-glassed lady snorted, and said she didn't know what we were coming to, and she would have just half a cup, please, with not quite so much milk, thank you very much. Now what would you have done? Minded your own business most likely, and not got into trouble at all. Not so Amabel. Enthusiastically anxious to do something which should make the great-aunt see what a thoughtful, unselfish, little girl she really was (the aunt's opinion of her being at present quite otherwise), she got up very early in the morning and took the cutting-out scissors from the work-room table drawer and stole, 'like an errand of mercy,' she told herself, to the greenhouse where she busily snipped off every single flower she could find. MacFarlane was at his breakfast. Then with the points of the cutting-out scissors she made nice deep little holes in the flower-bed where the chrysanthemums ought to have been, and struck the flowers in--chrysanthemums, geraniums, primulas, orchids, and carnations. It would be a lovely surprise for Auntie. Then the aunt came down to breakfast and saw the lovely surprise. Amabel's world turned upside down and inside out suddenly and surprisingly, and there she was, in Coventry, and not even the housemaid would speak to her. Her great-uncle, whom she passed in the hall on her way to her own room, did indeed, as he smoothed his hat, murmur, 'Sent to Coventry, eh? Never mind, it'll soon be over,' and went off to the City banging the front door behind him. He meant well, but he did not understand. Amabel understood, or she thought she did, and knew in her miserable heart that she was sent to Coventry for the last time, and that this time she would stay there. 'I don't care,' she said quite untruly. 'I'll never try to be kind to any one again.' And that wasn't true either. She was to spend the whole day alone in the best bedroom, the one with the four-post bed and the red curtains and the large wardrobe with a looking-glass in it that you could see yourself in to the very ends of your strap-shoes. The first thing Amabel did was to look at herself in the glass. She was still sniffing and sobbing, and her eyes were swimming in tears, another one rolled down her nose as she looked--that was very interesting. Another rolled down, and that was the last, because as soon as you get interested in watching your tears they stop. Next she looked out of the window, and saw the decorated flower-bed, just as she had left it, very bright and beautiful. 'Well, it _does_ look nice,' she said. 'I don't care what they say.' Then she looked round the room for something to read; there was nothing. The old-fashioned best bedrooms never did have anything. Only on the large dressing-table, on the left-hand side of the oval swing-glass, was one book covered in red velvet, and on it, very twistily embroidered in yellow silk and mixed up with misleading leaves and squiggles were the letters, A.B.C. 'Perhaps it's a picture alphabet,' said Mabel, and was quite pleased, though of course she was much too old to care for alphabets. Only when one is very unhappy and very dull, anything is better than nothing. She opened the book. 'Why, it's only a time-table!' she said. 'I suppose it's for people when they want to go away, and Auntie puts it here in case they suddenly make up their minds to go, and feel that they can't wait another minute. I feel like that, only it's no good, and I expect other people do too.' She had learned how to use the dictionary, and this seemed to go the same way. She looked up the names of all the places she knew.--Brighton where she had once spent a month, Rugby where her brother was at school, and Home, which was Amberley--and she saw the times when the trains left for these places, and wished she could go by those trains. And once more she looked round the best bedroom which was her prison, and thought of the Bastille, and wished she had a toad to tame, like the poor Viscount, or a flower to watch growing, like Picciola, and she was very sorry for herself, and very angry with her aunt, and very grieved at the conduct of her parents--she had expected better things from them--and now they had left her in this dreadful place where no one loved her, and no one understood her. There seemed to be no place for toads or flowers in the best room, it was carpeted all over even in its least noticeable corners. It had everything a best room ought to have--and everything was of dark shining mahogany. The toilet-table had a set of red and gold glass things--a tray, candlesticks, a ring-stand, many little pots with lids, and two bottles with stoppers. When the stoppers were taken out they smelt very strange, something like very old scent, and something like cold cream also very old, and something like going to the dentist's. I do not know whether the scent of those bottles had anything to do with what happened. It certainly was a very extraordinary scent. Quite different from any perfume that I smell nowadays, but I remember that when I was a little girl I smelt it quite often. But then there are no best rooms now such as there used to be. The best rooms now are gay with chintz and mirrors, and there are always flowers and books, and little tables to put your teacup on, and sofas, and armchairs. And they smell of varnish and new furniture. When Amabel had sniffed at both bottles and looked in all the pots, which were quite clean and empty except for a pearl button and two pins in one of them, she took up the A.B.C. again to look for Whitby, where her godmother lived. And it was then that she saw the extraordinary name '_Whereyouwantogoto._' This was odd--but the name of the station from which it started was still more extraordinary, for it was not Euston or Cannon Street or Marylebone. The name of the station was '_Bigwardrobeinspareroom._' And below this name, really quite unusual for a station, Amabel read in small letters: 'Single fares strictly forbidden. Return tickets No Class Nuppence. Trains leave _Bigwardrobeinspareroom_ all the time.' And under that in still smaller letters-- '_You had better go now._' What would you have done? Rubbed your eyes and thought you were dreaming? Well, if you had, nothing more would have happened. Nothing ever does when you behave like that. Amabel was wiser. She went straight to the Big Wardrobe and turned its glass handle. 'I expect it's only shelves and people's best hats,' she said. But she only said it. People often say what they don't mean, so that if things turn out as they don't expect, they can say 'I told you so,' but this is most dishonest to one's self, and being dishonest to one's self is almost worse than being dishonest to other people. Amabel would never have done it if she had been herself. But she was out of herself with anger and unhappiness. Of course it wasn't hats. It was, most amazingly, a crystal cave, very oddly shaped like a railway station. It seemed to be lighted by stars, which is, of course, unusual in a booking office, and over the station clock was a full moon. The clock had no figures, only _Now_ in shining letters all round it, twelve times, and the _Nows_ touched, so the clock was bound to be always right. How different from the clock you go to school by! A porter in white satin hurried forward to take Amabel's luggage. Her luggage was the A.B.C. which she still held in her hand. 'Lots of time, Miss,' he said, grinning in a most friendly way, 'I _am_ glad you're going. You _will_ enjoy yourself! What a nice little girl you are!' This was cheering. Amabel smiled. At the pigeon-hole that tickets come out of, another person, also in white satin, was ready with a mother-of-pearl ticket, round, like a card counter. 'Here you are, Miss,' he said with the kindest smile, 'price nothing, and refreshments free all the way. It's a pleasure,' he added, 'to issue a ticket to a nice little lady like you.' The train was entirely of crystal, too, and the cushions were of white satin. There were little buttons such as you have for electric bells, and on them '_Whatyouwantoeat_,' '_Whatyouwantodrink_,' '_Whatyouwantoread_,' in silver letters. Amabel pressed all the buttons at once, and instantly felt obliged to blink. The blink over, she saw on the cushion by her side a silver tray with vanilla ice, boiled chicken and white sauce, almonds (blanched), peppermint creams, and mashed potatoes, and a long glass of lemonade--beside the tray was a book. It was Mrs. Ewing's _Bad-tempered Family_, and it was bound in white vellum. There is nothing more luxurious than eating while you read--unless it be reading while you eat. Amabel did both: they are not the same thing, as you will see if you think the matter over. And just as the last thrill of the last spoonful of ice died away, and the last full stop of the _Bad-tempered Family_ met Amabel's eye, the train stopped, and hundreds of railway officials in white velvet shouted, '_Whereyouwantogoto!_ Get out!' A velvety porter, who was somehow like a silkworm as well as like a wedding handkerchief sachet, opened the door. 'Now!' he said, 'come on out, Miss Amabel, unless you want to go to _Whereyoudon'twantogoto_.' She hurried out, on to an ivory platform. 'Not on the ivory, if you please,' said the porter, 'the white Axminster carpet--it's laid down expressly for you.' Amabel walked along it and saw ahead of her a crowd, all in white. 'What's all that?' she asked the friendly porter. 'It's the Mayor, dear Miss Amabel,' he said, 'with your address.' 'My address is The Old Cottage, Amberley,' she said, 'at least it used to be'--and found herself face to face with the Mayor. He was very like Uncle George, but he bowed low to her, which was not Uncle George's habit, and said: 'Welcome, dear little Amabel. Please accept this admiring address from the Mayor and burgesses and apprentices and all the rest of it, of Whereyouwantogoto.' The address was in silver letters, on white silk, and it said: 'Welcome, dear Amabel. We know you meant to please your aunt. It was very clever of you to think of putting the greenhouse flowers in the bare flower-bed. You couldn't be expected to know that you ought to ask leave before you touch other people's things.' 'Oh, but,' said Amabel quite confused. 'I did....' But the band struck up, and drowned her words. The instruments of the band were all of silver, and the bandsmen's clothes of white leather. The tune they played was 'Cheero!' Then Amabel found that she was taking part in a procession, hand in hand with the Mayor, and the band playing like mad all the time. The Mayor was dressed entirely in cloth of silver, and as they went along he kept saying, close to her ear. 'You have our sympathy, you have our sympathy,' till she felt quite giddy. There was a flower show--all the flowers were white. There was a concert--all the tunes were old ones. There was a play called _Put yourself in her place_. And there was a banquet, with Amabel in the place of honour. They drank her health in white wine whey, and then through the Crystal Hall of a thousand gleaming pillars, where thousands of guests, all in white, were met to do honour to Amabel, the shout went up--'Speech, speech!' I cannot explain to you what had been going on in Amabel's mind. Perhaps you know. Whatever it was it began like a very tiny butterfly in a box, that could not keep quiet, but fluttered, and fluttered, and fluttered. And when the Mayor rose and said: 'Dear Amabel, you whom we all love and understand; dear Amabel, you who were so unjustly punished for trying to give pleasure to an unresponsive aunt; poor, ill-used, ill-treated, innocent Amabel; blameless, suffering Amabel, we await your words,' that fluttering, tiresome butterfly-thing inside her seemed suddenly to swell to the size and strength of a fluttering albatross, and Amabel got up from her seat of honour on the throne of ivory and silver and pearl, and said, choking a little, and extremely red about the ears-- 'Ladies and gentlemen, I don't want to make a speech, I just want to say, "Thank you," and to say--to say--to say....' She stopped, and all the white crowd cheered. 'To say,' she went on as the cheers died down, 'that I wasn't blameless, and innocent, and all those nice things. I ought to have thought. And they _were_ Auntie's flowers. But I did want to please her. It's all so mixed. Oh, I wish Auntie was here!' And instantly Auntie _was_ there, very tall and quite nice-looking, in a white velvet dress and an ermine cloak. 'Speech,' cried the crowd. 'Speech from Auntie!' Auntie stood on the step of the throne beside Amabel, and said: 'I think, perhaps, I was hasty. And I think Amabel meant to please me. But all the flowers that were meant for the winter ... well--I was annoyed. I'm sorry.' 'Oh, Auntie, so am I--so am I,' cried Amabel, and the two began to hug each other on the ivory step, while the crowd cheered like mad, and the band struck up that well-known air, 'If you only understood!' 'Oh, Auntie,' said Amabel among hugs, 'This is such a lovely place, come and see everything, we may, mayn't we?' she asked the Mayor. 'The place is yours,' he said, 'and now you can see many things that you couldn't see before. We are The People who Understand. And now you are one of Us. And your aunt is another.' I must not tell you all that they saw because these things are secrets only known to The People who Understand, and perhaps you do not yet belong to that happy nation. And if you do, you will know without my telling you. And when it grew late, and the stars were drawn down, somehow, to hang among the trees, Amabel fell asleep in her aunt's arms beside a white foaming fountain on a marble terrace, where white peacocks came to drink. * * * * * She awoke on the big bed in the spare room, but her aunt's arms were still round her. 'Amabel,' she was saying, 'Amabel!' 'Oh, Auntie,' said Amabel sleepily, 'I am so sorry. It _was_ stupid of me. And I did mean to please you.' 'It _was_ stupid of you,' said the aunt, 'but I am sure you meant to please me. Come down to supper.' And Amabel has a confused recollection of her aunt's saying that she was sorry, adding, 'Poor little Amabel.' If the aunt really did say it, it was fine of her. And Amabel is quite sure that she did say it. * * * * * Amabel and her great-aunt are now the best of friends. But neither of them has ever spoken to the other of the beautiful city called '_Whereyouwantogoto._' Amabel is too shy to be the first to mention it, and no doubt the aunt has her own reasons for not broaching the subject. But of course they both know that they have been there together, and it is easy to get on with people when you and they alike belong to the _Peoplewhounderstand_. * * * * * If you look in the A.B.C. that your people have you will not find '_Whereyouwantogoto._' It is only in the red velvet bound copy that Amabel found in her aunt's best bedroom. XI KENNETH AND THE CARP Kenneth's cousins had often stayed with him, but he had never till now stayed with them. And you know how different everything is when you are in your own house. You are certain exactly what games the grown-ups dislike and what games they will not notice; also what sort of mischief is looked over and what sort is not. And, being accustomed to your own sort of grown-ups, you can always be pretty sure when you are likely to catch it. Whereas strange houses are, in this matter of catching it, full of the most unpleasing surprises. You know all this. But Kenneth did not. And still less did he know what were the sort of things which, in his cousins' house, led to disapproval, punishment, scoldings; in short, to catching it. So that that business of cousin Ethel's jewel-case, which is where this story ought to begin, was really not Kenneth's fault at all. Though for a time.... But I am getting on too fast. Kenneth's cousins were four,--Conrad, Alison, George, and Ethel. The three first were natural sort of cousins somewhere near his own age, but Ethel was hardly like a cousin at all, more like an aunt. Because she was grown-up. She wore long dresses and all her hair on the top of her head, a mass of combs and hairpins; in fact she had just had her twenty-first birthday with iced cakes and a party and lots of presents, most of them jewelry. And that brings me again to that affair of the jewel-case, or would bring me if I were not determined to tell things in their proper order, which is the first duty of a story-teller. Kenneth's home was in Kent, a wooden house among cherry orchards, and the nearest river five miles away. That was why he looked forward in such a very extra and excited way to his visit to his cousins. Their house was very old, red brick with ivy all over it. It had a secret staircase, only the secret was not kept any longer, and the housemaids carried pails and brooms up and down the staircase. And the house was surrounded by a real deep moat, with clear water in it, and long weeds and water-lilies and fish--the gold and the silver and the everyday kinds. [Illustration: Early next morning he tried to catch fish with several pieces of string knotted together and a hairpin.] The first evening of Kenneth's visit passed uneventfully. His bedroom window looked over the moat, and early next morning he tried to catch fish with several pieces of string knotted together and a hairpin kindly lent to him by the parlourmaid. He did not catch any fish, partly because he baited the hairpin with brown windsor soap, and it washed off. 'Besides, fish hate soap,' Conrad told him, 'and that hook of yours would do for a whale perhaps. Only we don't stock our moat with whales. But I'll ask father to lend you his rod, it's a spiffing one, much jollier than ours. And I won't tell the kids because they'd never let it down on you. Fishing with a hairpin!' 'Thank you very much,' said Kenneth, feeling that his cousin was a man and a brother. The kids were only two or three years younger than he was, but that is a great deal when you are the elder; and besides, one of the kids was a girl. 'Alison's a bit of a sneak,' Conrad used to say when anger overcome politeness and brotherly feeling. Afterwards, when the anger was gone and the other things left, he would say, 'You see she went to a beastly school for a bit, at Brighton, for her health. And father says they must have bullied her. All girls are not like it, I believe.' But her sneakish qualities, if they really existed, were generally hidden, and she was very clever at thinking of new games, and very kind if you got into a row over anything. George was eight and stout. He was not a sneak, but concealment was foreign to his nature, so he never could keep a secret unless he forgot it. Which fortunately happened quite often. The uncle very amiably lent Kenneth his fishing-rod, and provided real bait in the most thoughtful and generous manner. And the four children fished all the morning and all the afternoon. Conrad caught two roach and an eel. George caught nothing, and nothing was what the other two caught. But it was glorious sport. And the next day there was to be a picnic. Life to Kenneth seemed full of new and delicious excitement. In the evening the aunt and the uncle went out to dinner, and Ethel, in her grown-up way, went with them, very grand in a blue silk dress and turquoises. So the children were left to themselves. You know the empty hush which settles down on a house when the grown-ups have gone out to dinner and you have the whole evening to do what you like in. The children stood in the hall a moment after the carriage wheels had died away with the scrunching swish that the carriage wheels always made as they turned the corner by the lodge, where the gravel was extra thick and soft owing to the droppings from the trees. From the kitchen came the voices of the servants, laughing and talking. 'It's two hours at least to bedtime,' said Alison. 'What shall we do?' Alison always began by saying 'What shall we do?' and always ended by deciding what should be done. 'You all say what you think,' she went on, 'and then we'll vote about it. You first, Ken, because you're the visitor.' 'Fishing,' said Kenneth, because it was the only thing he could think of. 'Make toffee,' said Conrad. 'Build a great big house with all the bricks,' said George. 'We can't make toffee,' Alison explained gently but firmly, 'because you know what the pan was like last time, and cook said, "never again, not much." And it's no good building houses, Georgie, when you could be out of doors. And fishing's simply rotten when we've been at it all day. I've thought of something.' So of course all the others said, 'What?' 'We'll have a pageant, a river pageant, on the moat. We'll all dress up and hang Chinese lanterns in the trees. I'll be the Sunflower lady that the Troubadour came all across the sea, because he loved her so, for, and one of you can be the Troubadour, and the others can be sailors or anything you like.' 'I shall be the Troubadour,' said Conrad with decision. 'I think you ought to let Kenneth because he's the visitor,' said George, who would have liked to be it immensely himself, or anyhow did not see why Conrad should be a troubadour if _he_ couldn't. Conrad said what manners required, which was: 'Oh! all right, I don't care about being the beastly Troubadour.' 'You might be the Princess's brother,' Alison suggested. 'Not me,' said Conrad scornfully, 'I'll be the captain of the ship.' 'In a turban the brother would be, with the Benares cloak, and the Persian dagger out of the cabinet in the drawing-room,' Alison went on unmoved. 'I'll be that,' said George. 'No, you won't, I shall, so there,' said Conrad. 'You can be the captain of the ship.' (But in the end both boys were captains, because that meant being on the boat, whereas being the Princess's brother, however turbanned, only meant standing on the bank. And there is no rule to prevent captains wearing turbans and Persian daggers, except in the Navy where, of course, it is not done.) So then they all tore up to the attic where the dressing-up trunk was, and pulled out all the dressing-up things on to the floor. And all the time they were dressing, Alison was telling the others what they were to say and do. The Princess wore a white satin skirt and a red flannel blouse and a veil formed of several motor scarves of various colours. Also a wreath of pink roses off one of Ethel's old hats, and a pair of pink satin slippers with sparkly buckles. Kenneth wore a blue silk dressing-jacket and a yellow sash, a lace collar, and a towel turban. And the others divided between them an eastern dressing-gown, once the property of their grandfather, a black spangled scarf, very holey, a pair of red and white football stockings, a Chinese coat, and two old muslin curtains, which, rolled up, made turbans of enormous size and fierceness. On the landing outside cousin Ethel's open door Alison paused and said, 'I say!' 'Oh! come on,' said Conrad, 'we haven't fixed the Chinese lanterns yet, and it's getting dark.' 'You go on,' said Alison, 'I've just thought of something.' The children were allowed to play in the boat so long as they didn't loose it from its moorings. The painter was extremely long, and quite the effect of coming home from a long voyage was produced when the three boys pushed the boat out as far as it would go among the boughs of the beech-tree which overhung the water, and then reappeared in the circle of red and yellow light thrown by the Chinese lanterns. 'What ho! ashore there!' shouted the captain. 'What ho!' said a voice from the shore which, Alison explained, was disguised. 'We be three poor mariners,' said Conrad by a happy effort of memory, 'just newly come to shore. We seek news of the Princess of Tripoli.' 'She's in her palace,' said the disguised voice, 'wait a minute, and I'll tell her you're here. But what do you want her for? ("A poor minstrel of France") go on, Con.' 'A poor minstrel of France,' said Conrad, '(all right! I remember,) who has heard of the Princess's beauty has come to lay, to lay----' 'His heart,' said Alison. [Illustration: A radiant vision stepped into the circle of light.] 'All right, I know. His heart at her something or other feet.' 'Pretty feet,' said Alison. 'I go to tell the Princess.' Next moment from the shadows on the bank a radiant vision stepped into the circle of light, crying-- 'Oh! Rudel, is it indeed thou? Thou art come at last. O welcome to the arms of the Princess!' 'What do I do now?' whispered Rudel (who was Kenneth) in the boat, and at the same moment Conrad and George said, as with one voice-- 'My hat! Alison, won't you catch it!' For at the end of the Princess's speech she had thrown back her veils and revealed a blaze of splendour. She wore several necklaces, one of seed pearls, one of topazes, and one of Australian shells, besides a string of amber and one of coral. And the front of the red flannel blouse was studded with brooches, in one at least of which diamonds gleamed. Each arm had one or two bracelets and on her clenched hands glittered as many rings as any Princess could wish to wear. So her brothers had some excuse for saying, 'You'll catch it.' 'No, I sha'n't. It's my look out, anyhow. Do shut up,' said the Princess, stamping her foot. 'Now then, Ken, go ahead. Ken, you say, "Oh Lady, I faint with rapture!"' 'I faint with rapture,' said Kenneth stolidly. 'Now I land, don't I?' He landed and stared at the jewelled hand the Princess held out. 'At last, at last,' she said, 'but you ought to say that, Ken. I say, I think I'd better be an eloping Princess, and then I can come in the boat. Rudel dies really, but that's so dull. Lead me to your ship, oh noble stranger! for you have won the Princess, and with you I will live and die. Give me your hand, can't you, silly, and do mind my train.' So Kenneth led her to the boat, and with some difficulty, for the satin train got between her feet, she managed to flounder into the punt. 'Now you stand and bow,' she said. 'Fair Rudel, with this ring I thee wed,' she pressed a large amethyst ring into his hand, 'remember that the Princess of Tripoli is yours for ever. Now let's sing _Integer Vitae_ because it's Latin.' So they sat in the boat and sang. And presently the servants came out to listen and admire, and at the sound of the servants' approach the Princess veiled her shining splendour. 'It's prettier than wot the Coventry pageant was, so it is,' said the cook, 'but it's long past your bed times. So come on out of that there dangerous boat, there's dears.' So then the children went to bed. And when the house was quiet again, Alison slipped down and put back Ethel's jewelry, fitting the things into their cases and boxes as correctly as she could. 'Ethel won't notice,' she thought, but of course Ethel did. So that next day each child was asked separately by Ethel's mother who had been playing with Ethel's jewelry. And Conrad and George said they would rather not say. This was a form they always used in that family when that sort of question was asked, and it meant, 'It wasn't me, and I don't want to sneak.' And when it came to Alison's turn, she found to her surprise and horror that instead of saying, 'I played with them,' she had said, 'I would rather not say.' Of course the mother thought that it was Kenneth who had had the jewels to play with. So when it came to his turn he was not asked the same question as the others, but his aunt said: 'Kenneth, you are a very naughty little boy to take your cousin Ethel's jewelry to play with.' 'I didn't,' said Kenneth. 'Hush! hush!' said the aunt, 'do not make your fault worse by untruthfulness. And what have you done with the amethyst ring?' Kenneth was just going to say that he had given it back to Alison, when he saw that this would be sneakish. So he said, getting hot to the ears, 'You don't suppose I've stolen your beastly ring, do you, Auntie?' 'Don't you dare to speak to me like that,' the aunt very naturally replied. 'No, Kenneth, I do not think you would steal, but the ring is missing and it must be found.' Kenneth was furious and frightened. He stood looking down and kicking the leg of the chair. 'You had better look for it. You will have plenty of time, because I shall not allow you to go to the picnic with the others. The mere taking of the jewelry was wrong, but if you had owned your fault and asked Ethel's pardon, I should have overlooked it. But you have told me an untruth and you have lost the ring. You are a very wicked child, and it will make your dear mother very unhappy when she hears of it. That her boy should be a liar. It is worse than being a thief!' At this Kenneth's fortitude gave way, and he lost his head. 'Oh, don't,' he said, 'I didn't. I didn't. I didn't. Oh! don't tell mother I'm a thief and a liar. Oh! Aunt Effie, please, _please_ don't.' And with that he began to cry. Any doubts Aunt Effie might have had were settled by this outbreak. It was now quite plain to her that Kenneth had really intended to keep the ring. 'You will remain in your room till the picnic party has started,' the aunt went on, 'and then you must find the ring. Remember I expect it to be found when I return. And I hope you will be in a better frame of mind and really sorry for having been so wicked.' 'Mayn't I see Alison?' was all he found to say. And the answer was, 'Certainly not. I cannot allow you to associate with your cousins. You are not fit to be with honest, truthful children.' So they all went to the picnic, and Kenneth was left alone. When they had gone he crept down and wandered furtively through the empty rooms, ashamed to face the servants, and feeling almost as wicked as though he had really done something wrong. He thought about it all, over and over again, and the more he thought the more certain he was that he _had_ handed back the ring to Alison last night when the voices of the servants were first heard from the dark lawn. But what was the use of saying so? No one would believe him, and it would be sneaking anyhow. Besides, perhaps he _hadn't_ handed it back to her. Or rather, perhaps he had handed it and she hadn't taken it. Perhaps it had slipped into the boat. He would go and see. But he did not find it in the boat, though he turned up the carpet and even took up the boards to look. And then an extremely miserable little boy began to search for an amethyst ring in all sorts of impossible places, indoors and out. You know the hopeless way in which you look for things that you know perfectly well you will never find, the borrowed penknife that you dropped in the woods, for instance, or the week's pocket-money which slipped through that hole in your pocket as you went to the village to spend it. The servants gave him his meals and told him to cheer up. But cheering up and Kenneth were, for the time, strangers. People in books never can eat when they are in trouble, but I have noticed myself that if the trouble has gone on for some hours, eating is really rather a comfort. You don't enjoy eating so much as usual, perhaps, but at any rate it is something to do, and takes the edge off your sorrow for a short time. And cook was sorry for Kenneth and sent him up a very nice dinner and a very nice tea. Roast chicken and gooseberry pie the dinner was, and for tea there was cake with almond icing on it. The sun was very low when he went back wearily to have one more look in the boat for that detestable amethyst ring. Of course it was not there. And the picnic party would be home soon. And he really did not know what his aunt would do to him. 'Shut me up in a dark cupboard, perhaps,' he thought gloomily, 'or put me to bed all day to-morrow. Or give me lines to write out, thousands, and thousands, and thousands, and thousands, and thousands, of them.' The boat, set in motion by his stepping into it, swung out to the full length of its rope. The sun was shining almost level across the water. It was a very still evening, and the reflections of the trees and of the house were as distinct as the house and the trees themselves. And the water was unusually clear. He could see the fish swimming about, and the sand and pebbles at the bottom of the moat. How clear and quiet it looked down there, and what fun the fishes seemed to be having. 'I wish I was a fish,' said Kenneth. 'Nobody punishes _them_ for taking rings they _didn't_ take.' And then suddenly he saw the ring itself, lying calm, and quiet, and round, and shining, on the smooth sand at the bottom of the moat. He reached for the boat-hook and leaned over the edge of the boat trying to get up the ring on the boat-hook's point. Then there was a splash. 'Good gracious! I wonder what that is?' said cook in the kitchen, and dropped the saucepan with the welsh rabbit in it which she had just made for kitchen supper. Kenneth had leaned out too far over the edge of the boat, the boat had suddenly decided to go the other way, and Kenneth had fallen into the water. The first thing he felt was delicious coolness, the second that his clothes had gone, and the next thing he noticed was that he was swimming quite easily and comfortably under water, and that he had no trouble with his breathing, such as people who tell you not to fall into water seem to expect you to have. Also he could see quite well, which he had never been able to do under water before. 'I can't think,' he said to himself, 'why people make so much fuss about your falling into the water. I sha'n't be in a hurry to get out. I'll swim right round the moat while I'm about it.' [Illustration: There was a splash.] It was a very much longer swim than he expected, and as he swam he noticed one or two things that struck him as rather odd. One was that he couldn't see his hands. And another was that he couldn't feel his feet. And he met some enormous fishes, like great cod or halibut, they seemed. He had had no idea that there were fresh-water fish of that size. They towered above him more like men-o'-war than fish, and he was rather glad to get past them. There were numbers of smaller fishes, some about his own size, he thought. They seemed to be enjoying themselves extremely, and he admired the clever quickness with which they darted out of the way of the great hulking fish. And then suddenly he ran into something hard and very solid, and a voice above him said crossly: 'Now then, who are you a-shoving of? Can't you keep your eyes open, and keep your nose out of gentlemen's shirt fronts?' 'I beg your pardon,' said Kenneth, trying to rub his nose, and not being able to. 'I didn't know people could talk under water,' he added very much astonished to find that talking under water was as easy to him as swimming there. 'Fish can talk under water, of course,' said the voice, 'if they didn't, they'd never talk at all: they certainly can't talk _out_ of it.' 'But I'm not a fish,' said Kenneth, and felt himself grin at the absurd idea. 'Yes, you are,' said the voice, 'of course you're a fish,' and Kenneth, with a shiver of certainty, felt that the voice spoke the truth. He _was_ a fish. He must have become a fish at the very moment when he fell into the water. That accounted for his not being able to see his hands or feel his feet. Because of course his hands were fins and his feet were a tail. 'Who are you?' he asked the voice, and his own voice trembled. 'I'm the Doyen Carp,' said the voice. 'You must be a very new fish indeed or you'd know that. Come up, and let's have a look at you.' Kenneth came up and found himself face to face with an enormous fish who had round staring eyes and a mouth that opened and shut continually. It opened square like a kit-bag, and it shut with an extremely sour and severe expression like that of an offended rhinoceros. 'Yes,' said the Carp, 'you _are_ a new fish. Who put you in?' 'I fell in,' said Kenneth, 'out of the boat, but I'm not a fish at all, really I'm not. I'm a boy, but I don't suppose you'll believe me.' 'Why shouldn't I believe you?' asked the Carp wagging a slow fin. 'Nobody tells untruths under water.' And if you come to think of it, no one ever does. 'Tell me your true story,' said the Carp very lazily. And Kenneth told it. 'Ah! these humans!' said the Carp when he had done. 'Always in such a hurry to think the worst of everybody!' He opened his mouth squarely and shut it contemptuously. 'You're jolly lucky, you are. Not one boy in a million turns into a fish, let me tell you.' 'Do you mean that I've got to _go on_ being a fish?' Kenneth asked. 'Of course you'll go on being a fish as long as you stop in the water. You couldn't live here, you know, if you weren't.' 'I might if I was an eel,' said Kenneth, and thought himself very clever. 'Well, _be_ an eel then,' said the Carp, and swam away sneering and stately. Kenneth had to swim his hardest to catch up. 'Then if I get out of the water, shall I be a boy again?' he asked panting. 'Of course, silly,' said the Carp, 'only you can't get out.' 'Oh! can't I?' said Kenneth the fish, whisked his tail and swam off. He went straight back to the amethyst ring, picked it up in his mouth, and swam into the shallows at the edge of the moat. Then he tried to climb up the slanting mud and on to the grassy bank, but the grass hurt his fins horribly, and when he put his nose out of the water, the air stifled him, and he was glad to slip back again. Then he tried to jump out of the water, but he could only jump straight up into the air, so of course he fell straight down again into the water. He began to be afraid, and the thought that perhaps he was doomed to remain for ever a fish was indeed a terrible one. He wanted to cry, but the tears would not come out of his eyes. Perhaps there was no room for any more water in the moat. The smaller fishes called to him in a friendly jolly way to come and play with them--they were having a quite exciting game of follow-my-leader among some enormous water-lily stalks that looked like trunks of great trees. But Kenneth had no heart for games just then. He swam miserably round the moat looking for the old Carp, his only acquaintance in this strange wet world. And at last, pushing through a thick tangle of water weeds he found the great fish. 'Now then,' said the Carp testily, 'haven't you any better manners than to come tearing a gentleman's bed-curtains like that?' 'I beg your pardon,' said Kenneth Fish, 'but I know how clever you are. Do please help me.' 'What do you want now?' said the Carp, and spoke a little less crossly. 'I want to get out. I want to go and be a boy again.' 'But you must have said you wanted to be a fish.' 'I didn't mean it, if I did.' 'You shouldn't say what you don't mean.' 'I'll try not to again,' said Kenneth humbly, 'but how can I get out?' 'There's only one way,' said the Carp rolling his vast body over in his watery bed, 'and a jolly unpleasant way it is. Far better stay here and be a good little fish. On the honour of a gentleman that's the best thing you can do.' 'I want to get out,' said Kenneth again. 'Well then, the only way is ... you know we always teach the young fish to look out for hooks so that they may avoid them. _You_ must look out for a hook and _take it_. Let them catch you. On a hook.' The Carp shuddered and went on solemnly, 'Have you strength? Have you patience? Have you high courage and determination? You will want them all. Have you all these?' 'I don't know what I've got,' said poor Kenneth, 'except that I've got a tail and fins, and I don't know a hook when I see it. Won't you come with me? Oh! dear Mr. Doyen Carp, _do_ come and show me a hook.' 'It will hurt you,' said the Carp, 'very much indeed. You take a gentleman's word for it.' 'I know,' said Kenneth, 'you needn't rub it in.' The Carp rolled heavily out of his bed. 'Come on then,' he said, 'I don't admire your taste, but if you _want_ a hook, well, the gardener's boy is fishing in the cool of the evening. Come on.' He led the way with a steady stately movement. 'I want to take the ring with me,' said Kenneth, 'but I can't get hold of it. Do you think you could put it on my fin with your snout?' 'My what!' shouted the old Carp indignantly and stopped dead. 'Your nose, I meant,' said Kenneth. 'Oh! please don't be angry. It would be so kind of you if you would. Shove the ring on, I mean.' 'That will hurt too,' said the Carp, and Kenneth thought he seemed not altogether sorry that it should. It did hurt very much indeed. The ring was hard and heavy, and somehow Kenneth's fin would not fold up small enough for the ring to slip over it, and the Carp's big mouth was rather clumsy at the work. But at last it was done. And then they set out in search of a hook for Kenneth to be caught with. 'I wish we could find one! I wish we could!' Kenneth Fish kept saying. 'You're just looking for trouble,' said the Carp. 'Well, here you are!' Above them in the clear water hung a delicious-looking worm. Kenneth Boy did not like worms any better than you do, but to Kenneth Fish that worm looked most tempting and delightful. 'Just wait a sec.,' he said, 'till I get that worm.' 'You little silly,' said the Carp, '_that's the hook_. Take it.' 'Wait a sec.,' said Kenneth again. His courage was beginning to ooze out of his fin tips, and a shiver ran down him from gills to tail. 'If you once begin to think about a hook you never take it,' said the Carp. '_Never?_' said Kenneth 'Then ... oh! good-bye!' he cried desperately, and snapped at the worm. A sharp pain ran through his head and he felt himself drawn up into the air, that stifling, choking, husky, thick stuff in which fish cannot breathe. And as he swung in the air the dreadful thought came to him, 'Suppose I don't turn into a boy again? Suppose I keep being a fish?' And then he wished he hadn't. But it was too late to wish that. Everything grew quite dark, only inside his head there seemed to be a light. There was a wild, rushing, buzzing noise, then something in his head seemed to break and he knew no more. * * * * * When presently he knew things again, he was lying on something hard. Was he Kenneth Fish lying on a stone at the bottom of the moat, or Kenneth Boy lying somewhere out of the water? His breathing was all right, so he wasn't a fish out of water or a boy under it. 'He's coming to,' said a voice. The Carp's he thought it was. But next moment he knew it to be the voice of his aunt, and he moved his hand and felt grass in it. He opened his eyes and saw above him the soft gray of the evening sky with a star or two. 'Here's the ring, Aunt,' he said. * * * * * [Illustration: 'Oh, good-bye!' he cried desperately, and snapped at the worm.] The cook had heard a splash and had run out just as the picnic party arrived at the front door. They had all rushed to the moat, and the uncle had pulled Kenneth out with the boat-hook. He had not been in the water more than three minutes, they said. But Kenneth knew better. They carried him in, very wet he was, and laid him on the breakfast-room sofa, where the aunt with hurried thoughtfulness had spread out the uncle's mackintosh. 'Get some rough towels, Jane,' said the aunt. 'Make haste, do.' 'I got the ring,' said Kenneth. 'Never mind about the ring, dear,' said the aunt, taking his boots off. 'But you said I was a thief and a liar,' Kenneth said feebly, 'and it was in the moat all the time.' '_Mother!_' it was Alison who shrieked. 'You didn't say that to him?' 'Of course I didn't,' said the aunt impatiently. She thought she hadn't, but then Kenneth thought she had. 'It was _me_ took the ring,' said Alison, 'and I dropped it. I didn't say I hadn't. I only said I'd rather not say. Oh Mother! poor Kenneth!' The aunt, without a word, carried Kenneth up to the bath-room and turned on the hot-water tap. The uncle and Ethel followed. 'Why didn't you own up, you sneak?' said Conrad to his sister with withering scorn. 'Sneak,' echoed the stout George. 'I meant to. I was only getting steam up,' sobbed Alison. 'I didn't know. Mother only told us she wasn't pleased with Ken, and so he wasn't to go to the picnic. Oh! what shall I do? What shall I do?' 'Sneak!' said her brothers in chorus, and left her to her tears of shame and remorse. It was Kenneth who next day begged every one to forgive and forget. And as it was _his_ day--rather like a birthday, you know--when no one could refuse him anything, all agreed that the whole affair should be buried in oblivion. Every one was tremendously kind, the aunt more so than any one. But Alison's eyes were still red when in the afternoon they all went fishing once more. And before Kenneth's hook had been two minutes in the water there was a bite, a very big fish, the uncle had to be called from his study to land it. 'Here's a magnificent fellow,' said the uncle. 'Not an ounce less than two pounds, Ken. I'll have it stuffed for you.' And he held out the fish and Kenneth found himself face to face with the Doyen Carp. There was no mistaking that mouth that opened like a kit-bag, and shut in a sneer like a rhinoceros's. Its eye was most reproachful. 'Oh! no,' cried Kenneth, 'you helped me back and I'll help you back,' and he caught the Carp from the hands of the uncle and flung it out in the moat. 'Your head's not quite right yet, my boy,' said the uncle kindly. 'Hadn't you better go in and lie down a bit?' But Alison understood, for he had told her the whole story. He had told her that morning before breakfast while she was still in deep disgrace; to cheer her up, he said. And, most disappointingly, it made her cry more than ever. 'Your poor little fins,' she had said, 'and having your feet tied up in your tail. And it was all my fault.' 'I liked it,' Kenneth had said with earnest politeness, 'it was a most awful lark.' And he quite meant what he said. XII THE MAGICIAN'S HEART We all have our weaknesses. Mine is mulberries. Yours, perhaps, motor cars. Professor Taykin's was christenings--royal christenings. He always expected to be asked to the christening parties of all the little royal babies, and of course he never was, because he was not a lord, or a duke, or a seller of bacon and tea, or anything really high-class, but merely a wicked magician, who by economy and strict attention to customers had worked up a very good business of his own. He had not always been wicked. He was born quite good, I believe, and his old nurse, who had long since married a farmer and retired into the calm of country life, always used to say that he was the duckiest little boy in a plaid frock with the dearest little fat legs. But he had changed since he was a boy, as a good many other people do--perhaps it was his trade. I dare say you've noticed that cobblers are usually thin, and brewers are generally fat, and magicians are almost always wicked. Well, his weakness (for christenings) grew stronger and stronger because it was never indulged, and at last he 'took the bull into his own hands,' as the Irish footman at the palace said, and went to a christening without being asked. It was a very grand party given by the King of the Fortunate Islands, and the little prince was christened Fortunatus. No one took any notice of Professor Taykin. They were too polite to turn him out, but they made him wish he'd never come. He felt quite an outsider, as indeed he was, and this made him furious. So that when all the bright, light, laughing, fairy godmothers were crowding round the blue satin cradle, and giving gifts of beauty and strength and goodness to the baby, the Magician suddenly did a very difficult charm (in his head, like you do mental arithmetic), and said: 'Young Forty may be all that, but _I_ say he shall be the stupidest prince in the world,' and on that he vanished in a puff of red smoke with a smell like the Fifth of November in a back garden on Streatham Hill, and as he left no address the King of the Fortunate Islands couldn't prosecute him for high treason. Taykin was very glad to think that he had made such a lot of people unhappy--the whole Court was in tears when he left, including the baby--and he looked in the papers for another royal christening, so that he could go to that and make a lot more people miserable. And there was one fixed for the very next Wednesday. The Magician went to that, too, disguised as a wealthy. This time the baby was a girl. Taykin kept close to the pink velvet cradle, and when all the nice qualities in the world had been given to the Princess he suddenly said, 'Little Aura may be all that, but _I_ say she shall be the ugliest princess in all the world.' And instantly she was. It was terrible. And she had been such a beautiful baby too. Every one had been saying that she was the most beautiful baby they had ever seen. This sort of thing is often said at christenings. Having uglified the unfortunate little Princess the Magician did the spell (in his mind, just as you do your spelling) to make himself vanish, but to his horror there was no red smoke and no smell of fireworks, and there he was, still, where he now very much wished not to be. Because one of the fairies there had seen, just one second too late to save the Princess, what he was up to, and had made a strong little charm in a great hurry to prevent his vanishing. This Fairy was a White Witch, and of course you know that White Magic is much stronger than Black Magic, as well as more suited for drawing-room performances. So there the Magician stood, 'looking like a thunder-struck pig,' as some one unkindly said, and the dear White Witch bent down and kissed the baby princess. 'There!' she said, 'you can keep that kiss till you want it. When the time comes you'll know what to do with it. The Magician can't vanish, Sire. You'd better arrest him.' 'Arrest that person,' said the King, pointing to Taykin. 'I suppose your charms are of a permanent nature, madam.' 'Quite,' said the Fairy, 'at least they never go till there's no longer any use for them.' So the Magician was shut up in an enormously high tower, and allowed to play with magic; but none of his spells could act outside the tower so he was never able to pass the extra double guard that watched outside night and day. The King would have liked to have the Magician executed but the White Witch warned him that this would never do. 'Don't you see,' she said, 'he's the only person who can make the Princess beautiful again. And he'll do it some day. But don't you go _asking_ him to do it. He'll never do anything to oblige you. He's that sort of man.' So the years rolled on. The Magician stayed in the tower and did magic and was very bored,--for it is dull to take white rabbits out of your hat, and your hat out of nothing when there's no one to see you. Prince Fortunatus was such a stupid little boy that he got lost quite early in the story, and went about the country saying his name was James, which it wasn't. A baker's wife found him and adopted him, and sold the diamond buttons of his little overcoat, for three hundred pounds, and as she was a very honest woman she put two hundred away for James to have when he grew up. The years rolled on. Aura continued to be hideous, and she was very unhappy, till on her twentieth birthday her married cousin Belinda came to see her. Now Belinda had been made ugly in her cradle too, so she could sympathise as no one else could. 'But _I_ got out of it all right, and so will you,' said Belinda. 'I'm sure the first thing to do is to find a magician.' 'Father banished them all twenty years ago,' said Aura behind her veil, 'all but the one who uglified me.' 'Then I should go to _him_,' said beautiful Belinda. 'Dress up as a beggar maid, and give him fifty pounds to do it. Not more, or he may suspect that you're not a beggar maid. It will be great fun. I'd go with you only I promised Bellamant faithfully that I'd be home to lunch.' And off she went in her mother-of-pearl coach, leaving Aura to look through the bound volumes of _The Perfect Lady_ in the palace library, to find out the proper costume for a beggar maid. Now that very morning the Magician's old nurse had packed up a ham, and some eggs, and some honey, and some apples, and a sweet bunch of old-fashioned flowers, and borrowed the baker's boy to hold the horse for her, and started off to see the Magician. It was forty years since she'd seen him, but she loved him still, and now she thought she could do him a good turn. She asked in the town for his address, and learned that he lived in the Black Tower. 'But you'd best be careful,' the townsfolk said, 'he's a spiteful chap.' 'Bless you,' said the old nurse, 'he won't hurt me as nursed him when he was a babe, in a plaid frock with the dearest little fat legs ever you see.' So she got to the tower, and the guards let her through. Taykin was almost pleased to see her--remember he had had no visitors for twenty years--and he was quite pleased to see the ham and the honey. 'But where did I put them _h_eggs?' said the nurse, 'and the apples--I must have left them at home after all.' She had. But the Magician just waved his hand in the air, and there was a basket of apples that hadn't been there before. The eggs he took out of her bonnet, the folds of her shawl, and even from his own mouth, just like a conjurer does. Only of course he was a real Magician. 'Lor!' said she, 'it's like magic.' 'It _is_ magic,' said he. 'That's my trade. It's quite a pleasure to have an audience again. I've lived here alone for twenty years. It's very lonely, especially of an evening.' 'Can't you get out?' said the nurse. 'No. King's orders must be respected, but it's a dog's life.' He sniffed, made himself a magic handkerchief out of empty air, and wiped his eyes. 'Take an apprentice, my dear,' said the nurse. 'And teach him my magic? Not me.' 'Suppose you got one so stupid he _couldn't_ learn?' 'That would be all right--but it's no use advertising for a stupid person--you'd get no answers.' 'You needn't advertise,' said the nurse; and she went out and brought in James, who was really the Prince of the Fortunate Islands, and also the baker's boy she had brought with her to hold the horse's head. 'Now, James,' she said, 'you'd like to be apprenticed, wouldn't you?' 'Yes,' said the poor stupid boy. 'Then give the gentleman your money, James.' James did. 'My last doubts vanish,' said the Magician, 'he _is_ stupid. Nurse, let us celebrate the occasion with a little drop of something. Not before the boy because of setting an example. James, wash up. Not here, silly; in the back kitchen.' So James washed up, and as he was very clumsy he happened to break a little bottle of essence of dreams that was on the shelf, and instantly there floated up from the washing-up water the vision of a princess more beautiful than the day--so beautiful that even James could not help seeing how beautiful she was, and holding out his arms to her as she came floating through the air above the kitchen sink. But when he held out his arms she vanished. He sighed and washed up harder than ever. 'I wish I wasn't so stupid,' he said, and then there was a knock at the door. James wiped his hands and opened. Some one stood there in very picturesque rags and tatters. 'Please,' said some one, who was of course the Princess, 'is Professor Taykin at home?' 'Walk in, please,' said James. 'My snakes alive!' said Taykin, 'what a day we're having. Three visitors in one morning. How kind of you to call. Won't you take a chair?' 'I hoped,' said the veiled Princess, 'that you'd give me something else to take.' 'A glass of wine,' said Taykin. 'You'll take a glass of wine?' 'No, thank you,' said the beggar maid who was the Princess. 'Then take ... take your veil off,' said the nurse, 'or you won't feel the benefit of it when you go out.' 'I can't,' said Aura, 'it wouldn't be safe.' 'Too beautiful, eh?' said the Magician. 'Still--you're quite safe here.' 'Can you do magic?' she abruptly asked. 'A little,' said he ironically. 'Well,' said she, 'it's like this. I'm so ugly no one can bear to look at me. And I want to go as kitchenmaid to the palace. They want a cook and a scullion and a kitchenmaid. I thought perhaps you'd give me something to make me pretty. I'm only a poor beggar maid.... It would be a great thing to me if....' 'Go along with you,' said Taykin, very cross indeed. 'I never give to beggars.' 'Here's twopence,' whispered poor James, pressing it into her hand, 'it's all I've got left.' 'Thank you,' she whispered back. 'You _are_ good.' And to the Magician she said: 'I happen to have fifty pounds. I'll give it you for a new face.' 'Done,' cried Taykin. 'Here's another stupid one!' He grabbed the money, waved his wand, and then and there before the astonished eyes of the nurse and the apprentice the ugly beggar maid became the loveliest princess in the world. 'Lor!' said the nurse. 'My dream!' cried the apprentice. 'Please,' said the Princess, 'can I have a looking-glass?' The apprentice ran to unhook the one that hung over the kitchen sink, and handed it to her. 'Oh,' she said, 'how _very_ pretty I am. How can I thank you?' 'Quite easily,' said the Magician, 'beggar maid as you are, I hereby offer you my hand and heart.' He put his hand into his waistcoat and pulled out his heart. It was fat and pink, and the Princess did not like the look of it. 'Thank you very much,' said she, 'but I'd rather not.' 'But I insist,' said Taykin. 'But really, your offer....' 'Most handsome, I'm sure,' said the nurse. 'My affections are engaged,' said the Princess, looking down. 'I can't marry you.' 'Am I to take this as a refusal?' asked Taykin; and the Princess said she feared that he was. 'Very well, then,' he said, 'I shall see you home, and ask your father about it. He'll not let you refuse an offer like this. Nurse, come and tie my necktie.' So he went out, and the nurse with him. Then the Princess told the apprentice in a very great hurry who she was. 'It would never do,' she said, 'for him to see me home. He'd find out that I was the Princess, and he'd uglify me again in no time.' 'He sha'n't see you home,' said James. 'I may be stupid but I'm strong too.' 'How brave you are,' said Aura admiringly, 'but I'd rather slip away quietly, without any fuss. Can't you undo the patent lock of that door?' The apprentice tried but he was too stupid, and the Princess was not strong enough. 'I'm sorry,' said the apprentice who was a Prince. 'I can't undo the door, but when _he_ does I'll hold him and you can get away. I dreamed of you this morning,' he added. 'I dreamed of you too,' said she, 'but you were different.' 'Perhaps,' said poor James sadly, 'the person you dreamed about wasn't stupid, and I am.' 'Are you _really_?' cried the Princess. 'I _am_ so glad!' 'That's rather unkind, isn't it?' said he. 'No; because if _that's_ all that makes you different from the man I dreamed about I can soon make _that_ all right.' And with that she put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him. And at her kiss his stupidness passed away like a cloud, and he became as clever as any one need be; and besides knowing all the ordinary lessons he would have learned if he had stayed at home in his palace, he knew who he was, and where he was, and why, and he knew all the geography of his father's kingdom, and the exports and imports and the condition of politics. And he knew also that the Princess loved him. So he caught her in his arms and kissed her, and they were very happy, and told each other over and over again what a beautiful world it was, and how wonderful it was that they should have found each other, seeing that the world is not only beautiful but rather large. 'That first one was a magic kiss, you know,' said she. 'My fairy godmother gave it to me, and I've been keeping it all these years for you. You must get away from here, and come to the palace. Oh, you'll manage it--you're clever now.' 'Yes,' he said, 'I _am_ clever now. I can undo the lock for you. Go, my dear, go before he comes back.' So the Princess went. And only just in time; for as she went out of one door Taykin came in at the other. He was furious to find her gone; and I should not like to write down the things he said to his apprentice when he found that James had been so stupid as to open the door for her. They were not polite things at all. He tried to follow her. But the Princess had warned the guards, and he could not get out. 'Oh,' he cried, 'if only my old magic would work outside this tower. I'd soon be even with her.' And then in a strange, confused, yet quite sure way, he felt that the spell that held him, the White Witch's spell, was dissolved. 'To the palace!' he cried; and rushing to the cauldron that hung over the fire he leaped into it, leaped out in the form of a red lion, and disappeared. Without a moment's hesitation the Prince, who was his apprentice, followed him, calling out the same words and leaping into the same cauldron, while the poor nurse screamed and wrung her hands. As he touched the liquor in the cauldron he felt that he was not quite himself. He was, in fact, a green dragon. He felt himself vanish--a most uncomfortable sensation--and reappeared, with a suddenness that took his breath away, in his own form and at the back door of the palace. The time had been short, but already the Magician had succeeded in obtaining an engagement as palace cook. How he did it without references I don't know. Perhaps he made the references by magic as he had made the eggs, and the apples, and the handkerchief. Taykin's astonishment and annoyance at being followed by his faithful apprentice were soon soothed, for he saw that a stupid scullion would be of great use. Of course he had no idea that James had been made clever by a kiss. 'But how are you going to cook?' asked the apprentice. 'You don't know how!' 'I shall cook,' said Taykin, 'as I do everything else--by magic.' And he did. I wish I had time to tell you how he turned out a hot dinner of seventeen courses from totally empty saucepans, how James looked in a cupboard for spices and found it empty, and how next moment the nurse walked out of it. The Magician had been so long alone that he seemed to revel in the luxury of showing off to some one, and he leaped about from one cupboard to another, produced cats and cockatoos out of empty jars, and made mice and rabbits disappear and reappear till James's head was in a whirl, for all his cleverness; and the nurse, as she washed up, wept tears of pure joy at her boy's wonderful skill. 'All this excitement's bad for my heart, though,' Taykin said at last, and pulling his heart out of his chest, he put it on a shelf, and as he did so his magic note-book fell from his breast and the apprentice picked it up. Taykin did not see him do it; he was busy making the kitchen lamp fly about the room like a pigeon. It was just then that the Princess came in, looking more lovely than ever in a simple little morning frock of white chiffon and diamonds. 'The beggar maid,' said Taykin, 'looking like a princess! I'll marry her just the same.' 'I've come to give the orders for dinner,' she said; and then she saw who it was, and gave one little cry and stood still, trembling. 'To order the dinner,' said the nurse. 'Then you're----' 'Yes,' said Aura, 'I'm the Princess.' 'You're the Princess,' said the Magician. 'Then I'll marry you all the more. And if you say no I'll uglify you as the word leaves your lips. Oh, yes--you think I've just been amusing myself over my cooking--but I've really been brewing the strongest spell in the world. Marry me--or drink----' The Princess shuddered at these dreadful words. 'Drink, or marry me,' said the Magician. 'If you marry me you shall be beautiful for ever.' 'Ah,' said the nurse, 'he's a match even for a Princess.' 'I'll tell papa,' said the Princess, sobbing. 'No, you won't,' said Taykin. 'Your father will never know. If you won't marry me you shall drink this and become my scullery maid--my hideous scullery maid--and wash up for ever in the lonely tower.' He caught her by the wrist. 'Stop,' cried the apprentice, who was a Prince. 'Stop? _Me?_ Nonsense! Pooh!' said the Magician. 'Stop, I say!' said James, who was Fortunatus. '_I've got your heart!_' He had--and he held it up in one hand, and in the other a cooking knife. 'One step nearer that lady,' said he, 'and in goes the knife.' The Magician positively skipped in his agony and terror. 'I say, look out!' he cried. 'Be careful what you're doing. Accidents happen so easily! Suppose your foot slipped! Then no apologies would meet the case. That's my heart you've got there. My life's bound up in it.' 'I know. That's often the case with people's hearts,' said Fortunatus. 'We've got you, my dear sir, on toast. My Princess, might I trouble you to call the guards.' The Magician did not dare to resist, so the guards arrested him. The nurse, though in floods of tears, managed to serve up a very good plain dinner, and after dinner the Magician was brought before the King. Now the King, as soon as he had seen that his daughter had been made so beautiful, had caused a large number of princes to be fetched by telephone. He was anxious to get her married at once in case she turned ugly again. So before he could do justice to the Magician he had to settle which of the princes was to marry the Princess. He had chosen the Prince of the Diamond Mountains, a very nice steady young man with a good income. But when he suggested the match to the Princess she declined it, and the Magician, who was standing at the foot of the throne steps loaded with chains, clattered forward and said: 'Your Majesty, will you spare my life if I tell you something you don't know?' The King, who was a very inquisitive man, said 'Yes.' 'Then know,' said Taykin, 'that the Princess won't marry _your_ choice, because she's made one of her own--my apprentice.' The Princess meant to have told her father this when she had got him alone and in a good temper. But now he was in a bad temper, and in full audience. The apprentice was dragged in, and all the Princess's agonized pleadings only got this out of the King-- 'All right. I won't hang him. He shall be best man at your wedding.' Then the King took his daughter's hand and set her in the middle of the hall, and set the Prince of the Diamond Mountains on her right and the apprentice on her left. Then he said: 'I will spare the life of this aspiring youth on your left if you'll promise never to speak to him again, and if you'll promise to marry the gentleman on your right before tea this afternoon.' The wretched Princess looked at her lover, and his lips formed the word 'Promise.' So she said: 'I promise never to speak to the gentleman on my left and to marry the gentleman on my right before tea to-day,' and held out her hand to the Prince of the Diamond Mountains. Then suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, the Prince of the Diamond Mountains was on her left, and her hand was held by her own Prince, who stood at her right hand. And yet nobody seemed to have moved. It was the purest and most high-class magic. 'Dished,' cried the King, 'absolutely dished!' 'A mere trifle,' said the apprentice modestly. 'I've got Taykin's magic recipe book, as well as his heart.' 'Well, we must make the best of it, I suppose,' said the King crossly. 'Bless you, my children.' He was less cross when it was explained to him that the apprentice was really the Prince of the Fortunate Islands, and a much better match than the Prince of the Diamond Mountains, and he was quite in a good temper by the time the nurse threw herself in front of the throne and begged the King to let the Magician off altogether--chiefly on the ground that when he was a baby he was the dearest little duck that ever was, in the prettiest plaid frock, with the loveliest fat legs. The King, moved by these arguments, said: 'I'll spare him if he'll promise to be good.' 'You will, ducky, won't you?' said the nurse, crying. 'No,' said the Magician, 'I won't; and what's more, I can't.' The Princess, who was now so happy that she wanted every one else to be happy too, begged her lover to make Taykin good 'by magic.' 'Alas, my dearest Lady,' said the Prince, 'no one can be made good by magic. I could take the badness out of him--there's an excellent recipe in this note-book--but if I did that there'd be so very little left.' 'Every little helps,' said the nurse wildly. Prince Fortunatus, who was James, who was the apprentice, studied the book for a few moments, and then said a few words in a language no one present had ever heard before. And as he spoke the wicked Magician began to tremble and shrink. 'Oh, my boy--be good! Promise you'll be good,' cried the nurse, still in tears. The Magician seemed to be shrinking inside his clothes. He grew smaller and smaller. The nurse caught him in her arms, and still he grew less and less, till she seemed to be holding nothing but a bundle of clothes. Then with a cry of love and triumph she tore the Magician's clothes away and held up a chubby baby boy, with the very plaid frock and fat legs she had so often and so lovingly described. 'I said there wouldn't be much of him when the badness was out,' said the Prince Fortunatus. 'I will be good; oh, I will,' said the baby boy that had been the Magician. 'I'll see to that,' said the nurse. And so the story ends with love and a wedding, and showers of white roses. 
35820	----	EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS CHILDREN'S BOOKS GRANNY'S WONDERFUL CHAIR WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY DOLLIE RADFORD THE PUBLISHERS OF _EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY_ WILL BE PLEASED TO SEND FREELY TO ALL APPLICANTS A LIST OF THE PUBLISHED AND PROJECTED VOLUMES TO BE COMPRISED UNDER THE FOLLOWING TWELVE HEADINGS: TRAVEL -- SCIENCE -- FICTION THEOLOGY & PHILOSOPHY HISTORY -- CLASSICAL CHILDREN'S BOOKS ESSAYS -- ORATORY POETRY & DRAMA BIOGRAPHY ROMANCE IN TWO STYLES OF BINDING, CLOTH, FLAT BACK, COLOURED TOP, AND LEATHER, ROUND CORNERS, GILT TOP. LONDON : J. M. DENT & CO. THIS IS FAIRY GOLD, BOY; AND 'TWIL PROVE SO SHAKESPEARE GRANNYS WONDERFUL CHAIR & ITS TALES OF FAIRY TIMES BY FRANCES BROWNE LONDON: PUBLISHED by J M DENT & CO AND IN NEW YORK BY E P DUTTON & CO RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK PREFACE The writer of "Granny's Wonderful Chair" was a poet, and blind. That she was a poet the story tells on every page, but of her blindness it tells not a word. From beginning to end it is filled with pictures; each little tale has its own picturesque setting, its own vividly realised scenery. Her power of visualisation would be easy to understand had she become blind in the later years of her life, when the beauties of the physical world were impressed on her mind; but Frances Browne was blind from infancy. The pictures she gives us in her stories were created, in darkness, from material which came to her only through the words of others. In her work are no blurred lines or uncertainties, her drawing is done with a firm and vigorous hand. It would seem that the completeness of her calamity created, within her, that serenity of spirit which contrives the greatest triumphs in Life and in Art. Her endeavour was to realise the world independently of her own personal emotion and needs. She, who, out of her darkness and poverty, might have touched us so surely with her longing for her birthright of light, for her share of the world's good things, gives help and encouragement to the more fortunate. In reading the very few details of her life we feel the stimulation as of watching one who, in a desperate fight, wins against great odds. The odds against Frances Browne were heavy. She was born at Stranorlar, a mountain village in Donegal, on January 16, 1816. Her great-grandfather was a man of considerable property, which he squandered; and the younger generation would seem to have inherited nothing from its ancestor but his irresponsibility. Frances Browne's father was the village post-master, and she, the seventh in a family of twelve children, learning privation and endurance from the cradle. But no soil is the wrong one for genius. Whether or not hers would have developed more richly in more generous surroundings, it is difficult to say. The strong mind that could, in blindness and poverty, secure its own education, and win its way to the company of the best, the thoroughly equipped and well tended, gained a victory which genius alone made possible. She was one of the elect, had no creative achievement crowned her triumph. She tells us how she herself learned by heart the lessons which her brothers and sisters said aloud every evening, in readiness for the next day's school; and how she bribed them to read to her by doing their share of the household work. When the usual bribe failed, she invented stories for them, and, in return for these, books were read to her which, while they seemed dull and uninteresting enough to the readers, built up for the eager listener those enchanted steps by which she was to climb into her intellectual kingdom. Her habit was to say these lessons aloud at night, when every one else was asleep, to impress untiringly upon her memory the knowledge for which she persistently fought through the day. There were no book-shops at Stranorlar, or within three counties of it, and had there been one, Frances Browne had no pennies for the luxury of books. But she had friends, and from those who were richer than herself in possession, she borrowed her tools. From the village teacher she learned French, in exchange for those lessons in grammar and geography which, her brothers and sisters had given away to her, in return for numberless wipings and scrubbings in the kitchen. Scott's novels marked an era in her mental life; and of Pope's Iliad--which she heard read when she was about fifteen--she says, "It was like the discovery of a new world, and effected a total change in my ideas and thoughts on the subject of poetry. There was at the time a considerable MS. of my own production in existence, which of course I regarded with some partiality; but Homer had awakened me, and in a fit of sovereign contempt I committed the whole to the flames. After Homer's the work that produced the greatest impression on my mind was Byron's 'Childe Harold.' The one had induced me to burn my first MS., the other made me resolve against verse-making in future." Her first poem was written at the age of seven, but, after this resolve of her fifteenth year, she wrote no more for nearly ten years. Then, in 1840, when she was four and twenty, a volume of Irish Songs was read to her, and her own music reawakened. She wrote a poem called "The Songs of our Land." It was published in the "Irish Penny Journal," and can be found still in Duffy's "Ballad Poetry of Ireland." After this her poems grew apace: she wrote lyrics for the "Athenæum," "Hood's Magazine," and "Lady Blessington's Keepsake." Her work was much appreciated, and her poems were reprinted in many of the contemporary journals. She published a complete volume of poems in 1844, and a second volume in 1848 which she called "Lyrics and Miscellaneous Poems." The first use to which she put her literary earnings, was the education of a sister, to be her reader and amanuensis. In Frances Browne's life each step was in the direction of her goal. From its beginning to its end the strong mind pressed unhesitatingly forward to its complete development, seeking the inner light more steadfastly for the absence of external vision. Her income was a pension of £20, from the Royal Bounty Fund; and with this, for all security, she set out, in 1847, with her sister to Edinburgh, determined to make her own way in the literary world. At leaving her native land she says: "I go as one that comes no more, yet go without regret; The summers other memories store 'twere summer to forget; I go without one parting word, one grasp of parting hand, As to the wide air goes the bird--yet fare thee well, my land!" She quickly made friends in Edinburgh, won by her genius and character, in the circle which included Christopher North. Her industry was amazing: she wrote essays, reviews, leaders, lyrics, stories--indeed, she wrote anything she was asked to write, and under the pressure of her work her prose strengthened and developed. But all her energy could not make her rich. "The waters of her lot," she says, "were often troubled, though not by angels." Her own health interfered with her work, and, from the beginning, she out of her own poverty tried to relieve that of her mother. In 1852 she moved to London, and here, by the gift of £100 from the Marquis of Lansdowne, she was for the time released from the pressure of daily necessity. She concentrated on a more important work than she had yet attempted, and wrote a novel which she called "My Share of the World." It is written in the form of an autobiography of one Frederick Favoursham, a youthful straggler through journalism and tutorship, who wins nothing better, in the end, than a lonely possession of vast estates. But one realises fully, in this story, the strength of a mind whose endeavour is to probe the heart of things, and whose firm incisive expression translates precisely what the mind discovers. There are in this work, and it is natural it should be so, one or two touches of self-revelation; the only ones, I think, which she, in all her writing, permitted herself. She makes her hero say of his mother--"Well I remember her old blue gown, her hands hard with rough work, het still girlish figure and small pale face, from which the bloom and the prettiness had gone so early; but the hard hand had, in its kindly pressure, the only genuine love I ever knew; the pale face looks yet on my sleep with a blessing, and the old gown has turned, in my dreams, to the radiant robe of an angel." And the delicate sensitive character of Lucy, the heroine, reads like the expression of the writer's own personality: into it she has put a touch of romance. In all her work there is never a word of personal complaint, but the words she puts into the mouth of her hero, when Lucy commits suicide, must have been born of her own suffering: "When the burden outgrows the strength so far that moral as well as physical energies begin to fail, and there is no door but death's that will welcome our weariness, what remains but to creep into that quiet shelter? I think it had come to that with Lucy. Her days were threatened by a calamity, the most terrible in the list of human ills, which the wise Manetho, the last of the Egyptians, with his brave Pagan heart and large philosophy, thought good and sufficient warrant for a man's resigning his place on the earth." Among other mental qualities, she had, for the fortification of her spirit, a sense of humour. In this same book she writes of "a little man of that peculiar figure which looks as if a not very well filled sack had somehow got legs;" and commenting on a little difficulty of her hero's making, she says, "It is rather an awkward business to meet a family at breakfast whose only son one has kicked overnight." And how elastic and untarnished must that nature have been which, after years of continuous struggle for bare subsistence, could put her money-wise people on to paper and quietly say of them that "To keep a daily watch over passing pence did not disturb the Fentons--it was a mental exercise suited to their capacities." The turning of that sentence was surely an exquisite pleasure to its author. And "My Share of the World" is full of cleverly-turned sentences--"Hartley cared for nobody, and I believe the corollary of the miller's song was verified in his favour." But we must not linger longer over her novel, its pages are full of passages which tell of the vigorous quality of her mind. Frances Browne's poetry is as impersonal as her prose. She belonged to the first order of artists, if there be distinction in our gratitude. The material with which she tried to deal was Life--apart from herself--a perhaps bigger, and, certainly, a harder piece of work than the subjective expression of a single personality. The subjects of her poems are in many lands and periods. The most ambitious--"The Star of Attéghéi"--is a tale of Circassia, another is of a twelfth-century monk and the philosopher's stone, another of an Arab; and another is of that Cyprus tree which is said to have been planted at the birth of Christ, and to spare which Napoleon deviated from his course when he ordered the making of the road over the Simplon. "Why came it not, when o'er my life A cloud of darkness hung, When years were lost in fruitless strife, But still my heart was young? How hath the shower forgot the spring, And fallen on Autumn's withering?" These lines are from a poem called "The Unknown Crown." The messenger who came to tell Tasso the laureate crown had been decreed him, found him dying in a convent. Then she has verses on Boston, on Protestant Union in New England, on the Abolition of Slavery in the United States, on the Parliament grant for the improvement of the Shannon. Her mind compelled externals to its use. A love of nature was in her soul, a perception of the beauty of the world. She, with her poet's spirit, saw all the green and leafy places of the earth, all its flowery ways--while they, may be, were trodden heedlessly by those about her with their gift of sight. "Sing on by fane and forest old By tombs and cottage eaves, And tell the waste of coming flowers The woods of coming leaves;-- The same sweet song that o'er the birth Of earliest blossoms rang, And caught its music from the hymn The stars of morning sang." ("The Birds of Spring.") "Ye early minstrels of the earth, Whose mighty voices woke The echoes of its infant woods, Ere yet the tempest spoke; How is it that ye waken still The young heart's happy dreams, And shed your light on darkened days O bright and blessed streams?" ("Streams.") "Words--words of hope!--oh! long believed, As oracles of old, When stars of promise have deceived. And beacon-fires grown cold! Though still, upon time's stormy steeps, Such sounds are faint and few, Yet oft from cold and stranger lips Hath fallen that blessed dew,-- That, like the rock-kept rain, remained When many a sweeter fount was drained." ("Words.") Many and many such verses there are which might be quoted, but her work for children is waiting.--For them she wrote many stories, and in their employ her imagination travelled into many lands. The most popular was "Granny's Wonderful Chair," published in 1856. It was at once a favourite, and quickly out of print, and, strangely enough, was not reprinted until 1880. Then new editions were issued in 1881, '82, '83, '84, '87, and '89. In 1887 Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnet published it, with a preface, under the title "Stories from the Lost Fairy Book," re-told by the child who read them. "The Lost Fairy Book" was "Granny's Wonderful Chair." One has not far to read to discover the secret of its popularity with children. It is full of word-pictures, of picturesque settings. Her power of visualisation is shown in these fairy-tales more, perhaps, than in any other of her writings. Truly, she was fortunate in having the Irish fairies to lead her into their gossamer-strewn ways, to touch her fancy with their magic, and put upon her the glamour of their land. When the stories are of them she is, perhaps, at her best; but each story in the book makes a complete picture, each has enough and no more of colour and scene. And the little pictures are kept in their places, pinned down to reality, by delightful touches of humour. Of the wonderful chair Dame Frostyface says in the beginning of the story, "It was made by a cunning fairy who lived in the forest when I was young, and she gave it to me because she knew nobody would keep what they got hold of better." How did a writer who never saw a coach, or a palace, or the picture of a coach or a palace, tell of the palace and the people and the multitudes, of the roasting and boiling, of the spiced ale and the dancing? Whence came her vision of the old woman who weaved her own hair into grey cloth at a crazy loom; of the fortified city in the plain, with cornfields and villages; of floors of ebony and ceilings of silver; of swallows that built in the eaves while the daisies grew thick at the door? Had her descriptions been borrowed, the wonder of them would cease. But her words are her own, and they are used sparingly, as by one who sees too vividly what she is describing to add one unnecessary or indistinct touch. She seems as much at home under the sea, among hills of marble and rocks of spa, as with the shepherds on the moorland, or when she tells of the spring and the budding of the topmost boughs. The enrichment of little Snowflower, by the King's gifts, links these stories together as artistically as the telling of the princess's raiment in that beautiful book "A Digit of the Moon;" and right glad we are when the poorly clad little girl takes her place among the grand courtiers, and is led away to happiness by the Prince. Frances Browne's list of contributions to children's literature is a long one. In reading these books one is surprised by the size of her imaginative territory; by the diversity of the knowledge she acquired. One, "The Exile's Trust," is a story of the French Revolution, in which Charlotte Corday is introduced; and in it are descriptions of the scenery of Lower Normandy; another, "The First of the African Diamonds," is a tale of the Dutch and the banks of the Orange River. Then, in "The Young Foresters," she conducts her young heroes to Archangel, to see the fine frost and clear sky, the long winter nights and long summer days, to adventure with wolves in the forest and with pirates by sea. In "The Dangerous Guest" she is in the time of the Young Pretender, and in "The Eriksons," "The Clever Boy," and "Our Uncle the Traveller," she wanders far and wide. In reviewing her subjects one realises afresh the richness of the world she created within her own darkness. A wonderful law of Exchange keeps safe the precious things of Life, and it operates by strange and unexpected means. In this instance it was most beautifully maintained; for Frances Browne, the iron of calamity was transmuted to gold. Thus it has been, and thus it shall be; so long as the world shall last, circumstance shall not conquer a strong and beautiful spirit. D. R. _August_ 1906. Bibliography The following are the works of Frances Browne: The Star of Attéghéi; The Vision of Schwartz, and other Poems, 1844; Lyrics and Miscellaneous Poems, 1848; The Ericksens; The Clever Boy, or Consider One Another, 1852; Pictures and Songs of Home, 1856; Granny's Wonderful Chair, and its Tales of Fairy Times: illustrated by Kenny Meadows, 1857; illustrated by Mr. Seymour Lucas, 1891, 1900; with an introduction by F. Hodgson Burnett, entitled The Story of the Lost Fairy Book, 1904; Our Uncle the Traveller's Stories, 1859; The Young Foresters; The Orphans of Elfholm (Magnet Stories, 1860, etc., coll. ed. 1864); My Share of the World: an Autobiography, 3 vols., 1861; The Castleford Case, 3 vols., 1862; The Hidden Sin, 1866; The Exile's Trust: a Tale of the French Revolution, and other Stories, 1869; My Nearest Neighbour, and other Stories, 1875; The Foundling of the Fens: a Story of a Flood, 1886; The Dangerous Guest: a Story of 1745, 1886; The First of the African Diamonds, 1887. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. INTRODUCTORY 3 II. THE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO 17 III. THE LORDS OF THE WHITE AND GREY CASTLES 48 IV. THE GREEDY SHEPHERD 72 V. THE STORY OF FAIRYFOOT 84 VI. THE STORY OF CHILDE CHARITY 105 VII. SOUR AND CIVIL 120 VIII. THE STORY OF MERRYMIND 146 IX. PRINCE WISEWIT'S RETURN 170 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Granny's Wonderful Chair 2 The fortified city 9 The cuckoo with the gold and green leaves 25 The cobbler Spare receives a royal messenger 31 The page Tinseltoes throws the doublet out of the window 39 Woodwender and Loveleaves tend the swine 53 The gay young hunter comes to Woodwender and Loveleaves 65 Clutch returns with his sack 82 The Princess Maybloom 95 The old woman begs at the door 108 Civil and the three sea maidens 127 Merrymind at the fair 149 Dame Dreary dances and grows strong 167 Prince Wisewit, disguised as a bird, escapes out of the window 173 [Illustration: GRANNY'S WONDERFUL CHAIR] Granny's Wonderful Chair CHAPTER I INTRODUCTORY In an old time, long ago, when the fairies were in the world, there lived a little girl so uncommonly fair and pleasant of look, that they called her Snowflower. This girl was good as well as pretty. No one had ever seen her frown or heard her say a cross word, and young and old were glad when they saw her coming. Snowflower had no relation in the world but a very old grandmother, called Dame Frostyface; people did not like her quite so well as her granddaughter, for she was cross enough at times, but always kind to Snowflower; and they lived together in a little cottage built of peat, and thatched with reeds, on the edge of a great forest; tall trees sheltered its back from the north wind; the mid-day sun made its front warm and cheerful; swallows built in the eaves; daisies grew thick at the door; but there were none in all that country poorer than Snowflower and her grandmother. A cat and two hens were all their live-stock: their bed was dry grass, and the only good piece of furniture in the cottage was a great arm-chair with wheels on its feet, a black velvet cushion, and many curious carvings of flowers and fawns on its dark oaken back. On that chair Dame Frostyface sat spinning from morning till night to maintain herself and her granddaughter, while Snowflower gathered sticks for firing, looked after the hens and the cat, and did whatever else her grandmother bade her. There was nobody in the shire could spin such fine yarn as Dame Frostyface, but she spun very slowly. Her wheel was as old as herself, and far the more worn; indeed, the wonder was that it did not fall to pieces. So the dame's earnings were small, and their living meagre. Snowflower, however, felt no want of good dinners or fine clothes. Every evening, when the fire was heaped with the sticks she had gathered till it blazed and crackled up the cottage chimney, Dame Frostyface set aside her wheel, and told her a new story. Often did the little girl wonder where her grandmother had gathered so many stories, but she soon learned that. One sunny morning, at the time of the swallows coming, the dame rose up, put on the grey hood and mantle in which she carried her yarn to the fairs, and said, "My child, I am going a long journey to visit an aunt of mine, who lives far in the north country. I cannot take you with me, because my aunt is the crossest woman alive, and never liked young people: but the hens will lay eggs for you; there is barley-meal in the barrel; and, as you have been a good girl, I'll tell you what to do when you feel lonely. Lay your head gently down on the cushion of the arm-chair, and say, 'Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story.' It was made by a cunning fairy, who lived in the forest when I was young, and she gave it to me because she knew nobody could keep what they got hold of better. Remember, you must never ask a story more than once in the day; and if there be any occasion to travel, you have only to seat yourself in it, and say, 'Chair of my grandmother, take me such a way.' It will carry you wherever you wish; but mind to oil the wheels before you set out, for I have sat on it these forty years in that same corner." Having said this, Dame Frostyface set forth to see her aunt in the north country. Snowflower gathered firing and looked after the hens and cat as usual. She baked herself a cake or two of the barley-meal; but when the evening fell the cottage looked lonely. Then Snowflower remembered her grandmother's words, and, laying her head gently down, she said, "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story." Scarce were the words spoken, when a clear voice from under the velvet cushion began to tell a new and most wonderful tale, which surprised Snowflower so much that she forgot to be frightened. After that the good girl was lonely no more. Every morning she baked a barley cake, and every evening the chair told her a new story; but she could never find out who owned the voice, though Snowflower showed her gratitude by polishing up the oaken back, and dusting the velvet cushion, till the chair looked as good as new. The swallows came and built in the eaves, the daisies grew thicker than ever at the door; but great misfortunes fell upon Snowflower. Notwithstanding all her care, she forgot to clip the hens' wings, and they flew away one morning to visit their friends, the pheasants, who lived far in the forest; the cat followed them to see its relations; the barley-meal was eaten up, except a couple of handfuls; and Snowflower had often strained her eyes in hopes of seeing the grey mantle, but there was no appearance of Dame Frostyface. "My grandmother stays long," said Snowflower to herself; "and by and by there will be nothing to eat. If I could get to her, perhaps she would advise me what to do; and this is a good occasion for travelling." Next day, at sunrise, Snowflower oiled the chair's wheels, baked a cake out of the last of the meal, took it in her lap by way of provision for the journey, seated herself, and said, "Chair of my grandmother, take me the way she went." Presently the chair gave a creak, and began to move out of the cottage, and into the forest the very way Dame Frostyface had taken, where it rolled along at the rate of a coach and six. Snowflower was amazed at this style of travelling, but the chair never stopped nor stayed the whole summer day, till as the sun was setting they came upon an open space, where a hundred men were hewing down the tall trees with their axes, a hundred more were cleaving them for firewood, and twenty waggoners, with horses and waggons, were carrying the wood away. "Oh! chair of my grandmother, stop!" said Snowflower, for she was tired, and also wished to know what this might mean. The chair immediately stood still, and Snowflower, seeing an old woodcutter, who looked civil, stepped up to him, and said, "Good father, tell me why you cut all this wood?" "What ignorant country girl are you?" replied the man, "not to have heard of the great feast which our sovereign, King Winwealth, means to give on the birthday of his only daughter, the Princess Greedalind. It will last seven days. Everybody will be feasted, and this wood is to roast the oxen and the sheep, the geese and the turkeys, amongst whom there is a great lamentation throughout the land." When Snowflower heard that she could not help wishing to see, and perhaps share in, such a noble feast, after living so long on barley cakes; so, seating herself, she said, "Chair of my grandmother, take me quickly to the palace of King Winwealth." The words were hardly spoken, when off the chair started through the trees and out of the forest, to the great amazement of the woodcutters, who, never having seen such a sight before, threw down their axes, left their waggons, and followed Snowflower to the gates of a great and splendid city, fortified with strong walls and high towers, and standing in the midst of a wide plain covered with cornfields, orchards, and villages. [Illustration: The fortified city.] It was the richest city in all the land; merchants from every quarter came there to buy and sell, and there was a saying that people had only to live seven years in it to make their fortunes. Rich as they were, however, Snowflower thought she had never seen so many discontented, covetous faces as looked out from the great shops, grand houses, and fine coaches, when her chair rattled along the streets; indeed, the citizens did not stand high in repute for either good-nature or honesty; but it had not been so when King Winwealth was young, and he and his brother, Prince Wisewit, governed the land together--Wisewit was a wonderful prince for knowledge and prudence. He knew the whole art of government, the tempers of men, and the powers of the stars; moreover, he was a great magician, and it was said of him that he could never die or grow old. In his time there was neither discontent nor sickness in the city--strangers were hospitably entertained without price or questions. Lawsuits there were none, and no one locked his door at night. The fairies used to come there at May-day and Michaelmas, for they were Prince Wisewit's friends--all but one, called Fortunetta, a shortsighted but very cunning fairy, who hated everybody wiser than herself, and the prince especially, because she could never deceive him. There was peace and pleasure for many a year in King Winwealth's city, till one day at midsummer Prince Wisewit went alone to the forest, in search of a strange herb for his garden, but he never came back; and though the king, with all his guards, searched far and near, no news was ever heard of him. When his brother was gone, King Winwealth grew lonely in his great palace, so he married a certain princess, called Wantall, and brought her home to be his queen. This princess was neither handsome nor agreeable. People thought she must have gained the king's love by enchantment, for her whole dowry was a desert island, with a huge pit in it that never could be filled, and her disposition was so covetous, that the more she got the greedier she grew. In process of time the king and queen had an only daughter, who was to be the heiress of all their dominions. Her name was the Princess Greedalind, and the whole city were making preparations to celebrate her birthday--not that they cared much for the princess, who was remarkably like her mother both in looks and temper, but being King Winwealth's only daughter, people came from far and near to the festival, and among them strangers and fairies who had not been there since the day of Prince Wisewit. There was surprising bustle about the palace, a most noble building, so spacious that it had a room for every day in the year. All the floors were of ebony, and all the ceilings of silver, and there was such a supply of golden dishes used by the household, that five hundred armed men kept guard night and day lest any of them should be stolen. When these guards saw Snowflower and her chair, they ran one after the other to tell the king, for the like had never been seen nor heard of in his dominions, and the whole court crowded out to see the little maiden and her chair that came of itself. When Snowflower saw the lords and ladies in their embroidered robes and splendid jewels, she began to feel ashamed of her own bare feet and linen gown; but at length taking courage, she answered all their questions, and told them everything about her wonderful chair. The queen and the princess cared for nothing that was not gilt. The courtiers had learned the same fashion, and all turned away in high disdain except the old king, who, thinking the chair might amuse him sometimes when he got out of spirits, allowed Snowflower to stay and feast with the scullion in his worst kitchen. The poor little girl was glad of any quarters, though nobody made her welcome--even the servants despised her bare feet and linen gown. They would give her chair no room but in a dusty corner behind the back door, where Snowflower was told she might sleep at night, and eat up the scraps the cook threw away. That very day the feast began; it was fine to see the multitudes of coaches and people on foot and on horseback who crowded to the palace, and filled every room according to their rank. Never had Snowflower seen such roasting and boiling. There was wine for the lords and spiced ale for the common people, music and dancing of all kinds, and the best of gay dresses; but with all the good cheer there seemed little merriment, and a deal of ill-humour in the palace. Some of the guests thought they should have been feasted in grander rooms; others were vexed to see many finer than themselves. All the servants were dissatisfied because they did not get presents. There was somebody caught every hour stealing the cups, and a multitude of people were always at the gates clamouring for goods and lands, which Queen Wantall had taken from them. The guards continually drove them away, but they came back again, and could be heard plainly in the highest banquet hall: so it was not wonderful that the old king's spirits got uncommonly low that evening after supper. His favourite page, who always stood behind him, perceiving this, reminded his majesty of the little girl and her chair. "It is a good thought," said King Winwealth. "I have not heard a story this many a year. Bring the child and the chair instantly!" The favourite page sent a messenger to the first kitchen, who told the master-cook, the master-cook told the kitchen-maid, the kitchen-maid told the chief-scullion, the chief-scullion told the dust-boy, and he told Snowflower to wash her face, rub up her chair, and go to the highest banquet hall, for the great king Winwealth wished to hear a story. Nobody offered to help her, but when Snowflower had made herself as smart as she could with soap and water, and rubbed the chair till it looked as if dust had never fallen on it, she seated herself, and said:--"Chair of my grandmother, take me to the highest banquet hall." Instantly the chair marched in a grave and courtly fashion out of the kitchen, up the grand staircase, and into the highest hall. The chief lords and ladies of the land were entertained there, besides many fairies and notable people from distant countries. There had never been such company in the palace since the time of Prince Wisewit; nobody wore less than embroidered satin. King Winwealth sat on his ivory throne in a robe of purple velvet, stiff with flowers of gold; the queen sat by his side in a robe of silver cloth, clasped with pearls; but the Princess Greedalind was finer still, the feast being in her honour. She wore a robe of cloth of gold clasped with diamonds; two waiting-ladies in white satin stood, one on either side, to hold her fan and handkerchief; and two pages, in gold-lace livery, stood behind her chair. With all that Princess Greedalind looked ugly and spiteful; she and her mother were angry to see a barefooted girl and an old chair allowed to enter the banquet hall. The supper-table was still covered with golden dishes, and the best of good things, but no one offered Snowflower a morsel: so, having made an humble courtesy to the king, the queen, the princess, and the good company, most of whom scarcely noticed her, the poor little girl sat down upon the carpet, laid her head on the velvet cushion, as she used to do in the old cottage, and said:--"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story." Everybody was astonished, even to the angry queen and the spiteful princess, when a clear voice from under the cushion, said:--"Listen to the story of the Christmas Cuckoo!" CHAPTER II THE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO "Once upon a time there stood in the midst of a bleak moor, in the north country, a certain village; all its inhabitants were poor, for their fields were barren, and they had little trade, but the poorest of them all were two brothers called Scrub and Spare, who followed the cobbler's craft, and had but one stall between them. It was a hut built of clay and wattles. The door was low and always open, for there was no window. The roof did not entirely keep out the rain, and the only thing comfortable about it was a wide hearth, for which the brothers could never find wood enough to make a sufficient fire. There they worked in most brotherly friendship, though with little encouragement. "The people of that village were not extravagant in shoes, and better cobblers than Scrub and Spare might be found. Spiteful people said there were no shoes so bad that they would not be worse for their mending. Nevertheless Scrub and Spare managed to live between their own trade, a small barley field, and a cottage garden, till one unlucky day when a new cobbler arrived in the village. He had lived in the capital city of the kingdom, and, by his own account, cobbled for the queen and the princesses. His awls were sharp, his lasts were new; he set up his stall in a neat cottage with two windows. The villagers soon found out that one patch of his would wear two of the brothers'. In short, all the mending left Scrub and Spare, and went to the new cobbler. The season had been wet and cold, their barley did not ripen well, and the cabbages never half closed in the garden. So the brothers were poor that winter, and when Christmas came they had nothing to feast on but a barley loaf, a piece of rusty bacon, and some small beer of their own brewing. Worse than that, the snow was very deep, and they could get no firewood. Their hut stood at the end of the village, beyond it spread the bleak moor, now all white and silent; but that moor had once been a forest, great roots of old trees were still to be found in it, loosened from the soil and laid bare by the winds and rains--one of these, a rough, gnarled log, lay hard by their door, the half of it above the snow, and Spare said to his brother-- "'Shall we sit here cold on Christmas while the great root lies yonder? Let us chop it up for firewood, the work will make us warm.' "'No,' said Scrub; 'it's not right to chop wood on Christmas; besides, that root is too hard to be broken with any hatchet.' "'Hard or not we must have a fire,' replied Spare. 'Come, brother, help me in with it. Poor as we are, there is nobody in the village will have such a yule log as ours.' "Scrub liked a little grandeur, and in hopes of having a fine yule log, both brothers strained and strove with all their might till, between pulling and pushing, the great old root was safe on the hearth, and beginning to crackle and blaze with the red embers. In high glee, the cobblers sat down to their beer and bacon. The door was shut, for there was nothing but cold moonlight and snow outside; but the hut, strewn with fir boughs, and ornamented with holly, looked cheerful as the ruddy blaze flared up and rejoiced their hearts. "'Long life and good fortune to ourselves, brother!' said Spare. 'I hope you will drink that toast, and may we never have a worse fire on Christmas--but what is that?' "Spare set down the drinking-horn, and the brothers listened astonished, for out of the blazing root they heard, 'Cuckoo! cuckoo!' as plain as ever the spring-bird's voice came over the moor on a May morning. "'It is something bad,' said Scrub, terribly frightened. "'May be not,' said Spare; and out of the deep hole at the side which the fire had not reached flew a large grey cuckoo, and lit on the table before them. Much as the cobblers had been surprised, they were still more so when it said-- "'Good gentlemen, what season is this?' "'It's Christmas,' said Spare. "'Then a merry Christmas to you!' said the cuckoo. 'I went to sleep in the hollow of that old root one evening last summer, and never woke till the heat of your fire made me think it was summer again; but now since you have burned my lodging, let me stay in your hut till the spring comes round--I only want a hole to sleep in, and when I go on my travels next summer be assured I will bring you some present for your trouble.' "'Stay, and welcome,' said Spare, while Scrub sat wondering if it were something bad or not; 'I'll make you a good warm hole in the thatch. But you must be hungry after that long sleep?--here is a slice of barley bread. Come help us to keep Christmas!' "The cuckoo ate up the slice, drank water from the brown jug, for he would take no beer, and flew into a snug hole which Spare scooped for him in the thatch of the hut. "Scrub said he was afraid it wouldn't be lucky; but as it slept on, and the days passed he forgot his fears. So the snow melted, the heavy rains came, the cold grew less, the days lengthened, and one sunny morning the brothers were awoke by the cuckoo shouting its own cry to let them know the spring had come. "'Now I'm going on my travels,' said the bird, 'over the world to tell men of the spring. There is no country where trees bud or flowers bloom, that I will not cry in before the year goes round. Give me another slice of barley bread to keep me on my journey, and tell me what present I shall bring you at the twelve-month's end.' "Scrub would have been angry with his brother for cutting so large a slice, their store of barley-meal being low; but his mind was occupied with what present would be most prudent to ask: at length a lucky thought struck him. "'Good master cuckoo,' said he, 'if a great traveller who sees all the world like you, could know of any place where diamonds or pearls were to be found, one of a tolerable size brought in your beak would help such poor men as my brother and I to provide something better than barley bread for your next entertainment.' "'I know nothing of diamonds or pearls,' said the cuckoo; 'they are in the hearts of rocks and the sands of rivers. My knowledge is only of that which grows on the earth. But there are two trees hard by the well that lies at the world's end--one of them is called the golden tree, for its leaves are all of beaten gold: every winter they fall into the well with a sound like scattered coin, and I know not what becomes of them. As for the other, it is always green like a laurel. Some call it the wise, and some the merry tree. Its leaves never fall, but they that get one of them keep a blithe heart in spite of all misfortunes, and can make themselves as merry in a hut as in a palace.' "'Good master cuckoo, bring me a leaf off that tree!' cried Spare. "'Now, brother, don't be a fool!' said Scrub! 'think of the leaves of beaten gold! Dear master cuckoo, bring me one of them!' "Before another word could be spoken, the cuckoo had flown out of the open door, and was shouting its spring cry over moor and meadow. The brothers were poorer than ever that year; nobody would send them a single shoe to mend. The new cobbler said, in scorn, they should come to be his apprentices; and Scrub and Spare would have left the village but for their barley field, their cabbage garden, and a certain maid called Fairfeather, whom both the cobblers had courted for seven years without even knowing which she meant to favour. "Sometimes Fairfeather seemed inclined to Scrub, sometimes she smiled on Spare; but the brothers never disputed for that. They sowed their barley, planted their cabbage, and now that their trade was gone, worked in the rich villagers' fields to make out a scanty living. So the seasons came and passed: spring, summer, harvest, and winter followed each other as they have done from the beginning. At the end of the latter, Scrub and Spare had grown so poor and ragged that Fairfeather thought them beneath her notice. Old neighbours forgot to invite them to wedding feasts or merrymaking; and they thought the cuckoo had forgotten them too, when at daybreak, on the first of April, they heard a hard beak knocking at their door, and a voice crying-- "'Cuckoo! cuckoo! Let me in with my presents.' "Spare ran to open the door, and in came the cuckoo, carrying on one side of his bill a golden leaf larger than that of any tree in the north country; and in the other, one like that of the common laurel, only it had a fresher green. "'Here,' it said, giving the gold to Scrub and the green to Spare, 'it is a long carriage from the world's end. Give me a slice of barley bread, for I must tell the north country that the spring has come.' "Scrub did not grudge the thickness of that slice, though it was cut from their last loaf. So much gold had never been in the cobbler's hands before, and he could not help exulting over his brother. "'See the wisdom of my choice!' he said, holding up the large leaf of gold. 'As for yours, as good might be plucked from any hedge. I wonder a sensible bird would carry the like so far.' [Illustration: The cuckoo with the gold and green leaves.] "'Good master cobbler,' cried the cuckoo, finishing the slice, 'your conclusions are more hasty than courteous. If your brother be disappointed this time, I go on the same journey every year, and for your hospitable entertainment will think it no trouble to bring each of you whichever leaf you desire.' "'Darling cuckoo!' cried Scrub, 'bring me a golden one;' and Spare, looking up from the green leaf on which he gazed as though it were a crown-jewel, said-- "'Be sure to bring me one from the merry tree,' and away flew the cuckoo. "'This is the Feast of All Fools, and it ought to be your birthday,' said Scrub. 'Did ever man fling away such an opportunity of getting rich! Much good your merry leaves will do in the midst of rags and poverty!' So he went on, but Spare laughed at him, and answered with quaint old proverbs concerning the cares that come with gold, till Scrub, at length getting angry, vowed his brother was not fit to live with a respectable man; and taking his lasts, his awls, and his golden leaf, he left the wattle hut, and went to tell the villagers. "They were astonished at the folly of Spare and charmed with Scrub's good sense, particularly when he showed them the golden leaf, and told that the cuckoo would bring him one every spring. The new cobbler immediately took him into partnership; the greatest people sent him their shoes to mend; Fairfeather smiled graciously upon him, and in the course of that summer they were married, with a grand wedding feast, at which the whole village danced, except Spare, who was not invited, because the bride could not bear his low-mindedness, and his brother thought him a disgrace to the family. "Indeed, all who heard the story concluded that Spare must be mad, and nobody would associate with him but a lame tinker, a beggar-boy, and a poor woman reputed to be a witch because she was old and ugly. As for Scrub, he established himself with Fairfeather in a cottage close by that of the new cobbler, and quite as fine. There he mended shoes to everybody's satisfaction, had a scarlet coat for holidays, and a fat goose for dinner every wedding-day. Fairfeather, too, had a crimson gown and fine blue ribands; but neither she nor Scrub were content, for to buy this grandeur the golden leaf had to be broken and parted with piece by piece, so the last morsel was gone before the cuckoo came with another. "Spare lived on in the old hut, and worked in the cabbage garden. (Scrub had got the barley field because he was the eldest.) Every day his coat grew more ragged, and the hut more weatherbeaten; but people remarked that he never looked sad nor sour; and the wonder was, that from the time they began to keep his company, the tinker grew kinder to the poor ass with which he travelled the country, the beggar-boy kept out of mischief, and the old woman was never cross to her cat or angry with the children. "Every first of April the cuckoo came tapping at their doors with the golden leaf to Scrub and the green to Spare. Fairfeather would have entertained him nobly with wheaten bread and honey, for she had some notion of persuading him to bring two gold leaves instead of one; but the cuckoo flew away to eat barley bread with Spare, saying he was not fit company for fine people, and liked the old hut where he slept so snugly from Christmas till Spring. "Scrub spent the golden leaves, and Spare kept the merry ones; and I know not how many years passed in this manner, when a certain great lord, who owned that village came to the neighbourhood. His castle stood on the moor. It was ancient and strong, with high towers and a deep moat. All the country, as far as one could see from the highest turret, belonged to its lord; but he had not been there for twenty years, and would not have come then, only he was melancholy. The cause of his grief was that he had been prime-minister at court, and in high favour, till somebody told the crown-prince that he had spoken disrespectfully concerning the turning out of his royal highness's toes, and the king that he did not lay on taxes enough, whereon the north country lord was turned out of office, and banished to his own estate. There he lived for some weeks in very bad temper. The servants said nothing would please him, and the villagers put on their worst clothes lest he should raise their rents; but one day in the harvest time his lordship chanced to meet Spare gathering water cresses at a meadow stream, and fell into talk with the cobbler. "How it was nobody could tell, but from the hour of that discourse the great lord cast away his melancholy: he forgot his lost office and his court enemies, the king's taxes and the crown-prince's toes, and went about with a noble train hunting, fishing, and making merry in his hall, where all travellers were entertained and all the poor were welcome. This strange story spread through the north country, and great company came to the cobbler's hut--rich men who had lost their money, poor men who had lost their friends, beauties who had grown old, wits who had gone out of fashion, all came to talk with Spare, and whatever their troubles had been, all went home merry. The rich gave him presents, the poor gave him thanks. Spare's coat ceased to be ragged, he had bacon with his cabbage, and the villagers began to think there was some sense in him. "By this time his fame had reached the capital city, and even the court. There were a great many discontented people there besides the king, who had lately fallen into ill-humour because a neighbouring princess, with seven islands for her dowry, would not marry his eldest son. So a royal messenger was sent to Spare, with a velvet mantle, a diamond ring, and a command that he should repair to court immediately. "'To-morrow is the first of April,' said Spare, 'and I will go with you two hours after sunrise.' "The messenger lodged all night at the castle, and the cuckoo came at sunrise with the merry leaf. "'Court is a fine place,' he said when the cobbler told him he was going; 'but I cannot come there, they would lay snares and catch me; so be careful of the leaves I have brought you, and give me a farewell slice of barley bread.' "Spare was sorry to part with the cuckoo, little as he had of his company; but he gave him a slice which would have broken Scrub's heart in former times, it was so thick and large; and having sewed up the leaves in the lining of his leather doublet, he set out with the messenger on his way to court. [Illustration: The cobbler Spare receives a royal messenger.] "His coming caused great surprise there. Everybody wondered what the king could see in such a common-looking man; but scarce had his majesty conversed with him half an hour, when the princess and her seven islands were forgotten, and orders given that a feast for all comers should be spread in the banquet hall. The princes of the blood, the great lords and ladies, ministers of state, and judges of the land, after that discoursed with Spare, and the more they talked the lighter grew their hearts, so that such changes had never been seen at court. The lords forgot their spites and the ladies their envies, the princes and ministers made friends among themselves, and the judges showed no favour. "As for Spare, he had a chamber assigned him in the palace, and a seat at the king's table; one sent him rich robes and another costly jewels; but in the midst of all his grandeur he still wore the leathern doublet, which the palace servants thought remarkably mean. One day the king's attention being drawn to it by the chief page, his majesty inquired why Spare didn't give it to a beggar? But the cobbler answered-- "'High and mighty monarch, this doublet was with me before silk and velvet came--I find it easier to wear than the court cut; moreover, it serves to keep me humble, by recalling the days when it was my holiday garment.' "The king thought this a wise speech, and commanded that no one should find fault with the leathern doublet. So things went, till tidings of his brother's good fortune reached Scrub in the moorland cottage on another first of April, when the cuckoo came with two golden leaves, because he had none to carry for Spare. "'Think of that!' said Fairfeather. 'Here we are spending our lives in this humdrum place, and Spare making his fortune at court with two or three paltry green leaves! What would they say to our golden ones? Let us pack up and make our way to the king's palace; I'm sure he will make you a lord and me a lady of honour, not to speak of all the fine clothes and presents we shall have.' "Scrub thought this excellent reasoning, and their packing up began: but it was soon found that the cottage contained few things fit for carrying to court. Fairfeather could not think of her wooden bowls, spoons, and trenchers being seen there. Scrub considered his lasts and awls better left behind, as without them, he concluded, no one would suspect him of being a cobbler. So putting on their holiday clothes, Fairfeather took her looking-glass and Scrub his drinking horn, which happened to have a very thin rim of silver, and each carrying a golden leaf carefully wrapped up that none might see it till they reached the palace, the pair set out in great expectation. "How far Scrub and Fairfeather journeyed I cannot say, but when the sun was high and warm at noon, they came into a wood both tired and hungry. "'If I had known it was so far to court,' said Scrub, 'I would have brought the end of that barley loaf which we left in the cupboard.' "'Husband,' said Fairfeather, 'you shouldn't have such mean thoughts: how could one eat barley bread on the way to a palace? Let us rest ourselves under this tree, and look at our golden leaves to see if they are safe.' In looking at the leaves, and talking of their fine prospects, Scrub and Fairfeather did not perceive that a very thin old woman had slipped from behind the tree, with a long staff in her hand and a great wallet by her side. "'Noble lord and lady,' she said, 'for I know ye are such by your voices, though my eyes are dim and my hearing none of the sharpest, will ye condescend to tell me where I may find some water to mix a bottle of mead which I carry in my wallet, because it is too strong for me?' "As the old woman spoke, she pulled out a large wooden bottle such as shepherds used in the ancient times, corked with leaves rolled together, and having a small wooden cup hanging from its handle. "'Perhaps ye will do me the favour to taste,' she said. 'It is only made of the best honey. I have also cream cheese, and a wheaten loaf here, if such honourable persons as you would eat the like.' "Scrub and Fairfeather became very condescending after this speech. They were now sure that there must be some appearance of nobility about them; besides, they were very hungry, and having hastily wrapped up the golden leaves, they assured the old woman they were not at all proud, notwithstanding the lands and castles they had left behind them in the north country, and would willingly help to lighten the wallet. The old woman could scarcely be persuaded to sit down for pure humility, but at length she did, and before the wallet was half empty, Scrub and Fairfeather firmly believed that there must be something remarkably noble-looking about them. This was not entirely owing to her ingenious discourse. The old woman was a wood-witch; her name was Buttertongue; and all her time was spent in making mead, which, being boiled with curious herbs and spells, had the power of making all who drank it fall asleep and dream with their eyes open. She had two dwarfs of sons; one was named Spy, and the other Pounce. Wherever their mother went they were not far behind; and whoever tasted her mead was sure to be robbed by the dwarfs. "Scrub and Fairfeather sat leaning against the old tree. The cobbler had a lump of cheese in his hand; his wife held fast a hunch of bread. Their eyes and mouths were both open, but they were dreaming of great grandeur at court, when the old woman raised her shrill voice-- "'What ho, my sons! come here and carry home the harvest.' "No sooner had she spoken, than the two little dwarfs darted out of the neighbouring thicket. "'Idle boys!' cried the mother, 'what have ye done to-day to help our living?' "'I have been to the city,' said Spy, 'and could see nothing. These are hard times for us--everybody minds their business so contentedly since that cobbler came; but here is a leathern doublet which his page threw out of the window; it's of no use, but I brought it to let you see I was not idle.' And he tossed down Spare's doublet, with the merry leaves in it, which he had carried like a bundle on his little back. "To explain how Spy came by it, I must tell you that the forest was not far from the great city where Spare lived in such high esteem. All things had gone well with the cobbler till the king thought that it was quite unbecoming to see such a worthy man without a servant. His majesty, therefore, to let all men understand his royal favour toward Spare, appointed one of his own pages to wait upon him. The name of this youth was Tinseltoes, and, though he was the seventh of the king's pages, nobody in all the court had grander notions. Nothing could please him that had not gold or silver about it, and his grandmother feared he would hang himself for being appointed page to a cobbler. As for Spare, if anything could have troubled him, this token of his majesty's kindness would have done it. "The honest man had been so used to serve himself that the page was always in the way, but his merry leaves came to his assistance; and, to the great surprise of his grandmother, Tinseltoes took wonderfully to the new service. Some said it was because Spare gave him nothing to do but play at bowls all day on the palace-green. Yet one thing grieved the heart of Tinseltoes, and that was his master's leathern doublet, but for it he was persuaded people would never remember that Spare had been a cobbler, and the page took a deal of pains to let him see how unfashionable it was at court; but Spare answered Tinseltoes as he had done the king, and at last, finding nothing better would do, the page got up one fine morning earlier than his master, and tossed the leathern doublet out of the back window into a certain lane where Spy found it, and brought it to his mother. "'That nasty thing!' said the old woman; 'where is the good in it?' "By this time, Pounce had taken everything of value from Scrub and Fairfeather--the looking-glass, the silver-rimmed horn, the husband's scarlet coat, the wife's gay mantle, and, above all, the golden leaves, which so rejoiced old Buttertongue and her sons, that they threw the leathern doublet over the sleeping cobbler for a jest, and went off to their hut in the heart of the forest. "The sun was going down when Scrub and Fairfeather awoke from dreaming that they had been made a lord and a lady, and sat clothed in silk and velvet, feasting with the king in his palace-hall. It was a great disappointment to find their golden leaves and all their best things gone. Scrub tore his hair, and vowed to take the old woman's life, while Fairfeather lamented sore; but Scrub, feeling cold for want of his coat, put on the leathern doublet without asking or caring whence it came. [Illustration: The page Tinseltoes throws the doublet out of the window.] "Scarcely was it buttoned on when a change came over him; he addressed such merry discourse to Fairfeather, that, instead of lamentations, she made the wood ring with laughter. Both busied themselves in getting up a hut of boughs, in which Scrub kindled a fire with a flint and steel, which, together with his pipe, he had brought unknown to Fairfeather, who had told him the like was never heard of at court. Then they found a pheasant's nest at the root of an old oak, made a meal of roasted eggs, and went to sleep on a heap of long green grass which they had gathered, with nightingales singing all night long in the old trees about them. So it happened that Scrub and Fairfeather stayed day after day in the forest, making their hut larger and more comfortable against the winter, living on wild birds' eggs and berries, and never thinking of their lost golden leaves, or their journey to court. "In the meantime Spare had got up and missed his doublet. Tinseltoes, of course, said he knew nothing about it. The whole palace was searched, and every servant questioned, till all the court wondered why such a fuss was made about an old leathern doublet. That very day things came back to their old fashion. Quarrels began among the lords, and jealousies among the ladies. The king said his subjects did not pay him half enough taxes, the queen wanted more jewels, the servants took to their old bickerings and got up some new ones. Spare found himself getting wonderfully dull, and very much out of place: nobles began to ask what business a cobbler had at the king's table, and his majesty ordered the palace chronicles to be searched for a precedent. The cobbler was too wise to tell all he had lost with that doublet, but being by this time somewhat familiar with court customs, he proclaimed a reward of fifty gold pieces to any who would bring him news concerning it. "Scarcely was this made known in the city, when the gates and outer courts of the palace were filled by men, women, and children, some bringing leathern doublets of every cut and colour; some with tales of what they had heard and seen in their walks about the neighbourhood; and so much news concerning all sorts of great people came out of these stories, that lords and ladies ran to the king with complaints of Spare as a speaker of slander; and his majesty, being now satisfied that there was no example in all the palace records of such a retainer, issued a decree banishing the cobbler for ever from court, and confiscating all his goods in favour of Tinseltoes. "That royal edict was scarcely published before the page was in full possession of his rich chamber, his costly garments, and all the presents the courtiers had given him; while Spare, having no longer the fifty pieces of gold to give, was glad to make his escape out of the back window, for fear of the nobles, who vowed to be revenged on him, and the crowd, who were prepared to stone him for cheating them about his doublet. "The window from which Spare let himself down with a strong rope, was that from which Tinseltoes had tossed the doublet, and as the cobbler came down late in the twilight, a poor woodman, with a heavy load of fagots, stopped and stared at him in great astonishment. "'What's the matter, friend?' said Spare. 'Did you never see a man coming down from a back window before?' "'Why,' said the woodman, 'the last morning I passed here a leathern doublet came out of that very window, and I'll be bound you are the owner of it.' "'That I am, friend,' said the cobbler. 'Can you tell me which way that doublet went?' "'As I walked on,' said the woodman, 'a dwarf, called Spy, bundled it up and ran off to his mother in the forest.' "'Honest friend,' said Spare, taking off the last of his fine clothes (a grass-green mantle edged with gold), 'I'll give you this if you will follow the dwarf, and bring me back my doublet.' "'It would not be good to carry fagots in,' said the woodman. 'But if you want back your doublet, the road to the forest lies at the end of this lane,' and he trudged away. "Determined to find his doublet, and sure that neither crowd nor courtiers could catch him in the forest, Spare went on his way, and was soon among the tall trees; but neither hut nor dwarf could he see. Moreover, the night came on; the wood was dark and tangled, but here and there the moon shone through its alleys, the great owls flitted about, and the nightingales sang. So he went on, hoping to find some place of shelter. At last the red light of a fire, gleaming through a thicket, led him to the door of a low hut. It stood half open, as if there was nothing to fear, and within he saw his brother Scrub snoring loudly on a bed of grass, at the foot of which lay his own leathern doublet; while Fairfeather, in a kirtle made of plaited rushes, sat roasting pheasants' eggs by the fire. "'Good evening, mistress,' said Spare, stepping in. "The blaze shone on him, but so changed was her brother-in-law with his court-life, that Fairfeather did not know him, and she answered far more courteously than was her wont. "'Good evening, master. Whence come ye so late? but speak low, for my good man has sorely tired himself cleaving wood, and is taking a sleep, as you see, before supper.' "'A good rest to him,' said Spare, perceiving he was not known. 'I come from the court for a day's hunting, and have lost my way in the forest.' "'Sit down and have a share of our supper,' said Fairfeather, 'I will put some more eggs in the ashes; and tell me the news of court--I used to think of it long ago when I was young and foolish.' "'Did you never go there?' said the cobbler. 'So fair a dame as you would make the ladies marvel.' "'You are pleased to flatter,' said Fairfeather; 'but my husband has a brother there, and we left our moorland village to try our fortune also. An old woman enticed us with fair words and strong drink at the entrance of this forest, where we fell asleep and dreamt of great things; but when we woke, everything had been robbed from us--my looking-glass, my scarlet cloak, my husband's Sunday coat; and, in place of all, the robbers left him that old leathern doublet, which he has worn ever since, and never was so merry in all his life, though we live in this poor hut.' "'It is a shabby doublet, that,' said Spare, taking up the garment, and seeing that it was his own, for the merry leaves were still sewed in its lining. 'It would be good for hunting in, however--your husband would be glad to part with it, I dare say, in exchange for this handsome cloak;' and he pulled off the green mantle and buttoned on the doublet, much to Fairfeather's delight, who ran and shook Scrub, crying-- "'Husband! husband! rise and see what a good bargain I have made.' "Scrub gave one closing snore, and muttered something about the root being hard; but he rubbed his eyes, gazed up at his brother, and said-- "'Spare, is that really you? How did you like the court, and have you made your fortune?' "'That I have, brother,' said Spare, 'in getting back my own good leathern doublet. Come, let us eat eggs, and rest ourselves here this night. In the morning we will return to our own old hut, at the end of the moorland village where the Christmas Cuckoo will come and bring us leaves.' "Scrub and Fairfeather agreed. So in the morning they all returned, and found the old hut little the worse for wear and weather. The neighbours came about them to ask the news of court, and see if they had made their fortune. Everybody was astonished to find the three poorer than ever, but somehow they liked to go back to the hut. Spare brought out the lasts and awls he had hidden in a corner; Scrub and he began their old trade, and the whole north country found out that there never were such cobblers. "They mended the shoes of lords and ladies as well as the common people; everybody was satisfied. Their custom increased from day to day, and all that were disappointed, discontented, or unlucky, came to the hut as in old times, before Spare went to court. "The rich brought them presents, the poor did them service. The hut itself changed, no one knew how. Flowering honeysuckle grew over its roof; red and white roses grew thick about its door. Moreover, the Christmas Cuckoo always came on the first of April, bringing three leaves of the merry tree--for Scrub and Fairfeather would have no more golden ones. So it was with them when I last heard the news of the north country." "What a summer-house that hut would make for me, mamma!" said the Princess Greedalind. "We must have it brought here bodily," said Queen Wantall; but the chair was silent, and a lady and two noble squires, clad in russet-coloured satin and yellow buskins, the like of which had never been seen at that court, rose up and said-- "That's our story." "I have not heard such a tale," said King Winwealth, "since my brother Wisewit went from me, and was lost in the forest. Redheels, the seventh of my pages, go and bring this little maid a pair of scarlet shoes with golden buckles." The seventh page immediately brought from the royal store a pair of scarlet satin shoes with buckles of gold. Snowflower never had seen the like before, and joyfully thanking the king, she dropped a courtesy, seated herself and said--"Chair of my grandmother, take me to the worst kitchen." Immediately the chair marched away as it came, to the admiration of that noble company. The little girl was allowed to sleep on some straw at the kitchen fire that night. Next day they gave her ale with the scraps the cook threw away. The feast went on with great music and splendour, and the people clamoured without; but in the evening King Winwealth again fell into low spirits, and the royal command was told to Snowflower by the chief scullion, that she and her chair should go to the highest banquet hall, for his majesty wished to hear another story. When Snowflower had washed her face, and dusted her chair, she went up seated as before, only that she had on the scarlet shoes. Queen Wantall and her daughter looked more spiteful than ever, but some of the company graciously noticed Snowflower's courtesy, and were pleased when she laid down her head, saying, "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story." "Listen," said the clear voice from under the cushion, "to the story of Lady Greensleeves." CHAPTER III THE LORDS OF THE WHITE AND GREY CASTLES "Once upon a time there lived two noble lords in the east country. Their lands lay between a broad river and an old oak forest, whose size was so great that no man knew it. In the midst of his land each lord had a stately castle; one was built of the white freestone, the other of the grey granite. So the one was called Lord of the White Castle, and the other Lord of the Grey. "There were no lords like them in all the east country for nobleness and bounty. Their tenants lived in peace and plenty; all strangers were hospitably entertained at their castles; and every autumn they sent men with axes into the forest to hew down the great trees, and chop them up into firewood for the poor. Neither hedge nor ditch divided their lands, but these lords never disputed. They had been friends from their youth. Their ladies had died long ago, but the Lord of the Grey Castle had a little son, and the Lord of the White a little daughter; and when they feasted in each other's halls it was their custom to say, 'When our children grow up they will marry, and have our castles and our lands, and keep our friendship in memory.' "So the lords and their little children, and tenants, lived happily till one Michaelmas night, as they were all feasting in the hall of the White Castle, there came a traveller to the gate, who was welcomed and feasted as usual. He had seen many strange sights and countries, and, like most people, he liked to tell his travels. The lords were delighted with his tales, as they sat round the fire drinking wine after supper, and at length the Lord of the White Castle, who was very curious, said-- "'Good stranger, what was the greatest wonder you ever saw in all your travels?' "'The most wonderful sight that ever I saw,' replied the traveller, 'was at the end of yonder forest, where in an ancient wooden house there sits an old woman weaving her own hair into grey cloth on an old crazy loom. When she wants more yarn she cuts off her own grey hair, and it grows so quickly that though I saw it cut in the morning, it was out of the door before noon. She told me it was her purpose to sell the cloth, but none of all who came that way had yet bought any, she asked so great a price; and, only the way is so long and dangerous through that wide forest full of boars and wolves, some rich lord like you might buy it for a mantle.' "All who heard this story were astonished; but when the traveller had gone on his way the Lord of the White Castle could neither eat nor sleep for wishing to see the old woman that wove her own hair. At length he made up his mind to explore the forest in search of her ancient house, and told the Lord of the Grey Castle his intention. Being a prudent man, this lord replied that traveller's tales were not always to be trusted, and earnestly advised him against undertaking such a long and dangerous journey, for few that went far into that forest ever returned. However, when the curious lord would go in spite of all, he vowed to bear him company for friendship's sake, and they agreed to set out privately, lest the other lords of the land might laugh at them. The Lord of the White Castle had a steward who had served him many years, and his name was Reckoning Robin. To him he said-- "'I am going on a long journey with my friend. Be careful of my goods, deal justly with my tenants, and above all things be kind to my little daughter Loveleaves till my return;' and the steward answered-- "'Be sure, my lord, I will.' "The Lord of the Grey Castle also had a steward who had served him many years, and his name was Wary Will. To him he said-- "'I am going on a journey with my friend. Be careful of my goods, deal justly with my tenants, and above all things be kind to my little son Woodwender till my return;' and his steward answered him-- "'Be sure, my lord, I will.' "So these lords kissed their children while they slept, and set out each with his staff and mantle before sunrise through the old oak forest. The children missed their fathers, the tenants missed their lords. None but the stewards could tell what had become of them; but seven months wore away, and they did not come back. The lords had thought their stewards faithful, because they served so well under their eyes; but instead of that, both were proud and crafty, and thinking that some evil had happened to their masters, they set themselves to be lords in their room. "Reckoning Robin had a son called Hardhold, and Wary Will, a daughter called Drypenny. There was not a sulkier girl or boy in the country, but their fathers resolved to make a young lord and lady of them; so they took the silk clothes which Woodwender and Loveleaves used to wear, to dress them, clothing the lord's children in frieze and canvas. Their garden flowers and ivory toys were given to Hardhold and Drypenny; and at last the steward's children sat at the chief tables, and slept in the best chambers, while Woodwender and Loveleaves were sent to herd the swine and sleep on straw in the granary. [Illustration: Woodwender and Loveleaves tend the swine.] "The poor children had no one to take their part. Every morning at sunrise they were sent out--each with a barley loaf and a bottle of sour milk, which was to serve them for breakfast, dinner, and supper--to watch a great herd of swine on a wide unfenced pasture hard by the forest. The grass was scanty, and the swine were continually straying into the wood in search of acorns; the children knew that if they were lost the wicked stewards would punish them, and between gathering and keeping their herds in order, they were readier to sleep on the granary straw at night than ever they had been within their own silken curtains. Still Woodwender and Loveleaves helped and comforted each other, saying their fathers would come back, or God would send them some friends: so, in spite of swine-herding and hard living, they looked blithe and handsome as ever; while Hardhold and Drypenny grew crosser and uglier every day, notwithstanding their fine clothes and the best of all things. "The crafty stewards did not like this. They thought their children ought to look genteel, and Woodwender and Loveleaves like young swineherds; so they sent them to a wilder pasture, still nearer the forest, and gave them two great black hogs, more unruly than all the rest, to keep. One of these hogs belonged to Hardhold, and the other to Drypenny. Every evening when they came home the steward's children used to come down and feed them, and it was their delight to reckon up what price they would bring when properly fattened. "One sultry day, about midsummer, Woodwender and Loveleaves sat down in the shadow of a mossy rock: the swine grazed about them more quietly than usual, and they plaited rushes and talked to each other, till, as the sun was sloping down the sky, Woodwender saw that the two great hogs were missing. Thinking they must have gone to the forest, the poor children ran to search for them. They heard the thrush singing and the wood-doves calling; they saw the squirrels leaping from bough to bough, and the great deer bounding by; but though they searched for hours, no trace of the favourite hogs could be seen. Loveleaves and Woodwender durst not go home without them. Deeper and deeper they ran into the forest, searching and calling, but all in vain; and when the woods began to darken with the fall of evening, the children feared they had lost their way. "It was known that they never feared the forest, nor all the boars and wolves that were in it; but being weary, they wished for some place of shelter, and took a green path through the trees, thinking it might lead to the dwelling of some hermit or forester. A fairer way Woodwender and Loveleaves had never walked. The grass was soft and mossy, a hedge of wild roses and honeysuckle grew on either side, and the red light of sunset streamed through the tall trees above. On they went, and it led them straight to a great open dell, covered with the loveliest flowers, bordered with banks of wild strawberries, and all overshadowed by one enormous oak, whose like had never been seen in grove or forest. Its branches were as large as full-grown trees. Its trunk was wider than a country church, and its height like that of a castle. There were mossy seats at its great root, and when the tired children had gathered as many strawberries as they cared for, they sat down on one, hard by a small spring that bubbled up as clear as crystal. The huge oak was covered with thick ivy, in which thousands of birds had their nests. Woodwender and Loveleaves watched them flying home from all parts of the forest, and at last they saw a lady coming by the same path which led them to the dell. She wore a gown of russet colour; her yellow hair was braided and bound with a crimson fillet. In her right hand she carried a holly branch; but the most remarkable part of her attire was a pair of long sleeves, as green as the very grass. "'Who are you?' she said, 'that sit so late beside my well?' and the children told her their story, how they had first lost the hogs, then their way, and were afraid to go home to the wicked stewards. "'Well,' said the lady, 'ye are the fairest swineherds that ever came this way. Choose whether ye will go home and keep hogs for Hardhold and Drypenny, or live in the free forest with me.' "'We will stay with you,' said the children, 'for we like not keeping swine. Besides, our fathers went through this forest, and we may meet them some day coming home.' "While they spoke, the lady slipped her holly branch through the ivy, as if it had been a key--presently a door opened in the oak, and there was a fair house. The windows were of rock crystal, but they could not be seen from without. The walls and floor were covered with thick green moss, as soft as velvet. There were low seats and a round table, vessels of carved wood, a hearth inlaid with curious stones, an oven, and a store chamber for provisions against the winter. When they stepped in, the lady said-- "'A hundred years have I lived here, and my name is Lady Greensleeves. No friend or servant have I had except my dwarf Corner, who comes to me at the end of harvest with his handmill, his pannier, and his axe: with these he grinds the nuts, and gathers the berries, and cleaves the firewood, and blithely we live all the winter. But Corner loves the frost and fears the sun, and when the topmost boughs begin to bud, he returns to his country far in the north, so I am lonely in the summer time.' "By this discourse the children saw how welcome they were. Lady Greensleeves gave them deer's milk and cakes of nut-flour, and soft green moss to sleep on; and they forgot all their troubles, the wicked stewards, and the straying swine. Early in the morning a troop of does came to be milked, fairies brought flowers, and birds brought berries, to show Lady Greensleeves what had bloomed and ripened. She taught the children to make cheese of the does' milk, and wine of the wood-berries. She showed them the stores of honey which wild bees had made, and left in hollow trees, the rarest plants of the forest, and the herbs that made all its creatures tame. "All that summer Woodwender and Loveleaves lived with her in the great oak-tree, free from toil and care; and the children would have been happy, but they could hear no tidings of their fathers. At last the leaves began to fade, and the flowers to fall; Lady Greensleeves said that Corner was coming; and one moonlight night she heaped sticks on the fire, and set her door open, when Woodwender and Loveleaves were going to sleep, saying she expected some old friends to tell her the news of the forest. "Loveleaves was not quite so curious as her father, the Lord of the White Castle: but she kept awake to see what would happen, and terribly frightened the little girl was when in walked a great brown bear. "'Good evening, lady,' said the bear. "'Good evening, bear,' said Lady Greensleeves. 'What is the news in your neighbourhood?' "'Not much,' said the bear; 'only the fawns are growing very cunning--one can't catch above three in a day.' "'That's bad news,' said Lady Greensleeves; and immediately in walked a great wild cat. "'Good evening, lady,' said the cat. "'Good evening, cat,' said Lady Greensleeves. 'What is the news in your neighbourhood?' "'Not much,' said the cat; 'only the birds are growing very plentiful--it is not worth one's while to catch them.' "'That's good news,' said Lady Greensleeves; and in flew a great black raven. "'Good evening, lady,' said the raven. "'Good evening, raven,' said Lady Greensleeves. 'What is the news in your neighbourhood?' "'Not much,' said the raven; 'only in a hundred years or so we shall be very genteel and private--the trees will be so thick.' "'How is that?' said Lady Greensleeves. "'Oh!' said the raven, 'have you not heard how the king of the forest fairies laid a spell on two noble lords, who were travelling through his dominions to see the old woman that weaves her own hair? They had thinned his oaks every year, cutting firewood for the poor: so the king met them in the likeness of a hunter, and asked them to drink out of his oaken goblet, because the day was warm; and when the two lords drank, they forgot their lands and their tenants, their castles and their children, and minded nothing in all this world but the planting of acorns, which they do day and night, by the power of the spell, in the heart of the forest, and will never cease till some one makes them pause in their work before the sun sets, and then the spell will be broken.' "'Ah!' said Lady Greensleeves, 'he is a great prince, that king of the forest fairies; and there is worse work in the world than planting acorns.' "Soon after, the bear, the cat, and the raven bade Lady Greensleeves good night. She closed the door, put out the light, and went to sleep on the soft moss as usual. "In the morning Loveleaves told Woodwender what she had heard, and they went to Lady Greensleeves where she milked the does, and said-- "'We heard what the raven told last night, and we know the two lords are our fathers: tell us how the spell may be broken!' "'I fear the king of the forest fairies,' said Lady Greensleeves, 'because I live here alone, and have no friend but my dwarf Corner; but I will tell you what you may do. At the end of the path which leads from this dell turn your faces to the north, and you will find a narrow way sprinkled over with black feathers--keep that path, no matter how it winds, and it will lead you straight to the ravens' neighbourhood, where you will find your fathers planting acorns under the forest trees. Watch till the sun is near setting, and tell them the most wonderful things you know to make them forget their work; but be sure to tell nothing but truth, and drink nothing but running water, or you will fall into the power of the fairy king.' "The children thanked her for this good counsel. She packed up cakes and cheese for them in a bag of woven grass, and they soon found the narrow way sprinkled over with black feathers. It was very long, and wound through the thick trees in so many circles that the children were often weary, and sat down to rest. When the night came, they found a mossy hollow in the trunk of an old tree, where they laid themselves down, and slept all the summer night--for Woodwender and Loveleaves never feared the forest. So they went, eating their cakes and cheese when they were hungry, drinking from the running stream, and sleeping in the hollow trees, till on the evening of the seventh day they came into the ravens' neighbourhood. The tall trees were laden with nests and black with ravens. There was nothing to be heard but continual cawing; and in a great opening where the oaks grew thinnest, the children saw their own fathers busy planting acorns. Each lord had on the velvet mantle in which he left his castle, but it was worn to rags with rough work in the forest. Their hair and beards had grown long; their hands were soiled with earth; each had an old wooden spade, and on all sides lay heaps of acorns. The children called them by their names, and ran to kiss them, each saying--'Dear father, come back to your castle and your people!' but the lords replied-- "'We know of no castles and no people. There is nothing in all this world but oak-trees and acorns.' "Woodwender and Loveleaves told them of all their former state in vain--nothing would make them pause for a minute: so the poor children first sat down and cried, and then slept on the cold grass, for the sun set, and the lords worked on. When they awoke it was broad day; Woodwender cheered up his sister, saying--'We are hungry, and there are still two cakes in the bag, let us share one of them--who knows but something may happen?' "So they divided the cake, and ran to the lords, saying--'Dear fathers, eat with us:' but the lords said-- "'There is no use for meat or drink. Let us plant our acorns.' "Loveleaves and Woodwender sat down, and ate that cake in great sorrow. When they had finished, both went to a stream hard by, and began to drink the clear water with a large acorn shell; and as they drank there came through the oaks a gay young hunter, his mantle was green as the grass: about his neck there hung a crystal bugle, and in his hand he carried a huge oaken goblet, carved with flowers and leaves, and rimmed with crystal. Up to the brim it was filled with milk, on which the rich cream floated; and as the hunter came near, he said--'Fair children, leave that muddy water, and come and drink with me;' but Woodwender and Loveleaves answered-- "'Thanks, good hunter; but we have promised to drink nothing but running water.' Still the hunter came nearer with his goblet, saying-- "'The water is foul: it may do for swineherds and woodcutters, but not for such fair children as you. Tell me, are you not the children of mighty kings? Were you not reared in palaces?' But the boy and girl answered him-- "'No: we were reared in castles, and are the children of yonder lords; tell us how the spell that is upon them may be broken!' and immediately the hunter turned from them with an angry look, poured out the milk upon the ground and went away with his empty goblet. [Illustration: The gay young hunter comes to Woodwender and Loveleaves.] "Loveleaves and Woodwender were sorry to see the rich cream spilled, but they remembered Lady Greensleeves' warning, and seeing they could do no better, each got a withered branch and began to help the lords, scratching up the ground with the sharp end, and planting acorns; but their fathers took no notice of them, nor all that they could say; and when the sun grew warm at noon, they went again to drink at the running stream. Then there came through the oaks another hunter, older than the first, and clothed in yellow: about his neck there hung a silver bugle, and in his hand he carried an oaken goblet, carved with leaves and fruit, rimmed with silver, and filled with mead to the brim. This hunter also asked them to drink, told them the stream was full of frogs, and asked them if they were not a young prince and princess dwelling in the woods for their pleasure? but when Woodwender and Loveleaves answered as before--'We have promised to drink only running water, and are the children of yonder lords: tell us how the spell may be broken!'--he turned from them with an angry look, poured out the mead, and went his way. "All that afternoon the children worked beside their fathers, planting acorns with the withered branches; but the lords would mind neither them nor their words. And when the evening drew near they were very hungry; so the children divided their last cake, and when no persuasion would make the lords eat with them, they went to the banks of the stream, and began to eat and drink, though their hearts were heavy. "The sun was getting low, and the ravens were coming home to their nests in the high trees; but one, that seemed old and weary, alighted near them to drink at the stream. As they ate the raven lingered, and picked up the small crumbs that fell. "'Brother,' said Loveleaves, 'this raven is surely hungry; let us give it a little bit, though it is our last cake.' "Woodwender agreed, and each gave a bit to the raven; but its great bill finished the morsels in a moment, and hopping nearer, it looked them in the face by turns. "'The poor raven is still hungry,' said Woodwender, and he gave it another bit. When that was gobbled, it came to Loveleaves, who gave it a bit too, and so on till the raven had eaten the whole of their last cake. "'Well,' said Woodwender, 'at least, we can have a drink.' But as they stooped to the water, there came through the oaks another hunter, older than the last, and clothed in scarlet: about his neck there hung a golden bugle, and in his hand he carried a huge oaken goblet, carved with ears of corn and clusters of grapes, rimmed with gold, and filled to the brim with wine. He also said-- "'Leave this muddy water, and drink with me. It is full of toads, and not fit for such fair children. Surely ye are from fairyland, and were reared in its queen's palace!' But the children said-- "'We will drink nothing but this water, and yonder lords are our fathers: tell us how the spell may be broken!' And the hunter turned from them with an angry look, poured out the wine on the grass, and went his way. When he was gone, the old raven looked up into their faces, and said-- "'I have eaten your last cake, and I will tell you how the spell may be broken. Yonder is the sun, going down behind yon western trees. Before it sets, go to the lords, and tell them how their stewards used you, and made you herd hogs for Hardhold and Drypenny. When you see them listening, catch up their wooden spades, and keep them if you can till the sun goes down.' "Woodwender and Loveleaves thanked the raven, and where it flew they never stopped to see, but running to the lords began to tell as they were bidden. At first the lords would not listen, but as the children related how they had been made to sleep on straw, how they had been sent to herd hogs in the wild pasture, and what trouble they had with the unruly swine, the acorn planting grew slower, and at last they dropped their spades. Then Woodwender, catching up his father's spade, ran to the stream and threw it in. Loveleaves did the same for the Lord of the White Castle. That moment the sun disappeared behind the western oaks, and the lords stood up, looking, like men just awoke, on the forest, on the sky, and on their children. "So this strange story has ended, for Woodwender and Loveleaves went home rejoicing with their fathers. Each lord returned to his castle, and all their tenants made merry. The fine toys and the silk clothes, the flower-gardens and the best chambers, were taken from Hardhold and Drypenny, for the lords' children got them again; and the wicked stewards, with their cross boy and girl, were sent to herd swine, and live in huts in the wild pasture, which everybody said became them better. The Lord of the White Castle never again wished to see the old woman that wove her own hair, and the Lord of the Grey Castle continued to be his friend. As for Woodwender and Loveleaves, they met with no more misfortunes, but grew up, and were married, and inherited the two castles and the broad lands of their fathers. Nor did they forget the lonely Lady Greensleeves, for it was known in the east country that she and her dwarf Corner always came to feast with them in the Christmas time, and at midsummer they always went to live with her in the great oak in the forest.' "Oh! mamma, if we had that oak!" said the Princess Greedalind. "Where does it grow?" said Queen Wantall: but the chair was silent, and a noble lord and lady, clad in green velvet, flowered with gold, rose up and said-- "That's our story." "Excepting the tale of yesterday," said King Winwealth, "I have not heard such a story since my brother Wisewit went from me, and was lost in the forest. Gaygarters, the sixth of my pages, go and bring this maiden a pair of white silk hose with golden clocks on them." Queen Wantall and Princess Greedalind at this looked crosser than ever; but Gaygarters brought the white silk hose, and Snowflower, having dropped her courtesy, and taken her seat, was carried once more to the kitchen, where they gave her a mattress that night, and next day she got the ends of choice dishes. The feast, the music, and the dancing went on, so did the envies within and the clamours without the palace. In the evening King Winwealth fell again into low spirits after supper, and a message coming down from the banquet hall, the kitchen-maid told Snowflower to prepare herself, and go up with her grandmother's chair, for his majesty wished to hear another story. Having washed her face and combed her hair, put on her scarlet shoes, and her gold-clocked hose, Snowflower went up as before, seated in her grandmother's chair; and after courtesying as usual to the king, the queen, the princess, and the noble company, the little girl laid down her head, saying--"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story;" and a clear voice from under the cushion said-- "Listen to the story of the Greedy Shepherd." CHAPTER IV THE GREEDY SHEPHERD "Once upon a time there lived in the south country two brothers, whose business it was to keep sheep on a great grassy plain, which was bounded on the one side by a forest, and on the other by a chain of high hills. No one lived on that plain but shepherds, who dwelt in low cottages thatched with heath, and watched their sheep so carefully that no lamb was ever lost, nor had one of the shepherds ever travelled beyond the foot of the hills and the skirts of the forest. "There were none among them more careful than these two brothers, one of whom was called Clutch, and the other Kind. Though brethren born, two men of distant countries could not be more unlike in disposition. Clutch thought of nothing in this world but how to catch and keep some profit for himself, while Kind would have shared his last morsel with a hungry dog. This covetous mind made Clutch keep all his father's sheep when the old man was dead and gone, because he was the eldest brother, allowing Kind nothing but the place of a servant to help him in looking after them. Kind wouldn't quarrel with his brother for the sake of the sheep, so he helped him to keep them, and Clutch had all his own way. This made him agreeable. For some time the brothers lived peaceably in their father's cottage, which stood low and lonely under the shadow of a great sycamore-tree, and kept their flock with pipe and crook on the grassy plain, till new troubles arose through Clutch's covetousness. "On that plain there was neither town, nor city, nor market-place, where people might sell or buy, but the shepherds cared little for trade. The wool of their flocks made them clothes; their milk gave them butter and cheese. At feast times every family killed a lamb or so; their fields yielded them wheat for bread. The forest supplied them with firewood for winter; and every midsummer, which is the sheep-shearing time, traders from a certain far-off city came through it by an ancient way to purchase all the wool the shepherds could spare, and give them in exchange either goods or money. "One midsummer it so happened that these traders praised the wool of Clutch's flock above all they found on the plain, and gave him the highest price of it. That was an unlucky happening for the sheep: from thenceforth Clutch thought he could never get enough wool off them. At the shearing time nobody clipped so close, and, in spite of all Kind could do or say, he left the poor sheep as bare as if they had been shaven; and as soon as the wool grew long enough to keep them warm, he was ready with the shears again--no matter how chilly might be the days, or how near the winter. Kind didn't like these doings, and many a debate they caused between him and his brother. Clutch always tried to persuade him that close clipping was good for the sheep, and Kind always strove to make him think he had got all the wool--so they were never done with disputes. Still Clutch sold the wool, and stored up his profits, and one midsummer after another passed. The shepherds began to think him a rich man, and close clipping might have become the fashion, but for a strange thing which happened to his flock. "The wool had grown well that summer. He had taken two crops off them, and was thinking of a third,--though the misty mornings of autumn were come, and the cold evenings made the shepherds put on their winter cloaks,--when first the lambs, and then the ewes, began to stray away; and search as the brothers would, none of them was ever found again. Clutch blamed Kind with being careless, and watched with all his might. Kind knew it was not his fault, but he looked sharper than ever. Still the straying went on. The flocks grew smaller every day, and all the brothers could find out was, that the closest clipped were the first to go; and, count the flock when they might, some were sure to be missed at the folding. "Kind grew tired of watching, and Clutch lost his sleep with vexation. The other shepherds, over whom he had boasted of his wool and his profits, were not sorry to see pride having a fall. Most of them pitied Kind, but all of them agreed that they had marvellous ill luck, and kept as far from them as they could for fear of sharing it. Still the flock melted away as the months wore on. Storms and cold weather never stopped them from straying, and when the spring came back nothing remained with Clutch and Kind but three old ewes, the quietest and lamest of their whole flock. They were watching these ewes one evening in the primrose time, when Clutch, who had never kept his eyes off them that day, said-- "'Brother, there is wool to be had on their backs.' "'It is too little to keep them warm,' said Kind. 'The east wind still blows sometimes;' but Clutch was off to the cottage for the bag and shears. "Kind was grieved to see his brother so covetous, and to divert his mind he looked up at the great hills: it was a sort of comfort to him, ever since their losses began, to look at them evening and morning. Now their far-off heights were growing crimson with the setting sun, but as he looked, three creatures like sheep scoured up a cleft in one of them as fleet as any deer: and when Kind turned, he saw his brother coming with the bag and shears, but not a single ewe was to be seen. Clutch's first question was, what had become of them; and when Kind told him what he saw, the eldest brother scolded him with might and main for ever lifting his eyes off them-- "'Much good the hills and the sunset do us,' said he, 'now that we have not a single sheep. The other shepherds will hardly give us room among them at shearing time or harvest; but for my part, I'll not stay on this plain to be despised for poverty. If you like to come with me, and be guided by my advice, we shall get service somewhere. I have heard my father say that there were great shepherds living in old times beyond the hills; let us go and see if they will take us for sheep-boys.' "Kind would rather have stayed and tilled his father's wheat-field, hard by the cottage; but since his elder brother would go, he resolved to bear him company. Accordingly, next morning Clutch took his bag and shears, Kind took his crook and pipe, and away they went over the plain and up the hills. All who saw them thought that they had lost their senses, for no shepherd had gone there for a hundred years, and nothing was to be seen but wide moorlands, full of rugged rocks, and sloping up, it seemed, to the very sky. Kind persuaded his brother to take the direction the sheep had taken, but the ground was so rough and steep that after two hours' climbing they would gladly have turned back, if it had not been that their sheep were gone, and the shepherds would laugh at them. "By noon they came to the stony cleft, up which the three old ewes had scoured like deer; but both were tired, and sat down to rest. Their feet were sore, and their hearts were heavy; but as they sat there, there came a sound of music down the hills, as if a thousand shepherds had been playing on their tops. Clutch and Kind had never heard such music before. As they listened, the soreness passed from their feet, and the heaviness from their hearts; and getting up, they followed the sound up the cleft, and over a wide heath, covered with purple bloom; till at sunset, they came to the hill-top, and saw a broad pasture, where violets grew thick among the grass, and thousands of snow-white sheep were feeding, while an old man sat in the midst of them, playing on his pipe. He wore a long coat, the colour of the holly leaves; his hair hung to his waist, and his beard to his knees; but both were as white as snow, and he had the countenance of one who had led a quiet life, and known no cares nor losses. "'Good father,' said Kind, for his eldest brother hung back and was afraid, 'tell us what land is this, and where can we find service; for my brother and I are shepherds, and can well keep flocks from straying, though we have lost our own.' "'These are the hill pastures,' said the old man, 'and I am the ancient shepherd. My flocks never stray, but I have employment for you. Which of you can shear best?' "'Good father,' said Clutch, taking courage, 'I am the closest shearer in all the plain country: you would not find as much wool as would make a thread on a sheep when I have done with it.' "'You are the man for my business,' replied the old shepherd. 'When the moon rises, I will call the flock you have to shear. Till then sit down and rest, and take your supper out of my wallet.' "Clutch and Kind gladly sat down by him among the violets, and opening a leathern bag which hung by his side, the old man gave them cakes and cheese, and a horn cup to drink from a stream hard by. The brothers felt fit for any work after that meal; and Clutch rejoiced in his own mind at the chance he had got for showing his skill with the shears. 'Kind will see how useful it is to cut close,' he thought to himself: but they sat with the old man, telling him the news of the plain, till the sun went down and the moon rose, and all the snow-white sheep gathered and laid themselves down behind him. Then he took his pipe and played a merry tune, when immediately there was heard a great howling, and up the hills came a troop of shaggy wolves, with hair so long that their eyes could scarcely be seen. Clutch would have fled for fear, but the wolves stopped, and the old man said to him-- "'Rise, and shear--this flock of mine have too much wool on them.' "Clutch had never shorn wolves before, yet he couldn't think of losing the good service, and went forward with a stout heart; but the first of the wolves showed its teeth, and all the rest raised such a howl the moment he came near them, that Clutch was glad to throw down his shears, and run behind the old man for safety. "'Good father,' cried he, 'I will shear sheep, but not wolves.' "'They must be shorn,' said the old man, 'or you go back to the plains, and them after you; but whichever of you can shear them will get the whole flock.' "On hearing this, Clutch began to exclaim on his hard fortune, and his brother who had brought him there to be hunted and devoured by wolves; but Kind, thinking that things could be no worse, caught up the shears he had thrown away in his fright, and went boldly up to the nearest wolf. To his great surprise the wild creature seemed to know him, and stood quietly to be shorn, while the rest of the flock gathered round as if waiting their turn. Kind clipped neatly, but not too close, as he had wished his brother to do with the sheep, and heaped up the hair on one side. When he had done with one, another came forward, and Kind went on shearing by the bright moonlight till the whole flock were shorn. Then the old man said-- "'Ye have done well, take the wool and the flock for your wages, return with them to the plain, and if you please, take this little-worth brother of yours for a boy to keep them.' "Kind did not much like keeping wolves, but before he could make answer, they had all changed into the very sheep which had strayed away so strangely. All of them had grown fatter and thicker of fleece, and the hair he had cut off lay by his side, a heap of wool so fine and soft that its like had never been seen on the plain. [Illustration: Clutch returns with his sack.] "Clutch gathered it up in his empty bag, and glad was he to go back to the plain with his brother; for the old man sent them away with their flock, saying no man must see the dawn of day on that pasture but himself, for it was the ground of the fairies. So Clutch and Kind went home with great gladness. All the shepherds came to hear their wonderful story, and ever after liked to keep near them because they had such good luck. They keep the sheep together till this day, but Clutch has grown less greedy, and Kind alone uses the shears." With these words the voice ceased, and two shepherds, clad in grass-green and crowned with garlands, rose up, and said-- "That's our story." "Mamma," said Princess Greedalind, "what a lovely playground that violet pasture would make for me!" "What wool could be had off all those snow-white sheep!" said Queen Wantall: but King Winwealth said-- "Excepting yesterday's tale, and the one that went before it, I have not heard such a story as that since my brother Wisewit went from me, and was lost in the forest. Spangledhose, the fifth of my pages, rise, and bring this maiden a white satin gown." Snowflower took the white satin gown, thanked the king, courtseyed to the good company, and went down on her chair to the best kitchen. That night they gave her a new blanket, and next day she had a cold pie for dinner. The music, the feast, and the spite continued within the palace: so did the clamours without; and his majesty, falling into low spirits, as usual, after supper, one of the under cooks told Snowflower that a message had come down from the highest banquet hall for her to go up with her grandmother's chair, and tell another story. Snowflower accordingly dressed herself in the red shoes, the gold-clocked hose, and the white satin gown. All the company were glad to see her and her chair coming, except the queen and the Princess Greedalind; and when the little girl had made her courtesy and laid down her head saying, "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story," the same clear voice said-- "Listen to the story of Fairyfoot." CHAPTER V THE STORY OF FAIRYFOOT "Once upon a time there stood far away in the west country a town called Stumpinghame. It contained seven windmills, a royal palace, a market place, and a prison, with every other convenience befitting the capital of a kingdom. A capital city was Stumpinghame, and its inhabitants thought it the only one in the world. It stood in the midst of a great plain, which for three leagues round its walls was covered with corn, flax, and orchards. Beyond that lay a great circle of pasture land, seven leagues in breadth, and it was bounded on all sides by a forest so thick and old that no man in Stumpinghame knew its extent; and the opinion of the learned was, that it reached to the end of the world. "There were strong reasons for this opinion. First, that forest was known to be inhabited time out of mind by the fairies, and no hunter cared to go beyond its borders--so all the west country believed it to be solidly full of old trees to the heart. Secondly, the people of Stumpinghame were no travellers--man, woman, and child had feet so large and heavy that it was by no means convenient to carry them far. Whether it was the nature of the place or the people, I cannot tell, but great feet had been the fashion there time immemorial, and the higher the family the larger were they. It was, therefore, the aim of everybody above the degree of shepherds, and such-like rustics, to swell out and enlarge their feet by way of gentility; and so successful were they in these undertakings that, on a pinch, respectable people's slippers would have served for panniers. "Stumpinghame had a king of its own, and his name was Stiffstep; his family was very ancient and large-footed. His subjects called him Lord of the World, and he made a speech to them every year concerning the grandeur of his mighty empire. His queen, Hammerheel, was the greatest beauty in Stumpinghame. Her majesty's shoe was not much less than a fishing-boat; their six children promised to be quite as handsome, and all went well with them till the birth of their seventh son. "For a long time nobody about the palace could understand what was the matter--the ladies-in-waiting looked so astonished, and the king so vexed; but at last it was whispered through the city that the queen's seventh child had been born with such miserably small feet that they resembled nothing ever seen or heard of in Stumpinghame, except the feet of the fairies. "The chronicles furnished no example of such an affliction ever before happening in the royal family. The common people thought it portended some great calamity to the city; the learned men began to write books about it; and all the relations of the king and queen assembled at the palace to mourn with them over their singular misfortune. The whole court and most of the citizens helped in this mourning, but when it had lasted seven days they all found out it was of no use. So the relations went to their homes, and the people took to their work. If the learned men's books were written, nobody ever read them; and to cheer up the queen's spirits, the young prince was sent privately out to the pasture lands, to be nursed among the shepherds. "The chief man there was called Fleecefold, and his wife's name was Rough Ruddy. They lived in a snug cottage with their son Blackthorn and their daughter Brownberry, and were thought great people, because they kept the king's sheep. Moreover, Fleecefold's family were known to be ancient; and Rough Ruddy boasted that she had the largest feet in all the pastures. The shepherds held them in high respect, and it grew still higher when the news spread that the king's seventh son had been sent to their cottage. People came from all quarters to see the young prince, and great were the lamentations over his misfortune in having such small feet. "The king and queen had given him fourteen names, beginning with Augustus--such being the fashion in that royal family; but the honest country people could not remember so many; besides, his feet were the most remarkable thing about the child, so with one accord they called him Fairyfoot. At first it was feared this might be high-treason, but when no notice was taken by the king or his ministers, the shepherds concluded it was no harm, and the boy never had another name throughout the pastures. At court it was not thought polite to speak of him at all. They did not keep his birthday, and he was never sent for at Christmas, because the queen and her ladies could not bear the sight. Once a year the undermost scullion was sent to see how he did, with a bundle of his next brother's cast-off clothes; and, as the king grew old and cross, it was said he had thoughts of disowning him. "So Fairyfoot grew in Fleecefold's cottage. Perhaps the country air made him fair and rosy--for all agreed that he would have been a handsome boy but for his small feet, with which nevertheless he learned to walk, and in time to run and to jump, thereby amazing everybody, for such doings were not known among the children of Stumpinghame. The news of court, however, travelled to the shepherds, and Fairyfoot was despised among them. The old people thought him unlucky; the children refused to play with him. Fleecefold was ashamed to have him in his cottage, but he durst not disobey the king's orders. Moreover, Blackthorn wore most of the clothes brought by the scullion. At last, Rough Ruddy found out that the sight of such horrid jumping would make her children vulgar; and, as soon as he was old enough, she sent Fairyfoot every day to watch some sickly sheep that grazed on a wild, weedy pasture, hard by the forest. "Poor Fairyfoot was often lonely and sorrowful; many a time he wished his feet would grow larger, or that people wouldn't notice them so much; and all the comfort he had was running and jumping by himself in the wild pasture, and thinking that none of the shepherds' children could do the like, for all their pride of their great feet. "Tired of this sport, he was lying in the shadow of a mossy rock one warm summer's noon, with the sheep feeding around, when a robin, pursued by a great hawk, flew into the old velvet cap which lay on the ground beside him. Fairyfoot covered it up, and the hawk, frightened by his shout, flew away. "'Now you may go, poor robin!' he said, opening the cap: but instead of the bird, out sprang a little man dressed in russet-brown, and looking as if he were an hundred years old. Fairyfoot could not speak for astonishment, but the little man said-- "'Thank you for your shelter, and be sure I will do as much for you. Call on me if you are ever in trouble, my name is Robin Goodfellow;' and darting off, he was out of sight in an instant. For days the boy wondered who that little man could be, but he told nobody, for the little man's feet were as small as his own, and it was clear he would be no favourite in Stumpinghame. Fairyfoot kept the story to himself, and at last midsummer came. That evening was a feast among the shepherds. There were bonfires on the hills, and fun in the villages. But Fairyfoot sat alone beside his sheepfold, for the children of his village had refused to let him dance with them about the bonfire, and he had gone there to bewail the size of his feet, which came between him and so many good things. Fairyfoot had never felt so lonely in all his life, and remembering the little man, he plucked up spirit, and cried-- "'Ho! Robin Goodfellow!' "'Here I am,' said a shrill voice at his elbow; and there stood the little man himself. "'I am very lonely, and no one will play with me, because my feet are not large enough,' said Fairyfoot. "'Come then and play with us,' said the little man. 'We lead the merriest lives in the world, and care for nobody's feet; but all companies have their own manners, and there are two things you must mind among us: first, do as you see the rest doing; and secondly, never speak of anything you may hear or see, for we and the people of this country have had no friendship ever since large feet came in fashion.' "'I will do that, and anything more you like,' said Fairyfoot; and the little man taking his hand, led him over the pasture into the forest, and along a mossy path among old trees wreathed with ivy (he never knew how far), till they heard the sound of music, and came upon a meadow where the moon shone as bright as day, and all the flowers of the year--snowdrops, violets, primroses, and cowslips--bloomed together in the thick grass. There were a crowd of little men and women, some clad in russet colour, but far more in green, dancing round a little well as clear as crystal. And under great rose-trees which grew here and there in the meadow, companies were sitting round low tables covered with cups of milk, dishes of honey, and carved wooden flagons filled with clear red wine. The little man led Fairyfoot up to the nearest table, handed him one of the flagons, and said-- "'Drink to the good company!' "Wine was not very common among the shepherds of Stumpinghame, and the boy had never tasted such drink as that before; for scarcely had it gone down, when he forgot all his troubles--how Blackthorn and Brownberry wore his clothes, how Rough Ruddy sent him to keep the sickly sheep, and the children would not dance with him: in short, he forgot the whole misfortune of his feet, and it seemed to his mind that he was a king's son, and all was well with him. All the little people about the well cried-- "'Welcome! welcome!' and every one said--'Come and dance with me!' So Fairyfoot was as happy as a prince, and drank milk and ate honey till the moon was low in the sky, and then the little man took him by the hand, and never stopped nor stayed till he was at his own bed of straw in the cottage corner. "Next morning Fairyfoot was not tired for all his dancing. Nobody in the cottage had missed him, and he went out with the sheep as usual; but every night all that summer, when the shepherds were safe in bed, the little man came and took him away to dance in the forest. Now he did not care to play with the shepherds' children, nor grieve that his father and mother had forgotten him, but watched the sheep all day singing to himself or plaiting rushes; and when the sun went down, Fairyfoot's heart rejoiced at the thought of meeting that merry company. "The wonder was that he was never tired nor sleepy, as people are apt to be who dance all night; but before the summer was ended Fairyfoot found out the reason. One night, when the moon was full, and the last of the ripe corn rustling in the fields, Robin Goodfellow came for him as usual, and away they went to the flowery green. The fun there was high, and Robin was in haste. So he only pointed to the carved cup from which Fairyfoot every night drank the clear red wine. "'I am not thirsty, and there is no use losing time,' thought the boy to himself, and he joined the dance; but never in all his life did Fairyfoot find such hard work as to keep pace with the company. Their feet seemed to move like lightning; the swallows did not fly so fast or turn so quickly. Fairyfoot did his best, for he never gave in easily, but at length, his breath and strength being spent, the boy was glad to steal away, and sit down behind a mossy oak, where his eyes closed for very weariness. When he awoke the dance was nearly over, but two little ladies clad in green talked close beside him. "'What a beautiful boy!' said one of them. 'He is worthy to be a king's son. Only see what handsome feet he has!' "'Yes,' said the other, with a laugh that sounded spiteful; 'they are just like the feet Princess Maybloom had before she washed them in the Growing Well. Her father has sent far and wide throughout the whole country searching for a doctor to make them small again, but nothing in this world can do it except the water of the Fair Fountain, and none but I and the nightingales know where it is.' "'One would not care to let the like be known,' said the first little lady: 'there would come such crowds of these great coarse creatures of mankind, nobody would have peace for leagues round. But you will surely send word to the sweet princess!--she was so kind to our birds and butterflies, and danced so like one of ourselves!' [Illustration: The Princess Maybloom.] "'Not I, indeed!' said the spiteful fairy. 'Her old skinflint of a father cut down the cedar which I loved best in the whole forest, and made a chest of it to hold his money in; besides, I never liked the princess--everybody praised her so. But come, we shall be too late for the last dance.'" "When they were gone, Fairyfoot could sleep no more with astonishment. He did not wonder at the fairies admiring his feet, because their own were much the same; but it amazed him that Princess Maybloom's father should be troubled at hers growing large. Moreover, he wished to see that same princess and her country, since there were really other places in the world than Stumpinghame. "When Robin Goodfellow came to take him home as usual he durst not let him know that he had overheard anything; but never was the boy so unwilling to get up as on that morning, and all day he was so weary that in the afternoon Fairyfoot fell asleep, with his head on a clump of rushes. It was seldom that any one thought of looking after him and the sickly sheep; but it so happened that towards evening the old shepherd, Fleecefold, thought he would see how things went on in the pastures. The shepherd had a bad temper and a thick staff, and no sooner did he catch sight of Fairyfoot sleeping, and his flock straying away, than shouting all the ill names he could remember, in a voice which woke up the boy, he ran after him as fast as his great feet would allow; while Fairyfoot, seeing no other shelter from his fury, fled into the forest, and never stopped nor stayed till he reached the banks of a little stream. "Thinking it might lead him to the fairies' dancing-ground, he followed that stream for many an hour, but it wound away into the heart of the forest, flowing through dells, falling over mossy rocks and at last leading Fairyfoot, when he was tired and the night had fallen, to a grove of great rose-trees, with the moon shining on it as bright as day, and thousands of nightingales singing in the branches. In the midst of that grove was a clear spring, bordered with banks of lilies, and Fairyfoot sat down by it to rest himself and listen. The singing was so sweet he could have listened for ever, but as he sat the nightingales left off their songs, and began to talk together in the silence of the night-- "'What boy is that,' said one on a branch above him, 'who sits so lonely by the Fair Fountain? He cannot have come from Stumpinghame with such small and handsome feet.' "'No, I'll warrant you,' said another, 'he has come from the west country. How in the world did he find the way?' "'How simple you are!' said a third nightingale. 'What had he to do but follow the ground-ivy which grows over height and hollow, bank and bush, from the lowest gate of the king's kitchen garden to the root of this rose-tree? He looks a wise boy, and I hope he will keep the secret, or we shall have all the west country here, dabbling in our fountain, and leaving us no rest to either talk or sing.' "Fairyfoot sat in great astonishment at this discourse, but by and by, when the talk ceased and the songs began, he thought it might be as well for him to follow the ground-ivy, and see the Princess Maybloom, not to speak of getting rid of Rough Ruddy, the sickly sheep, and the crusty old shepherd. It was a long journey; but he went on, eating wild berries by day, sleeping in the hollows of old trees by night, and never losing sight of the ground-ivy, which led him over height and hollow, bank and bush, out of the forest, and along a noble high road, with fields and villages on every side, to a great city, and a low old-fashioned gate of the king's kitchen-garden, which was thought too mean for the scullions, and had not been opened for seven years. "There was no use knocking--the gate was overgrown with tall weeds and moss; so, being an active boy, he climbed over, and walked through the garden, till a white fawn came frisking by, and he heard a soft voice saying sorrowfully-- "'Come back, come back, my fawn! I cannot run and play with you now, my feet have grown so heavy;' and looking round he saw the loveliest young princess in the world, dressed in snow-white, and wearing a wreath of roses on her golden hair; but walking slowly, as the great people did in Stumpinghame, for her feet were as large as the best of them. "After her came six young ladies, dressed in white and walking slowly, for they could not go before the princess; but Fairyfoot was amazed to see that their feet were as small as his own. At once he guessed that this must be the Princess Maybloom, and made her an humble bow, saying-- "'Royal princess, I have heard of your trouble because your feet have grown large: in my country that's all the fashion. For seven years past I have been wondering what would make mine grow, to no purpose; but I know of a certain fountain that will make yours smaller and finer than ever they were, if the king, your father, gives you leave to come with me, accompanied by two of your maids that are the least given to talking, and the most prudent officer in all his household; for it would grievously offend the fairies and the nightingales to make that fountain known.' "When the princess heard that, she danced for joy in spite of her large feet, and she and her six maids brought Fairyfoot before the king and queen, where they sat in their palace hall, with all the courtiers paying their morning compliments. The lords were very much astonished to see a ragged, bare-footed boy brought in among them, and the ladies thought Princess Maybloom must have gone mad; but Fairyfoot, making an humble reverence, told his message to the king and queen, and offered to set out with the princess that very day. At first the king would not believe that there could be any use in his offer, because so many great physicians had failed to give any relief. The courtiers laughed Fairyfoot to scorn, the pages wanted to turn him out for an impudent impostor, and the prime-minister said he ought to be put to death for high-treason. "Fairyfoot wished himself safe in the forest again, or even keeping the sickly sheep; but the queen, being a prudent woman, said-- "'I pray your majesty to notice what fine feet this boy has. There may be some truth in his story. For the sake of our only daughter, I will choose two maids who talk the least of all our train, and my chamberlain, who is the most discreet officer in our household. Let them go with the princess: who knows but our sorrow may be lessened?' "After some persuasion the king consented, though all his councillors advised the contrary. So the two silent maids, the discreet chamberlain, and her fawn, which would not stay behind, were sent with Princess Maybloom, and they all set out after dinner. Fairyfoot had hard work guiding them along the track of the ground-ivy. The maids and the chamberlain did not like the brambles and rough roots of the forest--they thought it hard to eat berries and sleep in hollow trees; but the princess went on with good courage, and at last they reached the grove of rose-trees, and the spring bordered with lilies. "The chamberlain washed--and though his hair had been grey, and his face wrinkled, the young courtiers envied his beauty for years after. The maids washed--and from that day they were esteemed the fairest in all the palace. Lastly, the princess washed also--it could make her no fairer, but the moment her feet touched the water they grew less, and when she had washed and dried them three times, they were as small and finely-shaped as Fairyfoot's own. There was great joy among them, but the boy said sorrowfully-- "'Oh! if there had been a well in the world to make my feet large, my father and mother would not have cast me off, nor sent me to live among the shepherds.' "'Cheer up your heart,' said the Princess Maybloom; 'if you want large feet, there is a well in this forest that will do it. Last summer time, I came with my father and his foresters to see a great cedar cut down, of which he meant to make a money chest. While they were busy with the cedar, I saw a bramble branch covered with berries. Some were ripe and some were green, but it was the longest bramble that ever grew; for the sake of the berries, I went on and on to its root, which grew hard by a muddy-looking well, with banks of dark green moss, in the deepest part of the forest. The day was warm and dry, and my feet were sore with the rough ground, so I took off my scarlet shoes, and washed my feet in the well; but as I washed they grew larger every minute, and nothing could ever make them less again. I have seen the bramble this day; it is not far off, and as you have shown me the Fair Fountain, I will show you the Growing Well.' "Up rose Fairyfoot and Princess Maybloom, and went together till they found the bramble, and came to where its root grew, hard by the muddy-looking well, with banks of dark green moss in the deepest dell of the forest. Fairyfoot sat down to wash, but at that minute he heard a sound of music, and knew it was the fairies going to their dancing ground. "'If my feet grow large,' said the boy to himself, 'how shall I dance with them?' So, rising quickly, he took the Princess Maybloom by the hand. The fawn followed them; the maids and the chamberlain followed it, and all followed the music through the forest. At last they came to the flowery green. Robin Goodfellow welcomed the company for Fairyfoot's sake, and gave every one a drink of the fairies' wine. So they danced there from sunset till the grey morning, and nobody was tired; but before the lark sang, Robin Goodfellow took them all safe home, as he used to take Fairyfoot. "There was great joy that day in the palace because Princess Maybloom's feet were made small again. The king gave Fairyfoot all manner of fine clothes and rich jewels; and when they heard his wonderful story, he and the queen asked him to live with them and be their son. In process of time Fairyfoot and Princess Maybloom were married, and still live happily. When they go to visit at Stumpinghame, they always wash their feet in the Growing Well, lest the royal family might think them a disgrace, but when they come back, they make haste to the Fair Fountain; and the fairies and the nightingales are great friends to them, as well as the maids and the chamberlain, because they have told nobody about it, and there is peace and quiet yet in the grove of rose-trees." Here the voice out of the cushion ceased, and two that wore crowns of gold, and were clothed in cloth of silver, rose up, and said-- "That's our story." "Mamma," said Princess Greedalind, "if we could find out that Fair Fountain, and keep it all to ourselves!" "Yes, my daughter, and the Growing Well to wash our money in," replied Queen Wantall: but King Winwealth said-- "Excepting yesterday's tale, and the two that went before it, I have not heard such a story since my brother Wisewit went from me, and was lost in the forest. Silverspurs, the fourth of my pages, go and bring this maiden a pearl necklace." Snowflower received the necklace accordingly, gave her thanks, made her courtesy, and went down on her grandmother's chair to the servants' hall. That night they gave her a down pillow, and next day she dined on a roast chicken. The feasting within and the clamour without went on as the days before: King Winwealth fell into his accustomed low spirits after supper, and sent down a message for Snowflower, which was told her by the master-cook. So the little girl went up in her grandmother's chair, with red shoes, the clocked hose, the white satin gown, and the pearl necklace on. All the company welcomed her with joyful looks, and no sooner had she made her courtesy, and laid down her head, saying--"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story," than the clear voice from under the cushion said-- "Listen to the story of Childe Charity." CHAPTER VI THE STORY OF CHILDE CHARITY "Once upon a time, there lived in the west country a little girl who had neither father nor mother; they both died when she was very young, and left their daughter to the care of her uncle, who was the richest farmer in all that country. He had houses and lands, flocks and herds, many servants to work about his house and fields, a wife who had brought him a great dowry, and two fair daughters. All their neighbours, being poor, looked up to the family--insomuch that they imagined themselves great people. The father and mother were as proud as peacocks; the daughters thought themselves the greatest beauties in the world, and not one of the family would speak civilly to anybody they thought low. "Now it happened that though she was their near relation, they had this opinion of the orphan girl, partly because she had no fortune, and partly because of her humble, kindly disposition. It was said that the more needy and despised any creature was, the more ready was she to befriend it: on which account the people of the west country called her Childe Charity, and if she had any other name, I never heard it. Childe Charity was thought very mean in that proud house. Her uncle would not own her for his niece; her cousins would not keep her company; and her aunt sent her to work in the dairy, and to sleep in the back garret, where they kept all sorts of lumber and dry herbs for the winter. All the servants learned the same tune, and Childe Charity had more work than rest among them. All the day she scoured pails, scrubbed dishes, and washed crockeryware; but every night she slept in the back garret as sound as a princess could in her palace chamber. "Her uncle's house was large and white, and stood among green meadows by a river's side. In front it had a porch covered with a vine; behind, it had a farmyard and high granaries. Within, there were two parlours for the rich, and two kitchens for the poor, which the neighbours thought wonderfully grand; and one day in the harvest season, when this rich farmer's corn had been all cut down and housed, he condescended so far as to invite them to a harvest supper. The west country people came in their holiday clothes and best behaviour. Such heaps of cakes and cheese, such baskets of apples and barrels of ale, had never been at feast before; and they were making merry in kitchen and parlour, when a poor old woman came to the backdoor, begging for broken victuals and a night's lodging. Her clothes were coarse and ragged; her hair was scanty and grey; her back was bent; her teeth were gone. She had a squinting eye, a clubbed foot, and crooked fingers. In short, she was the poorest and ugliest old woman that ever came begging. The first who saw her was the kitchen-maid, and she ordered her to be gone for an ugly witch. The next was the herd-boy, and he threw her a bone over his shoulder; but Childe Charity, hearing the noise, came out from her seat at the foot of the lowest table, and asked the old woman to take her share of the supper, and sleep that night in her bed in the back garret. The old woman sat down without a word of thanks. All the company laughed at Childe Charity for giving her bed and her supper to a beggar. Her proud cousins said it was just like her mean spirit, but Childe Charity did not mind them. She scraped the pots for her supper that night and slept on a sack among the lumber, while the old woman rested in her warm bed; and next morning, before the little girl awoke, she was up and gone, without so much as saying thank you, or good morning. [Illustration: The old woman begs at the door.] "That day all the servants were sick after the feast, and mostly cross too--so you may judge how civil they were; when, at supper time, who should come to the backdoor but the old woman, again asking for broken victuals and a night's lodging. No one would listen to her or give her a morsel, till Childe Charity rose from her seat at the foot of the lowest table, and kindly asked her to take her supper, and sleep in her bed in the back garret. Again the old woman sat down without a word. Childe Charity scraped the pots for her supper, and slept on the sack. In the morning the old woman was gone; but for six nights after, as sure as the supper was spread, there was she at the backdoor, and the little girl regularly asked her in. "Childe Charity's aunt said she would let her get enough of beggars. Her cousins made continual game of what they called her genteel visitor. Sometimes the old woman said, 'Child, why don't you make this bed softer? and why are your blankets so thin?' but she never gave her a word of thanks nor a civil good morning. At last, on the ninth night from her first coming, when Childe Charity was getting used to scrape the pots and sleep on the sack, her accustomed knock came to the door, and there she stood with an ugly ashy-coloured dog, so stupid-looking and clumsy that no herd-boy would keep him. "'Good evening, my little girl,' she said when Childe Charity opened the door. 'I will not have your supper and bed to-night--I am going on a long journey to see a friend; but here is a dog of mine, whom nobody in all the west country will keep for me. He is a little cross, and not very handsome; but I leave him to your care till the shortest day in all the year. Then you and I will count for his keeping.' "When the old woman had said the last word, she set off with such speed that Childe Charity lost sight of her in a minute. The ugly dog began to fawn upon her, but he snarled at everybody else. The servants said he was a disgrace to the house. The proud cousins wanted him drowned, and it was with great trouble that Childe Charity got leave to keep him in an old ruined cow-house. Ugly and cross as the dog was, he fawned on her, and the old woman had left him to her care. So the little girl gave him part of all her meals, and when the hard frost came, took him privately to her own back garret, because the cow-house was damp and cold in the long nights. The dog lay quietly on some straw in a corner. Childe Charity slept soundly, but every morning the servants would say to her-- "'What great light and fine talking was that in your back garret?' "'There was no light but the moon shining in through the shutterless window, and no talk that I heard,' said Childe Charity, and she thought they must have been dreaming; but night after night, when any of them awoke in the dark and silent hour that comes before the morning, they saw a light brighter and clearer than the Christmas fire, and heard voices like those of lords and ladies in the back garret. "Partly from fear, and partly from laziness, none of the servants would rise to see what might be there; till at length, when the winter nights were at the longest, the little parlour-maid, who did least work and got most favour, because she gathered news for her mistress, crept out of bed when all the rest were sleeping, and set herself to watch at a crevice of the door. She saw the dog lying quietly in the corner, Childe Charity sleeping soundly in her bed, and the moon shining through the shutterless window; but an hour before daybreak there came a glare of lights, and a sound of far-off bugles. The window opened, and in marched a troop of little men clothed in crimson and gold, and bearing every man a torch, till the room looked bright as day. They marched up with great reverence to the dog, where he lay on the straw, and the most richly clothed among them said-- "'Royal prince, we have prepared the banquet hall. What will your highness please that we do next?' "'Ye have done well,' said the dog. 'Now prepare the feast, and see that all things be in our first fashion: for the princess and I mean to bring a stranger who never feasted in our halls before.' "'Your highness's commands shall be obeyed,' said the little man, making another reverence; and he and his company passed out of the window. By and by there was another glare of lights, and a sound like far-off flutes. The window opened, and there came in a company of little ladies clad in rose-coloured velvet, and carrying each a crystal lamp. They also walked with great reverence up to the dog, and the gayest among them said-- "'Royal prince, we have prepared the tapestry. What will your highness please that we do next?' "'Ye have done well,' said the dog. 'Now prepare the robes, and let all things be in our first fashion: for the princess and I will bring with us a stranger who never feasted in our halls before.' "'Your highness's commands shall be obeyed,' said the little lady, making a low courtesy; and she and her company passed out through the window, which closed quietly behind them. The dog stretched himself out upon the straw, the little girl turned in her sleep, and the moon shone in on the back garret. The parlour-maid was so much amazed, and so eager to tell this great story to her mistress, that she could not close her eyes that night, and was up before cock-crow; but when she told it, her mistress called her a silly wench to have such foolish dreams, and scolded her so that the parlour-maid durst not mention what she had seen to the servants. Nevertheless Childe Charity's aunt thought there might be something in it worth knowing; so next night, when all the house were asleep, she crept out of bed, and set herself to watch at the back garret door. There she saw exactly what the maid told her--the little men with the torches, and the little ladies with the crystal lamps, come in making great reverence to the dog, and the same words pass, only he said to the one, 'Now prepare the presents,' and to the other, 'Prepare the jewels;' and when they were gone the dog stretched himself on the straw, Childe Charity turned in her sleep, and the moon shone in on the back garret. "The mistress could not close her eyes any more than the maid from eagerness to tell the story. She woke up Childe Charity's rich uncle before cock-crow; but when he heard it, he laughed at her for a foolish woman, and advised her not to repeat the like before the neighbours, lest they should think she had lost her senses. The mistress could say no more, and the day passed; but that night the master thought he would like to see what went on in the back garret: so when all the house were asleep he slipped out of bed, and set himself to watch at the crevice in the door. The same thing happened again that the maid and the mistress saw: the little men in crimson with their torches, and the little ladies in rose-coloured velvet with their lamps, came in at the window, and made an humble reverence to the ugly dog, the one saying, 'Royal prince, we have prepared the presents,' and the other, 'Royal prince, we have prepared the jewels;' and the dog said to them all, 'Ye have done well. To-morrow come and meet me and the princess with horses and chariots, and let all things be in our first fashion: for we will bring a stranger from this house who has never travelled with us, nor feasted in our halls before.' "The little men and the little ladies said, 'Your highness's commands shall be obeyed.' When they had gone out through the window, the ugly dog stretched himself out on the straw, Childe Charity turned in her sleep, and the moon shone in on the back garret. "The master could not close his eyes any more than the maid or the mistress, for thinking of this strange sight. He remembered to have heard his grandfather say, that somewhere near his meadows there lay a path leading to the fairies' country, and the haymakers used to see it shining through the grey summer morning as the fairy bands went home. Nobody had heard or seen the like for many years; but the master concluded that the doings in his back garret must be a fairy business, and the ugly dog a person of great account. His chief wonder was, however, what visitor the fairies intended to take from his house; and after thinking the matter over he was sure it must be one of his daughters--they were so handsome, and had such fine clothes. "Accordingly, Childe Charity's rich uncle made it his first business that morning to get ready a breakfast of roast mutton for the ugly dog, and carry it to him in the old cow-house; but not a morsel would the dog taste. On the contrary, he snarled at the master, and would have bitten him if he had not run away with his mutton. "'The fairies have strange ways,' said the master to himself; but he called his daughters privately, bidding them dress themselves in their best, for he could not say which of them might be called into great company before nightfall. Childe Charity's proud cousins, hearing this, put on the richest of their silks and laces, and strutted like peacocks from kitchen to parlour all day, waiting for the call their father spoke of, while the little girl scoured and scrubbed in the dairy. They were in very bad humour when night fell, and nobody had come; but just as the family were sitting down to supper the ugly dog began to bark, and the old woman's knock was heard at the backdoor. Childe Charity opened it, and was going to offer her bed and supper as usual, when the old woman said-- "'This is the shortest day in all the year, and I am going home to hold a feast after my travels. I see you have taken good care of my dog, and now if you will come with me to my house, he and I will do our best to entertain you. Here is our company.' "As the old woman spoke there was a sound of far-off flutes and bugles, then a glare of lights; and a great company, clad so grandly that they shone with gold and jewels, came in open chariots, covered with gilding and drawn by snow-white horses. The first and finest of the chariots was empty. The old woman led Childe Charity to it by the hand, and the ugly dog jumped in before her. The proud cousins, in all their finery, had by this time come to the door, but nobody wanted them; and no sooner was the old woman and her dog within the chariot than a marvellous change passed over them, for the ugly old woman turned at once to a beautiful young princess, with long yellow curls and a robe of green and gold, while the ugly dog at her side started up a fair young prince, with nut-brown hair and a robe of purple and silver. "'We are,' said they, as the chariots drove on, and the little girl sat astonished, 'a prince and princess of Fairyland, and there was a wager between us whether or not there were good people still to be found in these false and greedy times. One said Yes, and the other said No; and I have lost,' said the prince, 'and must pay the feast and presents.' "Childe Charity never heard any more of that story. Some of the farmer's household, who were looking after them through the moonlight night, said the chariots had gone one way across the meadows, some said they had gone another, and till this day they cannot agree upon the direction. But Childe Charity went with that noble company into a country such as she had never seen--for primroses covered all the ground, and the light was always like that of a summer evening. They took her to a royal palace, where there was nothing but feasting and dancing for seven days. She had robes of pale green velvet to wear, and slept in a chamber inlaid with ivory. When the feast was done, the prince and princess gave her such heaps of gold and jewels that she could not carry them, but they gave her a chariot to go home in, drawn by six white horses; and on the seventh night, which happened to be Christmas time, when the farmer's family had settled in their own minds that she would never come back, and were sitting down to supper, they heard the sound of her coachman's bugle, and saw her alight with all the jewels and gold at the very backdoor where she had brought in the ugly old woman. The fairy chariot drove away, and never came back to that farmhouse after. But Childe Charity scrubbed and scoured no more, for she grew a great lady, even in the eyes of her proud cousins." Here the voice out of the cushion ceased, and one, with a fair face and a robe of pale green velvet, rose from among the company, and said-- "That's my story." "Mamma," said Princess Greedalind, "if we had some of those fine chariots!" "Yes, my daughter," answered Queen Wantall, "and the gold and jewels too!" But King Winwealth said-- "Excepting yesterday's story, and the three that went before it, I have not heard such a tale since my brother Wisewit went from me, and was lost in the forest. Highjinks, the third of my pages, go and bring this maiden a crimson velvet hat." Snowflower took the hat and thanked the king, made her courtesy, and went down on her grandmother's chair to the housekeeper's parlour. Her blanket was covered with a patchwork quilt that night; next day she had roast turkey and meat for dinner. But the feast went on in the palace hall with the usual spites and envies; the clamour and complaints at the gate were still heard above all the music; and King Winwealth fell into his wonted low spirits as soon as the supper was over. As usual, a message came down from the banquet hall, and the chief-butler told Snowflower that she and her chair were wanted to tell King Winwealth a story. So she went up with all the presents on, even to the crimson hat, made her courtesy to the good company, and had scarcely said, "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story," when the voice from under the cushion said-- "Listen to the story of Sour and Civil." CHAPTER VII SOUR AND CIVIL "Once upon a time there stood upon the sea-coast of the west country a certain hamlet of low cottages, where no one lived but fishermen. All round it was a broad beach of snow-white sand, where nothing was to be seen but gulls and cormorants, and long tangled seaweeds cast up by the tide that came and went night and day, summer and winter. There was no harbour nor port on all that shore. Ships passed by at a distance, with their white sails set, and on the land-side there lay wide grassy downs, where peasants lived and shepherds fed their flocks. The fishermen thought themselves as well off as any people in that country. Their families never wanted for plenty of herrings and mackerel; and what they had to spare the landsmen bought from them at certain village markets on the downs, giving them in exchange butter, cheese, and corn. "The two best fishermen in that village were the sons of two old widows, who had no other children, and happened to be near neighbours. Their family names were short, for they called the one Sour, and the other Civil. There was no relationship between them that ever I heard of; but they had only one boat, and always fished together, though their names expressed the difference of their humours--for Civil never used a hard word where a soft one would do, and when Sour was not snarling at somebody, he was sure to be grumbling at everything. "Nevertheless they agreed wonderfully, and were lucky fishers. Both were strong, active, and of good courage. On winter's night or summer's morning they would steer out to sea far beyond the boats of their neighbours, and never came home without some fish to cook and some to spare. Their mothers were proud of them, each in her own fashion--for the saying held good, 'Like mother, like son.' Dame Civil thought the whole world didn't hold a better than her son; and her boy was the only creature at whom Dame Sour didn't scold and frown. The hamlet was divided in opinion concerning the young fishermen. Some thought Civil the best; some said, without Sour he would catch nothing. So things went on, till one day about the fall of winter, when mists were gathering darkly on sea and sky, and the air was chill and frosty, all the boatmen of the hamlet went out to fish, and so did Sour and Civil. "That day they had not their usual luck. Cast their net where they would, not a single fish came in. Their neighbours caught boatsful, and went home, Sour said, laughing at them. But when the sea was growing crimson with the sunset their nets were empty, and they were tired. Civil himself did not like to go home without fish--it would damage the high repute they had gained in the village. Besides, the sea was calm and the evening fair, and, as a last attempt, they steered still further out, and cast their nets beside a rock which rose rough and grey above the water, and was called the Merman's Seat--from an old report that the fishermen's fathers had seen the mermen, or sea-people, sitting there on moonlight nights. Nobody believed that rumour now, but the villagers did not like to fish there. The water was said to be deep beyond measure, and sudden squalls were apt to trouble it; but Sour and Civil were right glad to see by the moving of their lines that there was something in their net, and gladder still when they found it so heavy that all their strength was required to draw it up. Scarcely had they landed it on the Merman's Seat, when their joy was changed to disappointment, for besides a few starved mackerel, the net contained nothing but a monstrous ugly fish as long as Civil (who was taller than Sour), with a huge snout, a long beard, and a skin covered with prickles. "'Such a horrid ugly creature!' said Sour, as they shook it out of the net on the rough rock, and gathered up the mackerel. 'We needn't fish here any more. How they will mock us in the village for staying out so late, and bringing home so little!' "'Let us try again,' said Civil, as he set his creel of mackerel in the boat. "'Not another cast will I make to-night;' and what more Sour would have said, was cut short by the great fish, for, looking round at them, it spoke out-- "'I suppose you don't think me worth taking home in your dirty boat; but I can tell you that if you were down in my country, neither of you would be thought fit to keep me company.' "Sour and Civil were terribly astonished to hear the fish speak. The first could not think of a cross word to say, but Civil made answer in his accustomed manner. "'Indeed, my lord, we beg your pardon, but our boat is too light to carry such a fish as you.' "'You do well to call me lord,' said the fish, 'for so I am, though it was hard to expect you could have known my quality in this dress. However, help me off the rock, for I must go home; and for your civility I will give you my daughter in marriage, if you will come and see me this day twelvemonth.' "Civil helped the great fish off the rock as respectfully as his fear would allow him. Sour was so terrified at the whole transaction, that he said not a word till they got safe home; but from that day forward, when he wanted to put Civil down, it was his custom to tell him and his mother that he would get no wife but the ugly fish's daughter. "Old Dame Sour heard this story from her son, and told it over the whole village. Some people wondered, but the most part laughed at it as a good joke; and Civil and his mother were never known to be angry but on that occasion. Dame Civil advised her son never to fish with Sour again; and as the boat happened to be his, Civil got an old skiff which one of the fishermen was going to break up for firewood, and cobbled it up for himself. "In that skiff he went to sea alone all the winter, and all the summer; but though Civil was brave and skilful, he could catch little, because his boat was bad--and everybody but his mother began to think him of no value. Sour having the good boat got a new comrade, and had the praise of being the best fisherman. "Poor Civil's heart was getting low as the summer wore away. The fish had grown scarce on that coast, and the fishermen had to steer further out to sea. One evening when he had toiled all day and caught nothing, Civil thought he would go further too, and try his fortune beside the Merman's rock. The sea was calm, and the evening fair; Civil did not remember that it was the very day on which his troubles began by the great fish talking to him twelve months before. As he neared the rock the sun was setting, and much astonished was the fisherman to see upon it three fair ladies, with sea-green gowns and strings of great pearls wound round their long fair hair; two of them were waving their hands to him. They were the tallest and stateliest ladies he had ever seen; but Civil could perceive as he came nearer that there was no colour in their cheeks, that their hair had a strange bluish shade, like that of deep sea-water, and there was a fiery light in their eyes that frightened him. The third, who was less of stature, did not notice him at all, but kept her eyes fixed on the setting sun. Though her look was mournful, Civil could see that there was a faint rosy bloom on her cheek--that her hair was a golden yellow, and her eyes were mild and clear like those of his mother. [Illustration: Civil and the three sea maidens.] "'Welcome! welcome! noble fisherman!' cried the two ladies. 'Our father has sent us for you to visit him,' and with one bound they leaped into his boat, bringing with them the smaller lady, who said-- "'Oh! bright sun and brave sky that I see so seldom!' But Civil heard no more, for his boat went down miles deep in the sea, and he thought himself drowning; but one lady had caught him by the right arm, and the other by the left, and pulled him into the mouth of a rocky cave, where there was no water. On they went, still down and down, as if on a steep hill-side. The cave was very long, but it grew wider as they came to the bottom. Then Civil saw a faint light, and walked out with his fair company into the country of the sea-people. In that land there grew neither grass nor flowers, bushes nor trees, but the ground was covered with bright-coloured shells and pebbles. There were hills of marble, and rocks of spar; and over all a cold blue sky with no sun, but a light clear and silvery as that of the harvest moon. The fisherman could see no smoking chimneys, but there were grottoes in the sparry rocks, and halls in the marble hills, where lived the sea-people--with whom, as old stories say, fishermen and mariners used to meet on lonely capes and headlands in the simple times of the world. "Forth they came in all directions to see the stranger. Mermen with long white beards, and mermaids such as walk with the fishermen, all clad in sea-green, and decorated with strings of pearls; but every one with the same colourless face, and the same wild light in their eyes. The mermaids led Civil up one of the marble hills to a great cavern with halls and chambers like a palace. Their floors were of alabaster, their walls of porphyry, and their ceilings inlaid with coral. Thousands of crystal lamps lit the palace. There were seats and tables hewn out of shining spar, and a great company sat feasting; but what most amazed Civil was the quantity of cups, flagons, and goblets, made of gold and silver, of such different shapes and patterns that they seemed to have been gathered from all the countries in the world. In the chief hall there sat a merman on a stately chair, with more jewels than all the rest about him. Before him the mermaids brought Civil, saying-- "'Father, here is our guest.' "'Welcome, noble fisherman!' cried the merman, in a voice which Civil remembered with terror, for it was that of the great ugly fish; 'welcome to our halls! Sit down and feast with us, and then choose which of my daughters you will have for a bride.' "Civil had never felt himself so thoroughly frightened in all his life. How was he to get home to his mother? and what would the old dame think when the dark night came without bringing him home? There was no use in talking--Civil had wisdom enough to see that: he therefore tried to take things quietly; and, having thanked the merman for his invitation, took the seat assigned him on his right hand. Civil was hungry with the long day at sea, but there was no want of fare on that table: meats and wines, such as he had never tasted, were set before him in the richest of golden dishes: but, hungry as he was, the fisherman perceived that everything there had the taste and smell of the sea. "If the fisherman had been the lord of lands and castles he would not have been treated with more respect. The two mermaids sat by him--one filled his plate, another filled his goblet; but the third only looked at him in a stealthy, warning way when nobody perceived her. Civil soon finished his share of the feast, and then the merman showed him all the splendours of his cavern. The halls were full of company, some feasting, some dancing, and some playing all manner of games, and in every hall was the same abundance of gold and silver vessels; but Civil was most astonished when the merman brought him to a marble chamber full of heaps of precious stones. There were diamonds there whose value the fisherman knew not--pearls larger than ever a diver had gathered--emeralds, sapphires, and rubies, that would have made the jewellers of the world wonder; the merman then said-- "'This is my eldest daughter's dowry.' "'Good luck attend her!' said Civil. 'It is the dowry of a queen.' But the merman led him on to another chamber: it was filled with heaps of gold coin, which seemed gathered from all times and nations. The images and inscriptions of all the kings that ever reigned were there; and the merman said: "'This is my second daughter's dowry.' "'Good luck attend her!' said Civil. 'It is a dowry for a princess.' "'So you may say,' replied the merman. 'But make up your mind which of the maidens you will marry, for the third has no portion at all, because she is not my daughter; but only, as you may see, a poor silly girl taken into my family for charity.' "'Truly, my lord,' said Civil, whose mind was already made up, 'both your daughters are too rich and far too noble for me; therefore I choose the third. Her poverty will best become my estate of a poor fisherman.' "'If you choose her,' said the merman, 'you must wait long for a wedding. I cannot allow an inferior girl to be married before my own daughters.' And he said a great deal more to persuade him; but Civil would not change his mind, and they returned to the hall. "There was no more attention for the fisherman, but everybody watched him well. Turn where he would, master or guest had their eyes upon him, though he made them the best speeches he could remember, and praised all their splendours. One thing, however, was strange--there was no end to the fun and the feasting; nobody seemed tired, and nobody thought of sleep. When Civil's very eyes closed with weariness, and he slept on one of the marble benches--no matter how many hours--there were the company feasting and dancing away; there were the thousand lamps within, and the cold moonlight without. Civil wished himself back with his mother, his net, and his cobbled skiff. Fishing would have been easier than those everlasting feasts; but there was nothing else among the sea-people--no night of rest, no working day. "Civil knew not how time went on, till, waking up from a long sleep, he saw, for the first time, that the feast was over, and the company gone. The lamps still burned, and the tables, with all their riches, stood in the empty halls; but there was no face to be seen, no sound to be heard, only a low voice singing beside the outer door; and there, sitting all alone, he found the mild-eyed maiden. "'Fair lady,' said Civil, 'tell me what means this quietness, and where are all the merry company?' "'You are a man of the land,' said the lady, 'and know not the sea-people. They never sleep but once a year, and that is at Christmas time. Then they go into the deep caverns, where there is always darkness, and sleep till the new year comes.' "'It is a strange fashion,' said Civil; 'but all folks have their way. Fair lady, as you and I are to be good friends, tell me, whence come all the wines and meats, and gold and silver vessels, seeing there are neither cornfields nor flocks here, workmen nor artificers?' "'The sea-people are heirs of the sea,' replied the maiden; 'to them come all the stores and riches that are lost in it. I know not the ways by which they come; but the lord of these halls keeps the keys of seven gates, where they go out and in; but one of the gates, which has not been open for thrice seven years, leads to a path under the sea, by which, I heard the merman say in his cups, one might reach the land. Good fisherman, if by chance you gain his favour, and ever open that gate, let me bear you company; for I was born where the sun shines and the grass grows, though my country and my parents are unknown to me. All I remember is sailing in a great ship, when a storm arose, and it was wrecked, and not one soul escaped drowning but me. I was then a little child, and a brave sailor had bound me to a floating plank before he was washed away. Here the sea-people came round me like great fishes, and I went down with them to this rich and weary country. Sometimes, as a great favour, they take me up with them to see the sun; but that is seldom, for they never like to part with one who has seen their country; and, fisherman, if you ever leave them, remember to take nothing with you that belongs to them, for if it were but a shell or a pebble, that will give them power over you and yours.' "'Thanks for your news, fair lady,' said Civil. 'A lord's daughter, doubtless, you must have been, while I am but a poor fisherman; yet, as we have fallen into the same misfortune, let us be friends, and it may be we shall find means to get back to the sunshine together.' "'You are a man of good manners,' said the lady, 'therefore, I accept your friendship; but my fear is that we shall never see the sunshine again.' "'Fair speeches brought me here,' said Civil, 'and fair speeches may help me back; but be sure I will not go without you.'" "This promise cheered the lady's heart, and she and Civil spent that Christmas time seeing the wonders of the sea country. They wandered through caves like that of the great merman. The unfinished feast was spread in every hall; the tables were covered with most costly vessels; and heaps of jewels lay on the floors of unlocked chambers. But for the lady's warning, Civil would fain have put away some of them for his mother. "The poor woman was sad of heart by this time, believing her son to be drowned. On the first night when he did not come home, she had gone down to the sea and watched till morning. Then the fishermen steered out again, and Sour having found his skiff floating about, brought it home, saying, the foolish young man was doubtless lost; but what better could be expected when he had no discreet person to take care of him? "This grieved Dame Civil sore. She never expected to see her son again; but, feeling lonely in her cottage at the evening hour when he used to come home, the good woman accustomed herself to go down at sunset and sit beside the sea. That winter happened to be mild on the coast of the west country, and one evening when the Christmas time was near, and the rest of the village preparing to make merry, Dame Civil sat, as usual, on the sands. The tide was ebbing and the sun going down, when from the eastward came a lady clad in black, mounted on a black palfrey, and followed by a squire in the same sad clothing; as the lady came near, she said-- "'Woe is me for my daughter, and for all that have lost by the sea!' "'You say well, noble lady,' said Dame Civil. 'Woe is me also for my son, for I have none beside him.' "When the lady heard that, she alighted from her palfrey, and sat down by the fisherman's mother, saying-- "'Listen to my story. I was the widow of a great lord in the heart of the east country. He left me a fair castle, and an only daughter, who was the joy of my heart. Her name was Faith Feignless; but, while she was yet a child, a great fortune-teller told me that my daughter would marry a fisherman. I thought this would be a great disgrace to my noble family, and, therefore, sent my daughter with her nurse in a good ship, bound for a certain city where my relations live, intending to follow myself as soon as I could get my lands and castles sold. But the ship was wrecked, and my daughter drowned; and I have wandered over the world with my good Squire Trusty, mourning on every shore with those who have lost friends by the sea. Some with whom I have mourned grew to forget their sorrow, and would lament with me no more; others being sour and selfish, mocked me, saying, my grief was nothing to them: but you have good manners, and I will remain with you, however humble be your dwelling. My squire carries gold enough to pay all our charges.' So the mourning lady and her good Squire Trusty went home with Dame Civil, and she was no longer lonely in her sorrow, for when the dame said-- "'Oh! if my son were alive, I should never let him go to sea in a cobbled skiff!' the lady answered-- "'Oh! if my daughter were but living, I should never think it a disgrace though she married a fisherman!' "The Christmas passed as it always does in the west country--shepherds made merry on the downs, and fishermen on the shore; but when the merrymakings and ringing of bells were over in all the land, the sea-people woke up to their continual feasts and dances. Like one that had forgotten all that was past, the merman again showed Civil the chamber of gold and the chamber of jewels, advising him to choose between his two daughters; but the fisherman still answered that the ladies were too noble, and far too rich for him. Yet as he looked at the glittering heap, Civil could not help recollecting the poverty of the west country, and the thought slipped out-- "'How happy my old neighbours would be to find themselves here!' "'Say you so?' said the merman, who always wanted visitors. "'Yes,' said Civil, 'I have neighbours up yonder in the west country whom it would be hard to send home again if they got sight of half this wealth;' and the honest fisherman thought of Dame Sour and her son. "The merman was greatly delighted with these speeches--he thought there was a probability of getting many land-people down, and by and by said to Civil-- "'Suppose you took up a few jewels, and went up to tell your poor neighbours how welcome we might make them?' "The prospect of getting back to his country rejoiced Civil's heart, but he had promised not to go without the lady, and therefore, answered prudently what was indeed true-- "'Many thanks, my lord, for choosing such a humble man as I am to bear your message; but the people of the west country never believe anything without two witnesses at the least; yet if the poor maid whom I have chosen could be permitted to accompany me, I think they would believe us both.' "The merman said nothing in reply, but his people, who had heard Civil's speech, talked it over among themselves till they grew sure that the whole west country would come down, if they only had news of the riches, and petitioned their lord to send up Civil and the poor maid by way of letting them know. "As it seemed for the public good, the great merman consented; but, being determined to have them back, he gathered out of his treasure chamber some of the largest pearls and diamonds that lay convenient, and said-- "'Take these as a present from me, to let the west country people see what I can do for my visitors.' "Civil and the lady took the presents, saying-- "'Oh, my lord, you are too generous. We want nothing but the pleasure of telling of your marvellous riches up yonder.' "'Tell everybody to come down, and they will get the like,' said the merman; 'and follow my eldest daughter, for she carries the key of the land gate.' "Civil and the lady followed the mermaid through a winding gallery, which led from the chief banquet hall far into the marble hill. All was dark, and they had neither lamp nor torch, but at the end of the gallery they came to a great stone gate, which creaked like thunder on its hinges. Beyond that there was a narrow cave, sloping up and up like a steep hill-side. Civil and the lady thought they would never reach the top; but at last they saw a gleam of daylight, then a strip of blue sky, and the mermaid bade them stoop and creep through what seemed a crevice in the ground, and both stood up on the broad sea-beach as the day was breaking and the tide ebbing fast away. "'Good times to you among your west country people,' said the mermaid. 'Tell any of them that would like to come down to visit us, that they must come here midway between the high and low water-mark, when the tide is going out at morning or evening. Call thrice on the sea-people, and we will show them the way.' "Before they could make answer, she had sunk down from their sight, and there was no track or passage there, but all was covered by the loose sand and sea-shells. "'Now,' said the lady to Civil, 'we have seen the heavens once more, and we will not go back. Cast in the merman's present quickly before the sun rises;' and taking the bag of pearls and diamonds, she flung it as far as she could into the sea. "Civil never was so unwilling to part with anything as that bag, but he thought it better to follow a good example, and tossed his into the sea also. They thought they heard a long moan come up from the waters; but Civil saw his mother's chimney beginning to smoke, and with the fair lady in her sea-green gown he hastened to the good dame's cottage. "The whole village were woke up that morning with cries of 'Welcome back, my son!' 'Welcome back, my daughter!' for the mournful lady knew it was her lost daughter, Faith Feignless, whom the fisherman had brought back, and all the neighbours assembled to hear their story. When it was told, everybody praised Civil for the prudence he had shown in his difficulties, except Sour and his mother: they did nothing but rail upon him for losing such great chances of making himself and the whole country rich. At last, when they heard over and over again of the merman's treasures, neither mother nor son would consent to stay any longer in the west country, and as nobody persuaded them, and they would not take Civil's direction, Sour got out his boat and steered away with his mother toward the Merman's Rock. From that voyage they never came back to the hamlet. Some say they went down and lived among the sea-people; others say--I know not how they learned it--that Sour and his mother grumbled and growled so much that even the sea-people grew weary of them, and turned them and their boat out on the open sea. What part of the world they chose to land on nobody is certain: by all accounts they have been seen everywhere, and I should not be surprised if they were in this good company. As for Civil, he married Faith Feignless, and became a great lord." Here the voice ceased, and two that were clad in sea-green silk, with coronets of pearls, rose up, and said-- "That's our story." "Oh, mamma, if we could get down to that country!" said Princess Greedalind. "And bring all the treasures back with us!" answered Queen Wantall. "Except the tale of yesterday, and the four that went before it, I have not heard such a story since my brother Wisewit went from me, and was lost in the forest," said King Winwealth. "Readyrein, the second of my pages, rise, and bring this maiden a purple velvet mantle." The mantle was brought, and Snowflower having thanked the king, went down upon her grandmother's chair; but that night the little girl went no further than the lowest banquet hall, where she was bidden to stay and share the feast, and sleep hard by in a wainscot chamber. That she was well entertained there is no doubt, for King Winwealth had been heard to say that it was not clear to him how he could have got through the seven days' feast without her grandmother's chair and its stories; but next day being the last of the seven, things were gayer than ever in the palace. The music had never been so merry, the dishes so rich, or the wines so rare; neither had the clamours at the gate ever been so loud, nor the disputes and envies so many in the halls. Perhaps it was these doings that brought the low spirits earlier than usual on King Winwealth, for after dinner his majesty fell into them so deeply that a message came down from the highest banquet hall, and the cupbearer told Snowflower to go up with her chair, for King Winwealth wished to hear another story. Now the little girl put on all her finery, from the pink shoes to the purple mantle, and went up with her chair, looking so like a princess that the whole company rose to welcome her. But having made her courtesy, and laid down her head, saying, "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story," the clear voice from under the cushion answered-- "Listen to the Story of Merrymind." CHAPTER VIII THE STORY OF MERRYMIND "Once upon a time there lived in the north country a certain poor man and his wife, who had two corn-fields, three cows, five sheep, and thirteen children. Twelve of these children were called by names common in the north country--Hardhead, Stiffneck, Tightfingers, and the like; but when the thirteenth came to be named, either the poor man and his wife could remember no other name, or something in the child's look made them think it proper, for they called him Merrymind, which the neighbours thought a strange name, and very much above their station: however, as they showed no other signs of pride, the neighbours let that pass. Their thirteen children grew taller and stronger every year, and they had hard work to keep them in bread; but when the youngest was old enough to look after his father's sheep, there happened the great fair, to which everybody in the north country went, because it came only once in seven years, and was held on midsummer-day,--not in any town or village, but on a green plain, lying between a broad river and a high hill, where it was said the fairies used to dance in old and merry times. "Merchants and dealers of all sorts crowded to that fair from far and near. There was nothing known in the north country that could not be bought or sold in it, and neither old nor young were willing to go home without a fairing. The poor man who owned this large family could afford them little to spend in such ways; but as the fair happened only once in seven years, he would not show a poor spirit. Therefore, calling them about him, he opened the leathern bag in which his savings were stored, and gave every one of the thirteen a silver penny. "The boys and girls had never before owned so much pocket-money; and, wondering what they should buy, they dressed themselves in their holiday clothes, and set out with their father and mother to the fair. When they came near the ground that midsummer morning, the stalls, heaped up with all manner of merchandise, from gingerbread upwards, the tents for fun and feasting, the puppet-shows, the rope-dancers, and the crowd of neighbours and strangers, all in their best attire, made those simple people think their north country fair the finest sight in the world. The day wore away in seeing wonders, and in chatting with old friends. It was surprising how far silver pennies went in those days; but before evening twelve of the thirteen had got fairly rid of their money. One bought a pair of brass buckles, another a crimson riband, a third green garters; the father bought a tobacco-pipe, the mother a horn snuffbox--in short, all had provided themselves with fairings except Merrymind. "The cause of the silver penny remaining in his pocket was that he had set his heart upon a fiddle; and fiddles enough there were in the fair--small and large, plain and painted: he looked at and priced the most of them, but there was not one that came within the compass of a silver penny. His father and mother warned him to make haste with his purchase, for they must all go home at sunset, because the way was long. [Illustration: Merrymind at the fair.] "The sun was getting low and red upon the hill; the fair was growing thin, for many dealers had packed up their stalls and departed; but there was a mossy hollow in the great hill-side, to which the outskirts of the fair had reached, and Merrymind thought he would see what might be there. The first thing was a stall of fiddles, kept by a young merchant from a far country, who had many customers, his goods being fine and new; but hard by sat a little grey-haired man, at whom everybody had laughed that day, because he had nothing on his stall but one old dingy fiddle, and all its strings were broken. Nevertheless, the little man sat as stately, and cried, 'Fiddles to sell!' as if he had the best stall in the fair. "'Buy a fiddle, my young master?' he said, as Merrymind came forward. 'You shall have it cheap: I ask but a silver penny for it; and if the strings were mended, its like would not be in the north country.' "Merrymind thought this a great bargain. He was a handy boy, and could mend the strings while watching his father's sheep. So down went the silver penny on the little man's stall, and up went the fiddle under Merrymind's arm. "'Now, my young master,' said the little man, 'you see that we merchants have a deal to look after, and if you help me to bundle up my stall, I will tell you a wonderful piece of news about that fiddle.' "Merrymind was good-natured and fond of news, so he helped him to tie up the loose boards and sticks that composed his stall with an old rope, and when they were hoisted on his back like a fagot, the little man said-- "'About that fiddle, my young master: it is certain the strings can never be mended, nor made new, except by threads from the night-spinners, which, if you get, it will be a good pennyworth;' and up the hill he ran like a greyhound. "Merrymind thought that was queer news, but being given to hope the best, he believed the little man was only jesting, and made haste to join the rest of the family, who were soon on their way home. When they got there every one showed his bargain, and Merrymind showed his fiddle; but his brothers and sisters laughed at him for buying such a thing when he had never learned to play. His sisters asked him what music he could bring out of broken strings; and his father said-- "'Thou hast shown little prudence in laying out thy first penny, from which token I fear thou wilt never have many to lay out.' "In short, everybody threw scorn on Merrymind's bargain except his mother. She, good woman, said if he laid out one penny ill, he might lay out the next better; and who knew but his fiddle would be of use some day? To make her words good, Merrymind fell to repairing the strings--he spent all his time, both night and day, upon them; but, true to the little man's parting words, no mending would stand, and no string would hold on that fiddle. Merrymind tried everything, and wearied himself to no purpose. At last he thought of inquiring after people who spun at night; and this seemed such a good joke to the north country people, that they wanted no other till the next fair. "In the meantime Merrymind lost credit at home and abroad. Everybody believed in his father's prophecy; his brothers and sisters valued him no more than a herd-boy; the neighbours thought he must turn out a scapegrace. Still the boy would not part with his fiddle. It was his silver pennyworth, and he had a strong hope of mending the strings for all that had come and gone; but since nobody at home cared for him except his mother, and as she had twelve other children, he resolved to leave the scorn behind him, and go to seek his fortune. "The family were not very sorry to hear of that intention, being in a manner ashamed of him; besides, they could spare one out of thirteen. His father gave him a barley cake, and his mother her blessing. All his brothers and sisters wished him well. Most of the neighbours hoped that no harm would happen to him; and Merrymind set out one summer morning with the broken-stringed fiddle under his arm. "There were no highways then in the north country--people took whatever path pleased them best; so Merrymind went over the fair ground and up the hill, hoping to meet the little man, and learn something of the night-spinners. The hill was covered with heather to the top, and he went up without meeting any one. On the other side it was steep and rocky, and after a hard scramble down, he came to a narrow glen all overgrown with wild furze and brambles. Merrymind had never met with briars so sharp, but he was not the boy to turn back readily, and pressed on in spite of torn clothes and scratched hands, till he came to the end of the glen, where two paths met: one of them wound through a pine-wood, he knew not how far, but it seemed green and pleasant. The other was a rough, stony way leading to a wide valley surrounded by high hills, and overhung by a dull, thick mist, though it was yet early in the summer evening. "Merrymind was weary with his long journey, and stood thinking of what path to choose, when, by the way of the valley, there came an old man as tall and large as any three men of the north country. His white hair and beard hung like tangled flax about him; his clothes were made of sackcloth; and on his back he carried a heavy burden of dust heaped high in a great pannier. "'Listen to me, you lazy vagabond!' he said, coming near to Merrymind: 'if you take the way through the wood I know not what will happen to you; but if you choose this path you must help me with my pannier, and I can tell you it's no trifle.' "'Well, father,' said Merrymind, 'you seem tired, and I am younger than you, though not quite so tall; so, if you please, I will choose this way, and help you along with the pannier.' "Scarce had he spoken when the huge man caught hold of him, firmly bound one side of the pannier to his shoulders with the same strong rope that fastened it on his own back, and never ceased scolding and calling him names as they marched over the stony ground together. It was a rough way and a heavy burden, and Merrymind wished himself a thousand times out of the old man's company, but there was no getting off; and at length, in hopes of beguiling the way, and putting him in better humour, he began to sing an old rhyme which his mother had taught him. By this time they had entered the valley, and the night had fallen very dark and cold. The old man ceased scolding, and by a feeble glimmer of the moonlight, which now began to shine, Merrymind saw that they were close by a deserted cottage, for its door stood open to the night winds. Here the old man paused, and loosed the rope from his own and Merrymind's shoulders. "'For seven times seven years,' he said, 'have I carried this pannier, and no one ever sang while helping me before. Night releases all men, so I release you. Where will you sleep--by my kitchen fire, or in that cold cottage?' "Merrymind thought he had got quite enough of the old man's society, and therefore answered-- "'The cottage, good father, if you please.' "'A sound sleep to you, then!' said the old man, and he went off with his pannier. "Merrymind stepped into the deserted cottage. The moon was shining through door and window, for the mist was gone, and the night looked clear as day; but in all the valley he could hear no sound, nor was there any trace of inhabitants in the cottage. The hearth looked as if there had not been a fire there for years. A single article of furniture was not to be seen; but Merrymind was sore weary, and, laying himself down in a corner, with his fiddle close by, he fell fast asleep. "The floor was hard, and his clothes were thin, but all through his sleep there came a sweet sound of singing voices and spinning-wheels, and Merrymind thought he must have been dreaming when he opened his eyes next morning on the bare and solitary house. The beautiful night was gone, and the heavy mist had come back. There was no blue sky, no bright sun to be seen. The light was cold and grey, like that of mid-winter; but Merrymind ate the half of his barley cake, drank from a stream hard by, and went out to see the valley. "It was full of inhabitants, and they were all busy in houses, in fields, in mills, and in forges. The men hammered and delved; the women scrubbed and scoured; the very children were hard at work: but Merrymind could hear neither talk nor laughter among them. Every face looked careworn and cheerless, and every word was something about work or gain. "Merrymind thought this unreasonable, for everybody there appeared rich. The women scrubbed in silk, the men delved in scarlet. Crimson curtains, marble floors, and shelves of silver tankards were to be seen in every house; but their owners took neither ease nor pleasure in them, and every one laboured as it were for life. "The birds of that valley did not sing--they were too busy pecking and building. The cats did not lie by the fire--they were all on the watch for mice. The dogs went out after hares on their own account. The cattle and sheep grazed as if they were never to get another mouthful; and the herdsmen were all splitting wood or making baskets. "In the midst of the valley there stood a stately castle, but instead of park and gardens, brew-houses and washing-greens lay round it. The gates stood open, and Merrymind ventured in. The courtyard was full of coopers. They were churning in the banquet hall. They were making cheese on the dais, and spinning and weaving in all its principal chambers. In the highest tower of that busy castle, at a window from which she could see the whole valley, there sat a noble lady. Her dress was rich, but of a dingy drab colour. Her hair was iron-grey; her look was sour and gloomy. Round her sat twelve maidens of the same aspect, spinning on ancient distaffs, and the lady spun as hard as they, but all the yarn they made was jet black. "No one in or out of the castle would reply to Merrymind's salutations, nor answer him any questions. The rich men pulled out their purses, saying, 'Come and work for wages!' The poor men said, 'We have no time to talk!' A cripple by the wayside wouldn't answer him, he was so busy begging; and a child by a cottage-door said it must go to work. All day Merrymind wandered about With his broken-stringed fiddle, and all day he saw the great old man marching round and round the valley with his heavy burden of dust. "'It is the dreariest valley that ever I beheld!' he said to himself. 'And no place to mend my fiddle in; but one would not like to go away without knowing what has come over the people, or if they have always worked so hard and heavily.' "By this time the night again came on: he knew it by the clearing mist and the rising moon. The people began to hurry home in all directions. Silence came over house and field; and near the deserted cottage Merrymind met the old man. "'Good father,' he said, 'I pray you tell me what sport or pastime have the people of this valley?' "'Sport and pastime!' cried the old man, in great wrath. 'Where did you hear of the like? We work by day and sleep by night. There is no sport in Dame Dreary's land!' and, with a hearty scolding for his idleness and levity, he left Merrymind to sleep once more in the cottage. "That night the boy did not sleep so sound: though too drowsy to open his eyes, he was sure there had been singing and spinning near him all night; and, resolving to find out what this meant before he left the valley, Merrymind ate the other half of his barley cake, drank again from the stream, and went out to see the country. "The same heavy mist shut out sun and sky; the same hard work went forward wherever he turned his eyes; and the great old man with the dust-pannier strode on his accustomed round. Merrymind could find no one to answer a single question; rich and poor wanted him to work still more earnestly than the day before; and fearing that some of them might press him into service, he wandered away to the furthest end of the valley. "There, there was no work, for the land lay bare and lonely, and was bounded by grey crags, as high and steep as any castle-wall. There was no passage or outlet, but through a great iron gate secured with a heavy padlock: close by it stood a white tent, and in the door a tall soldier, with one arm, stood smoking a long pipe. He was the first idle man Merrymind had seen in the valley, and his face looked to him like that of a friend; so coming up with his best bow, the boy said-- "'Honourable master soldier, please to tell me what country is this, and why do the people work so hard?' "'Are you a stranger in this place, that you ask such questions?' answered the soldier. "'Yes,' said Merrymind; 'I came but the evening before yesterday.' "'Then I am sorry for you, for here you must remain. My orders are to let everybody in and nobody out; and the giant with the dust-pannier guards the other entrance night and day,' said the soldier. "'That is bad news,' said Merrymind; 'but since I am here, please to tell me why were such laws made, and what is the story of this valley?' "'Hold my pipe, and I will tell you,' said the soldier, 'for nobody else will take the time. This valley belongs to the lady of yonder castle, whom, for seven times seven years, men have called Dame Dreary. She had another name in her youth--they called her Lady Littlecare; and then the valley was the fairest spot in all the north country. The sun shone brightest there; the summers lingered longest. Fairies danced on the hill-tops; singing-birds sat on all the trees. Strongarm, the last of the giants, kept the pine-forest, and hewed yule logs out of it, when he was not sleeping in the sun. Two fair maidens, clothed in white, with silver wheels on their shoulders, came by night, and spun golden threads by the hearth of every cottage. The people wore homespun, and drank out of horn; but they had merry times. There were May-games, harvest-homes and Christmas cheer among them. Shepherds piped on the hill-sides, reapers sang in the fields, and laughter came with the red firelight out of every house in the evening. All that was changed, nobody knows how, for the old folks who remembered it are dead. Some say it was because of a magic ring which fell from the lady's finger; some because of a spring in the castle-court which went dry. However it was, the lady turned Dame Dreary. Hard work and hard times overspread the valley. The mist came down; the fairies departed; the giant Strongarm grew old, and took up a burden of dust; and the night-spinners were seen no more in any man's dwelling. They say it will be so till Dame Dreary lays down her distaff, and dances; but all the fiddlers of the north country have tried their merriest tunes to no purpose. The king is a wise prince and a great warrior. He has filled two treasure-houses, and conquered all his enemies; but he cannot change the order of Dame Dreary's land. I cannot tell you what great rewards he offered to any who could do it; but when no good came of his offers, the king feared that similar fashions might spread among his people, and therefore made a law that whomsoever entered should not leave it. His majesty took me captive in war, and placed me here to keep the gate, and save his subjects trouble. If I had not brought my pipe with me, I should have been working as hard as any of them by this time, with my one arm. Young master, if you take my advice you will learn to smoke.' "'If my fiddle were mended it would be better,' said Merrymind; and he sat talking with the soldier till the mist began to clear and the moon to rise, and then went home to sleep in the deserted cottage. "It was late when he came near it, and the moonlight night looked lovely beside the misty day. Merrymind thought it was a good time for trying to get out of the valley. There was no foot abroad, and no appearance of the giant; but as Merrymind drew near to where the two paths met, there was he fast asleep beside a fire of pinecones, with his pannier at his head, and a heap of stones close by him. 'Is that your kitchen-fire?' thought the boy to himself, and he tried to steal past; but Strongarm started up, and pursued him with stones, and calling him bad names, half way back to the cottage. "Merrymind was glad to run the whole way for fear of him. The door was still open, and the moon was shining in; but by the fireless hearth there sat two fair maidens, all in white, spinning on silver wheels, and singing together a blithe and pleasant tune like the larks on May-morning. Merrymind could have listened all night, but suddenly he bethought him that these must be the night-spinners, whose threads would mend his fiddle; so, stepping with reverence and good courage, he said-- "'Honourable ladies, I pray you give a poor boy a thread to mend his fiddle-strings.' "'For seven times seven years,' said the fair maidens, 'have we spun by night in this deserted cottage, and no mortal has seen or spoken to us. Go and gather sticks through all the valley to make a fire for us on this cold hearth, and each of us will give you a thread for your pains.' "Merrymind took his broken fiddle with him, and went through all the valley gathering sticks by the moonlight; but so careful were the people of Dame Dreary's land, that scarce a stick could be found, and the moon was gone, and the misty day had come before he was able to come back with a small fagot. The cottage-door was still open; the fair maidens and their silver wheels were gone; but on the floor where they sat lay two long threads of gold. "Merrymind first heaped up his fagot on the hearth, to be ready against their coming at night, and next took up the golden threads to mend his fiddle. Then he learned the truth of the little man's saying at the fair, for no sooner were the strings fastened with those golden threads than they became firm. The old dingy fiddle too began to shine and glisten, and at length it was golden also. This sight made Merrymind so joyful, that, unlearned as he was in music, the boy tried to play. Scarce had his bow touched the strings when they began to play of themselves the same blithe and pleasant tune which the night-spinners sang together. "'Some of the workers will stop for the sake of this tune,' said Merrymind, and he went out along the valley with his fiddle. The music filled the air; the busy people heard it; and never was such a day seen in Dame Dreary's land. The men paused in their delving; the women stopped their scrubbing; the little children dropped their work; and every one stood still in their places while Merrymind and his fiddle passed on. When he came to the castle, the coopers cast down their tools in the court; the churning and cheesemaking ceased in the banquet hall; the looms and spinning-wheels stopped in the principal chambers; and Dame Dreary's distaff stood still in her hand. "Merrymind played through the halls and up the tower-stairs. As he came near, the dame cast down her distaff, and danced with all her might. All her maidens did the like; and as they danced she grew young again--the sourness passed from her looks, and the greyness from her hair. They brought her the dress of white and cherry-colour she used to wear in her youth, and she was no longer Dame Dreary, but the Lady Littlecare, with golden hair, and laughing eyes, and cheeks like summer roses. [Illustration: Dame Dreary dances and grows strong.] "Then a sound of merrymaking came up from the whole valley. The heavy mist rolled away over the hills; the sun shone out; the blue sky was seen; a clear spring gushed up in the castle-court; a white falcon came from the east with a golden ring, and put it on the lady's finger. After that Strongarm broke the rope, tossed the pannier of dust from his shoulder, and lay down to sleep in the sun. That night the fairies danced on the hill-tops; and the night-spinners, with their silver wheels, were seen by every hearth, and no more in the deserted cottage. Everybody praised Merrymind and his fiddle; and when news of his wonderful playing came to the king's ears, he commanded the iron gate to be taken away; he made the captive soldier a free man; and promoted Merrymind to be his first fiddler, which under that wise monarch was the highest post in his kingdom. "As soon as Merrymind's family and neighbours heard of the high preferment his fiddle had gained for him, they thought music must be a good thing, and man, woman, and child took to fiddling. It is said that none of them ever learned to play a single tune except Merrymind's mother, on whom her son bestowed great presents." Here the voice ceased, and one clothed in green and russet-coloured velvet rose up with a golden fiddle in his hand, and said-- "That's my story." "Excepting yesterday's tale, and the five that went before it," said King Winwealth, "I have not heard such a story as that since my brother Wisewit went from me, and was lost in the forest. Fairfortune, the first of my pages, go and bring this maiden a golden girdle. And since her grandmother's chair can tell such stories, she shall go no more into low company, but feast with us in our chief banquet hall, and sleep in one of the best chambers of the palace!" CHAPTER IX PRINCE WISEWIT'S RETURN Snowflower was delighted at the promise of feasting with those noble lords and ladies, whose wonderful stories she had heard from the chair. Her courtesy was twice as low as usual, and she thanked King Winwealth from the bottom of her heart. All the company were glad to make room for her, and when her golden girdle was put on, little Snowflower looked as fine as the best of them. "Mamma," whispered the Princess Greedalind, while she looked ready to cry for spite, "only see that low little girl who came here in a coarse frock and barefooted, what finery and favour she has gained by her story-telling chair! All the court are praising her and overlooking me, though the feast was made in honour of my birthday. Mamma, I must have that chair from her. What business has a common little girl with anything so amusing?" "So you shall, my daughter," said Queen Wantall--for by this time she saw that King Winwealth had, according to custom, fallen asleep on his throne. So calling two of her pages, Screw and Hardhands, she ordered them to bring the chair from the other end of the hall where Snowflower sat, and directly made it a present to Princess Greedalind. Nobody in that court ever thought of disputing Queen Wantall's commands, and poor Snowflower sat down to cry in a corner; while Princess Greedalind, putting on what she thought a very grand air, laid down her head on the cushion, saying-- "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story." "Where did you get a grandmother?" cried the clear voice from under the cushion; and up went the chair with such force as to throw Princess Greedalind off on the floor, where she lay screaming, a good deal more angry than hurt. All the courtiers tried in vain to comfort her. But Queen Wantall, whose temper was still worse, vowed that she would punish the impudent thing, and sent for Sturdy, her chief woodman, to chop it up with his axe. At the first stroke the cushion was cut open, and, to the astonishment of everybody, a bird, whose snow-white feathers were tipped with purple, darted out and flew away through an open window. [Illustration: Prince Wisewit, disguised as a bird, escapes out of the window.] "Catch it! catch it!" cried the queen and the princess; and all but King Winwealth, who still slept on his throne, rushed out after the bird. It flew over the palace garden and into a wild common, where houses had been before Queen Wantall pulled them down to search for a gold mine, which her majesty never found, though three deep pits were dug to come at it. To make the place look smart at the feast time these pits had been covered over with loose boughs and turf. All the rest of the company remembered this but Queen Wantall and Princess Greedalind. They were nearest to the bird, and poor Snowflower, by running hard, came close behind them, but Fairfortune, the king's first page, drew her back by the purple mantle, when, coming to the covered pit, boughs and turf gave way, and down went the queen and the princess. Everybody looked for the bird, but it was nowhere to be seen; but on the common where they saw it alight, there stood a fair and royal prince, clad in a robe of purple and a crown of changing colours, for sometimes it seemed of gold and sometimes of forest leaves. Most of the courtiers stood not knowing what to think, but all the fairy people and all the lords and ladies of the chair's stories, knew him, and cried, "Welcome to Prince Wisewit!" King Winwealth heard that sound where he slept, and came out glad of heart to welcome back his brother. When the lord high chamberlain and her own pages came out with ropes and lanthorns to search for Queen Wantall and Princess Greedalind, they found them safe and well at the bottom of the pit, having fallen on a heap of loose sand. The pit was of great depth, but some daylight shone down, and whatever were the yellow grains they saw glittering among the sand, the queen and the princess believed it was full of gold. They called the miners false knaves, lazy rogues, and a score of bad names beside, for leaving so much wealth behind them, and utterly refused to come out of the pit; saying, that since Prince Wisewit was come, they could find no pleasure in the palace, but would stay there and dig for gold, and buy the world with it for themselves. King Winwealth thought the plan was a good one for keeping peace in his palace. He commanded shovels and picks to be lowered to the queen and the princess. The two pages, Screw and Hardhands, went down to help them, in hopes of halving the profits, and there they stayed, digging for gold. Some of the courtiers said they would find it; others believed they never could; and the gold was not found when this story was written. As for Prince Wisewit, he went home with the rest of the company, leading Snowflower by the hand, and telling them all how he had been turned into a bird by the cunning fairy Fortunetta, who found him off his guard in the forest; how she had shut him up under the cushion of that curious chair, and given it to old Dame Frostyface; and how all his comfort had been in little Snowflower, to whom he told so many stories. King Winwealth was so rejoiced to find his brother again, that he commanded another feast to be held for seven days. All that time the gates of the palace stood open; all comers were welcome, all complaints heard. The houses and lands which Queen Wantall had taken away were restored to their rightful owners. Everybody got what they most wanted. There were no more clamours without, nor discontents within the palace; and on the seventh day of the feast who should arrive but Dame Frostyface, in her grey hood and mantle. Snowflower was right glad to see her grandmother--so were the king and prince, for they had known the Dame in her youth. They kept the feast for seven days more; and when it was ended everything was right in the kingdom. King Winwealth and Prince Wisewit reigned once more together; and because Snowflower was the best girl in all that country, they chose her to be their heiress, instead of Princess Greedalind. From that day forward she wore white velvet and satin; she had seven pages, and lived in the grandest part of the palace. Dame Frostyface, too, was made a great lady. They put a new velvet cushion on her chair, and she sat in a gown of grey cloth, edged with gold, spinning on an ivory wheel in a fine painted parlour. Prince Wisewit built a great summer-house covered with vines and roses, on the spot where her old cottage stood. He also made a highway through the forest, that all good people might come and go there at their leisure; and the cunning fairy Fortunetta, finding that her reign was over in those parts, set off on a journey round the world, and did not return in the time of this story. Good boys and girls, who may chance to read it, that time is long ago. Great wars, work, and learning, have passed over the world since then, and altered all its fashions. Kings make no seven-day feasts for all comers now. Queens and princesses, however greedy, do not mine for gold. Chairs tell no tales. Wells work no wonders; and there are no such doings on hills and forests, for the fairies dance no more. Some say it was the hum of schools--some think it was the din of factories that frightened them; but nobody has been known to have seen them for many a year, except, it is said, one Hans Christian Andersen, in Denmark, whose tales of the fairies are so good that they must have been heard from themselves. It is certain that no living man knows the subsequent history of King Winwealth's country, nor what became of all the notable characters who lived and visited at his palace. Yet there are people who believe that the monarch still falls asleep on his throne, and into low spirits after supper; that Queen Wantall and Princess Greedalind have found the gold, and begun to buy; that Dame Frostyface yet spins--they cannot tell where; that Snowflower may still be seen at the new year's time in her dress of white velvet, looking out for the early spring; that Prince Wisewit has somehow fallen under a stronger spell and a thicker cushion, that he still tells stories to Snowflower and her friends, and when both cushion and spell are broken by another stroke of Sturdy's hatchet--which they expect will happen some time--the prince will make all things right again, and bring back the fairy times to the world. THE END _Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay._ 
697	----	THE LIGHT PRINCESS by GEORGE MACDONALD Contents 1. What! No Children? 2. Won't I, Just? 3. She Can't Be Ours. 4. Where Is She? 5. What Is to Be Done? 6. She Laughs Too Much. 7. Try Metaphysics. 8. Try a Drop of Water. 9. Put Me in Again. 10. Look at the Moon. 11. Hiss! 12. Where Is the Prince? 13. Here I Am. 14. This Is Very Kind of You. 15. Look at the Rain! 1. What! No Children? Once upon a time, so long ago that I have quite forgotten the date, there lived a king and queen who had no children. And the king said to himself, "All the queens of my acquaintance have children, some three, some seven, and some as many as twelve; and my queen has not one. I feel ill-used." So he made up his mind to be cross with his wife about it. But she bore it all like a good patient queen as she was. Then the king grew very cross indeed. But the queen pretended to take it all as a joke, and a very good one too. "Why don't you have any daughters, at least?" said he. "I don't say sons; that might be too much to expect." "I am sure, dear king, I am very sorry," said the queen. "So you ought to be," retorted the king; "you are not going to make a virtue of that, surely." But he was not an ill-tempered king, and in any matter of less moment would have let the queen have her own way with all his heart. This, however, was an affair of state. The queen smiled. "You must have patience with a lady, you know, dear king," said she. She was, indeed, a very nice queen, and heartily sorry that she could not oblige the king immediately. 2. Won't I, Just? The king tried to have patience, but he succeeded very badly. It was more than he deserved, therefore, when, at last, the queen gave him a daughter--as lovely a little princess as ever cried. The day drew near when the infant must be christened. The king wrote all the invitations with his own hand. Of course somebody was forgotten. Now it does not generally matter if somebody is forgotten, only you must mind who. Unfortunately, the king forgot without intending to forget; and so the chance fell upon the Princess Makemnoit, which was awkward. For the princess was the king's own sister; and he ought not to have forgotten her. But she had made herself so disagreeable to the old king, their father, that he had forgotten her in making his will; and so it was no wonder that her brother forgot her in writing his invitations. But poor relations don't do anything to keep you in mind of them. Why don't they? The king could not see into the garret she lived in, could he? She was a sour, spiteful creature. The wrinkles of contempt crossed the wrinkles of peevishness, and made her face as full of wrinkles as a pat of butter. If ever a king could be justified in forgetting anybody, this king was justified in forgetting his sister, even at a christening. She looked very odd, too. Her forehead was as large as all the rest of her face, and projected over it like a precipice. When she was angry, her little eyes flashed blue. When she hated anybody, they shone yellow and green. What they looked like when she loved anybody, I do not know; for I never heard of her loving anybody but herself, and I do not think she could have managed that if she had not somehow got used to herself. But what made it highly imprudent in the king to forget her was that she was awfully clever. In fact, she was a witch; and when she bewitched anybody, he very soon had enough of it; for she beat all the wicked fairies in wickedness, and all the clever ones in cleverness. She despised all the modes we read of in history, in which offended fairies and witches have taken their revenges; and therefore, after waiting and waiting in vain for an invitation, she made up her mind at last to go without one, and make the whole family miserable, like a princess as she was. So she put on her best gown, went to the palace, was kindly received by the happy monarch, who forgot that he had forgotten her, and took her place in the procession to the royal chapel. When they were all gathered about the font, she contrived to get next to it, and throw something into the water; after which she maintained a very respectful demeanour till the water was applied to the child's face. But at that moment she turned round in her place three times, and muttered the following words, loud enough for those beside her to hear:-- "Light of spirit, by my charms, Light of body, every part, Never weary human arms-- Only crush thy parents' heart!" They all thought she had lost her wits, and was repeating some foolish nursery rhyme; but a shudder went through the whole of them notwithstanding. The baby, on the contrary, began to laugh and crow; while the nurse gave a start and a smothered cry, for she thought she was struck with paralysis: she could not feel the baby in her arms. But she clasped it tight and said nothing. The mischief was done. 3. She Can't Be Ours. Her atrocious aunt had deprived the child of all her gravity. If you ask me how this was effected, I answer, "In the easiest way in the world. She had only to destroy gravitation." For the princess was a philosopher, and knew all the ins and outs of the laws of gravitation as well as the ins and outs of her boot-lace. And being a witch as well, she could abrogate those laws in a moment; or at least so clog their wheels and rust their bearings, that they would not work at all. But we have more to do with what followed than with how it was done. The first awkwardness that resulted from this unhappy privation was, that the moment the nurse began to float the baby up and down, she flew from her arms towards the ceiling. Happily, the resistance of the air brought her ascending career to a close within a foot of it. There she remained, horizontal as when she left her nurse's arms, kicking and laughing amazingly. The nurse in terror flew to the bell, and begged the footman, who answered it, to bring up the house-steps directly. Trembling in every limb, she climbed upon the steps, and had to stand upon the very top, and reach up, before she could catch the floating tail of the baby's long clothes. When the strange fact came to be known, there was a terrible commotion in the palace. The occasion of its discovery by the king was naturally a repetition of the nurse's experience. Astonished that he felt no weight when the child was laid in his arms, he began to wave her up and not down, for she slowly ascended to the ceiling as before, and there remained floating in perfect comfort and satisfaction, as was testified by her peals of tiny laughter. The king stood staring up in speechless amazement, and trembled so that his beard shook like grass in the wind. At last, turning to the queen, who was just as horror-struck as himself, he said, gasping, staring, and stammering,-- "She can't be ours, queen!" Now the queen was much cleverer than the king, and had begun already to suspect that "this effect defective came by cause." "I am sure she is ours," answered she. "But we ought to have taken better care of her at the christening. People who were never invited ought not to have been present." "Oh, ho!" said the king, tapping his forehead with his forefinger, "I have it all. I've found her out. Don't you see it, queen? Princess Makemnoit has bewitched her." "That's just what I say," answered the queen. "I beg your pardon, my love; I did not hear you.--John! bring the steps I get on my throne with." For he was a little king with a great throne, like many other kings. The throne-steps were brought, and set upon the dining-table, and John got upon the top of them. But he could not reach the little princess, who lay like a baby-laughter-cloud in the air, exploding continuously. "Take the tongs, John," said his Majesty; and getting up on the table, he handed them to him. John could reach the baby now, and the little princess was handed down by the tongs. 4. Where Is She? One fine summer day, a month after these her first adventures, during which time she had been very carefully watched, the princess was lying on the bed in the queen's own chamber, fast asleep. One of the windows was open, for it was noon, and the day was so sultry that the little girl was wrapped in nothing less ethereal than slumber itself. The queen came into the room, and not observing that the baby was on the bed, opened another window. A frolicsome fairy wind, which had been watching for a chance of mischief, rushed in at the one window, and taking its way over the bed where the child was lying, caught her up, and rolling and floating her along like a piece of flue, or a dandelion seed, carried her with it through the opposite window, and away. The queen went down-stairs, quite ignorant of the loss she had herself occasioned. When the nurse returned, she supposed that her Majesty had carried her off, and, dreading a scolding, delayed making inquiry about her. But hearing nothing, she grew uneasy, and went at length to the queen's boudoir, where she found her Majesty. "Please, your Majesty, shall I take the baby?" said she. "Where is she?" asked the queen. "Please forgive me. I know it was wrong." "What do you mean?" said the queen, looking grave. "Oh! don't frighten me, your Majesty!" exclaimed the nurse, clasping her hands. The queen saw that something was amiss, and fell down in a faint. The nurse rushed about the palace, screaming, "My baby! my baby!" Every one ran to the queen's room. But the queen could give no orders. They soon found out, however, that the princess was missing, and in a moment the palace was like a beehive in a garden; and in one minute more the queen was brought to herself by a great shout and a clapping of hands. They had found the princess fast asleep under a rose-bush, to which the elvish little wind-puff had carried her, finishing its mischief by shaking a shower of red rose-leaves all over the little white sleeper. Startled by the noise the servants made, she woke, and, furious with glee, scattered the rose-leaves in all directions, like a shower of spray in the sunset. She was watched more carefully after this, no doubt; yet it would be endless to relate all the odd incidents resulting from this peculiarity of the young princess. But there never was a baby in a house, not to say a palace, that kept the household in such constant good humour, at least below-stairs. If it was not easy for her nurses to hold her, at least she made neither their arms nor their hearts ache. And she was so nice to play at ball with! There was positively no danger of letting her fall. They might throw her down, or knock her down, or push her down, but couldn't let her down. It is true, they might let her fly into the fire or the coal-hole, or through the window; but none of these accidents had happened as yet. If you heard peals of laughter resounding from some unknown region, you might be sure enough of the cause. Going down into the kitchen, or the room, you would find Jane and Thomas, and Robert and Susan, all and sum, playing at ball with the little princess. She was the ball herself, and did not enjoy it the less for that. Away she went, flying from one to another, screeching with laughter. And the servants loved the ball itself better even than the game. But they had to take some care how they threw her, for if she received an upward direction, she would never come down again without being fetched. 5. What Is to Be Done? But above-stairs it was different. One day, for instance, after breakfast, the king went into his counting-house, and counted out his money. The operation gave him no pleasure. "To think," said he to himself, "that every one of these gold sovereigns weighs a quarter of an ounce, and my real, live, flesh-and-blood princess weighs nothing at all!" And he hated his gold sovereigns, as they lay with a broad smile of self-satisfaction all over their yellow faces. The queen was in the parlour, eating bread and honey. But at the second mouthful she burst out crying, and could not swallow it. The king heard her sobbing. Glad of anybody, but especially of his queen, to quarrel with, he clashed his gold sovereigns into his money-box, clapped his crown on his head, and rushed into the parlour. "What is all this about?" exclaimed he. "What are you crying for, queen?" "I can't eat it," said the queen, looking ruefully at the honey-pot. "No wonder!" retorted the king. "You've just eaten your breakfast--two turkey eggs, and three anchovies." "Oh, that's not it!" sobbed her Majesty. "It's my child, my child!" "Well, what's the matter with your child? She's neither up the chimney nor down the draw-well. Just hear her laughing." Yet the king could not help a sigh, which he tried to turn into a cough, saying-- "It is a good thing to be light-hearted, I am sure, whether she be ours or not." "It is a bad thing to be light-headed," answered the queen, looking with prophetic soul far into the future. "'Tis a good thing to be light-handed," said the king. "'Tis a bad thing to be light-fingered," answered the queen. "'Tis a good thing to be light-footed," said the king. "'Tis a bad thing--" began the queen; but the king interrupted her. "In fact," said he, with the tone of one who concludes an argument in which he has had only imaginary opponents, and in which, therefore, he has come off triumphant--"in fact, it is a good thing altogether to be light-bodied." "But it is a bad thing altogether to be light-minded," retorted the queen, who was beginning to lose her temper. This last answer quite discomfited his Majesty, who turned on his heel, and betook himself to his counting-house again. But he was not half-way towards it, when the voice of his queen overtook him. "And it's a bad thing to be light-haired," screamed she, determined to have more last words, now that her spirit was roused. The queen's hair was black as night; and the king's had been, and his daughter's was, golden as morning. But it was not this reflection on his hair that arrested him; it was the double use of the word light. For the king hated all witticisms, and punning especially. And besides, he could not tell whether the queen meant light-haired or light-heired; for why might she not aspirate her vowels when she was exasperated herself? He turned upon his other heel, and rejoined her. She looked angry still, because she knew that she was guilty, or, what was much the same, knew that HE thought so. "My dear queen," said he, "duplicity of any sort is exceedingly objectionable between married people of any rank, not to say kings and queens; and the most objectionable form duplicity can assume is that of punning." "There!" said the queen, "I never made a jest, but I broke it in the making. I am the most unfortunate woman in the world!" She looked so rueful, that the king took her in his arms; and they sat down to consult. "Can you bear this?" said the king. "No, I can't," said the queen. "Well, what's to be done?" said the king. "I'm sure I don't know," said the queen. "But might you not try an apology?" "To my old sister, I suppose you mean?" said the king. "Yes," said the queen. "Well, I don't mind," said the king. So he went the next morning to the house of the princess, and, making a very humble apology, begged her to undo the spell. But the princess declared, with a grave face, that she knew nothing at all about it. Her eyes, however, shone pink, which was a sign that she was happy. She advised the king and queen to have patience, and to mend their ways. The king returned disconsolate. The queen tried to comfort him. "We will wait till she is older. She may then be able to suggest something herself. She will know at least how she feels, and explain things to us." "But what if she should marry?" exclaimed the king, in sudden consternation at the idea. "Well, what of that?" rejoined the queen. "Just think! If she were to have children! In the course of a hundred years the air might be as full of floating children as of gossamers in autumn." "That is no business of ours," replied the queen. "Besides, by that time they will have learned to take care of themselves." A sigh was the king's only answer. He would have consulted the court physicians; but he was afraid they would try experiments upon her. 6. She Laughs Too Much. Meantime, notwithstanding awkward occurrences, and griefs that she brought upon her parents, the little princess laughed and grew--not fat, but plump and tall. She reached the age of seventeen, without having fallen into any worse scrape than a chimney; by rescuing her from which, a little bird-nesting urchin got fame and a black face. Nor, thoughtless as she was, had she committed anything worse than laughter at everybody and everything that came in her way. When she was told, for the sake of experiment, that General Clanrunfort was cut to pieces with all his troops, she laughed; when she heard that the enemy was on his way to besiege her papa's capital, she laughed hugely; but when she was told that the city would certainly be abandoned to the mercy of the enemy's soldiery--why, then she laughed immoderately. She never could be brought to see the serious side of anything. When her mother cried, she said,-- "What queer faces mamma makes! And she squeezes water out of her cheeks? Funny mamma!" And when her papa stormed at her, she laughed, and danced round and round him, clapping her hands, and crying-- "Do it again, papa. Do it again! It's SUCH fun! Dear, funny papa!" And if he tried to catch her, she glided from him in an instant, not in the least afraid of him, but thinking it part of the game not to be caught. With one push of her foot, she would be floating in the air above his head; or she would go dancing backwards and forwards and sideways, like a great butterfly. It happened several times, when her father and mother were holding a consultation about her in private, that they were interrupted by vainly repressed outbursts of laughter over their heads; and looking up with indignation, saw her floating at full length in the air above them, whence she regarded them with the most comical appreciation of the position. One day an awkward accident happened. The princess had come out upon the lawn with one of her attendants, who held her by the hand. Spying her father at the other side of the lawn, she snatched her hand from the maid's, and sped across to him. Now when she wanted to run alone, her custom was to catch up a stone in each hand, so that she might come down again after a bound. Whatever she wore as part of her attire had no effect in this way: even gold, when it thus became as it were a part of herself, lost all its weight for the time. But whatever she only held in her hands retained its downward tendency. On this occasion she could see nothing to catch up but a huge toad, that was walking across the lawn as if he had a hundred years to do it in. Not knowing what disgust meant, for this was one of her peculiarities, she snatched up the toad and bounded away. She had almost reached her father, and he was holding out his arms to receive her, and take from her lips the kiss which hovered on them like a butterfly on a rosebud, when a puff of wind blew her aside into the arms of a young page, who had just been receiving a message from his Majesty. Now it was no great peculiarity in the princess that, once she was set agoing, it always cost her time and trouble to check herself. On this occasion there was no time. She must kiss-and she kissed the page. She did not mind it much; for she had no shyness in her composition; and she knew, besides, that she could not help it. So she only laughed, like a musical box. The poor page fared the worst. For the princess, trying to correct the unfortunate tendency of the kiss, put out her hands to keep her off the page; so that, along with the kiss, he received, on the other cheek, a slap with the huge black toad, which she poked right into his eye. He tried to laugh, too, but the attempt resulted in such an odd contortion of countenance, as showed that there was no danger of his pluming himself on the kiss. As for the king, his dignity was greatly hurt, and he did not speak to the page for a whole month. I may here remark that it was very amusing to see her run, if her mode of progression could properly be called running. For first she would make a bound; then, having alighted, she would run a few steps, and make another bound. Sometimes she would fancy she had reached the ground before she actually had, and her feet would go backwards and forwards, running upon nothing at all, like those of a chicken on its back. Then she would laugh like the very spirit of fun; only in her laugh there was something missing. What it was, I find myself unable to describe. I think it was a certain tone, depending upon the possibility of sorrow--MORBIDEZZA, perhaps. She never smiled. 7. Try Metaphysics. After a long avoidance of the painful subject, the king and queen resolved to hold a council of three upon it; and so they sent for the princess. In she came, sliding and flitting and gliding from one piece of furniture to another, and put herself at last in an armchair, in a sitting posture. Whether she could be said to sit, seeing she received no support from the seat of the chair, I do not pretend to determine. "My dear child," said the king, "you must be aware by this time that you are not exactly like other people." "Oh, you dear funny papa! I have got a nose, and two eyes, and all the rest. So have you. So has mamma." "Now be serious, my dear, for once," said the queen. "No, thank you, mamma; I had rather not." "Would you not like to be able to walk like other people?" said the king. "No indeed, I should think not. You only crawl. You are such slow coaches!" "How do you feel, my child?" he resumed, after a pause of discomfiture. "Quite well, thank you." "I mean, what do you feel like?" "Like nothing at all, that I know of." "You must feel like something." "I feel like a princess with such a funny papa, and such a dear pet of a queen-mamma!" "Now really!" began the queen; but the princess interrupted her. "Oh Yes," she added, "I remember. I have a curious feeling sometimes, as if I were the only person that had any sense in the whole world." She had been trying to behave herself with dignity; but now she burst into a violent fit of laughter, threw herself backwards over the chair, and went rolling about the floor in an ecstasy of enjoyment. The king picked her up easier than one does a down quilt, and replaced her in her former relation to the chair. The exact preposition expressing this relation I do not happen to know. "Is there nothing you wish for?" resumed the king, who had learned by this time that it was useless to be angry with her. "Oh, you dear papa!--yes," answered she. "What is it, my darling?" "I have been longing for it--oh, such a time!--ever since last night." "Tell me what it is." "Will you promise to let me have it?" The king was on the point of saying Yes, but the wiser queen checked him with a single motion of her head. "Tell me what it is first," said he. "No no. Promise first." "I dare not. What is it?" "Mind, I hold you to your promise.--It is--to be tied to the end of a string--a very long string indeed, and be flown like a kite. Oh, such fun! I would rain rose-water, and hail sugar-plums, and snow whipped-cream, and--and--and--" A fit of laughing checked her; and she would have been off again over the floor, had not the king started up and caught her just in time. Seeing nothing but talk could be got out of her, he rang the bell, and sent her away with two of her ladies-in-waiting. "Now, queen," he said, turning to her Majesty, "what IS to be done?" "There is but one thing left," answered she. "Let us consult the college of Metaphysicians." "Bravo!" cried the king; "we will." Now at the head of this college were two very wise Chinese philosophers-by name Hum-Drum, and Kopy-Keck. For them the king sent; and straightway they came. In a long speech he communicated to them what they knew very well already--as who did not?--namely, the peculiar condition of his daughter in relation to the globe on which she dwelt; and requested them to consult together as to what might be the cause and probable cure of her INFIRMITY. The king laid stress upon the word, but failed to discover his own pun. The queen laughed; but Hum-Drum and Kopy-Keck heard with humility and retired in silence. The consultation consisted chiefly in propounding and supporting, for the thousandth time, each his favourite theories. For the condition of the princess afforded delightful scope for the discussion of every question arising from the division of thought-in fact, of all the Metaphysics of the Chinese Empire. But it is only justice to say that they did not altogether neglect the discussion of the practical question, what was to be done. Hum-Drum was a Materialist, and Kopy-Keck was a Spiritualist. The former was slow and sententious; the latter was quick and flighty: the latter had generally the first word; the former the last. "I reassert my former assertion," began Kopy-Keck, with a plunge. "There is not a fault in the princess, body or soul; only they are wrong put together. Listen to me now, Hum-Drum, and I will tell you in brief what I think. Don't speak. Don't answer me. I won't hear you till I have done.-- At that decisive moment, when souls seek their appointed habitations, two eager souls met, struck, rebounded, lost their way, and arrived each at the wrong place. The soul of the princess was one of those, and she went far astray. She does not belong by rights to this world at all, but to some other planet, probably Mercury. Her proclivity to her true sphere destroys all the natural influence which this orb would otherwise possess over her corporeal frame. She cares for nothing here. There is no relation between her and this world. "She must therefore be taught, by the sternest compulsion, to take an interest in the earth as the earth. She must study every department of its history--its animal history; its vegetable history; its mineral history; its social history; its moral history; its political history, its scientific history; its literary history; its musical history; its artistical history; above all, its metaphysical history. She must begin with the Chinese dynasty and end with Japan. But first of all she must study geology, and especially the history of the extinct races of animals-their natures, their habits, their loves, their hates, their revenges. She must--" "Hold, h-o-o-old!" roared Hum-Drum. "It is certainly my turn now. My rooted and insubvertible conviction is, that the causes of the anomalies evident in the princess's condition are strictly and solely physical. But that is only tantamount to acknowledging that they exist. Hear my opinion.-- From some cause or other, of no importance to our inquiry, the motion of her heart has been reversed. That remarkable combination of the suction and the force-pump works the wrong way-I mean in the case of the unfortunate princess: it draws in where it should force out, and forces out where it should draw in. The offices of the auricles and the ventricles are subverted. The blood is sent forth by the veins, and returns by the arteries. Consequently it is running the wrong way through all her corporeal organism--lungs and all. Is it then at all mysterious, seeing that such is the case, that on the other particular of gravitation as well, she should differ from normal humanity? My proposal for the cure is this:-- "Phlebotomize until she is reduced to the last point of safety. Let it be effected, if necessary, in a warm bath. When she is reduced to a state of perfect asphyxy, apply a ligature to the left ankle, drawing it as tight as the bone will bear. Apply, at the same moment, another of equal tension around the right wrist. By means of plates constructed for the purpose, place the other foot and hand under the receivers of two air-pumps. Exhaust the receivers. Exhibit a pint of French brandy, and await the result." "Which would presently arrive in the form of grim Death," said Kopy-Keck. "If it should, she would yet die in doing our duty," retorted Hum-Drum. But their Majesties had too much tenderness for their volatile offspring to subject her to either of the schemes of the equally unscrupulous philosophers. Indeed, the most complete knowledge of the laws of nature would have been unserviceable in her case; for it was impossible to classify her. She was a fifth imponderable body, sharing all the other properties of the ponderable. 8. Try a Drop of Water. Perhaps the best thing for the princess would have been to fall in love. But how a princess who had no gravity could fall into anything is a difficulty--perhaps THE difficulty. As for her own feelings on the subject, she did not even know that there was such a beehive of honey and stings to be fallen into. But now I come to mention another curious fact about her. The palace was built on the shores of the loveliest lake in the world; and the princess loved this lake more than father or mother. The root of this preference no doubt, although the princess did not recognise it as such, was, that the moment she got into it, she recovered the natural right of which she had been so wickedly deprived--namely, gravity. Whether this was owing to the fact that water had been employed as the means of conveying the injury, I do not know. But it is certain that she could swim and dive like the duck that her old nurse said she was. The manner in which this alleviation of her misfortune was discovered was as follows. One summer evening, during the carnival of the country, she had been taken upon the lake by the king and queen, in the royal barge. They were accompanied by many of the courtiers in a fleet of little boats. In the middle of the lake she wanted to get into the lord chancellor's barge, for his daughter, who was a great favourite with her, was in it with her father. Now though the old king rarely condescended to make light of his misfortune, yet, Happening on this occasion to be in a particularly good humour, as the barges approached each other, he caught up the princess to throw her into the chancellor's barge. He lost his balance, however, and, dropping into the bottom of the barge, lost his hold of his daughter; not, however, before imparting to her the downward tendency of his own person, though in a somewhat different direction; for, as the king fell into the boat, she fell into the water. With a burst of delighted laughter she disappeared in the lake. A cry of horror ascended from the boats. They had never seen the princess go down before. Half the men were under water in a moment; but they had all, one after another, come up to the surface again for breath, when--tinkle, tinkle, babble, and gush! came the princess's laugh over the water from far away. There she was, swimming like a swan. Nor would she come out for king or queen, chancellor or daughter. She was perfectly obstinate. But at the same time she seemed more sedate than usual. Perhaps that was because a great pleasure spoils laughing. At all events, after this, the passion of her life was to get into the water, and she was always the better behaved and the more beautiful the more she had of it. Summer and winter it was quite the same; only she could not stay so long in the water when they had to break the ice to let her in. Any day, from morning till evening in summer, she might be descried--a streak of white in the blue water--lying as still as the shadow of a cloud, or shooting along like a dolphin; disappearing, and coming up again far off, just where one did not expect her. She would have been in the lake of a night, too, if she could have had her way; for the balcony of her window overhung a deep pool in it; and through a shallow reedy passage she could have swum out into the wide wet water, and no one would have been any the wiser. Indeed, when she happened to wake in the moonlight she could hardly resist the temptation. But there was the sad difficulty of getting into it. She had as great a dread of the air as some children have of the water. For the slightest gust of wind would blow her away; and a gust might arise in the stillest moment. And if she gave herself a push towards the water and just failed of reaching it, her situation would be dreadfully awkward, irrespective of the wind; for at best there she would have to remain, suspended in her nightgown, till she was seen and angled for by someone from the window. "Oh! if I had my gravity," thought she, contemplating the water, "I would flash off this balcony like a long white sea-bird, headlong into the darling wetness. Heigh-ho!" This was the only consideration that made her wish to be like other people. Another reason for her being fond of the water was that in it alone she enjoyed any freedom. For she could not walk out without a cortege, consisting in part of a troop of light horse, for fear of the liberties which the wind might take with her. And the king grew more apprehensive with increasing years, till at last he would not allow her to walk abroad at all without some twenty silken cords fastened to as many parts of her dress, and held by twenty noblemen. Of course horseback was out of the question. But she bade good-by to all this ceremony when she got into the water. And so remarkable were its effects upon her, especially in restoring her for the time to the ordinary human gravity, that Hum-Drum and Kopy-Keck agreed in recommending the king to bury her alive for three years; in the hope that, as the water did her so much good, the earth would do her yet more. But the king had some vulgar prejudices against the experiment, and would not give his consent. Foiled in this, they yet agreed in another recommendation; which, seeing that one imported his opinions from China and the other from Thibet, was very remarkable indeed. They argued that, if water of external origin and application could be so efficacious, water from a deeper source might work a perfect cure; in short, that if the poor afflicted princess could by any means be made to cry, she might recover her lost gravity. But how was this to be brought about? Therein lay all the difficulty--to meet which the philosophers were not wise enough. To make the princess cry was as impossible as to make her weigh. They sent for a professional beggar; commanded him to prepare his most touching oracle of woe; helped him out of the court charade box, to whatever he wanted for dressing up, and promised great rewards in the event of his success. But it was all in vain. She listened to the mendicant artist's story, and gazed at his marvellous make up, till she could contain herself no longer, and went into the most undignified contortions for relief, shrieking, positively screeching with laughter. When she had a little recovered herself, she ordered her attendants to drive him away, and not give him a single copper; whereupon his look of mortified discomfiture wrought her punishment and his revenge, for it sent her into violent hysterics, from which she was with difficulty recovered. But so anxious was the king that the suggestion should have a fair trial, that he put himself in a rage one day, and, rushing up to her room, gave her an awful whipping. Yet not a tear would flow. She looked grave, and her laughing sounded uncommonly like screaming--that was all. The good old tyrant, though he put on his best gold spectacles to look, could not discover the smallest cloud in the serene blue of her eyes. 9. Put Me in Again. It must have been about this time that the son of a king, who lived a thousand miles from Lagobel set out to look for the daughter of a queen. He travelled far and wide, but as sure as he found a princess, he found some fault in her. Of course he could not marry a mere woman, however beautiful; and there was no princess to be found worthy of him. Whether the prince was so near perfection that he had a right to demand perfection itself, I cannot pretend to say. All I know is, that he was a fine, handsome, brave, generous, well-bred, and well-behaved youth, as all princes are. In his wanderings he had come across some reports about our princess; but as everybody said she was bewitched, he never dreamed that she could bewitch him. For what indeed could a prince do with a princess that had lost her gravity? Who could tell what she might not lose next? She might lose her visibility, or her tangibility; or, in short, the power of making impressions upon the radical sensorium; so that he should never be able to tell whether she was dead or alive. Of course he made no further inquiries about her. One day he lost sight of his retinue in a great forest. These forests are very useful in delivering princes from their courtiers, like a sieve that keeps back the bran. Then the princes get away to follow their fortunes. In this way they have the advantage of the princesses, who are forced to marry before they have had a bit of fun. I wish our princesses got lost in a forest sometimes. One lovely evening, after wandering about for many days, he found that he was approaching the outskirts of this forest; for the trees had got so thin that he could see the sunset through them; and he soon came upon a kind of heath. Next he came upon signs of human neighbourhood; but by this time it was getting late, and there was nobody in the fields to direct him. After travelling for another hour, his horse, quite worn out with long labour and lack of food, fell, and was unable to rise again. So he continued his journey on foot. At length he entered another wood--not a wild forest, but a civilized wood, through which a footpath led him to the side of a lake. Along this path the prince pursued his way through the gathering darkness. Suddenly he paused, and listened. Strange sounds came across the water. It was, in fact, the princess laughing. Now there was something odd in her laugh, as I have already hinted; for the hatching of a real hearty laugh requires the incubation of gravity; and perhaps this was how the prince mistook the laughter for screaming. Looking over the lake, he saw something white in the water; and, in an instant, he had torn off his tunic, kicked off his sandals, and plunged in. He soon reached the white object, and found that it was a woman. There was not light enough to show that she was a princess, but quite enough to show that she was a lady, for it does not want much light to see that. Now I cannot tell how it came about,--whether she pretended to be drowning, or whether he frightened her, or caught her so as to embarrass her,--but certainly he brought her to shore in a fashion ignominious to a swimmer, and more nearly drowned than she had ever expected to be; for the water had got into her throat as often as she had tried to speak. At the place to which he bore her, the bank was only a foot or two above the water; so he gave her a strong lift out of the water, to lay her on the bank. But, her gravitation ceasing the moment she left the water, away she went up into the air, scolding and screaming. "You naughty, naughty, NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY man!" she cried. No one had ever succeeded in putting her into a passion before.--When the prince saw her ascend, he thought he must have been bewitched, and have mistaken a great swan for a lady. But the princess caught hold of the topmost cone upon a lofty fir. This came off; but she caught at another; and, in fact, stopped herself by gathering cones, dropping them as the stalks gave way. The prince, meantime, stood in the water, staring, and forgetting to get out. But the princess disappearing, he scrambled on shore, and went in the direction of the tree. There he found her climbing down one of the branches towards the stem. But in the darkness of the wood, the prince continued in some bewilderment as to what the phenomenon could be; until, reaching the ground, and seeing him standing there, she caught hold of him, and said,-- "I'll tell papa." "Oh no, you won't!" returned the prince. "Yes, I will," she persisted. "What business had you to pull me down out of the water, and throw me to the bottom of the air? I never did you any harm." "Pardon me. I did not mean to hurt you." "I don't believe you have any brains; and that is a worse loss than your wretched gravity. I pity you." The prince now saw that he had come upon the bewitched princess, and had already offended her. But before he could think what to say next, she burst out angrily, giving a stamp with her foot that would have sent her aloft again but for the hold she had of his arm,-- "Put me up directly." "Put you up where, you beauty?" asked the prince. He had fallen in love with her almost, already; for her anger made her more charming than any one else had ever beheld her; and, as far as he could see, which certainly was not far, she had not a single fault about her, except, of course, that she had not any gravity. No prince, however, would judge of a princess by weight. The loveliness of her foot he would hardly estimate by the depth of the impression it could make in mud. "Put you up where, you beauty?" asked the prince. "In the water, you stupid!" answered the princess. "Come, then," said the prince. The condition of her dress, increasing her usual difficulty in walking, compelled her to cling to him; and he could hardly persuade himself that he was not in a delightful dream, notwithstanding the torrent of musical abuse with which she overwhelmed him. The prince being therefore in no hurry, they came upon the lake at quite another part, where the bank was twenty-five feet high at least; and when they had reached the edge, he turned towards the princess, and said,-- "How am I to put you in?" "That is your business," she answered, quite snappishly. "You took me out--put me in again." "Very well," said the prince; and, catching her up in his arms, he sprang with her from the rock. The princess had just time to give one delighted shriek of laughter before the water closed over them. When they came to the surface, she found that, for a moment or two, she could not even laugh, for she had gone down with such a rush, that it was with difficulty she recovered her breath. The instant they reached the surface-- "How do you like falling in?" said the prince. After some effort the princess panted out,-- "Is that what you call FALLING IN?" "Yes," answered the prince, "I should think it a very tolerable specimen." "It seemed to me like going up," rejoined she. "My feeling was certainly one of elevation too," the prince conceded. The princess did not appear to understand him, for she retorted his question:-- "How do YOU like falling in?" said the princess. "Beyond everything," answered he; "for I have fallen in with the only perfect creature I ever saw." "No more of that: I am tired of it," said the princess. Perhaps she shared her father's aversion to punning. "Don't you like falling in then?" said the prince. "It is the most delightful fun I ever had in my life," answered she. "I never fell before. I wish I could learn. To think I am the only person in my father's kingdom that can't fall!" Here the poor princess looked almost sad. "I shall be most happy to fall in with you any time you like," said the prince, devotedly. "Thank you. I don't know. Perhaps it would not be proper. But I don't care. At all events, as we have fallen in, let us have a swim together." "With all my heart," responded the prince. And away they went, swimming, and diving, and floating, until at last they heard cries along the shore, and saw lights glancing in all directions. It was now quite late, and there was no moon. "I must go home," said the princess. "I am very sorry, for this is delightful." "So am I," returned the prince. "But I am glad I haven't a home to go to--at least, I don't exactly know where it is." "I wish I hadn't one either," rejoined the princess; "it is so stupid! I have a great mind," she continued, "to play them all a trick. Why couldn't they leave me alone? They won't trust me in the lake for a single night!--You see where that green light is burning? That is the window of my room. Now if you would just swim there with me very quietly, and when we are all but under the balcony, give me such a push--up you call it-as you did a little while ago, I should be able to catch hold of the balcony, and get in at the window; and then they may look for me till to-morrow morning!" "With more obedience than pleasure," said the prince, gallantly; and away they swam, very gently. "Will you be in the lake to-morrow night?" the prince ventured to ask. "To be sure I will. I don't think so. Perhaps," was the princess's somewhat strange answer. But the prince was intelligent enough not to press her further; and merely whispered, as he gave her the parting lift, "Don't tell." The only answer the princess returned was a roguish look. She was already a yard above his head. The look seemed to say, "Never fear. It is too good fun to spoil that way." So perfectly like other people had she been in the water, that even yet the prince could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw her ascend slowly, grasp the balcony, and disappear through the window. He turned, almost expecting to see her still by his side. But he was alone in the water. So he swam away quietly, and watched the lights roving about the shore for hours after the princess was safe in her chamber. As soon as they disappeared, he landed in search of his tunic and sword, and, after some trouble, found them again. Then he made the best of his way round the lake to the other side. There the wood was wilder, and the shore steeper-rising more immediately towards the mountains which surrounded the lake on all sides, and kept sending it messages of silvery streams from morning to night, and all night long. He soon found a spot whence he could see the green light in the princess's room, and where, even in the broad daylight, he would be in no danger of being discovered from the opposite shore. It was a sort of cave in the rock, where he provided himself a bed of withered leaves, and lay down too tired for hunger to keep him awake. All night long he dreamed that he was swimming with the princess. 10. Look at the Moon. Early the next morning the prince set out to look for something to eat, which he soon found at a forester's hut, where for many following days he was supplied with all that a brave prince could consider necessary. And having plenty to keep him alive for the present, he would not think of wants not yet in existence. Whenever Care intruded, this prince always bowed him out in the most princely manner. When he returned from his breakfast to his watch-cave, he saw the princess already floating about in the lake, attended by the king and queen whom he knew by their crowns--and a great company in lovely little boats, with canopies of all the colours of the rainbow, and flags and streamers of a great many more. It was a very bright day, and soon the prince, burned up with the heat, began to long for the cold water and the cool princess. But he had to endure till twilight; for the boats had provisions on board, and it was not till the sun went down that the gay party began to vanish. Boat after boat drew away to the shore, following that of the king and queen, till only one, apparently the princess's own boat, remained. But she did not want to go home even yet, and the prince thought he saw her order the boat to the shore without her. At all events, it rowed away; and now, of all the radiant company, only one white speck remained. Then the prince began to sing. And this is what he sung:-- "Lady fair, Swan-white, Lift thine eyes, Banish night By the might Of thine eyes. Snowy arms, Oars of snow, Oar her hither, Plashing low. Soft and slow, Oar her hither. Stream behind her O'er the lake, Radiant whiteness! In her wake Following, following for her sake. Radiant whiteness! Cling about her, Waters blue; Part not from her, But renew Cold and true Kisses round her. Lap me round, Waters sad, That have left her. Make me glad, For ye had Kissed her ere ye left her." Before he had finished his song, the princess was just under the place where he sat, and looking up to find him. Her ears had led her truly. "Would you like a fall, princess?" said the prince, looking down. "Ah! there you are! Yes, if you please, prince," said the princess, looking up. "How do you know I am a prince, princess?" said the prince. "Because you are a very nice young man, prince," said the princess. "Come up then, princess." "Fetch me, prince." The prince took off his scarf, then his sword-belt, then his tunic, and tied them all together, and let them down. But the line was far too short. He unwound his turban, and added it to the rest, when it was all but long enough; and his purse completed it. The princess just managed to lay hold of the knot of money, and was beside him in a moment. This rock was much higher than the other, and the splash and the dive were tremendous. The princess was in ecstasies of delight, and their swim was delicious. Night after night they met, and swam about in the dark clear lake; where such was the prince's gladness, that (whether the princess's way of looking at things infected him, or he was actually getting light-headed) he often fancied that he was swimming in the sky instead of the lake. But when he talked about being in heaven, the princess laughed at him dreadfully. When the moon came, she brought them fresh pleasure. Everything looked strange and new in her light, with an old, withered, yet unfading newness. When the moon was nearly full, one of their great delights was, to dive deep in the water, and then, turning round, look up through it at the great blot of light close above them, shimmering and trembling and wavering, spreading and contracting, seeming to melt away, and again grow solid. Then they would shoot up through the blot; and lo! there was the moon, far off, clear and steady and cold, and very lovely, at the bottom of a deeper and bluer lake than theirs, as the princess said. The prince soon found out that while in the water the princess was very like other people. And besides this, she was not so forward in her questions or pert in her replies at sea as on shore. Neither did she laugh so much; and when she did laugh, it was more gently. She seemed altogether more modest and maidenly in the water than out of it. But when the prince, who had really fallen in love when he fell in the lake, began to talk to her about love, she always turned her head towards him and laughed. After a while she began to look puzzled, as if she were trying to understand what he meant, but could not--revealing a notion that he meant something. But as soon as ever she left the lake, she was so altered, that the prince said to himself, "If I marry her, I see no help for it: we must turn merman and mermaid, and go out to sea at once." 11. Hiss! The princess's pleasure in the lake had grown to a passion, and she could scarcely bear to be out of it for an hour. Imagine then her consternation, when, diving with the prince one night, a sudden suspicion seized her that the lake was not so deep as it used to be. The prince could not imagine what had happened. She shot to the surface, and, without a word, swam at full speed towards the higher side of the lake. He followed, begging to know if she was ill, or what was the matter. She never turned her head, or took the smallest notice of his question. Arrived at the shore, she coasted the rocks with minute inspection. But she was not able to come to a conclusion, for the moon was very small, and so she could not see well. She turned therefore and swam home, without saying a word to explain her conduct to the prince, of whose presence she seemed no longer conscious. He withdrew to his cave, in great perplexity and distress. Next day she made many observations, which, alas! strengthened her fears. She saw that the banks were too dry; and that the grass on the shore, and the trailing plants on the rocks, were withering away. She caused marks to be made along the borders, and examined them, day after day, in all directions of the wind; till at last the horrible idea became a certain fact--that the surface of the lake was slowly sinking. The poor princess nearly went out of the little mind she had. It was awful to her to see the lake, which she loved more than any living thing, lie dying before her eyes. It sank away, slowly vanishing. The tops of rocks that had never been seen till now, began to appear far down in the clear water. Before long they were dry in the sun. It was fearful to think of the mud that would soon lie there baking and festering, full of lovely creatures dying, and ugly creatures coming to life, like the unmaking of a world. And how hot the sun would be without any lake! She could not bear to swim in it any more, and began to pine away. Her life seemed bound up with it; and ever as the lake sank, she pined. People said she would not live an hour after the lake was gone. But she never cried. A Proclamation was made to all the kingdom, that whosoever should discover the cause of the lake's decrease, would be rewarded after a princely fashion. Hum-Drum and Kopy-Keck applied themselves to their physics and metaphysics; but in vain. Not even they could suggest a cause. Now the fact was that the old princess was at the root of the mischief. When she heard that her niece found more pleasure in the water than any one else out of it, she went into a rage, and cursed herself for her want of foresight. "But," said she, "I will soon set all right. The king and the people shall die of thirst; their brains shall boil and frizzle in their skulls before I will lose my revenge." And she laughed a ferocious laugh, that made the hairs on the back of her black cat stand erect with terror. Then she went to an old chest in the room, and opening it, took out what looked like a piece of dried seaweed. This she threw into a tub of water. Then she threw some powder into the water, and stirred it with her bare arm, muttering over it words of hideous sound, and yet more hideous import. Then she set the tub aside, and took from the chest a huge bunch of a hundred rusty keys, that clattered in her shaking hands. Then she sat down and proceeded to oil them all. Before she had finished, out from the tub, the water of which had kept on a slow motion ever since she had ceased stirring it, came the head and half the body of a huge gray snake. But the witch did not look round. It grew out of the tub, waving itself backwards and forwards with a slow horizontal motion, till it reached the princess, when it laid its head upon her shoulder, and gave a low hiss in her ear. She started--but with joy; and seeing the head resting on her shoulder, drew it towards her and kissed it. Then she drew it all out of the tub, and wound it round her body. It was one of those dreadful creatures which few have ever beheld--the White Snakes of Darkness. Then she took the keys and went down to her cellar; and as she unlocked the door she said to herself,-- "This is worth living for!" Locking the door behind her, she descended a few steps into the cellar, and crossing it, unlocked another door into a dark, narrow passage. She locked this also behind her, and descended a few more steps. If any one had followed the witch-princess, he would have heard her unlock exactly one hundred doors, and descend a few steps after unlocking each. When she had unlocked the last, she entered a vast cave, the roof of which was supported by huge natural pillars of rock. Now this roof was the under side of the bottom of the lake. She then untwined the snake from her body, and held it by the tail high above her. The hideous creature stretched up its head towards the roof of the cavern, which it was just able to reach. It then began to move its head backwards and forwards, with a slow oscillating motion, as if looking for something. At the same moment the witch began to walk round and round the cavern, coming nearer to the centre every circuit; while the head of the snake described the same path over the roof that she did over the floor, for she kept holding it up. And still it kept slowly oscillating. Round and round the cavern they went, ever lessening the circuit, till at last the snake made a sudden dart, and clung to the roof with its mouth. "That's right, my beauty!" cried the princess; "drain it dry." She let it go, left it hanging, and sat down on a great stone, with her black cat, which had followed her all round the cave, by her side. Then she began to knit and mutter awful words. The snake hung like a huge leech, sucking at the stone; the cat stood with his back arched, and his tail like a piece of cable, looking up at the snake; and the old woman sat and knitted and muttered. Seven days and seven nights they remained thus; when suddenly the serpent dropped from the roof as if exhausted, and shrivelled up till it was again like a piece of dried seaweed. The witch started to her feet, picked it up, put it in her pocket, and looked up at the roof. One drop of water was trembling on the spot where the snake had been sucking. As soon as she saw that, she turned and fled, followed by her cat. Shutting the door in a terrible hurry, she locked it, and having muttered some frightful words, sped to the next, which also she locked and muttered over; and so with all the hundred doors, till she arrived in her own cellar. Then she sat down on the floor ready to faint, but listening with malicious delight to the rushing of the water, which she could hear distinctly through all the hundred doors. But this was not enough. Now that she had tasted revenge, she lost her patience. Without further measures, the lake would be too long in disappearing. So the next night, with the last shred of the dying old moon rising, she took some of the water in which she had revived the snake, put it in a bottle, and set out, accompanied by her cat. Before morning she had made the entire circuit of the lake, muttering fearful words as she crossed every stream, and casting into it some of the water out of her bottle. When she had finished the circuit she muttered yet again, and flung a handful of water towards the moon. Thereupon every spring in the country ceased to throb and bubble, dying away like the pulse of a dying man. The next day there was no sound of falling water to be heard along the borders of the lake. The very courses were dry; and the mountains showed no silvery streaks down their dark sides. And not alone had the fountains of mother Earth ceased to flow; for all the babies throughout the country were crying dreadfully--only without tears. 12. Where Is the Prince? Never since the night when the princess left him so abruptly had the prince had a single interview with her. He had seen her once or twice in the lake; but as far as he could discover, she had not been in it any more at night. He had sat and sung, and looked in vain for his Nereid; while she, like a true Nereid, was wasting away with her lake, sinking as it sank, withering as it dried. When at length he discovered the change that was taking place in the level of the water, he was in great alarm and perplexity. He could not tell whether the lake was dying because the lady had forsaken it; or whether the lady would not come because the lake had begun to sink. But he resolved to know so much at least. He disguised himself, and, going to the palace, requested to see the lord chamberlain. His appearance at once gained his request; and the lord chamberlain, being a man of some insight, perceived that there was more in the prince's solicitation than met the ear. He felt likewise that no one could tell whence a solution of the present difficulties might arise. So he granted the prince's prayer to be made shoeblack to the princess. It was rather cunning in the prince to request such an easy post, for the princess could not possibly soil as many shoes as other princesses. He soon learned all that could be told about the princess. He went nearly distracted; but after roaming about the lake for days, and diving in every depth that remained, all that he could do was to put an extra polish on the dainty pair of boots that was never called for. For the princess kept her room, with the curtains drawn to shut out the dying lake, But she could not shut it out of her mind for a moment. It haunted her imagination so that she felt as if the lake were her soul, drying up within her, first to mud, then to madness and death. She thus brooded over the change, with all its dreadful accompaniments, till she was nearly distracted. As for the prince, she had forgotten him. However much she had enjoyed his company in the water, she did not care for him without it. But she seemed to have forgotten her father and mother too. The lake went on sinking. Small slimy spots began to appear, which glittered steadily amidst the changeful shine of the water. These grew to broad patches of mud, which widened and spread, with rocks here and there, and floundering fishes and crawling eels swarming. The people went everywhere catching these, and looking for anything that might have dropped from the royal boats. At length the lake was all but gone, only a few of the deepest pools remaining unexhausted. It happened one day that a party of youngsters found themselves on the brink of one of these pools in the very centre of the lake. It was a rocky basin of considerable depth. Looking in, they saw at the bottom something that shone yellow in the sun. A little boy jumped in and dived for it. It was a plate of gold covered with writing. They carried it to the king. On one side of it stood these words:-- "Death alone from death can save. Love is death, and so is brave-- Love can fill the deepest grave. Love loves on beneath the wave." Now this was enigmatical enough to the king and courtiers. But the reverse of the plate explained it a little. Its writing amounted to this:-- "If the lake should disappear, they must find the hole through which the water ran. But it would be useless to try to stop it by any ordinary means. There was but one effectual mode.--The body of a living man could alone stanch the flow. The man must give himself of his own will; and the lake must take his life as it filled. Otherwise the offering would be of no avail. If the nation could not provide one hero, it was time it should perish." 13. Here I Am. This was a very disheartening revelation to the king--not that he was unwilling to sacrifice a subject, but that he was hopeless of finding a man willing to sacrifice himself. No time was to be lost, however, for the princess was lying motionless on her bed, and taking no nourishment but lake-water, which was now none of the best. Therefore the king caused the contents of the wonderful plate of gold to be published throughout the country. No one, however, came forward. The prince, having gone several days' journey into the forest, to consult a hermit whom he had met there on his way to Lagobel, knew nothing of the oracle till his return. When he had acquainted himself with all the particulars, he sat down and thought,-- "She will die if I don't do it, and life would be nothing to me without her; so I shall lose nothing by doing it. And life will be as pleasant to her as ever, for she will soon forget me. And there will be so much more beauty and happiness in the world!--To be sure, I shall not see it." (Here the poor prince gave a sigh.) "How lovely the lake will be in the moonlight, with that glorious creature sporting in it like a wild goddess!--It is rather hard to be drowned by inches, though. Let me see--that will be seventy inches of me to drown." (Here he tried to laugh, but could not.) "The longer the better, however," he resumed: "for can I not bargain that the princess shall be beside me all the time? So I shall see her once more, kiss her perhaps,--who knows?--and die looking in her eyes. It will be no death. At least, I shall not feel it. And to see the lake filling for the beauty again!--All right! I am ready." He kissed the princess's boot, laid it down, and hurried to the king's apartment. But feeling, as he went, that anything sentimental would be disagreeable, he resolved to carry off the whole affair with nonchalance. So he knocked at the door of the king's counting-house, where it was all but a capital crime to disturb him. When the king heard the knock he started up, and opened the door in a rage. Seeing only the shoeblack, he drew his sword. This, I am sorry to say, was his usual mode of asserting his regality when he thought his dignity was in danger. But the prince was not in the least alarmed. "Please your Majesty, I'm your butler," said he. "My butler! you lying rascal! What do you mean?" "I mean, I will cork your big bottle." "Is the fellow mad?" bawled the king, raising the point of his sword. "I will put a stopper--plug--what you call it, in your leaky lake, grand monarch," said the prince. The king was in such a rage that before he could speak he had time to cool, and to reflect that it would be great waste to kill the only man who was willing to be useful in the present emergency, seeing that in the end the insolent fellow would be as dead as if he had died by his Majesty's own hand. "Oh!" said he at last, putting up his sword with difficulty, it was so long; "I am obliged to you, you young fool! Take a glass of wine?" "No, thank you," replied the prince. "Very well," said the king. "Would you like to run and see your parents before you make your experiment?" "No, thank you," said the prince. "Then we will go and look for the hole at once," said his Majesty, and proceeded to call some attendants. "Stop, please your Majesty; I have a condition to make," interposed the prince. "What!" exclaimed the king, "a condition! and with me! How dare you?" "As you please," returned the prince, coolly. "I wish your Majesty a good morning." "You wretch! I will have you put in a sack, and stuck in the hole." "Very well, your Majesty," replied the prince, becoming a little more respectful, lest the wrath of the king should deprive him of the pleasure of dying for the princess. "But what good will that do your Majesty? Please to remember that the oracle says the victim must offer himself." "Well, you have offered yourself," retorted the king. "Yes, upon one condition." "Condition again!" roared the king, once more drawing his sword. "Begone! Somebody else will be glad enough to take the honour off your shoulders." "Your Majesty knows it will not be easy to get another to take my place." "Well, what is your condition?" growled the king, feeling that the prince was right. "Only this," replied the prince: "that, as I must on no account die before I am fairly drowned, and the waiting will be rather wearisome, the princess, your daughter, shall go with me, feed me with her own hands, and look at me now and then to comfort me; for you must confess it IS rather hard. As soon as the water is up to my eyes, she may go and be happy, and forget her poor shoeblack." Here the prince's voice faltered, and he very nearly grew sentimental, in spite of his resolution. "Why didn't you tell me before what your condition was? Such a fuss about nothing!" exclaimed the king. "Do you grant it?" persisted the prince. "Of course I do," replied the king. "Very well. I am ready." "Go and have some dinner, then, while I set my people to find the place." The king ordered out his guards, and gave directions to the officers to find the hole in the lake at once. So the bed of the lake was marked out in divisions and thoroughly examined, and in an hour or so the hole was discovered. It was in the middle of a stone, near the centre of the lake, in the very pool where the golden plate had been found. It was a three-cornered hole of no great size. There was water all round the stone, but very little was flowing through the hole. 14. This Is Very Kind of You. The prince went to dress for the occasion, for he was resolved to die like a prince. When the princess heard that a man had offered to die for her, she was so transported that she jumped off the bed, feeble as she was, and danced about the room for joy. She did not care who the man was; that was nothing to her. The hole wanted stopping; and if only a man would do, why, take one. In an hour or two more everything was ready. Her maid dressed her in haste, and they carried her to the side of the lake. When she saw it she shrieked, and covered her face with her hands. They bore her across to the stone where they had already placed a little boat for her. The water was not deep enough to float it, but they hoped it would be, before long. They laid her on cushions, placed in the boat wines and fruits and other nice things, and stretched a canopy over all. In a few minutes the prince appeared. The princess recognized him at once, but did not think it worth while to acknowledge him. "Here I am," said the prince. "Put me in." "They told me it was a shoeblack," said the princess. "So I am," said the prince. "I blacked your little boots three times a day, because they were all I could get of you. Put me in." The courtiers did not resent his bluntness, except by saying to each other that he was taking it out in impudence. But how was he to be put in? The golden plate contained no instructions on this point. The prince looked at the hole, and saw but one way. He put both his legs into it, sitting on the stone, and, stooping forward, covered the corner that remained open with his two hands. In this uncomfortable position he resolved to abide his fate, and turning to the people, said,-- "Now you can go." The king had already gone home to dinner. "Now you can go," repeated the princess after him, like a parrot. The people obeyed her and went. Presently a little wave flowed over the stone, and wetted one of the prince's knees. But he did not mind it much. He began to sing, and the song he sang was this:-- "As a world that has no well, Darting bright in forest dell; As a world without the gleam Of the downward-going stream; As a world without the glance Of the ocean's fair expanse; As a world where never rain Glittered on the sunny plain;-- Such, my heart, thy world would be, If no love did flow in thee. As a world without the sound Of the rivulets underground; Or the bubbling of the spring Out of darkness wandering; Or the mighty rush and flowing Of the river's downward going; Or the music-showers that drop On the outspread beech's top; Or the ocean's mighty voice, When his lifted waves rejoice;-- Such, my soul, thy world would be, If no love did sing in thee. Lady, keep thy world's delight; Keep the waters in thy sight. Love hath made me strong to go, For thy sake, to realms below, Where the water's shine and hum Through the darkness never come; Let, I pray, one thought of me Spring, a little well, in thee; Lest thy loveless soul be found Like a dry and thirsty ground." "Sing again, prince. It makes it less tedious," said the princess. But the prince was too much overcome to sing any more, and a long pause followed. "This is very kind of you, prince," said the princess at last, quite coolly, as she lay in the boat with her eyes shut. "I am sorry I can't return the compliment," thought the prince; "but you are worth dying for, after all." Again a wavelet, and another, and another flowed over the stone, and wetted both the prince's knees; but he did not speak or move. Two--three--four hours passed in this way, the princess apparently asleep, and the prince very patient. But he was much disappointed in his position, for he had none of the consolation he had hoped for. At last he could bear it no longer. "Princess!" said he. But at the moment up started the princess, crying,-- "I'm afloat! I'm afloat!" And the little boat bumped against the stone. "Princess!" repeated the prince, encouraged by seeing her wide awake and looking eagerly at the water. "Well?" said she, without looking round. "Your papa promised that you should look at me, and you haven't looked at me once." "Did he? Then I suppose I must. But I am so sleepy!" "Sleep then, darling, and don't mind me," said the poor prince. "Really, you are very good," replied the princess. "I think I will go to sleep again." "Just give me a glass of wine and a biscuit first," said the prince, very humbly. "With all my heart," said the princess, and gaped as she said it. She got the wine and the biscuit, however, and leaning over the side of the boat towards him, was compelled to look at him. "Why, prince," she said, "you don't look well! Are you sure you don't mind it?" "Not a bit," answered he, feeling very faint indeed. "Only I shall die before it is of any use to you, unless I have something to eat." "There, then," said she, holding out the wine to him. "Ah! you must feed me. I dare not move my hands. The water would run away directly." "Good gracious!" said the princess; and she began at once to feed him with bits of biscuit and sips of wine. As she fed him, he contrived to kiss the tips of her fingers now and then. She did not seem to mind it, one way or the other. But the prince felt better. "Now for your own sake, princess," said he, "I cannot let you go to sleep. You must sit and look at me, else I shall not be able to keep up." "Well, I will do anything I can to oblige you," answered she, with condescension; and, sitting down, she did look at him, and kept looking at him with wonderful steadiness, considering all things. The sun went down, and the moon rose, and, gush after gush, the waters were rising up the prince's body. They were up to his waist now. "Why can't we go and have a swim?" said the princess. "There seems to be water enough Just about here." "I shall never swim more," said the prince. "Oh, I forgot," said the princess, and was silent. So the water grew and grew, and rose up and up on the prince. And the princess sat and looked at him. She fed him now and then. The night wore on. The waters rose and rose. The moon rose likewise higher and higher, and shone full on the face of the dying prince. The water was up to his neck. "Will you kiss me, princess?" said he, feebly. The nonchalance was all gone now. "Yes, I will," answered the princess, and kissed him with a long, sweet, cold kiss. "Now," said he, with a sigh of content, "I die happy." He did not speak again. The princess gave him some wine for the last time: he was past eating. Then she sat down again, and looked at him. The water rose and rose. It touched his chin. It touched his lower lip. It touched between his lips. He shut them hard to keep it out. The princess began to feel strange. It touched his upper lip. He breathed through his nostrils. The princess looked wild. It covered his nostrils. Her eyes looked scared, and shone strange in the moonlight. His head fell back; the water closed over it, and the bubbles of his last breath bubbled up through the water. The princess gave a shriek, and sprang into the lake. She laid hold first of one leg, and then of the other, and pulled and tugged, but she could not move either. She stopped to take breath, and that made her think that HE could not get any breath. She was frantic. She got hold of him, and held his head above the water, which was possible now his hands were no longer on the hole. But it was of no use, for he was past breathing. Love and water brought back all her strength. She got under the water, and pulled and pulled with her whole might, till at last she got one leg out. The other easily followed. How she got him into the boat she never could tell; but when she did, she fainted away. Coming to herself, she seized the oars, kept herself steady as best she could, and rowed and rowed, though she had never rowed before. Round rocks, and over shallows, and through mud she rowed, till she got to the landing-stairs of the palace. By this time her people were on the shore, for they had heard her shriek. She made them carry the prince to her own room, and lay him in her bed, and light a fire, and send for the doctors. "But the lake, your Highness!" said the chamberlain, who, roused by the noise, came in, in his nightcap. "Go and drown yourself in it!" she said. This was the last rudeness of which the princess was ever guilty; and one must allow that she had good cause to feel provoked with the lord chamberlain. Had it been the king himself, he would have fared no better. But both he and the queen were fast asleep. And the chamberlain went back to his bed. Somehow, the doctors never came. So the princess and her old nurse were left with the prince. But the old nurse was a wise woman, and knew what to do. They tried everything for a long time without success. The princess was nearly distracted between hope and fear, but she tried on and on, one thing after another, and everything over and over again. At last, when they had all but given it up, just as the sun rose, the prince opened his eyes. 15. Look at the Rain! The princess burst into a passion of tears, and fell on the floor. There she lay for an hour, and her tears never ceased. All the pent-up crying of her life was spent now. And a rain came on, such as had never been seen in that country. The sun shone all the time, and the great drops, which fell straight to the earth, shone likewise. The palace was in the heart of a rainbow. It was a rain of rubies, and sapphires, and emeralds, and topazes. The torrents poured from the mountains like molten gold; and if it had not been for its subterraneous outlet, the lake would have overflowed and inundated the country. It was full from shore to shore. But the princess did not heed the lake. She lay on the floor and wept, and this rain within doors was far more wonderful than the rain out of doors. For when it abated a little, and she proceeded to rise, she found, to her astonishment, that she could not. At length, after many efforts, she succeeded in getting upon her feet. But she tumbled down again directly. Hearing her fall, her old nurse uttered a yell of delight, and ran to her, screaming,-- "My darling child! she's found her gravity!" "Oh, that's it! is it?" said the princess, rubbing her shoulder and her knee alternately. "I consider it very unpleasant. I feel as if I should be crushed to pieces." "Hurrah!" cried the prince from the bed. "If you've come round, princess, so have I. How's the lake?" "Brimful," answered the nurse. "Then we're all happy." "That we are indeed!" answered the princess, sobbing. And there was rejoicing all over the country that rainy day. Even the babies forgot their past troubles, and danced and crowed amazingly. And the king told stories, and the queen listened to them. And he divided the money in his box, and she the honey in her pot, among all the children. And there was such jubilation as was never heard of before. Of course the prince and princess were betrothed at once. But the princess had to learn to walk, before they could be married with any propriety. And this was not so easy at her time of life, for she could walk no more than a baby. She was always falling down and hurting herself. "Is this the gravity you used to make so much of?" said she one day to the prince, as he raised her from the floor. "For my part, I was a great deal more comfortable without it." "No, no, that's not it. This is it," replied the prince, as he took her up, and carried her about like a baby, kissing her all the time. "This is gravity." "That's better," said she. "I don't mind that so much." And she smiled the sweetest, loveliest smile in the prince's face. And she gave him one little kiss in return for all his; and he thought them overpaid, for he was beside himself with delight. I fear she complained of her gravity more than once after this, notwithstanding. It was a long time before she got reconciled to walking. But the pain of learning it was quite counterbalanced by two things, either of which would have been sufficient consolation. The first was, that the prince himself was her teacher; and the second, that she could tumble into the lake as often as she pleased. Still, she preferred to have the prince jump in with her; and the splash they made before was nothing to the splash they made now. The lake never sank again. In process of time, it wore the roof of the cavern quite through, and was twice as deep as before. The only revenge the princess took upon her aunt was to tread pretty hard on her gouty toe the next time she saw her. But she was sorry for it the very next day, when she heard that the water had undermined her house, and that it had fallen in the night, burying her in its ruins; whence no one ever ventured to dig up her body. There she lies to this day. So the prince and princess lived and were happy; and had crowns of gold, and clothes of cloth, and shoes of leather, and children of boys and girls, not one of whom was ever known, on the most critical occasion, to lose the smallest atom of his or her due proportion of gravity. 
43110	----	Tell me a Story By Mrs Molesworth Illustrations by Walter Crane; Joseph Swain Published by Macmillan and Co. This edition dated 1894. Tell me a Story, by Mrs Molesworth. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ TELL ME A STORY, BY MRS MOLESWORTH. CHAPTER ONE. INTRODUCTION. The children sat round me in the gloaming. There were several of them; from Madge, dear Madge with her thick fair hair and soft kind grey eyes, down to pretty little Sybil--Gipsy, we called her for fun,--whom you would hardly have guessed, from her brown face and bright dark eyes, to be Madge's "own cousin." They were mostly girls, the big ones at least, which is what one would expect, for it is not often that big boys care much about sitting still, and even less about anything so sentimental as sitting still in the twilight doing nothing. There were two or three _little_ boys however, nice round-faced little fellows, who had not yet begun to look down upon "girls," and were very much honoured at being admitted to a good game of romps with Madge and her troop. It was one of these--the rosiest and nicest of them all, little Ted--who pulled my dress and whispered, but loud enough for every one to hear, with his coaxingest voice--"Tell me a story, aunty." And then it came all round in a regular buzz, in every voice, repeated again and again--"O aunty! do; dear, dear aunty, tell us a story." I had been knitting, but it had grown too dark even for that. I could not pretend to be "busy." What could I say? I held up my hands in despair. "O children! dear children!" I cried, "truly, truly, I don't know what stories to tell. You are such dreadfully wise people now-a-days--you have long ago left behind you what _I_ used to think wonderful stories--`Cinderella,' and `Beauty and the Beast,' and all the rest of them; and you have such piles of story-books that you are always reading, and many of them too written for you by the cleverest men and women living! What could I tell you that you would care to hear? Why, it will be the children telling stories to amuse the papas and mammas, and aunties next, like the `glorious revolution' in `Liliput Levee!' No, no, your poor old aunty is not quite in her dotage yet. She knows better than to try to amuse you clever people with her stupid old hum-drum stories." I did not mean to hurt the poor dear little things--I did not, truly--I spoke a little in earnest, but more in jest, as I shook my head and looked round the circle. But to my surprise _they_ took it all for earnest, and the tears even gathered in two or three pairs of eyes. "Aunty, you _know_ we don't think so," began Madge, gentle Madge always, reproachfully. And "It's too bad of you, aunty, _too_ bad," burst out plain-speaking Dolly. And worst of all, Ted clambered manfully up on to my knees, and proceeded to shake me vigorously. "_Naughty_ aunty," he said, "naughty, _naughty_ aunty. Ted will shake you, and shake you, to make you good." What could I do but cry for mercy? and promise anything and everything, fifty stories on the spot, if only they would forgive me? "But, truly children," I said again, when the hubbub had subsided a little, "I am afraid I do _not_ know any stories you would care for." "We should care for anything you tell us," they replied, "about when you were a little girl, or anything." I considered a little. "I might tell you something of that kind," I said, "and perhaps, by another evening, I might think over about some other people's `long agos'--your grandmother's, for instance. Would that please you?" Great applause. "And another thing," I continued, "if I try to rub up some old stories for you, don't you think you might help? You, Madge, dear, for instance, you are older than the others--couldn't you tell them something of your own childish life even?" I was almost sorry I had suggested it; into Madge's face there came a look I had seen there before, and the colour deepened in her cheeks. But she answered quite happily. "Yes, aunty, perhaps they would like to hear about--you know who I mean, and my other aunties, who are mammas now as well; if you wouldn't mind writing it down--I don't think I could tell it straight off." "Very well," I said, "I'll remember. And if, possibly, some not _real_ stories come into my head--there's no saying what I can do till I try," for I felt myself now getting into the spirit of it,--"you won't object, I suppose, to a fairy tale, or an adventure, for instance--just by way of a change you know?" General clapping of hands. "Well then," I said, "to begin with, I'll tell you a story which is--no, I won't tell you what it is, real or not; you shall find out for yourselves." And in this way it came to pass, you see, that there was quite a succession of "blind man's holidays," on which occasions poor aunty was always expected to have a story forthcoming. CHAPTER TWO. THE REEL FAIRIES. "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." Louisa was a little girl of eight years old. That is to say, she was eight years old at the time I am going to tell you about. She was nothing particular to look at; she was small for her age, and her face was rather white, and her eyes were pretty much the same as other people's eyes. Her hair was dark brown, but it was not even curly. It was quite straight-down hair, and it was cut short, not _quite_ so short as little boys' hair is cut now-a-days, but not very much longer. Many little girls had quite short hair at that time, but still there was something about Louisa's that made its shortness remarkable, if anything about her could have been remarkable! It was so very smooth and soft, and fitted into her head so closely that it gave her a small, soft look, not unlike a mouse. On the whole, I cannot describe her better than by saying she was rather like a mouse, or like what you could fancy a mouse would be if it were turned into a little girl. Louisa was not shy, but she was timid and not fond of putting herself forward; and in consequence of this, as well as from her not being at all what is called a "showy" child, she received very little notice from strangers, or indeed from many who knew her pretty well. People thought her a quiet, well-behaved little thing, and then thought no more about her. Louisa understood this in her own way, and sometimes it hurt her. She was not so unobservant as she seemed; and there were times when she would have very much liked a little more of the caressing, and even admiration, which she now and then saw lavished on other children; for though she was sensible in some ways, in others she was not wiser than most little people. Her home was not in the country: it was in a street, in a large and rather smoky town. The house in which she lived was not a _very_ pretty one; but, on the whole, it was nice and comfortable, and Louisa was generally very well pleased with it, except now and then, when she got little fits of wishing she lived in some very beautiful palace sort of house, with splendid rooms, and grand staircases, and gardens, and fountains, and I don't know all what--just the same sort of little fits as she sometimes had of wishing to be very pretty, and to have lovely dresses, and to be admired and noticed by every one who saw her. She never told any one of these wishes of hers; perhaps if she had it would have been better, but it was not often that she could have found any one to listen to and understand her; and so she just kept them to herself. There was one person who, I think, could have understood her, and that was her mother. But she was often busy, and when not busy, often tired, for she had a great deal to do, and several other little children besides Louisa to take care of. There were two brothers who came nearest Louisa in age, one older and one younger, and two or three mites of children smaller still. The brothers went to school, and were so much interested in the things "little boys are made of," that they were apt to be rather contemptuous to Louisa because she was a girl, and the wee children in the nursery were too wee to think of anything but their own tiny pleasures and troubles. So you can understand that though she had really everything a little girl could wish for, Louisa was sometimes rather lonely and at a loss for companions, and this led to her making friends in a very odd way indeed. If you guessed for a whole year I do not think you would ever guess whom, or I should say _what_, she chose for her friends. Indeed, I fear that when I tell you you will hardly believe me; you will think I am "story-telling" indeed. Listen--it was not her doll, nor a pet dog, nor even a favourite pussy-cat--it was, they were rather, _the reels in her mother's workbox_. Can you believe it? It is quite, quite true. I am not "making up" at all, and I will tell you how it came about. There was one part of the day, I daresay it was the hour that the nursery children were asleep, when it was convenient for Louisa to be sent down-stairs to sit beside her mother in the drawing-room, with many injunctions to be quiet. Her mother was generally writing or "doing accounts" at that time, and not at leisure to attend to her little girl; but when Louisa appeared at the door she would look up and say with a smile, "Well, dear, and what will you have to amuse yourself with to-day?" At first Louisa used to consider for a minute, and nearly every day she would make a different request. "A piece of paper and a pencil to write," she would say on Monday perhaps, and on Tuesday it would be "The box with the chess, please," and on Wednesday something else. But after a while her answer came to be always the same--"Your big workbox to tidy, please, mamma." Mamma smiled at the great need of tidying that had come over her big workbox, but she knew she could certainly trust Louisa not to _un_-tidy it, so she used just to push it across the table to her without speaking, and then for an hour at least nothing more was heard of Louisa. She sat quite still, fully as absorbed in her occupation as her mother was in hers, till at last the well-known tap at the door would bring her back from dream-land. "Miss Louisa, your dinner is waiting," or "Miss Louisa, the little ones are quite ready to go out;" and, with a deep sigh, the workbox would be closed and the little girl would obey the unwelcome summons. And next day, and the day after, and a great many days after that, it was always the same thing. But nobody knew anything about these queer friends of hers, except Louisa herself. There were several families of them, and their names were as original as themselves. There were the Browns, reels of brown wood wound with white cotton; as far as I remember there were a Mr and Mrs Brown and three children; the Browns were supposed to be quiet, respectable people, who lived in a large house in the country, but had nothing particularly romantic or exciting about them. There were the De Cordays, so named from the conspicuous mark of "three cord" which they bore. They were a set of handsome bone, or, as Louisa called it, _ivory_ reels, and she added the "De" to their name to make it sound grander. There were two pretty little reels of fine China silk, whom she distinguished as the Chinese Princesses. Blanche and Rose were their first names, to suit the colours they bore, for Louisa, you see, had learnt a little French already; and there were some larger silk reels, whom she called the "Lords and Ladies Flossy." Altogether there were between twenty and thirty personages in the workbox community, and the adventures they had, the elegance and luxury in which they lived, the wonderful stories they told each other, would fill more pages than I have time to write, or than you, kind little girls that you are, would have patience to read. I must hasten on to tell you how it came to pass that this queer fancy of Louisa's was discovered by other people. One morning when she was sitting quietly, as usual, beside her mother, a friend of Mrs no, we need not tell her name, I should like you best just to think of her as Louisa's mamma--well then, a friend of Louisa's mamma's came to call. She was a lady who lived in the country several miles away from Smokytown, but she was very fond of Louisa's mamma, and whenever she had to come to Smokytown to shop, or anything of that kind, perhaps to take her little girl (for she too had a little girl as you shall hear) to the dentist's, she always came early to call on her friend. Louisa's mamma jumped up at once, when the servant threw open the door and announced the lady by name, and then they kissed each other, and then Louisa's mamma stooped down and kissed the lady's little girl who was standing beside her, but Louisa sat so quietly at her corner of the table, that for a minute or two no one noticed her. She was just thinking if she could manage to creep down under the table and slip away out of the room without being seen, when her mamma called her. "Louisa, my dear," she said, "come here and speak to Mrs Gordon and to Frances. You remember Frances, don't you, dear?" Louisa got down slowly off her chair and came to her mamma. She stood looking at Frances for a minute or two without speaking. "Don't you remember Frances?" said her mamma again. "No," said Louisa at last, "I don't think I do." Then she turned away as if she were going back to her place at the table. Her mamma looked vexed. "Poor little thing," said Mrs Gordon, "she is only rather shy. Frances, you must make friends with her." "Louisa, I am not pleased with you," said her mamma gravely, and then she went on talking to Mrs Gordon. Frances followed Louisa to the table, where all the reels were arranged in order. There was a grand feast going on among them that day: one of the Chinese princesses was to be married to one of the Lords Flossy, and Louisa had been smartening them up for the occasion. But she did not want to tell Frances about it. "I am only playing with mamma's workbox things," she said, looking up at Frances, and wishing she had not come. She had taken a dislike to Frances, and the reason was not a very nice one--she was envious of her because she had such a pretty face and was very beautifully dressed. She had long curls of bright light hair, and large blue eyes, and she had a purple velvet coat trimmed with fur, and a sweet little bonnet with rosebuds in the cap, and Louisa's mamma would never let her have rosebuds or any flowers in _her_ bonnets. To Louisa's eyes she looked almost as beautiful as a fairy princess, but the thought vexed her. "Playing with your mamma's workbox things," said Frances, "how very funny! You poor little thing, have you got nothing else to play with?" She spoke as if she were several years older than Louisa, and this made Louisa still more vexed. "Yes," she answered, "of course I have got other things, but I like these. _You_ can't understand." Frances smiled. "How funny you are!" she said again, "but never mind. Let us talk of something nice. Perhaps you would like to hear what things _I_ have got to play with. I have a room all for myself, _filled_ with toys. I have got a large doll-house, as tall as myself, with eight rooms; and I have sixteen dolls of different kinds. They were mostly birthday presents. But I am getting too big to care for them now. My birthday was last week. What _do_ you think papa gave me? Something so beautiful that I had wanted for such a long time. I don't think you _could_ guess." In spite of herself Louisa was becoming interested. "I don't know, I'm sure," she said; "perhaps it was a book full of stories." Frances shook her head. "O no," she answered, "it wasn't. _That_ would be nothing particular, and my present _was_ something particular, very particular indeed. Well, you can't guess, so I'll tell you--it was a Princess's dress; a _real_ dress you know; a dress that I can put on and wear." "A Princess's dress!" repeated Louisa, opening her eyes. "Yes, to be sure," said Frances. "I call it a Princess's dress, because it is copied from one the Princess Fair Star wore at the pantomime last Christmas. It was there I saw it, and I have teased papa ever since till he got it for me. And it _is_ so beautiful; quite beautiful enough for a queen for that matter. My papa often calls me his queen, sometimes he says his golden-haired queen. Does yours?" "No," said Louisa sadly; "my papa sometimes calls me his pet, and sometimes he calls me `old woman,' but he never says I am his queen. I suppose I am not pretty enough." "I don't know," said Frances, consideringly, "I don't think you're ugly exactly. Perhaps if you asked your papa to get you a Princess's dress--" "He wouldn't," said Louisa decidedly, "I know he wouldn't. It would not be the least use asking him. Tell me more about yours--what is it like, and does it make you feel like a real princess when you have it on?" "I suppose it makes me _look_ like one," replied Frances complacently, "and as for feeling, why one can always fancy, you know." "Fancying isn't enough," said Louisa. "I know I should dreadfully like to _be_ a princess or a queen. It is the first thing I would ask a fairy. Perhaps _you_ don't wish it so much because every one pets you so, and thinks you so pretty. Has your dress got silver and gold on it?" "O yes, at least it has silver--silver spots," began Frances eagerly, but just then her mamma turned to tell her that they must go. "The little people have made friends very quickly after all, you see," she said to Louisa's mamma. "Some day you must really bring Louisa to see Frances--it has been such an old promise." "It is not often I can leave home for a whole day," said Louisa's mamma; "and then, dear, you must remember not having a carriage makes a difference." Louisa's cheeks grew red. She felt very vexed with her mamma for telling Mrs Gordon they had no carriage, but of course she did not venture to say anything, so no one noticed her. She was not sorry when Mrs Gordon and Frances said good-bye and went away. That same evening, a little before bed-time, Louisa happened to be again in the drawing-room alone with her mother. "Louisa," said her mother, who was sewing at the table, "you did not leave my workbox as neat as usual this morning. I suppose it was because you were interrupted by Frances Gordon. Come here, dear, and take the box and put it on a chair near the fire and arrange it rightly. Here is a whole collection of reels rolling about. Put them all in their places." Louisa did as she was told, but without speaking. Indeed she had been very silent all day, but her mother had been occupied with other things and had not noticed her particularly. Louisa quietly put the reels into their places, giving the most comfortable corners to her favourites as usual, and huddling some of the others together rather unceremoniously. Then she sat down on the hearth-rug, and began to think of what Frances Gordon had said to her, and to wish all sorts of not very wise things. She felt herself at last growing drowsy, so she leant her little round head on the chair beside her, and was almost asleep, when she heard her mother say, "Louisa, my dear, you are getting sleepy, you must really go to bed." "Yes, mamma," she said, or intended to say, but the words sounded faint and dreamlike, and before they were fully pronounced she was fairly asleep! She remembered nothing more for what seemed a very long time--then to her surprise she found herself already undressed and in her own little bed! "Nurse must have carried me upstairs and undressed me," she thought, and she opened her eyes very wide to see if it was still the middle of the night. No, surely it could not be; the room was quite light, yet where was the light coming from? It was not coming in at the window--there was no window to be seen; the curtains were drawn across, and no tiny chink even was visible; there was no lamp or candle in the room,--the light was simply there, but where it came from Louisa could not discover. She got tired of wondering about it at last, and was composing herself to sleep again, when suddenly a small but very clear voice called her by name. "Louisa, Louisa," it said. She did not feel at all frightened. She half raised herself in bed and exclaimed, "Who is speaking to me? what do you want?" "Louisa, Louisa," the voice repeated, "would you like to be a queen?" "Very much indeed, thank you," Louisa replied promptly. "Then rub your eyes and look about you," said the voice. Louisa rubbed her eyes and looked about her to some purpose, for what _do_ you think she saw? All the white counterpane of her little bed was covered with tiny figures, of various sizes, from one inch to three or four in height. They were hopping, and dancing, and twirling themselves about in every imaginable way, like nothing anybody ever saw before, or since, or ever will again. "Fairies!" thought Louisa at once, and without any feeling of overwhelming surprise, for, like most children, she had always been hoping, and indeed half expecting, that _some day_ an adventure of this kind would fall to her share. "Yes, fairies," said the same voice as before, which seemed to hear her thoughts as distinctly as if she had spoken them; "but what kind of fairies? Look at us again, Louisa." Louisa opened her eyes wider and stared harder. There were all kinds of fairies, gentlemen and ladies, little and big; but as she looked she saw that every one of them, without exception, wore a curious sort of round stiff jacket, more like a little barrel than anything else. It gave them a queer high-shouldered look, very like the little figures of Noah and his family in toy arks; but as Louisa was staring at them the mystery was explained. A big, rather clumsy-looking gentleman fairy, stopped for a moment in his gymnastics, and Louisa read on the ledge round his shoulders the familiar words "Clarke and Company's best six-cord, extra quality, Number 12." "I know," she cried, clapping her hands; "you're mamma's reels!" At these words a sensation ran through the company; they all stood stock-still, and Louisa began to feel a little afraid. "She says," exclaimed the voice, "she says _we're her mamma's reels_!" There fell a dead silence; Louisa expected to be sentenced to undergo capital punishment on the spot. "It's too bad," she said to herself, "it's too bad; they asked me to guess who they were." "She says," continued the voice, "she says `it's too bad.' _What_ is too bad? My friends, let the deputation stand forward." Instantly about a dozen fairies separated themselves from the others and advanced, slowly marching two and two up the counterpane, till having made their way across the various hills and valleys formed by Louisa's little figure under the bedclothes, they drew up just in front of her nose. Foremost of the deputation she recognised, the one clad in pink satin, the other in glistening white, her two favourites the Princesses Blanche and Rose. "Beautiful Louisa," said the deputation, all speaking at once, "we have come to ask you to be our queen." "Thank you," said Louisa, not knowing what else to say. "She consents!" exclaimed the deputation, "let the royal chariot appear." Thereupon there suddenly started up in the middle of the bed, as large as life, but no larger, her mamma's big workbox! The fairies all clambered on to it with a rush, and hung upon it in every direction, like bees on a hive, or firemen on a fire-engine; and no sooner were they all mounted than the workbox slowly glided along till it was close to Louisa's face. "Will your majesty please to get in?" said one of the fairies, "Clarke's Number 12, extra quality," I think it was. "How can I?" said Louisa piteously, "how can I? I'm far too big. How can I get into a workbox?" "Please to rub your eyes and try," said the big fairy, "right foot foremost, if you please." Louisa rubbed her eyes, and pulling her right foot out from under the clothes, stepped on to the workbox. To her surprise, or rather not to her surprise, everything seemed to come quite naturally, she found that she was not at all too big, and she settled herself in the place the fairies had kept for her, the nice little division lined with satin, in which her mamma's thimble and emery cushion always lay. It was pretty comfortable, only rather hard, but Louisa had no time to think about that, for no sooner was she seated than off flew the workbox, that is to say the royal chariot, away, away, Louisa knew not where, and felt too giddy to try to think. It stopped at last as suddenly as it had started, and quick as thought all the fairies jumped down. Louisa followed them more deliberately. She found herself in a great shining hall, the walls seemed to be of looking-glass, but when she observed them more closely she found they were made of innumerable needles, all fastened together in some wonderful fairy fashion, which she had not time to examine, for just then the Chinese princesses approached her, carrying between them a glistening dress, which they begged her to put on. They were quite as tall as she by-the-by, so she allowed them to dress her, and then examined herself with great satisfaction in the looking-glass walls. The dress was lovely, of that there was no doubt; it was just such a one, curiously enough, as Frances Gordon had described; the only drawback was her short hair, which certainly did not add to her regal appearance. "It won't show so much when your majesty has the crown on," said the Chinese princesses, answering as before to Louisa's unspoken thoughts. Then some gentlemen fairies appeared with the crown, which fitted exactly, only it felt rather heavy. But it would never do for a queen to complain, even in thought, of so trifling a matter, so with great dignity Louisa ascended the throne which stood at one end of the hall, and sat down upon it to see what would come next. The _Fairies_ came next. One after the other, by dozens, and scores, and hundreds, they passed before her, each as he passed making the humblest of obeisances, as if to the great Mogul himself. It was very fine indeed, but after a while Louisa began to get rather tired of it, and though the throne was very grand to look at, it too felt rather hard, and the crown grew decidedly heavier. "I think I'd like to come down for a little," she said to some of the ladies and gentlemen beside her, but they took no notice. "I'd like to get down for a little and to take off my crown--it's hurting my head, and this spangly dress is _so_ cold," she continued. Still the fairies took no notice. "Don't you hear what I say?" she exclaimed again, getting angry; "what's the use of being a queen if you won't answer me?" Then at last some of the fairies standing beside the throne appeared to hear what she was saying. "Her majesty wishes to take a little exercise," said "Clarke's Number 12," and immediately the words were repeated in a sort of confusing buzz all round the hall. "Her majesty wishes to take a little exercise"--"her majesty wishes to take a little exercise," till Louisa could have shaken them all heartily, she felt so provoked. Then suddenly the throne began to squeak and grunt (Louisa thought _it_ was going to talk about her taking exercise next), and after it had given vent to all manner of unearthly sounds it jerked itself up, first on one side and then on the other, like a very rheumatic old woman, and at last slowly moved away. None of the fairies were pushing it, that was plain; and at first Louisa was too much occupied in wondering what made it move, to find fault with the mode of exercise permitted to her. The throne rolled slowly along, all round the hall, and wherever it appeared a crowd of fairies scuttled away, all chattering the same words--"Her majesty is taking a little exercise," till at last, with renewed jerks and grunts and groans, her queer conveyance settled itself again in its old place. As soon as it was still, Louisa tried to get down, but no sooner did she put one foot on the ground than a crowd of fairies respectfully lifted it up again on to the footstool. This happened two or three times, till Louisa's patience was again exhausted. "Get out of my way," she exclaimed, "you horrid little things, get out of my way; I want to get down and run about." But the fairies took no notice of what she said, till for the third time she repeated it. Then they all spoke at once. "Her majesty wants to take a little _more_ exercise," they buzzed in all directions, till Louisa was so completely out of patience that she burst into tears. "I won't stay to be your queen," she said, "it's not nice at all. I want to go home to my mamma. I want to go home to my mamma. I want to go home to my mamma." "We don't know what mammas are," said the fairies. "We haven't anything of that kind here." "That's a story," said Louisa. "There--are mammas here. I've seen several. There's Mrs Brown, and there's Lady Flossy, and there's--no, the Chinese princesses haven't a mamma. But you see there are two among my mamma's own reels in her workb--." But before she could finish the word the fairies all set up a terrific shout. "The word, the word," they cried, "the word that no one must mention here. Hush! hush! hush!" They all turned upon Louisa as if they were going to tear her to pieces. In her terror she uttered a piercing scream, and--woke. She wasn't in bed; where was she? Could she be in the workbox? Wherever she was it was quite dark and cold, and something was pressing against her head, and her legs were aching. Suddenly there came a flash of light. Some one had opened the door, and the light from the hall streamed in. The some one was Louisa's mamma. "Who is in here? Did I hear some one calling out?" she exclaimed anxiously. Louisa was slowly recovering her wits. "It was me, mamma," she answered; "I didn't know where I was, and I was so frightened and I am so cold. Oh mamma!" A flood of tears choked her. "You poor child," exclaimed her mamma, hurrying back to the hall to fetch a lamp, as she spoke, "why, you have fallen asleep on the hearth-rug, and the fire's out; and my workbox--what is it doing here? Were you using it for a pillow?" "No," said Louisa, eyeing the workbox suspiciously, "it was on the chair, and the corner of it has hurt my head, mamma; it was pressing against it." Her mamma lifted the box on to the table. "Are they all in there, mamma?" whispered Louisa, timidly. "All in where? All who? What are you speaking about, my dear?" "The fairies--the reels I mean," replied Louisa. "My dear, you are dreaming still," said her mamma, laughing, but seeing that Louisa looked dissatisfied, "never mind, you shall tell me your dreams to-morrow. But just now you must really go to bed. It is nine o'clock--you have been two hours asleep. I went out of the room in a hurry, taking the lamp with me because it was not burning rightly, and then I heard baby crying--he is very cross to-night--and both nurse and I forgot about you. Now go, dear, and get well warmed at the nursery fire before you go to bed." Louisa trotted off. She had no more dreams that night, but when she woke the next morning, her poor little legs were still aching. She had caught cold the night before, there was no doubt, so her mamma, taking some blame to herself for her having fallen asleep on the floor, was particularly kind and indulgent to her. She brought her down to the drawing-room wrapped in a shawl, and established her comfortably in an arm-chair. "What will you have to play with?" she asked. "Would you like my workbox?" "I don't know," said Louisa, doubtfully. "Mamma," she continued, after a moment's silence, "can queens never do what they like?" "Very often they can't," replied her mamma. "What makes you ask?" "I dreamt I was a queen," said Louisa. "Did you? What country were you queen of?" "I was queen of the reel fairies," replied the child gravely. Her mother looked mystified "Tell me what you mean, dear," she said. "Tell me all about it." So bit by bit Louisa explained the whole, and her mamma had for once a peep into that strange, fantastic, mysterious world, which we call a child's imagination. She had a glimpse of something else too. She saw that her little girl was in danger of getting to live too much alone, was in need of sympathy and companionship. "I think it was what Frances Gordon said that made me dream about being a queen," she said. "And do you still wish you were a queen?" said her mamma. "No," said Louisa. "A princess then?" "No," she replied again. "But, mamma--" "Well, dear?" "I do wish sometimes that I was pretty, and that--that--I don't know how to say it--that people made a fuss about me sometimes." Her mamma looked a little grave and a little sad; but still she smiled. She could not be angry--thought Louisa. "Is it naughty, mamma?" she whispered. "Naughty? No, dear; it is a wish most little girls have, I fancy--and big ones too. But some day you will understand how it might grow into a wrong feeling, and how on the other side a little of it may be useful to help good feelings. And till you understand better, dear, doesn't it make you happy to know that to me you could not be dearer if you were the most beautiful little princess in the world." "As beautiful as Princess Fair Star, mamma?" "Yes, or any other princess you can think of. I would rather have my little mouse of a girl than any of them." Louisa nestled closer to her mamma with great satisfaction. "I like you to call me your mouse, mamma; and do you know I almost think I like having a cold." Her mother laughed. "Am I making a little fuss about you? Is that what you like?" Louisa laughed too. "Do you think I should leave off playing with the reels, and making stories about them, mamma? Is it silly?" "No, dear, not if it amuses you," said her mother. But though Louisa did not leave off playing with the reels altogether, she gradually came to find that she preferred other amusements. Her mother taught her several pretty kinds of work, and read aloud stories to her more often than formerly. And, somehow, Louisa never again cared quite as much for her old friends. She thought the Chinese princesses had grown rather "stuck-up" and affected, and she could not get over a strong suspicion that "Clarke's Number 12" was very ready to be impertinent, if he could ever again get a chance. CHAPTER THREE. GOOD-NIGHT, WINNY. "Say not good-night--but, in some brighter clime, Bid me good-morning!" When I was a little girl I was called Meg. I do not mean to say that I have got a different name now that I am big, but my name is _used_ differently. I am now called Margaret, or sometimes Madge, but never Meg. Indeed I do not wish ever to be called Meg, for a reason you will quite understand when you have heard my story. But perhaps I am wrong to call it a "story" at all, so I had better say at the beginning that what I have to tell you is only a sort of remembrance of something that happened to me when I was very little--of some one I loved more dearly, I think, than I can ever love any one again. And I fancy perhaps other little girls will like to hear it. Well then, to begin again--long ago I used to be called Meg, and the person who first called me so was my sister Winny, who was not quite two years older than I. There were four of us then--four little sisters-- Winny, and I, and Dolly, and Blanche, baby Blanche we used to call her. We lived in the country in a pretty house, which we were very fond of, particularly in the summer time, when the flowers were all out. Winny loved flowers more dearly than any one I ever knew, and she taught me to love them too. I never see one now without thinking of her and the things she used to say about them. I can see now, now that I am so much older, that Winny must have been a very clever little girl in some ways, not so much in learning lessons as in thinking things to herself, and understanding feelings and thoughts that children do not generally care about at all. She was very pretty too, I can remember her face so well. She had blue eyes and very long black eyelashes--our mamma used to teaze her sometimes, and say that she had what Irish people call "blue eyes put in with dirty fingers"--and pretty rosy cheeks, and a very white forehead. And her face always had a bright dancing look that I can remember best of all. We learnt lessons together, and we slept together in two little beds side by side, and we did everything together, from eating our breakfast to dressing our dolls--and when one was away the other seemed only half alive. All our frocks and hats and jackets were exactly the same, and except that Winny was taller than I, we should never have known which was which of our things. I am sure Winny was a very good little girl, but when I try to remember all about her exactly, what seems to come back most to me is her being always so happy. She did not need to think much about being good and not naughty; everything seemed to come rightly to her of itself. She thought the world was a very pretty, nice place; and she loved all her friends, and she loved God most of all for giving them to her. She used to say she was sure Heaven would be a very happy place too, only she did so hope there would be plenty of flowers there, and she was disappointed because mamma said it did not tell in the Bible what kinds of flowers there would be. Almost the only thing which made her unhappy was about there being so many very poor people in the world. She used to talk about it very often and wonder why it was, and when she was very, very little, she cried because nurse would not let her give away her best velvet jacket to a poor little girl she saw on the road. But though Winny was so sweet, and though we loved each other so, sometimes we did quarrel. Now and then it was quite little quarrels which were over directly, but once we had a bigger quarrel. Even now I do not like to remember it; and oh! how I do wish I could make other boys and girls feel as I do about quarrelling. Even little tiny squabbles seem to me to be sorrowful things, and then they so often grow into bigger ones. It was generally mostly my fault. I was peevish and cross sometimes, and Winny was never worse than just hasty and quick for a moment. She was always ready to make friends again, "to kiss ourselves to make the quarrel go away," as our little sister Dolly used to say, almost before she could speak. And sometimes I was silly, and then it was right for Winny to find fault with me. My manners used occasionally to trouble her, for she was very particular about such things. One day I remember she was very vexed with me for something I said to a gentleman who was dining with our papa and mamma. He was a nice kind gentleman, and we liked him, only we did not think him pretty. Winny and I had fixed together that we did not think him pretty, only of course Winny never thought I would be so silly as to _tell_ him so. We came down to dessert that evening--Winny sat beside papa, and I sat between Mr Merton and mamma, and after I had sat quite still, looking at him without speaking, I suddenly said,--I can't think what made me--"Mr Merton, I don't think you are at all pretty. Your hair goes straight down, and up again all of a sudden at the end, just like our old drake's tail." Mr Merton laughed very much, and papa laughed, and mamma did too, though not so much. But Winny did not laugh at all. Her face got red, and she would not eat her raisins, but asked if she might keep them for Dolly, and she seemed quite unhappy. And when we had said good-night, and had gone upstairs, I could see how vexed she was. She was so vexed that she even gave me a little shake. "Meg," she said, "I am so ashamed of you. I am really. How _could_ you be so rude?" I began to cry, and I said I did not mean to be rude; and I promised that I would never say things like that again; and then Winny forgave me; but I never forgot it. And once I remember, too, that she was vexed with me because I would not speak to a little girl who came to pay a visit to her grandfather, who lived at _our_ grandfather's lodge. Winny stopped to say good-morning to her, and to ask her if her friends at home were quite well; and the little girl curtseyed and looked so pleased. But I walked on, and when Winny called to me to stop I would not; and then, when she asked me what was the matter, I said I did not think we needed to speak to the little girl, she was quite a common child, and we were ladies. Winny _was_ vexed with me then; she was too vexed to give me a little shake even. She did not speak for a minute, and then she said, very sadly, "Meg, I _am_ sorry you don't know better than that what being a lady means." I do know better now, I hope; but was it not strange that Winny _always_ seemed to know better about these things? It came of itself to her, I think, because her heart was so kind and happy. Winny was very fond of listening to stories, and of making them up and telling them to me; but she was not very fond of reading to herself. She liked writing best, and I liked reading. We used to say that when we were big girls, Winny should write all mamma's letters for her, and I should read aloud to her when she was tired. How little we thought that time would _never_ come! We were always talking about what we should do when we were big; but sometimes when we had been talking a long time, Winny would stop suddenly, and say, "Meg, growing big seems a dreadfully long way off. It almost tires me to think of it. What a great, great deal we shall have to learn before then, Meg!" I wonder what gave her that feeling. Shall I tell you now about the worst quarrel we ever had? It was about Winny's best doll. The doll's name was "Poupee." Of course I know now that that is the French for all dolls; but we were so little then we did not understand, and when our aunt's French maid told us that "poupee" was the word for doll, we thought it a very pretty name, and somehow the doll was always called by it. Grandfather had given "Poupee" to Winny-- I think he brought it from London for her--and I cannot tell you how proud she was of it. She did not play with it every day, only on holidays and treat-days; but every day she used to peep at "Poupee" in the drawer where she lay, and kiss her, and say how pretty she looked. One afternoon Winny was going out somewhere--I don't remember exactly where; I daresay it was a drive with mamma--and I was not to go, and I was crying; and just as Winny was running down-stairs all ready dressed to go, she came back and whispered to me, "Meg, dear, don't cry. It takes away all my pleasure to see you. Will you leave off crying and look happy if I let you have `Poupee' to play with while I am out?" I wiped away my tears in a minute, I _was_ so pleased. Winny ran to "Poupee's" drawer and got her out, and brought her to me. She kissed her as she put her into my arms, and she said to her, "My darling `Poupee,' you are going to spend the afternoon with your aunt. You must be a very good little girl, and do exactly what she tells you." And then Winny said to me, "You _will_ be very careful of her, won't you, Meg?" and I promised, of course, that I would. I did mean to be careful, and I really was; but for all that a sad accident happened. I had been very happy with "Poupee" all the afternoon, and I had made her a new apron with a piece of muslin nurse gave me, and some ribbon, which did nicely for bows; and I was carrying her along the passage to show nurse how pretty the apron looked, when the housemaid, who was coming along with a trayful of clean clothes from the wash in her arms, knocked against me, and "Poupee" was thrown down; and, terrible to tell, her dear, sweet little right foot was broken. I cannot tell you how sorry I was, and nurse was sorry too, and so was Jane; but all the sorrow would not mend the foot. I was sitting on the nursery floor, with "Poupee" in my lap, crying over her, as miserable as could be, when Winny rushed in, laden with parcels, in the highest spirits. "O! I have had such a nice drive, and I have brought some buns and sponge-cakes for tea, and a toy donkey for Blanche. And has Poupee been good?" she exclaimed. But just then she caught sight of my face. "What is the matter, Meg? What _have_ you done to my darling, beautiful Poupee? O Meg, Meg, you surely haven't broken her?" I was crying so I could hardly speak. "O Winny!" I said, "I am so sorry." But Winny was too vexed to care just at first for anything I could say. "You naughty, naughty, unkind Meg," she said, "I do believe you did it on purpose." I could not bear that. I thought it very hard indeed that she should say so, when any one could see how miserable I was. I did not answer her; I ran out of the nursery, and though Winny called to me to come back (for the moment she had said those words she was sorry for them), I would not listen to her. Nurse fetched me back soon, however, for it was tea-time, but I would not speak to Winny. We never had such a miserable tea; there we sat, two red-eyed, unhappy little girls, looking as if we did not love each other a bit. If mamma had come up to the nursery she would have put it all right--she did put Poupee's foot right the very next day, she mended it so nicely with diamond cement, that the place hardly showed at all--but she was busy that evening, and did not happen to come up. So bed-time came, and still we had not made friends, though I heard Winny crying when she was saying her prayers. After we were in bed, and nurse had gone away, Winny whispered to me, "Meg, won't you forgive me for saying that unkind thing? Won't you kiss me and say good-night, Winny?" A minute before, I had been feeling as sorry as could be, but when Winny spoke to me, a most hard, horrid, unkind feeling seemed to come back into my heart, and I would not answer. I breathed as if I were asleep, pretending not to hear. I think Winny thought I was asleep, for she did not speak again. I heard her crying softly, and then after a while I heard by her breathing that she had really gone to sleep. But I couldn't. I lay awake a long time, I thought it was hours and hours, and I tossed and turned, but I _couldn't_ go to sleep. I listened but I could not hear Winny breathing--I put my hand out of my cot, and stretched across to hers to feel for her; she seemed to be lying quite still. Then a dreadful feeling came into my mind--suppose Winny were dead, and that I had refused to make friends and say good-night! I must have got fanciful with lying awake, I suppose, and you know I was only a very little girl. I could not bear it--I stretched myself across to Winny and put my arms round her. "Winny! Winny!" I said, "wake up, Winny, and kiss me, and let us say good-night." Winny woke up almost immediately, and she seemed to understand at once. "Poor little Meg," she said, "poor little Meg. We will never be unkind to each other again--never. Good-night, dear Meg." "Good-night, Winny," I said. And just as I was falling asleep I whispered to her--"I will never let you go to sleep again, Winny, without saying good-night." And I never did, never except _once_. I could tell you ever so many other things about Winny, but I daresay you would be tired, for, of course, they cannot be so interesting to any other little girls as to me. But I think you will wish to hear about our last good-night. Have I told you about our aunts at all? We had two aunties we were very fond of. They were young and merry and so kind to us, and there was nothing we liked so much as going to stay with them, for their home--our grandfather's--was not far away. We generally all went there to spend Christmas, but one year something, I forget what, had prevented this, so to make up for it we were promised to spend Easter with them. We did so look forward to it--we were to go by ourselves, just like young ladies going to pay a visit, and we were to stay from Saturday till Easter Monday or Tuesday. On the Saturday morning we woke up so early--hours before it was time to be dressed--we were so excited about our visit. But somehow Winny did not seem quite as happy about it as I wanted her to be. I asked her what made her dull, and she said it was because she did not like leaving papa and mamma, and Dolly and Blanche, not even for two or three days. And when we went into mamma's room to say good-morning as usual, Winny said so to her too. Mamma laughed at her a little, and said she was a great baby after all; and Winny smiled, but still she seemed dull, and I shall never forget what a long long kiss she gave mamma that morning, as if she could When we went to the nursery for breakfast, baby Blanche was crying very much, and nurse said she was very cross. She did not think she was quite well, and we must be good and quiet. After breakfast, when mamma came to see baby, she seemed anxious about her, but baby went to sleep before long quite comfortably, and then nurse said she would be better when she awoke; it was probably just a little cold. And very soon the pony carriage was ready for Winny and me, and we kissed them all and set off on our visit. I was in high spirits, but as we drove away I saw that Winny was actually crying a little, and she did not often cry. When we got to our aunties', however, she grew quite happy again. We were very happy indeed on Sunday, only Winny kept saying how glad she would be to see them all at home again on Monday or Tuesday. But on Monday morning there came a letter, which made our aunties look grave. They did not tell us about it till Winny asked if we were to go home "to-day," and then they told us that perhaps we could not go home for several days--not for two or three weeks even, for poor baby Blanche was very ill, and it was a sort of illness we might catch from her if we were with her. "And that would only add to your poor mamma's trouble," said our aunties; "so you see, dears, it is much the best for you to stay here." I did not mind at all; indeed I was pleased. I was sorry about baby, but not very, for I thought she would soon be better. But Winny looked very sad. "Aunty," she said, "you don't think poor baby will _die_, do you?" "No, dear; I hope she will soon be better," said aunty, and then Winny looked happier. "Meg," she whispered to me, "we must be sure to remember about poor baby being ill when we say our prayers." And we fixed that we would. After that we were very happy for two or three weeks. Sometimes we were sorry about baby and Dolly, for baby was very ill we were told, and Dolly had caught the fever too. But after a while news came that they were both better, and we began to look forward to seeing papa and mamma and them again. We used to write little letters to them all at home, and that was great fun; and we used to go such nice walks. The fields and lanes were full of daffodils, and soon the primroses came and the violets, and Winny was _always_ gathering them and making wreaths and nosegays. It was a very happy time, and it all comes back into my mind _dreadfully_, when I see the spring flowers, especially the primroses, every year. One day we had had a particularly nice walk, and when we came in Winny seemed so full of spirits that she hardly knew what to do with herself. We had a regular romp. In our romping, by accident, Winny knocked me down, for she was very strong, and I hurt my thumb. I was often silly about being hurt even a little, and I began to cry. Then Winny was _so_ sorry; she kissed me and petted me, and gave me all her primrose wreaths and nosegays, so I soon left off crying. But somehow Winny's high spirits had gone away. She shivered a little and went close to the fire to get warm, and soon she said she was tired, and we both went to bed. I remember that night so well. Winny did not seem sleepy when she was in bed, and I wasn't either. She talked to me a great deal, and _so_ nicely. It was not about when we should be big girls; it was about _now_ things; about not being cross ever, and helping mamma, and about how pretty the lowers had looked, and how kind every one was to us, and how kind God must be to make every one so, and just at the last, as she was falling asleep, she said, "I do wonder so if there are primroses in heaven?" and then she fell asleep, and so did I. When I woke in the morning, I heard voices talking beside me. It was one of our aunties. She was standing beside Winny, speaking to her. When she looked round and saw that I was awake, she said to me in a kind but rather a strange voice, "Meg, dear, put on your dressing-gown and run down to my room to be dressed. Winny has a headache, and I think she had better not get up to breakfast." I got up immediately and put on my slippers, and I was running out of the room when I thought of something and ran back. I put Winny's slippers neatly beside her crib, and I said to her, "I have put them ready for you when you get up, Winny." I wanted to do something for her you see, because I was so sorry about her headache. She did not speak, but she looked at me with such a look in her eyes. Then she said, "Kiss me, Meg, dear little Meg," and I was just going to kiss her when she suddenly seemed to remember, and she drew back. "No, dear, you mustn't," she said; "aunty would say it was better not, because I'm not well." "Could I catch your headache, Winny?" I said, "or is it a cold you've got? You are not _very_ ill, Winny?" She only smiled at me, and just then I heard aunty calling to me to be quick. Winny's little hand was hanging over the side of the bed. I took it, and kissed it--poor little hand, it felt so hot--"I may kiss your hand, mayn't I?" I said, and then I ran away. All that day I was kept away from Winny, playing by myself in rooms we did not generally go into. Sometimes my aunties would come to the door for a minute and peep at me, and ask me what I would like to play with, but it was very dull. My aunties' maid took me a little walk in the garden, and she put me to bed, but I cried myself to sleep because I had not said good-night to Winny. "Oh how I wish I had never been cross to her!" I kept thinking; and if _only_ I could make other children understand how _dreadful_ that feeling was, I am sure, quite sure, they would never, never quarrel. The next day was just the same, playing alone, dinner alone, everything alone. I was so lonely. I never saw aunty till the evening, when it was nearly bed-time, and then she came to the room where I was, and I called out to her immediately to ask how Winny was. "I _hope_ she will soon be better," she said. "And, Meg, dear, it is your bed-time now." The thought of going to bed again without Winny was too hard. I began to cry. "O aunty!" I said, "I do so want to say good-night to Winny. I _always_ say good-night, and last night I couldn't." Aunty thought for a minute. She looked so sorry for me. Then she said, "I will see if I can manage it. Come after me, Meg." She went up through a part of the house I did not know, and into a room where there was a closed door. She tapped at it without opening, and called out. "Meg has come to say good-night to you, through the door, Winny dear." Then I heard Winny's voice say softly, "I am so glad;" and I called out quite loud, "Good-night, Winny," but Winny answered--I could not hear her voice without listening close at the door--"Not good-night now, Meg. It is _good-bye_, dear Meg." I looked up at aunty. It seemed to me her face had grown white, and the tears were in her eyes. Somehow, I felt a little afraid. "What does Winny mean, aunty?" I said in a whisper. "I don't know, dear. Perhaps being ill makes her head confused," she said. So I called out again, "Good-night, Winny," and aunty led me away. But Winny was right. It _was_ good-bye. The next morning when aunty's maid was dressing me, I saw she was crying. "What is the matter, Hortense?" I said. "Why are you unhappy? Is any one vexed with you?" But she only shook her head and would not speak. After I had had my breakfast, Hortense took me to my aunties' sitting-room. And when she opened the door, to my delight there was mamma, sitting with both my aunties by the fire. I was so pleased, I gave quite a cry of joy, and jumped on to her knee. "Does Winny know you've come?" I cried, "_dear_ mamma." But when I looked at her I saw that her face was very white and sad, and my poor aunties were crying. Still mamma smiled. "Poor Meg!" she said. "What is the matter? Why is everybody so strange to-day?" I said. Then mamma told me. "Meg, dear," she said, "you must try to remember some of the things I have often told you about Heaven, what a happy place it is, with no being ill or tired, or any troubles. Meg, dear, Winny has gone there." For a minute I did not seem to understand. I could not understand Winny's having gone without telling me. A sort of giddy feeling came over me, it was all so strange, and I put my head down on mamma's shoulder, without speaking. "Meg, dear, do you understand?" she said. "She didn't tell me she was going," I said, "but, oh yes, I remember she said good-bye last night. Did she go alone, mamma? Who came for her? Did _Jesus_?" Something made me whisper that. Mamma just said softly, "Yes." "Had she only her little pink dressing-gown on?" I asked next. "Wouldn't she be cold? Mamma, dear, is it a long way off?" "Not to _her_," she said. She was crying now. "Do you think if I set off now, this very minute, I could get up to her?" But when I said that, mamma clasped me tight. "Not that too," she whispered. "Meg, Meg, don't say that." I was sorry for her crying, and I stroked her cheek, but still I wanted to go. "Heaven is such a nice place, mamma. Winny said so, only she wondered about the primroses. Why won't you let me go, mamma?" And just then my eyes happened to fall on the little piece of black sticking-plaster that Winny had put on my thumb only two evenings before, when she had hurt it without meaning. "Mamma, mamma," I cried, "I _can't_ stay here without Winny." It all seemed to come into my mind then what it would really be to be without her, and I cried and cried till my face _ached_ with crying. I can't remember much of that day, nor of several days. I did not get ill, the fever did not come to me somehow, but I seemed to get _stupid_ with missing Winny. Mamma and my aunties talked to me, but it did not do any good. They could not tell me the only things I cared to hear-- all about Winny, what she was doing, what lessons she would have, if she would always wear white frocks, and all sorts of things, that I must have sadly pained them by asking. For I did not then at all understand about death. I thought that Winny, my pretty Winny, just as I had known her, had gone to Heaven. I did not know that her dear little body had been laid to rest in the quiet churchyard, and that it was her _spirit_, her pure happy spirit, that had gone to heaven. It was not for a long time after that, that I was old enough to understand at all, and even now it is hard to understand. Mamma says even quite big, and very, very clever people find it hard, and that the best way is to trust to God to explain it afterwards. But still I like to think about it, and I like to think of what my aunties told me of the days Winny was ill--how happy and patient she was, how _she_ seemed to "understand" about going, and how she loved to have fresh wreaths of primroses about her all the time she was ill. I am a big girl now--nearly twelve. I am a good deal bigger than Winny was when she died, even Blanche is now as big as she was--is that not strange to think of? Perhaps I may live to be quite, quite an old woman--that seems stranger still. But even if I do I shall never forget Winny. I shall know her dear face again, and she will know mine--I feel sure she will, in that happy country where she has gone. But I will never again say "good night" to my Winny, for in that country "there is no night--neither sorrow nor weeping." CHAPTER FOUR. CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. "They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came home again Her friends were all gone." There was once a boy who was a very good sort of a boy, except for two things; or perhaps I should say one thing. I am really not sure whether they were two things, or only two sides of the same thing; perhaps, children, you can decide. It was this. He could not bear his lessons, and his head was _always_ running on fairies. You may say it is no harm to think about fairies, and I do not say that in moderation it is. But when it goes the length of thinking about them so much that you have no thought for anything else, then I think it _is_ harm--don't you? and I daresay that this had to do with Con's hating his lessons so. Perhaps you will think it was an odd fancy for a boy: it is more often that girls think about fairies, but you must remember that there are a great many kinds of fairies. There are pixies and gnomes, and brownies and cobs, all manner of queer, clever, mischievous, and kindly creatures, besides the pretty, gentle, little people whom one always thinks of as haunting the woods in the summer time, and hiding among the flowers. _Con_ knew all about them; where he got his knowledge from I can't say, but I hardly think it was out of books. However that may have been, he did know all about the fairy world as accurately as some boys know all about birds' nests, and squirrels, and field mice, and hedgehogs. And there was one good thing about this fancy of Con's; it led him to know a great many queer things about out-of-door's creatures that most boys would not have paid attention to. He did not care to know about birds' nests for the sake of stealing them for instance, but he had fancies that some of the birds were special favourites of the fairies, and it led him to watch their little ways and habits with great attention. He knew always where the first primroses were to be found, because he thought the fairies dug up the earth about their roots, and watered them at night, when every one was asleep, with magic water out of the lady well, to make them come up quicker, and many a morning he would get up very very early, in hopes of surprising the tiny gardeners at their work before they had time to decamp. But he never succeeded in doing so; and, after all, when he did have an adventure, it came, as most things do, just exactly in a way he had never in the least expected it. Con's home had something to do with his fancifulness perhaps. I won't tell you where it was, for it doesn't matter; and though some of the wiser ones among you may think you can guess what country he belonged to when I tell you that his real name was not Con, but Connemara, I must tell you you are mistaken. No, I won't tell you where his home was, but I will tell you _what_ it was. It was a sort of large cottage, and it was perched on the side of a mountain, not a hill, a real mountain, and a good big one too, and there were ever so many other mountains near by. There was a pretty garden round the cottage, and at the back a door opened in the garden wall right on to the mountain. Wasn't that nice? And if you climbed up a little way you had _such_ a view. You could see all the other mountains poking their heads up into the sky one above the other--some of them looked bare and cold, and some looked comfortable and warmly clad in cloaks of trees and shrubs and furze, but still they all looked beautiful. For the sunshine and the clouds used to chase each other over the heights and valleys so fast it was like giants playing bo-peep; that was on fine days of course. On foggy and rainy days there were grand sights to be seen too. First one mountain and then another would put on a nightcap of great heavy clouds, and sometimes the night-caps would grow down all over them till they were quite hidden; and then all of a sudden they would rise off again slowly, hit by bit, till Con could see first up to the mountain's waist, then up, up, up to the very top again. That was another kind of bo-peep. Summer and winter, fine or wet, cold or hot, Con used to go to school every day. He was only seven years old, and there was a good way to walk, more than a mile; but it was very seldom, very, _very_ seldom, that he missed going. There were reasons why it was best for him to go; his father and mother knew them, and he was too good not to do what they told him, whether he liked it or not. But he was like the horse that one man led to the water, but twenty couldn't make drink. There was no difficulty in making Con go to school; but as for getting him to learn once he was there--ah, no! that was a different matter. So I fear I cannot say that he was much of a favourite with his teachers. You see they didn't know that his little head was so full of fairies that it really had no room for anything else, and it was only natural that they should think him inattentive and even stupid, and their thinking so did not make Con like his lessons any better. And with his playmates he was not a favourite either. He never quarrelled with them, but he did not seem to care about their games, and they laughed at him, and called him a muff. It was a pity, for I believe it was partly to make him play with other boys that his father and mother sent him to school; and for some things the boys couldn't help liking him. He was so good-natured, and, for such a little fellow, so brave. He could climb trees like a squirrel, and he was never afraid of anything. Many and many a short winter's afternoon it was dark before Con left school to come home, but he did not mind at all. He would sling his satchel of books across his shoulders, and trudge manfully home--thinking--thinking. By this time I daresay you can guess of what he was thinking. There were two ways by which he could come home from school--there was the road, really not better than a lane, and when he came that way you see he had to do all his climbing at the end, for the road was pretty level, winding along round the foot of the mountain, perched on the side of which was Con's home; and there was what was called the hill road, which ran up the mountain behind the village, and then went bobbing up and down along the mountain side still gradually ascending, away, away, I don't know where to--up to some lonely shepherds' huts I daresay, where nobody but the shepherds and the sheep ever went. But on its way it passed not very far from Con's home. I need hardly say that the hill road was the boy's favourite way. He liked it because it was more "climby," and for another reason too. By this way, he passed the cottage of an old woman named Nance, of whom he was extremely fond, and to whom he would always stop to speak if he possibly could. I don't know that many boys and girls would have taken a fancy to Nance. She was certainly not pretty, and what is more she was decidedly _queer_. She was very very small, indeed the smallest person I ever heard of, I think. When Con stood beside her, though he was only seven, he really looked bigger than she did, and she was so funnily dressed too. She always wore green, quite a bright green, and her dresses never seemed to get dull or soiled though she had all her housework to do for herself, and she had over her green dress a long brown cloak with a hood, which she generally pulled over her face to shield her eyes from the sun, she said. Her face was very small and brown and puckered-up looking, but she had bright red cheeks, and _very_ bright dark eyes. She was never seen either to laugh or cry; but she used to smile sometimes, and her smile was rather nice. The neighbours--they were hardly to be called _her_ neighbours, for her house was quite half-a-mile from any other--all called her "uncanny," or whatever word they used to mean that, and they all said they did not know anything of her history, where she had come from, or anything about her. And once when Con repeated to her some remarks of this kind which he had heard at school, Nance only smiled and said, "no doubt the people of Creendale"--that was the name of the village--"were very wise." "But _have_ you always lived here, Nance?" asked Con. "No, Connemara," she answered gravely, "not always." But that was all she said, and somehow Con did not care to ask her more. It was not often he asked her questions; he was not that sort of boy for one thing, and besides, there was something about her that forbade it. He used to sit at one side of the cottage fire, or, in summer, on the turf seat just outside the door, watching Nance's tiny figure as she flitted about, or sometimes just staring up at the sky, or into the fire without speaking. Nance never seemed to mind what he did, and he in no way doubted that she was glad to see him, though by words she had never said so. When he did speak it was always about one thing--what, you can guess, it was always about fairies. It was through this that he had first made friends with Nance. She had found him peering into the hollow trunk of an old solitary oak-tree that stood farther down the hill, not very far from her dwelling. "What are you doing there, Connemara?" she said. "I was thinking this might be one of the doors into fairyland," he answered quietly, without seeming surprised at her knowing his name. "And what should you know about that place?" she said again. And Con turned towards her his earnest blue eyes, and told her all his thoughts and fancies. It seemed easier to him to tell Nance about them than it had ever seemed to tell any one else--his feelings seemed to put themselves into words, as if Nance drew them out. Nance said very little, but she smiled. And after that Con used to stop at her cottage nearly every day on his way home--he dared not on his way _to_ school, for fear of being late, for almost the only thing he always did get was good marks for punctuality. His people at home did not know much about Nance. He told his mother about her once, and asked if he might stay to speak to her; and when his mother heard that Nance's cottage was very clean, she said, "Yes, she didn't mind," and, after that, Con somehow never mentioned her again. He came to have gradually a sort of misty notion that Nance had had something to do with him ever since he was born. She seemed to know everything about him. From the very first she called him by his proper name--not Con or Master Con, but Connemara, and he liked to hear her say it. One winter afternoon, it was nearly dark though it was only half-past three, Con coming home from school (the master let them out earlier on the very short days), stopped as usual at Nance's cottage. It was very, _very_ cold, the fierce north wind came swirling down from the mountains, round and round, here, there, and everywhere, till, but for the unmistakable "freeze" in its breath, you would hardly have known whence it blew. "It is so cold, Nance," said the boy, as he settled himself by the fire. Nance's fires always burnt so bright and clear. "Yes," said Nance, "the snow is coming, Connemara." "I don't care," said Con, shaking his shaggy fair hair out of his eyes, for the heat was melting the icicles upon it. "I'm not going to hurry. Father and mother are away for two days, so there's no one to miss me. Mayn't I stay, Nance?" Nance did not answer. She went to the door and looked out, and Con thought he heard her whisper something to herself. Immediately a blast of wind came rushing down the hill, into the very room it seemed to Con. Nance closed the door. "Not long; the storm is coming," she said again, in answer to his question. But in the meantime Con made himself very comfortable by the fire, amusing himself as usual by staring into its glowing depths. "Nance," he said at last, "do you know what the boys at school say? They say they wonder I'm not afraid of you! They say you're a witch, Nance!" He looked up in her face brightly with his fearless blue eyes, and laughed so merrily that all the corners of the queer little cottage seemed to echo it back. Nance, however, only smiled. "If you _were_ a witch, Nance, I'd make you grant me some wishes, three anyway," he went on. "Of course you know what the first would be, and, indeed, if I had that, I don't know that I would want any other. I mean, to go to fairyland, you know." Nance nodded her head. "The other two would be for it to be always summer, and for me never, never, _never_ to have any lessons to learn," he continued. "Never to grow a man?" said Nance. "I don't know," answered Con. "_Lessons_ don't make boys grow; but still I suppose they _have_ to have them sometime before they are men. But I shouldn't care if I could go to fairyland, and if it would be always summer; I don't think I _would_ care about ever being a man." As he said these words the fire suddenly sent out a sputtering blaze. It jumped up all at once with such a sort of crackle and fizz, Con could have fancied it was laughing at him. He looked up at Nance. _She_ was not laughing; on the contrary, her face looked very grave, graver than ever he had seen it. "Connemara," she said slowly, "take care. You don't know what you are saying." But Con stared into the fire again and did not answer. I hardly think he heard what she said; the warm fire made him drowsy, and the brightness dazzled his eyes. He was almost beginning to nod, when Nance spoke again to him, rather sharply this time. "My boy, the snow is beginning; you must go." Con's habit of obedience made him start up, sleepy though he was. Nance was already at the door looking out. "Do not linger on the way, Connemara," she said, "and do not think of anything but home. It will be a wild night, but if you go straight and swift you will reach home soon." "I'm not afraid," said Con stoutly, as he set off. "I could wish he were," murmured Nance to herself, as she watched the little figure showing dark against the already whitening hill side, till it was out of sight. Then she came back into the cottage, but she could not rest. Con strode on manfully; the snow fell thicker and thicker, the wind blew fiercer and fiercer, but he had no misgiving. He had never before been out in a snow-storm, and knew nothing of its special dangers. For some time he got on very well, keeping strictly to the path, but suddenly, some little way up the mountain to his right, there flashed out a bright light. It jumped and hopped about in the queerest way. Con stood still to watch. "Can it be a will-o'-the-wisp?" thought he, in his innocence forgetting that a bleak mountain side in a snow-storm is hardly the place for jack-o'-lanterns and such like. But while he watched the light it all at once settled steadily down, on a spot apparently but a few yards above him. "It may be some one that has lost their road," thought Con; "I could easily show it them. I may as well climb up that little way to see;" for strangely enough the thought of the _fairies_ having anything to do with what he saw never once occurred to him. He left the path and began to climb. There, just above him, was the light, such a pretty clear light, shining now so steadily. It did not seem to move, but still as fast as he thought he had all but reached it, it receded, till at last, tired, and baffled, he decided that it _must_ be a will-o'-the-wisp, and turned to regain the road. But like so many wise resolutions, this one was more easily made than executed; Con could not find the road, hard though he tried. The snow came more and more thickly till it blinded and bewildered him hopelessly. Con did his utmost not to cry, but at last he could bear up no longer. He sank down on the snow and sobbed piteously; then a pleasant resting feeling came over him, gradually he left off crying and forgot all his troubles; he began to fancy he was in his little bed at home, and remembered nothing more about the snow or anything. Nance meanwhile had been watching anxiously at her door. She saw that the snow was coming faster, and that the wind was rising. Every now and then it seemed to rush down with a sort of howling scream, swept round the kitchen and out again, and whenever it did so, the fire would leap up the chimney, as if it were laughing at some one. "Frisken is at his tricks to-night," said Nance to herself, and every moment she seemed to grow more and more anxious. At last she could bear it no longer. She reached a stout stick, which stood in a corner of the room, drew her brown cloak more closely round her, and set off down the path where she had lost sight of Con. The storm of wind and snow seemed to make a plaything of her; her slight little figure swayed and tottered as she hastened along, but still she persevered. An instinct seemed to tell her where she should find the boy; she aimed almost directly for the place, but still Connemara had lain some time in his death-like sleep before Nance came up to him. There was not light enough to have distinguished him; what with the quickly-approaching darkness and the snow, which had already almost covered his little figure, Nance could not possibly have discovered him had she not stumbled right upon him. But she seemed to know what she was about, and she did not appear the least surprised. She managed with great difficulty to lift him in her arms, and turned towards her home. Alas, she had only staggered on a few paces when she felt that her strength was going. Had she not sunk down on to the ground, still tightly clasping the unconscious child, she would have fallen. "It is no use," she whispered at last; "they have been too much for me. The child will die if I don't get help. The only creature that has loved me all these long, long years! Oh, Frisken, you might have played your tricks elsewhere, and left him to me. But now I must have your help." She struggled again to her feet, and, with her stick, struck sharply three times on the mountain side. Immediately a door opened in the rock, revealing a long passage within, with a light, as of a glowing fire, at the end, and Nance, exerting all her strength, managed to drag herself and Con within this shelter. Instantly the door closed again. No sooner had it done so, no sooner was Nance quite shut out from the outside air, than a strange change passed over her. She grew erect and vigorous, and the weight of the boy in her arms seemed nothing to her. She looked many years younger in an instant, and with the greatest ease she carried Con along the passage, which ended in a small cave, where a bright fire was burning, in front of which lay some soft furry rugs, made of the skins of animals. With a sigh Nance laid Con gently down on the rugs. "He will do now," she said to herself. The first thing Con was aware of when a sort of half-consciousness returned to him, was the sound of voices. He did not recognise either of them; he was too sleepy to think where he was, or to take in the sense of what he heard, but long afterwards the words returned to him. "Of course we shall do him no harm," said the first voice. "That is not our way with those who come to us as he has done. All his life he has been wishing to come to us, and we might bear you a grudge for trying to stop him." Here the speaker burst into a curious, ringing laugh, which seemed to be re-echoed by numberless other voices in the distance. "You made him wish it," answered some one--it was Nance--sadly. "_We_ made him wish it! Ha, ha! ha, ha! Did you ever hear anything like that, my dear friends? Why did his mother tie up his sleeves with green ribbon before he was christened? Answer that. Ha, ha! ha, ha!" And then there came another succession of rollicking laughter. "It was to be, I suppose," said Nance. "But you won't _keep_ him. I brought him here to save his life, not to lose his--" "Hush, hush; how can you be so ill-mannered?" interrupted the other. "_Keep_ him? of course not, _unless he wants to stay_, the pretty dear." "But will you make him want to stay?" pleaded Nance. "How could we?" said the other mockingly. "How could _we_ influence him? He is a pupil of yours. But if you like to change your mind, you may come back instead of him. Ha, ha! ha, ha! what a joke!" And the laughter sounded as if the creatures, whoever they were, were holding their sides, and rolling about in the extremity of their glee. It faded away, gradually however, growing more and more indistinct, as if receding into the distance. And Con turned round on his side, and fell asleep more soundly than ever. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ When at last he really awoke he found himself lying on a bed of soft moss, under the shade of some great trees, for it was summer time-- summer evening time it seemed, for the light was subdued, like that of the sun from behind a cloud. Con started up in amazement, rubbing his eyes to make sure he was not dreaming. Where was he? How could it all be? The last thing he remembered was losing his way in the snow-storm on the mountain; what had become of the winter and the snow? He looked about him; the place he was in seemed to be a sort of forest glade; the foliage of the trees was so thickly interlaced overhead that only little patches of sky were here and there to be seen. There was no sunshine; just the same even, pale light over everything. It gave him again the feeling of being in a dream. Suddenly a sound caught his ears, it was that of running water; he turned in the direction whence it came. It was the loveliest little brook you ever saw--"with many a curve" it wound along through the forest, and on its banks grew the most exquisite and wonderful variety of flowers. Flowers of every colour, but of shapes and forms Con had never seen before. He stood looking at them in bewildered delight, and as he looked, suddenly the thought for the first time flashed into his mind--"This is fairyland! I have got my wish at last. I am in fairyland!" There was something, even to him, almost overwhelming in the idea. He could not move or speak, hardly even breathe. All at once there burst out in every direction, above his head, beneath his feet, behind him, in front of him, _everywhere_ in fact, peals and peals of laughter--the clearest, merriest, most irresistible laughter you ever heard. "It's the fairies," thought Con, "but where are they?" Where were they? Everywhere. There came another shrill peal of laughter and up they sprang, all together, from every imaginable corner. There was not a branch of a tree, hardly even a twig, it seemed to Con, on which one was not perched. They poked up their comical faces above the clear water of the brook where they must have been hiding, though how he had failed to see them there the boy could not imagine; they started up from the ground in such numbers, that Con lifted carefully first one foot and then the other to make sure he was not tramping upon some of them; they actually swarmed, and Con could not make it out at all. Could they have only just come, or had they been there all the time, and had something wrong with his eyes prevented his seeing them before? No, he couldn't make it out. Were they like what he had expected to find them? Hardly, at least he was not sure. Yet they were very pretty; they were as light and bright and agile as--like nothing he could think of. Their faces seemed to be brimming over with glee; there was not a sad or anxious look among them. They were dressed in every colour of the rainbow, I was going to say, but that would not be true, for there were no _brilliant_ colours among them. In every shade that you see in the woods in autumn would be more correct; the ladies in the soft greens and brown pinks and tender yellows of the fading leaves, the gentlemen in the olives and russet-browns and purples which give the deeper tints of autumn foliage--perhaps this was the reason that Con had not at first distinguished them from the leaves and the moss and the tree-roots where they had lain hidden? He stood gazing at them in silence, wondering when they were going to leave off laughing. At last the noise subsided, and one fairy, who had been swinging on a bough just above Con's head, slid down and stood before him. "Welcome to fairyland, Connemara," he said pompously. He was one of the tallest among them, reaching above Con's waist. His face, like the rest, was full of fun, but it had a look of great determination too. "My name is Frisken," he continued, "at least that's one of my names, and it will do for you to use as well as any other, though up above there they have ever so many names for me. I am an old friend of yours, though you may not know it, and you will find it for your interest to please me. We've given up kings and queens lately, we find it's better fun without; but, considering everything, I think I may say my opinion is considered of some importance. Elves, do you agree with me?" They all raised a shout of approval, and Frisken turned again to Con. "Our laws are easy to keep," he said, "you will soon know them. Your duties are comprised in one word, _Play_, and if ever you attempt to do anything else it will be the worse for you. You interrupted us in the middle of a dance, by-the-by. Elves, strike up the music." Then Frisken took Con's right hand, and a lovely little maiden clad in the palest green, and with flowing yellow hair, took the other, and the fairies made themselves into dozens and dozens of rings, and twirled and whirled away to the sound of the gayest and most inspiriting music. Con had never enjoyed himself so much in his life, and the best of it was the more he danced the more he wanted to dance; he jumped and whirled and twirled as fast as any (though I have no doubt the _fairies_ thought him rather clumsy about it), and yet without the very least feeling of fatigue. He felt as if he could have gone on for ever. Suddenly the elves stopped. "Oh don't stop!" said Con, who was beginning to feel quite at home, "do let's go on. I am not a bit tired." "_Tired_," said Frisken, contemptuously, "whoever heard such a word? How can you be so ill-mannered? Besides, mortal though you are, you certainly should _not_ be tired. Why, you're only just awake, and you slept long enough to last you at any rate for--" "For how long?" said Con, timidly. But Frisken did not answer, and Con, who was rather in awe of him, thought it best not to press the enquiry. The fairies did not go on dancing, however. They were fond of variety, evidently, whether they ever got tired or not. They now all "adjourned" to another part of the forest, where a grand banquet was prepared. What the viands were, Con had no idea, but he little cared, for they were the most delicious he had ever tasted. He was not a greedy boy by any means, but he did enjoy this feast; everything was so charming; the fairies all reclined on couches made of the same soft green moss as that on which he had found himself lying when he first awoke, and all the time the invisible musicians played lovely, gentle music, which, had Con not winked violently, would have brought the tears to his eyes, for, somehow, it made him think of home, and wonder what his mother was doing, and whether she was in trouble about his absence. It did not seem to affect the fairies in the same way; they were chattering, and joking, and laughing, just as merrily as ever; once Con caught Frisken's eye fixed upon him, and almost immediately after, the music stopped, and the games began. What wonderful games they were! I cannot tell you half of them; one favourite one you may have heard of before--they buried a seed a little way in the ground, and then danced round it in a circle, singing some queer wild words which Con could not understand. Then they all stood still and called to Con to look; he could hardly believe his eyes--there was the seed already a little plant, and even as he looked, it grew, and grew, and grew, up into a great strong tree; and as the branches rose higher and higher, the fairies caught hold of them and rose up with them into the sky, till the tree seemed to be covered with fruits of every shape and colour. Con had not recovered his amazement, when they were all down again, ready for something else. This time, perhaps, it would be the mouse game--a dozen or two of fairies would turn themselves into mice, and Frisken and one or two others into cats, and then what a chase they had! It puzzled Con quite as much as the seed game, for he was _sure_ he saw Frisken gobble up two or three mice, and yet--in a moment, there they all were again in their proper fairy forms, not one missing! He wished he could ask Frisken to explain it, but he had not time, for now an expedition to the treasure caves was proposed, and off they all set, some riding on fairy piebald ponies about the size of a rocking-horse, some driving in mother-of-pearl chariots drawn by large white cats, some running, some dancing along. And, oh, the treasure caves, when they got there! All the stories Con had ever heard of--Aladdin, and genii and pirates' buried riches, none of them came up to these wonderful caves in the least. There were just _heaps_ of precious stones, all cut and polished, and, according to fairy notions, quite ready for wear. For they all helped themselves to as many jewels as they wanted, strung them together on silk, with needles that pierced them as easily as if they had been berries, and flitted about as long as the fancy lasted, wreathed in diamonds and rubies, and emeralds, and every sort of brilliant stone. And then when they had had enough of them, threw them away as ruthlessly as children cast aside their withered daisy-chains. And so it went on without intermission; incessant jousts and revels, and banquets, constant laughter and joking, no pain, no fatigue, no anxiety. For the fairies live entirely and completely in the present, past and future have no meaning to their heedless ears, time passes as if it were not; they have no nights or days, no summer or winter. It is always the same in fairyland. But some things puzzled Con sorely. Strangely enough, in this realm of thoughtlessness, he was beginning to _think_ as well as to fancy, to wish to know the whys and wherefores of things, as he had never done before. Now and then he tried to question Frisken, who, he felt certain, knew all he wished to learn, but it was difficult ever to get him to explain anything. Once, I was very nearly saying _one day_, but there are no such things there--Con could keep no count of time, he could have told how many banquets he had been at, how many times they had been to the caves, how often they had bathed in the stream, but that was all--once, then, when Frisken seemed in a quieter mood than usual, Con tried what he could do. "Frisken," he said, "why is it that all the oldest looking fairies among you are the smallest. Why, there's the old fairy that drives the largest chariot, he's not above half as big as you? It seems to me they keep getting smaller and smaller as they get older; why is it?" "Of course they do. What else would you have?" said Frisken. "What an owl the boy must be! How can you ask such ill-mannered questions?" "Do you mean they get smaller and smaller till they die?" said Con. Frisken sprang to his feet with a sort of yell. It was the first time Con had seen him put out, but even now he seemed more terrified than angry. He sat down again, shaking all over. "I don't know what you mean," he gasped; "we never mention such things." "But what becomes of you all then--_afterwards_?" said Con, more discreetly. Frisken had recovered himself. "What do you mean by your afters and befores and thens?" he said; "Isn't _now_ enough for you? What becomes of them? why, what becomes of things up there in that world of yours--where do the leaves and the flowers and the butterflies go to--eh?" "But they are only _things_," persisted Con, "they have no--" "_Hush_!" screamed Frisken, "how can you be so ill-mannered? come along, the music is beginning; they are waiting for us to dance." But it was with a heavy heart that Con joined the dance. He was beginning to be very tired of this beautiful fairyland, and to wish very much that he could go home to the cottage on the mountain, to his father and mother, even to his lessons! A shudder ran through him as old tales that he had heard or read, and scarcely understood, returned to his mind--of children stolen by the fairies who _never_ went home again till too late, and who then in despair returned to their beautiful prison to become all that was left to them to be, fairies themselves, _things_, like the flowers and the butterflies--supposing already it was too late for him? quickly as the time had passed, for all he knew, he had been a century in fairyland! But he had to dance and to sing and to play incessantly like the others. He must not let them suspect his discontent or he would lose all chance of escape. He watched his opportunity for getting more information out of Frisken. "Do you never go `up there?'" he asked him once, using the fairy word for the world he had left, "for a change you know, and to play tricks on people--that must be such fun." Frisken nodded his head mysteriously. He was delighted to see what a regular elfin Con was growing. "Sometimes," he said. "It's all very well for a little while, but I couldn't stay there long. The air is so thick--ugh--and the cold and the darkness! You wouldn't believe, would you, now that you know what it's like down here, that fairies have been known to go up there and to _stay_ by their own choice--to become clumsy, miserable, short-lived mortals?" "What made them?" said Con. "Oh, a stupid idea that if they stayed up there they would have the chance of growing into--oh, nonsense, don't let us talk of anything so disagreeable. Come and have some games." But Con persisted. He had discovered that when he got Frisken all to himself he had a strange power of _forcing_ him to answer his questions. "Was old Nance once down here?" he asked suddenly. Frisken wriggled. "What if she was?" he said, "she's not worth speaking about." "Why did she go up there?" said Con. "She was bewitched," answered Frisken. "I cannot think why you like to talk about such stupid things. You have forgotten about things up there; luckily for you you came down here before you had learnt much. Did you ever hear talk of a stupid thing they call `love' up there? That took her up, and then she stayed because she got more nonsense in her head." "_I_ love my mother and my father," said Con stoutly. "Nonsense," said Frisken, "you make me feel sick. You must forget all that. Come along and make a tree." But Con did not forget. He thought about it all constantly, and he understood much that he had never dreamt of before. He grew to detest his life among the fairies, and to long and plan for escape. But how to manage it he had no notion; which was the way "up" the fairies carefully concealed from him, and he had no clue to guide him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Nance! Nance! are you there? O dear Nance! do let me out, and take me home to my mother again. O Nance! Nance!" It was Con. He had managed to escape from Frisken and the others, amusing themselves in the treasure caves, and had made his way along a narrow winding passage in the rock, with a vague idea that as it went "up" it would perhaps prove to be a way out of fairyland. He had passed the little cave where Nance had warmed him by the fire, and the sight of it had brought back a misty feeling that Nance had had something to do with that night's adventures. Now he was standing at the end of the passage, the way was stopped by a great wall of rock, he could go no farther. In an agony of fear lest his fairy jailers should overtake him, he beat upon the rock and cried for his old friend's help. For some time he got no answer, then suddenly, just as he fancied he heard the rush of the elves behind him in hot pursuit, he caught the sound of his own name whispered softly through the rocky door. "Connemara," a voice said, "I will strike the door three times, but stand back or it may crush you." He crept back into a corner and listened for the taps. One, two, three, and the tremendously heavy door of stone rolled back without a sound, and in a moment Con was back in the stupid old world again! There stood Nance; she put her arms round him and kissed him without speaking. Then "run home, Connemara," she said, "run home fast, and do not linger. There is light enough to see the way, and there will soon be more." "But come with me, dear Nance. I want to tell you all about it. Come home with me and I will tell mother you saved me." But Nance shook her head. "I cannot," she said, sorrowfully; "run home, I entreat you." He obeyed her, but turned to look back when he had run a little way. Nance was no longer there. It was early morning, but it was winter time. The ground was covered with snow beginning to sparkle in the red light of the rising sun. The dear old sun! How glad Con was to see his round face again. The world looked just the same as when he had left it, but suddenly a dreadful fear seized Con. How would he find all at home? How long had he been away? Could it be a hundred years, or fifty, or even only seven, what a terrible change he would find. He thought of "little Bridget" in the ballad, and shivered. He was almost afraid to open the garden door and run in. But everything looked the same; and, yes--there to his delight was old Evan the gardener already at work, apparently no older than when last he had seen him--it must be all right, Evan was _so_ old, that to see him there at all told that no great time could have passed. "You've come home early this morning, Master Con," he said. "Master and Missis came back last night in all that storm, but they weren't frightened about you, as they had the message that you had stayed at school." "What do you mean, Evan--what message? Who said I had stayed at school?" "_Last night_--could it have been only _last night_," he whispered to himself. "A little boy brought the message, the queerest little chap you ever saw--not as big as you by half hardly, but speaking quite like a man. I met him myself on my way home, and turned back again to tell. What a rough night it was to be sure!" Feeling as if he were dreaming, Con turned to the house. There on the doorstep stood his mother, looking not a little astonished at seeing him. "Why, Con, dear," she exclaimed, "you _have_ come over early this morning. Did you get home-sick in one night?" But Con had flung his arms round her neck, and was kissing her _dreadfully_. "O mother, mother! I _am_ so glad to see you again," he cried. "You queer boy. Why, I declare he has tears in his eyes!" his mother exclaimed. "Why, Con, dear, you seem as if you had been away a year instead of a night." "I will tell you all about it, mother. But, oh! please, why did you tie up my sleeves with green ribbon before I was christened?" His mother stared. "Now who could have told you that, child?" she said. "It was silly of me, but I only did it to tease old nurse, who was full of fancies. Besides the days of fairy stealings are over, Con, though I have often thought nurse would have been alarmed if she had known how full of fairy fancies you were, my boy." "Mother, mother! listen, it is _quite_ true," said Con, and he hastened to pour out the story of his wonderful adventure. His mother _did_ look astonished, but naturally enough she _could_ not believe it. She would have it he had fallen asleep at old Nance's cottage and dreamt it all. "But who was the boy that brought the message then?" said Con. "I _know_ he was a fairy." And his mother could not tell what to say. "I know what to do," he went on; "will you come with me to Nance's cottage and ask _her_?" and to this his mother agreed. And that very morning to the old woman's cottage they went. It was in perfect order as usual, not a speck of dust to be seen; the little bed made, and not a stool out of its place. But there was no fire burning in the little hearth--and no Nance to be seen. Con ran all about, calling her, but she had utterly disappeared. He threw himself on the ground, sobbing bitterly. "She has gone back to them instead of me--to prevent them coming after me," he cried, "and oh! she will be so unhappy." And nothing that his mother could say would console him. But a night or two afterwards the boy had a dream, or a vision, which comforted him. He thought he saw Nance; Nance with her kind, strange smile, and she told him not to be troubled. "I have only gone back for a time," she said, "and they cannot hold me, Connemara. I shall have conquered after all. You will never see me again here. I am soon going to a country very far away. I shall never come back to my little cottage, but still we may meet again and you must not grieve for me." So Con's mind was at peace about his old friend. Of course she never came back, and before long her cottage was pulled down. No one could say to whom it belonged, but no one objected to its destruction. She had been a witch they said, and it was best to do away with her dwelling. What Con's mother really came in the end to think about his story, I cannot say; nor do I know if she ever told his father. I fancy Con seldom, if ever, spoke about it again. But as all who knew him when he grew up to be a man could testify, his taste of the land of "all play and no work," never did him any harm. CHAPTER FIVE. MARY ANN JOLLY. "But I lost my poor little doll, dears, As I played in the heath one day; And I cried for her more than a week, dears--" They say that the world--and of course that means the people in it--has changed very much in the last half century or so. I daresay in some ways this is true, but it is not in all. There are some ways in which I hope and think people will never change much. Hearts will never change, I hope--good, kind hearts who love and trust each other I mean; and little children, they surely will always be found the same,--simple and faithful, happy and honest; why, the very word _childlike_ would cease to have any meaning were the natures it describes to alter. Looking back over more than fifty years to a child life then, far away from here, flowing peacefully on, I recognise the same nature, the same innocent, unsuspicious enjoyment, the same quaint, so-called "old-fashioned" ways that now-a-days I find in the children growing up about me. The little ones of to-day enjoy a _shorter_ childhood, there is more haste to hurry them forward in the race--we would almost seem to begrudge them their playtime--but that I think is the only real difference. My darlings are children after all; they love the sunshine and the flowers, mud-pies and mischief, dolls and story-books, as fervently as ever. And long may they do so! My child of fifty years ago was in all essentials a real child. Yet again, in some particulars, she was exceptional, and exceptionally placed. She had never travelled fifty miles from her home, and that home was far away in the country, in Scotland. And a Scottish country home in those days was far removed from the bustle and turmoil and excitement of the great haunts of men. Am I getting beyond you, children, dear? Am I using words and thinking thoughts you can scarcely follow? Well, I won't forget again. I will tell you my simple story in simple words. This long-ago little girl was named Janet. She was the youngest of several brothers and sisters, some of whom, when she was born even, were already out in the world. They were, on the whole, a happy, united family; they had their troubles, and disagreements perhaps too, sometimes, but in one thing they all joined, and that was in loving and petting little Janet. How well she remembers even now, all across the long half century, how the big brothers would dispute as to which of them should carry her in her flowered chintz dressing-gown, perched like a tiny queen on their shoulders, to father's and mother's room to say good-morning; how on Hallowe'en the rosiest apples and finest nuts were for "wee Janet;" how the big sisters would work for hours at her dolls' clothes; how, dearest memory of all, the kind, often careworn, studious father would read aloud to her, hour after hour, as she lay on the hearth-rug, coiled up at his feet. For little Janet could not read much to herself. She was not blind, but her sight was imperfect, and unless the greatest care had been taken she might, by the time she grew up, have lost it altogether. To look at her you would not have known there was anything wrong with her blue eyes; the injury was the result of an accident in her infancy, by which one of the delicate sight nerves had been hurt, though not so as to prevent the hope of cure. But for several years she was hardly allowed to use her eyes at all. She used to wear a shade whenever she was in a bright light, and she was forbidden to read, or to sew, or to do anything which called for much seeing. How she learnt to read I do not know--I do not think she could have told you herself--but still it is certain that she did learn; perhaps her kind father taught her this, and many more things than either he or she suspected in the long hours she used to lie by his study fire, sometimes talking to him in the intervals of his writing, sometimes listening with intense eagerness to the legends and ballads his heart delighted in, sometimes only making stories to herself as she sat on the hearth-rug playing with her dolls. There are many quaint little stories of this long-ago maiden that you would like to hear, I think. One comes back to my mind as I write. It is about a mysterious holly bush in the garden of Janet's home, which one year took it into its head to grow all on one side, in the queerest way you ever saw. This holly bush stood in a rather conspicuous position, just outside the breakfast-room window, and Janet's father was struck by the peculiar crookedness which afflicted it, and one morning he went out to examine it more closely. He soon found the reason--the main branch had been stunted by half an orange skin, which had been fitted upon it most neatly and closely, like a cap, just where it was sprouting most vigorously. Janet's father was greatly surprised. "Dear me, dear me," he exclaimed as he came in; "what a curious thing. How could this ever have got on to the holly bush? An old orange skin, you see," he went on, holding it up to the assembled family party. Little Janet was there, in her usual place by her father's chair. "Was it on the robin's bush, father?" she asked. "The robin's bush, Janet? What do you mean?" "The bush the wee robin perches on when he comes to sing in the morning," she answered readily. "A long, long time ago, I tied an orange skin on, to make a soft place for the dear robin's feet. The bush was _so_ prickly, I could not bear to see him stand upon it." And to this day the crooked holly bush tells of the little child's tenderness. Then there is another old story of Janet, how, once being sorely troubled with toothache, and anxious to bear it uncomplainingly "like a woman," she was found, after being searched for everywhere fast asleep in the "byre," her little cheek pillowed on the soft skin of a few days' old calf. "Its breath was so sweet, and it felt so soft and warm, it seemed to take the ache away," she said. And another old memory of little Janet on a visit at an uncle's, put to sleep in a room alone, and feeling frightened by a sudden gale of wind that rose in the night, howling among the trees and sweeping down the hills. Poor little Janet! It seemed to her she was far, far away from everybody, and the wind, as it were, took mortal form and voice, and threatened her, till she could bear it no longer. Up she got, all in the dark, and wandered away down the stairs and passages of the rambling old house, till at last a faint glimmer of light led her to a modest little room in the neighbourhood of the kitchen, where old Jamie, the faithful serving-man, who had seen pass away more than one generation of the family he was devoted to, was sitting up reading his Bible before going to bed. How well Janet remembers it even now! The old man's start of surprise at the unexpected apparition of wee missy, how he took her on his knee and turned over the pages of "the Book," to read to her words of gentle comfort, even for a little child's alarm; how Jesus hushed the winds and waves, and bade them be still; how not a hair of the head of even tiny Janet could be injured without the Father's knowledge; how she had indeed no reason to fear; till, soothed and reassured, the child let the good old man lead her back to bed again, where she slept soundly till morning. But all this time I am very long of introducing to you, children, the real heroine of this story--not Janet, but who then? Janet's dearest and most tenderly prized doll--"Mary Ann Jolly." She was one of several, but the best beloved of all, though why it would have been difficult to say. She was certainly not pretty; indeed, to tell the truth, I fear I must own that she was decidedly ugly And an ugly doll in those days _was_ an ugly doll, my dears. For whether little girls have altered much or not since the days of Janet's childhood, there can be no two opinions about dolls; _they_ have altered tremendously, and undoubtedly for the better. There were what people _thought_ very pretty dolls then, and Janet possessed two or three of these. There was "Lady Lucy Manners," an elegant blonde, with flaxen ringlets and pink kid hands and arms; there was "Master Ronald," a gallant sailor laddie, with crisp black curls and goggle bead eyes; there were two or three others--Arabellas or Clarissas, I cannot tell you their exact names; on the whole, for that time, Janet had a goodly array of dolls. But still, dearest of all was Mary Ann Jolly. I think her faithfulness, her thorough reliableness, must have been her charm; she never melted, wept tears of wax--that is to say, to the detriment of her complexion, when placed too near the nursery fire. She never broke an artery and collapsed through loss of sawdust. These weaknesses were not at all in her way, for she was of wood, wooden. Her features were oil-painted on her face, like the figure-head of a ship, and would stand washing. Her hair was a good honest black-silk wig, with sewn-on curls, and the whole affair could be removed at pleasure; but oh, my dear children, she _was_ ugly. Where she had come from originally I cannot say. I feel almost sure it was from no authorised doll manufactory. I rather think she was home-made to some extent, and I consider it highly probable that her beautiful features were the production of the village painter. But none of these trifling details are of consequence; wherever she had come from, whatever her origin, she was herself--good, faithful Mary Ann Jolly. One summer time there came trouble to the neighbourhood where little Janet's home was. A fever of some kind broke out in several villages, and its victims were principally children. For the elder ones of the family--such of them, that is to say, as were at home--but little fear was felt by their parents; but for Janet and the brother next to her, Hughie, only three years older than she, they were anxious and uneasy. Hughie was taken from the school, a few miles distant, to which every day he used to ride on his little rough pony, and for the time Janet and he were allowed to run wild. They spent the long sunny days, for it was the height of summer, in the woods or on the hills, as happy as two young fawns, thinking, in their innocence, "the fever," to them but the name of an unknown and unrealisable possibility, rather a lucky thing than otherwise. And Hughie was a trusty guardian for his delicate little sister. He was a brave and manly little fellow; awkward and shy to strangers, but honest as the day, and with plenty of mother-wit about him. Janet looked up to him with affection and admiration not altogether unmixed with awe. Hughie was great at "knowing best," in their childish perplexities, and, for all his tenderness, somewhat impatient of "want of sense," or thoughtlessness. One day the two children, accompanied as usual by Hughie's dog "Caesar," and the no less faithful Mary Ann Jolly, had wandered farther than their wont from home. Janet had set her heart on some beautiful water forget-me-nots, which, in a rash moment, Hughie had told her that he had seen growing on the banks of a little stream that flowed through a sort of gorge between the hills. It was quite three miles from home--a long walk for Janet, but Hughie knew his way perfectly--he was not the kind of boy ever to lose it; the day was lovely, and the burn ran nowhere near the direction they had been forbidden to take--that of the infected village. But Hughie, wise though he was, did not know or remember that close to the spot for which he was aiming ran a road leading directly from this village to the ten miles distant little town of Linnside, and even had he thought of it, the possibility of any danger to themselves attending the fact would probably never have struck him. There was another way to Linnside from their home, so Hughie's ignorance or forgetfulness was natural. The way down to the edge of the burn was steep and difficult, for the shrubs and bushes grew thickly together, and there was no proper path. "Stay you here, Janet," he said, finding for the child a seat on a nice flat stone at the entrance to the gorge; "I'll be back before you know I am gone, and I'll get the flowers much better without you, little woman; and Mary Ann will be company like." Janet obeyed without any reluctance. She had implicit faith in Hughie. But after a while Mary Ann confided to her that she was "wearying" of sitting still, and Janet thought it could do no harm to take a turn up and down the sloping field where Hughie had left her. She wandered to a gate a few yards off, and, finding it open, wandered a little farther, till, without knowing it, she was within a stone's throw of the road I mentioned. And here an unexpected sight met Janet's eyes, and made her lose all thought of Hughie and the forget-me-nots, and how frightened he would be at missing her. Drawn up in a corner by some trees stood one of those travelling houses on wheels, in which I suppose every child that ever was born has at one time or other thought that it would be delightful to live. Janet had never seen one before, and she gazed at it in astonishment, till another still more interesting object caught her attention. It was a child--a little girl just about her own age, a dark-eyed, dark-haired, brown-skinned, but very, very thin little girl, lying on a heap of old shawls and blankets on the grass by the side of the movable house. She seemed to be quite alone--there was no one in the waggon apparently, no sound to be heard; she lay quite still, one thin little hand under her head, the other clasping tightly some two or three poor flowers--a daisy or two, a dandelion, and some buttercups--which she had managed to reach without moving from her couch. Janet, from under her little green shade, stared at her, and she returned the stare with interest, for all around was so still that the slight rustle made by the little intruder caught her sharp ear at once. But after a moment her eyes wandered down from Janet's fair childish face, on which she seemed to think she had bestowed enough attention, and settled themselves on the lovely object nestling in the little girl's maternal embrace. A smile of pleasure broke over her face. "What's yon?" she said, suddenly. "What's _what_?" said Janet. "_Yon_," repeated the child, pointing with her disengaged hand to the faithful Mary Ann. "_That_," exclaimed Janet. "That's my doll. That's Mary Ann Jolly. Did you never see a doll?" "No," replied the brown-skinned waif, "never. She's awfu' bonny." Janet's maternal vanity was gratified. "She's guid and she's bonny," she said, unconsciously imitating, with ludicrous exactness, her own old nurse's pet expression when she was pleased with her. She hugged Mary Ann closer to her as she spoke. "You'd like to have a dolly too, wouldn't you, little girl?" The child smiled. "I couldna _gie_ her tae ye," said Janet, relapsing into Scotch, with a feeling that "high English" would probably be lost upon her new friend. "But ye micht tak' her for a minute in yer ain airms, if ye like?" "Ay wad I," said the child, and Janet stepped closer to her and deposited Mary Ann in her arms. "Canna ye stan' or walk aboot? Hae ye nae legs?" she inquired. "Legs," repeated the child, "what for shud' I no hae legs? I canna rin aboot i' the noo; I've nae been weel, but I'll sune be better. Eh my! but she's awfu' fine," she went on, caressing Mary Ann as she spoke. But at this moment the bark of a dog interrupted the friendly conversation. Caesar appeared, and Janet started forward to reclaim her property, her heart for the first time misgiving her as to "what Hughie would say." Just as she was taking Mary Ann out of the little vagrant's arms, Hughie came up. He was hot, breathless, anxious, and, as a natural consequence of the last especially, angry. "Naughty Janet, bad girl," he exclaimed, in his excitement growing more "Scotch" than usual. "What for didna ye bide whaur I left ye? I couldna think what had become o' ye; bad girl. And wha's that ye're clavering wi'? Shame on ye, Janet." He darted forward, snatched his little sister roughly by the arm, dropping the precious forget-me-nots in his flurry, and dragged Janet away, making her run so fast that she burst out sobbing with fear and consternation. She could not understand it; it was not like Hughie to be so fierce and rough. "You are very, very unkind," she began, as soon as her brother allowed her to stop to take breath. "Why should I nae speak to the puir wee girl? She looked sae ill lying there her lane, and she was sae extraordinar' pleased wi' Mary Ann." "You let her touch Mary Ann, did ye?" said Hughie, stopping short. "I couldna have believed, Janet, you'd be such a fule. A big girl, ten years old, to ken nae better! It's `fare-ye-weel' to Mary Ann any way, and you have yourself to thank for it." They were standing near the spot where Hughie had left his sister while he clambered down to the burn, and before Janet had the least idea of his intention, Hughie seized the unfortunate doll, and pitched her, with all his strength, far, far away down among the brushwood of the glen. For an instant Janet stood in perfect silence. She was too thunderstruck, too utterly appalled and stunned, to take in the reality of what had happened. She had never seen Hughie in a passion in her life; never in all their childish quarrels had he been harsh or "bullying," as I fear too many boys of his age are to their little sisters. She gazed at him in terrified consternation, slowly, very slowly taking in the fact--to her almost as dreadful as if he had committed a murder--that Hughie had thrown away Mary Ann--her own dear, dear Mary Ann; and Hughie, her own brother had done it! Had he lost his senses? "Hughie," she gasped out at last; that was all. Hughie looked uneasy, but tried to hide it. "Come on, Janet," he said, "it's getting late. We must put our best foot foremost, or nurse will be angry." But Janet took no notice of what he said. "Hughie," she repeated, "are ye no gaun to get me Mary Ann back again?" Hughie laughed, half contemptuously. "Get her back again," he said. "She's ower weel hidden for me or anybody to get her back again. And why should I want her back when I've just the noo thrown her awa'? Na, na, Janet, you'll have to put up wi' the loss of Mary Ann; and I only hope you won't have to put up wi' waur. It's your own fault; though maybe I shouldna' have left her," he added to himself. "Hughie, you've broke my heart," said Janet. "What _did_ you do it for?" "If you'd an ounce of sense you'd know," said Hughie; "and if you don't, _I'm_ no gaun to tell." And in dreary silence the two children made their way home--Hughie, provoked, angry, and uneasy, yet self-reproachful and sore-hearted; Janet in an anguish of bereavement and indignation, yet through it all not without little gleams of faith in Hughie still, that mysteriously cruel though his conduct appeared, there must yet somehow have been a good reason for it. It was not for long, however, that she understood it. She did not know that immediately they got home honest Hughie went to his father and told him all that had happened, taking blame to himself manfully for having for an instant left Janet alone. "And you say she does not understand at all why you threw the doll away," said Janet's father. "Did she not notice that the little girl had been ill?" "O yes, but she took no heed of it," Hughie replied. "She thinks it was just awfu' unkind of me to get in such a temper. I would like her to know why it was, but I thought maybe I had better not explain till I had told you." "You were quite right, Hughie," said his father; "and I think it is better to leave it. Wee Janet is so impressionable and fanciful, it would not do for her to begin thinking she had caught the fever from the child. We must leave it in God's hands, and trust no ill will come of it. And the first day I can go to Linnside you shall come with me, and we'll buy her a new doll." "Thank you, father," said Hughie gratefully. But he stopped as he was leaving the room, with his hand on the door handle, to say, half-laughing, half-pathetically, "I'm hardly thinking, father, that any new doll will make up to wee Janet for Mary Ann." Janet heard nothing of this conversation, however, and the silence which was, perhaps mistakenly, preserved about the loss of her favourite added to the mysterious sadness of her fate. The poor little girl moped and pined, but said nothing. To Hughie her manner was gently reproachful, but nothing more. But all her brightness and playfulness had deserted her; she hung about listless and uninterested, and for some days there was not an hour during which one or other of her doting relations-- father, mother, sisters, and brothers--did not make up his or her mind that their darling was smitten by the terrible blast of the fever. A week, ten days, nearly a fortnight passed, and they began to breathe more freely. Then one day the father, remembering his promise, took Hughie with him to the town to buy a new doll for Janet, instead of her old favourite. I cannot describe to you the one they bought, but I know it was the prettiest that money could get at Linnside, and Hughie came home in great spirits with the treasure in his arms. "Janet, Janet," he shouted, as soon as he had jumped off his pony, "where are you, Janet? Come and see what I've got for you!" Janet came slowly out of the study, where she had been lying coiled up on the floor, near the low window, watching for her father's return. "I'm here, Hughie," she said, trying to look interested and bright, though the effort was not very successful. But Hughie was too excited and eager to notice her manner. "Look here, Janet," he exclaimed, unwrapping the paper which covered Miss Dolly. "Now, isn't _she_ a beauty? Far before that daft-like old Mary Ann; eh, Janet?" Janet took the new doll in her hands. "She's bonny," she said, hesitatingly. "It's very kind of you, Hughie; but I wish, I wish you hadn't. I don't care for her. I dinna mean to vex ye, Hughie," she continued, sadly, "but I canna help it. I want, oh I do want my ain Mary Ann!" She put the new doll down on the hall table, burst into tears, and ran away to the nursery. "She's just demented about that Mary Ann," said Hughie to his father, who had followed him into the hall. "I'm sorry for your disappointment, my boy," said his father, "but you must not take it to heart. I don't think wee Janet can be well." He was right. What they had so dreaded came at last, just as they had begun to hope that the danger was over. The next morning saw little Janet down with the fever. Ah, then, what sad days of anxiety and watching followed! How softly everybody crept about--a vain precaution, for poor Janet was unconscious of everything about her. How careworn and tear-stained were all the faces of the household--parents, brothers and sisters, and servants! What sad little bulletins, costing sixpence if not a shilling each in those days, children, were sent off by post every day to the absent ones, with the tidings still of "No better," gradually growing into the still worse, "Very little hope." It must have been a touching sight to see a whole household so cast down about the fate of one tiny, delicate child. And poor Hughie was the worst of all. They had tried to keep him separate from his sister, but it was no use. He had managed to creep into the room and kiss her unobserved, and then he had it all his own way--all the harm was done. But he could hardly hear to hear her innocent ravings, they were so often about the lost Mary Ann, and Hughie's strange cruelty in throwing her away. "I canna think what came over Hughie to do it," she would say, over and over again. "I want no new dollies I only want Mary Ann." Then there came a day on which the doctor said the disease was at its height--a few hours would show on which side the victory was to be; and the anxious faces grew more anxious still, and the silent prayers more frequent. But for many hours of this day Hughie was absent, and the others, in their intense thought about Janet, scarcely missed him. He came home late in the summer evening, with something in his arms, hidden under his jacket. And somehow his face looked more hopeful and happy than for days past. "How is she?" he asked breathlessly of the first person he met. It was one of the elder sisters. "Better," she replied, with the tears in her eyes. "O Hughie, how can we thank God enough? She has wakened quite herself, and the doctor says now there is only weakness to fight against. She has been asking for you, Hughie. You may go up and say good-night. Where have you been all the afternoon?" But Hughie was already half way up the stairs. He crept into Janet's room, where the mother was on guard. She made a sign to him to come to the bed where little Janet lay, pale, and thin and fragile, but peaceful and conscious. "Good-night, wee Janet," Hughie whispered; "I'm sae glad wee Janet's better." "Good-night, Hughie," she answered softly. "Kiss me, Hughie." "I've some one else here to kiss you, wee Janet," he said. Janet looked up inquiringly. "You must not excite her, Hughie," the mother whispered. But Hughie knew what he was about. He drew from under his jacket a queer, familiar figure. It was Mary Ann Jolly! There had been no rain, fortunately for her, during her exposure to the weather, and she was sturdy enough to have stood a few showers, even had there been any. She really looked in no way the worse for her adventure, as Hughie laid her gently down on the pillow beside Janet. "It's no one to excite her, mother," he said. "It's no stranger; only Mary Ann. She's been away paying a visit to the fairies in the glen, and I think she must have enjoyed it. She's looking as bonny as ever, and she was in no hurry to come home. I had to shout for her all over the glen before I could make her hear. Are you glad she's come, Janet?" Janet's eyes were glistening. "O Hughie," she whispered, "kiss me again. I can sleep _so_ well now." The crisis no doubt had been passed before this, but still it is certain that Janet's recovery was faster far than had been expected. And for this she and Hughie, and some of the elder ones, too, I fancy, gave the credit to the return of her favourite. Hughie was well rewarded for his several hours of patient searching in the glen; and I am happy to tell you that he did not catch the fever. He would have been an elderly, almost an old man by now had he lived-- good, kind Hughie. But that was not God's will for him. He died long ago, in the prime of his youthful manhood; and it is to his little grand-nephews and nieces that wee Janet's daughter has been telling this simple story of a long-ago little girl, and a long-ago doll, poor old Mary Ann Jolly! CHAPTER SIX. TOO BAD. "It is the mynd that maketh good or ill, That maketh wretch or happie, rich or poore." _Spenser_. "It's too bad!" said Miss Judy; "I declare it's really _too bad_!" and she came stumping along the road; after her nurse, looking decidedly "put out." "It would be something new if it wasn't too bad with you, Miss Judy, about something or other," said, nurse coolly. Miss Judy was a kind-hearted, gentle-mannered little girl. She was pretty and healthy and clever--the sort of child any parents might have been proud of, any brothers and sisters fond of, had not all her niceness been spoiled by one most disagreeable fault. She was _always_ grumbling. The hot days of summer, the cold days of winter, the rain, the wind, the dust, might, to hear her speak, have been expressly contrived to annoy her. When it was fine, and the children were to go out a walk, Miss Judy was sure to have something she particularly wanted to stay in for; when it rained, and the house was evidently the best place for little people, Miss Judy was quite certain to have set her heart upon going out. She grumbled at having to get up, she grumbled at having to go to bed, she grumbled at lessons, she grumbled at play; she _could_ not see that little contradictions and annoyances come to everybody in the world, and that the only way to do is to meet them bravely and sensibly. She really seemed to believe that nobody had so much to bear as she; that on her poor little shoulders all the tiresomenesses and disappointments, and "going the wrong way" of things, were heaped in double, and more than double quantities, and she persuaded herself that everybody she saw was better off in every way than herself, and that no one else had such troubles to bear. So, children, you will not be surprised to hear that poor Miss Judy was not loved or respected as much as some little girls who perhaps _really_ deserved love and respect less. For this ugly disagreeable fault of hers hid all her good qualities; and just as flowers cannot flourish when shaded from the nice bright sun by some rank, wide-spreading weed, so Judy's pretty blossoms of kindness and unselfishness and truthfulness, which were all really _there_, were choked and withered by this poisonous habit of grumbling. I do not really remember what it was she was grumbling at this particular morning. I daresay it was that the roads were muddy, for it was autumn, and Judy's home was in the country. Or, possibly, it was only that nurse had told her to walk a little quicker, and that immediately her boots began to hurt her, or the place on her heel where once there _had been_ a chilblain got sore, or the elastic of her hat was too loose, and her hat came flopping down on to her face. It might have been any of these things. Whatever it was, it was "too bad." _That_, whenever Miss Judy was concerned, you might be quite, quite sure of. They were returning home from rather a long walk. It was autumn, as I said, and there had been a week or two of almost constant rain, and certainly country lanes are _not_ very pleasant at such times. If Judy had not grumbled so at everything, she might have been forgiven for this special grumble (if it was about the roads), I do think. It was getting chilly and raw, and the clouds looked as if the rain was more than half thinking of turning back on its journey to "Spain," or wherever it was it had set off to. Nurse hurried on; she was afraid of the little ones in the perambulator catching cold, and she could not spare time to talk to Miss Judy any longer. Judy came after her slowly; they were just passing some cottages, and at the door of one of them stood a girl of about Judy's age, with her mouth open, staring at "the little gentry." She had heard what had passed between Judy and her nurse, and was thinking it over in her own way. Suddenly Judy caught sight of her. "What are you staring at so?" she said sharply. "It's too bad of you. You are a rude little girl. I'll tell nurse how rude you are." Judy did not generally speak so crossly, especially not to poor children, for she had really nice feelings about such things, but she was very much put out, and ashamed too, that her ill-natured words to nurse should have been overheard, so she expressed her vexation to the first object that came in her way. The little girl did not leave off staring at her; in fact she did so harder than before. But she answered Judy gently, growing rather red as she did so; and Judy felt her irritation cool. "I didn't mean no offence," she said. "I were just looking at you, and thinking to be sure how nice you had everything, and a wondering how it could be as you weren't pleased." "Who said I wasn't pleased?" said Judy. "You said as something was a deal too bad," replied the child. "Well, so it was,--it must have been, I mean,--or else I wouldn't have said so," answered Judy, who, to tell the truth, had by this time quite forgotten what particular trouble had been the cause of her last grumble. "How do you mean that I have everything so nice?" "Your things, miss--your jacket and your frock, and all them things. And you live in such a fine house, and has servants to do for you and all. O my! wouldn't I change with you. Nothing would never be too bad for _me_ if _I_ was you, miss." "I daresay you think so," said Judy importantly, "but that just shows that you don't know better. _I_ can tell you I have a great, great many troubles and things to bear that you have no idea of. Indeed, I daresay you are _far_ happier than I. You are not bothered about keeping your frocks clean, and not getting your feet wet, and all those horrible things. And about lessons--I daresay you have no trouble at all about lessons. You don't go to school, do you?" "Not now, miss. It's more than six months since I've been. Mother's wanted me so badly to mind baby. Father did say as perhaps I should go again for a bit come Christmas," answered the little girl, who was growing quite at ease with Judy. "And do you like going?" said Judy. "Pretty well, but it's a long walk--winter time 'specially," said the child; "not but what most things is hard then to them as lives in places like ours. 'Tisn't like for you, miss, with lots of fires, and no need for to go out if it's cold or wet." "Indeed _I_ have to go out very often--indeed, always almost when I don't want," retorted Judy. "Not that I should mind the walk, to school. I should like it; it would be far nicer than horrid lessons at home, cooped up in the same room all the time, with no change. You don't understand a bit; I am quite _sure_ you haven't as many troubles as I." The little girl smiled, but hardly seemed convinced. "Seems to me, miss, as if you couldn't hardly know, unless you tried, what things is like in places like ours," she said. But before Judy could reply, a voice from inside the cottage called out, "Betsy my girl, what are you about so long? Father'll be in directly, and there's the tea to see to." The voice was far from unkind, but its effect on Betsy was instantaneous. "I must go, miss," she said; "mother's calling;" and off she ran. "How nice and funny it must be to set the tea for her father," thought Judy, as she walked on. "I should like that sort of work. What a silly girl she is not to see how much fewer troubles she has than I. I only wish--" "_What_ did you say you wished?" interrupted a voice that seemed to come out of the hedge, so suddenly did its owner appear before Judy. "I didn't say I wished anything--at least I didn't know I was speaking aloud," said the little girl, as soon as she found voice to reply. The person who had spoken to her was a little old woman, with a scarlet cloak that nearly covered her. She had a basket on her arm, and looked as if she was returning from market. There was nothing very remarkable about her, and yet Judy felt startled and a little frightened, she did not quite know why. "I didn't know I was speaking aloud," she repeated, staring half timidly at the old woman. "Didn't you?" she replied. "Well, now I think of it, I don't remember saying that you did. There's more kinds of speaking than with tongue and words. What should you say if I were to tell you what it was you were wishing just now?" "I don't know," said Judy, growing more alarmed "I think, please, I had better run on. Nurse will be wondering where I am." "You didn't think of that when you were standing chattering to little Betsy just now," said the old woman. "Did you hear us?" asked Judy, her astonishment almost overcoming her alarm. "Where were you standing? I didn't see you." "I daresay not. There's many things besides what _you_ see, my dear. For instance, you don't see why Betsy should think it would be a fine thing to be you, and perhaps _Betsy_ doesn't see why you should think it would be a fine thing to be in her place instead of in your own." Judy's eyes opened wider and wider. "Did you hear all that?" she exclaimed. The old woman smiled. "So you really would like to be Betsy for a change?" she said. "Not exactly for a _change_," answered Judy. "It isn't that I am _tired_ of being myself, but I am sure no other little girl in the world has so many troubles; that is why I would rather be Betsy. You have no idea what troubles I have," she went on, "and I can never do _anything_ I like. It's always `Miss Judy, you must,' or `Miss Judy, you mustn't,' all day long. And if ever I am merry for a little, then nurse tells me I shall wake baby. O! he _is_ such a cross baby!" "And do you think _Betsy's_ baby brothers and sisters are never cross?" inquired the old woman. "O no, I daresay they are; but then she's allowed to scold them and punish them, and _I_ may never say anything, however tiresome the little ones are. If I might put baby in the corner when he is naughty, I would soon cure him. But I may never do _anything_ I want; it's _too_ bad." "Poor thing, poor thing! it _is_ too bad, a great deal too bad. I do feel for you," said the old woman. But when Judy looked up at her there was a queer twinkle in her eyes, which made her by no means sure whether she was laughing at her or not. The little girl felt more than half inclined to be affronted, but before she had time to decide the point, the old woman interrupted her. "Look here, my dear," she said, lifting up the lid of the basket on her arm; "to show you that I am in earnest, see what I will do for you. Here is a nice rosy-cheeked apple; put it into your pocket, and don't let any one see it, and when you are in bed at night, if you are still of the same mind about being Betsy instead of yourself, just take a bite of the apple, then turn round and go to sleep, and in the morning you shall see what you shall see." Half hesitatingly, Judy put out her hand for the apple. "Thank you very much," she said, "but--" "But what?" said the old woman rather sharply. "Must I _always_ be Betsy, if I try being her?" "Bless the child, what will she have?" exclaimed the old woman. "No, you needn't go on being Betsy if you don't want. Keep the apple, take care you don't lose it, and when you've had enough of a change, take another bite. But after that, remember the apple can do no more for you." "I daresay I shall not want it to do anything for me once I have left off being myself," said Judy. "Oh, how nice it will be not to have nurse ordering me about all day long, and not to be bothered about keeping my frock clean, and to have no lessons!" "I'm glad you're pleased," said the old woman. "Now, good-bye; you won't see me again till you want me." "Good-bye, and thank"--"Thank you very much," she was going to have said, holding out her hand as she spoke--for remember she was not a rude or ill-mannered little girl by any means--but, lo and behold, there was nobody there! the old woman had disappeared! Judy rubbed her eyes, and stared about her in every direction, but there was nothing to be seen-- nothing, that is to say, in the least like an old woman, only some birds hopping about quite unconcernedly, and a tiny field-mouse, who peeped up at Judy for an instant with its bright little eyes, and then scurried off to its hole. It was growing late and dusk, the mists were creeping up from the not far distant sea, and the hills were thinking of putting on their night-caps, and retiring from view. Judy felt a little strange and "eerie," as she stood there alone in the lane. She could almost have fancied she had been dreaming, but there was the rosy-cheeked apple in her hand, proof positive to the contrary. So Judy decided that the best thing she could do was to run home as fast as she could, and consider at her leisure if she should make use of the little old woman's gift. It was nearly dark when she reached the garden gate--at least the trees on each side of the carriage-drive made it seem so. Judy had never been out so late alone before, and she felt rather frightened as to what nurse would say. The side door was open, so she ran in, and went straight up to the nursery. Just as she got upstairs she met nurse, her shawl and bonnet on, her kind old face looking hot and anxious. At sight of the truant she stopped short. "So there you are, Miss Judy," she exclaimed; "and a nice fright you've given me. It's my turn to speak about `too bad' _now_, I think. It really was too bad of you to stay behind like that, and me never thinking but what you were close behind till this moment; at least, that you had come in close behind, and had stayed down in the drawing-room for a little. You've frightened me out of my wits, you naughty child; and if only your mamma was at home, I would go straight down-stairs, and tell her it's more than I can put up with." "It's more than I can put up with to be scolded so for nothing," said Judy crossly, and with a tone in her voice new to her, and which rather took nurse aback. She had not meant to be harsh to the child, but she had been really frightened, and, as is often the case, on finding there had been no cause for her alarm, a feeling of provocation took its place. "You should not speak so, Miss Judy," she said quietly, for she was wise enough not to wish to irritate the little girl, whom she truly loved, further. But Judy was not to be so easily pacified. "It's too bad," she began as usual; "it's a great deal too bad, that I should never be allowed to do the least thing I want; to be scolded so for nothing at all--just staying out for two or three minutes;" and she "banged about" the nursery, dragging her hat off, and kicking her boots into the corner in an extremely indignant manner. Nurse felt much distressed. To Judy's grumbling she was accustomed, but this was worse than grumbling. "What can have come over the child?" she said to herself, but to Judy she thought it best to say nothing at all. All through tea Judy looked far from amiable; she hardly spoke, though a faint "Too bad" was now and then heard from her direction. Poor nurse had not a very pleasant time of it, for the "cross" infection spread, as, alas! it is too apt to do, and little Lena, Judy's four-years'-old sister, grew peevish and discontented, and pinched Master Baby, in return for which he, as was to be expected, set up a dismal howl. "Naughty, horrid little things!" said Judy. "If I had _my_ way with them, they should both be whipped and put to bed." "Hush, Miss Judy!" said nurse. "If you would be pleasant and help to amuse them, they would not be so cross." "I've something else to do than to amuse such ill-natured little things," said Judy. "Well I should think it _was_ time you learnt your lessons for to-morrow," said nurse. "We've had tea so late, it will soon be time for you to be dressed to go down to the drawing-room to your papa. There are some gentlemen dining with him to-night." "I can't bear going down when mamma's away," said Judy. "It's too bad of her to go away and leave us." "For shame, Miss Judy, to speak so, when you know that it's only because your poor aunt is so ill that your mamma had to go away. Now get your books, there's a good girl, and do your lessons." "I'm not going to do them," said Judy, with sudden resolution. "I needn't unless I like. I don't think I shall ever do any more. It's too bad I should never have a minute of time to myself." Nurse really began to think the little girl must be going to be ill. Never, in all her experience of her, had she known her so cross. It was the same all the evening. Judy grumbled and stormed at everything; she would not stand still to have her hair brushed, or her pretty white muslin frock fastened; and when she came upstairs she was more ill pleased than before, because, just as she was beginning to amuse herself with some pictures, her papa told her he thought it was time for little girls to be in bed. How often, while she was being undressed, she declared that something or other was "too bad," I really could not undertake to say. She grumbled at her nice warm bath, she grumbled at her hair being combed out, she grumbled at having to go to bed when she wasn't "the least bit sleepy," she grumbled at everything and everybody, herself, included, for she came to the resolution that she really would not be herself any longer! No sooner had nurse and the candle left the room than Judy drew out the apple, which, while nurse was not looking, she had managed to hide under her pillow, took a good big bite of it, turned round on her side, and, notwithstanding that her little heart was beating much faster than usual, half with excitement, half with fear, at what she had done, in two minutes she was sound asleep. "Betsy, Betsy girl, it's time you were stirring. Up with you, child; you must look sharp." What voice was that? who could it be, shouting so loudly, and waking her up in the middle of the night? Judy for a moment felt very indignant, but she was extremely sleepy, and determined to think she was dreaming; so she turned round, and was just dozing off, when again she heard the cry: "Betsy, Betsy, wake up with thee. Whatever's come to the child this morning?" The voice seemed to come nearer and nearer, and at last a thump on the wall, close to Judy's head, it seemed to her, fairly startled her awake. "Up with thee, child," sounded close to her ear. "Baby's been that cross all night I've had scarce a wink o' sleep. Thee mustn't lie snoring there." Suddenly all returned to Judy's memory. She was not herself; she was Betsy. "I'm coming," she called out, hardly knowing what she was saying; and then the person on the other side of the wall seemed to be satisfied, for Judy now heard her walking about, clattering fire-irons and pots and pans, evidently employed in tidying the kitchen. It was still what Judy thought quite dark. She had some idea of calling for a light, but whom to call to she did not know. So, feeling very strange and rather frightened, she got timidly out of bed, and by the little light that came in at the small square window, began to look about her. What a queer little place it was! Not a room really, only a sort of "lean-to" at one side of the kitchen, barely large enough for the narrow, rickety little bedstead, and one old chair that stood beside it, answering several purposes besides its proper one, for on it was placed a cracked basin and jug, and a tiny bit of looking-glass, without a frame, fastened by a piece of string to the only remaining bar. Betsy's clothes lay in the bed, which was but poorly provided with proper blankets--the sheets were clean--everything in the place was as clean as poverty _can_ be, and indeed Betsy was, and considered herself to be, a very fortunate little girl for having a "room" of her own at all; but to Judy, Judy who had had no training like Betsy's, Judy who found every crumple in a rose leaf "too bad," Judy who knew as little of other people's lives and other people's troubles as the man in the moon,--you can fancy, my dears, how the room of which little Betsy was so proud looked to _Judy_! But she had a spirit of her own, ready though she was to grumble. With a little shiver, she began to try to dress herself in the well-mended clothes, so different from her own daintily-trimmed little garments--for _washing_ she felt to be out of the question; it was really _too_ cold, and besides there were no soap, or sponges, or towels to be seen. "I don't care," she said to herself stoutly, as she wriggled first into one garment and then into another. "I don't care. Any way I shall have no lessons to learn, and I shall not be bothered about keeping my frock clean. But I do wish the fairy had left me my own hair," she went on regretfully, examining the thick dark locks that hung round her face, and kept tumbling into her eyes, "my hair is _much_ nicer. I don't believe Betsy ever has hers properly brushed, it _is_ so tuggy. And what brown hands I've got, and such crooked nails. I wonder if Betsy's mother will cut them for me; I wonder if--" She was interrupted by another summons. "Betsy, girl, what _are_ you after this morning? I be getting downright cross with you, child. There's father'll be back for breakfast directly, and you not helped me by a hand's turn this blessed morning." Judy started. She only stopped to fasten the last button of her little dark cotton frock, and calling out, "I'm coming," opened the rough door of the little bed-room, and found herself in the kitchen. There sat Betsy's mother, with the baby on her knee, and the baby but one tumbling about at her feet, while she vainly tried to fasten the frock of another little fellow of three, who sturdily refused to stand still. "You must finish dressing Jock," she said, on catching sight of Judy; "Jock's a naughty boy, won't stand still for mammy to dress him; naughty Jock," she continued, giving him a little shake as she got up, which sent him howling across the room to Judy. "It's too bad of you, Betsy, to be so lazy this morning, and me so tired with no sleep, and the little ones all crying; if I tell father he'll be for giving it thee, lass, to make thee stir about a bit quicker." "He'll give me _what_?" said Judy, perplexed. "I don't understand." "Hold thy tongue; I'll have none of that answering back, child," said Betsy's mother, tired and out of patience, poor woman, though you must not think she was either harsh or unkind, for she was a very kind, good mother. "Jock, let me dress you," said Judy, turning to the little boy, with a vague idea that it would be rather amusing to act nurse to him. Jock came towards her willingly enough, but Judy found the business less easy than she had expected. There was a button missing on his little petticoat, which she did not find out in time to prevent her fastening it all crooked; and when she tried to undo it again, Jock's patience was exhausted, and he went careering round the kitchen, Judy after him, till the mother in despair caught hold of him, and completed the task. "Your fingers seem to be all thumbs this morning," she said testily. "You've not swep' up a bit, nor made th' fire, nor nothing. Go and fetch water now to fill th' kettle, or father'll be in afore it's on the boil." Judy turned to the fireplace, and, with some difficulty, managed to lug the heavy old kettle as far as the front door. Just outside stood the pump, but try as she might she could not get the water to flow. She was ready to cry with vexation, pumping had always seemed such nice easy work; she had often watched the children of these very cottages filling their kettles and jugs, and had envied them the fun; but now when she had it to do she found it very different--_very_ poor fun, if indeed fun at all! At last she got the water to begin to come, a poor miserable little trickle; at this rate the kettle would _never_ be filled, and her tears were preparing to descend, when a rough hearty voice made her jump. It was Betsy's father. "Pump's stiff this morning, is it, my lass?" he called out as he came up the path. "Let's have a hand at it;" and with his vigorous pull the water quickly appeared. He lifted the kettle into the kitchen, greatly to Judy's relief; but Betsy's mother took a different view of the matter. "I don't know what's come to Betsy this morning," she said. "Lazy's no word for her. The porridge is ready, but there'll be no time to make thee a cup of coffee, father. She's been close upon a quarter of an hour filling the kettle, and baby's so cross this morning I can't put her down." "I must make my breakfast of porridge then," said the father; "but Betsy, girl, it's new for thee to be lazy, my lass." Judy felt humbled and mortified, but she said nothing. Somehow she felt as if she could not defend herself, though she knew she had honestly done her best. The words "too bad" rose to her lips, but she did not utter them. She began to wonder how little Betsy managed to get through her daily tasks, easy as she had imagined them to be. The porridge was not much to her taste, but she tried to eat it. Perhaps it was not so much the porridge itself, for it was good of its kind, which took away her appetite, as the want of the many little things to which she was so accustomed that their absence made her for the first time think of them at all. The nice white tablecloth and silver spoons on the nursery table, the neat, pretty room, and freshly dressed little brothers and sisters--all were very different from the rough board, and the pewter spoons, and Betsy's father and big brothers hurriedly devouring the great bowls of porridge, while the three little ones cried or quarrelled incessantly. "After all," thought Judy, "perhaps it is a good thing to have _rather_ a strict nurse, even if she is very fussy about being neat and all that." But yet she felt very sorry for Betsy's mother, when she looked at her thin, careworn face, and noticed how patient she was with the babies, and how cheerfully she answered all "father's" remarks. And there began to dawn in the little girl's mind a faint idea that perhaps there were troubles and difficulties in the world such as she had never dreamt of, that there are a good many "too bads" in other people's lots as well as in Miss Judy's. Breakfast over, her troubles began again. It was washing-day, and just as she was looking forward to a ramble in the fields in glorious independence of nurse's warnings about spoiling her frock, her dreams were put an end to by Betsy's mother's summoning her to take her place at the tub. And oh, my dears, _real_ washing is very different work from the dolls' laundressing--standing round a wash-hand basin placed on a nursery chair, and wasting ever so much beautiful honey-soap in nice clean hot water, and then when the little fat hands are all "crumply" and puffy "like real washerwomen's," rinsing out the miniature garments in still nicer clean cold water, and hanging them round the nursery guard to dry, and most likely ending up by coaxing nurse to clear away all the mess you have made, and to promise to let you iron dolly's clean clothes the next wet afternoon--which you think so delightful. Judy's arms ached sorely, sorely, and her head ached too, and she felt all steamy and hot and weary, when at last her share of it was over, and, "for a change," she was instructed to take the two youngest out for a walk up the lane, while mother boiled the potatoes for dinner. The babies were very tiresome, and though Judy was quite at liberty to manage them in her own way, and to punish them as she had never ventured to punish Lena and Harry at home, she did not find it of much use. She wondered "how ever the real Betsy did;" and I fancy the babies too wondered a good deal in their own way as to what had come over their big sister to-day. Altogether the walk was very far from a pleasure to any of the three, and when at last Judy managed to drag her weary self, and her two hot, cross little charges home again to the cottage, she was by no means in an amiable humour. She would have liked to sit down and rest, and she would have liked to wash her face and hands, and brush her hair--Judy who at home _always_ grumbled at nurse's summons to "come and be tidied"--but there was no time for anything of the kind. Dinner--the potatoes, that is to say--was ready, and the table must be set at once, ready for father and the boys, and Betsy's mother told her to "look sharp and bustle about," in a way that Judy felt to be really a great deal "too bad." She was hungry, however, and ate her share of potatoes, flavoured with a little dripping and salt, with more appetite than she had sometimes felt for roast mutton and rice pudding, though all the same she would have been exceedingly glad of a little gravy, or even of a plateful of _sago_ pudding, which generally was by no means a favourite dish of hers. "Me and the boys won't be home till late," said the father, as he rose to go; "there's a piece o' work master wants done this week, and he'll pay us extray to stay a couple of hours. Betsy must bring us our tea." Judy's spirits rose. She would have a walk by herself any way, unplagued by babies, and the idea of it gave her some patience for the afternoon's task of darning stockings, which she found was expected of her. Just at first the darning was rather amusing, but after a while she began to be sadly tired of it. It was very different from sitting still for a quarter of an hour, with nurse patiently instructing her, and praising her whenever she did well; _these_ stockings were so very harsh and coarse, and the holes were so enormous, and the basketful so huge! "I'll _never_ get them done," she exclaimed at last. "I think it's too bad to make a little girl like me or Betsy do such hard work; and I think her father and brothers must make holes in their horrid stockings on purpose, I do. I'll _not_ do any more." She shoved the basket into a corner, and looked about for amusement. The babies were asleep, and Jock was playing in a corner, and mother, poor body, was still busy in the wash-house--Judy could find nothing to play with. There were no books in the cottage, except an old _Farmers' Almanac_, a Bible and Prayer-book, and one or two numbers of a _People's Miscellany_, which Judy looked into, but found she could not understand. How she wished for some of her books at home! Even those she had read two or three times through, and was always grumbling at in consequence, would have been a great treasure; _even_ a history or geography book would have been better than nothing. Suddenly the clock struck, and Betsy's mother called out from the wash-house,-- "It's three o'clock--time for you to be going with the tea. Set the kettle on, Betsy, and I'll come and make it and cut the bread. It'll take you more nor half-an-hour to walk to Farmer Maxwell's where they're working this week." Judy was staring out of the window. "It's beginning to rain," she said dolefully. "Well, what if it is," replied Betsy's mother, "Father and boys can't want their tea because it's raining. Get thy old cloak, child. My goodness me!" she went on, as she came into the kitchen, "she hasn't got the kettle on yet? Betsy, it's too bad of thee, it is for sure; there's not a thing but what's been wrong to-day." Judy's conscience pricked her about the stockings, so, without attempting to defend herself, she fetched the old cloak she had seen hanging in Betsy's room, and, drawing the hood over her head, stood meekly waiting, while the mother cut the great hunches of bread, made the tea, and poured it into the two tin cans, which the little girl was to carry to the farm. It did not rain much when she first set off, so though it was a good two miles' walk, she was only moderately wet when she got to the farm. One of the boys was on the look-out for her, or rather for their tea, which he at once took possession of and ran off with, advising Judy to make haste home, it was going to rain like blazes. But poor Judy found it no easy matter to follow his counsel; her arms were still aching with the weight of the baby in the morning, and her wrist was chafed with the handle of one of the tin pails, which she could not manage otherwise to carry, the old cloak was poor protection against the driving rain, and, worst of all, Betsy's old boots had several holes in them, and a sharp stone had made its way through the sole of the left one, cutting and hurting her foot. She stumbled along for some way, feeling very miserable, till at last, quite unable to go farther, she sat down under the hedge, and burst into tears. "So you haven't found things quite so pleasant as you expected, eh, Miss Judy? You don't find walking in Betsy's shoes quite such an easy matter after all?" said a voice at her side; and, looking up, lo and behold! there, standing before her, Judy saw the old woman with the scarlet cloak. "I don't think it is kind of you to laugh at me," she sobbed. "It's `too bad,' is it, eh, Miss Judy?" Judy sobbed more vigorously, but did not answer. "Come, now," said the old woman kindly. "Let's talk it over quietly. Are you beginning to understand that other people's lives have troubles and difficulties as well as yours--that little Betsy, for instance, might find things `too bad' a good many times in the course of the day, if she was so inclined?" "Yes," said Judy humbly. "And on the whole," continued the fairy, "you would rather be yourself than any one else--eh, Miss Judy?" "Oh yes, yes, a _great_ deal rather," said Judy eagerly. "Mayn't I be myself again now this very minute, and go home to tea in the nursery? Oh, I _would_ so like! It seems ever so long since I saw Lena and Harry and nurse, and you said yesterday I needn't keep on being Betsy if I didn't like." "Not quite so fast, my dear," said the old woman. "It's only four o'clock; you must finish the day's work. Go back to the cottage and wait patiently till bed-time, and then--you know what to do--you haven't lost your apple?" "No," said Judy, feeling in her pocket. "I have it safe." "That's all right. Now jump up, my dear, and hasten home, or Betsy's mother will be wondering what has become of you." Judy got up slowly. "I'm _so_ wet," she said, "and oh! my foot's _so_ sore. These horrible boots! I think it's too--" "Hush!" said the fairy. "How would you like me to make you stay as you are, till you quite leave off that habit of grumbling. I'm not sure but what it would be a good thing for her," she added, consideringly, as if thinking aloud. "O no, _please_ don't," said Judy, "please, _please_ don't. I do beg your pardon; I didn't mean to say it, and I _won't_ say it any more." "Then off with you; your foot won't be so bad as you think," said the fairy. "Thank you," replied Judy, fancying already that it hurt her less. She had turned to go when she stopped. "Well," said the old woman, "what's the matter now?" "Nothing," answered Judy, "but only I was thinking, if I am myself again to-morrow morning, and Betsy's herself, what will they all think? nurse and all, I mean; and if I try to explain, I'm sure they'll never believe me--they'll say I'm talking nonsense. Nurse always says `rubbish' if we make up fairy stories, or anything like that." The old woman smiled curiously. "Many wiser people than nurse think that `rubbish' settles whatever they don't understand," she said. "But never you mind, Judy. You needn't trouble your head about what any one will think. No one ever will be the wiser but you and I. When Betsy wakes in her own little bed in the morning, she will only think she has had a curious dream--a dream, perhaps, which will do her no harm--and nurse will think nothing but that Miss Judy has been cured of grumbling in a wonderful way. For if you're _not_ cured it will be _my_ turn to say it's too bad!--will it not?" "Yes," said Judy, laughing. "Thank you so much, kind fairy. Won't you come and see me again sometimes?" But the last words were spoken to the air, for while Judy was uttering them the old woman had disappeared, and only the little field-mouse again, with bright sparkling eyes, ran across the path, looking up fearlessly at Judy as it passed her. And Judy never did see the old woman again. She went back to the cottage, bearing bravely the pain of her wounded foot, which was not so very bad after all, and the discomfort of her wet clothes. And though Betsy's mother scolded her for having been so slow about her errand, she did not grumble or complain, but did her best to help the poor woman with the evening's work. All the same, I can tell you, she was _very_ glad to get to bed at night, and you may be sure she did not forget to take a great big bite of her apple. "When I am myself again, I'll spend the six shillings I have in my money-box to buy Betsy a nice new print frock instead of that ugly old one that got so soaked to-day," was her last thought before she fell asleep. And oh! my dears, _can_ you imagine how delightful it was to find herself in the morning, her real own self again? She felt it was almost _too good_ to be true. And, since then, it has been seldom if ever, that Miss Judy has been heard to grumble, or that anything has been declared to be "too bad." CHAPTER SEVEN. CHARLIE'S DISAPPOINTMENT. "O sweet and blessed country That eager hearts expect." One cold winter's evening about Christmas time, Charlie, a little boy of six years old, sat reading with his mother. It was Sunday evening, and he had been looking at the pictures in his "Children's Bible," till his mother put down her own book and began to read verses to him out of his _real_ Bible, in explanation of some of the pictures. With one of these especially, Charlie was very much pleased. It represented a great many people, men and women and children, and animals of every kind, all together, looking very peaceful and happy in a beautiful garden. Charlie could not pronounce the word at the foot of the picture; it was so very long. "The--what is it, mother?" he asked. "The Millennium," his mother told him, and then she went on to explain what this long word meant, and read him some strange, beautiful verses about it, out of the big Bible. Charlie sat with his blue eyes fixed on her, listening to every word, and thinking this the most wonderful story he had ever heard yet. "And it is not like a fairy story, is it mother, for it is in the Bible? Oh, I do so wish God would let the millennium come now--immediately--mother, while I am a little boy, and you, just like what you are! I should not care nearly so much for it if you were old, mother, or if I was a big man." "I hope, my darling, the bigger you get the _more_ you will care for it," said his mother. Charlie looked puzzled, but seeing that he was thinking so deeply, that she feared he would think away his sleep (as he sometimes did, and it was nearly bed-time), she went to the piano and sang his favourite hymn-- "Jerusalem the golden, With milk and honey blest." Charlie listened with delight; and when it was over went and kissed his mother for good-night, and trotted off to bed, his mind full of the words he had been hearing. It felt cold at first, in his little crib, and he began thinking how nice it would be if the summer were back again. But he soon fell asleep. It seemed to him that he woke almost in a minute, and he felt surprised to see that there was already broad daylight in the room. Indeed, he felt exceedingly surprised, for these dark winter mornings he always woke before dawn, and now the sun was shining brightly, as if it had been at work for some hours. It looked so pleasant and cheerful that he lay still to enjoy it. Now I must tell you that Charlie had a baby brother, and that both these little boys were taken care of by a good old woman who had been nurse to their mother when she was a little girl. Nurse was very good and kind and true, but I must say that sometimes she was very cross. Perhaps it was that she was getting old, and that little boys teased her, not being always able to remember about being gentle and good: that is to say, Charlie himself, for the baby was really too little either to remember or forget. Nurse's worst time was first thing in the morning; she nearly always had a cross face on when she came to wake Charlie, and to tell him to get up. He once heard some of the servants saying that nurse very often got out of the wrong side of her bed; and that day he vexed her very much without knowing why, for, after thinking a long time about what it could mean, he went all round her bed to see if there could be any nails or sharp pieces of wood sticking out at one side, which perhaps hurt her feet as she stepped out. Nurse came in while he was examining her bed, and when he told her what he was doing, and what he had heard Anne say, she was really very angry indeed, though he could not see that he had done anything naughty. But this morning I am telling you about that Charlie lay in bed thinking how pretty the sunlight was, he was quite surprised to see nurse's face when she came to the bedside to wake him. She spoke so sweetly, and really looked quite pretty. Her face had such a nice smile and looked so kind, and nearly all the wrinkles were gone. "Dear nurse," he said, "how nice you look!" This seemed to please her still more, for she kissed him, and then washed and dressed him, without once pulling or pushing him the least little bit; just as if she had never felt cross in her life. When he was dressed he ran out into the garden, and, to his surprise, it was quite changed from the night before. The grass was bright and green, the trees were all covered with leaves, and the whole garden was full of the loveliest flowers he had ever seen; and the singing of the birds was prettier than he could possibly describe. There were many butterflies and other summer insects flying about, and making a delicious sort of sweet humming, which seemed to join in with the birds' singing. Indeed Charlie could almost have believed the flowers themselves were singing, for a lovely music filled the whole air, and all the musicians, even the grasshoppers, kept in tune together in a wonderful way. The song sounded to Charlie very like "Jerusalem the Golden," only there were no words. He ran about the garden so much, that at last he thought he would like a drink of new milk, and he went into the yard to look for the dairy-maid. There was no one there; but he forgot all about the milk, in astonishment at what he saw. "Tiger," the great fierce watch dog, whom his papa would never let him go near, was unchained, lying peacefully on his back in the sun, and Charlie's two lovely kittens rolling over and over him, Tiger patting them gently with his paws, and looking so pleased that Charlie almost thought he was smiling. And more wonderful still, his mother's pet canaries were also loose in the yard, one hopping about close to Tiger's nose, and the other actually perched on the back of Muff, the tabby cat, whom, all her life, his mother had never succeeded in curing of her sad love of eating canary birds. Charlie's first thought was to drive away Muff and rescue the birds; but as he ran forward to do so, Muff came and rubbed herself gently against him with a soft, sweet purr, and the canary flew off Muff's back on to his shoulder, where it gave a little trill of pleasure, and then flew back again to its friend the cat. Suddenly some words flashed into Charlie's mind: "They shall neither hurt nor destroy," he said slowly, and then it all seemed plain to him. "The Millennium has come," he cried, with inexpressible joy, "Oh! how glad I am; I must run and tell mother this minute," and off he set. But as he ran towards the house, glancing up, thoughtful for others as was his habit, to the window of his mother's room, he saw that the blind was still drawn down, and remembered that he must not disturb her yet, though his little heart was bursting with impatience to tell her the beautiful news. "I might, any way, run and tell Lily at once," thought he, and he set off at full speed towards the farm where his little friend lived. But he had not gone half way when he recollected that to get to Lily's home he must pass the smithy, a place he was frightened to go near even with his nurse, for Black Tom, the smith, was a very terrible person. He was often intoxicated, and used then to swear most awfully; and, indeed, Lily had once told Charlie in confidence that her nurse had said she felt pretty sure Black Tom would not think anything at all of eating little boys and girls. Dreadful as he thought him, Charlie could not believe that Black Tom was quite as wicked as this; but still he trembled as he drew near the smithy. But how amazed he felt, when he got within sight of it, to see Tom standing at the door, washed and brushed up to such an extent, that the child hardly recognised his old aversion! Tom's employment was more wonderful still. He was playing with Lily, who was sitting perched upon his shoulder, laughing and screaming with delight. As soon as she saw Charlie she slid down, and holding Tom's great rough hand in her tiny one, pulled him along the lane towards her little friend. "Tom is not exactly a bear or a lion," thought Charlie, with a somewhat misty recollection of one of the verses his mother had read to him, running in his head; "but he's quite as fierce, and it says `A little child shall lead them.'" "O Charlie!" exclaimed Lily, when she drew near, "Tom is so good. I have been riding on his back up and down the lane ever so long, and do look what a nice, pretty clean face he has got!" But Charlie felt so eager to explain to Lily what he knew to be the cause of this extraordinary transformation, that he could not wait to speak to Tom. "Come along the lane with me Lily," he said, "I have wonderful things to tell you." So the two trotted off together, Tom smiling after them. A little up the lane the music of the birds and insects, and flowers, which Charlie had been hearing all the morning, sounded clearer and fuller than ever; and somehow Lily seemed to know of herself, without his telling her, all about the Millennium having come, even though she was such a little girl, only five years old. "Isn't the music beautiful, Lily? Don't you think it is `Jerusalem the Golden?'" "_I_ have been thinking all the morning that it was `There is a happy land,'" replied she, "but look, Charlie, at that great white thing coming along the road." Just where they had got to, the lane ran into the highway, and looking where Lily pointed, Charlie saw the great white thing she spoke of, moving towards them. As it came nearer they saw that it was a crowd of children, of all ages and sizes, dressed alike in pure white, which shone in the sun as they marched along. They sang as they walked, and Charlie thought he heard the words-- "For ever and for ever, Are clad in robes of white." One little boy, somewhat in advance of the others, as soon as he caught sight of Charlie and Lily, ran forward to meet them, and Charlie saw that it was his friend, little Frank Grey, the miller's son. "O Charlie!" he exclaimed, "are you there already? We were coming to fetch you and Lily. You must come with us." "Where are you going to?" said Charlie. "Don't you know?" said Frank. "We are all going to meet the Prince, who is coming this morning to live among us." "The Prince of Wales, do you mean?" asked Charlie. "O no!" replied his friend, "a greater Prince than he is. The Prince of the Golden City." "Is that the same as `Jerusalem the Golden,' do you think?" "I daresay it is," said Frank, "but the Prince has a great many names, each more beautiful than the other. Some call him the `Prince of Peace.'" "I know that name," said little Lily, softly, "it is _very_ pretty." "But," said Charlie, "you are all so beautifully dressed. Lily and I must run home for our best frocks first." "O no!" said Frank, "you are just as nicely dressed as we are." And Charlie looked down at his own clothes and Lily's, and saw to his surprise that both their dresses were of pure shining white, like those of the other children. It puzzled him a good deal, for he felt sure he remembered his nurse putting on his little plaid stuff coat and brown holland pinafore that morning. But a new thought struck him. "Don't you think, Frank, I had better run home and tell mother, for fear she should not like me to go?" "O no!" again answered Frank; "she is _sure_ to let you go, for _all_ the boys and girls in the country are coming, and we have several more to call for still; besides the fathers and mothers themselves will soon be coming after us in another procession, so you will see your mother directly." Quite happy now, Charlie and Lily joined the children, marching all in twos and twos, keeping time to the music they were singing, which Charlie felt sure was "Jerusalem the Golden," though Lily _would_ sing "Happy Land," for all he could say to her. However, it did not matter, for it seemed to do just as well, and all their voices suited beautifully. They went on as happily as could be, not feeling the least tired, though it was a good way. Charlie was turning to ask Frank some more questions about the Prince they were going to meet, when he was startled by some one calling him from behind, "Charlie! Charlie!" the voice sounding rather sharply, and seeming to jar against the sweet singing. He looked round, and there, hastening after him was nurse, with, alas! her _old_ face on, not the pretty new one. She came on quickly, and soon reached him, catching him rather roughly by the arm. Charlie gave a cry of distress, and--woke! to find himself, poor little boy, in his crib on a dull gloomy winter morning, and nurse shaking him a little, to wake him, and speaking very crossly. It was too much. Six years could not bear the terrible contrast, and little Charlie sat up in bed and burst into tears. "Oh, it's not true, it's not true," he cried, and nurse looked crosser than before. "The child's going out of his mind!" exclaimed she, vainly endeavouring to stop his tears. His little heart bursting with sorrow, poor Charlie got slowly out of bed, and sitting down on the floor, shaking with sobs and cold, began to try to put on his socks. But just then a tap came to the door, and a voice said, "Is that my Charlie crying, first thing on a Monday morning?" And Charlie jumped up and ran, all shaking and shivering, to his nice warm mother, who took him in her arms and carried him off just as he was, to dress him in her own room, where there was a beautiful fire; and there poor Charlie told his story. He could not help crying again when he came to the end and tried to describe his bitter disappointment. His mother did not speak, and he began to fear she was displeased; but when he looked up in her face, and saw tears in her pretty kind eyes, he knew she was not vexed with him. "My poor dear little boy," she said, and then she comforted him so sweetly that the tears went away. And after breakfast she talked to Charlie again about the Millennium, and explained about it a little more, to him. She said he must not be unhappy because his dream was not true, for she thought it was a beautiful dream, and there was one way in which he might make it true. Little boy though he was, there need be no delay in his welcoming the Prince of Peace into the country of his own heart, and year by year devoting himself more and more earnestly to that blessed service, till in God's own good time he should be one of the happy dwellers in the "Golden City" above. So that, after all, Charlie's wonderful dream did not remain the source of sorrow and disappointment to him. And I think it was one of the things that helped him to grow up a good man, for he never forgot it. One special good result it had, I know. It roused an interest in Black Tom, whom every one had feared and hated, and no one had ever tried to love, which never rested till gradually, and by slow degrees, the poor smith became a very different being from the fierce man who had been the terror of Charlie's childhood. 
582	----	with OmniPage The Original Peter Rabbit Books By BEATRIX POTTER A LIST OF THE TITLES [*indicates included here] *The Tale of Peter Rabbit The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin The Tailor of Gloucester *The Tale of Benjamin Bunny *The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle *The Tale of Mr. Jeremy Fisher The Tale of Johnny Town-Mouse *The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck *The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies The Story of a Fierce Bad Rabbit *The Tale of Two Bad Mice The Tale of Tom Kitten The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse *The Tale of Timmy Tiptoes *The Tale of Mr. Tod *The Tale of Pigling Bland *The Roly Poly Pudding *The Pie and the Patty-pan *Ginger and Pickles *The Story of Miss Moppet Appley Dapply's Nursery Rhymes The Tale of Little Pig Robinson?? THE TALE OF PETER RABBIT BY BEATRIX POTTER ONCE upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were-- Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter. They lived with their Mother in a sand-bank, underneath the root of a very big fir tree. "NOW, my dears," said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, "you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don't go into Mr. McGregor's garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor." "NOW run along, and don't get into mischief. I am going out." THEN old Mrs. Rabbit took a basket and her umbrella, to the baker's. She bought a loaf of brown bread and five currant buns. FLOPSY, Mopsy, and Cottontail, who were good little bunnies, went down the lane to gather blackberries; BUT Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away to Mr. McGregor's garden and squeezed under the gate! FIRST he ate some lettuces and some French beans; and then he ate some radishes; AND then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley. BUT round the end of a cucumber frame, whom should he meet but Mr. McGregor! MR. McGREGOR was on his hands and knees planting out young cabbages, but he jumped up and ran after Peter, waving a rake and calling out, "Stop thief!" PETER was most dreadfully frightened; he rushed all over the garden, for he had forgotten the way back to the gate. He lost one of his shoes among the cabbages, and the other shoe amongst the potatoes. AFTER losing them, he ran on four legs and went faster, so that I think he might have got away altogether if he had not unfortunately run into a gooseberry net, and got caught by the large buttons on his jacket. It was a blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new. PETER gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears; but his sobs were overheard by some friendly sparrows, who flew to him in great excitement, and implored him to exert himself. MR. McGREGOR came up with a sieve, which he intended to pop upon the top of Peter; but Peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket behind him. AND rushed into the toolshed, and jumped into a can. It would have been a beautiful thing to hide in, if it had not had so much water in it. MR. McGREGOR was quite sure that Peter was somewhere in the toolshed, perhaps hidden underneath a flower-pot. He began to turn them over carefully, looking under each. Presently Peter sneezed--"Kertyschoo!" Mr. McGregor was after him in no time, AND tried to put his foot upon Peter, who jumped out of a window, upsetting three plants. The window was too small for Mr. McGregor, and he was tired of running after Peter. He went back to his work. PETER sat down to rest; he was out of breath and trembling with fright, and he had not the least idea which way to go. Also he was very damp with sitting in that can. After a time he began to wander about, going lippity--lippity--not very fast, and looking all around. HE found a door in a wall; but it was locked, and there was no room for a fat little rabbit to squeeze underneath. An old mouse was running in and out over the stone doorstep, carrying peas and beans to her family in the wood. Peter asked her the way to the gate, but she had such a large pea in her mouth that she could not answer. She only shook her head at him. Peter began to cry. THEN he tried to find his way straight across the garden, but he became more and more puzzled. Presently, he came to a pond where Mr. McGregor filled his water-cans. A white cat was staring at some gold-fish; she sat very, very still, but now and then the tip of her tail twitched as if it were alive. Peter thought it best to go away without speaking to her; he had heard about cats from his cousin, little Benjamin Bunny. HE went back towards the tool-shed, but suddenly, quite close to him, he heard the noise of a hoe--scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scritch. Peter scuttered underneath the bushes. But presently, as nothing happened, he came out, and climbed upon a wheelbarrow, and peeped over. The first thing he saw was Mr. McGregor hoeing onions. His back was turned towards Peter, and beyond him was the gate! PETER got down very quietly off the wheelbarrow, and started running as fast as he could go, along a straight walk behind some black-currant bushes. Mr. McGregor caught sight of him at the corner, but Peter did not care. He slipped underneath the gate, and was safe at last in the wood outside the garden. MR. McGREGOR hung up the little jacket and the shoes for a scare-crow to frighten the blackbirds. PETER never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the big fir-tree. He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand on the floor of the rabbit-hole, and shut his eyes. His mother was busy cooking; she wondered what he had done with his clothes. It was the second little jacket and pair of shoes that Peter had lost in a fortnight! I AM sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening. His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea; and she gave a dose of it to Peter! "One table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time." BUT Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread and milk and blackberries, for supper. THE END THE TALE OF BENJAMIN BUNNY FOR THE CHILDREN OF SAWREY FROM OLD MR. BUNNY ONE morning a little rabbit sat on a bank. He pricked his ears and listened to the trit-trot, trit-trot of a pony. A gig was coming along the road; it was driven by Mr. McGregor, and beside him sat Mrs. McGregor in her best bonnet. AS soon as they had passed, little Benjamin Bunny slid down into the road, and set off--with a hop, skip and a jump--to call upon his relations, who lived in the wood at the back of Mr. McGregor's garden. THAT wood was full of rabbit holes; and in the neatest sandiest hole of all, cousins--Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail and Peter. Old Mrs. Rabbit was a widow; she earned her living by knitting rabbit-wool mittens and muffetees (I once bought a pair at a bazaar). She also sold herbs, and rosemary tea, and rabbit-tobacco (which is what WE call lavender). LITTLE Benjamin did not very much want to see his Aunt. He came round the back of the fir-tree, and nearly tumbled upon the top of his Cousin Peter. PETER was sitting by himself. He looked poorly, and was dressed in a red cotton pocket-handkerchief. "Peter,"--said little Benjamin, in a whisper--"who has got your clothes?" PETER replied--"The scarecrow in Mr. McGregor's garden," and described how he had been chased about the garden, and had dropped his shoes and coat. Little Benjamin sat down beside his cousin, and assured him that Mr. McGregor had gone out in a gig, and Mrs. McGregor also; and certainly for the day, because she was wearing her best bonnet. PETER said he hoped that it would rain. At this point, old Mrs. Rabbit's voice was heard inside the rabbit hole calling--"Cotton-tail! Cotton-tail! fetch some more camomile!" Peter said he thought he might feel better if he went for a walk. THEY went away hand in hand, and got upon the flat top of the wall at the bottom of the wood. From here they looked down into Mr. McGregor's garden. Peter's coat and shoes were plainly to be seen upon the scarecrow, topped with an old tam-o-shanter of Mr. McGregor's. LITTLE Benjamin said, "It spoils people's clothes to squeeze under a gate; the proper way to get in, is to climb down a pear tree." Peter fell down head first; but it was of no consequence, as the bed below was newly raked and quite soft. IT had been sown with lettuces. They left a great many odd little foot-marks all over the bed, especially little Benjamin, who was wearing clogs. LITTLE Benjamin said that the first thing to be done was to get back Peter's clothes, in order that they might be able to use the pocket handkerchief. They took them off the scarecrow. There had been rain during the night; there was water in the shoes, and the coat was somewhat shrunk. Benjamin tried on the tam-o-shanter, but it was too big for him. THEN he suggested that they should fill the pocket-handkerchief with onions, as a little present for his Aunt. Peter did not seem to be enjoying himself; he kept hearing noises. BENJAMIN, on the contrary, was perfectly at home, and ate a lettuce leaf. He said that he was in the habit of coming to the garden with his father to get lettuces for their Sunday dinner. (The name of little Benjamin's papa was old Mr. Benjamin Bunny.) The lettuces certainly were very fine. PETER did not eat anything; he said he should like to go home. Presently he dropped half the onions. LITTLE Benjamin said that it was not possible to get back up the pear-tree, with a load of vegetables. He led the way boldly towards the other end of the garden. They went along a little walk on planks, under a sunny red-brick wall. The mice sat on their door-steps cracking cherry-stones, they winked at Peter Rabbit and little Benjamin Bunny. PRESENTLY Peter let the pocket-handkerchief go again. THEY got amongst flower-pots, and frames and tubs; Peter heard noises worse than ever, his eyes were as big as lolly-pops! He was a step or two in front of his cousin, when he suddenly stopped. THIS is what those little rabbits saw round that corner! Little Benjamin took one look, and then, in half a minute less than no time, he hid himself and Peter and the onions underneath a large basket.... THE cat got up and stretched herself, and came and sniffed at the basket. Perhaps she liked the smell of onions! Anyway, she sat down upon the top of the basket. SHE sat there for FIVE HOURS. * * * * * I cannot draw you a picture of Peter and Benjamin underneath the basket, because it was quite dark, and because the smell of onions was fearful; it made Peter Rabbit and little Benjamin cry. The sun got round behind the wood, and it was quite late in the afternoon; but still the cat sat upon the basket. AT length there was a pitter-patter, pitter-patter, and some bits of mortar fell from the wall above. The cat looked up and saw old Mr. Benjamin Bunny prancing along the top of the wall of the upper terrace. He was smoking a pipe of rabbit-tobacco, and had a little switch in his hand. He was looking for his son. OLD Mr. Bunny had no opinion whatever of cats. He took a tremendous jump off the top of the wall on to the top of the cat, and cuffed it off the basket, and kicked it into the garden-house, scratching off a handful of fur. The cat was too much surprised to scratch back. WHEN old Mr. Bunny had driven the cat into the green-house, he locked the door. Then he came back to the basket and took out his son Benjamin by the ears, and whipped him with the little switch. Then he took out his nephew Peter. THEN he took out the handkerchief of onions, and marched out of the garden. When Mr. McGregor returned about half an hour later, he observed several things which perplexed him. It looked as though some person had been walking all over the garden in a pair of clogs--only the foot-marks were too ridiculously little! Also he could not understand how the cat could have managed to shut herself up INSIDE the green-house, locking the door upon the OUTSIDE. WHEN Peter got home, his mother forgave him, because she was so glad to see that he had found his shoes and coat. Cotton-tail and Peter folded up the pocket-handkerchief, and old Mrs. Rabbit strung up the onions and hung them from the kitchen ceiling, with the rabbit-tobacco. THE END THE TALE OF THE FLOPSY BUNNIES FOR ALL LITTLE FRIENDS OF MR. McGREGOR & PETER & BENJAMIN IT is said that the effect of eating too much lettuce is "soporific." _I_ have never felt sleepy after eating lettuces; but then _I_ am not a rabbit. They certainly had a very soporific effect upon the Flopsy Bunnies! WHEN Benjamin Bunny grew up, he married his Cousin Flopsy. They had a large family, and they were very improvident and cheerful. I do not remember the separate names of their children; they were generally called the "Flopsy Bunnies." AS there was not always quite enough to eat,--Benjamin used to borrow cabbages from Flopsy's brother, Peter Rabbit, who kept a nursery garden. SOMETIMES Peter Rabbit had no cabbages to spare. WHEN this happened, the Flopsy Bunnies went across the field to a rubbish heap, in the ditch outside Mr. McGregor's garden. MR. McGREGOR'S rubbish heap was a mixture. There were jam pots and paper bags, and mountains of chopped grass from the mowing machine (which always tasted oily), and some rotten vegetable marrows and an old boot or two. One day--oh joy!--there were a quantity of overgrown lettuces, which had "shot" into flower. THE Flopsy Bunnies simply stuffed lettuces. By degrees, one after another, they were overcome with slumber, and lay down in the mown grass. Benjamin was not so much overcome as his children. Before going to sleep he was sufficiently wide awake to put a paper bag over his head to keep off the flies. THE little Flopsy Bunnies slept delightfully in the warm sun. From the lawn beyond the garden came the distant clacketty sound of the mowing machine. The blue-bottles buzzed about the wall, and a little old mouse picked over the rubbish among the jam pots. (I can tell you her name, she was called Thomasina Tittlemouse, a woodmouse with a long tail.) SHE rustled across the paper bag, and awakened Benjamin Bunny. The mouse apologized profusely, and said that she knew Peter Rabbit. WHILE she and Benjamin were talking, close under the wall, they heard a heavy tread above their heads; and suddenly Mr. McGregor emptied out a sackful of lawn mowings right upon the top of the sleeping Flopsy Bunnies! Benjamin shrank down under his paper bag. The mouse hid in a jam pot. THE little rabbits smiled sweetly in their sleep under the shower of grass; they did not awake because the lettuces had been so soporific. They dreamt that their mother Flopsy was tucking them up in a hay bed. Mr. McGregor looked down after emptying his sack. He saw some funny little brown tips of ears sticking up through the lawn mowings. He stared at them for some time. PRESENTLY a fly settled on one of them and it moved. Mr. McGregor climbed down on to the rubbish heap-- "One, two, three, four! five! six leetle rabbits!" said he as he dropped them into his sack. The Flopsy Bunnies dreamt that their mother was turning them over in bed. They stirred a little in their sleep, but still they did not wake up. MR. McGREGOR tied up the sack and left it on the wall. He went to put away the mowing machine. WHILE he was gone, Mrs. Flopsy Bunny (who had remained at home) came across the field. She looked suspiciously at the sack and wondered where everybody was? THEN the mouse came out of her jam pot, and Benjamin took the paper bag off his head, and they told the doleful tale. Benjamin and Flopsy were in despair, they could not undo the string. But Mrs. Tittlemouse was a resourceful person. She nibbled a hole in the bottom corner of the sack. THE little rabbits were pulled out and pinched to wake them. Their parents stuffed the empty sack with three rotten vegetable marrows, an old blacking-brush and two decayed turnips. THEN they all hid under a bush and watched for Mr. McGregor. MR. McGREGOR came back and picked up the sack, and carried it off. He carried it hanging down, as if it were rather heavy. The Flopsy Bunnies followed at a safe distance. THEY watched him go into his house. And then they crept up to the window to listen. MR. McGREGOR threw down the sack on the stone floor in a way that would have been extremely painful to the Flopsy Bunnies, if they had happened to have been inside it. They could hear him drag his chair on the flags, and chuckle-- "One, two, three, four, five, six leetle rabbits!" said Mr. McGregor. "EH? What's that? What have they been spoiling now?" enquired Mrs. McGregor. "One, two, three, four, five, six leetle fat rabbits!" repeated Mr. McGregor, counting on his fingers--"one, two, three--" "Don't you be silly; what do you mean, you silly old man?" "In the sack! one, two, three, four, five, six!" replied Mr. McGregor. (The youngest Flopsy Bunny got upon the window-sill.) MRS. McGREGOR took hold of the sack and felt it. She said she could feel six, but they must be OLD rabbits, because they were so hard and all different shapes. "Not fit to eat; but the skins will do fine to line my old cloak." "Line your old cloak?" shouted Mr. McGregor--"I shall sell them and buy myself baccy!" "Rabbit tobacco! I shall skin them and cut off their heads." MRS. McGREGOR untied the sack and put her hand inside. When she felt the vegetables she became very very angry. She said that Mr. McGregor had "done it a purpose." AND Mr. McGregor was very angry too. One of the rotten marrows came flying through the kitchen window, and hit the youngest Flopsy Bunny. It was rather hurt. THEN Benjamin and Flopsy thought that it was time to go home. SO Mr. McGregor did not get his tobacco, and Mrs. McGregor did not get her rabbit skins. But next Christmas Thomasina Tittlemouse got a present of enough rabbit-wool to make herself a cloak and a hood, and a handsome muff and a pair of warm mittens. THE END IN REMEMBRANCE OF "SAMMY," THE INTELLIGENT PINK-EYED REPRESENTATIVE OF A PERSECUTED (BUT IRREPRESSIBLE) RACE. AN AFFECTIONATE LITTLE FRIEND. AND MOST ACCOMPLISHED THIEF! THE ROLY-POLY PUDDING ONCE upon a time there was an old cat, called Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit, who was an anxious parent. She used to lose her kittens continually, and whenever they were lost they were always in mischief! On baking day she determined to shut them up in a cupboard. She caught Moppet and Mittens, but she could not find Tom. Mrs. Tabitha went up and down all over the house, mewing for Tom Kitten. She looked in the pantry under the staircase, and she searched the best spare bedroom that was all covered up with dust sheets. She went right upstairs and looked into the attics, but she could not find him anywhere. It was an old, old house, full of cupboards and passages. Some of the walls were four feet thick, and there used to be queer noises inside them, as if there might be a little secret staircase. Certainly there were odd little jagged doorways in the wainscot, and things disappeared at night--especially cheese and bacon. Mrs. Tabitha became more and more distracted, and mewed dreadfully. While their mother was searching the house, Moppet and Mittens had got into mischief. The cupboard door was not locked, so they pushed it open and came out. They went straight to the dough which was set to rise in a pan before the fire. They patted it with their little soft paws--"Shall we make dear little muffins?" said Mittens to Moppet. But just at that moment somebody knocked at the front door, and Moppet jumped into the flour barrel in a fright. Mittens ran away to the dairy, and hid in an empty jar on the stone shelf where the milk pans stand. The visitor was a neighbor, Mrs. Ribby; she had called to borrow some yeast. Mrs. Tabitha came downstairs mewing dreadfully--"Come in, Cousin Ribby, come in, and sit ye down! I'm in sad trouble, Cousin Ribby," said Tabitha, shedding tears. "I've lost my dear son Thomas; I'm afraid the rats have got him." She wiped her eyes with an apron. "He's a bad kitten, Cousin Tabitha; he made a cat's cradle of my best bonnet last time I came to tea. Where have you looked for him?" "All over the house! The rats are too many for me. What a thing it is to have an unruly family!" said Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit. "I'm not afraid of rats; I will help you to find him; and whip him too! What is all that soot in the fender?" "The chimney wants sweeping--Oh, dear me, Cousin Ribby--now Moppet and Mittens are gone!" "They have both got out of the cup-board!" Ribby and Tabitha set to work to search the house thoroughly again. They poked under the beds with Ribby's umbrella, and they rummaged in cupboards. They even fetched a candle, and looked inside a clothes chest in one of the attics. They could not find anything, but once they heard a door bang and somebody scuttered downstairs. "Yes, it is infested with rats," said Tabitha tearfully, "I caught seven young ones out of one hole in the back kitchen, and we had them for dinner last Saturday. And once I saw the old father rat--an enormous old rat, Cousin Ribby. I was just going to jump upon him, when he showed his yellow teeth at me and whisked down the hole." "The rats get upon my nerves, Cousin Ribby," said Tabitha. Ribby and Tabitha searched and searched. They both heard a curious roly-poly noise under the attic floor. But there was nothing to be seen. They returned to the kitchen. "Here's one of your kittens at least," said Ribby, dragging Moppet out of the flour barrel. They shook the flour off her and set her down on the kitchen floor. She seemed to be in a terrible fright. "Oh! Mother, Mother," said Moppet, "there's been an old woman rat in the kitchen, and she's stolen some of the dough!" The two cats ran to look at the dough pan. Sure enough there were marks of little scratching fingers, and a lump of dough was gone! "Which way did she go, Moppet?" But Moppet had been too much frightened to peep out of the barrel again. Ribby and Tabitha took her with them to keep her safely in sight, while they went on with their search. They went into the dairy. The first thing they found was Mittens, hiding in an empty jar. They tipped up the jar, and she scrambled out. "Oh, Mother, Mother!" said Mittens-- "Oh! Mother, Mother, there has been an old man rat in the dairy--a dreadful 'normous big rat, Mother; and he's stolen a pat of butter and the rolling-pin." Ribby and Tabitha looked at one another. "A rolling-pin and butter! Oh, my poor son Thomas!" exclaimed Tabitha, wringing her paws. "A rolling-pin?" said Ribby. "Did we not hear a roly-poly noise in the attic when we were looking into that chest?" Ribby and Tabitha rushed upstairs again. Sure enough the roly-poly noise was still going on quite distinctly under the attic floor. "This is serious, Cousin Tabitha," said Ribby. "We must send for John Joiner at once, with a saw." Now this is what had been happening to Tom Kitten, and it shows how very unwise it is to go up a chimney in a very old house, where a person does not know his way, and where there are enormous rats. Tom Kitten did not want to be shut up in a cupboard. When he saw that his mother was going to bake, he determined to hide. He looked about for a nice convenient place, and he fixed upon the chimney. The fire had only just been lighted, and it was not hot; but there was a white choky smoke from the green sticks. Tom Kitten got upon the fender and looked up. It was a big old-fashioned fireplace. The chimney itself was wide enough inside for a man to stand up and walk about. So there was plenty of room for a little Tom Cat. He jumped right up into the fireplace, balancing himself upon the iron bar where the kettle hangs. Tom Kitten took another big jump off the bar, and landed on a ledge high up inside the chimney, knocking down some soot into the fender. Tom Kitten coughed and choked with the smoke; he could hear the sticks beginning to crackle and burn in the fireplace down below. He made up his mind to climb right to the top, and get out on the slates, and try to catch sparrows. "I cannot go back. If I slipped I might fall in the fire and singe my beautiful tail and my little blue jacket." The chimney was a very big old-fashioned one. It was built in the days when people burnt logs of wood upon the hearth. The chimney stack stood up above the roof like a little stone tower, and the daylight shone down from the top, under the slanting slates that kept out the rain. Tom Kitten was getting very frightened! He climbed up, and up, and up. Then he waded sideways through inches of soot. He was like a little sweep himself. It was most confusing in the dark. One flue seemed to lead into another. There was less smoke, but Tom Kitten felt quite lost. He scrambled up and up; but before he reached the chimney top he came to a place where somebody had loosened a stone in the wall. There were some mutton bones lying about-- "This seems funny," said Tom Kitten. "Who has been gnawing bones up here in the chimney? I wish I had never come! And what a funny smell! It is something like mouse; only dreadfully strong. It makes me sneeze," said Tom Kitten. He squeezed through the hole in the wall, and dragged himself along a most uncomfortably tight passage where there was scarcely any light. He groped his way carefully for several yards; he was at the back of the skirting-board in the attic, where there is a little mark * in the picture. All at once he fell head over heels in the dark, down a hole, and landed on a heap of very dirty rags. When Tom Kitten picked himself up and looked about him--he found himself in a place that he had never seen before, although he had lived all his life in the house. It was a very small stuffy fusty room, with boards, and rafters, and cobwebs, and lath and plaster. Opposite to him--as far away as he could sit--was an enormous rat. "What do you mean by tumbling into my bed all covered with smuts?" said the rat, chattering his teeth. "Please sir, the chimney wants sweeping," said poor Tom Kitten. "Anna Maria! Anna Maria!" squeaked the rat. There was a pattering noise and an old woman rat poked her head round a rafter. All in a minute she rushed upon Tom Kitten, and before he knew what was happening-- His coat was pulled off, and he was rolled up in a bundle, and tied with string in very hard knots. Anna Maria did the tying. The old rat watched her and took snuff. When she had finished, they both sat staring at him with their mouths open. "Anna Maria," said the old man rat (whose name was Samuel Whiskers),--"Anna Maria, make me a kitten dumpling roly-poly pudding for my dinner." "It requires dough and a pat of butter, and a rolling-pin," said Anna Maria, considering Tom Kitten with her head on one side. "No," said Samuel Whiskers, "make it properly, Anna Maria, with breadcrumbs." "Nonsense! Butter and dough," replied Anna Maria. The two rats consulted together for a few minutes and then went away. Samuel Whiskers got through a hole in the wainscot, and went boldly down the front staircase to the dairy to get the butter. He did not meet anybody. He made a second journey for the rolling-pin. He pushed it in front of him with his paws, like a brewer's man trundling a barrel. He could hear Ribby and Tabitha talking, but they were busy lighting the candle to look into the chest. They did not see him. Anna Maria went down by way of the skirting-board and a window shutter to the kitchen to steal the dough. She borrowed a small saucer, and scooped up the dough with her paws. She did not observe Moppet. While Tom Kitten was left alone under the floor of the attic, he wriggled about and tried to mew for help. But his mouth was full of soot and cob-webs, and he was tied up in such very tight knots, he could not make anybody hear him. Except a spider, which came out of a crack in the ceiling and examined the knots critically, from a safe distance. It was a judge of knots because it had a habit of tying up unfortunate blue-bottles. It did not offer to assist him. Tom Kitten wriggled and squirmed until he was quite exhausted. Presently the rats came back and set to work to make him into a dumpling. First they smeared him with butter, and then they rolled him in the dough. "Will not the string be very indigestible, Anna Maria?" inquired Samuel Whiskers. Anna Maria said she thought that it was of no consequence; but she wished that Tom Kitten would hold his head still, as it disarranged the pastry. She laid hold of his ears. Tom Kitten bit and spat, and mewed and wriggled; and the rolling-pin went roly-poly, roly; roly, poly, roly. The rats each held an end. "His tail is sticking out! You did not fetch enough dough, Anna Maria." "I fetched as much as I could carry," replied Anna Maria. "I do not think"--said Samuel Whiskers, pausing to take a look at Tom Kitten--"I do NOT think it will be a good pudding. It smells sooty." Anna Maria was about to argue the point, when all at once there began to be other sounds up above--the rasping noise of a saw; and the noise of a little dog, scratching and yelping! The rats dropped the rolling-pin, and listened attentively. "We are discovered and interrupted, Anna Maria; let us collect our property,--and other people's,--and depart at once." "I fear that we shall be obliged to leave this pudding." "But I am persuaded that the knots would have proved indigestible, whatever you may urge to the contrary." "Come away at once and help me to tie up some mutton bones in a counterpane," said Anna Maria. "I have got half a smoked ham hidden in the chimney." So it happened that by the time John Joiner had got the plank up--there was nobody under the floor except the rolling-pin and Tom Kitten in a very dirty dumpling! But there was a strong smell of rats; and John Joiner spent the rest of the morning sniffing and whining, and wagging his tail, and going round and round with his head in the hole like a gimlet. Then he nailed the plank down again, and put his tools in his bag, and came downstairs. The cat family had quite recovered. They invited him to stay to dinner. The dumpling had been peeled off Tom Kitten, and made separately into a bag pudding, with currants in it to hide the smuts. They had been obliged to put Tom Kitten into a hot bath to get the butter off. John Joiner smelt the pudding; but he regretted that he had not time to stay to dinner, because he had just finished making a wheel-barrow for Miss Potter, and she had ordered two hen-coops. And when I was going to the post late in the afternoon--I looked up the lane from the corner, and I saw Mr. Samuel Whiskers and his wife on the run, with big bundles on a little wheel-barrow, which looked very like mine. They were just turning in at the gate to the barn of Farmer Potatoes. Samuel Whiskers was puffing and out of breath. Anna Maria was still arguing in shrill tones. She seemed to know her way, and she seemed to have a quantity of luggage. I am sure _I_ never gave her leave to borrow my wheel-barrow! They went into the barn, and hauled their parcels with a bit of string to the top of the haymow. After that, there were no more rats for a long time at Tabitha Twitchit's. As for Farmer Potatoes, he has been driven nearly distracted. There are rats, and rats, and rats in his barn! They eat up the chicken food, and steal the oats and bran, and make holes in the meal bags. And they are all descended from Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Whiskers--children and grand-children and great great grand-children. There is no end to them! Moppet and Mittens have grown up into very good rat-catchers. They go out rat-catching in the village, and they find plenty of employment. They charge so much a dozen, and earn their living very comfortably. They hang up the rats' tails in a row or the barn door, to show how many they have caught--dozens and dozens of them. But Tom Kitten has always been afraid of a rat; he never durst face anything that is bigger than-- A Mouse. THE END THE TALE OF MR. TOD I HAVE made many books about well-behaved people. Now, for a change, I am going to make a story about two disagreeable people, called Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod. Nobody could call Mr. Tod "nice." The rabbits could not bear him; they could smell him half a mile off. He was of a wandering habit and he had foxey whiskers; they never knew where he would be next. One day he was living in a stick-house in the coppice, causing terror to the family of old Mr. Benjamin Bouncer. Next day he moved into a pollard willow near the lake, frightening the wild ducks and the water rats. In winter and early spring he might generally be found in an earth amongst the rocks at the top of Bull Banks, under Oatmeal Crag. He had half a dozen houses, but he was seldom at home. The houses were not always empty when Mr. Tod moved OUT; because sometimes Tommy Brock moved IN; (without asking leave). Tommy Brock was a short bristly fat waddling person with a grin; he grinned all over his face. He was not nice in his habits. He ate wasp nests and frogs and worms; and he waddled about by moonlight, digging things up. His clothes were very dirty; and as he slept in the day-time, he always went to bed in his boots. And the bed which he went to bed in, was generally Mr. Tod's. Now Tommy Brock did occasionally eat rabbit-pie; but it was only very little young ones occasionally, when other food was really scarce. He was friendly with old Mr. Bouncer; they agreed in disliking the wicked otters and Mr. Tod; they often talked over that painful subject. Old Mr. Bouncer was stricken in years. He sat in the spring sunshine outside the burrow, in a muffler; smoking a pipe of rabbit tobacco. He lived with his son Benjamin Bunny and his daughter-in-law Flopsy, who had a young family. Old Mr. Bouncer was in charge of the family that afternoon, because Benjamin and Flopsy had gone out. The little rabbit-babies were just old enough to open their blue eyes and kick. They lay in a fluffy bed of rabbit wool and hay, in a shallow burrow, separate from the main rabbit hole. To tell the truth--old Mr. Bouncer had forgotten them. He sat in the sun, and conversed cordially with Tommy Brock, who was passing through the wood with a sack and a little spud which he used for digging, and some mole traps. He complained bitterly about the scarcity of pheasants' eggs, and accused Mr. Tod of poaching them. And the otters had cleared off all the frogs while he was asleep in winter--"I have not had a good square meal for a fortnight, I am living on pig-nuts. I shall have to turn vegetarian and eat my own tail!" said Tommy Brock. It was not much of a joke, but it tickled old Mr. Bouncer; because Tommy Brock was so fat and stumpy and grinning. So old Mr. Bouncer laughed; and pressed Tommy Brock to come inside, to taste a slice of seed-cake and "a glass of my daughter Flopsy's cowslip wine." Tommy Brock squeezed himself into the rabbit hole with alacrity. Then old Mr. Bouncer smoked another pipe, and gave Tommy Brock a cabbage leaf cigar which was so very strong that it made Tommy Brock grin more than ever; and the smoke filled the burrow. Old Mr. Bouncer coughed and laughed; and Tommy Brock puffed and grinned. And Mr. Bouncer laughed and coughed, and shut his eyes because of the cabbage smoke.......... When Flopsy and Benjamin came back--old Mr. Bouncer woke up. Tommy Brock and all the young rabbit-babies had disappeared! Mr. Bouncer would not confess that he had admitted anybody into the rabbit hole. But the smell of badger was undeniable; and there were round heavy footmarks in the sand. He was in disgrace; Flopsy wrung her ears, and slapped him. Benjamin Bunny set off at once after Tommy Brock. There was not much difficulty in tracking him; he had left his foot-mark and gone slowly up the winding footpath through the wood. Here he had rooted up the moss and wood sorrel. There he had dug quite a deep hole for dog darnel; and had set a mole trap. A little stream crossed the way. Benjamin skipped lightly over dry-foot; the badger's heavy steps showed plainly in the mud. The path led to a part of the thicket where the trees had been cleared; there were leafy oak stumps, and a sea of blue hyacinths--but the smell that made Benjamin stop, was not the smell of flowers! Mr. Tod's stick house was before him and, for once, Mr. Tod was at home. There was not only a foxey flavour in proof of it--there was smoke coming out of the broken pail that served as a chimney. Benjamin Bunny sat up, staring; his whiskers twitched. Inside the stick house somebody dropped a plate, and said something. Benjamin stamped his foot, and bolted. He never stopped till he came to the other side of the wood. Apparently Tommy Brock had turned the same way. Upon the top of the wall, there were again the marks of badger; and some ravellings of a sack had caught on a briar. Benjamin climbed over the wall, into a meadow. He found another mole trap newly set; he was still upon the track of Tommy Brock. It was getting late in the afternoon. Other rabbits were coming out to enjoy the evening air. One of them in a blue coat by himself, was busily hunting for dandelions.--"Cousin Peter! Peter Rabbit, Peter Rabbit!" shouted Benjamin Bunny. The blue coated rabbit sat up with pricked ears-- "Whatever is the matter, Cousin Benjamin? Is it a cat? or John Stoat Ferret?" "No, no, no! He's bagged my family--Tommy Brock--in a sack--have you seen him?" "Tommy Brock? how many, Cousin Benjamin?" "Seven, Cousin Peter, and all of them twins! Did he come this way? Please tell me quick!" "Yes, yes; not ten minutes since.... he said they were caterpillars; I did think they were kicking rather hard, for caterpillars." "Which way? which way has he gone, Cousin Peter?" "He had a sack with something 'live in it; I watched him set a mole trap. Let me use my mind, Cousin Benjamin; tell me from the beginning." Benjamin did so. "My Uncle Bouncer has displayed a lamentable want of discretion for his years;" said Peter reflectively, "but there are two hopeful circumstances. Your family is alive and kicking; and Tommy Brock has had refreshment. He will probably go to sleep, and keep them for breakfast." "Which way?" "Cousin Benjamin, compose yourself. I know very well which way. Because Mr. Tod was at home in the stick-house he has gone to Mr. Tod's other house, at the top of Bull Banks. I partly know, because he offered to leave any message at Sister Cottontail's; he said he would be passing." (Cottontail had married a black rabbit, and gone to live on the hill). Peter hid his dandelions, and accompanied the afflicted parent, who was all of a twitter. They crossed several fields and began to climb the hill; the tracks of Tommy Brock were plainly to be seen. He seemed to have put down the sack every dozen yards, to rest. "He must be very puffed; we are close behind him, by the scent. What a nasty person!" said Peter. The sunshine was still warm and slanting on the hill pastures. Half way up, Cottontail was sitting in her doorway, with four or five half-grown little rabbits playing about her; one black and the others brown. Cottontail had seen Tommy Brock passing in the distance. Asked whether her husband was at home she replied that Tommy Brock had rested twice while she watched him. He had nodded, and pointed to the sack, and seemed doubled up with laughing.--"Come away, Peter; he will be cooking them; come quicker!" said Benjamin Bunny. They climbed up and up;--"He was at home; I saw his black ears peeping out of the hole." "They live too near the rocks to quarrel with their neighbours. Come on Cousin Benjamin!" When they came near the wood at the top of Bull Banks, they went cautiously. The trees grew amongst heaped up rocks; and there, beneath a crag--Mr. Tod had made one of his homes. It was at the top of a steep bank; the rocks and bushes overhung it. The rabbits crept up carefully, listening and peeping. This house was something between a cave, a prison, and a tumble-down pig-stye. There was a strong door, which was shut and locked. The setting sun made the window panes glow like red flame; but the kitchen fire was not alight. It was neatly laid with dry sticks, as the rabbits could see, when they peeped through the window. Benjamin sighed with relief. But there were preparations upon the kitchen table which made him shudder. There was an immense empty pie-dish of blue willow pattern, and a large carving knife and fork, and a chopper. At the other end of the table was a partly unfolded tablecloth, a plate, a tumbler, a knife and fork, salt-cellar, mustard and a chair--in short, preparations for one person's supper. No person was to be seen, and no young rabbits. The kitchen was empty and silent; the clock had run down. Peter and Benjamin flattened their noses against the window, and stared into the dusk. Then they scrambled round the rocks to the other side of the house. It was damp and smelly, and over-grown with thorns and briars. The rabbits shivered in their shoes. "Oh my poor rabbit babies! What a dreadful place; I shall never see them again!" sighed Benjamin. They crept up to the bedroom window. It was closed and bolted like the kitchen. But there were signs that this window had been recently open; the cobwebs were disturbed, and there were fresh dirty footmarks upon the window-sill. The room inside was so dark, that at first they could make out nothing; but they could hear a noise--a slow deep regular snoring grunt. And as their eyes became accustomed to the darkness, they perceived that somebody was asleep on Mr. Tod's bed, curled up under the blanket.--"He has gone to bed in his boots," whispered Peter. Benjamin, who was all of a twitter, pulled Peter off the window-sill. Tommy Brock's snores continued, grunty and regular from Mr. Tod's bed. Nothing could be seen of the young family. The sun had set; an owl began to hoot in the wood. There were many unpleasant things lying about, that had much better have been buried; rabbit bones and skulls, and chickens' legs and other horrors. It was a shocking place, and very dark. They went back to the front of the house, and tried in every way to move the bolt of the kitchen window. They tried to push up a rusty nail between the window sashes; but it was of no use, especially without a light. They sat side by side outside the window, whispering and listening. In half an hour the moon rose over the wood. It shone full and clear and cold, upon the house amongst the rocks, and in at the kitchen window. But alas, no little rabbit babies were to be seen! The moonbeams twinkled on the carving knife and the pie dish, and made a path of brightness across the dirty floor. The light showed a little door in a wall beside the kitchen fireplace--a little iron door belonging to a brick oven, of that old-fashioned sort that used to be heated with faggots of wood. And presently at the same moment Peter and Benjamin noticed that whenever they shook the window--the little door opposite shook in answer. The young family were alive; shut up in the oven! Benjamin was so excited that it was a mercy he did not awake Tommy Brock, whose snores continued solemnly in Mr. Tod's bed. But there really was not very much comfort in the discovery. They could not open the window; and although the young family was alive--the little rabbits were quite incapable of letting themselves out; they were not old enough to crawl. After much whispering, Peter and Benjamin decided to dig a tunnel. They began to burrow a yard or two lower down the bank. They hoped that they might be able to work between the large stones under the house; the kitchen floor was so dirty that it was impossible to say whether it was made of earth or flags. They dug and dug for hours. They could not tunnel straight on account of stones; but by the end of the night they were under the kitchen floor. Benjamin was on his back, scratching upwards. Peter's claws were worn down; he was outside the tunnel, shuffling sand away. He called out that it was morning--sunrise; and that the jays were making a noise down below in the woods. Benjamin Bunny came out of the dark tunnel, shaking the sand from his ears; he cleaned his face with his paws. Every minute the sun shone warmer on the top of the hill. In the valley there was a sea of white mist, with golden tops of trees showing through. Again from the fields down below in the mist there came the angry cry of a jay--followed by the sharp yelping bark of a fox! Then those two rabbits lost their heads completely. They did the most foolish thing that they could have done. They rushed into their short new tunnel, and hid themselves at the top end of it, under Mr. Tod's kitchen floor. Mr. Tod was coming up Bull Banks, and he was in the very worst of tempers. First he had been upset by breaking the plate. It was his own fault; but it was a china plate, the last of the dinner service that had belonged to his grandmother, old Vixen Tod. Then the midges had been very bad. And he had failed to catch a hen pheasant on her nest; and it had contained only five eggs, two of them addled. Mr. Tod had had an unsatisfactory night. As usual, when out of humour, he determined to move house. First he tried the pollard willow, but it was damp; and the otters had left a dead fish near it. Mr. Tod likes nobody's leavings but his own. He made his way up the hill; his temper was not improved by noticing unmistakable marks of badger. No one else grubs up the moss so wantonly as Tommy Brock. Mr. Tod slapped his stick upon the earth and fumed; he guessed where Tommy Brock had gone to. He was further annoyed by the jay bird which followed him persistently. It flew from tree to tree and scolded, warning every rabbit within hearing that either a cat or a fox was coming up the plantation. Once when it flew screaming over his head--Mr. Tod snapped at it, and barked. He approached his house very carefully, with a large rusty key. He sniffed and his whiskers bristled. The house was locked up, but Mr. Tod had his doubts whether it was empty. He turned the rusty key in the lock; the rabbits below could hear it. Mr. Tod opened the door cautiously and went in. The sight that met Mr. Tod's eyes in Mr. Tod's kitchen made Mr. Tod furious. There was Mr. Tod's chair, and Mr. Tod's pie dish, and his knife and fork and mustard and salt cellar and his table-cloth that he had left folded up in the dresser--all set out for supper (or breakfast)--without doubt for that odious Tommy Brock. There was a smell of fresh earth and dirty badger, which fortunately overpowered all smell of rabbit. But what absorbed Mr. Tod's attention was a noise--a deep slow regular snoring grunting noise, coming from his own bed. He peeped through the hinges of the half-open bedroom door. Then he turned and came out of the house in a hurry. His whiskers bristled and his coat-collar stood on end with rage. For the next twenty minutes Mr. Tod kept creeping cautiously into the house, and retreating hurriedly out again. By degrees he ventured further in--right into the bedroom. When he was outside the house, he scratched up the earth with fury. But when he was inside--he did not like the look of Tommy Brock's teeth. He was lying on his back with his mouth open, grinning from ear to ear. He snored peacefully and regularly; but one eye was not perfectly shut. Mr. Tod came in and out of the bedroom. Twice he brought in his walking-stick, and once he brought in the coal-scuttle. But he thought better of it, and took them away. When he came back after removing the coal-scuttle, Tommy Brock was lying a little more sideways; but he seemed even sounder asleep. He was an incurably indolent person; he was not in the least afraid of Mr. Tod; he was simply too lazy and comfortable to move. Mr. Tod came back yet again into the bedroom with a clothes line. He stood a minute watching Tommy Brock and listening attentively to the snores. They were very loud indeed, but seemed quite natural. Mr. Tod turned his back towards the bed, and undid the window. It creaked; he turned round with a jump. Tommy Brock, who had opened one eye--shut it hastily. The snores continued. Mr. Tod's proceedings were peculiar, and rather uneasy, (because the bed was between the window and the door of the bedroom). He opened the window a little way, and pushed out the greater part of the clothes line on to the window sill. The rest of the line, with a hook at the end, remained in his hand. Tommy Brock snored conscientiously. Mr. Tod stood and looked at him for a minute; then he left the room again. Tommy Brock opened both eyes, and looked at the rope and grinned. There was a noise outside the window. Tommy Brock shut his eyes in a hurry. Mr. Tod had gone out at the front door, and round to the back of the house. On the way, he stumbled over the rabbit burrow. If he had had any idea who was inside it, he would have pulled them out quickly. His foot went through the tunnel nearly upon the top of Peter Rabbit and Benjamin, but fortunately he thought that it was some more of Tommy Brock's work. He took up the coil of line from the sill, listened for a moment, and then tied the rope to a tree. Tommy Brock watched him with one eye, through the window. He was puzzled. Mr. Tod fetched a large heavy pailful of water from the spring, and staggered with it through the kitchen into his bedroom. Tommy Brock snored industriously, with rather a snort. Mr. Tod put down the pail beside the bed, took up the end of rope with the hook--hesitated, and looked at Tommy Brock. The snores were almost apoplectic; but the grin was not quite so big. Mr. Tod gingerly mounted a chair by the head of the bedstead. His legs were dangerously near to Tommy Brock's teeth. He reached up and put the end of rope, with the hook, over the head of the tester bed, where the curtains ought to hang. (Mr. Tod's curtains were folded up, and put away, owing to the house being unoccupied. So was the counterpane. Tommy Brock was covered with a blanket only.) Mr. Tod standing on the unsteady chair looked down upon him attentively; he really was a first prize sound sleeper! It seemed as though nothing would waken him--not even the flapping rope across the bed. Mr. Tod descended safely from the chair, and endeavoured to get up again with the pail of water. He intended to hang it from the hook, dangling over the head of Tommy Brock, in order to make a sort of shower-bath, worked by a string, through the window. But naturally being a thin-legged person (though vindictive and sandy whiskered)--he was quite unable to lift the heavy weight to the level of the hook and rope. He very nearly overbalanced himself. The snores became more and more apoplectic. One of Tommy Brock's hind legs twitched under the blanket, but still he slept on peacefully. Mr. Tod and the pail descended from the chair without accident. After considerable thought, he emptied the water into a wash-basin and jug. The empty pail was not too heavy for him; he slung it up wobbling over the head of Tommy Brock. Surely there never was such a sleeper! Mr. Tod got up and down, down and up on the chair. As he could not lift the whole pailful of water at once, he fetched a milk jug, and ladled quarts of water into the pail by degrees. The pail got fuller and fuller, and swung like a pendulum. Occasionally a drop splashed over; but still Tommy Brock snored regularly and never moved,--except one eye. At last Mr. Tod's preparations were complete. The pail was full of water; the rope was tightly strained over the top of the bed, and across the window sill to the tree outside. "It will make a great mess in my bedroom; but I could never sleep in that bed again without a spring cleaning of some sort," said Mr. Tod. Mr. Tod took a last look at the badger and softly left the room. He went out of the house, shutting the front door. The rabbits heard his footsteps over the tunnel. He ran round behind the house, intending to undo the rope in order to let fall the pailful of water upon Tommy Brock-- "I will wake him up with an unpleasant surprise," said Mr. Tod. The moment he had gone, Tommy Brock got up in a hurry; he rolled Mr. Tod's dressing-gown into a bundle, put it into the bed beneath the pail of water instead of himself, and left the room also--grinning immensely. He went into the kitchen, lighted the fire and boiled the kettle; for the moment he did not trouble himself to cook the baby rabbits. When Mr. Tod got to the tree, he found that the weight and strain had dragged the knot so tight that it was past untying. He was obliged to gnaw it with his teeth. He chewed and gnawed for more than twenty minutes. At last the rope gave way with such a sudden jerk that it nearly pulled his teeth out, and quite knocked him over backwards. Inside the house there was a great crash and splash, and the noise of a pail rolling over and over. But no screams. Mr. Tod was mystified; he sat quite still, and listened attentively. Then he peeped in at the window. The water was dripping from the bed, the pail had rolled into a corner. In the middle of the bed under the blanket, was a wet flattened SOMETHING--much dinged in, in the middle where the pail had caught it (as it were across the tummy). Its head was covered by the wet blanket and it was NOT SNORING ANY LONGER. There was nothing stirring, and no sound except the drip, drop, drop drip of water trickling from the mattress. Mr. Tod watched it for half an hour; his eyes glistened. Then he cut a caper, and became so bold that he even tapped at the window; but the bundle never moved. Yes--there was no doubt about it--it had turned out even better than he had planned; the pail had hit poor old Tommy Brock, and killed him dead! "I will bury that nasty person in the hole which he has dug. I will bring my bedding out, and dry it in the sun," said Mr. Tod. "I will wash the tablecloth and spread it on the grass in the sun to bleach. And the blanket must be hung up in the wind; and the bed must be thoroughly disinfected, and aired with a warming-pan; and warmed with a hot-water bottle." "I will get soft soap, and monkey soap, and all sorts of soap; and soda and scrubbing brushes; and persian powder; and carbolic to remove the smell. I must have a disinfecting. Perhaps I may have to burn sulphur." He hurried round the house to get a shovel from the kitchen--"First I will arrange the hole--then I will drag out that person in the blanket ..." He opened the door.... Tommy Brock was sitting at Mr. Tod's kitchen table, pouring out tea from Mr. Tod's tea-pot into Mr. Tod's tea-cup. He was quite dry himself and grinning; and he threw the cup of scalding tea all over Mr. Tod. Then Mr. Tod rushed upon Tommy Brock, and Tommy Brock grappled with Mr. Tod amongst the broken crockery, and there was a terrific battle all over the kitchen. To the rabbits underneath it sounded as if the floor would give way at each crash of falling furniture. They crept out of their tunnel, and hung about amongst the rocks and bushes, listening anxiously. Inside the house the racket was fearful. The rabbit babies in the oven woke up trembling; perhaps it was fortunate they were shut up inside. Everything was upset except the kitchen table. And everything was broken, except the mantelpiece and the kitchen fender. The crockery was smashed to atoms. The chairs were broken, and the window, and the clock fell with a crash, and there were handfuls of Mr. Tod's sandy whiskers. The vases fell off the mantelpiece, the canisters fell off the shelf; the kettle fell off the hob. Tommy Brock put his foot in a jar of raspberry Jam. And the boiling water out of the kettle fell upon the tail of Mr. Tod. When the kettle fell, Tommy Brock, who was still grinning, happened to be uppermost; and he rolled Mr. Tod over and over like a log, out at the door. Then the snarling and worrying went on outside; and they rolled over the bank, and down hill, bumping over the rocks. There will never be any love lost between Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod. As soon as the coast was clear Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny came out of the bushes-- "Now for it! Run in, Cousin Benjamin! Run in and get them while I watch at the door." But Benjamin was frightened-- "Oh; oh! they are coming back!" "No they are not." "Yes they are!" "What dreadful bad language! I think they have fallen down the stone quarry." Still Benjamin hesitated, and Peter kept pushing him-- "Be quick, it's all right. Shut the oven door, Cousin Benjamin, so that he won't miss them." Decidedly there were lively doings in Mr. Tod's kitchen! At home in the rabbit hole, things had not been quite comfortable. After quarrelling at supper, Flopsy and old Mr. Bouncer had passed a sleepless night, and quarrelled again at breakfast. Old Mr. Bouncer could no longer deny that he had invited company into the rabbit hole; but he refused to reply to the questions and reproaches of Flopsy. The day passed heavily. Old Mr. Bouncer, very sulky, was huddled up in a corner, barricaded with a chair. Flopsy had taken away his pipe and hidden the tobacco. She had been having a complete turn out and spring-cleaning, to relieve her feelings. She had just finished. Old Mr. Bouncer, behind his chair, was wondering anxiously what she would do next. In Mr. Tod's kitchen, amongst the wreckage, Benjamin Bunny picked his way to the oven nervously, through a thick cloud of dust. He opened the oven door, felt inside, and found something warm and wriggling. He lifted it out carefully, and rejoined Peter Rabbit. "I've got them! Can we get away? Shall we hide, Cousin Peter?" Peter pricked his ears; distant sounds of fighting still echoed in the wood. Five minutes afterwards two breathless rabbits came scuttering away down Bull Banks, half carrying half dragging a sack between them, bumpetty bump over the grass. They reached home safely and burst into the rabbit hole. Great was old Mr. Bouncer's relief and Flopsy's joy when Peter and Benjamin arrived in triumph with the young family. The rabbit-babies were rather tumbled and very hungry; they were fed and put to bed. They soon recovered. A long new pipe and a fresh supply of rabbit tobacco was presented to Mr. Bouncer. He was rather upon his dignity; but he accepted. Old Mr. Bouncer was forgiven, and they all had dinner. Then Peter and Benjamin told their story--but they had not waited long enough to be able to tell the end of the battle between Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod. THE END THE TALE OF MRS. TIGGY-WINKLE for THE REAL LITTLE LUCIE OF NEWLANDS ONCE upon a time there was a little girl called Lucie, who lived at a farm called Little-town. She was a good little girl--only she was always losing her pocket-handkerchiefs! One day little Lucie came into the farm-yard crying--oh, she did cry so! "I've lost my pocket-handkin! Three handkins and a pinny! Have YOU seen them, Tabby Kitten?" THE Kitten went on washing her white paws; so Lucie asked a speckled hen-- "Sally Henny-penny, has YOU found three pocket-handkins?" But the speckled hen ran into a barn, clucking-- "I go barefoot, barefoot, barefoot!" AND then Lucie asked Cock Robin sitting on a twig. Cock Robin looked sideways at Lucie with his bright black eye, and he flew over a stile and away. Lucie climbed upon the stile and looked up at the hill behind Little-town--a hill that goes up--up--into the clouds as though it had no top! And a great way up the hillside she thought she saw some white things spread upon the grass. LUCIE scrambled up the hill as fast as her stout legs would carry her; she ran along a steep path-way--up and up--until Little-town was right away down below--she could have dropped a pebble down the chimney! PRESENTLY she came to a spring, bubbling out from the hill-side. Some one had stood a tin can upon a stone to catch the water--but the water was already running over, for the can was no bigger than an egg-cup! And where the sand upon the path was wet--there were foot-marks of a VERY small person. Lucie ran on, and on. THE path ended under a big rock. The grass was short and green, and there were clothes-props cut from bracken stems, with lines of plaited rushes, and a heap of tiny clothes pins--but no pocket-handkerchiefs! But there was something else--a door! straight into the hill; and inside it some one was singing-- "Lily-white and clean, oh! With little frills between, oh! Smooth and hot--red rusty spot Never here be seen, oh!" LUCIE, knocked--once--twice, and interrupted the song. A little frightened voice called out "Who's that?" Lucie opened the door: and what do you think there was inside the hill?--a nice clean kitchen with a flagged floor and wooden beams--just like any other farm kitchen. Only the ceiling was so low that Lucie's head nearly touched it; and the pots and pans were small, and so was everything there. THERE was a nice hot singey smell; and at the table, with an iron in her hand stood a very stout short person staring anxiously at Lucie. Her print gown was tucked up, and she was wearing a large apron over her striped petticoat. Her little black nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went twinkle, twinkle; and underneath her cap--where Lucie had yellow curls--that little person had PRICKLES! "WHO are you?" said Lucie. "Have you seen my pocket-handkins?" The little person made a bob-curtsey--"Oh, yes, if you please'm; my name is Mrs. Tiggy-winkle; oh, yes if you please'm, I'm an excellent clear-starcher!" And she took something out of a clothes-basket, and spread it on the ironing-blanket. "WHAT'S that thing?" said Lucie--"that's not my pocket-handkin?" "Oh no, if you please'm; that's a little scarlet waist-coat belonging to Cock Robin!" And she ironed it and folded it, and put it on one side. THEN she took something else off a clothes-horse--"That isn't my pinny?" said Lucie. "Oh no, if you please'm; that's a damask table-cloth belonging to Jenny Wren; look how it's stained with currant wine! It's very bad to wash!" said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle. MRS. TIGGY-WINKLE'S nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went twinkle, twinkle; and she fetched another hot iron from the fire. "THERE'S one of my pocket-handkins!" cried Lucie--"and there's my pinny!" Mrs. Tiggy-winkle ironed it, and goffered it, and shook out the frills. "Oh that IS lovely!" said Lucie. "AND what are those long yellow things with fingers like gloves?" "Oh, that's a pair of stockings belonging to Sally Henny-penny--look how she's worn the heels out with scratching in the yard! She'll very soon go barefoot!" said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle. "WHY, there's another handkersniff--but it isn't mine; it's red?" "Oh no, if you please'm; that one belongs to old Mrs. Rabbit; and it DID so smell of onions! I've had to wash it separately, I can't get out the smell." "There's another one of mine," said Lucie. "WHAT are those funny little white things?" "That's a pair of mittens belonging to Tabby Kitten; I only have to iron them; she washes them herself." "There's my last pocket-handkin!" said Lucie. "AND what are you dipping into the basin of starch?" "They're little dicky shirt-fronts belonging to Tom Titmouse--most terrible particular!" said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle. "Now I've finished my ironing; I'm going to air some clothes." "WHAT are these dear soft fluffy things?" said Lucie. "Oh those are wooly coats belonging to the little lambs at Skelghyl." "Will their jackets take off?" asked Lucy. "Oh yes, if you please'm; look at the sheep-mark on the shoulder. And here's one marked for Gatesgarth, and three that come from Little-town. They're ALWAYS marked at washing!" said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle. AND she hung up all sorts and sizes of clothes--small brown coats of mice; and one velvety black mole-skin waist-coat; and a red tail-coat with no tail belonging to Squirrel Nutkin; and a very much shrunk blue jacket belonging to Peter Rabbit; and a petticoat, not marked, that had gone lost in the washing--and at last the basket was empty! THEN Mrs. Tiggy-winkle made tea--a cup for herself and a cup for Lucie. They sat before the fire on a bench and looked sideways at one another. Mrs. Tiggy-winkle's hand, holding the tea-cup, was very very brown, and very very wrinkly with the soap-suds; and all through her gown and her cap, there were HAIR-PINS sticking wrong end out; so that Lucie didn't like to sit too near her. WHEN they had finished tea, they tied up the clothes in bundles; and Lucie's pocket-handkerchiefs were folded up inside her clean pinny, and fastened with a silver safety-pin. And then they made up the fire with turf, and came out and locked the door, and hid the key under the door-sill. THEN away down the hill trotted Lucie and Mrs. Tiggy-winkle with the bundles of clothes! All the way down the path little animals came out of the fern to meet them; the very first that they met were Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny! AND she gave them their nice clean clothes; and all the little animals and birds were so very much obliged to dear Mrs. Tiggy-winkle. SO that at the bottom of the hill when they came to the stile, there was nothing left to carry except Lucie's one little bundle. LUCIE scrambled up the stile with the bundle in her hand; and then she turned to say "Good-night," and to thank the washer-woman--But what a VERY odd thing! Mrs. Tiggy-winkle had not waited either for thanks or for the washing bill! She was running running running up the hill--and where was her white frilled cap? and her shawl? and her gown--and her petticoat? AND how small she had grown--and how brown--and covered with PRICKLES! Why! Mrs. Tiggy-winkle was nothing but a HEDGEHOG. * * * * (Now some people say that little Lucie had been asleep upon the stile--but then how could she have found three clean pocket-handkins and a pinny, pinned with a silver safety-pin? And besides--_I_ have seen that door into the back of the hill called Cat Bells--and besides _I_ am very well acquainted with dear Mrs. Tiggy-winkle!) THE TALE OF GINGER & PICKLES ONCE upon a time there was a village shop. The name over the window was "Ginger and Pickles." It was a little small shop just the right size for Dolls--Lucinda and Jane Doll-cook always bought their groceries at Ginger and Pickles. The counter inside was a convenient height for rabbits. Ginger and Pickles sold red spotty pocket-handkerchiefs at a penny three farthings. They also sold sugar, and snuff and galoshes. In fact, although it was such a small shop it sold nearly everything --except a few things that you want in a hurry--like bootlaces, hair-pins and mutton chops. Ginger and Pickles were the people who kept the shop. Ginger was a yellow tom-cat, and Pickles was a terrier. The rabbits were always a little bit afraid of Pickles. The shop was also patronized by mice--only the mice were rather afraid of Ginger. Ginger usually requested Pickles to serve them, because he said it made his mouth water. "I cannot bear," said he, "to see them going out at the door carrying their little parcels." "I have the same feeling about rats," replied Pickles, "but it would never do to eat our own customers; they would leave us and go to Tabitha Twitchit's." "On the contrary, they would go nowhere," replied Ginger gloomily. (Tabitha Twitchit kept the only other shop in the village. She did not give credit.) Ginger and Pickles gave unlimited credit. Now the meaning of "credit" is this--when a customer buys a bar of soap, instead of the customer pulling out a purse and paying for it--she says she will pay another time. And Pickles makes a low bow and says, "With pleasure, madam," and it is written down in a book. The customers come again and again, and buy quantities, in spite of being afraid of Ginger and Pickles. But there is no money in what is called the "till." The customers came in crowds every day and bought quantities, especially the toffee customers. But there was always no money; they never paid for as much as a pennyworth of peppermints. But the sales were enormous, ten times as large as Tabitha Twitchit's. As there was always no money, Ginger and Pickles were obliged to eat their own goods. Pickles ate biscuits and Ginger ate a dried haddock. They ate them by candle-light after the shop was closed. When it came to Jan. 1st there was still no money, and Pickles was unable to buy a dog licence. "It is very unpleasant, I am afraid of the police," said Pickles. "It is your own fault for being a terrier; _I_ do not require a licence, and neither does Kep, the Collie dog." "It is very uncomfortable, I am afraid I shall be summoned. I have tried in vain to get a licence upon credit at the Post Office;" said Pickles. "The place is full of policemen. I met one as I was coming home." "Let us send in the bill again to Samuel Whiskers, Ginger, he owes 22/9 for bacon." "I do not believe that he intends to pay at all," replied Ginger. "And I feel sure that Anna Maria pockets things--Where are all the cream crackers?" "You have eaten them yourself," replied Ginger. Ginger and Pickles retired into the back parlour. They did accounts. They added up sums and sums, and sums. "Samuel Whiskers has run up a bill as long as his tail; he has had an ounce and three-quarters of snuff since October." "What is seven pounds of butter at 1/3, and a stick of sealing wax and four matches?" "Send in all the bills again to everybody 'with compts'" replied Ginger. After a time they heard a noise in the shop, as if something had been pushed in at the door. They came out of the back parlour. There was an envelope lying on the counter, and a policeman writing in a note-book! Pickles nearly had a fit, he barked and he barked and made little rushes. "Bite him, Pickles! bite him!" spluttered Ginger behind a sugar-barrel, "he's only a German doll!" The policeman went on writing in his notebook; twice he put his pencil in his mouth, and once he dipped it in the treacle. Pickles barked till he was hoarse. But still the policeman took no notice. He had bead eyes, and his helmet was sewed on with stitches. At length on his last little rush--Pickles found that the shop was empty. The policeman had disappeared. But the envelope remained. "Do you think that he has gone to fetch a real live policeman? I am afraid it is a summons," said Pickles. "No," replied Ginger, who had opened the envelope, "it is the rates and taxes, L 3 19 11 3/4." "This is the last straw," said Pickles, "let us close the shop." They put up the shutters, and left. But they have not removed from the neighbourhood. In fact some people wish they had gone further. Ginger is living in the warren. I do not know what occupation he pursues; he looks stout and comfortable. Pickles is at present a gamekeeper. The closing of the shop caused great inconvenience. Tabitha Twitchit immediately raised the price of everything a half-penny; and she continued to refuse to give credit. Of course there are the trades-men's carts--the butcher, the fishman and Timothy Baker. But a person cannot live on "seed wigs" and sponge-cake and butter-buns--not even when the sponge-cake is as good as Timothy's! After a time Mr. John Dormouse and his daughter began to sell peppermints and candles. But they did not keep "self-fitting sixes"; and it takes five mice to carry one seven inch candle. Besides--the candles which they sell behave very strangely in warm weather. And Miss Dormouse refused to take back the ends when they were brought back to her with complaints. And when Mr. John Dormouse was complained to, he stayed in bed, and would say nothing but "very snug;" which is not the way to carry on a retail business. So everybody was pleased when Sally Henny Penny sent out a printed poster to say that she was going to re-open the shop--"Henny's Opening Sale! Grand co-operative Jumble! Penny's penny prices! Come buy, come try, come buy!" The poster really was most 'ticing. There was a rush upon the opening day. The shop was crammed with customers, and there were crowds of mice upon the biscuit canisters. Sally Henny Penny gets rather flustered when she tries to count out change, and she insists on being paid cash; but she is quite harmless. And she has laid in a remarkable assortment of bargains. There is something to please everybody. THE END THE STORY OF MISS MOPPET THIS is a Pussy called Miss Moppet, she thinks she has heard a mouse! THIS is the Mouse peeping out behind the cupboard, and making fun of Miss Moppet. He is not afraid of a kitten. THIS is Miss Moppet jumping just too late; she misses the Mouse and hits her own head. SHE thinks it is a very hard cupboard! THE Mouse watches Miss Moppet from the top of the cupboard. MISS MOPPET ties up her head in a duster, and sits before the fire. THE Mouse thinks she is looking very ill. He comes sliding down the bell-pull. MISS MOPPET looks worse and worse. The Mouse comes a little nearer. MISS MOPPET holds her poor head in her paws, and looks at him through a hole in the duster. The Mouse comes VERY close. AND then all of a sudden--Miss Moppet jumps upon the Mouse! AND because the Mouse has teased Miss Moppet--Miss Moppet thinks she will tease the Mouse; which is not at all nice of Miss Moppet. SHE ties him up in the duster, and tosses it about like a ball. BUT she forgot about that hole in the duster; and when she untied it--there was no Mouse! HE has wriggled out and run away; and he is dancing a jig on the top of the cupboard! THE END THE TALE OF MR. JEREMY FISHER FOR STEPHANIE FROM COUSIN B. ONCE upon a time there was a frog called Mr. Jeremy Fisher; he lived in a little damp house amongst the buttercups at the edge of a pond. THE water was all slippy-sloppy in the larder and in the back passage. But Mr. Jeremy liked getting his feet wet; nobody ever scolded him, and he never caught a cold! HE was quite pleased when he looked out and saw large drops of rain, splashing in the pond-- "I WILL get some worms and go fishing and catch a dish of minnows for my dinner," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. "If I catch more than five fish, I will invite my friends Mr. Alderman Ptolemy Tortoise and Sir Isaac Newton. The Alderman, however, eats salad." MR. JEREMY put on a macintosh, and a pair of shiny goloshes; he took his rod and basket, and set off with enormous hops to the place where he kept his boat. THE boat was round and green, and very like the other lily-leaves. It was tied to a water-plant in the middle of the pond. MR. JEREMY took a reed pole, and pushed the boat out into open water. "I know a good place for minnows," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. MR. JEREMY stuck his pole into the mud and fastened his boat to it. Then he settled himself cross-legged and arranged his fishing tackle. He had the dearest little red float. His rod was a tough stalk of grass, his line was a fine long white horse-hair, and he tied a little wriggling worm at the end. THE rain trickled down his back, and for nearly an hour he stared at the float. "This is getting tiresome, I think I should like some lunch," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. HE punted back again amongst the water-plants, and took some lunch out of his basket. "I will eat a butterfly sandwich, and wait till the shower is over," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. A GREAT big water-beetle came up underneath the lily leaf and tweaked the toe of one of his goloshes. Mr. Jeremy crossed his legs up shorter, out of reach, and went on eating his sandwich. ONCE or twice something moved about with a rustle and a splash amongst the rushes at the side of the pond. "I trust that is not a rat," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher; "I think I had better get away from here." MR. JEREMY shoved the boat out again a little way, and dropped in the bait. There was a bite almost directly; the float gave a tremendous bobbit! "A minnow! a minnow! I have him by the nose!" cried Mr. Jeremy Fisher, jerking up his rod. BUT what a horrible surprise! Instead of a smooth fat minnow, Mr. Jeremy landed little Jack Sharp the stickleback, covered with spines! THE stickleback floundered about the boat, pricking and snapping until he was quite out of breath. Then he jumped back into the water. AND a shoal of other little fishes put their heads out, and laughed at Mr. Jeremy Fisher. AND while Mr. Jeremy sat disconsolately on the edge of his boat--sucking his sore fingers and peering down into the water--a MUCH worse thing happened; a really FRIGHTFUL thing it would have been, if Mr. Jeremy had not been wearing a macintosh! A GREAT big enormous trout came up--ker-pflop-p-p-p! with a splash--and it seized Mr. Jeremy with a snap, "Ow! Ow! Ow!"--and then it turned and dived down to the bottom of the pond! BUT the trout was so displeased with the taste of the macintosh, that in less than half a minute it spat him out again; and the only thing it swallowed was Mr. Jeremy's goloshes. MR. JEREMY bounced up to the surface of the water, like a cork and the bubbles out of a soda water bottle; and he swam with all his might to the edge of the pond. HE scrambled out on the first bank he came to, and he hopped home across the meadow with his macintosh all in tatters. "WHAT a mercy that was not a pike!" said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. "I have lost my rod and basket; but it does not much matter, for I am sure I should never have dared to go fishing again!" HE put some sticking plaster on his fingers, and his friends both came to dinner. He could not offer them fish, but he had something else in his larder. SIR ISAAC NEWTON wore his black and gold waistcoat, AND Mr. Alderman Ptolemy Tortoise brought a salad with him in a string bag. AND instead of a nice dish of minnows--they had a roasted grasshopper with lady-bird sauce; which frogs consider a beautiful treat; but _I_ think it must have been nasty! THE END THE TALE OF TIMMY TIPTOES FOR MANY UNKNOWN LITTLE FRIENDS, INCLUDING MONICA ONCE upon a time there was a little fat comfortable grey squirrel, called Timmy Tiptoes. He had a nest thatched with leaves in the top of a tall tree; and he had a little squirrel wife called Goody. TIMMY TIPTOES sat out, enjoying the breeze; he whisked his tail and chuckled--"Little wife Goody, the nuts are ripe; we must lay up a store for winter and spring." Goody Tiptoes was busy pushing moss under the thatch--"The nest is so snug, we shall be sound asleep all winter." "Then we shall wake up all the thinner, when there is nothing to eat in spring-time," replied prudent Timothy. WHEN Timmy and Goody Tiptoes came to the nut thicket, they found other squirrels were there already. Timmy took off his jacket and hung it on a twig; they worked away quietly by themselves. EVERY day they made several journeys and picked quantities of nuts. They carried them away in bags, and stored them in several hollow stumps near the tree where they had built their nest. WHEN these stumps were full, they began to empty the bags into a hole high up a tree, that had belonged to a wood-pecker; the nuts rattled down--down--down inside. "How shall you ever get them out again? It is like a money-box!" said Goody. "I shall be much thinner before spring-time, my love," said Timmy Tiptoes, peeping into the hole. THEY did collect quantities--because they did not lose them! Squirrels who bury their nuts in the ground lose more than half, because they cannot remember the place. The most forgetful squirrel in the wood was called Silvertail. He began to dig, and he could not remember. And then he dug again and found some nuts that did not belong to him; and there was a fight. And other squirrels began to dig,--the whole wood was in commotion! UNFORTUNATELY, just at this time a flock of little birds flew by, from bush to bush, searching for green caterpillars and spiders. There were several sorts of little birds, twittering different songs. The first one sang--"Who's bin digging-up MY nuts? Who's-been-digging-up MY nuts?" And another sang--"Little bita bread and-NO-cheese! Little bit-a-bread an'-NO-cheese!" THE squirrels followed and listened. The first little bird flew into the bush where Timmy and Goody Tiptoes were quietly tying up their bags, and it sang--"Who's-bin digging-up MY nuts? Who's been digging-up MY-nuts?" Timmy Tiptoes went on with his work without replying; indeed, the little bird did not expect an answer. It was only singing its natural song, and it meant nothing at all. BUT when the other squirrels heard that song, they rushed upon Timmy Tiptoes and cuffed and scratched him, and upset his bag of nuts. The innocent little bird which had caused all the mischief, flew away in a fright! Timmy rolled over and over, and then turned tail and fled towards his nest, followed by a crowd of squirrels shouting--"Who's-been digging-up MY-nuts?" THEY caught him and dragged him up the very same tree, where there was the little round hole, and they pushed him in. The hole was much too small for Timmy Tiptoes' figure. They squeezed him dreadfully, it was a wonder they did not break his ribs. "We will leave him here till he confesses," said Silvertail Squirrel, and he shouted into the hole-- "Who's-been-digging-up MY-nuts?" TIMMY TIPTOES made no reply; he had tumbled down inside the tree, upon half a peck of nuts belonging to himself. He lay quite stunned and still. GOODY TIPTOES picked up the nut bags and went home. She made a cup of tea for Timmy; but he didn't come and didn't come. Goody Tiptoes passed a lonely and unhappy night. Next morning she ventured back to the nut-bushes to look for him; but the other unkind squirrels drove her away. She wandered all over the wood, calling-- "Timmy Tiptoes! Timmy Tiptoes! Oh, where is Timmy Tiptoes?" IN the meantime Timmy Tiptoes came to his senses. He found himself tucked up in a little moss bed, very much in the dark, feeling sore; it seemed to be under ground. Timmy coughed and groaned, because his ribs hurted him. There was a chirpy noise, and a small striped Chipmunk appeared with a night light, and hoped he felt better? It was most kind to Timmy Tiptoes; it lent him its nightcap; and the house was full of provisions. THE Chipmunk explained that it had rained nuts through the top of the tree--"Besides, I found a few buried!" It laughed and chuckled when it heard Timmy's story. While Timmy was confined to bed, it 'ticed him to eat quantities--"But how shall I ever get out through that hole unless I thin myself? My wife will be anxious!" "Just another nut--or two nuts; let me crack them for you," said the Chipmunk. Timmy Tiptoes grew fatter and fatter! NOW Goody Tiptoes had set to work again by herself. She did not put any more nuts into the woodpecker's hole, because she had always doubted how they could be got out again. She hid them under a tree root; they rattled down, down, down. Once when Goody emptied an extra big bagful, there was a decided squeak; and next time Goody brought another bagful, a little striped Chipmunk scrambled out in a hurry. "IT is getting perfectly full-up down-stairs; the sitting-room is full, and they are rolling along the passage; and my husband, Chippy Hackee, has run away and left me. What is the explanation of these showers of nuts?" "I am sure I beg your pardon; I did not not know that anybody lived here," said Mrs. Goody Tiptoes; "but where is Chippy Hackee? My husband, Timmy Tiptoes, has run away too." "I know where Chippy is; a little bird told me," said Mrs. Chippy Hackee. SHE led the way to the woodpecker's tree, and they listened at the hole. Down below there was a noise of nut crackers, and a fat squirrel voice and a thin squirrel voice were singing together-- "My little old man and I fell out, How shall we bring this matter about? Bring it about as well as you can, And get you gone, you little old man!" "You could squeeze in, through that little round hole," said Goody Tiptoes. "Yes, I could," said the Chipmunk, "but my husband, Chippy Hackee, bites!" Down below there was a noise of cracking nuts and nibbling; and then the fat squirrel voice and the thin squirrel voice sang-- "For the diddlum day Day diddle dum di! Day diddle diddle dum day!" THEN Goody peeped in at the hole, and called down--"Timmy Tiptoes! Oh fie, Timmy Tiptoes!" And Timmy replied, "Is that you, Goody Tiptoes? Why, certainly!" He came up and kissed Goody through the hole; but he was so fat that he could not get out. Chippy Hackee was not too fat, but he did not want to come; he stayed down below and chuckled. AND so it went on for a fortnight; till a big wind blew off the top of the tree, and opened up the hole and let in the rain. Then Timmy Tiptoes came out, and went home with an umbrella. BUT Chippy Hackee continued to camp out for another week, although it was uncomfortable. AT last a large bear came walking through the wood. Perhaps he also was looking for nuts; he seemed to be sniffing around. CHIPPY HACKEE went home in a hurry! AND when Chippy Hackee got home, he found he had caught a cold in his head; and he was more uncomfortable still. And now Timmy and Goody Tiptoes keep their nut-store fastened up with a little padlock. AND whenever that little bird sees the Chipmunks, he sings--"Who's-been-digging-up MY-nuts? Who's been digging-up MY-nuts?" But nobody ever answers! THE END THE PIE AND THE PATTY-PAN Pussy-cat sits by the fire--how should she be fair? In walks the little dog--says "Pussy are you there? How do you do mistress Pussy? Mistress Pussy, how do you do?" "I thank you kindly, little dog, I fare as well as you!" Old Rhyme. ONCE upon a time there was a Pussy-cat called Ribby, who invited a little dog called Duchess to tea. "Come in good time, my dear Duchess," said Ribby's letter, "and we will have something so very nice. I am baking it in a pie-dish--a pie-dish with a pink rim. You never tasted anything so good! And YOU shall eat it all! _I_ will eat muffins, my dear Duchess!" wrote Ribby. Duchess read the letter and wrote an answer:--"I will come with much pleasure at a quarter past four. But it is very strange. _I_ was just going to invite you to come here, to supper, my dear Ribby, to eat something MOST DELICIOUS." "I will come very punctually, my dear Ribby," wrote Duchess; and then at the end she added--"I hope it isn't mouse?" And then she thought that did not look quite polite; so she scratched out "isn't mouse" and changed it to "I hope it will be fine," and she gave her letter to the postman. But she thought a great deal about Ribby's pie, and she read Ribby's letter over and over again. "I am dreadfully afraid it WILL be mouse!" said Duchess to herself--"I really couldn't, COULDN'T eat mouse pie. And I shall have to eat it, because it is a party. And MY pie was going to be veal and ham. A pink and white pie-dish! and so is mine; just like Ribby's dishes; they were both bought at Tabitha Twitchit's." Duchess went into her larder and took the pie off a shelf and looked at it. "It is all ready to put into the oven. Such lovely pie-crust; and I put in a little tin patty-pan to hold up the crust; and I made a hole in the middle with a fork to let out the steam--Oh I do wish I could eat my own pie, instead of a pie made of mouse!" Duchess considered and considered and read Ribby' s letter again-- "A pink and white pie-dish-and YOU shall eat it all. 'You' means me--then Ribby is not going to even taste the pie herself? A pink and white pie-dish! Ribby is sure to go out to buy the muffins..... Oh what a good idea! Why shouldn't I rush along and put my pie into Ribby's oven when Ribby isn't there?" Duchess was quite delighted with her own cleverness! Ribby in the meantime had received Duchess's answer, and as soon as she was sure that the little dog would come--she popped HER pie into the oven. There were two ovens, one above the other; some other knobs and handles were only ornamental and not intended to open. Ribby put the pie into the lower oven; the door was very stiff. "The top oven bakes too quickly," said Ribby to herself. "It is a pie of the most delicate and tender mouse minced up with bacon. And I have taken out all the bones; because Duchess did nearly choke herself with a fish-bone last time I gave a party. She eats a little fast--rather big mouthfuls. But a most genteel and elegant little dog infinitely superior company to Cousin Tabitha Twitchit." Ribby put on some coal and swept up the hearth. Then she went out with a can to the well, for water to fill up the kettle. Then she began to set the room in order, for it was the sitting-room as well as the kitchen. She shook the mats out at the front-door and put them straight; the hearth-rug was a rabbit-skin. She dusted the clock and the ornaments on the mantelpiece, and she polished and rubbed the tables and chairs. Then she spread a very clean white table-cloth, and set out her best china tea-set, which she took out of a wall-cupboard near the fireplace. The tea-cups were white with a pattern of pink roses; and the dinner-plates were white and blue. When Ribby had laid the table she took a jug and a blue and white dish, and went out down the field to the farm, to fetch milk and butter. When she came back, she peeped into the bottom oven; the pie looked very comfortable. Ribby put on her shawl and bonnet and went out again with a basket, to the village shop to buy a packet of tea, a pound of lump sugar, and a pot of marmalade. And just at the same time, Duchess came out of HER house, at the other end of the village. Ribby met Duchess half-way own the street, also carrying a basket, covered with a cloth. They only bowed to one another; they did not speak, because they were going to have a party. As soon as Duchess had got round the corner out of sight--she simply ran! Straight away to Ribby's house! Ribby went into the shop and bought what she required, and came out, after a pleasant gossip with Cousin Tabitha Twitchit. Cousin Tabitha was disdainful afterwards in conversation-- "A little DOG indeed! Just as if there were no CATS in Sawrey! And a PIE for afternoon tea! The very idea!" said Cousin Tabitha Twitchit. Ribby went on to Timothy Baker's and bought the muffins. Then she went home. There seemed to be a sort of scuffling noise in the back passage, as she was coming in at the front door. "I trust that is not that Pie: the spoons are locked up, however," said Ribby. But there was nobody there. Ribby opened the bottom oven door with some difficulty, and turned the pie. There began to be a pleasing smell of baked mouse! Duchess in the meantime, had slipped out at the back door. "It is a very odd thing that Ribby's pie was NOT in the oven when I put mine in! And I can t find it anywhere; I have looked all over the house. I put MY pie into a nice hot oven at the top. I could not turn any of the other handles; I think that they are all shams," said Duchess, "but I wish I could have removed the pie made of mouse! I cannot think what she has done with it? I heard Ribby coming and I had to run out by the back door!" Duchess went home and brushed her beautiful black coat; and then she picked a bunch of flowers in her garden as a present for Ribby; and passed the time until the clock struck four. Ribby--having assured herself by careful search that there was really no one hiding in the cupboard or in the larder--went upstairs to change her dress. She put on a lilac silk gown, for the party, and an embroidered muslin apron and tippet. "It is very strange," said Ribby, "I did not THINK I left that drawer pulled out; has somebody been trying on my mittens?" She came downstairs again, and made the tea, and put the teapot on the hob. She peeped again into the BOTTOM oven, the pie had become a lovely brown, and it was steaming hot. She sat down before the fire to wait for the little dog. "I am glad I used the BOTTOM oven," said Ribby, "the top one would certainly have been very much too hot. I wonder why that cupboard door was open? Can there really have been some one in the house?" Very punctually at four o'clock, Duchess started to go to the party. She ran so fast through the village that she was too early, and she had to wait a little while in the lane that leads down to Ribby's house. "I wonder if Ribby has taken MY pie out of the oven yet?" said Duchess, "and whatever can have become of the other pie made of mouse?" At a quarter past four to the minute, there came a most genteel little tap-tappity. "Is Mrs. Ribston at home?" inquired Duchess in the porch. "Come in! and how do you do, my dear Duchess?" cried Ribby. "I hope I see you well?" "Quite well, I thank you, and how do YOU do, my dear Ribby?" said Duchess. "I've brought you some flowers; what a delicious smell of pie!" "Oh, what lovely flowers! Yes, it is mouse and bacon!" "Do not talk about food, my dear Ribby," said Duchess; "what a lovely white tea-cloth!.... Is it done to a turn? Is it still in the oven?" "I think it wants another five minutes," said Ribby. "Just a shade longer; I will pour out the tea, while we wait. Do you take sugar, my dear Duchess?" "Oh yes, please! my dear Ribby; and may I have a lump upon my nose?" "With pleasure, my dear Duchess; how beautifully you beg! Oh, how sweetly pretty!" Duchess sat up with the sugar on her nose and sniffed-- "How good that pie smells! I do love veal and ham--I mean to say mouse and bacon----" She dropped the sugar in confusion, and had to go hunting under the tea-table, so did not see which oven Ribby opened in order to get out the pie. Ribby set the pie upon the table; there was a very savoury smell. Duchess came out from under the table-cloth munching sugar, and sat up on a chair. "I will first cut the pie for you; I am going to have muffin and marmalade," said Ribby. "Do you really prefer muffin? Mind the patty-pan!" "I beg your pardon?" said Ribby. "May I pass you the marmalade?" said Duchess hurriedly. The pie proved extremely toothsome, and the muffins light and hot. They disappeared rapidly, especially the pie! "I think"--(thought the Duchess to herself)--"I THINK it would be wiser if I helped myself to pie; though Ribby did not seem to notice anything when she was cutting it. What very small fine pieces it has cooked into! I did not remember that I had minced it up so fine; I suppose this is a quicker oven than my own." "How fast Duchess is eating!" thought Ribby to herself, as she buttered her fifth muffin. The pie-dish was emptying rapidly! Duchess had had four helps already, and was fumbling with the spoon. "A little more bacon, my dear Duchess?" said Ribby. "Thank you, my dear Ribby; I was only feeling for the patty-pan." "The patty-pan? my dear Duchess?" "The patty-pan that held up the pie-crust," said Duchess, blushing under her black coat. "Oh, I didn't put one in, my dear Duchess," said Ribby; "I don't think that it is necessary in pies made of mouse." Duchess fumbled with the spoon--"I can't find it!" she said anxiously. "There isn't a patty-pan," said Ribby, looking perplexed. "Yes, indeed, my dear Ribby; where can it have gone to?" said Duchess. "There most certainly is not one, my dear Duchess. I disapprove of tin articles in puddings and pies. It is most undesirable--(especially when people swallow in lumps!)" she added in a lower voice. Duchess looked very much alarmed, and continued to scoop the inside of the pie-dish. "My Great-aunt Squintina (grandmother of Cousin Tabitha Twitchit)--died of a thimble in a Christmas plum-pudding. _I_ never put any article of metal in MY puddings or pies." Duchess looked aghast, and tilted up the pie-dish. "I have only four patty-pans, and they are all in the cupboard." Duchess set up a howl. "I shall die! I shall die! I have swallowed a patty-pan! Oh, my dear Ribby, I do feel so ill!" "It is impossible, my dear Duchess; there was not a patty-pan." Duchess moaned and whined and rocked herself about. "Oh I feel so dreadful. I have swallowed a patty-pan!" "There was NOTHING in the pie," said Ribby severely. "Yes there WAS, my dear Ribby, I am sure I have swallowed it!" "Let me prop you up with a pillow, my dear Duchess; where do you think you feel it?" "Oh I do feel so ill ALL OVER me, my dear Ribby; I have swallowed a large tin patty-pan with a sharp scalloped edge!" "Shall I run for the doctor? I will just lock up the spoons!" "Oh yes, yes! fetch Dr. Maggotty, my dear Ribby: he is a Pie himself, he will certainly understand." Ribby settled Duchess in an armchair before the fire, and went out and hurried to the village to look for the doctor. She found him at the smithy. He was occupied in putting rusty nails into a bottle of ink, which he had obtained at the post office. "Gammon? ha! HA!" said he, with his head on one side. Ribby explained that her guest had swallowed a patty-pan. "Spinach? ha! HA!" said he, and accompanied her with alacrity. He hopped so fast that Ribby--had to run. It was most conspicuous. All the village could see that Ribby was fetching the doctor. "I KNEW they would over-eat themselves!" said Cousin Tabitha Twitchit. But while Ribby had been hunting for the doctor--a curious thing had happened to Duchess, who had been left by herself, sitting before the fire, sighing and groaning and feeling very unhappy. "How COULD I have swallowed it! such a large thing as a patty-pan!" She got up and went to the table, and felt inside the pie-dish again with a spoon. "No; there is no patty-pan, and I put one in; and nobody has eaten pie except me, so I must have swallowed it!" She sat down again, and stared mournfully at the grate. The fire crackled and danced, and something sizz-z-zled! Duchess started! She opened the door of the TOP oven;--out came a rich steamy flavour of veal and ham, and there stood a fine brown pie,--and through a hole in the top of the pie-crust there was a glimpse of a little tin patty-pan! Duchess drew a long breath-- "Then I must have been eating MOUSE!... NO wonder I feel ill.... But perhaps I should feel worse if I had really swallowed a patty-pan!" Duchess reflected--"What a very awkward thing to have to explain to Ribby! I think I will put my pie in the back-yard and say nothing about it. When I go home, I will run round and take it away." She put it outside the back-door, and sat down again by the fire, and shut her eyes; when Ribby arrived with the doctor, she seemed fast asleep. "Gammon, ha, HA?" said the doctor. "I am feeling very much better," said Duchess, waking up with a jump. "I am truly glad to hear it!" He has brought you a pill, my dear Duchess!" "I think I should feel QUITE well if he only felt my pulse," said Duchess, backing away from the magpie, who sidled up with something in his beak. "It is only a bread pill, you had much better take it; drink a little milk, my dear Duchess!" "Gammon? Gammon?" said the doctor, while Duchess coughed and choked. "Don't say that again!" said Ribby, losing her temper--"Here, take this bread and jam, and get out into the yard!" "Gammon and spinach! ha ha HA!" shouted Dr. Maggotty triumphantly outside the back door. "I am feeling very much better, my dear Ribby," said Duchess. "Do you not think that I had better go home before it gets dark?" "Perhaps it might be wise, my dear Duchess. I will lend you a nice warm shawl, and you shall take my arm." "I would not trouble you for worlds; I feel wonderfully better. One pill of Dr. Maggotty----" "Indeed it is most admirable, if it has cured you of a patty-pan! I will call directly after breakfast to ask how you have slept." Ribby and Duchess said good-bye affectionately, and Duchess started home. Half-way up the lane she stopped and looked back; Ribby had gone in and shut her door. Duchess slipped through the fence, and ran round to the back of Ribby's house, and peeped into the yard. Upon the roof of the pig-stye sat Dr. Maggotty and three jackdaws. The jackdaws were eating pie-crust, and the magpie was drinking gravy out of a patty-pan. "Gammon, ha, HA!" he shouted when he saw Duchess's little black nose peeping round the corner. Duchess ran home feeling uncommonly silly! When Ribby came out for a pailful of water to wash up the tea-things, she found a pink and white pie-dish lying smashed in the middle of the yard. The patty-pan was under the pump, where Dr Maggotty had considerately left it. Ribby stared with amazement--"Did you ever see the like! so there really WAS a patty-pan?.... But my patty-pans are all in the kitchen cupboard. Well I never did!.... Next time I want to give a party--I will invite Cousin Tabitha Twitchit!" THE END THE TALE OF JEMIMA PUDDLE-DUCK A FARMYARD TALE FOR RALPH AND BETSY WHAT a funny sight it is to see a brood of ducklings with a hen! --Listen to the story of Jemima Puddle-duck, who was annoyed because the farmer's wife would not let her hatch her own eggs. HER sister-in-law, Mrs. Rebeccah Puddle-duck, was perfectly willing to leave the hatching to some one else--"I have not the patience to sit on a nest for twenty-eight days; and no more have you, Jemima. You would let them go cold; you know you would!" "I wish to hatch my own eggs; I will hatch them all by myself," quacked Jemima Puddle-duck. SHE tried to hide her eggs; but they were always found and carried off. Jemima Puddle-duck became quite desperate. She determined to make a nest right away from the farm. SHE set off on a fine spring afternoon along the cart-road that leads over the hill. She was wearing a shawl and a poke bonnet. WHEN she reached the top of the hill, she saw a wood in the distance. She thought that it looked a safe quiet spot. JEMIMA PUDDLE-DUCK was not much in the habit of flying. She ran downhill a few yards flapping her shawl, and then she jumped off into the air. SHE flew beautifully when she had got a good start. She skimmed along over the tree-tops until she saw an open place in the middle of the wood, where the trees and brushwood had been cleared. JEMIMA alighted rather heavily, and began to waddle about in search of a convenient dry nesting-place. She rather fancied a tree-stump amongst some tall fox-gloves. But--seated upon the stump, she was startled to find an elegantly dressed gentleman reading a newspaper. He had black prick ears and sandy coloured whiskers. "Quack?" said Jemima Puddle-duck, with her head and her bonnet on one side--"Quack?" THE gentleman raised his eyes above his newspaper and looked curiously at Jemima-- "Madam, have you lost your way?" said he. He had a long bushy tail which he was sitting upon, as the stump was somewhat damp. Jemima thought him mighty civil and handsome. She explained that she had not lost her way, but that she was trying to find a convenient dry nesting-place. "AH! is that so? indeed!" said the gentleman with sandy whiskers, looking curiously at Jemima. He folded up the newspaper, and put it in his coat-tail pocket. Jemima complained of the superfluous hen. "Indeed! how interesting! I wish I could meet with that fowl. I would teach it to mind its own business!" "BUT as to a nest--there is no difficulty: I have a sackful of feathers in my wood-shed. No, my dear madam, you will be in nobody's way. You may sit there as long as you like," said the bushy long-tailed gentleman. He led the way to a very retired, dismal-looking house amongst the fox-gloves. It was built of faggots and turf, and there were two broken pails, one on top of another, by way of a chimney. "THIS is my summer residence; you would not find my earth--my winter house--so convenient," said the hospitable gentleman. There was a tumble-down shed at the back of the house, made of old soap-boxes. The gentleman opened the door, and showed Jemima in. THE shed was almost quite full of feathers--it was almost suffocating; but it was comfortable and very soft. Jemima Puddle-duck was rather surprised to find such a vast quantity of feathers. But it was very comfortable; and she made a nest without any trouble at all. WHEN she came out, the sandy whiskered gentleman was sitting on a log reading the newspaper--at least he had it spread out, but he was looking over the top of it. He was so polite, that he seemed almost sorry to let Jemima go home for the night. He promised to take great care of her nest until she came back again next day. He said he loved eggs and ducklings; he should be proud to see a fine nestful in his wood-shed. JEMIMA PUDDLE-DUCK came every afternoon; she laid nine eggs in the nest. They were greeny white and very large. The foxy gentleman admired them immensely. He used to turn them over and count them when Jemima was not there. At last Jemima told him that she intended to begin to sit next day--"and I will bring a bag of corn with me, so that I need never leave my nest until the eggs are hatched. They might catch cold," said the conscientious Jemima. "MADAM, I beg you not to trouble yourself with a bag; I will provide oats. But before you commence your tedious sitting, I intend to give you a treat. Let us have a dinner-party all to ourselves! "May I ask you to bring up some herbs from the farm-garden to make a savoury omelette? Sage and thyme, and mint and two onions, and some parsley. I will provide lard for the stuff-lard for the omelette," said the hospitable gentleman with sandy whiskers. JEMIMA PUDDLE-DUCK was a simpleton: not even the mention of sage and onions made her suspicious. She went round the farm-garden, nibbling off snippets of all the different sorts of herbs that are used for stuffing roast duck. AND she waddled into the kitchen, and got two onions out of a basket. The collie-dog Kep met her coming out, "What are you doing with those onions? Where do you go every afternoon by yourself, Jemima Puddle-duck?" Jemima was rather in awe of the collie; she told him the whole story. The collie listened, with his wise head on one side; he grinned when she described the polite gentleman with sandy whiskers. HE asked several questions about the wood, and about the exact position of the house and shed. Then he went out, and trotted down the village. He went to look for two fox-hound puppies who were out at walk with the butcher. JEMIMA PUDDLE-DUCK went up the cart-road for the last time, on a sunny afternoon. She was rather burdened with bunches of herbs and two onions in a bag. She flew over the wood, and alighted opposite the house of the bushy long-tailed gentleman. HE was sitting on a log; he sniffed the air, and kept glancing uneasily round the wood. When Jemima alighted he quite jumped. "Come into the house as soon as you have looked at your eggs. Give me the herbs for the omelette. Be sharp!" He was rather abrupt. Jemima Puddle-duck had never heard him speak like that. She felt surprised, and uncomfortable. WHILE she was inside she heard pattering feet round the back of the shed. Some one with a black nose sniffed at the bottom of the door, and then locked it. Jemima became much alarmed. A MOMENT afterwards there were most awful noises--barking, baying, growls and howls, squealing and groans. And nothing more was ever seen of that foxy-whiskered gentleman. PRESENTLY Kep opened the door of the shed, and let out Jemima Puddle-duck. Unfortunately the puppies rushed in and gobbled up all the eggs before he could stop them. He had a bite on his ear and both the puppies were limping. JEMIMA PUDDLE-DUCK was escorted home in tears on account of those eggs. SHE laid some more in June, and she was permitted to keep them herself: but only four of them hatched. Jemima Puddle-duck said that it was because of her nerves; but she had always been a bad sitter. THE END THE TALE OF PIGLING BLAND FOR CECILY AND CHARLIE, A TALE OF THE CHRISTMAS PIG. THE TALE OF PIGLING BLAND ONCE upon a time there was an old pig called Aunt Pettitoes. She had eight of a family: four little girl pigs, called Cross-patch, Suck-suck, Yock-yock and Spot; and four little boy pigs, called Alexander, Pigling Bland, Chin-chin and Stumpy. Stumpy had had an accident to his tail. The eight little pigs had very fine appetites. "Yus, yus, yus! they eat and indeed they DO eat!" said Aunt Pettitoes, looking at her family with pride. Suddenly there were fearful squeals; Alexander had squeezed inside the hoops of the pig trough and stuck. Aunt Pettitoes and I dragged him out by the hind legs. Chin-chin was already in disgrace; it was washing day, and he had eaten a piece of soap. And presently in a basket of clean clothes, we found another dirty little pig. "Tchut, tut, tut! whichever is this?" grunted Aunt Pettitoes. Now all the pig family are pink, or pink with black spots, but this pig child was smutty black all over; when it had been popped into a tub, it proved to be Yock-yock. I went into the garden; there I found Cross-patch and Suck-suck rooting up carrots. I whipped them myself and led them out by the ears. Cross-patch tried to bite me. "Aunt Pettitoes, Aunt Pettitoes! you are a worthy person, but your family is not well brought up. Every one of them has been in mischief except Spot and Pigling Bland." "Yus, yus!" sighed Aunt Pettitoes. "And they drink bucketfuls of milk; I shall have to get another cow! Good little Spot shall stay at home to do the housework; but the others must go. Four little boy pigs and four little girl pigs are too many altogether." "Yus, yus, yus," said Aunt Pettitoes, "there will be more to eat without them." So Chin-chin and Suck-suck went away in a wheel-barrow, and Stumpy, Yock-yock and Cross-patch rode away in a cart. And the other two little boy pigs, Pigling Bland and Alexander, went to market. We brushed their coats, we curled their tails and washed their little faces, and wished them good-bye in the yard. Aunt Pettitoes wiped her eyes with a large pocket handkerchief, then she wiped Pigling Bland's nose and shed tears; then she wiped Alexander's nose and shed tears; then she passed the handkerchief to Spot. Aunt Pettitoes sighed and grunted, and addressed those little pigs as follows: "Now Pigling Bland, son Pigling Bland, you must go to market. Take your brother Alexander by the hand. Mind your Sunday clothes, and remember to blow your nose"-- (Aunt Pettitoes passed round the handkerchief again)--"beware of traps, hen roosts, bacon and eggs; always walk upon your hind legs." Pigling Bland, who was a sedate little pig, looked solemnly at his mother, a tear trickled down his cheek. Aunt Pettitoes turned to the other--"Now son Alexander take the hand"--"Wee, wee, wee!" giggled Alexander--"take the hand of your brother Pigling Bland, you must go to market. Mind--" "Wee, wee, wee!" interrupted Alexander again. "You put me out," said Aunt Pettitoes. "Observe sign-posts and milestones; do not gobble herring bones--" "And remember," said I impressively, "if you once cross the county boundary you cannot come back. Alexander, you are not attending. Here are two licences permitting two pigs to go to market in Lancashire. Attend, Alexander. I have had no end of trouble in getting these papers from the policeman." Pigling Bland listened gravely; Alexander was hopelessly volatile. I pinned the papers, for safety, inside their waistcoat pockets; Aunt Pettitoes gave to each a little bundle, and eight conversation peppermints with appropriate moral sentiments in screws of paper. Then they started. Pigling Bland and Alexander trotted along steadily for a mile; at least Pigling Bland did. Alexander made the road half as long again by skipping from side to side. He danced about and pinched his brother, singing-- "This pig went to market, this pig stayed at home, "This pig had a bit of meat-- let's see what they have given US for dinner, Pigling?" Pigling Bland and Alexander sat down and untied their bundles. Alexander gobbled up his dinner in no time; he had already eaten all his own peppermints. "Give me one of yours, please, Pigling." "But I wish to preserve them for emergencies," said Pigling Bland doubtfully. Alexander went into squeals of laughter. Then he pricked Pigling with the pin that had fastened his pig paper; and when Pigling slapped him he dropped the pin, and tried to take Pigling's pin, and the papers got mixed up. Pigling Bland reproved Alexander. But presently they made it up again, and trotted away together, singing-- "Tom, Tom, the piper's son, stole a pig and away he ran! "But all the tune that he could play, was 'Over the hills and far away!'" "What's that, young sirs? Stole a pig? Where are your licences?" said the policeman. They had nearly run against him round a corner. Pigling Bland pulled out his paper; Alexander, after fumbling, handed over something scrumply-- "To 2 1/2 oz. conversation sweeties at three farthings"--"What's this? This ain't a licence." Alexander's nose lengthened visibly, he had lost it. "I had one, indeed I had, Mr. Policeman!" "It's not likely they let you start without. I am passing the farm. You may walk with me." "Can I come back too?" inquired Pigling Bland. "I see no reason, young sir; your paper is all right." Pigling Bland did not like going on alone, and it was beginning to rain. But it is unwise to argue with the police; he gave his brother a peppermint, and watched him out of sight. To conclude the adventures of Alexander--the policeman sauntered up to the house about tea time, followed by a damp subdued little pig. I disposed of Alexander in the neighbourhood; he did fairly well when he had settled down. Pigling Bland went on alone dejectedly; he came to cross-roads and a sign-post--"To Market Town, 5 miles," "Over the Hills, 4 miles," "To Pettitoes Farm, 3 miles." Pigling Bland was shocked, there was little hope of sleeping in Market Town, and to-morrow was the hiring fair; it was deplorable to think how much time had been wasted by the frivolity of Alexander. He glanced wistfully along the road towards the hills, and then set off walking obediently the other way, buttoning up his coat against the rain. He had never wanted to go; and the idea of standing all by himself in a crowded market, to be stared at, pushed, and hired by some big strange farmer was very disagreeable-- "I wish I could have a little garden and grow potatoes," said Pigling Bland. He put his cold hand in his pocket and felt his paper, he put his other hand in his other pocket and felt another paper--Alexander's! Pigling squealed; then ran back frantically, hoping to overtake Alexander and the policeman. He took a wrong turn--several wrong turns, and was quite lost. It grew dark, the wind whistled, the trees creaked and groaned. Pigling Bland became frightened and cried "Wee, wee, wee! I can't find my way home!" After an hour's wandering he got out of the wood; the moon shone through the clouds, and Pigling Bland saw a country that was new to him. The road crossed a moor; below was a wide valley with a river twinkling in the moonlight, and beyond, in misty distance, lay the hills. He saw a small wooden hut, made his way to it, and crept inside--"I am afraid it IS a hen house, but what can I do?" said Pigling Bland, wet and cold and quite tired out. "Bacon and eggs, bacon and eggs!" clucked a hen on a perch. "Trap, trap, trap! cackle, cackle, cackle!" scolded the disturbed cockerel. "To market, to market! jiggetty jig!" clucked a broody white hen roosting next to him. Pigling Bland, much alarmed, determined to leave at daybreak. In the meantime, he and the hens fell asleep. In less than an hour they were all awakened. The owner, Mr. Peter Thomas Piperson, came with a lantern and a hamper to catch six fowls to take to market in the morning. He grabbed the white hen roosting next to the cock; then his eye fell upon Pigling Bland, squeezed up in a corner. He made a singular remark--"Hallo, here's another!"--seized Pigling by the scruff of the neck, and dropped him into the hamper. Then he dropped in five more dirty, kicking, cackling hens upon the top of Pigling Bland. The hamper containing six fowls and a young pig was no light weight; it was taken down hill, unsteadily, with jerks. Pigling, although nearly scratched to pieces, contrived to hide the papers and peppermints inside his clothes. At last the hamper was bumped down upon a kitchen floor, the lid was opened, and Pigling was lifted out. He looked up, blinking, and saw an offensively ugly elderly man, grinning from ear to ear. "This one's come of himself, whatever," said Mr. Piperson, turning Pigling's pockets inside out. He pushed the hamper into a corner, threw a sack over it to keep the hens quiet, put a pot on the fire, and unlaced his boots. Pigling Bland drew forward a coppy stool, and sat on the edge of it, shyly warming his hands. Mr. Piperson pulled off a boot and threw it against the wainscot at the further end of the kitchen. There was a smothered noise--"Shut up!" said Mr. Piperson. Pigling Bland warmed his hands, and eyed him. Mr. Piperson pulled off the other boot and flung it after the first, there was again a curious noise--"Be quiet, will ye?" said Mr. Piperson. Pigling Bland sat on the very edge of the coppy stool. Mr. Piperson fetched meal from a chest and made porridge. It seemed to Pigling that something at the further end of the kitchen was taking a suppressed interest in the cooking, but he was too hungry to be troubled by noises. Mr. Piperson poured out three platefuls: for himself, for Pigling, and a third--after glaring at Pigling--he put away with much scuffling, and locked up. Pigling Bland ate his supper discreetly. After supper Mr. Piperson consulted an almanac, and felt Pigling's ribs; it was too late in the season for curing bacon, and he grudged his meal. Besides, the hens had seen this pig. He looked at the small remains of a flitch, and then looked undecidedly at Pigling. "You may sleep on the rug," said Mr. Peter Thomas Piperson. Pigling Bland slept like a top. In the morning Mr. Piperson made more porridge; the weather was warmer. He looked to see how much meal was left in the chest, and seemed dissatisfied--"You'll likely be moving on again?" said he to Pigling Bland. Before Pigling could reply, a neighbour, who was giving Mr. Piperson and the hens a lift, whistled from the gate. Mr. Piperson hurried out with the hamper, enjoining Pigling to shut the door behind him and not meddle with nought; or "I'll come back and skin ye!" said Mr. Piperson. It crossed Pigling's mind that if HE had asked for a lift, too, he might still have been in time for market. But he distrusted Peter Thomas. After finishing breakfast at his leisure, Pigling had a look round the cottage; everything was locked up. He found some potato peelings in a bucket in the back kitchen. Pigling ate the peel, and washed up the porridge plates in the bucket. He sang while he worked-- "Tom with his pipe made such a noise, He called up all the girls and boys-- "And they all ran to hear him play "'Over the hills and far away!'" Suddenly a little smothered voice chimed in-- "Over the hills and a great way off, The wind shall blow my top knot off!" Pigling Bland put down a plate which he was wiping, and listened. After a long pause, Pigling went on tip-toe and peeped round the door into the front kitchen. There was nobody there. After another pause, Pigling approached the door of the locked cupboard, and snuffed at the key-hole. It was quite quiet. After another long pause, Pigling pushed a peppermint under the door. It was sucked in immediately. In the course of the day Pigling pushed in all the remaining six peppermints. When Mr. Piperson returned, he found Pigling sitting before the fire; he had brushed up the hearth and put on the pot to boil; the meal was not get-at-able. Mr. Piperson was very affable; he slapped Pigling on the back, made lots of porridge and forgot to lock the meal chest. He did lock the cupboard door; but without properly shutting it. He went to bed early, and told Pigling upon no account to disturb him next day before twelve o'clock. Pigling Bland sat by the fire, eating his supper. All at once at his elbow, a little voice spoke--"My name is Pig-wig. Make me more porridge, please!" Pigling Bland jumped, and looked round. A perfectly lovely little black Berkshire pig stood smiling beside him. She had twinkly little screwed up eyes, a double chin, and a short turned up nose. She pointed at Pigling's plate; he hastily gave it to her, and fled to the meal chest. "How did you come here?" asked Pigling Bland. "Stolen," replied Pig-wig, with her mouth full. Pigling helped himself to meal without scruple. "What for?" "Bacon, hams," replied Pig-wig cheerfully. "Why on earth don't you run away?" exclaimed the horrified Pigling. "I shall after supper," said Pig-wig decidedly. Pigling Bland made more porridge and watched her shyly. She finished a second plate, got up, and looked about her, as though she were going to start. "You can't go in the dark," said Pigling Bland. Pig-wig looked anxious. "Do you know your way by daylight?" "I know we can see this little white house from the hills across the river. Which way are YOU going, Mr. Pig?" "To market--I have two pig papers. I might take you to the bridge; if you have no objection," said Pigling much confused and sitting on the edge of his coppy stool. Pig-wig's gratitude was such and she asked so many questions that it became embarrassing to Pigling Bland. He was obliged to shut his eyes and pretend to sleep. She became quiet, and there was a smell of peppermint. "I thought you had eaten them," said Pigling, waking suddenly. "Only the corners," replied Pig-wig, studying the sentiments with much interest by the firelight. "I wish you wouldn't; he might smell them through the ceiling," said the alarmed Pigling. Pig-wig put back the sticky peppermints into her pocket; "Sing something," she demanded. "I am sorry ... I have tooth-ache," said Pigling much dismayed. "Then I will sing," replied Pig-wig. "You will not mind if I say iddy tidditty? I have forgotten some of the words." Pigling Bland made no objection; he sat with his eyes half shut, and watched her. She wagged her head and rocked about, clapping time and singing in a sweet little grunty voice-- "A funny old mother pig lived in a stye, and three little piggies had she; "(Ti idditty idditty) umph, umph, umph! and the little pigs said, wee, wee!" She sang successfully through three or four verses, only at every verse her head nodded a little lower, and her little twinkly eyes closed up. "Those three little piggies grew peaky and lean, and lean they might very well be; "For somehow they couldn't say umph, umph, umph! and they wouldn't say wee, wee, wee! "For somehow they couldn't say-- Pig-wig's head bobbed lower and lower, until she rolled over, a little round ball, fast asleep on the hearth-rug. Pigling Bland, on tip-toe, covered her up with an antimacassar. He was afraid to go to sleep himself; for the rest of the night he sat listening to the chirping of the crickets and to the snores of Mr. Piperson overhead. Early in the morning, between dark and daylight, Pigling tied up his little bundle and woke up Pig-wig. She was excited and half-frightened. "But it's dark! How can we find our way?" "The cock has crowed; we must start before the hens come out; they might shout to Mr. Piperson." Pig-wig sat down again, and commenced to cry. "Come away Pig-wig; we can see when we get used to it. Come! I can hear them clucking!" Pigling had never said shuh! to a hen in his life, being peaceable; also he remembered the hamper. He opened the house door quietly and shut it after them. There was no garden; the neighbourhood of Mr. Piperson's was all scratched up by fowls. They slipped away hand in hand across an untidy field to the road. The sun rose while they were crossing the moor, a dazzle of light over the tops of the hills. The sunshine crept down the slopes into the peaceful green valleys, where little white cottages nestled in gardens and orchards. "That's Westmorland," said Pig-wig. She dropped Pigling's hand and commenced to dance, singing-- "Tom, Tom, the piper's son, stole a pig and away he ran! "But all the tune that he could play, was 'Over the hills and far away!'" "Come, Pig-wig, we must get to the bridge before folks are stirring." "Why do you want to go to market, Pigling?" inquired Pig-wig presently. "I don't want; I want to grow potatoes." "Have a peppermint?" said Pig-wig. Pigling Bland refused quite crossly. "Does your poor toothy hurt?" inquired Pig-wig. Pigling Bland grunted. Pig-wig ate the peppermint herself and followed the opposite side of the road. "Pig-wig! keep under the wall, there's a man ploughing." Pig-wig crossed over, they hurried down hill towards the county boundary. Suddenly Pigling stopped; he heard wheels. Slowly jogging up the road below them came a tradesman's cart. The reins flapped on the horse's back, the grocer was reading a newspaper. "Take that peppermint out of your mouth, Pig-wig, we may have to run. Don't say one word. Leave it to me. And in sight of the bridge!" said poor Pigling, nearly crying. He began to walk frightfully lame, holding Pig-wig's arm. The grocer, intent upon his news-paper, might have passed them, if his horse had not shied and snorted. He pulled the cart crossways, and held down his whip. "Hallo! Where are YOU going to?"--Pigling Bland stared at him vacantly. "Are you deaf? Are you going to market?" Pigling nodded slowly. "I thought as much. It was yesterday. Show me your licence?" Pigling stared at the off hind shoe of the grocer's horse which had picked up a stone. The grocer flicked his whip--"Papers? Pig licence?" Pigling fumbled in all his pockets, and handed up the papers. The grocer read them, but still seemed dissatisfied. "This here pig is a young lady; is her name Alexander?" Pig-wig opened her mouth and shut it again; Pigling coughed asthmatically. The grocer ran his finger down the advertisement column of his newspaper--"Lost, stolen or strayed, 10s. reward." He looked suspiciously at Pig-wig. Then he stood up in the trap, and whistled for the ploughman. "You wait here while I drive on and speak to him," said the grocer, gathering up the reins. He knew that pigs are slippery; but surely, such a VERY lame pig could never run! "Not yet, Pig-wig, he will look back." The grocer did so; he saw the two pigs stock-still in the middle of the road. Then he looked over at his horse's heels; it was lame also; the stone took some time to knock out, after he got to the ploughman. "Now, Pig-wig, NOW!" said Pigling Bland. Never did any pigs run as these pigs ran! They raced and squealed and pelted down the long white hill towards the bridge. Little fat Pig-wig's petticoats fluttered, and her feet went pitter, patter, pitter, as she bounded and jumped. They ran, and they ran, and they ran down the hill, and across a short cut on level green turf at the bottom, between pebble beds and rushes. They came to the river, they came to the bridge--they crossed it hand in hand--then over the hills and far away she danced with Pigling Bland! THE END THE TALE OF TWO BAD MICE FOR W. M. L. W. THE LITTLE GIRL WHO HAD THE DOLL HOUSE ONCE upon a time there was a very beautiful doll's house; it was red brick with white windows, and it had real muslin curtains and a front door and a chimney. IT belonged to two Dolls called Lucinda and Jane; at least it belonged to Lucinda, but she never ordered meals. Jane was the Cook; but she never did any cooking, because the dinner had been bought ready-made, in a box full of shavings. THERE were two red lobsters, and a ham, a fish, a pudding, and some pears and oranges. They would not come off the plates, but they were extremely beautiful. ONE morning Lucinda and Jane had gone out for a drive in the doll's perambulator. There was no one in the nursery, and it was very quiet. Presently there was a little scuffling, scratching noise in a corner near the fireplace, where there was a hole under the skirting-board. Tom Thumb put out his head for a moment, and then popped it in again. Tom Thumb was a mouse. A MINUTE afterwards Hunca Munca, his wife, put her head out, too; and when she saw that there was no one in the nursery, she ventured out on the oilcloth under the coal-box. THE doll's house stood at the other side of the fireplace. Tom Thumb and Hunca Munca went cautiously across the hearth-rug. They pushed the front door--it was not fast. TOM THUMB and Hunca Munca went up-stairs and peeped into the dining-room. Then they squeaked with joy! Such a lovely dinner was laid out upon the table! There were tin spoons, and lead knives and forks, and two dolly-chairs--all SO convenient! TOM THUMB set to work at once to carve the ham. It was a beautiful shiny yellow, streaked with red. The knife crumpled up and hurt him; he put his finger in his mouth. "It is not boiled enough; it is hard. You have a try, Hunca Munca." HUNCA MUNCA stood up in her chair, and chopped at the ham with another lead knife. "It's as hard as the hams at the cheesemonger's," said Hunca Munca. THE ham broke off the plate with a jerk, and rolled under the table. "Let it alone," said Tom Thumb; "give me some fish, Hunca Munca!" HUNCA MUNCA tried every tin spoon in turn; the fish was glued to the dish. Then Tom Thumb lost his temper. He put the ham in the middle of the floor, and hit it with the tongs and with the shovel--bang, bang, smash, smash! The ham flew all into pieces, for underneath the shiny paint it was made of nothing but plaster! THEN there was no end to the rage and disappointment of Tom Thumb and Hunca Munca. They broke up the pudding, the lobsters, the pears, and the oranges. As the fish would not come off the plate, they put it into the red-hot crinkly paper fire in the kitchen; but it would not burn either. TOM THUMB went up the kitchen chimney and looked out at the top--there was no soot. WHILE Tom Thumb was up the chimney, Hunca Munca had another disappointment. She found some tiny canisters upon the dresser, labeled "Rice," "Coffee" "Sago"; but when she turned them upside down there was nothing inside except red and blue beads. THEN those mice set to work to do all the mischief they could--especially Tom Thumb! He took Jane's clothes out of the chest of drawers in her bedroom, and he threw them out of the top-floor window. But Hunca Munca had a frugal mind. After pulling half the feathers out of Lucinda's bolster, she remembered that she herself was in want of a feather-bed. WITH Tom Thumb's assistance she carried the bolster down-stairs and across the hearth-rug. It was difficult to squeeze the bolster into the mouse-hole; but they managed it somehow. THEN Hunca Munca went back and fetched a chair, a bookcase, a bird-cage, and several small odds and ends. The bookcase and the bird-cage refused to go into the mouse-hole. HUNCA MUNCA left them behind the coal-box, and went to fetch a cradle. HUNCA MUNCA was just returning with another chair, when suddenly there was a noise of talking outside upon the landing. The mice rushed back to their hole, and the dolls came into the nursery. WHAT a sight met the eyes of Jane and Lucinda! Lucinda sat upon the upset kitchen stove and stared, and Jane leaned against the kitchen dresser and smiled; but neither of them made any remark. THE bookcase and the bird-cage were rescued from under the coal-box; but Hunca Munca has got the cradle and some of Lucinda's clothes. SHE also has some useful pots and pans, and several other things. THE little girl that the doll's house belonged to said: "I will get a doll dressed like a policeman!" BUT the nurse said: "I will set a mouse-trap!" SO that is the story of the two Bad Mice. But they were not so very, very naughty after all, because Tom Thumb paid for everything he broke. He found a crooked sixpence under the hearth-rug; and upon Christmas Eve he and Hunca Munca stuffed it into one of the stockings of Lucinda and Jane. AND very early every morning--before anybody is awake--Hunca Munca comes with her dust-pan and her broom to sweep the Dollies' house! THE END 
18661	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 18661-h.htm or 18661-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/6/6/18661/18661-h/18661-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/6/6/18661/18661-h.zip) THE EMPIRE ANNUAL FOR GIRLS Edited by A. R. BUCKLAND, M.A. With Contributions by LADY CATHERINE MILNES-GASKELL. Mrs. CREIGHTON. Mrs. MACQUOID. Mrs. BALFOUR MURPHY. Mrs. G. de HORNE VAIZEY. A. R. BUCKLAND. FRANK ELIAS. AGNES GIBERNE. SOMERVILLE GIBNEY. EDITH C. KENYON. M. E. LONGMORE. MAUD MADDICK. M. B. MANWELL. FLORENCE MOON. E. B. MOORE. MADELINE OYLER. HENRY WILLIAMS. Etc., etc. With Coloured Plates and Sixteen Black and White Illustrations. London: 4 Bouverie Street, E.C. 1911. * * * * * UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME 384 pp. demy 8vo, cloth gilt, with Coloured Plates and 16 Black and White Illustrations. THE EMPIRE ANNUAL FOR BOYS Edited by A. R. BUCKLAND, M.A. With contributions by MORLEY ADAMS, W. GRINTON BERRY, TOM BEVAN, A. W. COOPER, W. S. DOUGLAS, FRANK ELIAS, LAURENCE M. GIBSON, W. J. GORDON, F. M. HOLMES, RAMSAY GUTHRIE, C. H. IRWIN, J. B. KNOWLTON, W. C. METCALFE, A. J. H. MOULE, ERNEST PROTHEROE, GORDON STABLES, C. E. TYNDALE-BISCOE, ETC., ETC. * * * * * [Illustration: RACE FOR LIFE. _See page 72_] CONTENTS PAGE THE CHRISTMAS CHILD MRS. G. DE HORNE VAIZEY 9 _The story of a happy thought, a strange discovery, and a deed of love_ ANNA 22 MRS. MACQUOID _A girl's adventure for a father's sake_ TO GIRLS OF THE EMPIRE 39 MRS. CREIGHTON _Words of encouragement and stimulus to the daughters of the Nation_ MY DANGEROUS MANIAC 45 LESLIE M. OYLER _The singular adventure of two young people_ JIM RATTRAY, TROOPER 52 KELSO B. JOHNSON _A story of the North-West Mounted Police_ MARY'S STEPPING ASIDE 59 EDITH C. KENYON _Self-sacrifice bringing in the end its own reward_ A RACE FOR LIFE 66 LUCIE E. JACKSON _A frontier incident from the Far West_ WHICH OF THE TWO? 74 AGNES GIBERNE _A question of duty or inclination_ A CHRISTMAS WITH AUSTRALIAN BLACKS 89 J. S. PONDER _An unusual but interesting Christmas party described_ MY MISTRESS ELIZABETH 96 ANNIE ARMITT _A story of self-sacrifice and treachery in Sedgemoor days_ GIRL LIFE IN CANADA 114 JANEY CANUCK _Girl life described by a resident in Alberta_ SUCH A TREASURE! 120 EILEEN O'CONNOR _How a New Zealand girl found her true calling_ ROSETTE IN PERIL 131 M. LEFUSE _A girl's strange adventures in the war of La Vendée_ GOLF FOR GIRLS 143 AN OLD STAGER _Some practical advice to beginners and others_ SUNNY MISS MARTIN 148 SOMERVILLE GIBNEY _A story of misunderstanding, patience, and reconciliation_ WHILST WAITING FOR THE MOTOR 160 MADELINE OYLER _A warning to juvenile offenders_ THE GRUMPY MAN 165 MRS. HARTLEY PERKS _A child's intervention and its results_ DOGS WE HAVE KNOWN 183 LADY CATHERINE MILNES-GASKELL _True stories of dog life_ DAFT BESS 197 KATE BURNLEY BENT _A tale of the Cornish Coast_ A SPRINGTIME DUET 203 MARY LESLIE _A domestic chant for spring-cleaning days._ OUT OF DEADLY PERIL 204 K. BALFOUR MURPHY _A skating episode in Canada_ THE PEARL-RIMMED LOCKET 211 M. B. MANWELL _The detection of a strange offender_ REMBRANDT'S SISTER 221 HENRY WILLIAMS _A record of affection and self-sacrifice_ HEPSIE'S XMAS VISIT 230 MAUD MADDICK _A child's misdeed and its unexpected results_ OUR AFRICAN DRIVER 238 J. H. SPETTIGUE _A glimpse of South African life_ CLAUDIA'S PLACE 247 A. R. BUCKLAND _How Claudia changed her views_ FAMOUS WOMEN PIONEERS 260 FRANK ELIAS _Some of the women who have helped to open up new lands_ POOR JANE'S BROTHER 266 M. LING _The strange adventures of two little people_ THE SUGAR-CREEK HIGHWAYMAN 285 ADELA E. ORPEN _An alarm and a discovery_ DOROTHY'S DAY 294 M. E. LONGMORE _A day beginning in sorrow and ending in joy_ A STRANGE MOOSE HUNT 310 H. WILLIAM DAWSON _A hunt that nearly ended in a tragedy_ A GIRL'S PATIENCE 317 C. J. BLAKE _A difficult part well played_ THE TASMANIAN SISTERS 342 E. B. MOORE _A story of loving service and changed lives_ THE QUEEN OF CONNEMARA 362 FLORENCE MOON _An Irish girl's awakening_ ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR ROSALIND'S RACE FOR LIFE _Frontispiece_ _Facing Page_ "THE SON OF MAN CAME NOT TO BE MINISTERED UNTO, BUT TO MINISTER" 44 "YOUR SISTER IS COMING?" HE SAID 80 MRS. MEADOWS' BROTHER ARRIVED 130 AT THE SHOW 184 "DO FORGIVE ME, MOTHER DARLING!" 232 HER HOSTESS HAD BEEN FEEDING THE PEACOCKS 308 IN BLACK AND WHITE "I SHAN'T PLAY IF YOU FELLOWS ARE SO ROUGH!" 38 GERALD LOOKS PUZZLED 46 IT WAS UNDER A NOBLE TREE THAT MAX ASKED MARY TO MARRY HIM 64 "GALLANTS LOUNGING IN THE PARK" 98 LOOKING AT HIM, I SAW THAT HE WAS HAGGARD AND STRANGE 106 GOLF FOR GIRLS--A BREEZY MORNING 144 SELINA MARTYN GAVE HER ANSWER 158 "I SUPPOSE YOU'VE COME ABOUT THE GAS BILL" 170 THE ROCK SHE CLUNG TO GAVE WAY 200 SPRING CLEANING 203 HORRIBLE DREAMS OF MONSTERS AND DEMONS 216 HER VERY YOUTH PLEADED FOR HER 249 BARBARA'S VISIT 268 "AS HE KISSED HIS FIRSTBORN UNDER THE MISTLETOE" 340 "NOW I AM GOING TO FAN YOU," SHE SAID 348 EILY STOOD A FORLORN, DESOLATE FIGURE ON EUSTON PLATFORM 366 INDEX TO AUTHORS PAGE ARMITT, ANNIE 96 BENT, KATE BURNLEY 197 BLAKE, C. J. 317 BUCKLAND, A. R. 247 CANUCK, JANEY 114 CREIGHTON, MRS. 39 DAWSON, H. WILLIAM 310 ELIAS, FRANK 260 GIBERNE, AGNES 74 GIBNEY, SOMERVILLE 148 JACKSON, LUCIE E. 66 JOHNSON, KELSO B. 52 KENYON, EDITH C. 59 LEFUSE, M. 131 LESLIE, MARY 203 LING, M. 266 LONGMORE, M. E. 294 MACQUOID, MRS. 22 MADDICK, MAUD 230 MANWELL, M. B. 211 MILNES-GASKELL, LADY CATHERINE 183 MOON, FLORENCE 362 MOORE, E. B. 342 MURPHY, K. BALFOUR 204 O'CONNOR, EILEEN 120 OLD STAGER, AN 143 OYLER, LESLIE M. 45 OYLER, MADELINE 160 ORPEN, ADELA E. 285 PERKS, MRS. HARTLEY 165 PONDER, J. S. 89 SPETTIGUE, J. H. 238 VAIZEY, MRS. G. DE HORNE 9 WILLIAMS, HENRY 221 [Sidenote: A happy thought, a cross-country journey, a strange discovery, another happy thought, and many still happier thoughts hereafter!] The Christmas Child BY MRS. G. DE HORNE VAIZEY Jack said: "Nonsense! We are all grown up now. Let Christmas alone. Take no notice of it; treat it as if it were an ordinary day." Margaret said: "The servants have all begged for leave. Most of their mothers are dying, and if they are not, it's a sister who is going to be married. Really, it's a servants' ball which the Squire is giving in the village hall. Mean, I call it, to decoy one's maids just when one needs them most!" Tom said: "Beastly jolly dull show anyhow, to spend the day alone with your brothers and sisters. Better chuck it at once!" Peg said firmly and with emphasis: "_Heathen!_ Miserable, cold-blooded, materially-minded _frogs_! Where's your Christmas spirit, I should like to know? . . . If you have none for yourselves, think of other people. Think of _me_! I love my Christmas, and I'm not going to give it up for you or any one else. My very first Christmas at home as a growed-up lady, and you want to diddle me out of it. . . . Go to! Likewise, avaunt! Now by my halidom, good sirs, you know not with whom you have to deal. 'Tis my royal pleasure the revels proceed!" Jack grimaced eloquently at Margaret, who grimaced back. "With all the pleasure in the world," he said suavely. "Show me a revel, and I'll revel with the best. I like revels. What I do _not_ like is to stodge at home eating an indigestible meal, and pretending that I'm full of glee, when in reality I'm bored to death. If you could suggest a change. . . ." Margaret sighed; Tom sniffed; Peg pursed up her lips and thought. Presently her eyes brightened. "Of course," she remarked tentatively, "there are the Revells!" Jack flushed and bit his lips. "Quite so! There are. Fifty miles away, and not a spare bed in the house. Lot of good they are to us, to be sure! Were you going to suggest that we dropped in for a quiet call? Silly nonsense, to talk of a thing like that." Jack was quite testy and huffed, for the suggestion touched a tender point. The Revells were the friends _par excellence_ of the family of which he was the youthful head. It seemed, indeed, as if the two households had been specially manufactured so that each should fit the wants of the other. Jack was very certain that, in any case, Myra Revell supplied all that _he_ lacked, and the very thought of spending Christmas Day in her company sent a pang of longing through his heart. Margaret cherished a romantic admiration for Mrs. Revell, who was still a girl at heart despite the presence of a grown-up family. Dennis was at Marlborough with Tom; while Pat or Patricia was Peg's bosom chum. What could you wish for more? A Christmas spent with the Revells would be a pure delight; but alas! fifty miles of some of the wildest and bleakest country in England stretched between the two homes, which, being on different lines of railway, were inaccessible by the ordinary route. Moreover, the Revells were, as they themselves cheerfully declared, "reduced paupers," and inhabited a picturesquely dilapidated old farmhouse, and the problem, "_Where do they all sleep?_" was as engrossing as a jig-saw puzzle to their inquisitive friends. Impossible that even a cat could be invited to swing itself within those crowded portals; equally impossible to attempt to separate such an affectionate family at Christmas-time of all seasons of the year. [Sidenote: Peg Startles Everybody] And yet here was Peg deliberately raking up the painful topic; and after the other members of the family had duly reproached and abused, ready to level another bolt at their heads. "S--uppose we went a burst--hired a car, drove over early in the morning, and marched into church before their very eyes!" Silence! Sparkling eyes; alert, thoughtful gaze. Could they? Should they? Would it be right? A motor for the day meant an expenditure of four or five pounds, and though the exchequer was in a fairly prosperous condition, five-pound notes could not be treated with indifference. Still, in each mind ran the echo of Peg's words. It was Christmas-time. Why should they not, just for once, give themselves a treat--themselves, and their dear friends into the bargain? The sparkle deepened; a flash passed from eye to eye, a flash of determination! Without a word of dissent or discussion the proposal was seconded, and carried through. "Fifty miles! We can't go above twenty-five an hour through those bad roads. We shall have to be off by nine, if we want to be in time for church. What _will_ they think when they see us marching in?" "No, no, we mustn't do that. Mrs. Revell would be in a fever the whole time, asking herself, '_Will the pudding go round?_' It really wouldn't be kind," pleaded Margaret earnestly, and her hearers chuckled reminiscently. Mrs. Revell was a darling, but she was also an appallingly bad housekeeper. Living two miles from the nearest shop, she yet appeared constitutionally incapable of "thinking ahead"; and it was a common experience to behold at the afternoon meal different members of the family partaking respectively of tea, coffee, and cocoa, there being insufficient of any one beverage to go round. Margaret's sympathies went out involuntarily towards her friend, but her listeners, it is to be feared, were concerned entirely for themselves. It might be the custom to abuse the orthodox Christmas dinner, but since it _was_ a national custom which one did not care to break, it behoved one to have as good a specimen as possible, and the prospect of short commons, and indifferent short commons at that, was not attractive. _Who_ could be sure that the turkey might not arrive at the table singed and charred, and the pudding in a condition of _soup_? Schoolboy Tom was quick with a suggestion. "I say--tell you what! Do the surprise-party business, and take a hamper with us. . . . Only decent thing to do, when you march in four strong to another person's feed. Dennis would love a hamper----" "Ha! Good! Fine idea! So we will! A real old-fashioned hamper, full of all the good things they are least likely to have. Game pie----" "Tongue--one of those big, shiny fellows, with scriggles of sugar down his back----" "Ice-pudding in a tin----" "Fancy creams----" "French fruits----" "Crackers! Handsome ones, with things inside that are worth having----" "Bon-bons----" Each one had a fresh suggestion to make, and Margaret scribbled them all down on the ivory tablet which hung from her waist, and promptly adjourned into the kitchen to give the necessary orders, and to rejoice the hearts of her handmaidens by granting a day's leave all round. On further consideration it was decided to attend early service at home, and to start off on the day's expedition at eleven o'clock, arriving at the Revell homestead about one, by which time it was calculated that the family would have returned from church, and would be hanging aimlessly about the garden, in the very mood of all others to welcome an unexpected excitement. Christmas Day broke clear and bright. Punctual to the minute the motor came puffing along, the youthful-looking chauffeur drawing up before the door with an air of conscious complaisance. Despite his very professional attire--perhaps, indeed, because of it--so very youthful did he appear, that Jack was visited by a qualm. "Er--er--are you going to drive us all the way?" he inquired anxiously. "When I engaged the car, I saw . . . I thought I had arranged with----" "My father, sir. It was my father you saw. Father said, being Christmas Day, he didn't care to turn out, so he sent me----" "You are a qualified driver--quite capable . . . ?" [Sidenote: A Good Start] The lad smiled, a smile of ineffable calm. His eyelids drooped, the corners of his mouth twitched and were still. He replied with two words only, an unadorned "Yes, sir," but there was a colossal, a Napoleonic confidence in his manner, which proved quite embarrassing to his hearers. Margaret pinched Jack's arm as a protest against further questionings; Jack murmured something extraordinarily like an apology; then they all tumbled into the car, tucked the rugs round their knees, turned up the collars of their coats, and sailed off on the smooth, swift voyage through the wintry air. For the first hour all went without a hitch. The youthful chauffeur drove smoothly and well; he had not much knowledge of the countryside; but as Jack knew every turn by heart, having frequently bicycled over the route, no delay was caused, and a merrier party of Christmas revellers could not have been found than the four occupants of the tonneau. They sang, they laughed, they told stories, and asked riddles; they ate sandwiches out of a tin, and drank hot coffee out of a thermos flask, and congratulated themselves, not once, but a dozen times, over their own ingenuity in hitting upon such a delightful variation to the usual Christmas programme. More than half the distance had been accomplished; the worst part of the road had been reached, and the car was beginning to bump and jerk in a somewhat uncomfortable fashion. Jack frowned, and looked at the slight figure of the chauffeur with a returning doubt. "He's all right on smooth roads, but this part needs a lot of driving. Another time----" He set his lips, and mentally rehearsed the complaints which he would make to "my father" when he paid the bill. Margaret gave a squeal, and looked doubtfully over the side. "I--I suppose it's all right! What would happen if he lost control, and we slipped back all the way downhill?" "It isn't a question of control. It's a question of the strength of the car. It's powerful enough for worse hills than this." "What's that funny noise? It didn't sound like that before. Kind of a clickety-clack. . . . Don't you hear it?" "No. Of course not. Don't be stupid and imagine things that don't exist. . . . What's the difference between----" Jack nobly tried to distract attention from the car, but before another mile had been traversed, the clickety-clack noise grew too loud to be ignored, the car drew up with a jerk, and the chauffeur leaped out. "I must just see----" he murmured vaguely; vaguely also he seemed to grope at the machinery of the car, while the four occupants of the tonneau hung over the doors watching his progress; then once more springing to his seat, he started the car, and they went bumping unevenly along the road. No more singing now; no more laughing and telling of tales; deep in each breast lay the presage of coming ill; four pairs of eyes scanned the dreary waste of surrounding country, while four brains busily counted up the number of miles which still lay between them and their destination. Twenty miles at least, and not a house in sight except one dreary stone edifice standing back from the road, behind a mass of evergreen trees. "This fellow is no good for rough roads. He would wear out a car in no time, to say nothing of the passengers. Can't think why we haven't had a puncture before now!" said Jack gloomily; whereupon Margaret called him sharply to order. "Don't say such things . . . don't think them. It's very wrong. You ought always to expect the best----" "Don't suppose my thinking is going to have any effect on rubber, do you?" Jack's tone was decidedly snappy. He was a lover, and it tortured him to think that an accident to the car might delay his meeting with his love. He had never spent a Christmas Day with Myra before; surely on this day of days she would be kinder, sweeter, relax a little of her proud restraint. Perhaps there would be mistletoe. . . . Suppose he found himself alone with Myra beneath the mistletoe bough? Suppose he kissed her? Suppose she turned upon him with her dignified little air and reproached him, saying he had no right? Suppose he said, "_Myra! will you give me the right?_" . . . No wonder that the car seemed slow to the lover's mind; no wonder that every fresh jerk and strain deepened the frown on his brow. The road was strewn with rough, sharp stones; but in another mile or two they would be on a smooth high-road once more. If only they could last out those few miles! [Sidenote: A Puncture] Bang! A sharp, pistol-like noise rent the air, a noise which told its own tale to the listening ears. A tyre had punctured, and a dreary half-hour's delay must be faced while the youthful chauffeur repaired the damage. The passengers leaped to the ground, and exhausted themselves in lamentations. They were already behind time, and this new delay would make them later than ever. . . . Suddenly they became aware that they were cold and tired--shivering with cold. Peg looked down at her boots, and supposed that there were feet inside, but as a matter of sensation it was really impossible to say. Margaret's nose was a cheery plaid--blue patches neatly veined with red. Jack looked from one to the other and forgot his own impatience in anxiety for their welfare. "Girls, you look frozen! Cut away up to that house, and ask them to let you sit by the fire for half an hour. Much better than hanging about here. I'll come for you when we are ready." The girls glanced doubtfully at the squat, white house, which in truth looked the reverse of hospitable; but the prospect of a fire being all-powerful at the moment, they turned obediently, and made their way up a worn gravel path, leading to the shabbiest of painted doors. Margaret knocked; Peg rapped; then Margaret knocked again; but nobody came, and not a sound broke the stillness within. The girls shivered and told each other disconsolately there was no one to come. Who _would_ live in such a dreary house, in such a dreary, solitary waste, if it were possible to live anywhere else? Then they strolled round the corner of the house, and caught the cheerful glow of firelight, which settled the question, once for all. "Let's try the back door!" said Margaret, and the back door being found, they knocked again, but knocked in vain. Then Peg gave an impatient shake to the handle, and lo and behold! it turned in her hand, and swung slowly open on its hinges, showing a glimpse of a trim little kitchen, and beyond that a narrow passage leading to the front door. "Is any one there? Is any one there?" chanted Margaret loudly. She took a hesitating step into the passage--took two; repeated the cry in an even higher key; but still no answer came, still the same uncanny silence brooded over all. The girls stood still, and gazed in each other's eyes; in each face were reflected the same emotions--curiosity, interest, a tinge of fear. What could it mean? Could there be some one within these silent walls who was _ill_, helpless, in need of aid? "I think," declared Margaret firmly, "that it is our duty to look. . . ." In after days she always absolved herself from any charge of curiosity in this decision, and declared that her action was dictated solely by a feeling of duty; but her hearers had their doubts. Be that as it might, the decision fell in well with Peg's wishes, and the two girls walked slowly down the passage, repeating from time to time the cry "Is any one there?" the while their eyes busily scanned all they could see, and drew Sherlock Holmes conclusions therefrom. [Sidenote: What the Girls found] The house belonged to a couple who had a great many children and very little money. There was a cupboard beneath the stairs filled with shabby little boots; there was a hat-rack in the hall covered with shabby little caps. They were people of education and culture, for there were books in profusion, and the few pictures on the walls showed an artistic taste; they were tidy people also, for everything was in order, and a peep into the firelit room on the right showed the table set ready for the Christmas meal. It was like wandering through the enchanted empty palaces of the dear old fairy-tales, except that it was not a palace at all, and the banquet spread out on the darned white cloth was of so meagre a description, that at the sight the beholders flushed with a shamed surprise. That Christmas table--should they ever forget it? If they lived to be a hundred years old should they ever again behold a feast so poor in material goods, so rich in beauty of thought? For it would appear that though money was wanting, there was no lack of love and poetry in this lonely home. The table was decked with great bunches of holly, and before every seat a little card bore the name of a member of the family, printed on a card, which had been further embellished by a flower or spray, painted by an artist whose taste was in advance of his skill--"Father," "Mother," "Amy," "Fred," "Norton," "Mary," "Teddums," "May." Eight names in all, but nine chairs, and the ninth no ordinary, cane-seated chair like the rest, but a beautiful, high-backed, carved-oak erection, ecclesiastical in design, which looked strangely out of place in the bare room. There was no card before this ninth chair, but on the uncushioned seat lay a square piece of cardboard, bordered with a painted wreath of holly, inscribed on which were four short words. Margaret and Peg read them with a sudden shortening of the breath and smarting of the eyes: "_For the Christ Child!_" "Ah-h!" Margaret's hand stretched out, seized Peg's, and held it fast. In the rush and bustle of the morning it had been hard to realise the meaning of the day: now, for the first time, the spirit of Christmas flooded her heart, filled it with love, with a longing to help and to serve. "Peg! Peg!" she cried breathlessly. "How beautiful of them! They have so little themselves, but they have remembered the old custom, the sweet old custom, and made _Him_ welcome. . . ." Her eyes roamed to the window, and lit with sudden inspiration. She lifted her hand and pointed to a distant steeple rising above the trees. "They have all gone off to church--father and mother, and Amy and Fred--all the family together! That's why the house is empty. And dinner is waiting for their return!" She turned again to the table, her housekeeper's eye taking in at a flash the paucity of its furnishings. "Peg! can this be _all_? _All_ that they have to eat . . . ? Let us look in the kitchen. . . . I must make quite sure. . . ." There was no feeling of embarrassment, no consciousness of impertinent curiosity, in the girls' minds as they investigated the contents of kitchen and larder. At that moment the house seemed their own, its people their people; they were just two more members of a big family, whose duty it was to look after the interests of their brothers and sisters while they were away; and when evidences of poverty and emptiness met them on every side, the two pairs of eyes met with a mutual impulse, so strong that it needed not to be put into words. In another moment they had left the house behind and were running swiftly across the meadow towards the car. The chauffeur was busily engaged on the tyre, Jack and Tom helping, or hindering as the case might be. The hamper lay on the ground where it had been placed for greater security during the repairs. The girls nipped it up by its handles, and ran off again, regardless of protests and inquiries. It was very heavy, delightfully heavy: the bearers rejoiced in its weight, wished it had been three times as heavy; the aching of their arms was a positive joy to them as they bore their burden into the little dining-room, and laid it down upon the floor. [Sidenote: What shall we do with it?] "Now! What shall we do now? Shall we lay out the things and make a display on the table, or shall we put the pie in the oven beside that tiny ghost of a joint, and the pudding in a pan beside the potatoes? Which do you think would be best?" But Margaret shook her head. "Neither! Oh! don't you see, both ways would look too human, too material. They would show too plainly that strangers had been in, and had interfered. I want it to look like a Christmas miracle . . . as if it had come straight. . . . We'll lay the basket just as it is, on the Christ Child's chair. . . ." Peg nodded. She was an understanding Peg, and she rose at once to the poetry of the idea. Gently, reverently, the girls lifted the basket which was to have furnished their own repast, laid it on the carved-oak chair, and laid on its lid the painted card; then for a moment they stood side by side, gazing round the room, seeing in imagination the scene which would follow the return of the family from church . . . the incredulity, the amaze, the blind mystification, the joy. . . . Peg beamed in anticipation of the delight of the youngsters; Margaret had the strangest, eeriest feeling of looking straight into a sweet, worn face; of feeling the clasp of work-worn hands. It was imagination, she told herself, simple imagination, yet the face was alive. . . . Its features seemed more distinct than many which she knew in the flesh. She shivered slightly, and drew her sister from the room. "Now, Peg, to cover up our tracks; to leave everything as we found it! This door was shut. . . . Have we moved anything from its place, left any footmarks on the floor? Be careful, dear, be careful! . . . Push that chair into place. . . ." * * * * * The tyre was repaired. The chauffeur was straightening his back after the long stoop. Jack and Tom were indignantly demanding what had been done with the hamper. Being hungry and unromantic, it took some little time to convince them that there had been no choice in the matter, and that the large family had a right to their luxuries which was not to be gainsaid. They had not seen the pitiful emptiness of the Christmas table; they had not seen the chair set ready for the Christ Child. The girls realised as much and dealt gently with them, and in the outcome no one felt the poorer; for the welcome bestowed upon the surprise party was untinged by any shadow of embarrassment, and they sat around a festal board, happy to feel that their presence was hailed as the culminating joy of the day. * * * * * It was evening when the car again approached the lonely house, and Margaret, speaking down the connecting tube, directed the chauffeur to drive at his slowest speed for the next quarter of a mile. Jack was lying back in his corner, absorbed in happy dreams. Never so long as he lived could he forget this Christmas Day, which had seen the fulfilment of his hopes in Myra's sweetness, Myra's troth. Tom was fast asleep, dreaming of "dorm." suppers, and other escapades of the last term. The two sisters were as much alone as if the only occupants of the car. They craned forward, eager for the first glimpse of the house, and caught sight of a beam of light athwart the darkness of the night. The house was all black save for one window, but that was as a lighthouse in a waste, for the curtains were undrawn, and fire and lamp sent out a rosy glow which seemed the embodiment of cheer. Against the white background of the wall a group of figures could be seen standing together beneath the lamp; the strains of a harmonium floated sweetly on the night air, a chorus of glad young voices singing the well-known words: "The King of Love my Shepherd is!" With a common impulse the two girls waved their hands from the window as the car plunged forward. "Good-night, little sisters!" "Good-night, little brothers!" [Sidenote: How He comes] "Sleep well, little people. The Christ Child is with you. You asked Him, and He came----" "And the wonderful thing," said Peg, "the most wonderful thing is, that He came _through us_!" "But that," answered Margaret thoughtfully, "is just how He always _does_ come." [Sidenote: The story of a girl's adventure for a father's sake that may help girls who are at all like Anna.] Anna BY KATHARINE S. MACQUOID Three thousand feet up the side of a Swiss mountain a lateral valley strikes off in the direction of the heights that border the course of the Rhine on its way from Coire to Sargans. The closely-cropped, velvet-smooth turf, the abundant woods, sometimes of pine-trees and sometimes of beech and chestnut, give a smiling, park-like aspect to the broad green track, and suggest ideas of peace and plenty. As the path gradually ascends on its way to Fadara the wealth of wild flowers increases, and adds to the beauty of the scene. A few brown cow-stables are dotted about the flower-sprinkled meadows; a brook runs diagonally across the path, and some freshly-laid planks show that inhabitants are not far off; but there is not a living creature in sight. The grasshoppers keep up their perpetual chirrup, and if one looks among the flowers one can see the gleam of their scarlet wings as they jump; for the rest, the flowers and the birds have it all to themselves, and they sing their hymns and offer their incense in undisturbed solitude. When one has crossed the brook and climbed an upward slope into the meadow beyond it, one enters a thick fir-wood full of fragrant shadow; at the end is a bank, green and high, crowned by a hedge, and all at once the quiet of the place has fled. Such a variety of sounds come down the green bank! A cock is crowing loudly, and there is the bleat of a young calf; pigs are squeaking one against another, and in the midst of the din a dog begins to bark. At the farther corner, where the hedge retreats from its encroachments on the meadow, a grey house comes into view, with a signboard across its upper part announcing that here the tired traveller may get dinner and a bed. Before the cock has done crowing--and really he goes on so long that it is a wonder he is not hoarse--another voice mingles with the rest. It is a woman's voice, and, although neither hoarse nor shrill, it is no more musical than the crow of the other biped, who struts about on his widely-spread toes in the yard, to which Christina Fasch has come to feed the pigs. There are five of them, pink-nosed and yellow-coated, and they keep up a grunting and snarling chorus within their wooden enclosure, each struggling to oust a neighbour from his place near the trough while they all greedily await their food. [Sidenote: "Come, Anna!"] "Come, Anna, come," says the hard voice; "what a slow coach you are! I would do a thing three times over while you are thinking about it!" * * * * * The farmyard was bordered by the tall hedge, and lay between it and the inn. The cow-house, on one side, was separated from the pigstyes by a big stack of yellow logs, and the farther corner of the inn was flanked by another stack of split wood, fronted by a pile of brushwood; above was a wooden balcony that ran also along the house-front, and was sheltered by the far-projecting eaves of the shingled roof. Only the upper part of the inn was built of logs, the rest was brick and plaster. The house looked neatly kept, the yard was less full of the stray wood and litter that is so usual in a Swiss farmyard, but there was a dull, severe air about the place. There was not a flower or a plant, either in the balcony or on the broad wooden shelves below the windows--not so much as a carnation or a marigold in the vegetable plot behind the house. A shed stood in the corner of this plot, and at the sound of Christina's call a girl came out of the shed; she was young and tall and strong-looking, but she did not beautify the scene. To begin with, she stooped; her rough, tangled hair covered her forehead and partly hid her eyes; her skin was red and tanned with exposure, and her rather wide lips drooped at the corners with an expression of misery that was almost grotesque. She carried a pail in each hand. "Do be quick!" Christina spoke impatiently as she saw her niece appear beyond the wood-stack. Anna started at the harsh voice as if a lash had fallen on her back; the pig's food splashed over her gown and filled her heavy leather shoes. "I had better have done it myself," cried her aunt. "See, unhappy child, you have wasted food and time also! Now you must go and clean your shoes and stockings; your gown and apron are only fit for the wash-tub! Ah!" She gave a deep sigh as she took up first one pail and then the other and emptied the wash into the pig-trough without spilling a drop by the way. Anna stood watching her admiringly. "Well!" Christina turned round on her. "I ask myself, what is the use of you, child? You are fifteen, and so far it seems to me that you are here only to make work for others! When do you mean to do things as other people do them? I ask myself, what would become of you if your father were a poor man, and you had to earn your living?" Anna had stooped yet more forward; she seemed to crouch as if she wanted to get out of sight. Christina suddenly stopped and looked at her for an answer. Anna fingered her splashed apron; she tried to speak, but a lump rose in her throat, and she could not see for the hot tears that would, against her will, rush to her eyes. "I shall never do anything well," she said at last, and the misery in her voice touched her aunt. "I used not to believe you, aunt, but now I see that you are right. I can never be needful to any one." Then she went on bitterly: "It would have been better if father had taken me up to the lake on Scesaplana when I was a baby and drowned me there as he drowned the puppies in the wash-tub." Christina looked shocked; there was a frown on her heavy face, which was usually as expressionless as if it had been carved in wood. [Sidenote: "Go, you unlucky child!"] "Fie!" she said. "Think of Gretchen's mother, old Barbara; she does not complain of the goître; though she has to bear it under her chin, she tries to keep it out of sight. I wish you would do the same with your clumsiness. There, go and change your clothes, go, you unlucky child, go!" * * * * * You are perhaps wondering how it comes to pass that an inn can exist placed alone in the midst of green pasture-land, and only approached by a simple foot track, which more than once leads the wayfarer across mere plank bridges, and which passes, only at long intervals, small groups of cottages that call themselves villages. You naturally wonder how the guests at this lonely inn fare with regard to provisions. It is true that milk is sent down every day from the cows on the green Alps higher up the mountain, and that the farm boasts of plenty of ducks and fowls, of eggs and honey. There are a few sheep and goats, too; we have seen that there are pigs. Fräulein Christina Fasch makes good bread, and she is famous for her delicate puddings and sauces; the puzzle is, whence come the groceries, and the extras, and the wines that are consumed in the inn? A mile or so beyond, on a lower spur of the mountain ridge that overlooks the Rhine, a gap comes in the hedge that screens an almost precipitous descent into the broad, flat valley. The descent looks more perilous than it is, for constant use has worn the slender track into a series of rough steps, which lead to the vine-clad knoll on which is situated Malans, and at Malans George Fasch, the landlord of our inn, can purchase all he needs, for it is near a station on the railway line between Zurich and Coire and close to the busy town of Mayenfeld in the valley below. Just now there are no visitors at the inn, so the landlord only makes his toilsome journey once a fortnight; but when there is a family in the house he visits the valley more frequently, for he cannot bring very large stores with him, although he does not spare himself fatigue, and he mounts the natural ladder with surprising rapidity, considering the load he carries strapped to his shoulders. The great joy of Anna was to meet her father at the top of the pass, and persuade him to lighten his burden by giving her some of it to carry; and to-day, when she had washed her face and hands, and had changed her clothes, she wished that he had gone to Malans; his coming back would have helped her to forget her disaster. Her aunt's words clung to the girl like burs; and now, as they rang in her ears again, she went into the wood to have her cry out, unobserved. She stood leaning against a tree; and, as the tears rolled over her face, she turned and hid it against the rough red bark of the pine. She was crying for the loss of the dear, gentle mother who had always helped her. Her mother had so screened her awkwardness from public notice that Anna had scarcely been aware of it. Her Aunt Christina had said, when she was summoned four years ago to manage her brother's household, "Your wife has ruined Anna, brother. I shall have hard work to improve her." Anna was not crying now about her aunt's constant fault-finding; there was something in her grief more bitter even than the tears she shed for her mother; it seemed to the girl that day by day she was becoming more and more clumsy and stupid; she broke the crockery, and even the furniture; she spoiled her frocks; and, worst of all, she had more than once met her father's kind blue eyes fixed on her with a look of sadness that went to her heart. Did he, too, think that she would never be useful to herself or to any one? At this thought her tears came more freely, and she pressed her hot face against the tree. "I wonder why I was made!" she sobbed. There came a sharp crackling sound, as the twigs and pine-needles snapped under a heavy tread. Anna caught up her white apron and vigorously rubbed her eyes; then she hurried out to the path from her shelter among the trees. In another minute her arms were round her father, and she was kissing him on both cheeks. [Sidenote: A Startling Face] George Fasch kissed her and patted her shoulder; then a suppressed sob caught his ear. He held Anna away from him, and looked at her face. It was red and green in streaks, and her eyes were red and inflamed. The father was startled by her appearance. "What is the matter, dear child?" he said. "You are ill." Then his eyes fell on her apron. Its crumpled state, and the red and green smears on it, showed the use to which it had been put, and he began to guess what had happened. Anna hung her head. "I was crying and I leaned against a tree. Oh, dear, it was a clean apron! Aunt will be vexed." Her father sighed, but he pitied her confusion. "Why did you cry, my child?" he said, half-tenderly, half in rebuke. "Aunt Christina means well, though she speaks abruptly." He only provoked fresh tears, but Anna tried so hard to keep them back that she was soon calm again. "I am not vexed with Aunt Christina for scolding me," she said; "I deserved it; I am sorry for myself." "Well, well," he said cheerfully, "we cannot expect old heads on young shoulders." His honest, sunburned face was slightly troubled as he looked at her. "You will have to brush up a bit, you know, when Christina goes to Zurich. You are going to be left in charge of the house for a week or so." Anna pressed her hands nervously together. She felt that the house would suffer greatly under her guidance; but then, she should have her father all to herself in her aunt's absence, and she should be freed from those scathing rebukes which made her feel all the more clumsy and helpless when they were uttered in her father's presence. George Fasch, however, had of late become very much aware of his daughter's awkwardness, and secretly he was troubled by the prospect of her aunt's absence. He was a kind man and an affectionate father, but he objected to Gretchen's unaided cookery, and he had therefore resolved to transact some long-deferred business in Zurich during his sister's stay there. This would lessen the number of his badly-cooked dinners at home. "I shall start with Christina," he said--"some one must go with her to Pardisla; and next day I shall come home by Malans, so you will have to meet me on Wednesday evening at the old place, eh, Anna?" She nodded and smiled, but she felt a little disappointed. She reflected, however, that she should have her father alone for some days after his return. Christina was surprised to see how cheerful the girl looked when she came indoors. * * * * * Rain fell incessantly for several days, and even when it ceased masses of white vapour rose up from the neighbouring valleys and blotted out everything. The vapour had lifted, however, when Fasch and his sister started on their expedition, and Anna, tired of her week's seclusion, set out on a ramble. A strange new feeling came over the girl as soon as she lost sight of her aunt's straight figure. She was free, there would be no one to scold her or to make her feel awkward; she vaulted with delight, and with an ease that surprised her, over the fence that parted the two meadows; she looked down at her skirt, and she saw with relief that she had not much frayed it, yet she knew there were thorns, for there had been an abundance of wild roses in the hedge. A lark was singing blithely overhead, and the grasshoppers filled the air with joyful chirpings. Anna's face beamed with content. "If life could be always like to-day!" she thought, "oh, how nice it would be!" [Sidenote: In the Marsh] Presently she reached the meadow with the brook running across it, and she gave a cry of delight; down in the marsh into which the brook ran across the sloping field she saw a mass of bright dark-blue. These were gentian-flowers, opening blue and green blossoms to the sunshine, and in front of them the meadow itself was white with a sprinkling of grass of Parnassus. Anna had a passionate love of flowers, and, utterly heedless of all but the joy of seeing them, she ran down the slope, and only stopped when she found herself ankle-deep in the marsh below, in which the gentian grew. This sobered her excitement. She pulled out one foot, and was shocked to find that she had left her shoe behind in the black slime; she was conscious, too, that her other foot was sinking deeper and deeper in the treacherous marsh. There was nothing to hold by, there was not even an osier near at hand; behind the gentian rose a thicket of rosy-blossomed willow-herb, and here and there was a creamy tassel of meadowsweet, but even these were some feet beyond her grasp. Anna looked round her in despair. From the next field came a clicking sound, and as she listened she guessed that old Andreas was busy mowing. He was old, but he was not deaf, and she could easily make him hear a cry for help; but she was afraid of Andreas. He kept the hotel garden in order, and if he found footmarks on the vegetable plots, or if anything went wrong with the plants, he always laid the blame on Anna; he was as neat as he was captious, and the girl shrank from letting him see the plight she was in. She stooped down and felt for her shoe, and as she recovered it she nearly fell full length into the bog; the struggle to keep her balance was fatal; her other foot sank several inches; it seemed to her that she must soon be sucked down by the horrible black water that spurted up from the marsh with her struggles. Without stopping to think, she cried out as loud as she could, "Help me, Andreas! Help! I am drowning!" At the cry the top of a straw hat appeared in sight, and its owner came up-hill--a small man, with twisted legs, in pale clay-coloured trousers, a black waistcoat, and brown linen shirtsleeves. His wrinkled face looked hot, and his hat was pushed to the back of his head. He took it off and wiped his face with his handkerchief while he looked round him. "Pouf!" He gave a grunt of displeasure. "So you are once more in mischief, are you? Ah, ah, ah! What, then, will the aunt, that ever to be respected Fräulein, say, when she hears of this?" He called this out as he came leisurely across the strip of meadow that separated him from Anna. She was in an agony of fear lest she should sink still farther in before he reached her; but she knew Andreas far too well to urge him even by a word to greater haste. So she stood shivering and pale with fear while she clasped her bog-stained shoe close to her. Andreas had brought a stake with him, and he held this out to Anna, but when she tried to draw out her sinking foot she shook her head, it seemed to be stuck too fast in the bog. Andreas gave a growl of discontent, and then went slowly up to the plank bridge. With some effort he raised the smaller of the two planks and carried it to where Anna stood fixed like a statue among the flowering water-plants. Then he pushed the plank out till it rested on a hillock of rushes, while the other end remained on the meadow. "Ah!"--he drew a long breath--"see the trouble you give by your carelessness." He spoke vindictively, as if he would have liked to give her a good shaking; but Anna smiled at him, she was so thankful at the prospect of release. [Sidenote: Rescued] The mischievous little man kept her waiting some minutes. He pretended to test the safety of the plank by walking up and down it and trying it with his foot. At last, when the girl's heart had become sick with suspense, he suddenly stretched out both hands and pulled her on to the plank, then he pushed her along before him till she was on dry ground once more. "Oh, thank you, Andreas," she began, but he cut her thanks very short. "Go home at once and dry yourself," he said. "You are the plague of my life, and if I had been a wise man I should have left you in the marsh. Could not your senses tell you that all that rain meant danger in boggy places? There'll be mischief somewhere besides this; a landslip or two, more than likely. There, run home, child, or you'll get cold." He turned angrily away and went back to his work. Anna hurried to the narrowest part of the brook and jumped across it. She could not make herself in a worse plight than she was already; her skirts were dripping with the black and filthy water of the marsh. Heavy rain fell again during the night, and continued throughout the morning, but in the afternoon there was a glimpse of sunshine overhead. This soon drew the vapour up again from the valley, and white steam-clouds sailed slowly across the landscape. Gretchen had been very kind and compassionate about Anna's disaster; she made the girl go to bed for an hour or two, and gave her some hot broth, and Anna would have forgotten her trouble but for the certainty she felt that old Andreas would make as bad a story of it as he could to her Aunt Christina. But this morning the girl was looking forward to her father's home-coming, and she was in good spirits; she had tried to make herself extra neat, and to imitate as closely as she could her Aunt Christina's way of tidying the rooms; but one improvement suggested itself to Anna which would certainly not have occurred to her tidy aunt; if she had thought of it, she would have scouted the idea as useless, and a frivolous waste of time. Directly after the midday meal Anna went out to gather a wild-flower nosegay, to place in the sitting-room in honour of her father's return. It seemed to her the only means she had of showing him how glad she was to see him again. While she was busy gathering Andreas crossed the meadow; he did not see Anna stooping over the flowers, and she kept herself hidden; but the sight of him brought back a haunting fear. What was it? What had Andreas said that she had forgotten? He had said something which had startled her at the time, and which now came pressing urgently on her for remembrance, although she could not distinctly recall it. What was it? Anna stood asking herself; the flowers fell out of her hand on to the grass among their unplucked companions; she stood for some minutes absorbed in thought. Andreas had passed out of sight, and she could not venture to follow him, for she did not know what she wanted him to tell her. A raindrop fell on her hand, and she looked up. Yes, the rain had begun again. Anna gave a sudden start; she left the flowers and set off running towards the point at which she was accustomed to meet her father. With the raindrop the clue she had been seeking had come to her. Andreas had said there might very likely be landslips, and who could say that there might not have been one on the hillside above Malans? Anna had often heard her father say that, though he could climb the steep ascent with his burden, he should be sorry to have to go down with it. If the track had been partly carried away, he might begin to climb without any warning of the danger that lay before him. . . . Anna trembled and shivered as she thought of the danger. It would be growing dusk before her father began to climb, and who could say what might happen? She hurried on to the place at which she always met her father. When she had crossed the brook that parted the field with the gap from the field preceding it, Anna stood still in dismay. The hedge was gone, and so was a good strip of the field it had bordered. [Sidenote: A Landslip] There had already been a landslip. Anna had learned wisdom by her mischance yesterday, and she went on slowly and cautiously till she drew near the edge; then she knelt down on the grass, and, creeping along on her hands and knees, she peered over the broken, slippery edge. The landslip seemed to have reached midway down the cliff, but the rain had washed the earth and rubbish to one side. So far as Anna could make out, the way up, half-way, was as firm as ever; then there came a heap of debris from the fall of earth, and then the bare rock rose to the top, upright and dreadful. Anna's head turned dizzy as she looked down the precipice, and she forced herself to crawl backward from the crumbling edge only just in time, for it seemed to her that some mysterious power was beckoning her from below. When she got on her feet she stood and wondered what was to be done. How was she to warn her father of this danger? She looked at the sun; it was still high up in the sky, so she had some hours before her. There was no other way to Malans but this one, unless by going back half-way to Seewis, to where a path led down to Pardisla, and thence into the Landquart valley, where the high-road went on to Malans, past the corner where the Landquart falls into the Rhine. Anna had learned all this as a child from the big map which hung in the dining-room at the inn. But on the map it looked a long, long way to the Rhine valley, and she had heard her father tell her Aunt Christina that she must take the diligence at Pardisla; it would be too far, he said, to walk to Landquart, and Anna knew that Malans was farther still. She stood wondering what could be done. In these last four years she had become by degrees penetrated with a sense of her own utter uselessness, and she had gradually sunk into a melancholy condition. She did only what she was told to do, and she always expected to be told how to do it. Her first thought now was, how could she get help or advice? she knew only two people who could help her--Gretchen and Andreas. The last, she reflected, must be already at some distance. When she saw him, he was carrying a basket, and he had, no doubt, gone to Seewis, for it was market-day in that busy village. As to Gretchen, Anna felt puzzled. Gretchen never went from home; what could she know about time and the distance from the Rhine valley? Besides, while the girl stood thinking her sense of responsibility unfolded, the sense that comes to every rational creature in a moment that threatens danger to others; and she saw that by going back even to consult with Gretchen she must lose many precious minutes. There was no near road to the valley, but it would save a little to keep well behind the inn on her downward way to Pardisla. As Anna went along the day cleared again. The phantom-like mists drifted aside and showed on the opposite mountain's side brilliant green Alps in the fir-wood that reached almost to the top. The lark overhead sang louder, and the grasshopper's metallic chirp was incessant under foot. [Sidenote: Father must be Warned] Anna's heart became lighter as she hurried on; surely, she thought, she must reach Malans before her father had begun to climb the mountain. She knew that he would have left his knapsack at Mayenfeld, and that he must call there for it on his way home. Unless the landslip was quite recent it seemed to her possible that some one might be aware of what had happened, and might give her father warning; but Anna had seen that for a good way above Malans the upward path looked all right, and it was so perpendicular that she fancied the destruction of its upper portion might not have been at once discovered, especially if it had occurred at night. No, she was obliged to see that it was extremely doubtful whether her father would receive any warning unless she reached the foot of the descent before he did. So she went at her utmost speed down the steep stony track to Pardisla. New powers seemed to have come to her with the intensity of her suspense. * * * * * George Fasch had every reason to be content with the way in which he had managed his business at Zurich; and yet, as he travelled back to Mayenfeld, he was in a desponding mood. All the way to Zurich his sister had talked about Anna. She said she had tried her utmost with the girl, and that she grew worse and worse. "She is reckless and thoroughly unreliable," she said, "and she gets more stupid every day. If you were wise you would put her into a reformatory." George Fasch shrugged his shoulders. "She is affectionate," he said bluntly, "and she is very unselfish. I should be sorry to send her from home." Christina held up her hands. "I call a girl selfish who gives so much trouble. Gretchen has to wash out three skirts a week for Anna. She is always spoiling her clothes. I, on the contrary, call her very selfish, brother." George Fasch shrugged his shoulders again; he remembered the red and green apron, and he supposed that Christina must be right; and now, as he travelled back alone, he asked himself what he must do. Certainly he saw no reason why he should place Anna in a reformatory--that would be, he thought, a sure way of making her unhappy, and perhaps even desperate; but Christina's words had shown him her unwillingness to be plagued with his daughter's ways, and he shrank from the idea of losing his useful housekeeper. He had been accustomed to depend on his sister for the management of the inn, and he felt that no paid housekeeper would be able to fill Christina's place. Besides, it would cost more money to pay a stranger. Yes, he must send Anna away, but he shrank from the idea. There was a timid, pathetic look in the girl's dark eyes that warned him against parting her from those she loved. After all, was she not very like her mother? and his sweet lost wife had often told George Fasch how dreamy and heedless and stupid she had been in childhood. He was sure that Anna would mend in time, if only he could hit on some middle course at present. The weather had been fine at Zurich; and he was surprised, when he quitted the train, to see the long wreaths of white vapour that floated along the valley and up the sides of the hill. It was clearer when he had crossed the river; but before he reached Malans evening was drawing in, and everything grew misty. He had made his purchases at Mayenfeld so as to avoid another stoppage; and, with his heavy load strapped on his back, he took a by-path that skirted Malans, and led him straight to the bottom of the descent without going through the village. There was a group of trees just at the foot of the path, which increased the gathering gloom. "My poor child will be tired of waiting," he thought, and he began to climb the steep ascent more rapidly than usual. All at once a faint cry reached him; he stopped and listened, but it did not come again. The way was very slippery, he thought; his feet seemed to be clogged with soft earth, and he stopped at last to breathe. Then he heard another cry, and the sound of footsteps behind him. Some one was following him up the dangerous ascent. And as his ears took in the sound he heard Anna's voice some way below. [Sidenote: "You cannot climb To-night!"] "Father! father! stop! stop!" she cried; "there is a landslip above; you cannot climb to-night." George Fasch stopped. He shut his eyes and opened them again. It seemed to him that he was dreaming. How came Anna to be at the foot of the pass if it was not possible to climb to the top of it? "What is it, Anna? Do you mean that I must come down again?" he said wonderingly. "Yes, yes; the path above is destroyed." And once more he wondered if all this could be real. "Father, can you come down with the pack, or will you unfasten it and leave it behind?" George Fasch thought a moment. "You must go down first," he said, "and keep on one side; the distance is short, and I think I can do it; but I may slip by the way." There were minutes of breathless suspense while Anna stood in the gathering darkness, and then the heavy footsteps ceased to descend, and she found herself suddenly hugged close in her father's arms. "My good girl," he said, "my good Anna, how did you come here?" Anna could not speak. She trembled like a leaf, and then she began to sob. The poor girl was completely exhausted by the terrible anxiety she had gone through, and by fatigue. "I thought I was too late," she sobbed; "it looked so dark. I feared you could not see; I cried out, but you did not answer. Oh, father!"--she caught at his arms--"if I had been really too late!" Her head sank on his shoulder. George Fasch patted her cheek. He was deeply moved, but he did not speak; he would hear by-and-by how it had all happened. Presently he said cheerfully: "Well, my girl, we must let Gretchen wonder what has happened to us to-night. You and I will get beds at Malans. My clever Anna has done enough for one day." * * * * * Three years have passed since Anna's memorable journey. Her Aunt Christina has married, and she has gone to live in Zurich; Anna is now alone with her father and Gretchen. She has developed in all ways; that hurried journey to the foot of the mountain had been a mental tonic to the girl. She has learned to be self-reliant in a true way, and she has found out the truth of a very old proverb, which says, "No one knows what he can do till he tries." [Illustration: AT THE PICNIC: "I SHAN'T PLAY IF YOU FELLOWS ARE SO ROUGH!"] [Sidenote: Mrs. Creighton (the widow of one of the most brilliant men who ever adorned the English episcopate) has herself been an ardent worker in literary and social fields. Her appeal to the girls of the Empire lays stress on the joy as well as the privilege of service.] To Girls of the Empire The Call to Service BY MRS. CREIGHTON There are those who speak of patriotism as selfish, and bid us cultivate a wider spirit, and think and work for the good of the whole world rather than for the good of our own country. It is true that there is a narrow and a selfish patriotism which blinds us to the good in other nations, which limits our aspirations and breeds a spirit of jealousy and self-assertion. The true patriotism leads us to love our country, and to work for it because we believe that God has given it a special mission, a special part to play in the development of His great purpose in the world, and that ours is the high privilege of helping it to fulfil that mission. At this moment there seems to come a special call to women to share in the work that we believe the British Empire is bidden to do for the good of the whole world. If we British people fail to rise to the great opportunity that lies before us, it will be because we love easy ways, and material comfort, and all the pleasant things that come to us so readily, because we have lost the spirit of enterprise, the capacity to do hard things, and are content with trying to get the best out of life for ourselves. We need to keep always a high ideal before us, and as civilisation increases and brings ever new possibilities of enjoyment, the maintenance of that high ideal becomes always more difficult. Nothing helps so much to keep us from low ideals as the conviction that life is a call from God to service, and that our truest happiness is to be found in using every gift, every capacity that we possess, for the good of others. Girls naturally look forward into life and wonder what it will bring them. Those will probably be the happiest who early in life are obliged or encouraged to prepare themselves for some definite work. But however this may be, they should all from the first realise the bigness of their position, and see themselves as citizens of a great country, with a great work to do for God in the world. It may be that they will be called to what seems the most natural work for women--to have homes of their own and to realise their citizenship as wives and mothers, doing surely the most important work that any citizen can fulfil. Or they may have either for a time or for life some definite work of their own to do. Everywhere the work of women is being increasingly called for in all departments of life, yet women do not always show the enterprise to embark on new lines or the energy to develop their capacities in such a way as to fit them to do the work that lies before them. It is so easy after schooldays are ended to enjoy all the pleasant things that lie around, to slip into what comes easiest, to wait for something to turn up, and so really to lose the fruits of past education because it is not carried into practice or used as a means for further development. This is the critical period of a girl's life. For a boy every one considers the choice of a definite profession imperative; for a girl, unless necessity compels it, the general idea is that it would be a pity for her to take to any work, let her at any rate wait a bit and enjoy herself, then probably something will turn up. This might be all very well if the waiting time were used for further education, for preparation for the work of life. But in too many cases studies begun at school are carried no further, habits of work are lost, and intellectual development comes to a standstill. We are seeing increasingly in every department of life how much depends upon the home and upon the training given by the mother, and yet it does not seem as if girls as a rule prepared themselves seriously for that high position. The mother should be the first, the chief religious teacher of her children, but most women are content to be vaguely religious themselves whilst hardly knowing what they themselves believe, and feeling perfectly incapable of teaching others. [Sidenote: How to Begin] Yet how are they to fulfil the call which will surely come to them to teach either their own children or those of others if they have not troubled to gain religious knowledge for themselves? The Bible, which becomes each day a more living book because of all the light thrown upon it by recent research, should be known and studied as the great central source of teaching on all that concerns the relations between God and man. But sometimes we are told that it is less well known now than formerly, when real knowledge of it was much more difficult. Women are said to be naturally more religious than men, but that natural religion will have all the stronger influence the more it is founded on knowledge, and so is able to stand alone, apart from the stimulus of beautiful services or inspiring preaching. Women who follow their husbands into the distant parts of the earth, and are called to be home-makers in new lands, may find themselves not only compelled to stand alone, but called upon to help to maintain the religious life in others. They will not be able to do this if, when they had the opportunity, they neglected to lay sure foundations for their own religious life. These thoughts may seem to lead us far away from the occupations and interests of girlhood; but they emphasise what is the important thing--the need to recognise the years of girlhood as years of preparation. This is not to take away from the joy of life. The more we learn to find joy in all the beauty of life, in books, in art, in nature, the more permanent sources of joy we are laying up for the future. We must not starve our natures; we should see that every part of ourselves is alive and vigorous. It is because so many women really hardly live at all that their lives seem so dull and colourless. They have never taken the trouble to develop great parts of themselves, and in consequence they do not notice all the beautiful and interesting things in the world around them. They have not learnt to use all their faculties, so they are unfit to do the work which they might do for the good of others. Many girls have dreams of the great things they would like to do. But they do not know how to begin, and so they are restless and discontented. The first thing to do is to train themselves, to do every little thing that comes along as well as they can, so as to fit themselves for the higher work that may come. It is worth while for them to go on with their studies, to train their minds to habits of accurate thought, to gain knowledge of all kinds, for all this may not only prove useful in the future, but will make them themselves better instruments for any work that may come to them to do. It is very worth while to learn to be punctual and orderly in little things, to gain business-like habits, even to keep accounts and to answer notes promptly--all these will be useful in the greater business of life. We must be tried in little things before we can be worthy to do big things. Meanwhile doors are always opening to us whilst we are young, only very often we do not think it worth while to go in at the open door because it strikes us as dull or unimportant and not the great opportunity that we hoped for. But those who go in at the door that opens, that take up the dull little job that offers, and do it as well as they can, will find, first that it is not so dull as they thought, and then that it leads on to something else, and new doors open, and interests grow wider, and more important work is offered. Those who will not go in, but choose to wait till some more interesting or inviting door opens, will find that opportunities grow fewer, that doors are closed instead of opened, and life grows narrower instead of wider. [Sidenote: All the Difference] It is of course the motive that inspires us that makes all the difference. To have once realised life, not as an opportunity for self-pleasing, but as an opportunity for service, makes us willing to do the small tasks gladly, that they may fit us for the higher tasks. It would seem as if to us now came with ever-increasing clearness the call to realise more truly throughout the world the great message that Christ proclaimed of the brotherhood of men. It is this sense of brotherhood that stirs us to make the conditions of life sweet and wholesome for every child in our own land, that rouses us to think of the needs of those who have never heard the Christian message of love. As we feel what it means to know God as our Father, we learn to see all men as our brothers, and hence to hear the call to serve them. It is not necessary to go far to answer this call; brothers and sisters who need our love and help are round our doors, even under our own roof at home; this sense of brotherhood must be felt with all those with whom we come in contact. To some may come the call to realise what it means to recognise our brotherhood with peoples of other race and other beliefs. Even within our own Empire there are, especially in India, countless multitudes waiting for the truth of the gospel to bring light and hope into their lives. Do we feel as we should the call that comes to us from our sisters the women of India? They are needing teachers, doctors, nurses, help that only other women can bring them. Is it not worth while for those who are looking out into life, wondering what it will mean to them, to consider whether the call may not come to them to give themselves to the service of their sisters in the East? But however this may be, make yourselves ready to hear whatever call may come. There is some service wanted from you; to give that service will be your greatest blessing, your deepest joy. Whether you are able to give that service worthily will depend upon the use you make of the time of waiting and preparation. It must be done, not for your own gratification, but because you are the followers of One who came, "not to be ministered unto, but to minister." [Illustration: "THE SON OF MAN CAME NOT TO BE MINISTERED UNTO, BUT TO MINISTER."] [Sidenote: A very singular adventure befell two young people, who entertained a stranger unawares.] My Dangerous Maniac BY LESLIE M. OYLER It was a glorious July morning, the kind of morning that makes you feel how good it is to be alive and young--and, incidently, to hope that the tennis-courts won't be too dry. You see Gerald, my brother, and I were invited to an American tournament for that afternoon, which we were both awfully keen about; then mother and father were coming home in the evening, after having been away a fortnight, and, though on the whole I had got on quite nicely with the housekeeping, it _would_ be a relief to be able to consult mother again. Things have a knack of not going so smoothly when mothers are away, as I daresay you've noticed. I had been busy making strawberry jam, which had turned out very well, all except the last lot. Gerald called me to see his new ferret just after I had put the sugar in, and, by the time I got back, the jam had, most disagreeably, got burnt. That's just the way with cooking. You stand and watch a thing for ages, waiting for it to boil; but immediately you go out of the room it becomes hysterical and boils all over the stove; so it is borne in on me that you must "keep your eye on the ball," otherwise the saucepan, when cooking. However, when things are a success it feels quite worth the trouble. Gerald insisted on "helping" me once, rather against cook's wish, and made some really delicious meringues, only he _would_ eat them before they were properly baked! The gong rang, and I ran down to breakfast; Gerald was late, as usual, but he came at last. "Here's a letter from Jack," I remarked, passing it across; "see what he says." Jack was one of our oldest friends; he went to school with Gerald, and they were then both at Oxford together. He had always spent his holidays with us as he had no mother, and his father, who was a most brilliant scholar, lived in India, engaged in research work; but this vac. Mr. Marriott was in England, and Jack and he were coming to stay with us the following day. [Illustration: GERALD LOOKED PUZZLED.] Gerald read the letter through twice, and then looked puzzled. "Which day were they invited for, Margaret?" he asked. "To-morrow, of course, the 13th." "Well, they're coming this evening by the 7.2." I looked over his shoulder; it _was_ the 12th undoubtedly. "And mother and father aren't coming till the 9.30," I sighed; "I wish they were going to be here in time for dinner to entertain Mr. Marriott; he's sure to be eccentric--clever people always are." "Yes," agreed Gerald, "he'll talk miles above our heads; but never mind, there'll be old Jack." Cook and I next discussed the menu. I rather thought curry should figure in it, as Mr. Marriott came from India; but cook overruled me, saying it was "such nasty hot stuff for this weather, and English curry wouldn't be like Indian curry either." When everything was in readiness for our guests Gerald and I went to the Prescotts', who were giving the tournament. We had some splendid games, and Gerald was still playing in an exciting match when I found that the Marriotts' train was nearly due. Of course he couldn't leave off, so I said that I would meet them and take them home; we only lived about a quarter of a mile from the station, and generally walked. I couldn't find my racquet for some time, and consequently had a race with the train, which luckily ended in a dead heat, for I reached the platform just as it steamed in. The few passengers quickly dispersed, but there was no sign of Jack; a tall, elderly man, wrapped in a thick overcoat, in spite of the hot evening, stood forlornly alone. I was just wondering if he could be Jack's father when he came up to me and said, "Are you Margaret?" "Yes," I answered. "I have often heard my boy speak of you," he said, looking extremely miserable. [Sidenote: Jack does not Come] "But isn't he coming?" I cried. He replied "No" in such a hopeless voice and sighed so heavily that I was beginning to feel positively depressed, when he changed the subject by informing me that his bag had been left behind but was coming on by a later train, so, giving instructions for it to be sent up directly it arrived, I piloted him out of the station. I had expected him to be eccentric, but he certainly was the oddest man I had ever met; he seemed perfectly obsessed by the loss of his bag, and would talk of nothing else, though I was longing to know why Jack hadn't come. The absence of his dress clothes seemed to worry him intensely. In vain I told him that we need not change for dinner; he said he must, and wouldn't be comforted. "How is Jack?" I asked at last; "why didn't he come with you?" He looked at me for a moment with an expression of the deepest grief, and then said quietly, "Jack is dead." "_Dead?_" I almost shouted. "Jack dead! You can't mean it!" But he only repeated sadly, "Jack is dead," and walked on. It seemed incredible; Jack, whom we had seen a few weeks before so full of life and vigour, Jack, who had ridden with us, played tennis, and been the leading spirit at our rat hunts, it was too horrible to think of! I felt quite stunned, but the sight of the poor old man who had lost his only child roused me. "I am more sorry than I can say," I ventured; "it must be a terrible blow to you." "Thank you," he said; "you, who knew him well, can realise it more than any one; but it was all for the best--I felt that when I did it." "Did what?" I inquired, thinking that he was straying from the point. "When I shot him through the head," he replied laconically, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. If he had suddenly pointed a pistol at _my_ head I could not have been more astonished; I was absolutely petrified with horror, for the thought flashed into my brain that Jack's father must be mad! His peculiar expression had aroused my curiosity at the station, and his next remark confirmed my suspicion. "You see, he showed unmistakable symptoms of going mad----" (I had heard that madmen invariably think every one around them is mad, and that they themselves are sane.) "----so I felt it my duty to shoot him; it was all over in a moment." "Poor Jack!" I cried involuntarily. "Yes," he answered, "but I should do just the same again if the occasion arose." And he looked at me fixedly. I felt horribly frightened. Did he think I was mad? And I fell to wondering, when he put his hand in his pocket, whether he had the revolver there. We had reached our garden gate by this time, where, to my infinite relief, we were joined by Gerald, flushed and triumphant after winning his match. After an agonised aside "Don't ask about Jack," I murmured an introduction, and we all walked up to the house together. In the hall I managed to tell Gerald of our dreadful position, and implored him to humour the madman as much as possible until we could form some plan for his capture. "We'll give him dinner just as if nothing has happened, and after that I'll arrange something," said Gerald hopefully; "don't you worry." [Sidenote: A Knife Trick] Never shall I forget that dinner! We were on tenterhooks the whole time, and it made me shudder to see how Mr. Marriott caressed the knives. I could scarcely prevent myself screaming when he held one up, and, feeling the blade carefully with his finger, said: "I rather thought of doing this little trick to-night, if you would like it; it is very convincing and doesn't take long." I remembered his remark, "it was all over in a moment," and trembled; but Gerald tactfully drew his attention to something else, and dinner proceeded peaceably; but he had a horrible fondness for that knife, and, when dessert was put on the table, kept it in his hand, "to show us the trick afterwards." I stayed in the dining-room when we had finished; I couldn't bear to leave Gerald, and he and I exchanged apprehensive glances when Mr. Marriott refused to smoke, giving as his reason that he wanted a steady hand for his work later. He worried ceaselessly about his bag (I began to think the revolver must be there), and when, at last, it came he almost ran into the hall to open it. Then Gerald had a brilliant inspiration. Seizing the bag, he carried it up to his room, which was at the top of the house. Mr. Marriott eagerly followed, and when he was safely in we shut the door and bolted it securely on the outside. "That was a good move, Gerald," I cried, heaving a sigh of relief, "we can keep him there till mother and father come home; they can't be very long now; perhaps he won't notice he's locked in for some time." But unfortunately he _did_ notice, for very soon we heard him rattling the door handle, and when no one came (for we had had to explain matters to the maids, whereat they had all rushed, panic-stricken, to the servants' hall), he started banging and shouting louder than ever. It was an awful time for us; every minute I expected him to burst the door open and come tearing downstairs. Gerald wanted to go up and try to pacify him, but I told him I was too frightened to be left, which, I knew, was the only way of preventing him. We walked down the garden to see if mother and father were in sight, and then---- "Awfully sorry we missed the train," said a cheerful voice, and _Jack_, followed by another figure, came through the gate! "You aren't dead then?" was all I could manage to gasp. "No, rather not! Very much alive. Here's the pater; but first, tell me, why should I be dead?" Gerald and I began to speak simultaneously, and in the midst of our explanations mother and father arrived, so we had to tell them all over again. "The question is, who _is_ your lunatic?" said father, "and----" But just at that moment we heard frantic shouts from Gerald's bedroom window, and found the sham Mr. Marriott leaning out of it in a state of frenzy. He was absolutely furious; but we gathered from his incoherent remarks that he was getting very late for a conjuring performance which he had promised to give at a friend's house. He vowed that there was some conspiracy to prevent him going there at all; first his bag was lost, then some one pretended to be his friend's daughter, whom he had never seen, and finally he was locked in a room with no means of escape! [Sidenote: Our Little Mistake] Then, and only then, did we realise our mistake! The others seemed to find it very amusing and shrieked with laughter, but the humour of it didn't strike Gerald and me any more than it did the irate conjuror, who was promptly released with profuse apologies, and sent in our car to his destination. It transpired that his conversation which had so alarmed me referred only to a favourite dog of his, and I, of course, had unconsciously misled Gerald. Mr. Marriott proved to be most interesting and amusing, anything but eccentric; but I shall _never_ hear the last of my mistake, and to this day he and Jack tease me unmercifully about my "dangerous maniac!" [Sidenote: A story of the Canadian North-West Mounted Police, founded on fact.] Jim Rattray, Trooper BY KELSO B. JOHNSON "Our Lady of the Snows" resents the title. It is so liable, she complains, to give strangers an utterly wrong idea of her climate. And yet, at times, when the blizzard piles the swirling snow over fence and hollow, until boundaries are lost, and the bewildered wayfarer knows not which way to turn, he is apt to think, if he is in a condition to think at all, that there is some justice in the description. But there was no sign of the stern side of nature as Jim Rattray made his way westward. The sun shone on the wide, rolling plains, the fresh green of the pasture lands, and the young wheat; the blue sky covered all with a dome of heaven's own blue, and Jim's heart rejoiced within him. A strapping young fellow was Jim, not long out from the Old Country--the sort of young fellow whose bright eyes and fresh open face do one good to look at. North-country farming in England was the life to which he had looked forward; vigorous sports and hard work in the keen air of the Cumberland fells had knit his frame and hardened his muscles; and his parents, as they noticed with pride their boy's sturdy limbs, and listened in wonder to the bits of learning he brought home from school, had looked forward half-unconsciously to the days when he in his turn would be master of the farm which Rattrays had held for generations. Bad days, however, had come for English farmers; the Cumbrian farm had to be given up, and Jim's father never recovered from the shock of having to leave it. Within a few years Jim was an orphan, alone in the world. [Sidenote: The Great New World] There was nothing to keep him in England; why should he not try his fortune in the great new world beyond the seas, which was crying out for stout hearts and hands to develop its treasures? He was young and strong: Canada was a land of great possibilities. There was room and a chance for all there. His life was before him--what might he not achieve! "What do you propose doing?" asked a fellow-voyager as they landed. "I really don't quite know," replied Jim. "As soon as possible I must get employment on a farm, I suppose, but I hardly know how to set about it." "There won't be much difficulty about that. All you have to do is to let it be known at the bureau that you want farm work, and you'll find plenty of farmers willing to take you--and glad to get you," he added, as his eyes roved over Jim's stalwart figure. "But have you thought of the police?" "The police? No--what have I done?" His friend laughed. "I mean the North-West Mounted Police. Why don't you try to join it? If they'll take you, you'll take to the life like a duck to water. You could join, if you liked, for a short term of years; you would roam about over hundreds of miles of country, and get a general knowledge of it such as you could hardly get otherwise; then, if you'd like to settle down to farming or ranching, the information you had picked up would be useful." Jim pondered over the advice, and finally resolved to follow it. He hoped to make his way in the world, and the more knowledge he could gain the better. A few days later saw him on his way westward, his heart bounding with the exhilarating beauty of the scene. Already the life at home seemed cramped; the wideness and freedom of this great new country intoxicated him. "Do we want a recruit? No, we don't!" said the sergeant at Regina, to whom Jim applied. "Stay a bit, though; you needn't be in such a hurry. Just out from the Old Country, I suppose. Do you know anything about horses? Can you ride?" "Yes," said Jim humbly. "Let's try you," and the sergeant led the way into the riding-school. "We call this one 'Brown Billy,'" he remarked, indicating a quiet-looking horse. "Think you can sit on him?" "I'll try," said Jim. Riding Brown Billy seemed ridiculously easy at first. Suddenly, however, without the slightest warning, Jim found himself gripping with his knees the sides of an animal that was dancing wildly on its hind legs. Jim caught a grin on the faces of the sergeant and some of the other bystanders, and setting his teeth he held on grimly. This was evidently a favourite trick of Brown Billy's, and the sergeant knew it. Well, they should see that British grit was not to be beaten. Seemingly conquered, Brown Billy dropped again on all-fours. Scarcely had Jim begun to congratulate himself on his victory when Billy's head went down between his forelegs, his hind-quarters rose, and Jim was neatly deposited on hands and knees a few feet ahead. The grins were noticeably broader as Jim rose, crimson with vexation. "Thought you could sit him, eh?" laughed the sergeant. "Well, you kept on longer than some I've seen, and you didn't try to hug him around the neck, either. You're not the first old Billy has played that trick on, by a long way. You'll make a rider yet! Come along and let us see what else you can do." [Sidenote: Enrolled] As a result of the searching examination Jim underwent he found himself enrolled as a recruit. He was glad to find that there were among his new companions others who had fallen victims to Brown Billy's wiles, and who in consequence thought none the worse of him for his adventure. Into the work that followed Jim threw himself with all his might. Never had instructors a more willing pupil, and it was a proud day for Jim when he was passed out of the training-school as a qualified trooper. Jim found himself one of an exceedingly small party located apparently a hundred miles from anywhere. Their nearest neighbours were a tribe of Indians, whose mixture of childishness and cunning shrewdness made them an interesting study. These gave little trouble; they had more or less accepted the fact that the white man was now in possession of the domains of their forefathers, and that their best course was to behave themselves. When the presence of the police was required, Jim was almost amused at the docility with which his directions were generally obeyed. He delighted in the life--the long rides, the occasional camping out on the plains far from any dwelling, the knowledge that he must rely upon himself. He felt more of a man; his powers of endurance increased until he took a positive pleasure in exercising them to their fullest possible extent. Meanwhile, nothing more exciting happened than the tracking and capture of an occasional horse-thief. Winter set in early and hard. Snow fell until it lay feet deep, and still the stormy winds brought more. One day the sergeant came in with a troubled face. "Wightman's horses have stampeded," he announced. "They'll be gone coons if they're not rounded up and brought in." "Let me go, sergeant!" said Jim. The sergeant shook his head. "It's no work for a young hand. The oldest might lose his bearings in weather like this." "Let me go, sergeant!" Jim repeated. "If those horses are to be brought in I can do it." There was a world of pleading in his tone, and the sergeant guessed the reason. "I meant no reflection on you, my lad," said he. "It's no weather for anybody to be out in. All the same, if those horses aren't to be a dead loss, somebody's got to round them up." Finally Jim got his way. In a temporary lull about midday he set out on his stout horse, well wrapped up in the thick woollen garments provided for such times as these, and determined to bring in those horses, or perish in the attempt. "They went off sou'-west," shouted the sergeant. "I should----" A furious blast as the gale recommenced carried away whatever else he might have said, and Jim was alone with his good horse on the prairie. There was no hesitancy in his mind. South-west he would push as hard as he could go. The animals had probably not gone far; he must soon come up with them, and the sooner the better. Gallantly his steed stepped out through the deepening snowdrifts. Fain would the sensible animal have turned and made his way back to his stable, but Jim's credit was at stake, and no turning back was allowed. Mile after mile was covered; where could those animals be in this storm? Ha! a sudden furious rush of wind brought Jim's horse nearly to its knees. How the gale roared, and how the snow drove in his face! Up and on again, south-west after those horses! But which _was_ the south-west? The daylight had completely faded; not a gleam showed where the sun had set. Jim felt for his pocket-compass; it was gone! The wind, blowing apparently from every quarter in succession, was no guide at all. Nothing was visible more than a yard away; nothing within that distance but driving snowflakes. Any tracks of the runaways would be covered up in a few moments; in any case there was no light to discern them. [Sidenote: Lost!] However, it was of no use to stand still. By pressing on he might overtake his quarry, and after fright had driven them away, instinct might lead them home. That was now the only chance of safety. Would he ever find them? Deeper and deeper sank his horse into the snow; harder and harder it became to raise its hoofs clear for the next step. Snorting with fear, and trembling in every limb, the gallant beast struggled on. He _must_ go on! To stop would be fatal. Benumbed as he was by the intense cold, bewildered by the storm, with hand and voice Jim cheered on his steed, and nobly it responded. Suddenly it sank under him. A hollow, treacherously concealed by the snow, had received them both into its chilly depths. "Up again, old boy!" cried Jim, springing from the saddle, and tugging at the rein, sinking to the waist in the soft snow as he did so. "Now then, one more try!" The faithful horse struggled desperately to respond to the words. But its strength was spent; its utmost exertions would not suffice to extricate it. The soft snow gave way under its hoofs; deeper and deeper it sank. With a despairing scream it made a last futile effort, then it stretched its neck along the snow, and with a sob lay down to die. Further efforts to move it would be thrown away, and Jim knew it. In a few minutes it would be wrapped in its winding-sheet. With a lump in his throat Jim turned away--whither? His own powers had nearly ebbed out. Of what use was it to battle further against the gale, when he knew not in which direction to go? With a sharp setting of the teeth he set himself to stimulate into activity his benumbed faculties. Where was he? What was he doing there? Ah, yes, he was after those stampeded horses. Well, he would never come up with them now. He had done his best, and he had failed. Taking out his notebook, as well as his benumbed powers would let him, Jim scrawled a few words in the darkness. The powers of nature had been too strong for him. What was a man to set himself against that tempest? But stay! there was One stronger than the gale. Man was beyond hearing, but was not God everywhere? Now, if ever, was the time to call upon Him. No words would come but the familiar "Our Father," which Jim had said every night for longer than he could remember. He had no power to think out any other petition. "Our Father," he muttered drowsily, "which art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done. . . ." The murmur ceased; the speaker was asleep. They found him a few days later, when the snow had ceased to fall, and the wind swept over the prairie, stripping off the deadly white covering, and leaving the khaki jacket a conspicuous object. The sergeant saw it, and pointed--he could not trust his voice to speak. Eagerly the little band bent over the body of their comrade. "Why, he's smiling! And see here! he's been writing something in his notebook. What is it?" Reverently they took the book from the brown hand, and the sergeant read the words aloud: "Lost, horse dead. Am trying to push on. Have done my best." "That he did. There was good stuff in him, lads, and perhaps he was wanted up aloft!" A solemn hush held the party. "'I did my best,'" said a trooper softly at length. "Ah, well, it'll be a good job for all of us, if when our time comes we can say that with as much truth as he!" [Sidenote: Mary sacrificed herself to help another. The renunciation in time brought reward.] Mary's Stepping Aside BY EDITH C. KENYON "How very foolish of you! So unbusinesslike!" cried Mrs. Croft angrily. "I could not do anything else, Hetty. Poor Ethel is worse off than we are. She has her widowed mother to help; they are all so poor, and it was such a struggle for Mrs. Forrest to pay that £160 for Ethel's two years' training in the Physical Culture College. You know, when Ethel and I entered for training, there was a good demand for teachers of physical culture, but now, alas! the supply exceeds the demand, and it has been such a great trouble to Ethel that she could not get a post, and begin to repay her mother for the outlay. She failed every time she tried to secure an appointment; the luck seemed always against her. And now she was next to me, and I had only to step aside to enable her to receive the appointment." "And you did so! That is just like you, Mary. You will never get on in the world. What will people say? They are already wondering why my clever sister is not more successful." "Does it really matter what people think?" questioned Mary, and there was a far-away look in her blue eyes, as she glanced through the window at the wide stretch of moorland to be seen from it. She had been to London to try to secure an appointment as teacher of physical culture at a large ladies' college. There were several applicants for the appointment, which was worth £100 a year and board and lodging, not bad for a commencement, and she was successful. The lady principal came out to tell her so, and mentioned that Ethel Forrest, her college friend, was the next to her, adding that the latter appeared to be a remarkably nice girl and very capable. In a moment, as Mary realised how terrible poor Ethel's disappointment would be, she resolved to step aside in order that her friend might have the appointment. The lady principal was surprised, and a little offended, but forthwith gave Ethel Forrest the post, and Mary was more than repaid by Ethel's unbounded gratitude. "I can't tell you what it is to me to obtain this good appointment," she said, when they came away together. "Poor mother will now cease to deplore the money she could so ill afford to spend on my training. You see, it seemed as if she had robbed the younger children for me, and that it was money thrown away when she could so ill spare it, but now I shall repay her as soon as possible out of my salary, and the children will have a chance." "Yes, I know. That is why I did it," Mary said. "And I am happy in your happiness, Ethel darling." "But I am afraid it is rather irksome for you, living so long with your sister and brother-in-law, although they are so well off," Ethel remarked, after a while. "That is a small matter in comparison," Mary said lightly. "And I am so happy about you, Ethel, your mother will be so pleased." It seemed to Mary afterwards, when she left Ethel and went by express to York, where she took a slow train to the little station on the moors near her sister's home, that her heart was as light and happy as if she had received a great gift instead of surrendering an advantage. Truly it is more blessed to give than to receive, for there is no joy so pure as "the joy of doing kindnesse." But on her arrival at the house which had been her home since her parents died, she found herself being severely blamed for what she had done. In vain Mary reminded her sister that she was not exactly poor, and certainly not dependent upon her. Their father had left a very moderate income to both his daughters, Hetty the elder, who had married Dr. Croft, a country practitioner, and Mary, who, as a sensible modern young woman, determined to have a vocation, and go in for the up-to-date work of teaching physical culture. Finding she could make no impression upon her sister, Mrs. Croft privately exhorted her husband to speak to Mary about the disputed point. That evening, therefore, after dinner, as they sat round the fire chatting, the doctor remarked: "But you know, Mary, it won't do to step aside for others to get before you in the battle of life. You owe a duty to yourself and--and your friends." "I am quite aware of that," Mary replied, "but this was such an exceptional case. Ethel Forrest is so poor, and----" [Sidenote: "Each for Himself!"] "Yes, yes. But, my dear girl, it is each for himself in this world." "Is it?" Mary asked, and again there was a wistful, far-away look in her blue eyes. With an effort, she pulled herself together, and went on softly: "Shall I tell you what I saw as I returned home across the moor from the station? The day was nearly over, and the clouds were gathering overhead. The wind was rising and falling as it swept across the moorland. The rich purple of the heather had gone, and was succeeded by dull brown--sometimes almost grey--each little floret of the ling, as Ruskin said, folding itself into a cross as it was dying. Poor little purply-pink petals! They had had their day, they had had their fill of sunshine, they had been breathed on by the soft breezes of a genial summer, and now all the brightness for them was over; they folded their petals, becoming just like a cross as they silently died away. You see," she looked up with a smile, "even the heather knows that the way of self-sacrifice is the only way that is worth while." There was silence for a few minutes. The crimson light from the shaded candles fell softly on Mary's face, beautiful in its sincerity and sweet wistfulness. The doctor shook his head. "I should never have got on in life if I had acted in that way," he said. "You are quite too sentimental, Mary," remarked her sister harshly. "Why, the world would not go on if we all did as you do. All the same," she added, almost grudgingly, "you are welcome to stay here till you get another appointment." Mary rose and kissed her. "You shan't regret it, Hetty," she said. "I will try to help you all I can while I stay, but I may soon get another appointment." * * * * * Fifteen months afterwards there was great rejoicing in Mrs. Forrest's small and overcrowded house in Croydon, because her youngest brother had returned from New Zealand with quite a large fortune, which he declared gallantly that he was going to share with her. "Half shall be settled on you and your children, Margaret," he said, "as soon as the lawyers can fix it up. You will be able to send your boys to Oxford, and give your girls dowries. By the by, how is my old favourite Ethel? And what is she doing?" "She teaches physical culture in a large ladies' college in the West End. It is a good appointment. Her salary has been raised; it is now £130, with board and lodging." That did not seem much to the wealthy colonial, but he smiled. "And how did she get the post?" he said. "I remember in one of your letters you complained that her education had cost a lot, and that she was very unlucky about getting anything to do." [Sidenote: Uncle Max] "Yes, it was so, Max. But she owed her success at last to the kindness of a friend of hers, who won this appointment, and then stepped aside for her to have it." "Grand!" cried Max Vernon heartily. "What a good friend that was! It is a real pleasure to hear of such self-sacrifice in this hard, work-a-day world. I should like to know that young woman," he continued. "What is she doing now?" "I don't know," replied his sister. "But here comes Ethel. She will tell you." Ethel had come over from the college on purpose to see her uncle, and was delighted to welcome him home. He was not more than ten years older than herself, there being more than that between him and her mother. His success in New Zealand was partly owing to his charming personality, which caused him to win the love of his first employer, who adopted him as his son and heir some six years before he died, leaving all his money to him. Ethel had pleasant memories of her uncle's kindness to her when a child. When hearty greetings had been exchanged between the uncle and niece, Margaret Forrest said to her daughter: "I have been telling your uncle about your friend Mary Oliver's giving up that appointment for you, and he wants to know where she is now, and what she is doing." "Ah, poor Mary!" said Ethel ruefully. "I am really very troubled about her. Her sister and brother-in-law lost all their money through that recent bank failure, and Dr. Croft took it badly. His losses seemed to harden him. Declaring that he could not carry on his practice in the country without capital, he sold it and arranged to go to New Zealand, though his wife had fallen into ill-health and could not possibly accompany him. He went abroad, leaving her in London in wretched lodgings. Then Mary gave up her good situation as teacher of physical culture in a private school, and took a less remunerative appointment so that she might live with her poor sister, and look after her, especially at nights. I believe there is a lot of night nursing. It's awfully hard and wearing for Mary, but she does it all so willingly, I believe she positively enjoys it, though I cannot help being anxious lest her health should break down." "She must not be allowed to do double work like that," said the colonial. "No one can work by day and night as well without breaking down." "But what is she to do?" queried Ethel. "She is obliged to earn money for their maintenance." "We might put a little in her way," suggested Vernon. Ethel shook her head. "She is very sweet," she said, "but I fancy she would not like to accept money as a gift." Max Vernon assented. "Exactly," he said, "I know the sort. But she could not object to take it if it were her right." Margaret Forrest smiled, scenting a romance. "I will have her here to tea on her next half-holiday," she said; "then you will see her." But Vernon could not wait till then. He and Ethel made up a plan that they would go to Mrs. Croft's rooms that very evening, in order that he might personally thank Mary for her goodness to his niece. Mary thought she had never seen such a kind, strong face as his, when he stood before her expressing his gratitude for what she had done for Ethel, and also his sympathy with her troubles, of which Ethel had told him. That was the beginning, and afterwards he was often in her home, bringing gifts for the querulous invalid, and, better still, hope for the future of her husband, about whom he interested a friend of his, who was doing well out in New Zealand, and looking out for a partner with some knowledge of medicine. [Illustration: IT WAS UNDER A NOBLE TREE THAT MAX ASKED MARY TO MARRY HIM.] It was at a picnic, under a noble tree, that Max asked Mary to marry him, and learned to his great joy how fully his love was returned. Mary thought there was no one like him. So many had come to her for help, but only he came to give with both hands, esteeming all he gave as nothing if only he could win her smile and her approval. So it happened that by the time Mrs. Croft had so far recovered as to be able to join her husband, her departure was delayed one week, in order that she might be present at her sister's wedding. [Sidenote: Not so Foolish after all!] "After all, Mary," she said, when at last she was saying goodbye, "your happiness has come to you as a direct result of your kindness to Ethel Forrest in stepping aside for her to have that appointment. You were therefore not so foolish after all." Mary laughed joyously. "I never thought I was," she said. "There's an old-fashioned saying, you know, that 'it is more blessed to give than to receive.'" [Sidenote: How a plucky girl averted a terrible danger from marauding Redskins.] A Race for Life BY LUCIE E. JACKSON The McArthurs were fortunate people. Everybody said that Mr. McArthur must have been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, for though he had come to Tulaska with barely a red cent in his pocket, everything he attempted succeeded. His land increased, his cattle increased, his home grew in proportion to his land, his wife was a perfect manager, and his only child was noted for her beauty and daring. A tall, graceful girl was Rosalind McArthur, with her mother's fine skin and Irish blue eyes, her father's strength of mind and fearless bearing. At nineteen years of age she could ride as straight as any man, could paddle her canoe as swiftly as any Indian, and could shoot as well as any settler in the land. Added to all this, McArthur was a good neighbour, a kind friend, a genial companion, and a succourer of those in need of help. Thus when it became reported that the Indians had been making a raid upon a small settlement on the borders, and it was likely their next incursion would be directed against McArthur's clearing, the owners of small holdings declared their intention to stand shoulder to shoulder, and fight, if need be, for their more prosperous neighbour. "I think it must have been a false report. Here have we been waiting, gun in hand, for the last two months, and not a sign of a Redskin's tomahawk have we seen," said Rosalind cheerfully, as she and her parents rose from their evening meal. "Thank God if it be so," returned her mother. "We'll not slacken our vigilance, however," was McArthur's answer. At that instant a rapping at the house door was heard, and McArthur rose. "It must be Frank Robertson. He'll probably want a shake-down, wife." "He can have it if he wants it," was Mrs. McArthur's cordial answer. "Many thanks, but he won't trespass on your hospitality," said the new-comer, a tall, handsome young settler, entering as he spoke. "No, McArthur, I cannot stay. I have come but for five minutes on my way back to the village." "You can at least sit down," said McArthur, pulling forward a chair. "What is the latest news?" "Nothing, beyond the report that the Indians appear to have shifted themselves elsewhere." "Well, that is news," said Rosalind, looking up with a smile. "You say, 'appear to have shifted themselves,'" said McArthur. "I shall still keep on the defensive. I wouldn't trust a Redskin for a good deal." "True enough," was the answer. "McArthur, whom could you send to the village for need at a critical time?" "I doubt if I could spare a man. Every hand would be wanted, every rifle needed, for I know not in what numbers the Redskins might come." [Sidenote: "I could go!"] "I could ride to the village," announced Rosalind calmly. "Golightly and I would cover the ground in no time." "You, my darling!" Mrs. McArthur ejaculated in horror. McArthur waved his daughter's words aside. "You do not know, my child, what danger you would court." "Of course, Miss McArthur is out of the question," said the young man, and smiled as Rosalind darted an indignant glance at him. "At any rate, I am at your service if you need me," he continued. "I trust I may not be called out for such a purpose, but if I am, I and my rifle are at your disposal." "Thanks, Robertson, you are a good fellow," returned McArthur heartily, grasping the young man's hand. In a few minutes he rose to go. Rosalind accompanied him to the house door. "Mr. Robertson," she said abruptly, as soon as they were out of hearing, "which would be the shortest cut to the village? By the woods or by the river?" He looked keenly at her. "You meant what you said just now?" "Of course I meant it. I--I would do anything to save my father's and mother's lives, and their property, which father has secured by dint of so much labour." He took her hand in his. "Rosalind," he said softly, "if anything happened to you, my life would be of no worth to me." She flushed all over her fair skin. "It is better to be prepared for an emergency," she answered gently, "and I do not think I would run such a great risk as you and my father think." "You do not know the Redskin," was the grave answer. "You heard my father say he couldn't spare a man. How much more use I would be if I brought help than stayed here and perhaps shot a couple of Indians, who might overpower us by their numbers. I was wondering if Golightly and the woods would be a shorter way than my canoe and the river?" He had both her hands in his, and was looking down into her eyes. "The woods and Golightly would be the swiftest way to communicate with us in the village." "Then if need be I shall do it." "Take the right-hand track straight through the wood, and God protect you, Rosalind. My house will be the first one you will come to. Let me be the first to spring to your aid. No man will step into the stirrup with greater alacrity than I. But, please God, there may be no need for you to go." He lifted her hands to his lips and was gone. Two days passed and nothing of moment happened. But on the evening of the third, two men in McArthur's employ entered the house breathless with excitement. Feathertop--an Indian chief noted for the number of scalps which adorned his person--had been seen in the vicinity of the small settlement. McArthur, with a grim fixedness of countenance, saw to the priming of his rifle for the fiftieth time; and Rosalind, with her father's courage, examined her own weapon, which she had resolved to take with her for safety if Golightly had to be requisitioned. "Rosalind, those chaps will be on us to-night or to-morrow morning." It was McArthur who spoke, and Rosalind knew that her own misgivings had taken root also within her father's mind. "Because of Feathertop?" she asked bravely. "Yes. He is never lurking about unless he means business." "Could David and Jim have been misinformed?" "I don't think so." "Then, father, I shall ride to the village." [Sidenote: Rosalind's Resolve] McArthur looked at his daughter. He saw her face, he saw her figure. Both were alive with determination and courage. "Rosalind, you will kill your mother if you attempt to do such a thing." "Don't tell her unless you are obliged. It is to save her that I do it. Give her a rifle--keep her employed--let her think I am with some of the neighbours. Father, we do not know if we shall be outnumbered. If we are, what will happen? All your cattle will go--your whole property will be ruined, and, worse than all put together, we shall probably lose our lives in a horrible manner." "I acknowledge all that you say, but one of the men must go. You with your rifle can take his place, and do just as much execution as he can----" David put his head in at the door. "We've brought all the live-stock as close to the house as possible. Jim has been stealing round the plantation by the river, and says he has distinctly seen three Redskins on the other side of the river. We must be prepared for an attack this evening." "David, can you get me Golightly without attracting attention? I am going to ride him at once to the village." "Mercy on us!" exclaimed David. "Is there no one but you to do that?" "No. You and all the rest must defend my father and mother. I shall keep on this side of the river, and will go through the wood. If I go at once I may prevent an attack. David, every minute is of value. Fetch me Golightly. Father, I am not of such importance as the men here, but I can ride, and I can defend myself with my rifle if need be." "Then God go with you, my child." Only McArthur, and David, and the moon saw Rosalind spring to her seat on Golightly's back. Only the moon saw her with flushed cheeks and beating heart riding for life through the trees of the forest. If only she could get clear of the first two or three miles, she was safe to reach her destination in time. The track was clearly discernible except when the swiftly-flying clouds obscured the moon's light. The soughing of the wind in the tree-tops, together with the soft springy turf, helped to somewhat deaden the sound of Golightly's hoofs. The good horse scented danger in the air and in the tone of his mistress's voice, and with true instinct galloped through the wood, conscious of the caressing finger-tips which ever and anon silently encouraged him. "Bang!" It was unexpected, and Golightly sprang into the air, only to gallop on again like lightning. Rosalind's heart was going pretty fast now. She could see two or three dark forms gliding serpent-like through the trees, but Golightly's rapid progress baulked their aim. Ah, there are some figures in advance of her! Courage, Rosalind, courage! Her rifle is ready. "Golightly, dear Golightly, save us both," she whispers. And Golightly tosses up his head with a little whinny of comprehension, and, bracing up every nerve, prepares for a rush through that ominous path blocked as it is by two dark figures. [Sidenote: Rosalind's Rifle speaks] "Bang!" It is Rosalind's rifle this time, and a scream, shrill and piercing, rends the air. One form drops like a stone right across the path. But there is another to dispose of. His rifle is raised. Either Golightly or his mistress will receive the contents of that barrel. But Rosalind's hand never wavers as she points at that upraised arm. "Bang!" "Bang!" The two shots resound almost simultaneously, but Rosalind's is first by half a second. Again a scream rends the air, and yet another, coming this time from the rear. Rosalind's palpitating heart prevents her from glancing about to learn the cause. She knows she has shot the Indian in the right arm, but she does not know, and will never know, that her opportune shot has saved herself and her steed from being fired at from behind as well as in front. For when the Indian's arm was struck, it directed the contents of his rifle away from the point he aimed at. He shot half a second after Rosalind's fire, and killed his chief Feathertop, who was lurking in the background, grinning horribly at his good fortune in taking aim at the back of the paleface and her flying steed. Over the body of the dead Indian Golightly springs, paying no heed to the savage Redskin who stands aside from the trampling hoofs with his right arm hanging broken at his side. He is helpless, but he may yet do damage to Rosalind's cause. She lifts her rifle in passing him, and aims once more at his retreating form. He springs into the air, and, without a groan or cry, meets his death. Rosalind has cleared her path from further danger. Ride swiftly though she does, no lurking forms are seen, no gliding figures block her way. But the danger she has gone through has taken all her strength from her. She leans her cheek on Golightly's sympathetic head and sobs out her gratitude to him. When a foam-flecked steed dashed up to the first house in the village there was great commotion. Frank Robertson, with his mother and sisters, rushed out to find a white-faced Rosalind, spent and nearly fainting, sitting limply on Golightly's back. She had no words to explain her presence. She could only look at them with lack-lustre eyes. But Golightly turned his head as the young man lifted her gently off, and his eloquent eyes said as plainly as any words could say-- "Deal gently with her; she has gone through more than you will ever know, and has played her part bravely." His comfort was looked after in as great degree as was Rosalind's. For while Rosalind lay on a couch, faint but smiling, and listening to the praises which the women-folk showered upon her, Golightly was stabled and rubbed down by two of Robertson's hired men, and caressed and given a good feed of corn with as many admiring words thrown in as ever his mistress had. No time was lost in collecting a good body of mounted men, and away they rode with Frank Robertson at their head, arriving in good time to save McArthur's home and family from savage destruction by the Redskins. [Sidenote: Their Last Visit] With the knowledge that their chief Feathertop was killed, the Indians' enthusiasm cooled, and those who could saved their lives by flying to their homes in the mountains. McArthur was never again troubled by a visit from them, and lived to rejoice in the marriage of his brave daughter to Frank Robertson. The young couple settled within a couple of miles of McArthur's homestead, and as each anniversary of Rosalind's ride came round, it was a familiar sight to see old McArthur standing up amongst the great gathering of friends to praise the brave girl who jeopardised her life that moonlight night to save the lives and property of those dearest to her. [Sidenote: Mittie's love of self might have led on to a tragedy. Happily the issue was of quite another kind.] Which of the Two? BY AGNES GIBERNE "It's going to be a glorious day--just glorious! Joan, we must do something--not sit moping indoors from morning till night!" Mittie never did sit indoors from morning till night; but this was a figure of speech. "I'm all alive to be off--I don't care where. Oh, do think of a plan! It's the sort of weather that makes one frantic to be away--to have something happen. Don't you feel so?" She looked longingly through the bow-window, across the small, neat lawn, divided by low shrubs from a quiet road, not far beyond which lay the river. The sisters were at breakfast together in the morning-room, which was bathed in an early flood of sunshine. Three years before this date they had been left orphaned and destitute, and had come to their grandmother's home--a comfortable and charming little country house, and, in their circumstances, a very haven of refuge, but, still, a trifle dull for two young girls. Mittie often complained of its monotony. Joan, eighteen months the elder, realised how different their condition would have been had they not been welcomed here. But she, too, was conscious of dulness, for she was only eighteen. [Sidenote: "Think of Something!"] "Such sunshine! It's just _ordering_ us to be out. Joan, be sensible, and think of something we can do--something jolly, something new! Just for one day can't we leave everything and have a bit of fun? I'm aching for a little fun! Oh, do get out of the jog-trot for once! Don't be humdrum!" "Am I humdrum?" Joan asked. She was not usually counted so attractive as the fluffy-haired, lively Mittie, but she looked very pretty at this moment. The early post had come in; and as she read the one note which fell to her share a bright colour, not often seen there, flushed her cheeks, and a sweet half-glad half-anxious expression stole into her eyes. "Awfully humdrum, you dear old thing! You always were, you know. How is Grannie to-day?" Mittie seldom troubled herself to see the old lady before breakfast, but left such attentions to Joan. "She doesn't seem very well, and she is rather--depressed. I'm afraid we couldn't possibly both leave her for the whole day--could we?" There was a touch of troubled hesitation in the manner, and Joan sent a quick inquiring glance at the other's face. "No chance of that. We never do leave her for a whole day; and if we did we should never hear the end of it. But we might surely be off after breakfast, and take our lunch, and come back in time for tea. She might put up with that, I do think. Oh dear me! Why can't old people remember that once upon a time they were young, and didn't like to be tied up tight? But, I suppose, in those days nobody minded. I know I mind now--awfully! I'm just crazy to be off on a spree. What shall we do, Joan? Think of something." "Mittie, dear----" "That's right. You've got a notion. Have it out!" "It isn't--what you think. I have something else to say. A note has come from Mrs. Ferris." "Well--what then?" "She wants me--us--to go to her for the day." Mittie clapped her hands. "Us! Both of us, do you mean? How lovely! I didn't know she was aware of my existence. Oh, yes, of course, I've seen her lots of times, but she always seems to think I'm a child still. She never asked me there before for a whole day. How are we to go? Will she send for us?" "Yes, but--but, Mittie--we can't both leave Grannie all those hours. She would be so hurt." "So cross, you mean. You don't expect _me_ to stay behind, I hope! _Me_--to spend a long endless day here, poking in Grannie's bedroom, and picking up her stitches, and being scolded for every mortal thing I do and don't do, while you are off on a lovely jaunt! Not I! You're very much mistaken if that is what you expect. Will Mrs. Ferris send the carriage or the motor?" "She is sending the boat. And her son----" "What! is he going to row us? That nice fellow! He rows splendidly, I know. I shall get him to let me take an oar. It's as easy as anything, going down the stream. Oh, we must do it, Joan--we really, really _must_! Grannie will have to put up for once with being alone. Is he coming by himself?" "Yes--no--I mean, he will drop his sister Mary at The Laurels and come on for us, and then take her up as we go back." "The Laurels? Oh, just a few minutes off. Mary--she's the eldest. When does he come? Eleven o'clock! No time to waste. We must put on our new frocks. You had better tell Grannie at once that we are going. I shall keep out of her way. You'll manage her best." "But if she doesn't like to be left?" "Then she'll have to do without the liking! Yes, I know what you mean, Joan. You want me to stay here, and set you free. And I'm not going to do it. I simply won't--won't--won't! It's no earthly use your trying to make me. I'm asked too, and I mean to go." "Mittie, you've not seen the note yet. I think you ought to read it. She asks me first--and then she just says, would I like to bring----?" "It doesn't matter, and I don't want to see! It's enough that I'm invited." Mittie had a quick temper, apt to flare out suddenly. She jumped up, and flounced towards the door. "I shall get ready; and you'd better make haste, or you'll be late." "And if I find that I can't be spared as well as you?" Joan's eyes went to Mittie, with a look of grieved appeal. That look went home; and for a moment--only one moment--Mittie wavered. She knew how much more this meant to Joan than it could mean to herself. She knew that she had no right to put herself first, to snatch the joy from Joan. But the habit of self-indulgence was too strong. [Sidenote: "It is all Nonsense!"] "If you choose to stay at home, I shall go without you. It is all nonsense about 'can't'! You can go if you like." * * * * * Joan remained alone, thinking. What could she say? Mittie, the spoilt younger sister, always had had her own way, and always insisted on having it. She would insist now, and would have it, as usual. That Mittie would go was indeed a foregone conclusion, and Joan had known it from the first. The question was--could she go too? Would it be right to leave the old lady, depressed and suffering, all those hours--just for her own pleasure, even though it meant much more than mere pleasure? The girls owed a great deal to Mrs. Wills. She was not rich, though she had a comfortable little home; and when she took in the two granddaughters, it meant a heavy pull on her purse. It meant, also, parting with a valued companion--a paid companion--whom she had had for years, and on whom she very much depended. This necessary step was taken, with the understanding that the two girls would do all in their power to supply her place. And Joan had done her best. Mittie seldom gave any thought to the matter. In a general way, Joan would at once have agreed that Mittie should be the one to go, that she herself would be the one to stay behind. But this was no ordinary case. In the summer before she had seen a good deal of Fred Ferris. He had been at home for three months after an accident, which, for the time, disabled him from work; and he had been unmistakably attracted by Joan. Not only had he made many an opportunity to see her, but his mother had taken pains to bring the two together. She liked Joan, and made no secret of the fact. Mittie had often been left out of these arrangements, and had resented it. For a good while Fred Ferris had been away from home; but Joan knew that he was likely to come soon, and she built upon the hope. She had given her heart to Fred, and she indulged in many a secret dream for the future while pursuing her little round of daily duties, and bearing patiently with the spoilt and wayward Mittie. And now--this had come!--this intimation of Fred's arrival, and the chance of a long delightful day with him--a day on which so much might hang! And yet, if Mittie insisted on going, it would probably mean that she would have to give it up. That would be hard to bear--all the harder because Mittie knew at least something of the true state of affairs. She knew how persistently Fred Ferris had come after her sister, and she must at least conjecture a little of what her sister felt for Fred. Nobody knew all that Joan felt, except Joan herself; but Mittie had seen quite enough to have made her act kindly and unselfishly. Joan's hopes had grown faint when she left the breakfast-table and went upstairs. Mrs. Wills spent most of her time in her bedroom, sometimes hobbling across to a small sitting-room on the same floor. She was too infirm to come downstairs. "Eh? What is it? I don't understand!" The old lady was growing deaf, and when she objected to what was being said, she would become doubly deaf. Like her younger granddaughter, she had always been accustomed to getting her own way. [Sidenote: "Your Turn now!"] "You want to do--what?" as Joan tried to explain. "I wish you would speak more clearly, my dear, and not put your lips together when you talk. Mrs. Ferris! Yes, of course I know Mrs. Ferris. I knew her long before _you_ came here. She wants you for the day? Well, one of you can go, and the other must stay with me. You've got to take turns. That is only reasonable. Mittie went last time, so it is your turn now." But Mittie never cared about turns. "I suppose you couldn't for once--just once, Grannie, dear--spare us both together?" Joan said this with such a sinking of heart that, had the old lady known it, she would surely have yielded. A sick fear had come over the girl lest Fred might think that she was staying away on purpose--because she did not want to see him. But she only looked rather white, and smiled as usual. "Spare you both! What!--leave me alone the whole day, both of you!" The old lady was scandalised. "I didn't think before that you were a selfish girl, Joan. Well, well, never mind!--you're not generally, I know. But of course it is out of the question, so lame as I am--not able to get anything that I want. That wasn't in the bargain at all, when we settled that you should live with me." Joan knew that it was not. But it was very hard to bear! She went to Mittie, and made one more attempt in that direction, ending, as she expected, unsuccessfully. "It really is my turn, you know, Mittie, dear." "Your turn? What! because I went to that silly tea last week? As if the two things could be compared!" Mittie ran to the glass to inspect herself. "Why didn't you just tell Grannie that you meant to do it, instead of asking whether she could spare you? So absurd! She would have given in then." Joan might have answered, "Because I have some sense of duty!" But she said nothing--it was so useless. She debated whether to write a note for Mittie to take, and then decided that she would run down to the river-edge and would explain to Fred Ferris himself why she might not go, not implying any blame to her sister, but just saying that she could not leave her grandmother. The thought of this cheered her up, for surely he would understand. But a few minutes before the time fixed for his arrival a message summoned her to the old lady, and she found that for a good half-hour she would be unable to get away. All she could do was to rush to Mittie and to give a hurried message--which she felt far from certain would be correctly delivered. Then for a moment she stood outside Mrs. Wills's room, choking back the sobs which swelled in her throat, and feeling very sad and hopeless at the thought of all she would miss, still more at the thought that her absence might be misunderstood. From the window, as she attended to her grandmother's wants, she had a glimpse of Mittie, running gaily down the garden, in her pretty white frock, carrying an open Japanese parasol in one hand, while from the other dangled her hat and a small basket of flowers. "Oh, Mittie, I wouldn't have done it to you--if you had cared as I do!" she breathed. When Mittie reached the stream, Ferris had that moment arrived. He had made fast the painter, intending to run up to the house, and had stepped back into the boat to put the cushions right. A straight well-built young fellow, he looked eagerly up at the sound of steps; and when Mittie appeared alone, a momentary look of surprise came. But, of course Joan would follow! Mittie wore her prettiest expression. She dropped her hat into the boat, and he took her parasol, holding out a hand to help, as she evidently meant to occupy her seat without delay. [Illustration: "YOUR SISTER IS COMING?" HE SAID.] [Sidenote: "Your Sister is Coming?"] "Your sister is coming?" he said. "She doesn't like to leave Grannie. So you'll have to do with me alone," smiled Mittie. "Such a pity, this splendid day! I did my best to persuade her--but she wouldn't be persuaded." There was an abrupt pause. Even Mittie's self-complacency could not veil from her his changed face, his blank disappointment. In that moment she very fully realised the truth that Joan, and not herself, was the one really wanted. But she smiled on resolutely, careless of what Fred might think about Joan's motives, and bent on making a good impression. "It's the first time I've been to your house--oh, for months and months! I'm _so_ looking forward to a whole day there. And being rowed down the river is so awfully delightful. I did try my hardest to get Joan to come, too; but she simply wouldn't, and she asked me to explain." This only made matters worse. Fred could hardly avoid believing that Joan's absence was due to a wish to avoid him. In Mittie's mind lay a scarcely acknowledged fear that, if she were more explicit, Fred might insist on seeing Joan; and, in that event, that she might herself be in the end the one left behind. She was determined to have her day of fun. Ferris had grown suddenly grave. He made Mittie comfortable in her seat, cast loose, and took the oars; but he seemed to have little to say. Almost in complete silence they went to The Laurels. Mittie's repeated attempts at conversation died, each in succession, a natural death. When Mary Ferris appeared, surprise was again shown at the sight of Mittie alone. Mary Ferris did not take it so quietly as her brother had done. She was naturally blunt, and she put one or two awkward questions which Mittie found it not easy to evade. The hour on that lovely river, to which she had looked forward as delightful, proved dull. Fred Ferris had nothing to say; he could not get over this seeming snub from Joan. He attended silently to his oars, and somehow Mittie had not courage to suggest that she would very much like to handle one of them. Mary was politely kind, and talked in an intermittent fashion; but the "fun" on which Mittie had counted was non-existent. When they reached the landing-place and stepped out Mrs. Ferris stood on the bank, awaiting them. And Mrs. Ferris, though able, when she chose, to make herself extremely charming, was a very outspoken lady. There was no mistake about her astonishment. Her eyebrows went up, and her eyes ran questioningly over the white-frocked figure. "What, only Mittie! How is this? Where is Joan?" Mittie felt rather small, but she was not going to admit that she had been in the wrong. "Joan wouldn't come," she said, smiling. "Is she not well?" "Oh yes; quite well. I did try to persuade her--but she wouldn't." The mother and daughter exchanged glances. Fred was already walking away, and Mary remarked: "Joan always thinks first of other people. I dare say she felt that she could not leave Mrs. Wills." Mittie, conscious of implied blame, grew pink and eager to defend herself. "She could have come--perfectly well! There wasn't the _least_ reason why she shouldn't. Grannie was all right. Joan simply--simply wouldn't!" Mittie stopped, knowing that she had conveyed a false impression, but pride withheld her from modifying the words. "I told her she might--just as well." Mrs. Ferris began to move towards the house. "It is a great pity," she said. "We all counted on having Joan. However, it cannot be helped now. I hope you will enjoy yourself, my dear. Mary will show you over the garden and the house." To Mary she added: "The old castle must wait for another time, I think--when Joan is here." Mittie cast a questioning look, and Mary said, in explanation: "Only an old ruin a few miles off. We meant to have an excursion there this afternoon." Mittie loved excursions, and could not resist saying so. No notice was taken of this appeal; but somewhat later she overheard a murmured remark from Mrs. Ferris to Mary. [Sidenote: "Certainly not--now!"] "No, certainly not--now. Fred will not care to go. He is very much disappointed, poor boy! If only one could be sure that it means nothing!" But Mittie was not meant to hear this. They were very kind to her, and she really had nothing to complain of on the score of inattention. Mary, who happened to be the only daughter at home, took her in charge and put her through a steady course of gardens, glasshouses, family pets, and old furniture--for none of which Mittie cared a rap. What she had wanted was a gay young party, plenty of fun and merriment, and for herself abundance of admiration. But Fred made himself scarce, only appearing at luncheon and vanishing afterwards; and Mrs. Ferris was occupied elsewhere most of the time; while between Mary and herself there was absolutely nothing in common. Mary, though only the senior by two or three years, was not only clever, but very intelligent and well read, and she had plenty of conversation. But the subjects for which she cared, though they would have delighted Joan, were utter tedium to Mittie's empty little head. Before an hour had passed, Mary's boredom was only less pronounced than Mittie's own. It was so tiresome, so stupid of Joan not to come! Mittie complained bitterly to herself of this. If Joan had come too, all would have gone well. She could not help seeing that she had not been meant to come without Joan, still less instead of Joan. With all her assurance, this realisation that she was not wanted and that everybody was regretting Joan's absence made her horribly uncomfortable. When left alone for a few minutes, early in the afternoon, she tugged angrily at her gloves, and muttered: "I wish I wasn't here. I wish I had left it to Joan. I think they are all most awfully frumpish and stupid, and I can't imagine what makes Joan so fond of them!" But she did not yet blame herself. * * * * * Five o'clock was the time fixed for return. Had Joan come it would have been much later. At tea-time Fred turned up, and it appeared that he meant to get off the return-row up the river. He had engaged a boatman to do it in his stead. Mary would still go, and though Mittie proudly said it did not matter, she wouldn't in the least mind being alone, Mary only smiled and held to her intention. But long before this stage of proceedings everybody was tired--Mary and Mittie especially, the one of entertaining, the other of being entertained. Mary had tried every imaginable thing she could think of to amuse the young guest, and every possible subject for talk. They seemed to have arrived at the end of everything, and it took all Mittie's energies to keep down, in a measure, her recurring yawns. Mary did her best, but she found Mittie far from interesting. When at length they started for the riverside, Fred went with the two girls to see them off; and Mittie felt like a prisoner about to be released. She was so eager to escape that she ran ahead of her companions towards the landing-place, and Mary dryly remarked in an undertone: "Mittie has had about enough of us, I think. How different she is from Joan! One would hardly take them for sisters." Fred was too downhearted to answer. He had felt all day terribly hopeless. Suddenly he started forward. "I say!--wait a moment!" he called. A slight turn had brought them in full view of the small boat floating close under the bank, roped loosely to the shore, and of Mittie standing above, poised as for a spring. She was light and active, and fond of jumping. At the moment of Fred's shout she was in the very act. No boatman was within sight. Perhaps the abrupt call startled her; perhaps in any case she would have miscalculated her distance. She was very self-confident, and had had little to do with boating. [Sidenote: An Upset] One way or another, instead of alighting neatly in the boat, as she meant to do, she came with both feet upon the gunwale and capsized the craft. There was a loud terrified shriek, a great splash, and Mittie had disappeared. "Fred! Fred!" screamed Mary. Fred cleared the space in a few leaps, and was down the bank by the time that Mittie rose, some yards off, floating down the stream, with hands flung wildly out. Another leap carried him into the water. He had thrown off his coat as he rushed to the rescue; and soon he had her in his grip, holding her off as she frantically clutched at him, and paddling back with one hand. He was obliged to land lower down, and Mary was there before him. Between them they pulled Mittie out, a wet, frightened, miserable object, her breath in helpless gasps and sobs, and one cheek bleeding freely from striking the rowlock. "Oh, Mittie! why did you do it?" Mary asked in distress--a rather inopportune question in the circumstances. "We must get her home at once, Fred, and put her to bed." They had almost to carry her up the bank, for all the starch and confidence were gone out of her; and she was supremely ashamed, besides being overwhelmed with the fright and the shock. On reaching the house Fred went off to change his own soaking garments, and Mittie was promptly put to bed, with a hot bottle at her feet and a hot drink to counteract the effects of the chill. She submitted with unwonted meekness; but her one cry was for her sister. "I want Joan! Oh, do fetch Joan!" she entreated. "My face hurts so awfully; and I feel so bad all over. I know I'm going to die! Oh, please send for Joan!" "I don't think there is the smallest probability of that, my dear," Mrs. Ferris said, with rather dry composure, as she sat by the bed. "If Fred had not been at hand you would have been in danger, certainly. But, as things are, it is simply a matter of keeping you warm for a few hours. Your face will be painful, I am afraid, for some days; but happily it is only a bad bruise." "I thought I could manage the jump so nicely," sighed Mittie. "It was a pity you tried. Now, Mittie, I am going to ask you a question, and I want a clear answer. Will you tell me frankly--did Joan _wish_ to stay at home to-day, and to send you in her stead?" Mittie was so subdued that she had no spirit for a fight. "No," came in a whisper. "I--she--she wanted awfully to come. And I--wouldn't stay at home. And Grannie didn't like to spare us both." "Ah, I see!" Mrs. Ferris laid a kind hand on Mittie. "I am glad you have told me; and you are sorry now, of course. That will make all the difference. Now I am going to send Fred to tell your sister what has happened, and to say that you will be here till to-morrow." "Couldn't he bring Joan? I do want her so!" "I'm not sure that that will be possible." But to Fred, when retailing what had passed, she added: "You had better motor over. And if you can persuade Joan to come, so much the better--to sleep, if possible; if not, we can send her home later." Fred was off like a shot. The motor run was a very short affair compared with going by boat. On arrival, he found the front door of Mrs. Wills's house open; and he caught a glimpse of a brown head within the bow-window of the breakfast-room. If he could only find Joan alone! He ventured to walk in without ringing. Alone, indeed, Joan was, trying to darn a pair of stockings, and finding the task difficult. It had been such a long, long day--longer even for her than for Mittie. [Sidenote: "Fred!"] "Come in," she said, in answer to a light tap. And the last face that she expected to see appeared. "_Fred!_" broke from her. "Mr. Ferris!" "No, please--I like 'Fred' best!" He came close, noting with joy how her face had in an instant parted with its gravity. "Why did you not come to us to-day?" he asked earnestly. "I couldn't." "Not--because you wanted to stay away?" "Oh no!" "Could not your sister have been the one at home?" Joan spoke gently. "You see, Mittie has never before spent a day at your house. She wanted it so much." "And you--did you want it, too--ever so little? Would you have cared to come, Joan?" Joan only smiled. She felt happy beyond words. "I've got to take you there now, if you'll come. For the night, perhaps--or at least for the evening. Mittie has had a wetting"--he called the younger girl by her name half-unconsciously--"and they have put her to bed for fear of a chill. And she wants you." Naturally Joan was a good deal concerned, though Fred made little of the accident. He explained more fully, and an appeal to the old lady brought permission. "Not for the night, child--I can't spare you for that, but for the evening. Silly little goose Mittie is!" And Fred, with delight, carried Joan off. "So Mrs. Wills can't do without you, even for one night," he said, when they were spinning along the high road, he and she behind and the chauffeur in front. He laughed, and bent to look into her eyes. "Joan, what is to happen when she _has_ to do without you altogether?" "Oh, I suppose--she might manage as she used to do before we came." Joan said this involuntarily; and then she understood. Her colour went up. "I don't think _I_ can manage very much longer without you--my Joan!" murmured Fred. "If you'll have me, darling." And she only said, "Oh, Fred!" But he understood. [Sidenote: Here is a story of an out-of-the-way Christmas entertainment got up for a girl's pleasure.] A Christmas with Australian Blacks BY J. S. PONDER "I say, Dora, can't we get up some special excitement for sister Maggie, seeing she is to be here for Christmas? I fancy she will, in her home inexperience, expect a rather jolly time spending Christmas in this forsaken spot. I am afraid that my letters home, in which I coloured things up a bit, are to blame for that," my husband added ruefully. "What can we do, Jack?" I asked. "I can invite the Dunbars, the Connors and the Sutherlands over for a dance, and you can arrange for a kangaroo-hunt the following day. That is the usual thing when special visitors come, isn't it?" "Yes," he moodily replied, "that about exhausts our programme. Nothing very exciting in that. I say, how would it do to take the fangs out of a couple of black snakes and put them in her bedroom, so as to give her the material of a thrilling adventure to narrate when she goes back to England?" "That would never do," I protested, "you might frighten her out of her wits. Remember she is not strong, and spare her everything except very innocent adventures. Besides, snakes are such loathsome beasts." "How would it do, then, to give a big Christmas feast to the blacks?" he hazarded. "Do you think she would like that?" I asked doubtfully. "Remember how awfully dirty and savage-looking they are." "Oh, we would try and get them to clean up a bit, and come somewhat presentable," he cheerfully replied. "And, Dora," he continued, "I think the idea is a good one. Sister Maggie is the Hon. Secretary or something of the Missionary Society connected with her Church, and in the thick of all the 'soup and blanket clubs' of the district. She will just revel at the chance of administering to the needs of genuine savages." "If you think so, you had better try and get the feast up," I resignedly replied; "but I do wish our savages were a little less filthy." Such was the origin of our Christmas feast to the blacks last year, of which I am about to tell you. My husband, John MacKenzie, was the manager and part proprietor of a large sheep-station in the Murchison district of Western Australia, and sister Maggie was his favourite sister. A severe attack of pneumonia had left her so weak that the doctors advised a sea voyage to Australia, to recuperate her strength--a proposition which she hailed with delight, as it would give her the opportunity of seeing her brother in his West Australian home. My husband, of course, was delighted at the prospect of seeing her again, while I too welcomed the idea of meeting my Scottish sister-in-law, with whom I had much charming correspondence, but had never met face to face. As the above conversation shows, my husband's chief care was to make his sister's visit bright and enjoyable--no easy task in the lonely back-blocks where our station was, and where the dreary loneliness and deadly monotony of the West Australian bush reaches its climax. Miles upon miles of uninteresting plains, covered with the usual gums and undergrowth, surrounded us on all sides; beautiful, indeed, in early spring, when the wealth of West Australian wild flowers--unsurpassed for loveliness by those of any other country--enriched the land, but at other times painfully unattractive and monotonous. Except kangaroos, snakes, and lizards, animal life was a-wanting. Bird and insect life, too, was hardly to be seen, and owing to the absence of rivers and lakes, aquatic life was unknown. The silent loneliness of the bush is so oppressive and depressing that men new to such conditions have gone mad under it when living alone, and others almost lose their power of intelligent speech. Such were hardly the most cheerful surroundings for a young convalescent girl, and so I fully shared Jack's anxiety as to how to provide healthy excitement during his sister's stay. Preparations for the blacks' Christmas feast were at once proceeded with. A camp of aboriginals living by a small lakelet eighteen miles off was visited, and the natives there were informed of a great feast that was to be given thirty days later, and were told to tell other blacks to come too, with their wives and piccaninnies. [Sidenote: A large order] Orders were sent to the nearest town, fifty-three miles off, for six cases of oranges, a gross of gingerbeer, and all the dolls, penknives and tin trumpets in stock; also (for Jack got wildly extravagant over his project) for fifty cotton shirts, and as many pink dresses of the readymade kind that are sold in Australian stores. These all came about a fortnight before Christmas, and at the same time our expected visitor arrived. She at once got wildly enthusiastic when my husband told her of his plan, and threw herself into the preparations with refreshing energy. She and I, and the native servants we had, toiled early and late, working like galley-slaves making bread-stuffs for the feast. Knowing whom I had to provide for, I confined myself to making that Australian standby--damper, and simple cakes, but Maggie produced a wonderfully elaborate and rich bun for their delectation, which she called a "Selkirk bannock," and which I privately thought far too good for them. Well, the day came. Such a Christmas as you can only see and feel in Australia; the sky cloudless, the atmosphere breezeless, the temperature one hundred and seven degrees in the shade. With it came the aboriginals in great number, accompanied, as they always are, by crowds of repulsive-looking mongrel dogs. Maggie was greatly excited, and not a little indignant, at seeing many of the gins carrying their dogs in their arms, and letting their infants toddle along on trembling legs hardly strong enough to support their little bodies, and much astonished when, on her proposing to send all their dogs away, I told her that this would result in the failure of the intended feast, as they would sooner forsake their children than their mongrels, and if the dogs were driven away, every native would indignantly accompany them. Maggie, with a sigh and a curious look on her face that told of the disillusioning of sundry preconceived English ideas regarding the noble savages, turned to look at Jack, and her lips soon twitched with merriment as she listened to him masterfully arranging the day's campaign. [Sidenote: A Magnificent Bribe] Marshalling the blacks before him like a company of soldiers--the women, thanks to my prudent instructions, being more or less decently dressed, the men considerably less decently, and the younger children of both sexes being elegantly clad in Nature's undress uniform--Jack vigorously addressed his listeners thus: "Big feast made ready for plenty black-fellow to-day, but black-fellow must make clean himself before feast." (Grunts of disapprobation from the men, and a perfect babel of angry protestation from the women here interrupted the speaker, who proceeded, oblivious of the disapproval of his audience.) "Black-fellow all come with me for washee; lubras and piccaninnies (_i.e._, women and children) all go with white women for washee." (Continued grumbles of discontent.) "Clean black-fellow," continued Jack, "get new shirtee, clean lubra new gowna." Then, seeing that even this magnificent bribe failed to reconcile the natives to the idea of soap and water, Jack, to the amusement of Maggie and myself, settled matters by shouting out the ultimatum: "No washee--no shirtee, no shirtee--no feastee," and stalked away, followed submissively by the aboriginal lords of creation. The men, indeed, and, in a lesser degree, the children, showed themselves amenable to reason that day, and were not wanting in gratitude; but in spite of Maggie's care and mine, the gins (the gentler sex) worthily deserved the expressive description: "Manners none, customs beastly." They were repulsive and dirty in the extreme. They gloried in their dirt, and clung to it with a closer affection than they did to womanly modesty--this last virtue was unknown. We, on civilising thoughts intent, had provided a number of large tubs and soap, and brushes galore for the Augean task, but though we got the women to the water, we were helpless to make them clean. Their declaration of independence was out at once--"Is thy servant a dog that I should do this thing?" Wash and be clean! Why, it was contrary to all the time-honoured filthy habits of the noble self-respecting race of Australian gins, and "they would have none of it." At last, in despair, and largely humiliated at the way in which savage womanhood had worsted civilised, Maggie and I betook ourselves to the long tables where the feast was being spread, and waited the arrival of the leader of the other sex, whose success, evidenced by sounds coming from afar, made me seriously doubt my right to be called his "better half." After a final appeal to my hard-hearted lord and master to be spared the indignity of the wash-tub, the native men had bowed to the inevitable. Each man heroically lent himself to the task, and diligently helped his neighbours to reach the required standard of excellence. Finally all save one stubborn aboriginal protestant emerged from the tub, like the immortal Tom Sawyer, "a man and a brother." Well, the feast was a great success. The corned and tinned meat, oranges, tomatoes, cakes and gingerbeer provided were largely consumed. The eatables, indeed, met the approval of the savages, for, like Oliver Twist, they asked for "more," until we who served them got rather leg-weary, and began to doubt whether, when night came, we would be able to say with any heartiness we had had "a merry Christmas." Clad in their clean shirts, and with faces shining with soap-polish, the men looked rather well, despite their repulsive and generally villainous features. But the women, wrinkled, filthy, quarrelsome and disgusting, they might have stood for incarnations of the witch-hags in _Macbeth_; and as we watched them guzzling down the food, and then turning their upper garments into impromptu bags to carry off what remained, it is hard to say whether the feeling of pity or disgust they raised was the stronger. After the feast, Jack, for Maggie's entertainment, tried to get up the blacks to engage in a corroboree, and give an exhibition of boomerang and spear-throwing; but the inner man had been too largely satisfied, and they declined violent exertion, so the toys were distributed and our guests dismissed. When she and I were dressing that evening for our own Christmas dinner, Maggie kept talking all the time of the strange experience she had passed through that day. [Sidenote: A Striking Picture] "I'll never forget it," she said. "Savages are so different from our English ideas of them. Did you notice the dogs? I counted nineteen go off with the first native that left. And the women! Weren't they horrors? I don't think I'll ever feel pride in my sex again. But above all, I'll never forget the way in which Jack drove from the table that native who hadn't a clean shirt on. It was a picture of Christ's parable of the 'Marriage Feast,'" she added softly. Before I could reply the gong, strengthened by Jack's imperative "Hurry up, I'm starving," summoned us to dinner. [Sidenote: A story of Sedgemoor times and of a woman who was both a saint and a heroine.] My Mistress Elizabeth BY ANNIE ARMITT I committed a great folly when I was young and ignorant; for I left my father's house and hid myself in London only that I might escape the match he desired to make for me. I knew nothing at that time of the dangers and sorrows of those who live in the world and are mixed in its affairs. Yet it was a time of public peril, and not a few who dwelt in the quiet corners of the earth found themselves embroiled suddenly in great matters of state. For when the Duke of Monmouth landed in Dorsetshire it was not the dwellers in great cities or the intriguers of the Court that followed him chiefly to their undoing; it was the peasant who left his plough and the cloth-worker his loom. Men who could neither read nor write were caught up by the cry of a Protestant leader, and went after him to their ruin. The prince to whose standard they flocked was, for all his sweet and taking manners, but a profligate at best; he had no true religion in his heart--nothing but a desire, indeed, for his own aggrandisement, whatever he might say to the unhappy maid that handed a Bible to him at Taunton. But of this the people were ignorant, and so it came to pass that they were led to destruction in a fruitless cause. [Sidenote: French Leave] But there were, besides the men that died nobly in a mistaken struggle for religious freedom, others that joined the army from mean and ignoble motives, and others again that had not the courage to go through with that which they had begun, but turned coward and traitor at the last. Of one of them I am now to write, and I will say of him no more evil than must be. How I, that had fled away from the part of the country where this trouble was, before its beginning, became mixed in it was strange enough. I had, as I said, run away to escape from the match that my father proposed for me; and yet it was not from any dislike of Tom Windham, the neighbour's son with whom I was to have mated, that I did this; but chiefly from a dislike that I had to settle in the place where I had been bred; for I thought myself weary of a country life and the little town whither we went to market; and I desired to see somewhat of life in a great city and the gaiety stirring there. There dwelt in London a cousin of my mother, whose husband was a mercer, and who had visited us a year before--when she was newly married--and pressed me to go back with her. "La!" she had said to me, "I know not how you endure this life, where there is nothing to do but to listen for the grass growing and the flowers opening. 'Twould drive me mad in a month." Then she told me of the joyous racket of a great city, and the gay shows and merry sports to be had there. But my father would not permit me to go with her. However, I resolved to ask no leave when the question of my marriage came on; and so, without more ado, I slipped away by the first occasion that came, when my friends were least suspecting it, and, leaving only a message writ on paper to bid them have no uneasiness, for I knew how to take care of myself, I contrived, after sundry adventures, to reach London. I arrived at an ill time, for there was sickness in the house of my cousin Alstree. However, she made me welcome as well as might be, and wrote to my father suddenly of my whereabouts. My father being sore displeased at the step I had taken, sent me word by the next messenger that came that way that I might even stay where I had put myself. So now I had all my desire, and should have been content; but matters did not turn out as I had expected. There might be much gaiety in the town; but I saw little of it. My cousin was occupied with her own concerns, having now a sickly baby to turn her mind from thoughts of her own diversion; her husband was a sour-tempered man; and the prentices that were in the house were ill-mannered and ill-bred. [Illustration: GALLANTS LOUNGING IN THE PARK.] There was in truth a Court no farther away than Whitehall. I saw gallants lounging and talking together in the Park, games on the Mall, and soldiers and horses in the streets and squares; but none of these had any concern with me. * * * * * The news of the Duke's landing was brought to London while I was still at my cousin's, but it made the less stir in her household because of the sickness there; and presently a new and grievous trouble fell upon us. My cousin Alstree was stricken with the small-pox, and in five days she and her baby were both dead. The house seemed no longer a fit place for me, and her husband was as one distracted; yet I had nowhere else to go to. It was then that a woman whom I had seen before and liked little came to my assistance. Her name was Elizabeth Gaunt. She was an Anabaptist and, as I thought, fanatical. She spent her life in good works, and cared nothing for dress, or food, or pleasure. Her manner to me had been stern, and I thought her poor and of no account; for what money she had was given mostly to others. But when she knew of my trouble she offered me a place in her house, bargaining only that I should help her in the work of it. "My maid that I had has left me to be married," she said; "'twould be waste to hire another while you sit idle." I was in too evil a plight to be particular, so that I went with her willingly. And this I must confess, that the tasks she set me were irksome enough, but yet I was happier with her than I had been with my cousin Alstree, for I had the less time for evil and regretful thoughts. Now it befell that one night, when we were alone together, there came a knocking at the house door. [Sidenote: A Strange Visitor] I went to open it, and found a tall man standing on the threshold. I was used to those that came to seek charity, who were mostly women or children, the poor, the sick, or the old. But this man, as I saw by the light I carried with me, was sturdy and well built; moreover, the cloak that was wrapped about him was neither ragged or ill-made, only the hat that he had upon his head was crushed in the brim. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, and this frightened me somewhat, for we were two lone women, and the terror of my country breeding clung to me. There was, it is true, nothing in the house worth stealing, but yet a stranger might not know this. "Doth Mrs. Gaunt still live in this house?" he asked. "Is she not a woman that is very, charitable and ready to help those that are in trouble?" I looked at him, wondering what his trouble might be, for he seemed well-to-do and comfortable, except for the hat-brim. Yet he spoke with urgency, and it flashed upon me that his need might not be for himself, but another. I was about to answer him when he, whose eye had left me to wander round the narrow passage where we were, caught sight of a rim of light under a doorway. "Is she in that chamber, and alone? What, then, are you afraid of?" he asked, with impatience. "Do you think I would hurt a good creature like that?" "You would be a cruel wretch, indeed, to do it," I answered, plucking up a little spirit, "for she lives only to show kindness to others." "So I have been told. 'Tis the same woman," and without more ado he stalked past me to the door of her room, where she sat reading a Bible as her custom was; so he opened it and went in. I stood without in the passage, trembling still a little, and uncertain of his purpose, yet remembering his words and the horror he had shown at the thought of doing any hurt to my mistress. I said to myself that he could not be a wicked man, and that there was nothing to fear. But, well-a-day, well-a-day, we know not what is before us, nor the evil that we shall do before we die. Of a surety the man that I let in that night had no thought of what he should do; yet he came in the end to do it, and even to justify the doing of it. I waited outside, as I have said, and the sound of voices came to me. I thought to myself once, "Shall I go nearer and listen?" though it was only for my mistress's sake that I considered it, being no eavesdropper. But I did not go, and in so abstaining I was kept safe in the greatest danger I have been in throughout my life. For if I had heard and known, my fate might have been like hers; and should I have had the strength to endure it? In a little time the door opened and she came out alone. Her face was paler even than ordinary, and she gave a start on seeing me stand there. "Child," she said, "have you heard what passed between us on the other side of that door?" I answered that I had not heard a word; and then she beckoned me to follow her into the kitchen. When we were alone there I put down my candle on the deal table, and stood still while she looked at me searchingly. I could see that there was more in her manner than I understood. "Child," she said, "I have had to trust you before when I have given help to those in trouble, and you have not been wanting in discretion; yet you are but a child to trust." "If you tell me nothing I can repeat nothing," I answered proudly. "Yet you know something already. Can you keep silent entirely and under all circumstances as to what has happened since you opened the street door?" "It is not my custom to gabble about your affairs." "Will you seek to learn no more and to understand no more?" "I desire to know nothing of the affairs of others, if they do not choose to tell me of their own free will." She looked at me and sighed a little, at the which I marvelled somewhat, for it was ever her custom to trust in God and so to go forward without question. "You are young and ill prepared for trial, yet you have wandered alone--silly lassie that you are--into a wilderness of wolves." "There is trouble everywhere," I answered. "And danger too," she said; "but there is trouble that we seek for ourselves, and trouble that God sends to us. You will do well, when you are safe at home, to wander no more. Now go to bed and rest." "Shall I not get a meal for your guest?" I asked; for I was well aware that the man had not yet left the house. [Sidenote: "Ask no Questions!"] "Do my bidding and ask no questions," she said, more sternly than was her custom. So I took my candle and went away silently, she following me to my chamber. When I was there she bid me pray to God for all who were in danger and distress, then I heard that she turned the key upon me on the outside and went away. I undressed with some sullenness, being ill-content at the mistrust she showed; but presently she came to the chamber herself, and prayed long before she lay down beside me. And now a strange time followed. I saw no more of that visitor that had come to the house lately, nor knew at what time he went away, or if he had attained the end he sought. My mistress busied me mostly in the lower part of the house, and went out very little herself, keeping on me all the while a strict guard and surveillance beyond her wont. But at last a charitable call came to her, which she never refused; and so she left me alone, with instructions to remain between the kitchen and the street-door, and by no means to leave the house or to hold discourse with any that came, more than need be. I sat alone in the kitchen, fretting a little against her injunctions, and calling to mind the merry evenings in the parlour at home, where I had sported and gossiped with my comrades. I loved not solitude, and sighed to think that I had now nothing to listen to but the great clock against the wall, nothing to speak to but the cat that purred at my feet. I was, however, presently to have company that I little expected. For, as I sat with my seam in my hand, I heard a step upon the stairs; and yet I had let none into the house, but esteemed myself alone there. It came from above, where was an upper chamber, and a loft little used. My heart beat quickly, so that I was afraid to go out into the passage, for there I must meet that which descended, man or spirit as it might be. I heard the foot on the lowest stair, and then it turned towards the little closet where my mistress often sat alone at her devotions. While it lingered there I wondered whether I should rush out into the street, and seek the help and company of some neighbour. But I remembered Mrs. Gaunt's injunction; and, moreover, another thought restrained me. It was that of the man that I had let into the house and never seen again. It might well be that he had never left the place, and that I should be betraying a secret by calling in a stranger to look at him. So I stood trembling by the deal table until the step sounded again and came on to the kitchen. [Sidenote: The Man Again] The door opened, and a man stood there. It was the same whom I had seen before. He looked round quickly, and gave me a courteous greeting; his manner was, indeed, pleasant enough, and there was nothing in his look to set a maid trembling at the sight of him. "I am in luck," he said, "for I heard Mrs. Gaunt go out some time since, and I am sick of that upper chamber where she keeps me shut up." "If she keeps you shut up, sir," I said, his manner giving me back all my self-possession, "sure she has some very good reason." "Do you know her reason?" he asked with abruptness. "No, nor seek to know it, unless she chooses to tell me. I did not even guess that she had you in hiding." "Mrs. Gaunt is careful, but I can trust the lips that now reprove me. They were made for better things than betraying a friend. I would willingly have some good advice from them, seeing that they speak wise words so readily." And so saying he sat down on the settle, and looked at me smiling. I was offended, and with reason, at the freedom of his speech; yet, his manner, was so much beyond anything I had been accustomed to for ease and pleasantness, that I soon forgave him, and when he encouraged me, began to prattle about my affairs, being only, with all my conceit, the silly lassie my mistress had called me. I talked of my home and my own kindred, and the friends I had had--which things had now all the charm of remoteness for me--and he listened with interest, catching up the names of places, and even of persons, as if they were not altogether strange to him, and asking me further of them. "What could make you leave so happy a home for such a dungeon as this?" he asked, looking round. Then I hung my head, and reddened foolishly, but he gave a loud laugh and said, "I can well understand. There was some country lout that your father would have wedded you to. That is the way with the prettiest maidens." "Tom Windham was no country lout," I answered proudly; upon which he leaned forward and asked, "What name was that you said? Windham? and from Westover? Is he a tall fellow with straw-coloured hair and a cut over his left eye?" "He got it in a good cause," I answered swiftly; "have you seen him?" "Yes, lately. It is the same. Lucky fellow! I would I were in his place now." And he fell straightway into a moody taking, looking down as if he had forgotten me. "Sir, do you say so?" I stammered foolishly, "when--when----" "When you have run away from him? Not for that, little maid;" and he broke again into a laugh that had mischief in it. "But because when we last met he was in luck and I out of it, yet we guessed it not at the time." "I am glad he is doing well," I said proudly. "Then should you be sorry for me that am in trouble," he answered. "For I have no home now, nor am like to have, but must go beyond seas and begin a new life as best I may." "I am indeed sorry, for it is sad to be alone. If Mrs. Gaunt had not been kind to me----" [Sidenote: Interrupted] "And to me," he interrupted, "we should never have met. She is a good woman, your mistress Gaunt." "Yet, I have heard that beyond seas there are many diversions," I answered, to turn the talk from myself, seeing that he was minded to be too familiar. "For those that start with good company and pleasant companions. If I had a pleasant companion, one that would smile upon me with bright eyes when I was sad, and scold me with her pretty lips when I went astray--for there is nothing like a pretty Puritan for keeping a careless man straight." "Oh, sir!" I cried, starting to my feet as he put his hand across the deal table to mine; and then the door opened and Elizabeth Gaunt came in. "Sir," she said, "you have committed a breach of hospitality in entering a chamber to which I have never invited you. Will you go back to your own?" He bowed with a courteous apology and muttered something about the temptation being too great. Then he left us alone. "Child," she said to me, "has that man told you anything of his own affairs?" "Only that he is in trouble, and must fly beyond seas." "Pray God he may go quickly," she said devoutly. "I fear he is no man to be trusted." "Yet you help him," I answered. "I help many that I could not trust," she said with quietness; "they have the more need of help." And in truth I know that much of her good work was among those evil-doers that others shrank from. "This man seems strong enough to help himself," I said. "Would that he may go quickly," was all her answer. "If the means could but be found!" Then she spoke to me with great urgency, commanding me to hold no discourse with him nor with any concerning him. I did my best to fulfil her bidding, yet it was difficult; for he was a man who knew the world and how to take his own way in it. He contrived more than once to see me, and to pay a kind of court to me, half in jest and half in earnest; so that I was sometimes flattered and sometimes angered, and sometimes frighted. Then other circumstances happened unexpectedly, for I had a visitor that I had never looked to see there. I kept indoors altogether, fearing to be questioned by the neighbours; but on a certain afternoon there came a knocking, and when I went to open Tom Windham walked in. I gave a cry of joy, because the sight of an old friend was pleasant in that strange place, and it was not immediately that I could recover myself and ask what his business was. "I came to seek you," he said, "for I had occasion to leave my own part of the country for the present." [Illustration: "LOOKING AT HIM, I SAW THAT HE WAS HAGGARD AND STRANGE."] Looking at him, I saw that he was haggard and strange, and had not the confidence that was his formerly. "There has been a rising there," I answered him, "and trouble among many?" "Much trouble," he said with gloom. Then he fell to telling me how such of the neighbours were dead, and others were in hiding, while there were still more that went about their work in fear for their lives, lest any should inform against them. "Your father's brother was taken on Sedgemoor with a pike in his hand," he added, "and your father has been busy ever since, raising money to buy his pardon--for they say that money can do much." "That is ill news, indeed," I said. "I have come to London on my own affairs, and been to seek you at your cousin Alstree's. When I learnt of the trouble that had befallen I followed you to this house, and right glad I am that you are safe with so good a woman as Mrs. Gaunt." "But why should you be in London when the whole countryside at home is in gaol or in mourning? Have you no friend to help? Did you sneak away to be out of it all?" I asked with the silly petulance of a maid that knows nothing and will say anything. "Yes," he said, hanging his head like one ashamed, "I sneaked away to be out of it all." It vexed me to see him so, and I went on in a manner that it pleased me little afterwards to remember. "You, that talked so of the Protestant cause! you, that were ready to fight against Popery! you were not one of those that marched for Bristol or fought at Sedgemoor?" "No," he said, "I did neither of these things." "Yet you have run away from the sight of your neighbours' trouble--lest, I suppose, you should anyways be involved in it. Well, 'twas a man's part!" He was about to answer me when we both started to hear a sound in the house. There was a foot on the stairs that I knew well. Tom turned aside and listened, for we had now withdrawn to the kitchen. "That is a man's tread," he said; "I thought you lived alone with Mrs. Elizabeth Gaunt." "Mrs. Gaunt spends her life in good works," I answered, "and shows kindness to others beside me." I raised my voice in hopes that the man might hear me and come no nearer, but the stupid fellow had waxed so confident that he came right in and stood amazed. [Sidenote: "You!"] "You!" he said; and Tom answered, "You!" So they stood and glared at one another. "I thought you were in a safe place," said Tom, swinging round to me. "She is in no danger from me," said the man. "Are you so foolish as to think so?" asked Tom. "If you keep your mouth shut she is in no danger," was the answer. "That may be," said Tom. Yet he turned to me and said, "You must come away from here." "I have nowhere to go to--and I will not leave Mrs. Gaunt." "I am myself going away," the man said. "How soon?" "To-night maybe; to-morrow night at farthest." "'Tis a great danger," said Tom, "and I thought you so safe." Again he spoke to me. "Is there danger from _you_?" the man asked. "Do you take me for a scoundrel?" was the wrathful reply. "A man will do much to keep his skin whole." "There are some things no man will do that is a man and no worse." "Truly you might have easily been in my place; and you would not inform against a comrade?" "I should be a black traitor to do it." Yet there was a blacker treachery possible, such as we none of us conceived the very nature of, not even the man that had the heart to harbour it afterwards. Tom would not leave me until Mrs. Gaunt came in, and then they had a private talk together. She begged him to come to the house no more at present, because of the suspicions that even so innocent a visitor might bring upon it at that time of public disquiet. "I shall contrive to get word to her father that he would do well to come and fetch her," he said, in my hearing, and she answered that he could not contrive a better thing. The man that, as I now understood, we had in hiding went out that night after it was dark, but he came back again; and he did so on the night that followed. Mrs. Gaunt, perceiving that she could not altogether keep him from my company, and that the hope of his safe departure grew less, began to show great uneasiness. "I see not how I am to get away," the man said gloomily when he found occasion for a word with me; "and the danger increases each day. Yet there is one way--one way." "Why not take it and go?" I asked lightly. "I may take it yet. A man has but one life." He spoke savagely and morosely; for his manner was now altered, and he paid me no more compliments. There came a night on which he went out and came back no more. "I trust in God," said Mrs. Gaunt, who used this word always in reverence and not lightly, "that he has made his escape and not fallen into the hands of his enemies." The house seemed lighter because he was gone, and we went about our work cheerfully. Later, when some strange men came to the door--as I, looking through an upper window, could see--Mrs. Gaunt opened to them smiling, for the place was now ready to be searched, and there was none to give any evidence who the man was that had lately hidden there. [Sidenote: Arrested] But there was no search. The men had come for Elizabeth Gaunt herself, and they told her, in my hearing, that she was accused of having given shelter to one of Monmouth's men, and the punishment of this crime was death. It did not seem to me at first possible that such a woman as Elizabeth Gaunt, that had never concerned herself with plots or politics, but spent her life wholly in good works, should be taken up as a public enemy and so treated only because she had given shelter to a man that had fled for his life. Yet this was, as I now learnt, the law. But there still seemed no possibility of any conviction, for who was there to give witness against her of the chief fact, namely, that she had known the man she sheltered to be one that had fought against the King? Her house was open always to those that were in trouble or danger, and no question asked. There were none of her neighbours that would have spied upon her, seeing that she had the reputation of a saint among them; and none to whom she had given her confidence. She had withheld it even from me, nor could I certainly say that she had the knowledge that was charged against her. For Windham was out of the way now--on my business, as I afterwards discovered; and if he had been nigh at hand he would have had more wisdom than to show himself at this juncture. When I was taken before the judge, and, terrified as I was, questioned with so much roughness that I suspected a desire to fright me further, so that I might say whatever they that questioned me desired, even then they could, happily, discover nothing that told against my mistress, because I knew nothing. In spite of all my confusion and distress, I uttered no word that could be used against Elizabeth Gaunt. I saw now her wise and kind care of me, in that she had not put me into the danger she was in herself. It seemed too that she must escape, seeing that there was none to give witness against her. And then the truth came out, that the villain himself, tempted by the offer of the King to pardon those rebels that should betray their entertainers, had gone of his own accord and bought his safety at the cost of her life that had sheltered and fed him. When the time came that he must give his evidence, the villain stepped forward with a swaggering impudence that ill-concealed his secret shame, and swore not only that Elizabeth Gaunt had given him shelter, but moreover that she had done it knowing who he was and where he came from. And so she was condemned to death, and, in the strange cruelty of the law, because she was a woman and adjudged guilty of treason, she must be burnt alive. She had no great friends to help her, no money with which to bribe the wicked court; yet I could not believe that a King who called himself a Christian--though of that cruel religion that has since hunted so many thousands of the best men out of France, or tortured them in their homes there--could abide to let a woman die, only because she had been merciful to a man that was his enemy. I went about like one distracted, seeking help where there was no help, and it was only when I went to the gaol and saw Elizabeth herself--which I was permitted to do for a farewell--that I found any comfort. "We must all die one day," she said, "and why not now, in a good cause?" "Is it a good cause," I cried, "to die for one that is a coward, a villain, a traitor?" "Nay," she answered, "you mistake. I die for the cause of charity. I die to fulfil my Master's command of kindness and mercy." "But the man was unworthy," I repeated. "What of that? The love is worthy that would have helped him; the charity is worthy that would have served him. Gladly do I die for having lived in love and charity. They are the courts of God's holy house. They are filled full of peace and joy. In their peace and joy may I abide until God receives me, unworthy, into His inner temple." "But the horror of the death! Oh, how can you bear it?" "God will show me how when the time comes," she said, with the simplicity of a perfect faith. [Sidenote: Death by Fire] And of a truth He did show her; for they that stood by her at the last testified how her high courage did not fail; no, nor her joy either; for she laid the straw about her cheerfully for her burning, and thanked God that she was permitted to die in this cruel manner for a religion that was all love. I could not endure to watch that which she could suffer joyfully, but at first I remained in the outskirts of the crowd. When I pressed forward after and saw her bound there--she that had sat at meals with me and lain in my bed at night--and that they were about to put a torch to the faggots and kindle them, I fell back in a swoon. Some that were merciful pulled me out of the throng, and cast water upon me; and William Penn the Quaker, that stood by (whom I knew by sight--and a strange show this was that he had come with the rest to look upon), spoke to me kindly, and bid me away to my home, seeing that I had no courage for such dreadful sights. So I hurried away, ashamed of my own cowardice, and weeping sorely, leaving behind me the tumult of the crowd, and smelling in the air the smoke of the kindled faggots. I put my fingers in my ears and ran back to the empty house: there to fall on my knees, to pray to God for mercy for myself, and to cry aloud against the cruelty of men. Then there happened a thing which I remember even now with shame. The man who had betrayed my mistress came disguised (for he was now at liberty to fly from the anger of the populace and the horror of his friends) and he begged me to go with him and to share his fortunes, telling me that he feared solitude above everything, and crying to me to help him against his own dreadful thoughts. I answered him with horror and indignation; but he said I should rather pity him, seeing that many another man would have acted so in his place; and others might have been in his place easily enough. "For," said he, "your friend Windham was among those that came to take service under the Duke and had to be sent away because there were no more arms. He was sorely disappointed that he could not join us." "Then," said I suddenly, "this was doubtless the reason why he fled the country--lest any should inform against him." "That is so," he answered; "and a narrow escape he has had; for if he had fought as he desired he might well have been in my place this day." "In Elizabeth Gaunt's rather!" I answered. "He would himself have died at the stake before he could have been brought to betray the woman that had helped him." "You had a poorer opinion of him a short while ago." "I knew not the world. I knew not men. I knew not _you_. Go! Go! Take away your miserable life--for which two good and useful lives have been given--and make what you can of it. I would--coward as I am--go back to my mistress and die with her rather than have any share in it!" He tarried no more, and I was left alone. Not a creature came near me. It may be that my neighbours had seen him enter, and thought of me with horror as a condoner of his crime; it may be that they were afraid to meddle with a house that had fallen into so terrible a trouble; or that the frightful hurricane that burst forth and raged that day (as if to show that God's anger was aroused and His justice, though delayed, not forgotten) kept them trembling in their houses. * * * * * [Sidenote: A Knocking at Nightfall] What would have befallen me if I had been left long alone in that great and evil city I know not, for I had no wits left to make any plans for myself. At nightfall, however, there came once more a knocking, and when I opened the door my father stood on the threshold. There seemed no strangeness in his presence, and I fell into his arms weeping, so that he, seeing how grievous had been my punishment, forbore to make any reproach. The next day began our journey home, and I have never since returned to London; but when I got back to the place I had so foolishly left I found it sadder than before. Many friends were gone away or dead. Some honest lads, with whom I had jested at fair-times, hung withering on the ghastly gallows by the wayside; others lay in unknown graves; others languished in gaol or on board ship. My father's own brother, though his life was spared, had been sent away to the plantations to be sold, and to work as a slave. It was some time before Tom Windham--that had, at considerable risk to himself, sent my father to fetch me--ventured to settle again in his old place; and for a long time after that he was shy of addressing me. But I was changed now as much as he was. I had seen what the world was, and knew the value of an honest love in it. So that, in the end, we came to an understanding, and have been married these many years. [Sidenote: What is girl life like in newer Canada--in lands to which so many of our brothers are going just now? This article--written in the Far North-West--supplies the answer.] Girl Life in Canada BY JANEY CANUCK If you leave out France, Canada is as large as all Europe; which means that the girls of our Dominion live under climatic, domestic, and social conditions that are many and varied. It is of the girls in the newer provinces I shall write--those provinces known as "North-West Canada"--who reside in the country adjacent to some town or village. It is true that many girls who come here with their fathers and mothers often live a long distance from a town or even a railroad. Where I live at Edmonton, the capital of the Province of Alberta, almost every day in the late winter we see girls starting off to the Peach River district, which lies to the north several hundred miles from a railroad. [Sidenote: A Travelling House] How do they travel? You could never guess, so I may as well tell you. They travel in a house--a one-roomed house. It is built on a sled and furnished with a stove, a table that folds against the wall, a cupboard for food and dishes, nails for clothing, and a box for toilet accessories. Every available inch is stored with supplies, so that every one must perforce sleep on the floor. This family bed is, however, by no means uncomfortable, for the "soft side of the board" is piled high with fur rugs and four-point blankets. (Yes, if you remind me I'll tell you by and by what a "four-point" blanket is.) The entrance to the house is from the back, and the window is in front, through a slide in which the lines extend to the heads of the horses or the awkward, stumbling oxen. You must not despise the oxen, or say, "A pretty, team for a Canadian girl!" for, indeed, they are most reliable animals, and not nearly so delicate as horses, nor so hard to feed--and they never, never run away. Besides--and here's the rub--you can always eat the oxen should you ever want to, and popular prejudice does not run in favour of horseflesh. Oh, yes! I said I would tell you about "four-point" blankets. They are the blankets that have been manufactured for nearly three hundred years by "the Honourable Company of Gentlemen Adventurers of England trading into Hudson's Bay," known for the sake of conciseness as the "H.B. Company." These blankets are claimed to be the best in the world, and weigh from eight to ten pounds. The Indians, traders, trappers, boatmen, and pioneers in the North use no others. They are called "four-point" because of four black stripes at one corner. There are lighter blankets of three and a half points, which points are indicated in the same way. By these marks an Indian knows exactly what value he is getting in exchange for his precious peltry. After travelling for three or four weeks in this gipsy fashion, mayhap getting a peep at a moose, a wolf, or even a bear (to say nothing of such inconsequential fry as ermine, mink, beaver, and otter), the family arrive at their holding of 160 acres. It does not look very pleasant, this holding. The snow is just melting, and the landscape is dreary enough on every side, for as yet Spring has not even suggested that green is the colour you may expect to see in Nature's fashion-plate. Not she! But here's the point. Look you here! the house is already built for occupancy, and has only to be moved from the sled to the ground. There is no occasion for a plumber or gasfitter either, and as for water and fuel, they are everywhere to be had for the taking. Presently other rooms will be added of lumber or logs, and a cellar excavated. But who worries about these things when they have just become possessors of 160 statute acres of land that have to be prepared for grain and garden stuff? Who, indeed? Here is where the girl comes in. She must learn to bake bread and cakes, how to dress game and fish, and how to make bacon appetising twice a day. She must "set" the hens so that there may be "broilers" against Thanksgiving Day, and eggs all the year round. She has to sow the lettuces, radishes, and onions for succulent salads; and always she must supply sunshine and music, indoors and out, for dad and mother and the boys. Perhaps you think she is not happy, but you are sadly mistaken. She is busy all day and sleepy all night. She knows that after a while a railroad is coming in here, and there will be work and money for men and teams, which means the establishment of a town near by, where you may purchase all kinds of household comforts and conveniences, to say nothing of pretty blouses, hats, and other "fixings." Oh, she knows it, the minx! She is the kind of a girl Charles Wagner describes as putting "witchery into a ribbon and genius into a stew." But let us take a look at the girl who lives in the more settled parts of the country, near a town. If she be ambitious, or anxious to help the home-folk, she will want to become a teacher, a bookkeeper, Civil Service employee, or a stenographer. To accomplish this end, she drives to town every day to attend the High School or Business College. Or perhaps she may move into town for the school terms. Of all these occupations, that of the teacher is most popular. Teachers, in these new provinces, are in great demand, for the supply is entirely inadequate. As a result, they are especially well paid. If the teacher is hard to get, she is also hard to hold; for the bachelor population being largely in the majority, there are many flattering inducements of a matrimonial character held out to the girl teacher to settle down permanently with a young farmer, doctor, real estate agent, lawyer, or merchant. You could never believe what inducements these sly fellows hold out. Never! In town our girls find many diversions. She may skate, ride, play golf, basket-ball, or tennis, according as her purse or preference may dictate. If there be no municipal public library, or reading-room in connection with the Young Women's Christian Association, she may borrow books from a stationer's lending-library for a nominal sum, so that none of her hours need be unoccupied or unprofitable. [Sidenote: Young Men and Maidens] In Canadian towns and villages the Church-life is of such a nature that every opportunity is given young girls to become acquainted with others of their own age. There are literary, temperance, missionary, and social clubs in connection with them, some one of which meets almost every night. In the winter the clubs have sleigh-rides and suppers, and in the summer lawn-socials and picnics much as they do in England, or in any part of the British Isles. Compared with girls in the older countries, it is my opinion that the Canadian lassie of the North-West Provinces has a keener eye to the material side of life. This is only a natural outcome of the commercial atmosphere in which she lives. She sees her father, or her friends, buying lots in some new town site, or in a new subdivision of some city, and, with an eye to the main chance, she desires to follow their example. These lots can be purchased at from £10 to £100, and by holding them for from one to five years they double or treble in value as the places become populated. As a result, nearly all the girls employed in Government offices, or as secretaries, teachers, or other positions where the salaries are fairly generous, manage to save enough money to purchase some lots to hold against a rise. After investing and reinvesting several times, our girl soon has a financial status of her own and secures a competency. She has no time for nervous prostration or moods, but is alert and wideawake all the time. Does she marry? Oh, yes! But owing to her financial independence, marriage is in no sense of the word a "Hobson's choice," but is generally guided entirely by heart and conscience, as, indeed, it always should be. Some of the girls who come from Europe or the British Isles save their dollars to enable the rest of the family to come out to Canada. "Wee Maggie," a waitress in a Winnipeg restaurant, told me the other day that in three years she had saved enough to bring her aged father and mother over from Scotland and to furnish a home for them. Still other girls engage in fruit-farming in British Columbia, or in poultry-raising; but these are undertakings that require some capital to start with. An increasingly large number of Canadian girls are taking University courses, or courses in technical colleges and musical conservatoires, with the idea of fitting themselves as High School teachers or for the medical profession. In speaking of the girls of Western Canada, one must not overlook the Swedish, Russian, Italian, Galician, and other Europeans who have made their home in the Dominion. The Handicrafts Guild is helping these girls to support themselves by basketry, weaving, lace and bead making, pottery, and needlework generally. Prizes are offered annually in the different centres for the best work, and all articles submitted are afterwards placed on sale in one of their work depositories. This association is doing a splendid work, in that they are making the arts both honourable and profitable. While this article has chiefly concerned itself with the domestic and peaceful pursuits of our Canadian girls, it must not be forgotten that in times of stress they have shown themselves to be heroines who have always been equal to their occasions. Our favourite heroine is, perhaps, Madeleine de Verchères, who, in the early days when the Indians were an ever-present menace to the settlers on the St. Lawrence River, successfully defended her father's seignory against a band of savage Iroquois. Her father had left an old man of eighty, two soldiers, and Madeleine and her two little brothers to guard the fort during his absence in Quebec. [Sidenote: A Girl Captain] One day a host of Indians attacked them so suddenly they had hardly time to barricade the windows and doors. The fight was so fierce the soldiers considered it useless to continue it, but Madeleine ordered them to their posts, and for a week, night and day, kept them there. She taught her little brothers how to load and fire the guns so rapidly that the Indians were deceived and thought the fort well garrisoned. When a reinforcement came to her relief, it was a terribly exhausted little girl that stepped out to welcome them at the head of the defenders--Captain Madeleine Verchères, aged fourteen! Yes, we like to tell this story of Madeleine over and over. We like to paint pictures of her, too, and to mould her figure in bronze; for we know right well that she is a type of the strong, brave, resourceful lassies who in all ranks of our national life, may ever be counted upon to stand to their posts, be the end what it may. Gentlemen, hats off! The Canadian girl! [Sidenote: Evelyne resented the summons to rejoin her father in New Zealand. Yet she came to see that the call to service was a call to true happiness.] "Such a Treasure!" BY EILEEN O'CONNELL "Evelyne, come to my room before you go to your singing lesson. I have had a most important letter from your father; the New Zealand mail came in this morning." "Can I come now, Aunt Mary?" replied a clear voice, its owner appearing suddenly at the head of the stairs pinning on to a mass of sunny hair a very large hat. "I want to go early, for if I arrive first, I often get more than my regular time, and you know how greedy I am for new songs." Mrs. Trevor did not reply; she walked slowly into her morning-room and stood at the window looking perplexed and serious, thinking nothing about her niece's lessons, and looking at, without seeing, the midsummer beauty of her garden. A few minutes later the door opened, and she turned to the young girl, who with a song on her lips danced merrily into the room. At the sight of Mrs. Trevor's face she stopped suddenly, exclaiming, "Something is wrong! What has happened?" "You are right, Eva, something has happened--something, my child, that will affect your whole life." With a falter in her voice the woman continued, "You are to leave me, Evelyne, and go out to New Zealand. You are needed in your father's house." [Sidenote: "I Refuse to Go!"] "To New Zealand?--I refuse to go." "You have no choice in the matter, dearest. Your mother has become a confirmed invalid, and is incapable of looking after the children and the house. Your father has naturally thought of you." "As a kind of servant to a heap of noisy boys, half of whom I never have seen even. I daresay it would be very convenient and very cheap to have me. However, I shall not go to that outlandish place they live at in New Zealand, and you must tell father so." "But I cannot, Evie. There is no choice about it. Your parents have the first claim on you, remember." "I deny that," said the girl passionately; "they cared so little about me that they were ready to give me to you and go to New Zealand without me; that fact, I think, ends their claims. And Auntie, having lived here for eight years, and being in every way happy, and with so much before me to make life worth living, how can they be so selfish as to wish to ruin my prospects and make me miserable?" "Eva, Eva, don't jump to conclusions! Instead of believing that the worst motives compelled your father's decision, think it just possible that they were the highest. Put yourself out of the question for the moment and face facts. Your parents were _not_ willing to part with you; believe me, it was a bitter wrench to both to leave you behind. But settling up country in the colony was not an easy matter for my brother with his delicate wife and four children. Marjory was older than you, so of course more able to help with the boys, and knowing that his expenses would be very heavy and his means small, I offered to adopt you; for your sake, more than other considerations, I think, my offer was accepted. Since Marjory's death your mother has practically been alone, for servants are scarce and very expensive. Now, poor soul, her strength is at an end; she has developed an illness that involves the greatest care and rest. You see, darling, that this is no case for hesitation. The call comes to you, and you must answer and do your duty faithfully." The girl buried her face in the sofa cushions, her hat lay on the floor. "I hate children--especially boys," she said sullenly when she spoke. "Surely in eight years a doctor ought to be able to make enough to pay a housekeeper, if his wife can't look after his house." "You don't understand how hard life is sometimes, or I think you would be readier to take up part of a burden that is dragging down a good and brave man." "To live in an uncivilised country, where probably the people won't speak my own language----" "Don't betray such absurd ignorance, Eva," replied Mrs. Trevor; "you must know that New Zealand is a British colony, inhabited mainly by our own people, who are as well educated and as well mannered as ourselves." "And just when I was getting on so well with my singing! Mr. James said my voice would soon fill a concert hall, and all my hopes of writing and becoming a known author--everything dashed to the ground--every longing nipped in the bud! Oh! it is cruel, cruel!" "I knew, dear child, that the blow would be severe; don't imagine that it will be easy for me to give you up. But knowing what lies before us, the thing to do is to prize every hour we are together, and then with courage go forward to meet the unknown future. The boys are growing up----" "Hobbledehoys, you may be sure." Mrs. Trevor smiled, but said nothing. "And in addition to them, there is the baby sister you have never seen." "And never wish to," added Eva ungraciously. "We shall have much to think of, and when once you have become used to the idea, I should strongly advise you to settle to some practical work that will help when you are forced to depend on yourself." Eva did not reply. Mentally she was protesting or blankly refusing to give up her life of ease, of pleasures, and congenial study in exchange for the one offered her in the colony. "Friends of your father are now home and expect to return in September; so, having arranged for you to accompany them, we must regard their arrangements as time limit. It is always best to know the worst, though, believe me, anticipation is often worse than realisation." The sword had fallen, cutting off, as Evelyne Riley was fully convinced, every possibility of happiness on earth so far as she was concerned. Time seemed to fly on fairy wings; Mrs. Trevor made all necessary preparations, and before Evelyne realised that her farewell to England must be made, she stood on the deck of the outgoing steamer "Waimato" at the side of a stranger, waving her hand forlornly to the woman whose heart was sore at parting with one she had learned to look upon as her own child. [Sidenote: In New Zealand] Six weeks later, Eva landed at Wellington. The voyage had not interested her much, and she was glad to end it. She had read somewhere that it was usual to wear old clothes on board, but for landing to choose smart and becoming ones, and Eva had bestowed quite some thought on the subject. Her dark serge lay at the bottom of her trunk, and for the important occasion she decided on her most cherished frock and the new hat, which in Richmond she had worn on high-days and holidays. Certainly she looked very attractive. Almost sixteen, tall and very fair, Eva was a beautiful girl, and as the eyes of Dr. Riley fell on her, he wondered in amazement at the change that had taken place in the pale, slight child he had left with his sister. Could this really be Evelyne? If so, how was she going to suit in the simple surroundings to which she was going? He gazed in dismay at the expensive clothes and fashionable style of one who soon would need to patch and darn, to bake and cook, run the house on practical lines, and care for children. Somewhat nervous and much excited, Eva allowed herself to be kissed and caressed, asking after her mother in a constrained fashion, for, try as she would, she bore a grudge against one who was the cause of her changed life. A shadow overcast the doctor's face as he replied, "Your dear mother will not welcome you at our home as we had hoped. She lies very ill in a hospital at present, awaiting a severe operation, the success of which may save her life--God grant it may--but the boys and Babs are wild with excitement and longing to see you. We ought to reach 'Aroha' before they are in bed. It is only nine o'clock, and we can go part of the way by train; then we shall have a long buggy drive through the bush." That day Eva never forgot. Travelling with one who was practically a stranger to her and yet her nearest relative, the girl felt embarrassed. She wanted to hear about her future surroundings and ask questions about the children, but she found it hard to disguise her disappointment in having to leave her old home and to pretend enthusiasm about her brothers and sister; she feared that her father would read her thoughts and be hurt and offended, so relapsed into silence. Once they left the railway they said goodbye to civilisation, Eva felt positive. The country was at its loveliest; the early summer brought a beauty of its own. Rains had washed every leaf and refreshed each growing thing. Great trees, veritable giants, reared their heads proudly towards the sky, bushes were in full leaf, the ground on either side of the road was carpeted with thick moss that had grown for long years without being disturbed. From out of a cloudless sky the sun shone brilliantly, and the travellers gladly exchanged the high-road for the shelter of the bush. The day was undoubtedly hot, and Eva in her holiday raiment felt oppressed and weary before the carriage came in sight of the first houses that comprised the growing little township in which her father held an important position as medical man. The style of house brought a curve of contempt to the girl's lips, but she offered no opinions. Suddenly, without a remark, her father checked the horses, as a small group came to a halt in the middle of the road and began waving their hats and shouting wildly. "There's a welcome for you, Eva!" "Who are they? I mean--how did those boys know I was coming?" "They are your brothers, dear; jolly little chaps every one of them, even though they are a bunch of rough robins." Eva shivered; her brothers--those raggety tags! They presented a picturesque though unkempt appearance. Jack was eating a slice of bread and jam; Dick had Babs--somewhat in a soiled condition from watering the garden--on his back; Charlie, the incorrigible, with a tear in his knickers and a brimless hat on the back of his curly head, was leaping about like an excited kangaroo. [Sidenote: "An Impossible Crowd!"] The doctor held out his arms to the three-year-old little girl, who looked shyly at the pretty lady and then promptly hid her face. Eva's heart sank; she knew she ought to say or do something, but no words of tenderness came to her lips. The child might be attractive if clean, but it looked neglected, while the boys were what she described as "hobbledehoys." "An impossible crowd," she decided with a shudder, and yet her life was to be spent in their midst. "Leave your sister in peace, you young rascals!" said the doctor; "she is tired. Dick, put on the kettle; Eva will be glad of some tea, I know. Welcome home, dear daughter. Mother and I have longed for you so often, and my hopes run high now that you have come. I trust you will be a second mother to the boys and Babs." "I will try," Eva replied in a low voice. Her father noticed her depression, so wisely said little more, but going out to see a patient, left her to settle into her new surroundings in her own fashion. Next morning Eva wakened early and looked out of her window, which was shaded by a climbing rose that trailed right across it. The house was boarded and shingled, one little piece of wood neatly overlapping the other; it was only two stories high, with deep eaves and a wide verandah all around it. Breakfast once over, Eva made a tour of the rooms, ending up in the kitchen, accompanied, of course, by all the boys and Babs at her heels. Uncertain what to do first, she was much astonished at a voice proceeding from the washhouse saying in familiar fashion, "Where on earth are you all?" There had been no knock at the door, no bell rung--what could it mean? Standing unconcernedly in the middle of the room unrolling an apron stood a little woman of about forty years. "Good day to you, Eva; hope you slept well after your journey. Come out of the pantry, Jack, or I'll be after you." "May I ask whom I am talking to?" asked Eva icily, much resenting being addressed as "Eva." "I am Mrs. Meadows, and thought I'd just run in and show you where things are. You'll feel kind of strange." "Of course it will take some time to get used to things, but I think I should prefer doing it in my own way, thank you." "Perhaps that would be best," replied Mrs. Meadows. "To-day is baking day; can you manage, do you think?" "I suppose I can order from the baker?" The woman smiled. "'Help yourself' is the motto of a young country, my dear; every one is her own cook and baker, too. Let me help you to-day, and by next week things will seem easier, and you will be settled and rested. Your mother is my friend; for her sake I'd like to stand by you. Will you tidy the rooms while I see to the kitchen?" Fairly beaten, Eva walked upstairs, hating the work, the house, and everything in general, and Mrs. Meadows, whom she considered forward, in particular. The next three days were trials in many ways to the doctor's household, himself included. The meals were irregular, the food badly cooked, but the man patiently made allowances, and was silent. It was a break in the monotony of "sweep and cook and wash up" when Sunday arrived and the family went to church. The tiny building was nearly filled, and many eyes were turned on the newcomer. But she noticed no one. The old familiar hymns brought tears to her eyes, and her thoughts stole away from her keeping to the dear land beyond the seas. However, she rallied and joined heartily in the last hymn, her voice ringing out above all others. When next she saw Mrs. Meadows the conversation turned to church and congregation. After telling her details she thought were interesting, Mrs. Meadows said, "You have a nice voice, Eva, but you mustn't strain it." [Sidenote: Eva's Top Notes] "Do you think I do?" she replied. "I was trained at the Guildhall School, and I suppose my master knew the limits of my voice. _He_ approved of my top notes. Perhaps you don't know what the Guildhall School is, though," she added insolently. "On the contrary, my father was one of the professors until he died. Don't think that in New Zealand we are quite ignorant of the world, Eva." The conversation upset the girl sadly. She was vain of her voice and anxious to make the most of it. She went into the kitchen to make a pie, heedless that Jack had found a jar of raisins and was doing his best to empty it as fast as he could, and that Charlie was too quiet to be out of mischief. The paste was made according to her ability, certainly neither light nor digestible, and was ready for the oven, when suddenly a giggle behind her made her turn to behold that wretched boy Charlie dressed in her blue velvet dress, best hat, and parasol. "You wicked boy, how dare you?" she cried, stamping her foot, but the boy fled, leaving the skirt on the floor. Picking it up, she gave chase to recover the hat, and when at last she returned to her pie, she found that Jack had forestalled her and made cakes for himself out of it and a marble tart for her. Eva did not trust herself with the boys that morning; she literally hated them. Still, she must master herself before she could master them, and show once and for all that she was able to deal with the situation. Shutting herself into the parlour, she sat quiet, trying to think and plan, but in vain--she could not calm herself. She took up a book and attempted to read and forget her annoyances in losing herself in the story, but that, too, failed. Her trials were countless. Not sufficient were to be found in the house, but that interfering Mrs. Meadows must criticise her singing. She opened the piano, determined to listen to herself and judge what truth there was in the remark. She ran over a few scales, but was interrupted by a rough-looking man shouting, "Stop that noise, and come here! It'd be better if you looked after the bits of bairns than sit squealing there like a pig getting killed. Don't stare so daft; where's yer father?" Eva rose in anger, but going up to the man, words died on her lips--her heart seemed to stand still, for in his arms he held Babs, white and limp. "What has happened--is she dead?" "Don't know; get her to bed." But Eva's hands trembled too much to move them, so the old Scotch shepherd pushed her aside, muttering, "Yer feckless as yer bonny; get out of the way." Tenderly his rough hands cared for the little one, undressing and laying her in her bed. "She's always after the chickens and things on our place, and I think she's had a kick or a fall, for I found her lying in a paddock." "Where were you, Eva? Hadn't you missed Babs? I thought at any rate she would be safe with you," said her father. Eva's remorse was real. Her mother dying, perhaps, the children entrusted to her, and she--wrapped up in herself and her own grievances--what use was she in the world? But oh! if Babs were only spared how different she would be! If she died, Eva told herself, she would never be happy again. She went downstairs wretched and helpless, and once more found Jessie Meadows in possession of the kitchen. "How is Babs?" "Conscious, I think--but I don't know," and the girl buried her face and wept passionately. "There, there, Eva, we've all got to learn lessons, and some are mighty hard. Take life as you find it, and don't make trouble. The change was a big one, I know, but you'll find warm hearts and willing hands wherever men and women are. I just brought over a pie and a few cakes I found in my pantry----" "I can't accept them after being so rude." [Sidenote: A Short Memory] "Were you rude, dear? A short memory is an advantage sometimes. But we'll kiss and be friends, as the children say, and I will take turns with you in nursing Babs." What Eva would have done without the capable woman would be hard to say, for the child lay on the borders of the spirit land for weeks. When the crisis was past her first words were, "Evie, Evie!" and never before had Eva listened with such joy and thankfulness to her name. The child could not bear her out of sight; "pretty sister" was doctor, nurse, and mother in one. Unwearied in care, and patient with the whims of the little one, she was a treasure to her father, whose harassed face began to wear a happier expression. "I have great news to tell," he began one evening when, with Babs in his arms and the boys hanging around in their usual fashion, they were sitting together after tea. "Tell, tell!" shouted the audience; but the doctor shook his head, while his eyes rested on Eva. "Is it about mother?" she whispered, and he nodded. "Mother is well, and coming home." "Mother's coming back!" was echoed throughout the house to the accompaniment of a war dance of three excited kangaroos until sleep closed all eyes. [Illustration: MRS. MEADOWS' BROTHER ARRIVED.] The day of the arrival was memorable in many ways to the young girl. In the morning came an invitation to sing at a concert, an hour later Mrs. Meadows' brother arrived, laden with good things for the returning invalid, and with a letter from an editor in Wellington, which brought a flush of delighted surprise to Eva's face. Mrs. Meadows herself came over later. "The editor is a friend of mine, Eva," she said; "and in rescuing a story of yours from Jack, I found him a contributor. Not for what you have done, but for what I'm certain you can do if you will write of life and not sentimental rubbish. You are not offended, are you?" Eva's eyes glistened. "Offended with _you_--_you_ who have laden me with kindness, and helped me to find all that is worth having in life! I have learned now to see myself with other eyes than my own." Eva's doubts were set to rest once and for ever when she saw the frail mother she had really forgotten, and felt her arms around her as she said, "My daughter--thank Heaven for such a treasure!" [Sidenote: Rosette was a girl of singular resolution. Through what perils she passed unscathed this story will tell.] Rosette in Peril A Story of the War of La Vendée BY M. LEFUSE A loud knocking sounded at the door. "Jean Paulet," cried a voice, "how much longer am I to stand and knock? Unbar the door!" "Why, it is Monsieur de Marigny!" exclaimed the farmer, and hurried to let his visitor in. "Ah, Jean Paulet! You are no braver than when I saw you last!" laughed the tall man who entered, wrapped in a great cloak that fell in many folds. "I see you have not joined those who fight for freedom, but have kept peacefully to your farm. 'Tis a comfortable thing to play the coward in these days! And I would that you would give a little of the comfort to this small comrade of mine." From beneath the shelter of his cloak a childish face peered out at the farmer and his wife. "Ah, Monsieur! that is certainly your little Rosette!" exclaimed Madame Paulet. "Yes, yes, I have heard of her--how you adopted the poor little one when her father was dead of a bullet and her mother of grief and exposure; and how, since, you have loved and cared for her and kept her ever at your side!" "Well, that is finished. We are on the eve of a great battle--God grant us victory!" he said reverently--"and I have brought the little one to you to pray you guard and shelter her till I return again. What, Jean Paulet! You hesitate? Before this war I was a good landlord to you. Will you refuse this favour to me now?" asked de Marigny, looking sternly down on the farmer from his great height. "I--I do not say that I refuse--but I am a poor defenceless man; 'tis a dangerous business to shelter rebels--ah, pardon! loyalists--in these times!" stammered Jean Paulet. "No more dangerous than serving both sides! Some among this republic's officers would give much to know who betrayed them, once, not long ago. You remember, farmer? What if _I_ told tales?" asked de Marigny grimly. "Eh! but you will not!" exclaimed the terrified man. "No, no! I am safe in your hands; you are a man of honour, Monsieur--and the child shall stay! Yes, yes; for your sake!" De Marigny caught up Rosette and kissed her. "Sweetheart, you must stay here in safety. What? You are 'not afraid to go'? No, but I am afraid to take you, little one. Ah, vex me not by crying; I will soon come to you again!" He took a step towards the farmer. "Jean Paulet, I leave my treasure in your hands. If aught evil happen to her, I think I should go mad with grief," he said slowly. "And a madman is dangerous, my friend; he is apt to be unreasonable, to disbelieve excuses, and to shoot those whom he fancies have betrayed him! So pray you that I find Rosette in safety when I come again. Farewell!" But before he disappeared into the night, he turned smiling to the child. "Farewell, little one. In the brighter days I will come for thee again. Forget me not!" * * * * * Round Jean Paulet's door one bright afternoon clustered a troop of the republican soldiers, eyeing indolently the perspiring farmer as he ran to and fro with water for their horses, and sweetening his labours with scraps of the latest news. "Hé, Paulet," suddenly asked the corporal, "hast heard anything of the rebel General Marigny?" "No!" replied the farmer hurriedly. "What should I hear? Is he still alive?" "Yes, curse him! So, too, is that wretched girl, daughter of a vile aristocrat, that he saved from starvation. Bah! as if starving was not too good a death for her! But there is a price set on Marigny, and a reward would be given for the child too. So some one will soon betray them, and then--why, we will see if they had not rather have starved!" he said ferociously. "I--I have heard this Marigny is a brave man," observed the farmer timidly. "That is why we want the child! There is nothing would humble him save perchance to find he could not save the child he loves from torture. Ha! ha! we shall have a merry time then!" "Doubtless this Marigny is no friend to the republic," said the farmer hesitatingly. The corporal laughed noisily as he gathered up his horse's reins. "Head and front of this insurrection--an accursed rebel! But he shall pay for it, he shall pay; and so will all those fools who have helped him!" And the little band of soldiers rode away, shouting and jesting, leaving Jean Paulet with a heart full of fear. With trembling fingers he pushed open the house door, and, stepping into the kitchen, found Rosette crouched beneath the open window. "Heard you what they said--that they are seeking for you?" he gasped. Rosette nodded. "They have done that this long time," she observed coolly. [Sidenote: "They must find You!"] "But--but--some time they must find you!" he stammered. Rosette laughed. "Perhaps--if I become as stupid a coward as Jean Paulet." The farmer frowned. "I am no coward--I am an experienced man. And I tell you--I, with the weight of forty years behind me--that they will find you some time." "And I tell you--I," mimicked Rosette saucily, "with the weight of my twelve years behind me--that I have lived through so many perils, I should be able to live through another!" "'Tis just that!" said the farmer angrily. "You have no prudence; you take too many risks; you expose yourself to fearful dangers." He shuddered. "What you fear is that I shall expose you," returned Rosette cheerfully. "Hé, well! a man can but die once, Farmer Paulet." "That is just it!" exclaimed the farmer vivaciously. "If I had six lives I should not mind dying five times; but having only the one, I cannot afford to lose it! And, besides, I have my wife to think of." Rosette meditated a moment. "Better late than never, Farmer Paulet. I have heard tell you never thought of that before." The sharp little face softened. "She is a good woman, your wife!" "True, true! She is a good woman, and you would not care for her to be widowed. Consider if it would not be better if I placed you in safety elsewhere." "Jean Paulet! Jean Paulet!" mocked Rosette; "I doubt if I should do your wife a kindness if I saved your skin." Jean Paulet wagged a forefinger at her angrily. "You will come to a bad end with a tongue like that! If it were not for the respect I owe to Monsieur de Marigny----" "Marigny's pistol!" interrupted Rosette. "Ah, bah! What is to prevent my abandoning you?" asked the farmer furiously. Rosette swung her bare legs thoughtfully. "Papa Marigny is a man of his word--and you lack five of your half-dozen lives, Jean Paulet." "See you it is dangerous!" returned her protector desperately. "My wife she is not here to advise me; she is in the fields----" "I have noticed she works hard," murmured Rosette. [Sidenote: To the Uplands!] "And I will not keep you here. But for the respect I owe Monsieur de Marigny, I am willing to sacrifice something. I have a dozen of sheep in the field down there--ah! la, la! they represent a lifetime's savings, but I will sacrifice them for my safety--no, no; for Monsieur de Marigny, I mean!" he wailed. "You shall drive them to the uplands and stay there out of danger. I do not think you will meet with soldiers; but if you do, at the worst they will only take a sheep--ah! my sheep!" he broke off distressfully. "Now do not argue. Get you gone before my wife returns. See, I will put a little food in this handkerchief. There, you may tell Monsieur de Marigny I have been loyal to him. Go, go! and, above all, remember never to come near me again, or say those sheep are mine. You will be safe, quite safe." Rosette laughed. "You have a kind heart, Jean Paulet," she mocked. "But I think perhaps you are right. You are too much of a poltroon to be a safe comrade in adversity." She sprang from her chair and ran to the doorway. Then she looked back. "Hark you, Jean Paulet! This price upon my head--it is a fine price, hé? Well, I am little, but I have a tongue, and _I know what my papa de Marigny knows_. Ah! the fine tale to tell, if they catch us! Eh? Farewell." She ran lightly across the yard, pausing a moment when a yellow mongrel dog leaped up and licked her chin. "Hé, Gegi, you love me better than your master does!" she said, stooping to pat his rough coat. "And you do not love your master any better than I do, eh? Why, then you had better keep sheep too! There is a brave idea. Come, Gegi, come!" And together they ran off through the sunshine. * * * * * It was very cold that autumn up on the higher lands, very cold and very lonely. Also several days had passed since Rosette had ventured down to the nearest friendly farm to seek for food, and her little store of provisions was nearly finished. "You and I must eat, Gegi. Stay with the sheep, little one, while I go and see if I can reach some house in safety." And, the yellow mongrel offering no objection, Rosette started. She was not the only person in La Vendée who lacked food. Thousands of loyal peasants starved, and the republican soldiers themselves were not too plentifully supplied. Certainly they grumbled bitterly sometimes, as did that detachment of them who sheltered themselves from the keen wind under the thick hedge that divided the rough road leading to La Plastière from the fields. "Bah! we live like pigs in these days!" growled one of the men. "It is nothing," said another. "Think what we shall get at La Plastière! The village has a few fat farmers, who have escaped pillaging so far by the love they bore, as they said, to the good republic. But that is ended: once we have caught this rascal Marigny in their midst, we can swear they are not good republicans." "But," objected the first speaker, "they may say they knew nothing of this Marigny hiding in the château!" "They may say so--but we need not believe them!" returned his companion. "Ah, bah! I would believe or not believe anything, so long as it brought us a good meal! How long before we reach this village, comrade?" "Till nightfall. We would not have Marigny watch our coming. This time we will make sure of the scoundrel." Rosette, standing hidden behind the hedge, clenched her hands tightly at the word. She would have given much to have flung it back at the man, but prudence suggested it would be better to be discreet and help Marigny. She turned and ran along under the hedge, and away back to where she had left her little flock, her bare feet falling noiselessly on the damp ground. "Ah, Gegi!" she panted, flinging herself beside the yellow mongrel, "the soldiers are very near, and they are going to surprise my beloved papa de Marigny. What must we do, Gegi, you and I, to save him?" Gegi rolled sharply on to his back and lay staring up at the skies as if he was considering the question. Rosette rested her chin on her drawn-up knees and thought fiercely. She knew in what direction lay the château of La Plastière, and she knew that to reach it she must cross the countryside, and cross, too, in full view of the soldiers below; or else--and that was the shorter way--go along the road by which they encamped. Rosette frowned. If they spied her skulking in the distance, they would probably conclude she carried a message that might be valuable to them and pursue her. If she walked right through them? Bah! Would they know it was Rosette--Rosette, for whose capture a fine reward would be given? She did not look much like an aristocrat's child, she thought, glancing at her bare brown legs and feet, and her stained, torn blue frock. Her dark, matted curls were covered with a crimson woollen cap--her every garment would have been suitable for a peasant child's wear; and Rosette was conscious that her size was more like that of a child of seven than that of one of twelve. She had passed unknown through many soldiers--would these have a more certain knowledge of her? [Sidenote: "How am I to Settle it?"] "Oh, Gegi!" she sighed; "how am I to settle it?" Gegi wagged his tail rapidly and encouragingly, but offered no further help. If she went across country the way was longer far, and there was a big risk. If she went near those soldiers and was known, why, risk would become a certainty. That Death would stare into her face then, none knew better than Rosette; but Death was also very near Rosette's beloved de Marigny, the man who had cared for her and loved her with all the warmth of his big, generous heart. "Ah! if my papa de Marigny dies, I may as well die too, Gegi," she whispered wearily. The yellow mongrel cocked one ear with a rather doubtful expression. "Well, we must take the risk. If papa de Marigny is to live, you and I, Gegi, must take him warning!" Rosette cried, springing to her feet; and Gegi signified his entire approval in a couple of short barks. "I will take the sheep," his little mistress murmured; "'tis slower, but they will be so pleased to see them. Poor Jean Paulet!" she thought, with a faint smile. Gegi bounded lightly through a gap in the hedge, and dashed up to the soldiers inquisitively. With an oath, one of the men hurled a stone at him, which Gegi easily dodged, and another man stretched out his hand for his musket. "There are worse flavours than dog's meat," he observed coolly. "Come, little beast, you shall finish your life gloriously, nourishing soldiers of the republic!" He placed his gun in position. "Hé! you leave my dog alone!" called Rosette sharply, as she stepped into the roadway. "He has the right to live," she added, as she moved jauntily up to them. Her pert little face showed nothing of the anguish in her heart. "Not if I want him for my supper," observed the soldier, grinning at his comrades, who changed their position to obtain a better view of the coming sport. "But you do not," corrected Rosette. "If you need to eat dog, search for the dog of an accursed fugitive!" The men laughed. "How do we know this is not one?" they asked. "I will show you. Hé, Gegi!" she called, and the dog came and sat in front of her. "Listen, Gegi. Would you bark for a monarchy?" The yellow mongrel glanced round him indifferently. "Gegi!" his mistress called imperiously, "do you cheer for the glorious republic?" And for answer, Gegi flung up his head and barked. "You see?" asked Rosette, turning to the grinning man. "He is your brother, that little dog. And you may not eat your brother, you know," she added gravely. [Sidenote: "Whose Sheep are those?"] "Hé, by the Mass! whose sheep are those?" cried a soldier suddenly. "They are mine, or rather they are my master's; I am taking them back to the farm." "Why, then, we will spare you the trouble. I hope they, too, are not good republicans," he jested. "I have called them after your great leaders--but they do not always answer to their names," Rosette assured him seriously. "Then they are only worthy to be executed. Your knife, comrade," cried one of the men, jumping to his feet. "What, more of them! Six, seven, eight," he counted, as the sheep came through the gap. "Why, 'twill be quite a massacre of traitors." "Oh, please! you cannot eat them all! Leave me some, that I may drive back with me, else my master will beat me!" implored Rosette, beginning to fear that her chances of passing towards the far distant village were lessening. "Your master! Who is your master?" "He is a farmer down there," nodding vaguely as she spoke. "Hark you! Have you by any chance seen a man bigger than the average skulking thereabouts?" She shook her head. "There are few big men round here--none so fine as you!" she said prettily. The man gave a proud laugh. "Ah! we of Paris are a fine race." Rosette nodded. "My Master is a good republican. You will let me take him back the sheep," she coaxed. "Why, those that remain," the soldier replied, with a grin. "Sho! sho! Those that run you can follow. Ah, behold!" Rosette needed no second bidding, but started after the remnant of her little troop. "Hé!" called one of the soldiers to his comrades--and the wind bore the words to Rosette--"you are fools to let that child pass! For aught we know, she may be spying for the rebels." As the men stared after her irresolute, Rosette slackened her pace, flung up her head, and in her clear childish treble began to sing that ferocious chant, then at the height of its popularity, which is now the national hymn of France. So singing, she walked steadily down the long road, hopeful that she might yet save the man who was a father to her. * * * * * It was almost dusk outside the desolate, half-ruined château of La Plastière. Within its walls the shadows of night were already thickly gathered--shadows so dark that a man might have lurked unseen in them. Some such thought came to Rosette as she stood hesitating in the great hall. How silent the place was! The only noises came from without--the wind sobbing strangely in the garden, the ghostly rustling of the leaves, the moan of the dark, swift river. Ah! there was something moving in the great hall! What was it? A rat dashed by, close to Rosette's feet; then the hall settled again into unbroken silence. The child's heart beat quickly. She hated, feared, the shadows and the quiet. Yet she must go forward; she dare not call aloud, and she must find de Marigny, if, indeed, he was still there. She groped her way to the broad stone stairs. How dark it was! She glanced up fearfully. Surely something up above her in the shadow on the stairway moved. She shrank back. "Coward! little coward!" she muttered. And to scare away her fear she began to sing softly, very softly, a tender little song de Marigny himself had taught to her. "Stay thy hand, man! It is Rosette!" cried a voice from above her, shattering the silence. And the shadow that had moved before moved again, and a man from crouching on the step rose suddenly in front of her. "Why did you not speak? I thought we were like to be discovered, and I had nearly killed you. Curse this dark!" "Hush!" whispered Rosette. "Hush! you are betrayed! The soldiers are coming. Oh, Papa de Marigny," she murmured, as he came down the stairway, "they are to be here at dusk. Is it too late? I tried to get here sooner, but--it was such a long road!" she ended, with a sob. De Marigny gathered her in his arms. "And such a little traveller! Never mind, sweetheart, we will cheat them yet," he said tenderly. "Warn the others, Lacroix!" [Sidenote: Flight] But Lacroix had done that already. The house was full now of stealthy sounds and moving shadows descending the great staircase. De Marigny, carrying Rosette, led the way across the garden behind the house, towards the river that cut the countryside in half. The stillness of the night was broken suddenly by the neighing of a not far distant horse. "The soldiers! the rebels, papa!" cried Rosette. De Marigny whispered softly to one of his companions, who ran swiftly away from him, and busied himself drawing from its hiding-place a small boat. They could hear the tramp of horses now, near, very near, and yet the men seated silent in the boat held tightly to the bank. Hark! The thud, thud of running footsteps came to Rosette, nearer, nearer, and the man for whom they waited sprang from the bank into their midst. A moment later they were caught by the swift current and carried out into the centre of the broad river. "Now, if my plan does not miscarry, we are safe!" cried de Marigny exultantly. "But, papa, dear one, they will follow us across the river and stop our landing!" cried Rosette anxiously. De Marigny chuckled. "Providentially the river flows too fast, little one, for man or horse to ford it. The bridge yonder in the field is the only way to cross the river for many miles. And I do not think they will try the bridge, for I was not so foolish as not to prepare for a surprise visit many days ago. Look, little one!" he added suddenly. Rosette held her breath as away up the river a great flame streamed up through the darkness, followed by a loud explosion, and she saw fragments of wood hurled like playthings high into the air. Some, as they fell again to earth, turned into blazing torches. For far around trees and hedges showed distinctly; the gleaming river, the garden, and the château stood out clear in the flaming light. Round the château tore two or three frightened, plunging horses, and the desperate gestures of their riders could easily be seen by Rosette for a moment before their craft was hidden by a turn in the river bank. * * * * * Monsieur de Marigny rejoined the loyalists across the river, and, animated by his presence, the struggle against the republic was resumed with great firmness. Whenever de Marigny rode among his peasant soldiers, he, their idol, was greeted with many a lively cheer, which yet grew louder and more joyful when he carried before him on his horse Rosette, the brave child who had saved their leader's life at the risk of her own. [Sidenote: A few plain hints to the teachable.] Golf for Girls BY AN OLD STAGER I veil my identity because I am not a girl--old or young. Being, indeed, a mere man, it becomes me to offer advice with modesty. And, of course, in the matter of golf, women--many of them no more than girls--play so well that men cannot affect any assurance of superiority. On my own course I sometimes come upon a middle-aged married couple playing with great contentment a friendly game. The wife always drives the longer ball, and upon most occasions manages to give her husband a few strokes and a beating. However, I did not start out to write a disquisition on women as golfers, but only to offer some hints on golf for girls. And first, as to making a start. The best way is the way that is not possible to everybody. No girl plays golf so naturally or so well as the girl who learned it young; who, armed with a light cleek or an iron, wandered around the links in company with her small brothers almost as soon as she was big enough to swing a club. Such a girl probably had the advantage of seeing the game played well by her elders, and she would readily learn to imitate their methods. Of course, very young learners may and do pick up bad habits; but a little good advice will soon correct these if the learner is at all keen on the game. A girl who grows up under these conditions--and many do in Scotland--does not need any hints from me. She starts under ideal conditions, and ought to make the most of them. Others begin at a later age, with fewer advantages, and perhaps without much help to be got at home. How, then, to begin. Be sure of one thing: you cannot learn to play golf out of your own head, or even by an intelligent study of books on the subject. For, if you try, you will do wrong and yet be unable to say _what_ you are doing wrong. In that you will not be peculiar. Many an experienced golfer will suddenly pick up a fault. After a few bad strokes he knows he is wrong somewhere, but may not be able to spot the particular defect. Perhaps a kindly disposed opponent--who knows his disposition, for not everybody will welcome or take advice--tells him; and then in a stroke or two he puts the thing right. So you need a teacher. Generally speaking, a professional is the best teacher, because he has had the most experience in instruction. But professionals vary greatly in teaching capacity, and cannot be expected in every case to take the same interest in a pupil's progress that a friend may. If you are to have the help of a relative or friend, try to get competent help. There _are_ well-meaning persons whose instruction had better be shunned as the plague. Let your teacher choose your clubs for you, and, in any case, do not make the mistake of fitting yourself up at first either with too many clubs or with clubs too heavy for you. [Illustration: A BREEZY MORNING] As to first steps in learning, I am disposed to think that an old-time method, by which young people learned first to use _one_ club with some skill and confidence before going on to another, was a good one. In that case they would begin with a cleek or an iron before using the driver. The learner should give great attention to some first principles. Let her note the _grip_ she is told to use. Very likely it will seem to her uncomfortable, and not at all the most convenient way of holding a club in order to hit a ball; but it is the result of much experience, and has not been arbitrarily chosen for her especial discomfort. In like manner the stance, or way of standing when making a stroke, must be noted carefully and copied exactly. In private practice defy the inward tempter which suggests that you can do much better in some other way. Don't, above all, allow yourself to think that you will hit the ball more surely if you stand farther behind it--not even if you have seen your brother tee a ball away to the left of his left foot and still get a long shot. [Sidenote: "Keep your Eye on the Ball"] Don't think that the perpetual injunction, "Keep your eye on the ball," is an irritating formula with little reason behind it. It is, as a matter of fact, a law quite as much for your teacher as for yourself. And don't suppose that you _have_ kept your eye on the ball because you think you have. It is wonderful how easy it is to keep your eye glued--so to speak--to the ball until the very half-second when that duty is most important and then to lift the head, spoiling the shot. If you can persuade yourself to look at the ball all through the stroke, and to look at the spot where the ball was even after the ball is away, you will find that you not only hit the ball satisfactorily but that it flies straighter than you had hitherto found it willing to do. When you are getting on, and begin to have some satisfaction with yourself, then remember that this maxim still requires as close observance as ever. If you find yourself off your game--such as it is--ask yourself at once, "Am I keeping my eye on the ball?" And don't be in a hurry to assume that you were. Always bear in mind, too, that you want to hit the ball with a kind of combined motion, which is to include the swing of your body. You are not there to use your arms only. If you begin young, you will, I expect, find little difficulty in this. It is, to older players, quite amazing how readily a youngster will fall into a swing that is the embodiment of grace and ease. Putting is said by some to be not an art but an inspiration. Perhaps that is why ladies take so readily to it. On the green a girl is at no disadvantage with a boy. But remember that there is no ordinary stroke over which care pays so well as the putt; and that there is no stroke in which carelessness can be followed by such humiliating disaster. Don't think it superfluous to examine the line of a putt; and don't, on any account, suppose that, because the ball is near the hole, you are bound to run it down. Forgive me for offering a piece of advice which ought to be superfluous and is not. I have sometimes found ladies most culpably careless in the matter of divots. It is a fundamental rule that, if in playing you cut out a piece of turf, you or your caddy should replace it. Never, under any circumstances, neglect this rule or allow your caddy to neglect it. Nobody who consistently neglects this rule ought to be allowed on any course. A word as to clothing. I _have_ seen ladies playing in hats that rather suggested the comparative repose of a croquet lawn on a hot summer's day. But of course you only want good sense as your guide in this matter. Ease without eccentricity should be your aim. Remember, too, that whilst men like to play golf in old clothes, and often have a kind of superstitious regard for some disgracefully old and dirty jacket, a girl must not follow their example. Be sure, in any case, that your boots or shoes are strong and water-tight. [Sidenote: Keep your Heart up!] Finally, keep your heart up! Golf is a game of moods and vagaries. It is hard to say why one plays well one day and badly another; well, perhaps, when in bad health, and badly when as fit as possible; well, perhaps, when you have started expecting nothing, and badly when you have felt that you could hit the ball over the moon. Why one may play well for three weeks and then go to pieces; why one will go off a particular club and suddenly do wonders with a club neglected; why on certain days everything goes well--any likely putt running down, every ball kicking the right way, every weak shot near a hazard scrambling out of danger, every difficult shot coming off; and why on other days every shot that can go astray will go astray--these are mysteries which no man can fathom. But they add to the infinite variety of the game; only requiring that you should have inexhaustible patience and hope as part of your equipment. And patience is a womanly virtue. [Sidenote: A mere oversight nearly wrecked two lives. Happily the mistake was discovered before remedy had become impossible.] Sunny Miss Martyn A Christmas Story BY SOMERVILLE GIBNEY "Goodbye, Miss Martyn, and a merry Christmas to you!" "Goodbye, Miss Martyn; how glad you must be to get rid of us all! But I shall remember you on Christmas Day." "Goodbye, dear Miss Martyn; I hope you won't feel dull. We shall all think of you and wish you were with us, I know. A very happy Christmas to you." "The same to you, my dears, and many of them. Goodbye, goodbye; and, mind, no nonsense at the station. I look to you, Lesbia, to keep the others in order." "Trust me, Miss Martyn; we'll be very careful." "I really think I ought to have gone with you and seen you safely off, and----" "No, no, no--you may really trust us. We've all of us travelled before, and we will behave, honour bright!" [Sidenote: Off for the Holidays] And with a further chorus of farewells and Christmas wishes, the six or seven girls, varying in age from twelve to seventeen, who had been taking their places in the station 'bus, waved their hands and blew kisses through the windows as the door slammed, and it rolled down the drive of Seaton Lodge over the crisp, hard-frozen snow. And more and more indistinct grew the merry farewells, till the gate was reached, and the conveyance turning into the lane, the noisy occupants were hidden from sight and hearing to the kindly-faced, smiling lady, who, with a thick shawl wrapped about her shoulders, stood watching its departure on the hall steps. For some moments longer she remained silent, immovable, her eyes directed towards the distant gate. But her glance went far beyond. It had crossed the gulf of many years, and was searching the land of "Never More." At length the look on her face changed, and with a sigh she turned on her heel and re-entered the house. And how strangely silent it had suddenly become! It no longer rang with the joyous young voices that had echoed through it that morning, revelling in the freedom of the commencement of the Christmas holidays. Selina Martyn heaved another sigh; she missed her young charges; her resident French governess had left the previous day for her home at Neuilly; and now, with the exception of the servants, she had the house to herself, and she hated it. A feeling of depression was on her, but she fought against it; there was much to be done. Christmas would be on her in a couple of days, and no sooner would that be passed than the bills would pour in; and in order to satisfy them her own accounts must go out. Then there were all the rooms to be put straight, for schoolgirls are by no means the most tidy of beings. She had plenty of work before her, and she faced it. But evening came at last, and found her somewhat weary after her late dinner, and disinclined to do anything more, except sit in front of the blazing fire in her own little room and dream. Outside, the frost continued sharper than ever, and faintly there came to her ear the sounds of the distant bells practising for the coming festival, and once more for the second time that day her thoughts flew backwards over the mist of years. She was a lonely old woman, she told herself; and so she was, as far as relatives went, but miserable she was not. She was as bright and sunny as many of us, and a great deal more so than some. Her life had had its ups and downs, its bright and dark hours; but she had learnt to dwell on the former and put the latter in the background, hiding them under the mercies she had received; and so she became to be known in Stourton as "sunny Miss Martyn," and no name could have been more applicable. And as the flames roared up the chimney this winter night, she thought of the young hearts that had left her that morning and of their happiness that first night at home. She had known what that was herself. She had been a schoolgirl once--a schoolgirl in this very house, and had left it as they had left it that morning to return to a loving home. Her father had been well off in those days; she was his only child, and all he had to care for, her mother dying at her birth. They had been all in all to each other, and the days of her girlhood were the brightest of her life. He missed his "little sunbeam," as he called her, when she was away at Seaton Lodge--for it was called Seaton Lodge even then; but they made up for the separation when the holidays came and they were together once more, and more especially at Christmas-time, that season of parties and festivities. Mr. Martyn was a hospitable man, and his entertainments were many, and his neighbours and friends were not slow in returning his kindnesses; so that Christmas-time was a dream of excitement and delight as far as Selina was concerned. [Sidenote: A Bank Failure] But a break came to those happy times: a joint stock bank, in which Mr. Martyn had invested, failed, and he was ruined. The shock was more than his somewhat weak heart could stand, and it killed him. His daughter was just sixteen at the time, and the head pupil at Seaton Lodge. She was going to leave at the end of the half-year; but now all was changed. Instead of returning home to be mistress of her father's house, she would have to work for her living, and the opportunity for doing so came more quickly than she had dared to hope. With Miss Clayton, the mistress, she had been a favourite from the first day she had entered the school, and the former now made her the offer of remaining on as a pupil teacher. Without hesitation the girl accepted. She had no relatives; Seaton Lodge was her second home; she was loved there, and she would not be dependent; and from that hour never had she to regret her decision. When her father's affairs were settled up there remained but a few pounds a year for her, but these she was able to put by, for Miss Clayton was no niggard towards those that served her, and Selina received sufficient salary for clothes and pocket-money. After the first agony of the shock had passed away, her life was a happy if a quiet one. Her companions all loved her; she was to them a friend rather than a governess, and few were the holidays when she did not receive more than one invitation to spend part of them at the homes of some of her pupil friends. She had been a permanent resident at Seaton Lodge some three years when the romance of her life took place. Among the elder pupils at that time was Maude Elliott, whose father's house was not many miles distant from her friend's former home. She had taken a great fancy to Selina, and on several occasions had carried her off to spend a portion of the holidays with her, and it was at her home that she had made the acquaintance of Edgar Freeman, Maude's cousin. A young mining engineer, he had spent some years in Newfoundland, and had returned to complete his studies for his full diploma at the School of Mines, spending such time as he could spare at his uncle's house. Almost before she was aware of it, he had made a prisoner of the lonely little pupil-teacher's heart, and when she was convinced of the fact she fought against it, deeming herself a traitor to her friend, to whom she imagined he was attached, mistaking cousinly affection for something warmer. Then came that breaking-up for the Christmas holidays which she remembered so well, when she was to have followed Maude in a few days to her home, where she and Edgar would once more be together; and then the great disappointment when, two days before she was to have started, Miss Clayton was taken ill with pneumonia, and she had to stay and nurse her. How well she remembered that terrible time! It was the most dreary Christmas she had ever experienced--mild, dull, and sloppy, the rain falling by the hour, and fog blurring everything outside the house, while added to this was the anxiety she felt for the invalid. Christmas Day was the worst of the whole time; outside everything was wet and dripping, and even indoors the air felt raw and chilly, penetrating to the bones, and resulting in a continual state of shivers. There was no bright Christmas service for Selina that morning: she must remain at home and look after her charge, for, save the invalid, the servants and herself, the house was empty. But there was one glad moment for her--the arrival of the postman. He was late, of course, but when he did come he brought her a budget of letters and parcels that convinced her she was not forgotten by her absent schoolgirl friends. With a hasty glance over them, she put them on one side until after dinner, when, her patient having been seen to, she would have a certain amount of time to herself. But that one glance had been sufficient to bring a flush of pleasure to her cheeks, and to invest the gloomy day with a happiness that before was absent. She had recognised on one envelope an address in a bold, firm writing, very different from the neat, schoolgirl caligraphy of the rest; and when her hour of leisure arrived, and over a roaring fire she was able to examine her presents and letters, this one big envelope was reserved to the last. [Sidenote: Romance] Her fingers trembled as she opened the still damp covering, and saw a large card with a raised satin medallion in the centre, on which were printed two verses, the words of which caused the hot colour to remount to her cheeks, and her heart to redouble its beats. There was no mistaking the meaning of those lines; love breathed from every letter, and, with a hasty look round to make sure she was alone, the happy girl pressed the inanimate paper, satin, printer's ink, and colours to her lips as though in answer to the message it contained. The feeling of loneliness had vanished; there was some one who loved her, to whom she was dearer than all others, and the world looked different in consequence. It was a happy Christmas Day to her after all, in spite of her depressing surroundings; and Miss Clayton noticed the change in her young nurse, and in the evening, when thanking her for all she had done for her, hoped she had not found it "so very dull." That night Selina Martyn, foolish in her new-found happiness, placed the envelope, around which the damp still hung, beneath her pillow, and dreamed of the bright future she deemed in store for her. He would write to her, or perhaps come and see her; yes, he would come and see her, and let her hear from his own lips what his missive had so plainly hinted at. And in her happiness she waited. She waited, and waited till her heart grew sick with disappointed longing. The days passed, but never a word came from the one who had grown so dear to her, and as they passed the gladness faded from her face, and the light went out from her eyes. At last she could but feel that she had been mistaken. It was only a foolish joke that had meant nothing, and her heart grew hot within her. How could she have been so weak and silly as to have imagined such a thing? She put the envelope and its contents away, and, saddened and subdued, fought bravely to return to her former self. Miss Clayton made a slow recovery, and when convalescent went for a change to the sea, carrying off Selina with her, for she had noticed the change in the girl, and put it down to her labours in the sick-room. School-time commenced again, but without Maude Elliott as a pupil; she had gone to be "finished" to a school in Lausanne, and it was months before Selina received a letter from her, and then she only casually mentioned that her cousin Edgar had left them directly after Christmas for a good appointment in Brazil, where he expected to remain for some years. With that letter the last traces of Selina Martyn's romance ended. It had crossed her life like a shooting star, and had only left a remembrance behind. But that remembrance never entirely died; its sharp edge was dulled, and as the years went on--and in time she took Miss Clayton's place as the head of Seaton Lodge--she came to regard the unrequited bestowal of her young affections as an incident to be smiled over, without any vindictive feelings. And now, when the silver hairs were beginning to make their appearance among the ruddy gold, she would each Christmas take out from its hiding-place in the old-fashioned, brass-bound writing-desk the time-stained envelope, and compare the old-world design within with the modern and more florid cards, and in her heart of hearts she found more beauty in the simple wreath of holly with the couple of robins perched above and the bunch of mistletoe hanging below than in its more ornate followers of the present time. [Sidenote: Christmas Morning] It was Christmas morning--an ideal Christmas morning. The frost had been keen the previous night, and the branches of the trees had donned a sparkling white livery. The sun shone brightly, but there was little warmth in its rays, and the snow had crunched and chittered as "sunny Miss Martyn" had made her way over it to the church, smiling and sending bright glances to right and left of her, for there were few in Stourton with whom she was not acquainted. And now, her lunch over--she was going out to dinner that evening--she sat by the fire with a big pile of envelopes and parcels beside her. Her pupils never forgot her, and the day would have seemed incomplete to each one of them without a card despatched to Miss Martyn. Her bundle was a large one, and took some time to get through; and then the cards had all to be arranged on the mantelpiece. But at length her task was done, and as her custom was, she went to the brass-bound desk standing on a table in the corner, and, taking out the now worn envelope, resumed her seat by the fire. She had gazed on its contents on many a Christmas day before, but on this particular day--she never knew why--the memory of the sorrow it had caused her seemed keener, and she found the tears were gathering in her eyes, and that one of them had fallen on the edge of the satin medallion bearing the verses. With her handkerchief she wiped it away, but in doing so a fold of the cambric caught the filagree, and she learnt what she had never known before--that the medallion opened like a little door, and that below it a folded scrap of paper lay concealed. What could it mean? With fingers that trembled so much that they almost refused their task she took it out, unfolded it, and, spreading it flat, read the words that long years ago would have meant all the world to her. How cruel had Fate been to her to have hidden them for so long! But the thought only remained in her mind a moment, being blotted out by the remembrance that he was not heartless, as she had grown to believe. The faded lines before her laid a strong man's heart at her feet, and begged for her love in return, stating that he had been suddenly called to a distant post, and asking for an answer before he sailed. The writer felt he was presumptuous, but the exigencies of the case must be his excuse. If he had no reply he should know his pleading was in vain, and would trouble her no more; but if, on the other hand, she was not entirely indifferent to him, a line from her would bring him to her side to plead his cause in person. There was more in the letter, but this was its main purpose. And this was the end of if: two loving hearts divided and kept apart by a damp day and an accidental drop of gum. No wonder the tears flowed afresh, and "sunny Miss Martyn" belied her character. She was still bending over the sheet of paper spread out on her knee when, with a knock at the door, the servant entered, saying: "A gentleman to see you, Miss." Hastily brushing away the traces from her cheeks, Miss Martyn rose, to see a tall, grey-haired man standing in the doorway, regarding her with a bright smile on his face. She did not recognise him; he was a stranger to her, and yet---- The next moment he strode forward with outstretched hand. "Selina Martyn, don't you know me? And you have altered so little!" A moment longer she stood in doubt, and then with a little gasp exclaimed: [Sidenote: "Edgar!"] "Edgar! Mr. Freeman--I--I didn't know you. You--you see, it is so long since--since I had that pleasure." And while she was speaking she was endeavouring with her foot to draw out of sight the paper that had fallen from her lap when she had risen. He noticed her apron, and with an "Excuse me" bent down, and, picking it up, laid it on the table. As he did so his eyes fell for a moment on the writing, and he started slightly, but did not refer to it. "Thank you," she said, and her cheeks had suddenly lost their colour, and her hand trembled as she indicated an armchair on the other side of the fireplace, saying, "Won't you sit down?" He did so, easily and naturally, as though paying an ordinary afternoon call. "Selina Martyn, you're looking remarkably well, and nearly as young as ever," he continued. She raised her eyes shyly, and smiled as she replied, "Do you really think so, Mr. Freeman?" "Call me Edgar, I like it better; and we've known each other long enough to account for your doing so." He did not give her a chance of objecting, but continued, "I only landed in England yesterday, and you are the first person I've called on. I got your address from my cousin, Mrs. Perry--Maud Elliott that was; she's living in Monte Video, you know; I saw her for a few hours as I passed through. Really, Selina, you're looking prettier than ever, I declare!" "You mustn't flatter an old woman, Mr. Freeman--well--Edgar, if you wish it. I don't think perhaps there is anything unmaidenly in my using your Christian name. We've known each other a great many years now, as you say." "We have indeed, my dear lady. And we might have known each other a great deal better if--if--well, if you had only seen your way to it. But there--that's all passed now. And yet----" "Yes, that's all passed now." And Selina gave a little sigh, yet loud enough for her visitor to hear it, and he moved his chair from the side to the front of the fire as she continued, "Do you know--Edgar--just before you came in I made a discovery--I found something that reached me a day or two before you sailed, and that I had never seen till half an hour ago," and she looked down at her fingers that were playing with the end of the delicate lace fichu she was wearing. A smile came over her visitor's face, but he only said: "'Pon my word, Selina, you're a very beautiful woman! I've carried your face in my memory all these years, but I see now how half-blind I must have been." "You mustn't talk nonsense to an old woman like me. I want to tell you something, and I don't know how to do it." "Don't try. Let me guess, and you tell me if I'm right." Miss Martyn did not answer in words, only bowed her head, and he continued, with a glance at the paper lying on the table: "You once received what you considered a very impertinent letter from me?" "I don't think impertinent is the right term," replied Selina, not raising her eyes. "Then, my dear lady, why did you not let me have an answer?" "Oh, Edgar, I only discovered it a few minutes before you came," and casting aside all reserve, she told him of the unfortunate combination of the damp Christmas morning and the drop of gum that had so disastrously separated them. Long before the recital was complete her visitor had shifted his chair again and again until it was close beside her own. "You poor, dear woman!" he exclaimed, as his arm stole quietly round her waist, and Miss Martyn suffered it to remain there. "Why did you hide your letter inside, Edgar?" she asked quietly. "I suppose because I didn't want to startle you, and thought you should see the verses first. May I see it now?" he continued. "It's so long since I wrote it, you see." "Yes, you may see it," replied Selina, without raising her eyes; "but it's all passed now," with another little sigh. His disengaged hand had secured the letter, and hastily glancing over the writing, he exclaimed with sudden fervour: [Sidenote: "I'm Waiting!"] "No, Selina! Every word I wrote then I mean to-day. When I left England years ago it was with your image in my heart, and with the determination that when I was rich I would come back and try my luck again. And in my heart you, and you alone, have reigned ever since. And when after long years I heard from my cousin that you might still be found at Seaton Lodge, you don't know what that meant to me. It made a boy of me again. It blotted out all the years that have divided us, and here I am waiting for my answer." "Oh, Edgar, we mustn't be silly. Remember, we're no longer boy and girl." "I remember nothing of the kind. All I remember is that it's Christmas Day, that I've asked you a question, and that I am waiting for the answer you would have given me years ago but for the damp and a drop of gum. You know what it would have been then; give me it now. Dearest, I'm waiting." And Selina Martyn gave her answer, an all-sufficient one to both. [Illustration: SELINA MARTYN GAVE HER ANSWER.] [Sidenote: Young people, read and take warning by this awful example.] Whilst Waiting for the Motor BY MADELINE OYLER Her name was Isabel, and she really was a very nice, good little girl--when she remembered. But you can't always remember, you know; you wouldn't be a little girl if you could, and this happened on one of those days when she didn't remember. Of course Peter forgot too; but then you would expect him to, for he was only a boy, and boys, as I suppose you know, cannot use their brains in the way that girls can. The two had spent their morning in the usual way, had breakfast, fed the rabbits, said "Good-morning" to the horses, got mother a bunch of flowers from their own gardens (Isabel's turn this morning), seen daddy off, and then had lessons. You wouldn't have guessed for a moment that it was going to be a bad day; everything had gone well. Peter had actually remembered that Madrid was the capital of Spain, always a rather doubtful question with him; and Isabel had said her eight times with only two mistakes, and they were slight ones. So you may imagine they were feeling very happy and good, because it was a half-holiday, and, best of all, because Auntie May was coming over with her big motor at three o'clock, to take them back to tea with grandpapa. I should like you to understand that it was not just an ordinary tea, but a special one; for it was grandpapa's birthday, and, as perhaps you know, grandpapas don't often have birthday parties, so it was a great occasion. [Sidenote: Presents] It had taken a long time to choose his presents, but at last they were decided. Isabel had made him a blue silk shaving tidy, with "Shaving" worked in pink across it. The "h-a-v" of "Shaving" were rather smaller than the other letters, because, after she had drawn a large "S," she was afraid there would not be room for such big letters. Afterwards she found there was plenty of room, so she did "i-n-g" bigger to make up for it. After all, it really didn't matter unless you were _very_ particular; and of course you wouldn't see that the stitches showed rather badly on the inside unless you opened it. Besides, as grandpapa grew a beard, and didn't shave at all, he wouldn't want to look inside. Peter had bought a knife for him; being a boy, and therefore rather helpless, he was not able to make him anything. He did begin to carve grandpapa a wooden ship, although Isabel pointed out to him that grandpapa would never sail it; but Peter thought he might like to have it just to look at. However, just at an important part the wood split; so after all it had to be a knife, which of course is always useful. These presents were kept very secret; not even mother was allowed to know what they were. Three o'clock seemed such a long time coming--you know how slow it _can_ be. But at half-past two nurse took them up to dress. Peter had a nice white serge suit, and nurse had put out a clean starched muslin for Isabel, but she (being rather a vain little girl) begged for her white silk. I ought to explain about this frock. One of her aunties sent it to her on her last birthday. It was quite the most beautiful little dress you ever saw--thick white silk embroidered with daisies. Isabel loved it dearly, but was only allowed to wear it on very great occasions. Well, when she asked if she might put it on, nurse said she thought it would be wiser not to. "You won't be able to run about and climb trees at your grandpapa's if you do, Miss Isabel." "But I shan't want to," replied Isabel, "for it is a grown-up party, and we shall only sit and talk." So after all she was allowed to wear it, and with that on and a beautiful new sash her Uncle Dick had just sent her from India, she felt a very smart little girl indeed. The shaving tidy she had done up in a parcel, and Peter had the knife in his pocket, so they were quite ready, and as they went down to the hall the clock struck three. Alas! there was no motor waiting; instead there was mother with a telegram in her hand saying that Auntie May couldn't come for them till four o'clock. What a disappointment! A whole hour longer to wait! What were they to do with themselves? Mother suggested that they should sit down quietly and read, but who can possibly sit and read when a big motor is coming soon to fetch them? So mother very kindly said they might go out in the garden. "Only remember," she said, "you are not to run about and get hot and untidy; and keep on the paths, don't go on the grass." So out they went, Isabel hugging her precious parcel. She was afraid to leave it in the hall lest mother should see it and guess by the shape what it was, which of course would spoil it all. They strolled round the garden, peeped at the rabbits and a brood of baby chickens just hatched, then wandered on down the drive. "Can't we play something?" suggested Isabel--"something quite clean and quiet with no running in it." Peter thought for some time, then he said: "I don't believe there are any games like that." Being a boy, you see, he couldn't think of one, so he said he didn't think there were any. [Sidenote: Follow-my-leader] "Yes, there are," said Isabel, "heaps of them, only I can't think of one. Oh, I know, follow my leader, walking, not running, and of course not on the grass. I'll be leader." So off they started, and great fun it was. Isabel led into such queer places--the potting-house, tool-shed, laundry, and even into the dairy once. Then it was Peter's turn, and he went through the chicken-run, stable-yard, and kitchen-garden, and then down the drive. When he got to the gate he hesitated, then started off down the road. "Ought we to go down here, do you think?" asked Isabel, plodding along behind him. "Oh, yes, it's all right," Peter said; "we're keeping off the grass and not running, and that's all mother told us," and on they went. After walking for a little way, Peter turned off down a side lane, a favourite walk of theirs in summer, and Isabel followed obediently. Unfortunately, for the last three days it had rained heavily, and the deep cart-ruts on both sides of the road were full of thick, muddy water. In trying to walk along the top of one of them, Peter's foot slipped, and, before he could prevent it, in it went, right over the top of his nice patent-leather shoe. Isabel, who was following close behind, intently copying her leader in all his movements, plopped hers in too. "Goodness, what a mess!" said Peter, surveying his muddy foot. "How awful it looks! I think I shall make the other one dirty too, then it won't look so bad." So in went each clean foot. And then it was, I am sorry to say, that Isabel forgot to be good. You remember I told you that she did sometimes? She said: "Now that our feet are dirty, let's paddle, they can't look worse, and it's such fun!" And as Peter thought so too, paddle they did, up and down the dirty, muddy cart-ruts. Presently Peter's white suit and even his clean tie were spotted with mud, and Isabel's beautiful little dress was soaked with muddy water all round the bottom, and, saddest of all, her new sash was dragging behind her in the water, quite spoilt; but they were so excited that they neither of them noticed how they were spoiling their clothes, or that the parcel with the shaving-tidy in it had been dropped and stamped down into the mud. They were in the middle of the fun when suddenly they heard in the distance the "toot-toot" of a motor-horn, and, looking at each other in dismay, they realised it must be Auntie May come to fetch them. "We shall have to change first," gasped Isabel, as they hurried along the road. "I'm afraid we look rather messy!" Peter said nothing; he was feeling too miserable. It was a sad sight that met nurse's horrified eyes as she hurried anxiously out through the gates in search of them, having hunted the garden in vain; and it was a very shamefaced little pair that hastened by the big motor at the front door and into the hall, where they found mother and Auntie May waiting. Isabel and Peter really did feel more sorry and ashamed than I can tell you, and, grievous though it be, mother and Auntie May went to tea with grandpapa, but Peter and Isabel went to bed! [Sidenote: The story of a hard heart, a little child, and a kind friend.] The Grumpy Man BY MRS. HARTLEY PERKS It was past nine on a winter's evening. Through the misty gloom a tenor voice rang clear and resonant. The singer stood on the edge of the pavement, guitar in hand, with upturned coat-collar, a wide-brimmed soft hat sheltering his face. "I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem: Since the lovely are sleeping, Go sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle The gems drop away. When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?" The well-placed voice and accent were those of an educated man. The words of the old song, delivered clearly with true musical feeling, were touched with a thrill of passion. The thread of the melody was abruptly cut off by a sudden mad clatter of hoofs. A carriage dashed wildly along and swerved round the corner. The singer dropped his instrument and sprang at the horse's bridle. A moment's struggle, and he fell by the curb-stone dazed and shaken, but the runaway was checked and the footman was down at his head, while the coachman tightened his rein. The singer struggled to his feet. The brougham window was lowered, and a clear-cut feminine face leaned forward. "Thank you very much," said a cool, level voice, in a tone suitable to the recovery of some fallen trifle. "Williamson"--to the coachman--"give this man half a crown, and drive on." While Williamson fumbled in his pocket for the money, the singer gave one glance at the proud, cold face framed by the carriage window, then turned hurriedly away. "Hey, David!" called the coachman to the groom. "Give her her head and jump up. She'll be all right now. Whoa--whoa, old girl. That chap's gone--half-crowns ain't seemingly in his line. Steady, old girl!" And the carriage disappeared into the night. The singer picked up his guitar and leant on the railings. He was shaken and faint. Something seemed amiss with his left hand. He laid his forehead against the cool iron and drew a deep breath, muttering-- "It was she! When I heard her cold, cruel voice I thanked God I am as I am. Thank God for my child and a sacred memory----" "Are you hurt?" asked a friendly voice. The singer looked up to see a man standing hatless above him on the steps of the house. He strove to reply, but his tongue refused to act; he swayed while rolling waves of blackness encompassed him. He staggered blindly forward, then sank into darkness--and for him time was not. When consciousness returned his eyes opened upon a glint of firelight, a shaded lamp on a table by which sat a man with bent head writing. It was a fine head, large and massive, the hair full and crisp. A rugged hand grasped the pen with decision, and there was no hesitation in its rapid movement. The singer lay for a moment watching the bent head, when it suddenly turned, and a pair of remarkably keen grey eyes met his own. "Ah, you are better! That's right!" Rising, the writer went to a cupboard against the wall, whence he brought a decanter and glass. "I am a doctor," he said kindly. "Luckily I was handy, or you might have had a bad fall." The singer tried to rise. "Don't move for a few moments," continued the doctor, holding a glass to his lips. "Drink this, and you will soon be all right again." The singer drank, and after a pause glanced inquiringly at his left hand, which lay bound up at his side. "Only a sprain," said the doctor, answering his glance. "I saw how it happened. Scant thanks, eh?" The singer sat up and his eyes flashed. [Sidenote: "I want no Thanks!"] "I wanted no thanks from her," he muttered bitterly. "How is that?" questioned the doctor. "You knew the lady?" "Yes, I knew her. The evil she has brought me can never be blotted out by rivers of thanks!" The doctor's look questioned his sanity. "I fail to understand," he remarked simply. "My name is Waldron, Philip Waldron," went on the singer. "You have a right to my name." "Not connected with Waldron the great financier?" again questioned the doctor. "His son. There is no reason to hide the truth from you. You have been very kind--more than kind. I thank you." "But I understood Waldron had only one son, and he died some years ago--I attended him." "Waldron had two sons, Lucien and Philip. I am Philip." "But----" "I can well understand your surprise. My father gave me scant thought--his soul was bound up in my elder brother." "But why this masquerade?" "It is no masquerade," returned the singer sadly. "I sing to eke out my small salary as clerk in a city firm. My abilities in that way do not command a high figure," he added, with a bitter laugh. "Then your father----?" "Sent me adrift because I refused to marry that woman whose carriage I stopped to-night." The doctor made an expression of surprise. "Yes, it seems strange I should come across her in that fashion, doesn't it? The sight of her has touched old sores." Philip Waldron's eyes gleamed as he fixed them on the doctor's face. "I will tell you something of my story--if you wish it." "Say on." "As a young man at home I was greatly under my father's influence. Perhaps because of his indifference I was the more anxious to please him. At all events, urged by him, but with secret reluctance, I proposed and was accepted by that lady whose carriage I stopped to-night. She was rich, beautiful, but I did not love her. I know my conduct was weak, it was ignoble--but I did her no wrong. For me she had not one spark of affection. My prospective wealth was the bait." Waldron paused, and drew his hand across his eyes. "Then--then I met the girl who in the end became my wife. That she was poor was an insurmountable barrier in my father's eyes. I sought freedom from my hateful engagement in vain. I need not trouble you with all the story. Suffice it that I left home and married the woman I loved. My father's anger was overwhelming. We were never forgiven. When my brother died I hoped for some sign from my father, but he made none. And now my wife also is dead." "And you are alone in the world?" asked the doctor, who had followed his story with interest. Philip Waldron's face lit up with a rarely winning smile. "No," he said, "I have a little girl." Then the smile faded, as he added, "She is a cripple." "And have you never appealed to your father?" [Sidenote: Unopened Letters] "While my wife lived--many times. For her sake I threw pride aside, but my letters were always returned unopened." The doctor sat silent for some time. Then steadfastly regarding the young man, he said-- "My name is Norman. I have known and attended your father now for a good many years. I was at your brother's death-bed. I never heard him mention a second son." Philip sighed. "No, I suppose not. I am as dead to him now." "You are indifferent?" "Pardon me; not indifferent, only hopeless. Had there been any chance for me, it came when my brother died." "For the sake of your child will you not appeal once more?" Philip's face softened. "For my child I would do much. Thank God," glancing at his left hand, "my right is uninjured. My city work is safe. Singing is not my profession, you know," he added, with a dreary smile. "I only sing to buy luxuries for my lame little one." Rising, he held out his hand. "You have been a true Samaritan, Dr. Norman. I sincerely thank you." The doctor took the outstretched hand. "May I help you further?" he asked. "I don't see well how you can, but I will take the will for the deed." "But you do not forbid me to try?" Philip shook his head despondingly. "You may try, certainly. Matters cannot be worse than they are; only you will waste valuable time." "Let me be judge of that. May I come to see you?" Philip hesitated; then, when urged, gave his address, but in a manner indicating that he never expected it to be used. Dr. Norman, however, was a man of his word. A few days after that chance meeting found him toiling up the steep stairs of block C in Dalmatian Buildings, Marylebone, having ascertained below that the Waldrons' rooms were on the top floor. "There had need be good air when one gets to the surface here," groaned the doctor, when he reached the top, and paused to recover breath before knocking. Sounds came from within--a light, childish laugh, a patter of talk. In response to his knock, a step accompanied by the tap-tap of a crutch came across the wooden floor. After some hesitation the door was opened by a pale, brown-eyed child of about seven. A holland pinafore reached to her feet, the right side hitched up by the crutch under that arm, on which she leant heavily. Dark, wavy hair fell over her shoulders, framing a pale, oval face, out of which shone a pair of bright, wide-open eyes. She remained in the doorway looking up at the doctor. [Illustration: "I SUPPOSE YOU'VE COME ABOUT THE GAS BILL."] "I suppose you've come about the gas bill," she said at length, with an old-womanish air, "but it's no use. Father is out, and I have only sixpence. It's my own, but you can have it if you promise to take care of it." "I'm a doctor, and a friend of your father's," replied Norman, with a reassuring smile. The child at once moved aside. [Sidenote: A Real Live Visitor] "Please come in. I've just been playing with my dolls for visitors, but it will be much nicer to have a real live one." The room the doctor entered was small, but cheerful; the floor uncarpeted, but clean, and the window framed a patch of sky over the chimney-pots below. A table stood near the window, by it two chairs on which lay two dolls. "Come to the window," requested the child, tap-tapping over the floor. "Lucretia and Flora, rise at once to greet a stranger," she cried reproachfully to the dolls, lifting them as she spoke. She stood waiting until Dr. Norman was seated, then drew a chair facing him and sat down. Her keen, intelligent glance searched him over, then dwelt upon his face. "Are you a good doctor?" she asked. "Why do you want to know?" "Because father says doctors are good, and I wondered if you were. You must not mind my dollies being rather rude. It is difficult to teach them manners so high up." "How so?" "Well, you see, they have no society but my own, because they have to be in bed before father comes home." "And do you never go out?" "Sometimes on Sundays father carries me downstairs, and when we can afford it he hires a cab to take me to the Park. But, you see, we can't always afford it," with a wise shake of the head. "Poor child!" "Why do you say 'poor child' in that voice? I'm not a poor child. I got broken--yes--and was badly mended, dad says, but I'm not a 'poor child.' Poor childs have no dolls, and no funny insides like me." The doctor smiled. "What sort of inside is that?" "Well, you see, I have no outside little friends, and so my friends live inside me. I make new ones now and then, when the old ones get dull, but I like the old ones best myself." At that moment a step sounded on the stairs; the child's face lit up with a look which made her beautiful. "That's father!" she exclaimed, and starting up, hastened as fast as her crutch would permit to the door. Waldron stooped to kiss tenderly the sweet, welcoming face held up to his, then he grasped Dr. Norman's hand. "So, doctor, you are true," he said with feeling. "You do not promise and forget." "I am the slower to promise," returned Dr. Norman. "I have just been making acquaintance with your little maid." "My little Sophy!" "Yes, father?" Waldron passed a caressing hand over the child's head. "We two want to talk, dear, so you must go into your own little room." "Yes, father; but I will bid goodbye to this doctor first," she said, with a quaint air, offering Dr. Norman a thin little hand. As the door closed upon her Waldron remarked rather bitterly, "You see I told the truth." "My dear fellow," cried the doctor, "I did not doubt you for a moment! I came this afternoon to tell you I have seen your father--he sent for me. He is not well. He seems troubled more than his illness warrants. Can it be that under that callous manner he hides regret for the past?" Philip sighed. "You must be ever present to his memory," went on the doctor. "It might be possible to touch his feelings." "How?" "Through your child--nay, hear me out. No harm shall come to her; I would not propose it did I believe such a thing possible." "But it might mean separation. No, doctor, let us struggle along--she at least is happy." "For the present, yes, but for how long? She will not always remain a child. Have you had a good medical opinion in regard to her lameness?" "The best I could afford at the time." "And----?" "It was unfavourable to trying any remedy; but that was not long after her mother's death." "May I examine her?" Waldron's glad eagerness was eloquent of thanks. When Dr. Norman left those upper rooms there was a light long absent on Philip's face as he drew his lame child within his arms. [Sidenote: Sophy takes a Drive] In a few days the doctor called again at Dalmatian Buildings, and carried Sophy off in his carriage, the child all excitement at the change and novelty. After a short drive Dr. Norman said, "Now, Sophy, I have a rather serious case on hand, and I am going to leave you for a little at a friend's, and call for you again later. You won't mind?" "I think not. I shall be better able to tell you after I have been." The doctor laughed. "You see," went on Sophy, with a wise nod of her little head, "you can't tell how you will like things until you try them--now, can you?" "No, certainly not. So you can tell me how you get on as I drive you home." "Is this your serious case or mine?" asked Sophy anxiously, as the carriage drew up at a large house in a West-End square. "This is where I hope to leave you," returned the doctor, smiling. "But you must wait until I find if it be convenient for me to do so." Dr. Norman was shown into the library, where by the fire in an arm-chair sat an old man, one foot supported on a stool before him. His face was drawn and pinched, and his temper none of the sweetest, to judge by the curt response he made to the doctor's greeting. "You are late this morning," was his sole remark. "I may be slightly--but you are fast becoming independent of my care." An unamiable grunt was the old man's reply. When a few medical questions had been put and answered, Dr. Norman placed himself on the hearthrug, looking down at his patient as he drew on his gloves. "You are much better," he said cheerfully. "Oh, you think so, do you? Well, I don't." "Yes, I think so. I should like to prescribe you change of scene, Mr. Waldron." "Want to be rid of me, I suppose. Well, I'm not going!" "Change of thought might do equally well." "I'm likely to get it, chained here by the leg, ain't I?" "Well, change of thought comes by association, and is quite available; in fact, at the present moment I have in my carriage a small person who has given me much change of thought this morning." "I can't see what good your change of thought will do me!" growled Mr. Waldron. Dr. Norman regarded him speculatively. "I wonder if you would do me a favour. I have rather a serious case on the other side of the square, will take me about half an hour; might I leave my small friend here for that time?" "What! in this room?" "Why not?" "Nonsense! You don't mean to bring a child in here!" "Again I say, why not? She will amuse and interest you." "Well, of all the----" "Don't excite yourself, Mr. Waldron. You know how bad that is for you." "You are giving me some change of thought with a vengeance, doctor! Why should you bring a nasty brat to disturb me?" [Sidenote: Some Amusement] "I only offered you some amusement----" "Amusement be hanged! You know I hate children." "I know you say so." Mr. Waldron growled. "She is not so very small," went on the doctor--"about seven or eight, I think." "Humph! Young enough to be a nuisance! A girl, eh?" "Yes." "Girls are not so bad as boys," he admitted. "No, so some people think--good-morning." Dr. Norman went towards the door. "A girl, you say?" growled old Mr. Waldron again. "Yes; good-morning." "I say, don't be in such a hurry!" "I really cannot stay longer at present; goodbye." Dr. Norman opened the door and stood within it. Old Mr. Waldron fidgeted in his chair, muttering-- "Horrid child! Hate children! Perfect nuisance!" The doctor partly closed the door. "I say, have you gone?" cried the old man, glancing round. "Dr. Norman," he called suddenly, "you can bring that brat in if it will be any pleasure to you, and if you find me dead in half an hour my death will lie at your door!" The doctor at once accepted this grudging concession, and hastening to the carriage, brought Sophy back in his arms. "What the----" called out old Mr. Waldron when he saw the child. "Is she ill?" "Oh, no, only lame," replied the doctor, as he placed his burden in a chair opposite to the old man. "Now, Sophy," he admonished, "you will be a pleasant companion to this gentleman until my return." Sophy eyed her neighbour doubtfully. "I'll try to," she replied, and so the doctor left them. For some time this strangely assorted pair eyed each other in silence. At length Sophy's gaze rested on the old man's foot where it lay in its large slipper on the stool before him. "I see you are broken too," she said in a sympathetic voice. "It isn't really pleasant to be broken, is it, although we try to pretend we don't care, don't we?" "No, it isn't exactly pleasant," replied Mr. Waldron, and a half-smile flickered over his face. "How did you get broken?" "Somebody let me fall, father says, and afterwards I was only half-mended. It is horrid to be only a half-mended thing--but some people are so stupid, you know." Mr. Waldron grunted. "Does it hurt you to speak that you make that funny noise?" asked Sophy curiously. "I'm an old man, and I do as I like." "Oh! When I'm an old woman may I do as I like?" "I suppose so," grudgingly. "Then I shall be an awfully nice old woman; I shouldn't like to be cross and ugly. I don't like ugly people, and there are so many going about loose. I am always so glad I like my father's face." "Why?" "Because I have to see it every, every day. Have you anybody whose face you like?" "No; I haven't." "What a pity! I wonder if you like mine--or perhaps you would like father's. It does seem a shame you shouldn't have somebody." "I do very well without." "Oh no, I'm sure you don't," replied Sophy with deep concern. "You may do somehow, but you can't do well." "What's your father like?" asked Mr. Waldron, amused in spite of himself. "My father's like a song," returned Sophy, as though she had given the subject much reflection. "A song! How's that?" "Sometimes he is gay--full of jokes and laughter, sometimes he is sad, and I cry softly to myself in bed; but he is always beautiful, you know--like a song." "And your mother?" [Sidenote: "It is Lonely Sometimes"] "I haven't got a mother," replied Sophy sadly. "That's where I'm only half like other little girls. My mother was frightened, and so was the little brother who was coming to play with me. They were both frightened, and so they ran away back again to God. I wish they had stayed--it is lonely sometimes." "But you have your father." "Yes, only father is away all day, and I sit such a lot at our window." "But you have no pain, have you?" Mr. Waldron questioned with interest. "No," answered Sophy, sighing faintly. "Only a pain in my little mind." "Ah! my pain is in my toe, and I expect hurts a deal more than yours. What's your father about that he leaves you alone and doesn't have you seen to, eh?" Sophy's face blazed. "How dare you speak in that voice of my father!" she cried. "He is the kindest and best, and works for me until he is quite thin and pale. Do you work for anybody? I don't think you do," she added scornfully, "you look too fat!" "You haven't much respect for grey hairs, young lady." "Grey hairs, why?" asked Sophy, still ruffled. Mr. Waldron took refuge in platitudes. "I have always been taught that the young should respect age, of which grey hair is an emblem." "How funny!" said Sophy, leaning forward to look more closely at her companion. "To think of so much meaning in those tufts behind your ears! I always thought what was inside mattered--not the outside. How much silly people must long to have grey hairs, that they may be respected. I must ask father if that is true." "I suppose you respect your father?" said Mr. Waldron severely. "Oh, no," replied Sophy. "I only _love_ him. I think the feeling I have for the gas man must be respect. Yes, I think it must be, there is something so disagreeable about it." "Why?" "Well, you see, he so often comes when father is out and asks for money, just as if money grew on our floor, then he looks at me and goes away grumbling. I think it must be respect I feel when I see his back going downstairs." Mr. Waldron laughed. "You are a queer little girl!" he said. "Yes, I suppose I am," answered Sophy resignedly. "Only I hope I'm not unpleasant." When Dr. Norman returned he found the child and his patient on the best of terms. After placing Sophy in the carriage, he came back at Mr. Waldron's request for a few words. "That's a funny child," began the old man, glancing up at the doctor. "She actually made me laugh! What are you going to do with her?" "Take her home." "Humph! I suppose I couldn't--couldn't----?" "What?" "Buy her?" "Good gracious, Mr. Waldron! We are in the twentieth century!" "Pity, isn't it! But there are many ways of buying without paying cash. See what you can do. She amuses me. I'll come down handsomely for her." "Well, you must let me think it over," replied the doctor in his most serious manner, but he smiled as he shut the library door. An evening shortly afterwards Dr. Norman again called on old Mr. Waldron. He found his patient much better, and seated at his writing-table, from which he glanced up quite briskly to inquire-- "Well, have you brought our queer little friend again?" "Not this time, but I have come to know if you will help me." "Got some interesting boy up your sleeve this time, have you?" "No, only the same girl. I want to cure her lameness." "Is that possible?" "I believe quite possible, but it will mean an operation and probably a slow recovery." "You don't want me to operate, I suppose?" The doctor smiled. "Only as friend and helper. I will do the deed myself." Old Mr. Waldron growled. "Flaunting your good deeds to draw this badger, eh? Well, where do I come in?" [Sidenote: Dr. Norman's Proposal] "Let me bring the child here. Let her be cared for under your roof. Her father is poor--he cannot afford nurses and the paraphernalia of a sick-room." "So I am to turn my house into a hospital for the sick brat of nobody knows who--a likely tale! Why, I haven't even heard the father's name!" "He is my friend, let that suffice." "It doesn't suffice!" roared the old man, working himself into a rage. "I call it pretty cool that you should come here and foist your charity brats on me!" Dr. Norman took up his hat. "You requested me to see if the father would allow you to adopt the child----" "Adopt; did I say adopt?" "No; you used a stronger term--'buy,' I think it was." Old Mr. Waldron grunted. "I said nothing about nurses and carving up legs." "No, these are only incidents by the way. Well, good-evening." Dr. Norman opened the door. "Why are you in such haste?" demanded Mr. Waldron. "I have people waiting for me," returned the doctor curtly. "I am only wasting time here. Good-night." He went outside, but ere his hand left the door a call from within reached him. "Come back, you old touch-flint!" cried Mr. Waldron. "You are trying to force my hand--I know you! Well, I'll yield. Let that uncommonly queer child come here; only remember I am to have no trouble, no annoyance. Make your own arrangements--but don't bother me!" So it came to pass that little Sophy Waldron was received into her grandfather's house all unknowing that it was her grandfather's. He saw her for a few moments on the day of her arrival. "I hear you are going to be made strong and well," was the old man's greeting. "Yes," returned Sophy, with a wise look. "They are going to try and mend me straight. I hope they won't make a mistake this time. Mistakes are so vexatious." "When you are well would you like to live with me? I want a little girl about the house." "What for? You have lots and lots of people to do things for you." Mr. Waldron sighed. "I would like somebody to do things without being paid for their work." "Oh, I understand," replied Sophy. "Well, I'll see how my leg turns out, and if father thinks you a nice old man--of course it will all depend on father." "Confound it! I forgot the father!" "You mustn't say naughty words, Mr. Sir," remonstrated Sophy, shaking a forefinger at him. "And you mustn't speak horrid of my father; I love him." [Sidenote: "Could you Love me?"] Old Mr. Waldron regarded her wistfully. "Do you think you could love me, Sophy?" The child eyed him critically. "I like you in bits," she replied. "But perhaps the good bits may spread, then I should like you very much." Just then the doctor came to take her to the room prepared, where a pleasant-faced nurse was in waiting. Some hours afterwards, when Dr. Norman's task was done, and poor little Sophy lay white but peaceful on her bed, she looked up at the nurse, saying with a whimsical smile-- "I should like to see the grumpy man." "And so you shall, my dear," was the nurse's hasty assurance. "Whoever can that be?" she muttered under her breath. "Why, the grumpy man downstairs," reiterated Sophy. "Would it be right?" questioned her father, who knelt by the bed, holding a small hand clasped firmly in his own. "I'll see what the doctor says," replied the nurse, retiring into the adjoining room. She speedily returned to say that Dr. Norman would go down himself to bring up old Mr. Waldron. Sophy turned a pale face contentedly to her father. "Dear dadums," she whispered, "now you will see my friend. He is not such a bad old man, though he does grunt sometimes." For answer Philip Waldron bowed his head upon the hand he held, and waited. Soon steps and voices were heard outside. "Is this the room? A terrible way up! Why didn't you put her a floor lower? Quieter?--oh, well, have your own way!" The doctor and Mr. Waldron entered. In the half-light of the room the little figure on the bed was dimly visible. Both men paused while the doctor laid a professional hand on the child's pulse. "She is all right," he remarked reassuringly. "So you wanted to see me," began Mr. Waldron, looking down at the small head where it lay on the pillow. "How pale she is!" he ejaculated to himself. "I hope they have treated her properly!" "Quite properly, thank you," replied Sophy, answering his half-whisper. "I wanted you to see my daddy." Mr. Waldron noticed for the first time the bowed head on the other side of the bed. "Yes," continued Sophy, following his glance. "This is my daddy, and he wants to help me say 'Thank you.' For Dr. Norman has told me how kind you are, if you are sometimes grumpy." Philip Waldron slowly raised his head and stood up, facing his father across the bed. "Philip!" "Yes, sir." "Is it possible?" "I did not intend you should find me here," said Philip, his voice hoarse with emotion, "but it was her wish to see you; and I--I can go away." He moved as if to leave the room. "Stay!" came a peremptory command. "I--I have forgiven you long ago, my son; only pride and self-will stood in the way. For her sake, Philip!" And the old man stretched a trembling hand across the child. [Sidenote: Some true dog-stories for all who love dogs.] Dogs We Have Known BY LADY CATHERINE MILNES-GASKELL Some years ago I was the guest of my friends Colonel and Mrs. Hamilton. Besides myself, there was a large Christmas party of friends and children staying in the house. One evening in the drawing-room we all joined in the children's play. "What would you say," interposed Mr. Hillary, one of the guests, and he addressed the children, "if we were all in turn to tell you stories of all the dogs we have known?" A little buzz of applause met this proposal, and our hostess, being pressed to tell the first tale, began by saying, "Well, then, I will tell you how I found my little terrier 'Snap.'" "One day, about two years ago, I was driving into Charleston, which, as you know, is about two miles off. A little distance from the park gates I noticed that my pony carriage was followed by a little white dog--or at least by a little dog that had once been white. It ran along through the black mud of the roads, but nothing seemed to discourage it. On it came, keeping up some ten yards behind my carriage. "At first I thought we only happened both of us to be going in the same direction, and that it was merely hurrying home; but I was soon undeceived, for to my surprise the little dog followed me first into one shop and then into another. "Finally I got out again and went into the last. On returning to the ponies I was astonished to find that the poor little wanderer had jumped into the carriage, and ensconced herself comfortably amongst the cushions." "'The brute won't let me take it out,' said Dick, my diminutive groom; 'it growls if I only touch it, something terrible.' "'Oh, leave it, then,' I replied, and Snap, as I afterwards christened her, drove back with me, sitting up proudly by my side. "The next day I went out for a long ride. Without any encouragement on my part, the little terrier insisted upon following my horse. I think we must have gone over a distance of some twenty-four miles, through woods, over fields, and along the high-roads, but never once had I to call or whistle to bring her to my side. My little friend was always just behind me. "'She be determined to earn herself a good home,' said our old coachman, when I returned in the afternoon and he saw the little dog still following faithfully behind me. I asked him to catch and feed her, but Snap would not trust herself to his care. She showed her teeth and growled furiously when he approached her. "'More temper than dawg,' murmured our old retainer as he relinquished his pursuit of her. 'Cum, lassie, I'll do thee no harm;' but the terrier was not to be caught by his blandishments, and I had to catch her myself and feed her. To me she came at once, looking at me with her earnest, wistful eyes, and placing complete trust in me immediately. "One of my friends says, 'Snap is redeemed by her many vices.' What made her confidence in me from the very first most remarkable was her general dislike to all strangers. She hates nearly every one. 'Snap spakes to us all about place,' is said of her by our old gardener. "Obviously, I am sorry to say, her former master must have been opposed to law and order, for of all human beings she most hates policemen! [Sidenote: Only Just in Time!] "She also entertains a strong dislike to ministers of all denominations. Last year when a high dignitary of the Church came to call upon me, imagine my dismay when I saw during our interview Snap, with evil designs, crawling under the furniture to nip his lordship's legs. I was only just in time to prevent the catastrophe! "The 'nasty sneak,' as my nephew Harry called her when he heard the story, was almost able before I could stop her to fulfil her wicked intentions. Happily, his lordship was unconscious of her inhospitable purpose, and when I caught her up only said: 'Poor little dog! don't trouble, Mrs. Hamilton, I am not at all nervous about dogs.' [Illustration: AT THE SHOW.] "Another time I remember taking Snap to a meeting got up to further the interests of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. "All went well till a clergyman rose and addressed the meeting, when Snap jumped up also, barking ferociously, and tried to bite him. She was carried out struggling and yelping with rage. "'Yon tyke can't do with a parson,' is the dictum of the villagers when they see her go by with me. Snap is very faithful, very crotchety, distrusting nearly everybody, greeting every fresh acquaintance with marked suspicion, and going through life with a most exalted and ridiculous notion of her own importance, and also of that of her master and mistress." * * * * * "Snap's dislike to the clergy reminds me," said Colonel Hamilton, "of a story I heard the other day from my friend Gordon, the artist: You must know that last year the county gave old Vaughan of Marshford Grange, for his services as M.F.H., a testimonial. 'Old V.,' as he is known, has the hereditary temper of all the Vaughans--in fact, might vie with 'Our Davey' of Indian fame. Gordon, as you know, was selected by the Hunt Committee to paint the picture, and he went to stay at the Grange. "The day after his arrival he went down to breakfast, but found nobody there but the old squire seated at his table, and by him a favourite large lean white bull terrier. "'Bob,' he declared, looked at him out of the corner of his evil eye, and therefore it was with some trepidation that he approached the table. "'Swear, man, swear, or say something that he'll take for swearing,' exclaimed his host. 'If Bob takes you for a parson he'll bite you.' The explanation of this supposed hostility on Bob's part to the clergy consisted in the known and open warfare that existed between Vaughan and his parson. "Some forty years before, the Squire had given his best living to his best college friend, and ever since there had been internecine war as a consequence. "Poor Gordon was that curious anomaly, an artist combined with the pink of spinsterly propriety; and he could see no humour in the incident, but always declared that he felt nervous during his visit at the Grange lest Bob's punishing jaws should mistake his antecedents and profession. "But now, Lady Constance, it is your turn, as the children say." * * * * * "I have a very clever old dog at home," said Lady Constance, turning to the children, "called 'Sloe.' She was, in her youth and prime, a most valuable retriever, but now is grown too old to do much but sleep in the sunshine. Eddie and Molly were given some time ago two pretty young white rabbits. They looked like balls of white fluff, and were the prettiest toy-like pets you can imagine. One night, unfortunately, they escaped from their protecting hutch. "Sloe is one of those dogs that cannot resist temptation, and although she has often been whipped and scolded for massacring rabbits, never listens to the voice of conscience. In fact, she hardly seems as if she could help doing so, and appears to think, like the naughty boy of the story, that, in spite of the beating, the fun was too great to forgo. [Sidenote: Sloe and Duchess] "Sloe is always loose, but has a kennel to sleep in at nights in the stable-yard. Opposite to her kennel is chained another dog--a retriever--'Duchess' by name, a lovely dog of a soft flaxen colour. This dog on this occasion, it so happened, had not yet been unchained. "Sloe disappeared amongst the shrubberies, and found there her innocent victims. The poor little things were soon caught, and breathed their last in her ferocious jaws. When Sloe had killed them she did not care to eat them, and, strange to say, she determined not to bury them, but resolved that it should appear that the murder had been committed by her companion, and that Duchess should bear the blame. "It is said that she is jealous of her companion sharing the favour of her master, and so decided upon doing her a bad turn. "Prompted probably by this evil thought, she carried her victims one after the other into Duchess's kennel and left them there. The coachman, who was up betimes cleaning his harness, saw her do this. After which the old sly-boots retired to her own lair and went to sleep as if nothing had happened." * * * * * "Did you ever owe your life to a dog?" inquired Colonel Hamilton, turning to Lady Constance. "Oh, yes, I did once," was her reply. "Some years ago I was given a large dog--half bloodhound and half mastiff. To women and children he was very gentle, but he had an inveterate dislike to all men. There was nothing he would not allow a baby to do to him. It might claw his eyes, sit on his back, tap his nose, scream in his ears, and pull his hair; and 'George,' for such was his name, would sit and look at me with a sort of broad good-natured smile. "One year we all went up to a shooting-lodge in Perthshire. In the paddock before the house there was a bull. I complained of our neighbour, for I thought he had an evil eye, and might some day do the children some mischief. "Our landlord, however, would not listen to my complaints. "'Dinna ye fash yersel,' Geordie,' he said to his herdsman, 'or take notice of what the women-folk say. It is a douce baistie, and he'll nae harm bairns nor doggies.' "In spite of this, one afternoon I had occasion to cross the meadow, when suddenly I turned round and saw the bull running behind me. He bellowed fiercely as he advanced. "Happily, when he charged I was able to spring aside, and so he passed me. But I saw that the wall at the end of the field was several hundreds yards off, and I felt, if the bull turned again to pursue me, my life would not be worth much. "Then I saw my faithful George standing sullenly beside me, all his 'hackles' up, and waiting for the enemy with an ominous growl. "The bull again turned, but my dog met him, and something of the inherited mastiff love of feats in the bull-ring must have awoke within him, for when the bull came after me the old dog flew at his nose, courageously worried him, and fairly ended by routing him. In the meantime I slipped over the loose stone wall, and ran and opened the gate at the bottom of the field, through which trotted a few minutes later my protector. "I told my story when I returned to the house, and the keeper promised me that he would speak to the bailiff at our landlord's farm and have the bull taken away on the following day. "Now, the grass of the paddock being particularly tender and sweet, it was the custom for the 'hill ponies' to graze at night in company with the cows and the bull. The horses and cattle had hitherto done so, without causing any damage to each other; but the morning after my adventure one of the ponies was found gored to death, and an old cart-mare who had been running there with a foal was discovered to be so terribly injured that she had to be shot. It was noticed that the bull's horns were crimson with blood, so there could be no doubt who was the delinquent. "'The more you know of a bull, the less faith you can put in one,' said our old cowherd to me one day when I recounted to him in Yorkshire my escape; 'and, saving your ladyship's presence,' he added, 'bulls are as given to tantrums as young females.' [Sidenote: George's Tricks] "When George was young we tried to teach him some tricks," continued Lady Constance, "but, like a village boy, he 'was hard to learn;' and the only accomplishment he ever acquired was, during meals, to stand up and plant his front paws upon our shoulders, look over into our plates, and receive as a reward some tit-bit. Sometimes he would do this without any warning, and he seemed to derive a malicious pleasure in performing these antics upon the shoulders of some nervous lady, or upon some guest who did not share with us our canine love." * * * * * It had now come to my turn to contribute a story, and in answer to the children's appeal I told them that I would tell them all that I could remember of my old favourite mastiff, "Rory Bean," so-called after the Laird of Dumbiedike's pony in the "Heart of Midlothian." "Rory was a very large fawn mastiff, with the orthodox black mask. I remember my little girl, when she was younger, having once been told that she must not go downstairs to her godmamma with a dirty face, resolved that if this was the case Rory must have a clean face too. "So the next day, on entering the nursery, I found she had got some soap and water in a basin, and beside her I saw the great kindly beast, sitting up on her haunches, patiently waiting whilst her face was being washed; but in spite of all the child's efforts the nose remained as black as ever. My little girl's verdict, 'that mastiffs is the best nursery dogs,' was for a long time a joke amongst our friends. "For several years we took Rory up to London, but her stay there was always rather a sad one, for when out walking the crossings in the streets were a great source of terror to her. No maiden-aunt could have been more timid. She would never go over by herself, but would either bound forward violently or else hang back, and nearly pull over her guide. She had also a spinsterly objection to hansoms, and never would consent to be driven in one. On the other hand, she delighted in a drive in a 'growler,' and, if the driver were cleaning out his carriage, would often jump in and refuse to be taken out. "When Rory followed us in London she had a foolish habit of wishing to seem independent of all restraint, and of desiring to appear 'a gentleman at large.' "On one unfortunate occasion, whilst indulging in this propensity, she was knocked over by a hansom--not badly hurt, but terribly overcome by a sense of the wickedness of the world, where such things could be possible. "The accident happened in Dover Street. Rory had strayed into the gutter after some tempting morsel she had espied there, and a dashing hansom had bowled her over. She lay yelping and howling and pitying herself intensely. My companion and I succeeded in dragging her into a baker's shop, where she was shown every kindness and consideration, and then we drove home in a four-wheeler. Rory was not much hurt, but for many days could hardly be induced to walk in the streets again. She seemed to be permeated with a sense of the instability and uncertainty of all things, and never appeared able to recover from her surprise that she, 'Rory Bean,' a mastiff of most ancient lineage and of the bluest blood, should not be able to walk about in safety wherever she pleased--even in the streets of the metropolis. [Sidenote: Lost in London] "I recollect we once lost her in London. She made her escape out of the house whilst we had gone for a ride in the park. When we returned from our ride, instead of hearing her joyous bark of welcome, and seeing her flop down in her excitement the last four steps of the staircase, as was her wont, we were met instead by the anxious face of the butler, who told us Rory had run out and could not be found. "Fortunately, we were not dining out that night, and so, as quickly as possible, we sallied forth in different directions to find her. The police were communicated with, and a letter duly written to the manager of the Dogs' Home at Battersea, whilst my husband and I spent the evening in wandering from police-station to police-station, giving descriptions of the missing favourite. "Large fawn mastiff, answers to the name of 'Rory Bean,' black face and perfectly gentle. I got quite wearied out in giving over and over again the same account. However, to cut a long story short, she was at last discovered by the butler, who heard her frantic baying a mile off in the centre of Hyde Park, and brought her back, and so ended Rory Bean's last season in London. "A few days before this escapade I took out Rory in one of the few squares where dogs are still allowed to accompany their masters. Bean had a naïve way, when bored, of inviting you or any casual passer-by that she might chance to see, to a good game of romps with her. Her method was very simple. She would run round barking, but her voice was very deep, as of a voice in some subterranean cavern; and with strangers this did not invariably awaken on their side a joyous reciprocity. Somehow, big dogs always ignore their size. "They have a confirmed habit of creeping under tiny tables, and hanker after squeezing themselves through impossible gaps. Being, as a rule, quite innocent of all desire to injure any member of the human race, they cannot realise that it is possible that they in their turn can frighten anybody. "I remember on this particular occasion that I was interested in my book, and that when Rory had barked round me I had refused to play with her. For some time she had lain down quietly beside me, when suddenly an old gentleman came into view. He held in his hand a stick, with which he meditatively struck the pebbles of the pathway as he walked along. "At the sight of him Rory jumped up. She could not resist this particular action on his part, which she considered a special invitation to come and join in a good romp. To my consternation, before I could prevent her, I saw her barking and jumping round the poor frightened old gentleman, in good-natured but ominous-looking play. "Seeing that he was really alarmed, I rushed off to his rescue, seized my dog and apologised. Wishing at the same time to say something that might somewhat condone her conduct, I said: 'I am very sorry, sir, but you see she is only a puppy,' and pointed to Rory. "This was not quite a correct statement, as my four-footed friend was at that time about two years old, and measured nearly thirty inches from the shoulder, but, as the old man seemed really frightened and muttered two ugly words in connection with each other, 'Hydrophobia' and 'Police,' I was determined to do all I could to reassure him and smooth down his ruffled plumes. "However, my elderly acquaintance would not be comforted, and I heard him muttering to himself as he retired from the square, 'Puppy indeed! Puppy indeed!' "Bean's death was very sad. Two years ago we left her in Yorkshire whilst we went to London. We heard of her continually whilst we were away, and she seemed very flourishing although growing old, till one day I got a letter to say that the old dog was suddenly taken very ill and could hardly move. The servants had taken her to a loose box, given her a good clean bed of straw, and were feeding her with such delicacies as she could be prevailed upon to take. [Sidenote: Rory's Last Welcome] "I had a sad journey home, thinking of the sufferings of my trusty old friend. I shall never forget her joy at seeing me once more. The poor faithful creature could not walk, but crawled along upon her stomach to meet me when I entered the loose box, filling the place with her cries of joy. She covered my hands with kisses, and then laid her head upon my knees whilst I sat down beside her. She whined with a sort of half-sorrow, half-pleasure--the first that she could not get up and show me round the gardens as was her wont, the second that she was happy to be thus resting in the presence of her beloved mistress. Around her lay a variety of choice foods and tit-bits, but she was in too great pain to feed except from my hands. "Poor dear Bean! she looked at me out of her great solemn eyes. Those dear loving eyes; with only one expression shining in them--a daily, hourly love--a love in spite of all things--a love invincible. "During those last few days of her life Rory could not bear to be left alone. Her eyes followed me tenderly round and round the stables wherever I went. Although constantly in great pain, I shall never forget her patience and her pathetic conviction that I could always do her some good, and she believed in the miracle which I, alas! had no power to perform. The veterinary surgeon who attended her said she was suffering from sudden paralysis of the spine, and that she was incurable. This disease, it appears, is not very rare amongst old dogs who have lived, not always wisely, but too well." "Do tell us about some other dogs," cry the children as I cease speaking. I search my memory, and then turn to the group of little faces that are waiting expectantly for me to begin, and continue: "Amongst the various breeds of dogs that I have come across personally, I know of none more faithful than the little fox-terrier is to his first devotion. He is a perfect little bantam-cock to fight, and never so happy as when he is in a row. 'The most unredeemed thing in nature,' was a true remark I once heard made of one; and yet there is no dog more devoted to his master, or more gentle to the children of his own household. "I remember a little white terrier of my mother's, a celebrated prize-winner, and of the old Eggesford breed, called 'Spite.' Before I married she was my special dog, and used to sleep in my room. For years afterwards, although a general pet, whenever I returned to my old home she would prefer me to every one else, and, when old and blind, would toddle up the polished oak staircase to my room, in spite of being terribly afraid of slipping through the carved bannisters. She never forgot me or wavered when I was with her in giving me the first place in her affections. "I have heard that the first of this noted strain was given many years ago to my father as a boy by 'Parson Jack.' It seems that the terriers of Parson Russell were noted in the days when the manners and customs of the parsons of the West were 'wild and furious.' "A parson of the 'Parson Froude' type called upon him one evening in the dusk, to say that he had brought his terrier to fight 'Parson Jack's' in a match. "My father's old friend, as I have often heard him tell the story to my mother, sent down word that he would not fight his dog because he 'looked upon dog-fights as beastly sights,' but if his brother clergyman would come upstairs, they would clear the tables, and he would take his jacket off, and they would have some rounds, and see which was the best man, and he who won should keep the other's dog. [Sidenote: "Parson Jack"] "When the fight was fought and won, and when 'Parson Jack' came off victorious, he claimed the other terrier. "'And don't yu goe for to think, my dear,' he would add, turning to one of us children, as he ended the story, and speaking in broad Devonshire, as he often did when his heart kindled at the memory of the county in the old days--'don't yu goe for tu think as my having a set-tu zhocked the people in my parish. My vulk were only plazed to think as parsan was the best man of the tu, and if a parsan could stand up like a man in a round in they days, er was all the more likely to zuit 'em in the pulpit on Zundays.' "Once every year 'Parson Jack' used to come and dine and sleep at my old home to keep his birthday, in company with my father and mother. At such times we as children used to come down to dessert to hear him tell stories in his racy way of Katerfelto, of long gallops over Exmoor after the stag, or of hard runs after the little 'red rover' with Mr. Fellowes' hounds." "What dogs have you now?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton. "Amongst others, a large St. Bernard," is my reply--"Bathsheba, so called after Mr. Hardy's heroine. Not that she has any of that young lady's delicate changes and complications of character, nor is she even 'almighty womanish.' "Our Bathsheba is of an inexhaustible good temper, stupid, and wonderfully stolid and gentle. She is never crusty, and is the untiring playmate of any child. The 'Lubber fiend' we call her sometimes in fun, for she seems to extend over acres of carpet when she takes a siesta in the drawing-room. "'Has she a soul?' inquired a friend who admired the great gentle creature. 'I fear not,' was my reply; 'only a stomach.' "Besides Bathsheba, we have a large retriever called 'Frolic.' He and Bath are given sometimes to running after people who go to the back door; they never bite, but growl, and bark if it is a complete stranger. "On one occasion, an Irishman who had been employed to do some draining met with this hostile reception. ''Tis gude house-dogs,' said my guardian of the poultry grimly. "On hearing that the Irishman had been frightened, I sought him, expressed to him my regrets, and said that, though big, the dogs were quite harmless. With ready wit he retorted: 'Begorra, it isn't dogs that I am afraid of, but your ladyship keeps lions.'" * * * * * "Just one more story," cry the children as I cease speaking, and Mrs. Hamilton points to the clock, as their bedtime is long past. After a few minutes' pause, I continue: "The other day I was told of a little girl who attended a distribution of prizes given by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. "She had won, you must know, a book as a reward for writing the best essay on the subject given, and, with the other successful children, was undergoing a _vivâ voce_ examination. "'Well, my dear,' said the gentleman who had given away the prizes, 'can you tell me why it is cruel to dock horses' tails and trim dogs' ears?' 'Because,' answered the little girl, 'what God has joined together let no man put asunder.'" An explosion of childish laughter follows my story, and then the little ones troop up in silence to bed. I sit on, quietly looking into the fire, and as I sit so the voices of my friends seem to grow distant, and I fall into a reverie. [Sidenote: A Cornish story of a girl's sorrow.] Daft Bess BY KATE BURNLEY BELT Up and down the little pier they paced in quarter-deck fashion, each with his hands tucked deep down in the pockets of his sea-blanket coat, and his oilskin cap pulled well over his ears. They were very silent in their walk, these three old men, who had watched the breakers come and go at Trewithen for over sixty years, and handled the ropes when danger threatened. Trewithen Cove had sheltered many a storm-driven ship within their memories, and there were grave-mounds in the churchyard on the cliff still unclaimed and unknown that had been built up by their hands. Up and down, to and fro they went in the face of the flying spray, in spite of the deepening mist that was creeping up over the darkening sea. Benjamin Blake--once the handiest craftsman in the cove--was the first to break the silence. "'Tis a sa-ad night at sea, mates!" he shouted, and the roar of the waves nearly drowned the sound of his voice. "Iss, tu be zure, Benjamin Blake!" shouted Tom Pemberthy in answer, "an' 'twill be a ba-ad job fer more'n wan boat, I reckin, 'gainst marnin'!" Then Joe Clatworthy, whose opinions were valued highly in the settlement of all village disputes, so that he had earned for himself the nickname of "Clacking Joe," stood still as they once more turned their backs on the threatening sea, and said his say. "A tell ee wot 'twill be, mates," he said solemnly and slowly. "You mark my wurrds ef it dawn't cum truthy too,--there'll be terble loss uv li-ife out there tu-night," and he waved his hand towards the blackening sea, "an' us'll hev tu dig a fuu more graves, I reckin', cum marnin'!" "The Lard hev murcy!" said Benjamin Blake, and the three resumed their walk again. Half an hour afterwards they were making their way along the one little street of which Trewithen boasted to their homes; for a storm--the roughest they had known for years--had burst overhead, and a man's life is a frail thing in the teeth of a gale. * * * * * At the top of the cliff and beyond Trewithen churchyard by the length of a field there stood a tiny cottage, in which lived Jacob Tresidder, fisherman, and his daughter Bess. "Daft Bess" the children called her as they played with her on the sands, though she was a woman grown, and had hair that was streaked with white. She was sitting now by the dying fire in the little kitchen listening to the storm without; the hands of the grandfather clock were nearing the midnight hour, and Jacob Tresidder lay in a sound sleep upstairs hearing nought. She was of the type of fisher-maid common to the depths of Cornwall. The soft rich colouring of her skin reminded one more of the sunny south, and her big brown eyes had always a glow in them. To-night they were more luminous than ever as she sat by the fire watching the sparks flicker and die, as if the dawn of some hidden knowledge were being borne to them on the breath of the storm. The roar of the sea as it dashed up the face of the cliff seemed to soothe her, and she would smile and turn her ear to catch the sound of its breaking on the beach below. And yet, seven years before, "Daft Bess" had been the brightest and prettiest girl in Trewithen, and the admiration of every lad in the country round! And Big Ben Martyn, who had a boat of his own, had been the pride of every girl! But he only cared for Bess and she for him. All their lives they had been together and loved,--and a simple, truthful love can only produce its own affinity, though in its travail it pass through pain and suffering, and, maybe, the laying down of life! Ben Martyn was twenty-five, and his own master, when he asked Bess, who had just turned twenty, to be his wife. "The cottage be waitin', Bess, my gurrl!" he whispered as they sat on the cliff in the summer night; she knitting as usual, and he watching the needles dart in and out. They were very silent in their love, these two, who had been lovers ever since they could paddle. "'Tis so lawnly betimes!" he pleaded. And Bess set his longing heart at rest. "So soon as vather can spare I, Ben," she said; and she laid her knitting on the rock beside them, and drew his sea-tanned face close down beside her own. "Ee dawn't seek fer I more'n I seek fer ee, deary!" and kissed him. Thus they plighted their troth. [Sidenote: One Dark Night] Then came the winter and the hard work. And one dark stormy night, when the waves rose and fought till they nearly swept Trewithen out of sight, Ben Martyn was drowned. He had been trying to run his boat into the shelter of the cove and failed, and in the morning his battered body lay high and dry on the quiet beach among the wreckage. For weeks Bess lay in a high fever; and then, when the strain was greater than her tortured mind could bear, and she had screamed loud and long, something snapped in her brain and gave relief. But it left her without a memory, and with the ways and speech of a little child. Her mind was a blank! She played with the seaweed and smiled, till the women's hearts were like to break for her, and the words stuck in the men's throats as they looked at her and talked. "She be mazed, poor maid!" they said gently lest she should hear them. "'Twould break Ben's heart ef ee knawed 'ur was so!" That was seven long years ago. And to-night Bess seemed loth to leave the fire, but sat hugging her knees in a restless fashion, and staring at the blackening embers in a puzzled way. A tremendous blast struck the cottage, and nearly shook the kitchen window out of its fastenings. The wind came shrieking through the holes in the shutter like a revengeful demon, and retreated again with a melancholy groan. It pleased Bess, and she hugged her knees the tighter, and turned her head and waited for the next loud roar. It came, and then another, and another, till it seemed almost impossible for the little cottage to hold out against its fury! Then "Daft Bess" sprang from her seat with a cry of gladness, and ran out into the night! Along the path of the cliff she ran as fast as her bare feet would carry her, struggling and buffeting with the wind and spray till she reached the "cutting" down to the beach. It was only a broken track where the rocks sloped and jagged a little, and not too safe at the best of times. She tried to get a foothold, but the wind was too strong, and she was driven back again and again. Then it lulled a little, and she began to descend. Half-way down there was an ugly turn in the path, and she waited for a gust to pass before taking it. The wind was stronger than ever out here on the front of the cliff, but she held tight to the jagged rock above. Round it swept, tearing loose bits of rock and soil from every corner, till her face was cut by the sharpness of the flints! [Illustration: THE ROCK SHE CLUNG TO GAVE WAY.] Close against the cliff it blew until she was almost breathless, when the rock she clung to gave way, and she fell down and down! * * * * * Jacob Tressider was awake. He had heard a noise like the breaking of delf in the kitchen below, and he wondered if Bess had heard it too. He got out of bed and dressed himself, and then came down the ladder which did service for a staircase to see what was amiss. The flags in the kitchen were strewn with broken plates, and the front kitchen door swung loosely on its hinges. [Sidenote: No Answer!] He called Bess, but there was no answer! He went into her room, the bed was untouched since day! Then he pulled on his great sea-boots and cap and went out to look for her. The day was dawning when they brought her in and laid her on the bed of her little room more dead than alive. She was soaked through and through, and the seaweed still clung about her hair. Jacob Tresidder stood watching her like a man in a dream as she lay there white and silent. "Us be mighty sore fer ee, so us be!" said old Benjamin Blake, who had helped to bring her home. "But teddin fer yew nor I, Jacob, tu go fornenst His will." And he went out crying like a child. There was a slight movement of the quiet figure on the coverlid, and Jacob Tresidder's heart stopped beating for a moment as he watched his daughter's brown eyes open once more! They wandered wonderingly to where he was, and rested there, and a faint smile crossed the dying lips. Then he bowed his head between his hands as he knelt beside her, for he knew that God had given her back her memory again; and his sobs were the sobs of a thankful heart. "Vather!" she whispered, and with an effort she stretched the hand nearest to him and touched his sleeve. "'Tis--all right--now--I be gwine--tu--Ben." The dying eyes glowed with love; then with a restful sigh the life passed out. * * * * * They had battened down the last spadeful of new-dug earth, and once again there was a storm-bred mound in Trewithen churchyard. The three old comrades stood together in silence looking down on it, making little or no attempt to hide the sorrow that was theirs. Then Tom Pemberthy said, drawing his hand across his tear-dimmed eyes: "Us'll miss ur simple wa-ays, sure 'nuff!" But it was given to "Clacking Joe" to speak the final words ere they turned their faces homewards. "'Twas awnly right that we laid ur 'longside o' Ben! When ur was a little chile ur shrimped with 'n! an' when ur was a gert maiden ur walked out with 'n! Please God, ur'll be the furrst tu spake tu 'n--cum the aftermath!" [Illustration: SPRING CLEANING.] [Sidenote: A seasonable chant, possibly useful for recitation purposes.] A Spring-time Duet BY MARY LESLIE _1st Maiden._ "Oh, Spring is here, the golden sun Has routed Winter's gloom!" _2nd Maiden._ "Good gracious! Jane has not _begun_ To scrub the dining-room!" _1st Maiden._ "And now the first sweet buds appear, Symbolic of new hope." _2nd Maiden._ "I didn't say 'carbolic,' dear, I want the _yellow_ soap." _1st Maiden._ "Like nectar is the morning dew, Its purity divine Refreshes all the earth anew." _2nd Maiden._ "Ah! here's the turpentine." _1st Maiden._ "And crystal webs shine bright, as though Spun on some fairy loom." _2nd Maiden._ "A spider's web? I didn't know; I'll run and fetch the broom!" _1st Maiden._ "Blooms Nature scatters, fresh and free, From out her treasure-house." _2nd Maiden._ "I'll dust this cupboard thoroughly." _Both together._ "Oh, horrors! There's a _mouse_!" [Sidenote: A Canadian boy and girl together were at one moment as happy as youth and health could make them, and at the next in imminent danger of their lives.] Out of Deadly Peril BY K. BALFOUR MURPHY What on earth had happened to Gladys Merritt? In the course of a few short weeks the girl was transformed from the merriest, most light-hearted creature into one often thoughtful, silent, and serious. The question then was, Why had she suddenly changed completely? Many guessed, but only two knew the real reason. Barrie, where Judge Merritt lived, lies at the head of lovely little Lake Simcoe, in Western Ontario, Canada. In summer the lake is blue as the heavens above, the borders of it are fringed with larch and maple that grow right down to the rippling edge and bow to their own reflections in the clear waters beneath, while on its glassy surface can be seen daily numbers of boats and launches, the whole scene animated by merry voices of happy folks, with picnic baskets, bound for the woods, or others merely seeking relief from the intense heat on shore. Work is finished early in the day in the Colonies, and when school is over and the scorching sun begins slowly to sink to rest, social life begins. But in Canada winter is long and extremely cold. With the fall of the beautiful tinted leaves that have changed from green to wonderful shades of red, purple, and yellow, Canadians know that summer is gone and that frost and snow may come any day, and once come will stay, though an unwelcome guest, for at least seven or eight months. Now the young folks in Barrie relished this long spell of cold--to them no part of the year was quite so delightful as winter. What could compare with a long sleigh drive over firm thick snow, tucked in with soft warm furs and muffled up to the eyes--or tobogganing in the moonlight down a long hill--or skimming over clear, smooth ice--or candy-making parties--or dances, or a dozen other delights? What indeed? On every occasion Gladys seemed to be the centre figure; she was the life and soul of every party. [Sidenote: The "Bunch"] She was an only child of wealthy parents. Her home was beautiful, her father indulgent, her mother like a sister to her; she was a favourite everywhere, loved alike by rich and poor. Together with two intimate friends and schoolfellows, the girls were commonly known as the "Buds," and they, with half a dozen boys, were called the "Bunch" throughout the town. They admitted no outsider to their circle. They danced together at parties, boated, picniced, skated, sometimes worked together. There was an invisible bond that drew the group near each other, a feeling of sympathy and good fellowship, for the "Bunch" was simply a whole-hearted, happy crowd of boys and girls about sixteen to nineteen years of age. Winter was at its height. Christmas with all its joys was past, church decorations had surpassed the usual standard of beauty, holidays were in full swing, and the "Buds" were in great demand. The cold had for five weeks been intense, and the barometer on the last day of January sank to fifteen below zero. Snow had fallen but little, and the ring of merry, tinkling sleigh bells was almost an unknown sound. Tobogganing of course was impossible. But as Gladys philosophically remarked one day, "Where could you find such skating as in Barrie?" Great excitement prevailed when the moon was full, for the lake, some nine miles in length, was frozen from end to end, with an average thickness of three feet, and to the delight of skaters, was entirely snow free. Of course parties were the order of the day. Such a chance to command a magnificent icefield might not occur again for a long, long time. The "Bunch" instantly decided on a party of their own, and chose a glorious night for the expedition. It consisted of the "Buds" and three boys. For some time all went well, but Gladys's skate needed tightening, and before it was satisfactorily done, the other four were far away, and Harry Elliott was left as sole protector to the girl. Their conversation was mainly about school concerns. The boy was in a bank, the girl in her last term at the High School. "If only I could work at something after I'm finished! What shall I do with my life when I have no more lessons? I think everybody should do something; I shall soon be tired of lazing through the days." "Your pater would never let you do anything for money, he is so rich." "But simply to have a lot of money won't satisfy me, although I'd like to earn some. To be a teacher would suit me best, and keep my mind from rusting." "You are awfully clever, you know. I never cared for books and never worked till one day--a day I shall never forget." "What was it about, Harry? Tell me." The two had chattered about their own concerns without noticing that the rest of the "Bunch" had kept to the left side of the lake while they had skated straight forward ignoring the deep bay, and were now nearing the right shore. The ice was smooth as glass, each was an accomplished skater, and together they had made a brilliant run without a pause after the tightening of the screw. Now, hot and breathless, they paused for a few moments, and only then realised that they were about three miles distant from the rest of the party. Harry drew off his thick woollen mittens and unloosened his muffler, as together they stood looking at the glistening landscape around them. "I think we ought to turn; we are a long way from home." "Just let us touch shore first and get to the 'Black Stone'; that would be a record spin." "All right, then, come along, and tell me what happened that day. You know." Hand-in-hand the two started off once more in the direction of the "Black Stone." Far and wide there was not a human being visible. Not a sound except the swish, swish of their skates and their own voices fell on the clear, still air of the glorious night. [Sidenote: Harry's Story] "I never was clever," began Harry, "and am not now. I used to be quite satisfied that kings and other celebrated people really had lived and died without learning a whole rigmarole about their lives. Really it did not interest me a bit. Geography was the same, composition was worse, mathematics was worst. I seemed always to be in hot water at school. Then one day the old man (we always called Jackson Spencer that) said after class was over--and of course I hadn't answered once--'Elliott, go to my room and wait for me.' I tell you, Gladys, I shivered; I didn't know what I was in for. Old man walked right in and shut the door, after having left me alone about ten minutes, and just said, 'Come and sit down, boy, I want to say something to you.' You could have knocked me over I was so surprised. He then said: 'Look here, Elliott, you are not a bad chap, but do you know that you are as blind as an owl?' I rubbed my eyes and said, 'No, sir, I can see all right.' "'You must be very short-sighted, then.' "Of course I said nothing. "'Did you ever think why your father sent you to school?' "'No-o, sir.' "'I thought so, but I'm going to tell you. He is not a rich man, Harry, but he pays me to teach you all that will help you to rise above the level of an ignorant labourer. Culture and education are as necessary to a gentleman as bread is for food. I am doing my utmost, but I cannot pour instruction down your throat any more than you can make a horse drink by leading him to the trough. Now look here, boy, with all your faults you are no coward; haven't you the pluck to get to know yourself and stop being a shirker? Think what that means! A fellow never to be trusted, a lazy, good-for-nothing, cowardly loafer. Remember, if you don't work, you are taking your father's money under false pretences, which is only another word for dishonesty. Think about what I've said; turn over a page and start a new chapter. You can go, and mind--I trust you.'" "What a splendid old boy!" exclaimed Gladys. "What did you do?" "Do! I worked like a beaver for the balance of school life, I'd so much to make good. We shall touch the 'Stone' in a couple of----" The sentence was never finished, for without warning, out of sight of a helping hand, Gladys and Harry skated right through a large hole, left by an ice-cutter without being marked by boughs, into ten feet of freezing water. The shock was tremendous, but being fine swimmers they naturally struck out, trying to grasp the slippery ice. To his horror Harry knew that his gloves were in his pocket, and now, try as he would, his hands would not grip the ice. Gladys had been entrusted to his care: not only would his life be the price of having separated from the "Bunch," but infinitely worse, she must share the same fate. Despair lent him strength to support the girl with his left arm while he tried to swing his right leg over and dig the heel of his skate into the ice. But all in vain, he tried and tried again. Numbed with cold, he felt himself growing weaker and he knew that the end could not be far off should the next attempt fail. One more struggle--one last effort--and the skate, thank Heaven, had caught! Then came the last act. Clenching his teeth and wildly imploring help from on high, Harry gathered together his last remnant of strength, and swung the girl on to the ice--Gladys was saved! The boy's heart beat, his panting breath seemed to suffocate him, the strain had been so fearful; now he could do no more, he seemed to make no effort to save himself. "Harry! Harry!" cried Gladys; "you must try more! I'm all right and can help you--see, I am here close by!" she cried, frantic with terror. "It will be all right directly," she added bravely as she lay flat down and crept up to the edge of the ice. The boy heard her encouraging words, but still made no progress. "You are not doing your best, Harry! Think of me, if not of yourself. Remember, I am alone and so frightened. Oh! do be quick. Here, take hold of my hands." This time her words went home, and the boy, half-paralysed with cold and completely worn out, remembered his responsibility. "Come along, Harry--hold hard! Yes, I can bear the weight!" called out the courageous girl as she lay in her freezing garments on the ice, the strain of the lad's weight dragging her arms almost from their sockets. [Sidenote: Pluck Rewarded] At last their pluck was rewarded. Heaven was good to them, and Harry Elliott, trembling in every limb, his teeth chattering, his face pale as the moon, stood by Gladys on solid ice. There was no time to waste in words, the boy merely stretched out his hand to the exhausted girl and started across the lake to the nearest house. Not a word was spoken; they just sped onward, at first slowly and laboriously, until the blood began to circulate and progress became easier. When they reached the shore, they stood encased in solid ice, their wet clothes frozen stiff by the keen frost of the glorious night. Not for some days did Gladys betray any signs of the mental shock she had received. Anxious parents and a careful doctor kept her in bed for a week, while Harry occupied his usual place at the bank. It was during that week that the change in Gladys took place. She had plenty of time for thought. Recollections of her nearness to death, of her horror while under the ice, of her terror when saved, of seeing her brave rescuer sink, all these scenes made a deep and lasting impression on her, and she realised that life can never be made up of pleasures only. When she met the rest of the "Bunch," her quietness puzzled them, her determination to go no more on the ice distressed them. But in her own heart Gladys felt that she had gained by her approach to death, for in the deadly struggle she had been brought near to God. As for Harry Elliott, need I forecast the trend of the two lives that were so nearly taken away together? [Sidenote: Mike, the old Raven, is the central figure of this story for younger girls.] The Pearl-rimmed Locket BY M. B. MANWELL March came in with a roar that year. The elms of Old Studley creaked and groaned loudly as the wild wind tossed them about like toys. "I'm frighted to go to bed," wailed little Jinty Ransom, burying her face in Mrs. Barbara's lap, when she had finished saying her prayers. "Ah, dear, 'taint for we to be frightened at anything God sends! Do'ent He hold the storms in the hollow of His hand? And thou, dear maid, what's wind and tempest that's only 'fulfilling His word' compared wi' life's storms that will gather over thy sunny head one day, sure as sure?" Mrs. Barbara, the professor's ancient housekeeper, laid her knotted hand on the golden curls on her lap. But "thou, dear maid" could not look ahead so far. It was more than enough for Jinty that Nature's waves and storms were passing over her at the moment. "Sit beside my bed, and talk me to sleep, please, Mrs. Barbara, dear!" entreated the little girl, clutching tightly at the old lady's skirts. So Mrs. Barbara seated herself, knitting in hand, by the little white bed, and Jinty listened to the stories she loved best of all, those of the days when her father was a little boy and played under the great elms of Old Studley with Mike, the ancient raven, that some people declared was a hundred years old at least. He was little more than a dream-father, for he had been for most of Jinty's little life away in far-off China in the diplomatic service. Her sweet, young, gentle mother Jinty did not remember at all, for she dwelt in a land that is far-and-away farther off than China, a land: "Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through In God's most holy sight." "And, really and truly, Mrs. Barbara, was it the very same Mike and not another raven that pecked at father's little legs same's he pecks at mine?" Jinty inquired sleepily. "The very self-same. Thief that he is and was!" wrathfully said Mrs. Barbara, who detested the venerable raven, a bird that gave himself the airs of being one of the family of Old Studley, and stirred up more mischief than a dozen human boys even. "Why," grumbled on the old lady, "there's poor Sally Bent, the henwife, she's driven distracted with Mike's thievish tricks. This week only he stole seven eggs, three on 'em turkey's eggs no less. He set himself on the watch, he did, and as soon as an egg was laid he nipped it up warm, and away with it! If 'twasn't for master's anger I'd strangle that evil bird, I should. Why, bless her! The little maid's asleep, she is!" And Mrs. Barbara crept away to see after her other helpless charge, the good old professor who lived so far back in the musty-fusty past that he would never remember to feed his body, so busy was he in feasting his mind on the dead languages. Next morning the tearing winds had departed, the stately elms were motionless at rest, and the sun beat down with a fierce radiance, upon the red brick walls of Old Studley. Jinty Ransom leaned out of her latticed window and smiled contentedly back at the genial sun. "Ah, thou maid, come down and count over the crocus flowers!" called up Mrs. Barbara from the green lawn below. "I fear me that thief Mike has nipped off the heads of a few dozens, out o' pure wicked mischief." Presently Jinty was flashing like a sunbeam in and out of the old house. "I must go round and scold Mike, then I'll come, back for breakfast, Mrs. Barbara. Grandpapa's not down yet." [Sidenote: Mike on the War-path] But scolding's a game two can play at. Mike charged at Jinty with a volley of angry chatter and fierce flappings of his heavy black wings. It was no good trying to get in a word about the headless crocus plants or the seven stolen eggs. "Anybody would think that I was the thief who stole them, not you!" indignantly said Jinty. Then Mike craned suddenly forward to give the straight little legs a wicked nip, and Jinty fled with shrieks, to the proud ecstasy of the raven, who "hirpled" at her heels into the dining-room, into the learned presence of the old professor, by whom the mischievous Mike was welcomed as if he were a prince of the blood. The raven knew, none better, that he had the freedom of the city, and at once set to work to abuse it. A sorry breakfast-table it was in less than five minutes. Here and there over the white tablecloth Mike scuttled and scrambled. His beak plunged into the cream-jug, then deep into the butter, next aimed a dab at the marmalade, and then he uttered a wrathful shriek became the bacon was too hot for his taste. "My patience! Flesh and blood couldn't stand this!" Mrs. Barbara came in, her hands in the air. But the professor neither saw nor heard the old housekeeper's anger. "Wonderful, wonderful!" he was admiringly ejaculating. "Behold the amazing instinct implanted by nature. See how the feathered epicure picks and chooses his morning meal!" "If a 'feathered pickyer' means a black thief as ever was, sir, that bird's well named!" said the housekeeper wrathfully. At last Mike made his final choice, and, out of pure contrariness, it was the bowl of hot bread and milk prepared for Jinty's breakfast from which he flatly refused to be elbowed away. "My pretty! Has it snatched the very cup from thy lip!" Mrs. Barbara's indignation boiled over against the bold audacious tyrant so abetted by its master--and hers. "If I'd but my will o' thee, thou thief, I'd flog thee sore!" she added. "Quoth the raven: never more!" solemnly edged in the professor, with a ponderous chuckle over his own aptitude which went unapplauded save by himself. "I want my breakfast, grandpapa," whimpered Jinty. It was all very funny indeed to witness Mike's reckless charge of destruction over the snowy tablecloth, but, when it came to his calm appropriation of her own breakfast, why, as Mrs. Barbara said, "Flesh and blood couldn't stand it." "Have a cup of black coffee and some omelette, dearling!" said the professor, who would not have called anybody "darling" for the world. Then the reckless old gentleman proceeded to placidly sort the letters lying on the breakfast-table, comfortably unconscious that little maids "cometh up" on different fare from that of tough old veterans. "Why, why! Here's a surprise for us all!" Pushing back his spectacles into the very roots of his white hair, the professor stared feebly round on the company, and twiddled in his fingers a sheet of thin foreign paper. "Yes, sir?" Mrs. Barbara turned to her master eagerly alert for the news, and Jinty wondered if it were to say the dream-father was coming home at last. But Mike, though some folk believe that ravens understand every word you say, continued to dip again and again into his stolen bread and milk with a lofty indifference. It might be an earthquake that had come to Old Studley for all he knew. What if it were? There would always be a ledge of rock somewhere about where he, Mike, could hold on in safety if the earth were topsy-turvy. Besides, he had now scooped up the last scrap of Jinty's breakfast, and it behoved him to be up and doing some mischief. His bold black eye caught a gleam of silver, an opportunity ready to his beak. It was a quaint little Norwegian silver salt-cellar in the form of a swan. Mike, with his head on one side, considered the feasibility of removing that ancient Norse relic quietly. Then, afraid perhaps of bringing about bad luck by spilling the salt, he gave up the idea and stole softly away, unnoticed by his betters, who seemed ridiculously occupied with a thin, rustling sheet of paper. But to this day Mrs. Barbara has never found the salt-spoon, a little silver oar, belonging to that Norse salt-cellar, and she never will, that's certain. "Extraordinary, most extraordinary!" the professor was repeating. Then, when Mrs. Barbara felt she could bear it no longer, he went on to read out the foreign letter. It was from his son, Jinty's father, and told how his life had been recently in grave peril. His house had been attacked by native rioters, and he would certainly have been murdered had it not been for the warning of a friendly Chinaman. Mr. Ransom escaped in the darkness, but the loyal native who had saved him, paid the cost with his own life. He was cruelly hacked to pieces for his so-called treachery. When the rioters were quelled by a British detachment, Mr. Ransom's first thought was for the family of his faithful friend. But it was too late. With the exception of one tiny girl all had been killed by the rioters. This forlorn little orphan was already on her way crossing the Pacific, for she was to be housed and educated at Old Studley with Mr. Ransom's own little daughter, and at his expense. Common gratitude could do no less. [Sidenote: Ah Lon] The letter went on to say that Ah Lon, the little Chinese maiden, was a well-brought-up child, her father belonging to the anti-foot-binding community which is fast making its way throughout China. She would therefore be no more trouble in the old home than a little English girl, than father's own Jinty, in fact. "Well, of course," said the Professor meditatively, "the heavy end of the beam will come upon you, my good Barbara. There's plenty of room in the old house for this young stranger, but she will be a great charge for you." "'Deed, sir, and it's a charge I never looked to have put upon me!" quavered the scandalised Mrs. Barbara, twisting the corner of her apron agitatedly. "A haythen Chinee under this respected roof where there's been none but Christian Ransoms for generations back!" "There, there!" said her master soothingly. "Your motherly heart would never turn away a poor orphan from our door!" But Mrs. Barbara sniffed herself out of the room, and it was weeks before she reconciled herself to the new and disagreeable prospect. Indeed, when poor, shivering Ah Lon arrived at Old Studley, the good woman nearly swooned at the spectacle of a little visitor arrayed in dark blue raiment consisting of a long, square-shaped jacket and full trousers, and a bare head stuck over with well-oiled queues of black hair. "I thought as Mr. William wrote it was a girl, sir!" she gasped faintly, with a shocked face. But the old professor was in ecstasies. All he could think of was the fact that under his roof was a being who could converse in pure Chinese; in truth, poor bewildered Ah Lon could not speak in anything else but her native tongue. He would have carried her off to his study and monopolised her, but Mrs. Barbara's sense of propriety was fired. "No, sir," she interposed firmly. "If that being's the girl Mr. William sent she's got to look as such in some of Miss Jinty's garments and immediately." So Ah Lon, trembling like a leaf, was carried off to be attired like a little English child. "But as for looking like one, that she never will!" Mrs. Barbara hopelessly regarded the strangely-wide little yellow face, the singular eyes narrow as slits, and the still more singular eyebrows. "Oh, never mind how she looks!" Jinty put her arms round the little yellow neck and lovingly kissed the stranger, who summarily shook her off. Perhaps Ah Lon was not accustomed to kisses at home. It was a rebuff, and Jinty got many another as the days went on. Do what she could to please and amuse the little foreigner, Ah Lon shrank from her persistently. [Illustration: HORRIBLE DREAMS OF MONSTERS AND DEMONS.] All Jinty's treasures, dolls and toys and keepsakes were exhibited, but Ah Lon turned away indifferently. The Chinese girl, in truth, was deadly home-sick, but she would have died rather than confess it, even to the professor, the only person who understood her speech. She detested the new, strange country, the queer, unknown food, the outlandish ways. Yet she was in many respects happier. Some of the old hardships of girl life in China were gone. Some old fears began to vanish, and her nights were no longer disturbed with horrible dreams of monsters and demons. But of all things in and about Old Studley Ah Lon most detested Mike the raven, and Mike seemed fully to return her dislike. He pecked viciously at the spindly Chinese legs and sent Ah Lon into convulsions of terror. "Ah well, bad as he is, Mike's British same's I am, and he do hate a foreigner!" said Mrs. Barbara appreciatively. Time went on and Jinty began to shoot up; she was growing quite tall, and Ah Lon also grew apace. But, still, though the little foreigner could now find her way about in the language of her new country, she shut her heart against kind little Jinty's advances. "She won't have anything to say to me!" complained Jinty, "she won't make friends, Mrs. Barbara! The only thing she will look at is my pearl locket, she likes that!" Indeed Ah Lon seemed never tired of gazing at the pearl-rimmed locket which hung by a slender little chain round Jinty's neck, and contained the miniature of her pretty young mother so long dead. The little Chinese never tired of stroking the sweet face looking out from the rim of pearls. "Do you say prayers to it?" she asked, in her stammering English. "Prayers, no!" Jinty was shocked. "I only pray to our Father and to the good Jesus. Why, you wouldn't pray to a picture?" Ah Lon was silent. So perhaps she had been praying to the sweet painted face already, who could say? It was soon after this talk that the two little girls sat in the study one morning. Ah Lon was at the table by the side of the professor, an open atlas between them and the old gentleman in his element. But Jinty sat apart, strangely quiet. Ah Lon, watching out of her slits of eyes, had never seen Jinty so dull and silent. And all that summer day it was the same. "What's amiss with my dear maid?" anxiously asked Mrs. Barbara, when bed-time came. Then it all came out. "I've lost my pearl-rimmed locket!" sobbed Jinty. "Ah Lon asked to look at it this morning the first thing; she always does, you know. And I took it off, and then Mike pecked my legs and Ah Lon's so hard that we both ran away screaming, and I must have dropped the locket--and it's gone!" "Gone! That can't be! Unless--unless----" Mrs. Barbara hesitated, and Jinty knew they were thinking the same thing. "Have you told Ah Lon, deary?" "I did this afternoon, and she cried. I never saw her cry before!" "Ah, jes' so! You can't trust they foreigners. But I'll sift this business, I shall!" vigorously said Mrs. Barbara. But for days the disappearance of the locket was a mystery. In Mrs. Barbara's mind there was no doubt that Ah Lon had taken the coveted picture and concealed it in safe hiding. Jinty almost thought so too, and a gloom crept over Old Studley. "I dursn't tell the master, he's that wrapped up in the wicked little yellow-faced creature. I'll step over to the parson and tell he," Mrs. Barbara decided, and arraying herself in her Sunday best, she sallied forth to the vicarage. As she crossed the little common shouts and laughter and angry chatter fell on her ear. A group of schoolboys, the parson's four little sons, were closing in round a dark object. "Why, if that isn't our Mike! I never knew the bird to go outside of Old Studley before. What----" "Oh, Mrs. Barbara, do come along here!" Reggie, the eldest of the four, turned his head and beckoned her. [Sidenote: Mike's Mishap] "Here's a nice go! We've run your Mike in, and see his fury, do! Our Tommy was looking for birds' eggs in the Old Studley hedge, and he saw a shine of gold and pulled out this! And Mike chased him, madly pecking his legs, out here to the common. And now he's fit to fly at me because I've got his stolen goods. Look, do!" Reggie doubled up with yells of laughter, and Mike, in a storm of fury, shrieked himself hoarse. But Mrs. Barbara stood dumb. In a flash the truth had come to her. Mike, not poor Ah Lon, was the thief. She tingled all over with remorseful shame as she crept home with the locket in her hand. "Oh, and we thought you had stolen it, Ah Lon dear!" Jinty confessed, with wild weeping; but Ah Lon was placidly smoothing the precious little picture. It was enough for her that it had come back. "Grandpapa must know; he must be told!" went on Jinty, determined not to spare herself. When the professor heard the whole story he was very quiet indeed. But a few days after he went up to London on a little visit, and when he returned he called Jinty into the study. "This," he said, opening a case, "will perhaps make up to the friendless little stranger for your unjust suspicions!" He handed Jinty a pearl-edged locket with a painting of a Chinese lady's head. "Chinese faces are so similar that it may serve as a remembrance of her own mother. And this, Jinty dearling, will keep alive in your memory one of our Lord's behests!" From another case came a dainty silver bangle inside of which Jinty read, with misty eyes, the engraved words: _Judge not!_ But already their meaning was engraved on her heart; and--as time won Ah Lon's shy affections--she and the little Chinese stranger grew to be as true sisters under the roof of Old Studley. [Sidenote: The artistic life sometimes leaves those who follow it largely dependent upon the stimulus and the aid which the devotion of others may supply. Rembrandt was a case in point, and the story of his sister's life is worth recalling.] Rembrandt's Sister A Noble Life Recalled BY HENRY WILLIAMS The first glimpse we get of the noble woman who is the subject of this sketch gives us the key to her whole character. Her brother, the famous Paul Rembrandt, had come home from school in disgrace, and it is as his defender that Louise Gerretz first shows herself to the world. Her tender, sympathetic heart could find excuse for a brother who would not learn Latin because even as a child his heart was set upon becoming a painter. We know how he succeeded, but it is not always one's early desires are fulfilled so completely as they were in Paul's case. It was in the evening of the very same day on which Louise championed her brother's cause that we find her almost heart-broken, yet bravely hiding her own grief and comforting her younger sisters and brothers in a terrible affliction, the most terrible that can overtake a family of young children. This was the sudden death of the beloved mother, who had been an invalid for some time. The father was a drunken sot, who had fallen into heavy slumber even while his dying wife was uttering her last request to him on earth; this was that he would make an artist of the young Paul, instead of a lawyer, as was his intention. The next day, while preparations were going on for the funeral, the brutal husband sought refuge from remorse in the bottle, so that for the most part of the day he was hopelessly drunk. In this emergency Louise (who was only fifteen) took the direction of affairs into her own hands. The little ones had been crying all day for their mother, and would not be even separated from the corpse. They were inconsolable, and at last the youngest sobbed out, "Who will be our mother now?" At this question Louise arose, and said, with deep and solemn earnestness, "I will!" There was something in her manner which struck the children with wonder. Their tears ceased immediately. It seemed as if an angel stood beside Louise, and said, "Behold your mother!" "Do you not wish me for your mother?" she repeated. The little ones ran into her embrace. She folded her arms around them, and all wept together. She had conquered the children with love, and they were no more trouble to her. They all gladly gave the promise to look up to and obey her in everything. But a harder task was before her. Strangers were present who must soon find out that her father was intoxicated, on this day of all others, if she did not get him out of the way. She succeeded at last, after infinite pains, and that so well that no one knew the state he was in, and thus he was saved from the open disgrace that would surely have followed him had it got about. The sad duties of the funeral over, Louise Gerretz braced herself to the task of looking after the numerous household affairs. Nor was this all she had to do, for her father carried on the business of a miller, and because of his drunken habits his daughter had the workpeople to look after, and also the shop to attend to. But she was sustained by the thought that her sainted mother was looking on her from heaven, and this helped her to bear up during the trying times that followed. She now determined that, if it were possible, her brother Paul--who, afterwards following the usual custom amongst painters of the time, changed his name to Rembrandt--should have every opportunity afforded him of following his natural bent. [Sidenote: "I will be a Painter!"] But no sooner was the subject broached to M. Gerretz than his anger blazed forth, and though Louise withstood him for some time, she felt her cherished plans would receive no consideration whatever from a father who was three-parts of his time crazed with drink. Little Paul, who was present, seeing that the appeal would probably end in failure, exclaimed, with determined voice, "I will be a painter!" A blow aimed at him was his father's reply. The blow missed its mark, but struck the sister-mother to the earth. Heedless of his own danger, Paul raised his sister's head, and bathed it tenderly until she came to herself again. Even the brutish Gerretz was somewhat shocked by what he had done, yet seizing what he thought an advantage, he cried, "Hark ye, young rascal! You mind not blows any more than my plain orders; but your sister helps you out in all your disobedience, and if you offend me I will punish her." The brutal threat had its desired effect, and young Paul returned to those studies which were intended to make a lawyer of him. Every spare moment, however, he spent in his favourite pursuit. His materials were of the roughest: a charred stick, a lump of chalk, and a flour sack. Not very encouraging tools, one would think, and yet the genius that was within would not be hid. He produced from memory a portrait of his mother, that had such an effect upon the father that the latter, affected to tears by the sight of his dead wife's face, dismissed the boy with his blessing, and promised him he should be a painter after all. Great was Louise's joy; and then, like the loving, practical sister she was, she immediately set about the young artist's outfit. Nor did she pause until everything was in apple-pie order. Surely God was strengthening and comforting His own. Just consider; here was a young girl, now only sixteen years of age, who had the management of a miller's business, was a mother and sister in one to three young children, and, one is almost tempted to say, was also a tender, loving wife to a drunken, incapable father. The journey to Leyden, whither Paul was bound, was not without incident of a somewhat romantic kind. As the vehicle in which Louise and the future great painter sat neared Leyden, they came upon a man who lay insensible upon the road. The tender heart of the girl was touched, and she stopped and restored the man to consciousness, and then pressed further assistance upon him. The grateful recipient of her kindness, however, soon feeling strong enough, proceeded on his way alone. The scene had not passed without a witness, though, who proved to be none other than the eminent master-painter Van Zwanenburg, who joined himself to the little party. But his brow darkened when he learned the purport of the young traveller's journey, and he spoke no more for some time, for he was a misanthrope, and, consequently, took small share in the hopes and pleasures of others. Soon after, however, as they were passing a forge, young Paul stopped and clapped his hands with delight at the sight of the ruddy light cast on the faces of the workmen. "Canst thou sketch this scene?" asked Van Zwanenburg. Paul took a pencil, and in a few moments traced a sketch, imperfect, no doubt, but one in which the principal effects of light and shade especially were accurately produced. "Young girl," said the painter, "you need go no further. I am Van Zwanenburg, and I admit your brother from this minute to my studio." Further conversation ensued, and Van Zwanenburg soon learned the whole sorrowful tale, and also the courage and devotedness of this young foster-mother. He dismissed her with a blessing, misanthrope even as he was, and then carried Paul to his studio, lighter at heart for having done a kind action. Sorrowful, and yet with a glad heart, did Louise part from little Paul, and then turn homewards. Little did she dream of the great sorrow that was there awaiting her. [Sidenote: Lost in the Forest] Arriving at home in the dark, she was startled to find that no one answered her repeated knocking. Accompanied by an old servant, who had been with her in the journey, she was about to seek assistance from the neighbours, when lights were seen in the adjoining forest. She hastened towards these, and was dismayed to learn that the two children left at home had strayed away and got lost in the forest. M. Gerretz was amongst the searchers, nearly frantic. The men were about to give up the search when Louise, with a prayer for strength on her lips, appealed to them to try once more. She managed to regulate the search this time, sending the men off singly in different directions, so as to cover as much ground as possible. Then with her father she set out herself. It was morning when they returned. Gerretz, sober enough now, was bearing the insensible form of the brave girl in his arms. She recovered, but only to learn that one of the children had been brought in dead, while the other was nearly so. This sister thus brought so near to death's door was to prove a sore trial in the future to poor Louise. A hard life lay before Louise, and it was only by God's mercy that she was enabled to keep up under the manifold trials that all too thickly strewed her path. Her father, sobered for a time by the dreadful death of his child, through his own negligence, soon fell back into his evil ways, and became more incapable than ever. The business would have gone to the dogs had it not been for his heroic daughter, who not only looked after the household, but managed the mill and shop as well. All this was done in such a quiet, unostentatious manner that no one of their friends or customers but thought that the father was the chief manager. But Louise had other trials in store. Her sister Thérèse was growing up into young womanhood, and rebelled against her gentle, loving authority. The father aided Thérèse in the rebellion, as he thought Louise kept too tight a hold of the purse-strings. Between father and sister, poor Louise had a hard time of it; she even, at one time, was compelled to sell some valued trinkets to pay a bill that was due, because money she had put by for the purpose was squandered in drink and finery. The father died, and then after many years we see Louise Gerretz established in the house of Van Zwanenburg the artist, the same who had taken young Paul as a pupil. Both Louise and Paul were now his adopted children; nor was he without his reward. Under the beneficent rule of the gentle Louise things went so smoothly that the artist and his pupils blessed the day when she came amongst them. But before the advent of Louise, her brother Paul had imbibed a great share of his master's dark and gloomy nature, and, what was perhaps even worse, had already, young as he was, acquired the habit of looking at everything from a money-making standpoint. Another great sorrow was in store for Louise, though she came from the ordeal with flying colours, and once more the grand self-sacrificing nature of the young woman shone out conspicuous amidst its surroundings of sordid self-interest. It was in this way. The nephew of Van Zwanenburg, with the approval of his uncle, wooed and eventually obtained her consent to their marriage. On the death of the father, Thérèse had been taken home by an aunt, who possessed considerable means, to Brussels. The aunt was now dead, and Thérèse, who inherited some of her wealth, came to reside near her sister and brother. She was prepossessing and attractive, and very soon it became evident that the lover of Louise, whose name was Saturnin, had transferred his affection to the younger sister. Saturnin, to his credit, did try to overcome his passion for Thérèse, but only found himself becoming more hopelessly in love with her handsome face and engaging ways. Van Zwanenburg stormed, and even forbade the young man his house. Louise herself seemed to be the only one who did not see how things were going. She was happy in her love, which, indeed, was only increased by the thought that her promised husband and her sister seemed to be on the best of terms. But one day she received a terrible awakening from her happy dreams. She heard two voices whispering, and, almost mechanically, stopped to listen. It was Saturnin and Thérèse. "I will do my duty," Saturnin was saying; "I will wed Louise. I will try to hide from her that I have loved another, even though I die through it." Great was the grief of poor Louise, though, brave girl as she was, she strove to stifle her feelings, lest she should give pain to those she loved. A little later she sought Van Zwanenburg, and begged that he would restore Saturnin to favour, and consent to his marriage with Thérèse. She was successful in her mission of love, though not at first. [Sidenote: A Terrible Blow] Hiding her almost broken heart, Louise now strove to find comfort in the thought that she had made others happy, though she had to admit it was at a terrible cost to herself. Her unselfishness had a great effect upon the old artist, whose admiration for his adopted daughter now knew no bounds. Through her he was restored to his faith in human nature, and he asked God to forgive him for ever doubting the existence of virtue. We cannot follow Louise Gerretz through the next twenty years. Suffice it to say that during that time Van Zwanenburg passed peacefully away, and that Paul Rembrandt, whose reputation was now well established, had married. The lonely sister tried to get on with Paul's wife, but after a few years she had sadly to seek a home of her own. At the end of the twenty years Louise one day received the following curt letter from her miserly brother: "SISTER,--My wife is dead, my son is travelling, I am alone. "PAUL REMBRANDT." The devoted sister, still intent on making others happy, started at once to her brother, and until the day of his death she never left him. A great change had come over Rembrandt. He had become more morose and bitter than ever. Success had only seemed to harden his heart, until nothing but the chinking of gold had any effect upon it. He was immensely wealthy, but a miser. As the years passed the gloom settled deeper upon his soul, until finally he shut himself up in his dark studio, and would see no one but Jews and money-brokers. At times he would not let a picture go unless it had been covered with gold, as the price of it. With all this wealth, the house of the famous painter bore a poverty-stricken look, which was copied in the person of Rembrandt himself. Just before the end, when he felt himself seized by his death-sickness, Paul one day called his sister to his bedside, and, commanding her to raise a trapdoor in the floor of his bedroom, showed her his hoard of gold. He then begged, as his last request, that he should be buried privately, and that neither his son, nor indeed any one, should know that he died rich. Louise was to have everything, and the graceless son nothing. [Sidenote: Louise's Refusal] Great was his anger when his sister declared she should not keep the gold, but would take care that it passed into the hands of those who would know how to use it properly. Louise was firm, and Rembrandt was powerless to do more than toss about in his distress. But gradually, under the gentle admonitions of his sister, the artist's vision seemed to expand, and before his death he was enabled to see where and how he had made shipwreck of his happiness. Thanks to the ministrations of his sister, his end was a peaceful one, and he died blessing her for all her devotion to him. Louise's own useful and devoted life was now near its close. After winding up the affairs of her brother, she undertook to pay a visit to her sister, who had fallen ill. It was too much for the good old soul; she died on the journey. [Sidenote: Hepsie's misdeed led, when she understood it, to a bold act which had very gratifying results.] Hepsie's Christmas Visit BY MAUD MADDICK "I say, little mother," said Hepsie, as she tucked her hand under Mrs. Erldon's arm, and hurried her along the snowy path from the old church door, "I say--I've been thinking what a jolly and dear old world this is, and if only the people in it were a little bit nicer, why, there wouldn't be a thing to grumble at, would there?" Mrs. Erldon turned her rather sad, but sweet face towards her little daughter, and smiled at her. Somehow folks often _did_ smile at Hepsie. She was such a breezy brisk sort of child, and had a way of looking at life in general that was distinctly interesting. "Of course, dearie," she went on, in that protecting little manner Hepsie loved to adopt when talking to her beloved mother, "you can't imagine I am thinking of people like you. If every one were half--no--a quarter as delightful as _you_, the world would be charming. Oh dear no, I am not flattering at all, I am just speaking the truth; but there aren't many of your kind about, as I find out more and more every day." "My dearest of little girls," interrupted her mother, as they turned into Sunnycoombe Lane, where the snow lay crisply shining, and the trees were flecked with that dainty tracing of frozen white, "you look at me through glasses of love, and _they_ have a knack of painting a person as fair as you wish that one to be. Supposing you give the rest of the world a little of their benefit, Hepsie mine!" [Sidenote: An Unruly Member] Hepsie flung back her head, and laughed lightly. "Oh, you artful little mother! That's your gentle way of telling me, what, of course, I know--that I am a horrid girl for impatience and temper, when I get vexed; but you know, mother darling, I shall never be able to manage my tongue. It was born too long, and though on this very Christmas morning I have been making ever so many good resolutions to keep the tiresome thing in order--you mark my words, little mother, if it doesn't run off in some dreadful way directly it gets the chance--and then you'll be grieved--and I shall be sorry--and some one or other will be _in a rage_!" Mrs. Erldon drew in her lips. It was hard to keep from laughing at the comical look on the little girl's face, and certainly what she said was true. Some one was very often in a rage with Hepsie's tongue. It was a most outspoken and unruly member, and yet belonged to the best-hearted child in the whole of Sunnycoombe, and the favourite, too, in spite of her temper, which was so quickly over, and her repentance always so sincere and sweet. She was looking up into Mrs. Erldon's face now with great honest blue eyes in which a faint shadow could be seen. "I met my grandfather this morning," she said in a quick, rather nervous voice, "and I told him he was a wicked old man!" Her mother turned so white that Hepsie thought she was going to faint, and hung on to her arm in terror and remorse. "Don't look like that!" she burst forth desperately. "I know I ought to be shaken, and ought to be ashamed of myself--but it's no use--I'm not either one or the other, only I wish I hadn't done it now, because I've vexed you on Christmas morning!" Mrs. Erldon walked along, looking straight ahead. [Illustration: "DO FORGIVE ME, MOTHER DARLING!"] "I'd rather you did shake me," said Hepsie, in a quivering tone, "only you couldn't do such a thing, I know. You're too kind--and I'm always saying something I shouldn't. Do forgive me, mother darling! You can't think what a relief it was to me to speak like that to my grandfather, who thinks he's all the world, and something more, just because he's the Lord of the Manor and got a hateful heap of money, and it'll do him good (when he's got over his rage) to feel that there's his own little granddaughter who isn't afraid of him and tells him the truth----" "Hepsie!" Hepsie paused, and stared. Her gentle mother was gazing so strangely and sternly at her. "You are speaking of my father, Hepsie," she said quietly, but in a voice new to her child, though it was still gentle and low, "and in treating him with disrespect you have hurt me deeply." "Oh, but mother--darling, darling mother," cried the child, with tears springing to her beautiful eyes, "I wouldn't hurt you for a million wicked old grandfathers! I'd rather let him do anything he liked that was bad to me, but what I can't stand is his making you sad and unhappy, and making poor daddy go right away again to that far-away place in South Africa, which he never need have done if it hadn't been for being poor, though he must be finding money now, or he couldn't send you those lovely furs, and----" "Oh, Hepsie, Hepsie, that little tongue, how it gallops along! Be quiet at once, and listen to me! There, dear, I can't bear to see tears in your eyes on Christmas Day, and when you and I are just the two together on this day--your father so many, many miles distant from us, and poor grandfather nursing his anger all alone in the big old house." Her tone was full of a deep sorrow, and for once, young as she was, Hepsie understood that here was an emotion upon which she must not remark, though she muttered in her own heart: "All through his own wicked old temper." Mrs. Erldon took Hepsie's hand in her own as they walked towards the little home at the end of the long country lane. [Sidenote: Mrs. Erldon Explains] "I will not scold you, my darling," she said; "but in future never forget that God Himself commands that we shall honour our parents, and even if they grieve their children, Hepsie, that does not do away with children's duty, and a parent is a parent as long as life lasts--to be honoured and--loved! You are twelve years old, dear, and big enough now to understand how sad I am that my dear old father will not forgive me for marrying your father, and I think I had better explain things a little to you, Hepsie. There was some one--a rich cousin--whom my father had always hoped and wished that I should marry as soon as I was old enough; but when I was twenty-one, and was travelling with grandfather, you know, that is my own father--we made the acquaintance of a gentleman in South Africa--Alfred Erldon--who was of English parentage, but had lived out there all his life. Well, Hepsie, I need only say that this gentleman and I decided to marry against grandfather's desire. We were married in Johannesburg, to his great displeasure, so he refused to have anything to do with us, and returned to England, declaring he would never speak to me again. "I never thought that he really meant such a thing, he had always loved me so dearly, and I loved him so much. I wrote again and again, but there was no answer to any of my letters. Then, my darling, you were born, and soon after, the great South African War broke out, and your dear father made me leave Johannesburg and bring you to England. Of course, I came to the old home--Sunnycoombe--but only to find I was still unforgiven, for the letter I sent to say I was in the village was not answered either, humbly as I begged my father to see me. All the same, Hepsie, I have remained here at your father's wish, for he lost money, and had to 'trek north,' as they say, to a wild part of Rhodesia, where white women could not go." Mrs. Erldon's tears were nearly falling as she added: "Things have gone badly with him, and only once has he been able to come to England to spend a few months with us, as you remember, five years ago, but soon, now you are older, I shall go and face the life, however rough it may be. Now, no more talk, for here we are, darling, and, please God, this may be the last Christmas that we spend without daddy, in England or Africa, as it may be." "And I won't grieve you again to-day, darling little mother," whispered Hepsie, quite sobered at the thought of mother without either her daddy or Hepsie's on Christmas Day again, and no letter from Africa by the usual mail. [Sidenote: An Afternoon Call] It was a glorious afternoon, and when Mrs. Erldon settled down for a rest, Hepsie asked if she might go out for a run, to which her mother at once agreed. In this quiet little peaceful spot in Somersetshire there was no reason why a girl of Hepsie's age should not run about freely, and so, warmly wrapped up, the child trotted off--but any one watching her small determined face would have seen that this was not an ordinary walk upon her part. She left the old lane and turned towards a different part of Sunnycoombe. She approached the big Manor House through its wide gates, and along broad paths of well-trimmed trees. As she did so Hepsie breathed a little more quickly than usual, while a brilliant colour stole into her fair young cheeks. "When one does wrong," she murmured determinedly, "there is only one thing to follow--and that is to put the wrong right, if one can. I spoke rudely to my darling little mother's own father, and though he's a terrible old man, he's got to have an apology, which is a wretched thing to have to give; and he's got to hear that his daughter never would and never did teach her little girl to be rude, no, not even to a cantankerous old grandfather, who won't speak to a lovely sweet woman like my mother." She reached the porch, and pulled fiercely at the old-fashioned bell, then fairly jumped at the loud clanging noise that woke the silence of the quiet afternoon. The door opened so suddenly that Hepsie was quite confused, and for the moment took the stately old butler for her grandfather himself, offered her hand, and then turned crimson. "Good gracious me!" she said in her brisk voice. "Do you stand behind the door all day? You made me jump so that I don't know what I am saying, but--well--I must see my grandfather at once, please." Every one in the village knew all about the child and who she was, and the man was more than surprised at seeing her dare to come there, and he also felt very nervous. "You run away, miss," he said in a confidential whisper, "an' more's the shame I should have to say so, but, bless your heart, the master wouldn't see you, and it's more than I dare to tell him you're wanting." "You need not trouble," Hepsie said; "if I had not made a big resolution to look after my tongue, I should say more than you would enjoy hearing--talking to a lady (who comes to visit your master on Christmas Day) like you are doing to me; not that you may not mean kindly, now I come to think of it, but meaning goes for nothing, my good man, if you do a wrong thing, and you can't tell me that you are the one to decide whom your master will see or not." She waited to take a breath, while the man rubbed his white hair in great perplexity, and feeling rather breathless himself; but Hepsie calmly walked by him, and before he could recover from the shock, he saw her disappear into the dining-room! Hepsie never forgot that moment. Seated at a long table was a solitary and lonely-looking figure, supporting one thin old cheek on his hand as he rested his elbow on the table and seemed to be gazing far away into space. She did not know that he was rather deaf, and had not heard her enter, and she stood and looked at him, with her heart aching in a funny sort of way, she thought, for the sake of a wicked old man. She stared and stared, and the more she stared, the bigger a lump in her throat seemed to become. The room was so quiet and he sat so still, and something in his face brought that of her mother to her mind. At last she walked right up to him, and, feeling if she did not get out the words quickly she never would, Hepsie stretched out her hand and said: "When I stopped you in the lane to-day, I didn't know how much mother still loved you, and I forgot all about honouring parents, however unkind they seem, or I shouldn't have told you what I did, however true it was, for I hurt mother shockingly, as any one could see, and I've promised to look after my tongue much better, and so I just rushed up here to say--what I have said--and--and--please that's all, except----" She gulped and choked, her small quivering and scarlet face with the pitiful eyes gazing down into his--and the years rolled away in the old man's sight, and his daughter was back at his side again. What was she saying in that pleading voice, as she knelt and clasped his shaking hand? "Except--except--I'm sorry, I am! Oh--I didn't think how sad you were, and can't you love me just a bit?" And what were Hepsie's feelings then when the old man rose, and seizing her in his arms, cried brokenly: "Oh, child, if only your mother had said the same--only just once in the midst of my anger--but she passed her father by, she passed him by! And never a word in all these years of my loneliness and pain! My heart is breaking, for all its pride!" "She wrote again and again," declared Hepsie, and he started, and such a frown came then, that she was quite frightened, though she repeated, "Indeed she did, and she loves you still." "Then," said he, "they never reached me! Some one has come between us. But never mind that now. I must go to your mother. Come," he added, "I must fetch my girl back to her home again, until her husband claims her from me." [Sidenote: A Surprise] But when the two reached the little house in the lane a surprise awaited them. They found Mrs. Erldon in her husband's arms. He had returned unexpectedly, having, as a successful prospector for gold, done well enough to return home at once to fetch his wife and child. No words could describe the joy in his wife's heart when her father took their hands and asked their forgiveness for years of estrangement, and told the tale of the intercepted letters, which he might never have discovered had it not been for little Hepsie's Christmas visit of peace and goodwill. Hepsie is learning to control that little tongue of hers now, and she has, framed in her room, a verse that mother wrote for Hepsie especially: Take heed of the words that hastily fly, Lest sorrow should weep for them by and by, And the lips that have spoken vainly yearn, Sighing for words that can never return! [Sidenote: A glimpse of South African travel, with some of the humours of the road.] Our African Driver BY J. H. SPETTIGUE "Here comes the wagon to be packed!" called the children, as with a creak and groan of wheels, and shouts from the Kafirs, it was brought lumbering to the door. "The vor-chiest is ready, Lang-Jan," said Mrs. Gilbert, coming to the door. "Everything that can, had better be put in place to-night." "Ja, Meeses," agreed Jan. "It's a long trek from this here place to the town in one day, and I will start early, while the stars are still out." Lang-Jan was our driver, so called to distinguish him from the numerous other Jans about the place. The distinction was appropriate, for he looked very tall and slim, though it might be the contrast with his wife's massive build that gave him a false presentment. He was more proud of her bulk than of his own height, and used to jeer at his Hottentot leader for the scraggy appearance of _his_ weaker half, possibly with the kindly intention of reducing the number, or severity, of the poor creature's beatings. I do not believe Jan ever beat his wife, though I think she was as lazy a woman as could be found. Perhaps he got most of his rations provided from the house, and was not dependent on her for his comfort. However, he seemed to me to have a Mark Tapley temper; the more unendurable the weather got, the cheerier he grew with his guttural and yet limpid cries to the oxen, and his brisk steps by their side. There was one thing, however, he could not see in patience--an amateur who had borrowed his whip with the proud intention of "helping to drive" letting the end of four yards of lash draggle over the dewy karoo, thereby making it limp and reducing its power to clack in the approved fashion. * * * * * [Sidenote: An Early Start] "We had better sleep in the wagon, then we shall not be disturbed so early," cried one of the children; but we older people preferred the idea of half a night's rest indoors to lying awake on the cartels in the wagon listening to the tossings and complaints of others. We had been staying by the sea, and were now to journey homewards. Long before daylight, the noise of the oxen and clank of trek-chain told that inspanning was begun, and those of us who were to form the wagon party sprang out of bed and made a hurried toilet, while the Kafir women carried off the feather-beds and blankets, to stow in their allotted places in the wagon. Mr. Gilbert and his wife, with the younger children, were to follow in a four-horse Cape-cart. "Isn't it too dark to be trekking?" he called from his window. "The roads is good down here," said Jan. "I can see enough"; and he hurried his leader, and got us under way without more ado. * * * * * We had the front curtain of the tent rolled up, and sat about on the boxes in silence for some time, listening to the plash of the sea upon the beach, every minute somebody giving a yawn. "I cannot think why Lang-Jan is hurrying on so," said Constance at last, "unless he thinks it will be a very hot day again. The oxen gave out as we were coming down, and we had to outspan about five miles off." "I _was_ cross," said a younger sister. "You need not tell us that. We have not forgotten," laughed another. "Well, I thought I could hear the sea, and I had been meaning to run down and have a bathe directly we stopped. It was enough to make one cross. And then that stupid old Kafir and Jan over the outspan money, and our none of us being able to find any change. I believe Jan was glad we couldn't pay." "Jan resents having to pay outspan money: he will wriggle out of it if he can," said Constance. We had gone the first three or four miles with plenty of noise, clack of whip and shout at team, but this gradually subsided, and with a warning to April, the leader, to have the oxen well in the middle of the road and to keep right on, Jan sank into such silence as was possible. Constance rose, and began to fumble for her purse. We heard a stealthy order to April to run, and the whip sounded again about one ox and another, while we were tipped about in all directions as the team suddenly put on a tremendous spurt. In the dim light we could see the outlines of a hut close by the road, and a Kafir sprang out of the doorway towards us shouting for his money. Jan took no notice, but whipped and shouted and trotted along as if his were the only voice upraised. "Stop, Jan, stop!" called Constance. But Jan was suddenly deaf. The other man was not, however, and he ran along after us, followed by a string of undressed children, shouting and gesticulating wildly. "Jan, I insist upon stopping," called Constance. "April, stop the oxen." In spite of all the noise Jan was making, April could not fail to hear the indignant cry of his young mistress, and presently the wagon was halted. Jan hastily popped the whip into the wagon and turned back to confront his enemy. "What do you mean by stopping a wagon in the road like this? Outspan money? We have not outspanned and are not going to on your starved old veldt." "Jan, Jan, you know very well we are owing him two shillings from the last time we passed," said Constance. The stranger Kafir tried to get to the wagon, but Jan barred the passage. He changed his tactics. "Come, let's fight for it," he cried, casting his hat and scarlet head-handkerchief into the karoo out of the way. This offer was declined without thanks. "I shan't fight. The money is mine," protested the other, encouraged by finding his demand was allowed by the ladies. "April, leave the oxen and come here," called Constance. "Give this money to him." [Sidenote: Jan's Principles] This was done at last, to Jan's grief. "Ah, Mees Constance! Why didn't you let me fight him? he was only a little thieving Fingo dog! I didn't outspan in sight of his old hut, and he must have come sneaking around and seen us, and never said he would have money till it was too late." "Well, Jan, and why should our oxen eat up the grass and drink out of the dam without our paying?" asked Constance; but Jan only muttered, "Thief! Dog!" and got away from the scene of his defeat with speed. "That was why we were obliged to start in the middle of the night: Jan wanted to slip by here before the wagon could be recognised," said Constance. Jan had made a stand for his principles, though his mistress's perverted sense of justice had prevented his being able to carry them out. By the time we stopped for breakfast he had quite recovered his spirits; and when he found he had got his party well away from the place without another hateful demand, he seemed to have forgotten his hard fate in the early morning. When we reached the town we lost sight of Jan and his wagon for a couple of days, and took up our abode at an hotel. * * * * * A change had taken place in our party when we collected for the second and longer part of our journey. Mr. Gilbert had gone home with some of the younger ones the day before, while his wife had stayed in town to take the rest of us to a ball. We were all tired as we reached the wagon, with our minds running on the purchases we had made, and lingering regretfully on some we had not. Lang-Jan and April hurried off to fetch the oxen as soon as we appeared; and Mrs. Gilbert began to go through the stores. "Those two Kafirs have eaten up our butter!" she exclaimed indignantly. "I saw what was left when you came, and thought it might not be quite enough. It is lucky I did, and have bought some more, or we should have had none at all. I cannot let such a thing as their taking our provisions pass without notice.--Jan," she said, when he returned, "you have taken my butter." "Oh, Meeses!" exclaimed Jan, as if such a thing was quite out of the question, "not me. It must ha' bin April." "No, Meeses--not me, Jan," said April. "It was both of you, I have no doubt," said Mrs. Gilbert severely. "Oh, Meeses, April, April!" cried Jan, shaking his head. "No, it was Jan," protested the leader, again. Jan burst into a roar of laughter, like a naughty child owning up. "Oh! ja, Meeses! It was me. I looked at that tin of butter and then I said to April, 'I must have some of that lovely butter, whatever comes of it,' and then between us, it's all gone." It seemed impossible to deal with the offence gravely after that. "I shall know I must not leave any in the wagon another time," said the mistress; and we scrambled into our places to be out of the way while the work of inspanning went on. [Sidenote: A Fiery Day] The morning turned into a fiery day. The air shimmered blindingly above the veldt, and the white road, inches deep in dust, trailed ahead like an endless serpent. We panted and gasped under the shelter of the tent; April abandoned his post and climbed up in the back compartment of the wagon, but Jan grew more and more lively. He tightened his waist-belt and ran by the side of his team, encouraging them by voice and example. He wore an old soft felt hat, with a perfectly abject brim, above his scarlet handkerchief, and every quarter of a mile he would take it off and put the ostrich feather that adorned one side straight up, and attempt to pinch the limp brim into shape. In spite of his cheerful snatches of song, and his encouraging cries, the poor beasts showed more and more signs of distress, till at last Jan turned to Mrs. Gilbert and said, "The poor oxen is just done up. We must outspan till it gets cooler." "What, outspan in this pitiless place, with not a house, or a tree, or water to be got at!" cried one of the girls. "There is a water-hole down there," said Jan, pointing to a dip in the ground not far off. "Yes," said Mrs. Gilbert, "I have been down there on horseback." The wagon was drawn off the road, and the weary oxen let loose, while we stretched ourselves on the cartels, but found the heat too great to let us recover any of our lost sleep. After a time some of us, thinking any change must be for the better, dragged ourselves out into the glare, and went to look at the pool of water. But though a few prickly pears and mimosa bushes grew around, it was not an inviting spot to rest in, and we laboured back across the scorching ground to the wagon, our only benefit being more thankfulness for its shelter. April had gone off to see that the oxen did not wander too far. Jan lighted a fire, made coffee for us, and broiled some meat and green mealie cobs. We felt better after our meal, though we had not been hungry for it. Then, to my surprise, Jan settled down to enjoy his share, as close to the fire as he could. I do not know if the burning scrub made a little motion in the air, or if Jan, by roasting one half of his body, felt the other cooler by contrast. Presently I saw, coming slowly across the veldt, a white-haired Kafir, carrying a weakly lamb in his arms. He made straight for Jan and sat down beside him. Constance, who was looking out too, roused herself and gave a little laugh. "Caught," she said, and I knew what she meant. At first the palaver seemed amiable enough, and we saw Jan even go the length of making a present of grilled mutton--chiefly bone, but not all. "An attempt at bribery," murmured Constance. In about half an hour we heard the inevitable demand. One might have thought Jan had never heard of outspan money, instead of its being a familiar and heating subject with him. When at last the claim was made clear to him, he asked the name of the Baas, and expressed the greatest surprise that any man could be so mean as to ask for money, just because poor souls had to wait by the road till it got cool, when it was too hot even for the oxen to eat anything. The explanation that the place was such a convenient distance from town, that if nothing was charged the Baas would have nothing left for his own flocks and herds, was badly received, as was also the reminder that if it was too hot for the oxen to eat much, they would drink all the same. The two argued for an hour, Jan emphatic and expostulating, the old Kafir calm, feeling both right and law were on his side. [Sidenote: "We shan't Pay"] At length, Jan surprised us by announcing, "We shan't pay. Your Baas won't expect money from me anyhow, if he does from other people." "Why not?" exclaimed the other in surprise, for Jan spoke with conviction. "My Baas' wife is cousin to your Baas' wife, so of course we're free on his veldt." We laughed, but the collector remarked that he would go and inquire. So he marched up to the wagon, followed closely by Lang-Jan, in fear of treachery, and asked Mrs. Gilbert if it was true, and being informed that the ladies were related, he retired at once, and Jan triumphantly accompanied him back to the fire. I thought Jan would be happy now the wicked had ceased from troubling, but the storm had its after-roll. He now expressed indignation that two shillings had been demanded. If such an iniquitous claim was made at all, one shilling was all that should be asked for. They harried this point till the stranger asked Jan what odds it was to him--he did not pay the money. "Don't I pay the money?" cried Jan. "Isn't it taken out of my very hand?" "Oh, ja! But it comes out of the Baas' pocket." "It comes out of my very hand," reiterated Jan, springing up; and fetching his whip, he gave three tremendous clacks with it, the signal to April, that could be heard a mile away in the still air, to bring back the oxen; and the baffled enemy picked up his lamb and retired from action. Jan was jubilant, and cheerfully agreed to Mrs. Gilbert's suggestions as to the best camping-place for the night. But I think his triumph was demoralising for him. As evening settled down and we were getting towards our resting-place, we passed by a rare thing--a long wooden fence; and we soon saw that Jan and April were freely helping themselves to the dry wood, and stowing it at the sides of the wagon to save themselves the trouble of collecting any later. "Jan," called his mistress, "you must not steal that wood. The man it belongs to told the Baas he lost so much that he should put somebody to watch, and have any one who was caught taken before Mr. Huntly." "April," shouted Jan, laughing, "look out for old Huntly. The Meeses says we must stop it." Later, when we had outspanned for the night, and they had broiled our sausages, and made the coffee with chuckling anticipation of remainders, they made such a fire as scared Mrs. Gilbert, lest they should set the dry karoo around alight. "Here, April, we must beat it down a bit. The Meeses is feared we shall set the moon afire," laughed Jan, laying about him with a will, as the flames leaped heavenward. The next morning he had to cross a river, and pay toll at the bridge. Why Lang-Jan never objected to that, I do not know, but he came quite meekly for the money. His mistress had not the exact sum, and Jan was some time inside the toll-house, which was also a store. On emerging, he shouted and whipped up his oxen, and off we lumbered. When we came to a hill, and our pace was sufficiently slackened for speech, Mrs. Gilbert called to him, "Jan, where is my change?" "Oh, Meeses!" exclaimed Jan, quite unabashed; "I took the change in tobacco!" [Sidenote: Many girls long for an opportunity to "do something." That was Claudia's way. And, after all, there _was_ an opportunity. Where?] Claudia's Place BY A. R. BUCKLAND "What I feel," said Claudia Haberton, sitting up with a movement of indignation, "is the miserable lack of purpose in one's life." "Nothing to do?" said Mary Windsor. "To do! Yes, of a kind; common, insignificant work about which it is impossible to feel any enthusiasm." "'The trivial round'?" "Trivial enough. A thousand could do it as well or better than I can. I want more--to feel that I am in my place, and doing the very thing for which I am fitted." "Sure your liver is all right?" "There you go; just like the others. One can't express a wish to be of more use in the world without people muttering about discontent, and telling you you are out of sorts." "Well, I had better go before I say worse." And Mary went. Perhaps it was as well; for Claudia's aspirations were so often expressed in terms like these that she began to bore her friends. One, in a moment of exasperation, had advised her to go out as a nursery governess. "You would," she said, "have a wonderful opportunity of showing what is in you, and if you really succeed, you might make at least one mother happy." But Claudia put the idea aside with scorn. Another said it all came of being surrounded with comfort, and that if Claudia had been poorer, she would have been troubled with no such yearnings; the actual anxieties of life would have filled the vacuum. That, too, brought a cloud over their friendship. And the problem remained unsolved. Mr. Haberton, immersed in affairs, had little time to consider his daughter's whims. Mrs. Haberton, long an invalid, was too much occupied in battling with her own ailments, and bearing the pain which was her daily lot, to feel acute sympathy with Claudia's woes. "My dear," she said one day, when her daughter had been more than commonly eloquent upon the want of purpose in her life, "why don't you think of some occupation?" "But what occupation?" said Claudia. "Here I am at home, with everything around me, and no wants to supply----" "That is something," put in Mrs. Haberton. "Oh, yes, people always tell you that; but after all, wouldn't it be better to have life to face, and to----" "Poor dear!" said Mrs. Haberton, stroking her daughter's cheek with a thin hand. "Please don't, mamma," said Claudia; "you know how I dislike being petted like a child." "My dear," said Mrs. Haberton, "I feel my pain again; do give me my medicine." She had asked for it a quarter of an hour before, but Claudia had forgotten so trivial a matter in the statement of her own woes. Now she looked keenly at her mother to see if this request was but an attempt to create a diversion. But the drawn look was sufficient. She hastily measured out the medicine, and as hastily left the room saying, "I will send Pinsett to you at once." Pinsett was Mrs. Haberton's maid, who was speedily upon the spot to deal with the invalid. But Claudia had withdrawn to her own room, where she was soon deep in a pamphlet upon the social position of Woman, her true Rights in the World, and the noble opportunities for Serving Mankind outside the home. [Sidenote: Wanted--a Career] "Ah," said Claudia to herself, "if I could only find some occupation which would give a purpose to existence--something which would make me really useful!" After all, was there any reason why she should not? There was Eroica Baldwin, who had become a hospital nurse, and wore the neatest possible costume with quite inimitable grace. It might be worth while asking her a few questions. It was true she had never much cared for Eroica; she was so tall and strong, so absurdly healthy, and so intolerant of one's aspirations. Still, her experience might be of use. There was Babette Irving--a foolish name, but it was her parents' fault; they had apparently thought she would always remain an infant in arms. Her father had married again, and Babette was keeping house with another woman of talent. [Illustration: HER VERY YOUTH PLEADED FOR HER.] Babette had taken to the pen. Her very youth at first pleaded for her with editors, and she got some work. Then more came; but never quite enough. Now she wrote stories for children and for the "young person," conducted a "Children's Column" in a weekly paper, supplied "Answers to Correspondents" upon a startling variety of absurd questions, and just contrived to live thereby. Babette's friend had been reared in the lap of luxury until a woeful year in the City made her father a bankrupt, and sent her to earn her living as a teacher of singing. They ought to have some advice to give. Then there was Sarah Griffin--"plain Sarah," as some of the unkind had chosen to call her at school. She was one of nine girls, and when her father died suddenly, and was found to have made but poor provision for his family, she had been thankful to find a place in a shop where an association of ladies endeavoured to get a sale for the work of "distressed gentlewomen." She also ought to know something of the world. Perhaps, she, too, could offer some suggestion as to how the life of a poor aimless thing like Claudia Haberton might be animated by a purpose. But they all lived in London, the very place, as Claudia felt, where women of spirit and of "views" should be. If she could but have a few hours of chat with each! And, after all, no doubt, this could be arranged. It was but a little time since Aunt Jane and Aunt Ruth had asked when she was going to cheer them with another visit. Might not their invitation give her just the opportunity she sought? Claudia reflected. She had not in the past cared much for her aunts' household. The elderly maiden ladies were "the dearest creatures," she told herself; but they were not interesting. Aunt Jane was always engaged in knitting with red wool, any fragments of attention which could be given from that task being devoted to Molossus, the toy terrier, who almost dwelt in her lap. Aunt Ruth was equally devoted in the matter of embroidery, and in the watchful eye she kept upon the movements of Scipio, a Persian cat of lofty lineage and austere mien. Their other interests were few, and were mainly centred upon their pensioners amongst the poor. Their friends were of their own generation. Thus in the past Claudia had not felt any eager yearning for the house in St. John's Wood, where the sisters dwelt at peace. But it was otherwise now, because Claudia had new designs upon London. She confided to her mother her readiness to accept the recent invitation. "Go, my dear, by all means," said the invalid; "I am sure you must want a change, especially after so many weeks of looking after me." "Pinsett," said Claudia, salving her own conscience, "is so very careful and efficient." "And so good," added Mrs. Haberton; "you may be sure I shall be safe in her hands." For the moment Claudia was sensible of a little pang. Ought she to be so readily dispensed with? Were her services a quantity which could be neglected? But, after all, this was nothing. She did not neglect her mother; that was out of the question. [Sidenote: Up to Town] So it was agreed that Claudia should go. Aunt Jane wrote a letter expressing her joy at the prospect, and Aunt Ruth added a postscript which was as long as the letter, confirming all that her sister had said. So Claudia went up to town, and was received with open arms by her aunts. * * * * * The placid household at St. John's Wood was all the brighter for Claudia's presence; but she could not suffer herself to remain for more than a day or two in the light of an ordinary visitor. "I came this time, you know," she early explained to Aunt Jane, "on a voyage of exploration." "Of what, my dear?" said Aunt Jane, to whom great London was still a fearsome place, full of grievous peril. "Of exploration, you know. I am going to look up a few old friends, and see how they live. They are working women, who----" "But," said Aunt Jane, "do you think you ought to go amongst the poor alone?" "Oh, they aren't poor in that sense, auntie; they are just single women, old acquaintances of mine--schoolfellows indeed--who have to work for their living. I want to see them again, and find out how they get on, whether they have found their place in life, and are happy." Aunt Jane was not wholly satisfied; but Claudia was not in her teens, nor was she a stranger to London. So the scheme was passed, and all the more readily because Claudia explained that she did not mean to make her calls at random. Her first voyage was to the flat in which Babette Irving and her friend lived. It was in Bloomsbury, and not in a pile of new buildings. In old-fashioned phraseology, Miss Irving and her friend would have been said to have taken "unfurnished apartments," into which they had moved their own possessions. It was a dull house in a dull side street. Babette said that Lord Macaulay in his younger days was a familiar figure in their region, since Zachary Macaulay had lived in a house hard by. That was interesting, but did not compensate for the dinginess of the surroundings. Babette herself looked older. "Worry, my dear, worry," was the only explanation she offered of the fact. It seemed ample. Her room was not decked out with all the prettiness Claudia, with a remembrance of other days, had looked for. Babette seemed to make the floor her waste-paper basket; and there was a shocking contempt for appearance in the way books and papers littered chairs and tables. Nor did Babette talk with enthusiasm of her work. "Enjoy it?" she said, in answer to a question. "I sometimes wish I might never see pen, ink, and paper again. That is why I am overdone. But I am ashamed to say it; for I magnify my office as a working woman, and am thankful to be independent." "But I thought literary people had such a pleasure in their gift," said Claudia. "Very likely--those eminent persons who tell the interviewers they never write more than five hundred words a day. But I am only a hewer of wood and a drawer of water, so to speak." "But the thought of being useful!" "Yes, and the thought----but here is Susie." Susie was the friend who taught singing. Claudia thought she had never seen a woman look more exhausted; but Claudia knew so little of life. "You have had a long day, my dear," said Babette, as Susie threw herself into a chair; "it is your journey to the poles, isn't it?" "To the poles?" said Claudia. "Yes; this is the day she has to be at a Hampstead school from 9.30 till 12.30, and at a Balham school from 2.30 till 4. It's rather a drive to do it, since they are as far as the poles asunder." "Still," said Claudia, "railway travelling must rest you." "Not very much," said Susie, "when you travel third class and the trains are crowded." "But it must be so nice to feel that you are really filling a useful position in the world." "I don't know that I am," said Susie, rather wearily. "A good many of my pupils have no ear, and had far better be employed at something else." "But your art!" "I am afraid few of them think much about that, and what I have to do is to see that the parents are well enough pleased to keep their girls on at singing. I do my best for them; but one gets tired." [Sidenote: Another Surprise] Claudia did not reply. This seemed a sadly mercenary view of work, and a little shocked her. But then Claudia had not to earn her own living. Claudia's inquiries of Sarah Griffin were scarcely more cheerful. Sarah was at the shop from 8.30 until 7, and was unable, therefore, to see her friend during the day. Aunt Jane and Aunt Ruth insisted that Sarah should spend the evening at St. John's Wood, and promised that she should leave early in the morning. She came. Again Claudia marvelled at the change in her friend. Already she seemed ten years older than her age; her clothes, if neat, cried aloud of a narrow purse. She had lost a good deal of the brightness which once marked her, and had gathered instead a patient, worn look which had a pathos of its own. Sarah did not announce her poverty, but under the sympathetic hands of Aunt Ruth and Aunt Jane she in time poured out the history of her daily life. She was thankful to be in work, even though it was poorly paid. When first in search of occupation, she had spent three weary weeks in going from one house of business to another. In some she was treated courteously, in a few kindly, in many coarsely, in some insultingly. But that was nothing; Sarah knew of girls, far more tenderly reared than she had been, whose experiences had been even sadder. But Claudia hoped that now Sarah really was at work she was comfortable. Sarah smiled a little wintry smile. Yes, she was comfortable, and very thankful to be at work. Aunt Jane with many apologies wanted more detail. Then it appeared that Sarah was living on 15s. a week. She lived at a home for young women in business; she fed chiefly on bread and butter. Her clothes depended upon occasional gifts from friends. Claudia began to condemn the world for its hardness. "But I am not clever," said Sarah; "I can do nothing in particular, and there are so many of us wanting work." "And do all these people really need it?" "Yes; and we all think it hard when girls come and, for the mere pleasure of doing something, take such work at a lower wage than those can take who must live." "But look at me," said Claudia; "I don't want the money, but I want the occupation; I want to feel I have some definite duties, and some place of my own in the world." Sarah looked a little puzzled. Then she said, "Perhaps Mrs. Warwick could help you." "Who is Mrs. Warwick?" "Mrs. Warwick is the presiding genius of a ladies' club to which some of my friends go. I daresay one of them will be very glad to take us there." So they agreed to go. Claudia felt, it must be owned, a little disappointed at what she had heard from her friends, but was inclined to believe that between the old life at home and the drudgery for the bare means of existence there still lay many things which she could do. She revolved the subject in the course of a morning walk on the day they were to visit the club, and returned to the shelter of her aunts' home with something of her old confidence restored. Despite their goodness--Claudia could not question that--how poor, she thought, looked their simple ways! Aunt Jane sat, as aforetime, at one side of the fireplace, Aunt Ruth at the other. Aunt Jane was knitting with red wool, as she had always knitted since Claudia had known her. Aunt Ruth, with an equal devotion to habit, was working her way through a piece of embroidery. Molossus, the toy terrier, was asleep in Aunt Jane's lap; Scipio reposed luxuriously at Aunt Ruth's feet. [Sidenote: Mild Excitement] It was a peaceful scene; yet it had its mild excitements. The two aunts began at once to explain. "We are so glad you are come in," said Aunt Jane. "Because old Rooker has been," said Aunt Ruth. "And with such good news! He has heard from his boy----" "His boy, you know, who ran away," continued Aunt Ruth. "He is coming home in a month or two, just to see his father, and is then going back again----" "Back again to America, you know----" "Where he is doing well----" "And he sends his father five pounds----" "And now the old man says he will not need our half-a-crown a week any longer----" "So we can give it to old Mrs. Wimple, his neighbour----" "A great sufferer, you know, and oh, so patient." "Really!" said Claudia, a little confused by this antiphonal kind of narrative. "Yes," continued Aunt Jane, "and I see a letter has come in for you--from home, I think. So this has been quite an eventful morning." Claudia took the letter and went up to her own room, reflecting a little ungratefully upon the contentment which reigned below. She opened her letter. It was, she saw, from her mother, written, apparently, at two or three sittings, for the last sheet contained a most voluminous postscript. She read the opening page of salutation, and then laid it down to prepare for luncheon. Musing as she went about her room, time slipped away, and the gong was rumbling out its call before she was quite ready to go down. She hurried away, and the letter was left unfinished. It caught her eye in the afternoon; but again Claudia was hurried, and resolved that it could very well wait until she returned at night. The club was amusing. Mrs. Warwick, its leading spirit, pleasantly mingled a certain motherly sympathy with an unconventional habit of manner and speech. There was an address or lecture during the evening by a middle-aged woman of great fluency, who rather astounded Claudia by the freest possible assumption, and by the most sweeping criticism of the established order of things as it affected women. The general conversation of the members seemed, however, no less frivolous, though much less restrained, than she had heard in drawing-rooms at home. She parted from Sarah Griffin at the door of the club, and drove to St. John's Wood in a hansom. The repose of the house had not been stirred in her absence. Aunt Jane, Aunt Ruth, Molossus, and Scipio, all were in their accustomed places. "And here is another letter for you, my dear," said Aunt Jane. "I hope the other brought good news?" Claudia blushed a healthy, honest, old-fashioned blush. She had forgotten that letter. Its opening page or so had alone been glanced at. Aunt Jane looked astonished at the confession, but with her placid good-nature added: "Of course, my dear, it was the little excitement of this evening." "So natural to young heads," said Aunt Ruth, with a shake of her curls. But Claudia was ashamed of herself, and ran upstairs for the first letter. [Sidenote: Startling News] A hasty glance showed her that, whilst it began in ordinary gossip, the long postscript dealt with a more serious subject. Mr. Haberton was ill; he had driven home late at night from a distance, and had taken a chill. Mrs. Haberton hoped it would pass off; Claudia was not to feel alarmed; Pinsett had again proved herself invaluable, and between them they could nurse the patient comfortably. Claudia hastened to the second letter. Her fears were justified. Her father was worse; pneumonia had set in; the doctor was anxious; they were trying to secure a trained nurse; perhaps Claudia would like to return as soon as she got the letter. "When did this come?" asked Claudia eagerly. "A very few moments after you left," said Aunt Jane. "Of course, if you had been here, you might just have caught the eight o'clock train--very late, my dear, for you to go by, but with your father so ill----" And Aunt Jane wiped a tear away. Claudia also wept. "Can nothing be done to-night?" she presently cried. "_Must_ I wait till to-morrow? He may be----" But she did not like to finish the sentence. Aunt Ruth had risen to the occasion; she was already adjusting her spectacles with trembling hands in order to explore the _A B C Timetable_. A very brief examination of the book showed that Claudia could not get home that night. They could only wait until morning. Claudia spent a sleepless night. She had come up to London to find a mission in life. The first great sorrow had fallen upon her home in her absence, and by an inexcusable preoccupation she had perhaps made it impossible to reach home before her father's death. She knew that pneumonia often claimed its victims swiftly; she might reach home too late. Her father had been good to her in his own rather stern way. He was not a small, weak, or peevish character. To have helped him in sickness would have seemed a pleasant duty even to Claudia, who had contrived to overlook her mother's frail health. And others were serving him--that weak mother; Pinsett, too; and perhaps a hired nurse. It was unbearable. "My dear," said Aunt Jane, as Claudia wept aloud, "we are in our heavenly Father's hands; let us ask Him to keep your dear father at least until you see him." So those two old maids with difficulty adjusted their stiff knees to kneeling, and, as Aunt Jane lifted her quavering voice in a few sentences of simple prayer, she laid a trembling hand protectingly on Claudia. Would that night never go? Its hours to Claudia seemed weeks. The shock of an impending loss would of itself have been hard enough to bear; but to remember that by her own indifference to home she had perhaps missed seeing her father again alive--that was worse than all. And then, as she thought of the sick-room, she remembered her mother. How had she contrived for years not to see that in the daily care of that patient woman there lay the first call for a dutiful daughter? It was noble to work; and there _was_ a work for every one to do. But why had she foolishly gone afield to look for occupation and a place in life, when an obvious duty and a post she alone could best fill lay at home? If God would only give her time to amend! It was a limp, tear-stained, and humbled Claudia who reached home by the first train the next morning. Her father was alive--that was granted to her. Her mother had borne up bravely, but the struggle was obvious. A nurse was in possession of the sick-chamber, and Claudia could only look on where often she fain would have been the chief worker. But the room for amendment was provided. Mr. Haberton recovered very slowly, and was warned always to use the utmost care. Mrs. Haberton, when the worst of her husband's illness was over, showed signs of collapse herself. [Sidenote: A New Ministry] Claudia gave herself up to a new ministry. Her mother no longer called for Pinsett; Mr. Haberton found an admirable successor to his trained nurse. Claudia had found her place, and in gratitude to God resolved to give the fullest obedience to the ancient precept: "If any have children . . . let them learn first to show piety at home, and to requite their parents." [Sidenote: Women explorers have been the helpers of men, and spurred them on towards their goals. Some such workers are here recalled.] Famous Women Pioneers BY FRANK ELIAS A great deal has been said and written about the men who, in times past, opened up vast tracts of the unknown, and, by so doing, prepared new homes for their countrymen from England. Park and Livingstone, Raleigh and Flinders--the names of these and many more are remembered with gratitude wherever the English tongue is spoken. Less often perhaps do we remember that there have been not only strong-willed and adventurous men but brave and enduring women who have gone where scarcely any white folks went before them, and who, while doing so, bore without complaint hardships no less severe than those endured by male pioneers. To the shores of Cape Cod there came, on November 11, 1620, a little leaky ship, torn by North Atlantic gales and with sides shattered by North Atlantic rollers. Standing shivering upon her decks stood groups of men and women, plainly not sailor-folk, worn by a long voyage, and waiting to step upon a shore of which they knew no more than that it was inhabited by unmerciful savages and overlaid by dense forests. The first must be conciliated, and the second, to some extent at least, cleared away before there could be any hope of settlement. What pictures of happy homes in the Old Country, with their green little gardens and honeysuckle creepers, rose up in the memory of those delicate women as they eyed the bleak, unfriendly shore! Yet, though the cold bit them and the unknown yawned before, they did not flinch, but waited for the solemn moment of landing. [Sidenote: The "Mayflower"] Perhaps a little of what they did that day they knew. Yet could they, we wonder, have realised that in quitting England with their husbands and fathers in order, with them, to worship God according to the manner bidden by their conscience, they were giving themselves a name glorious among women? Or that, because of them and theirs, the name of the little tattered, battered ship they were soon to leave, after weary months of danger from winds and seas, was to live as long as history. Thousands of great ships have gone out from England since the day on which the "Mayflower" sailed from Plymouth, yet which of them had a name like hers? Tried as the "Mayflower" women were, their trials were only beginning. Even while they waited for their husbands to find a place of settlement, one of their number, wife of William Bradford--a man later to be their governor--fell overboard and was drowned. When they did at last land they had to face, not only the terrors of a North American winter, but sickness brought on by the hard work and poor food following the effects of overcrowding on the voyage. Soon the death-rate in this small village amounted to as much as two to three persons a day. Wolves howled at night, Indians crept out to spy from behind trees, cruel winds shook their frail wooden houses and froze the dwellers in them, but the courage of the women pioneers of New England never faltered, and when, one by one, they died, worn out by hardship, they had done their noble part in building an altar to Him whom, in their own land, they had not been permitted to serve as they would. For many years the task of helping to found settlements was the only work done by women in the way of opening up new territory. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries most of our discoveries were still those of the mariner, who could scarcely take his wife to sea. But in the nineteenth came the rise of foreign missions, as well as the acknowledgment of the need of inland exploration, and in this work the explorer's wife often shared in the risks and adventures of her husband. When Robert Moffat began his missionary labours in South Africa in 1816, he had not only to preach the gospel to what were often bloodthirsty savages, but he had to plunge into the unknown. Three years later he married Mary Smith, who was henceforth to be his companion in all his journeys, and to face, with a courage not less than his own, the tropical heat, the poisonous insects, the savage beasts, the fierce natives of a territory untrod by the white man, and who had to do all this in a day before medicine had discovered cures for jungle-sickness and poisons, before invention had improved methods of travel, and before knowledge had been able to prepare maps or to write guides. It was the daughter of Mary Moffat who became the wife of the greatest of all explorers, David Livingstone, and who like her mother, was to set her foot where no white men or women had stood before. Their first home was at Mabotsa, about two hundred miles from what is now the city of Pretoria. But soon Livingstone began the series of journeys which was to make his name famous. With his wife he travelled in a roomy wagon, drawn by bullocks at a rate of about two miles an hour. But they often suffered intensely from the heat and the scarcity of water. Then the mosquitoes were always troublesome, and frequently even the slow progress they were making would be interrupted by the death of one of the bullocks, killed by the deadly tsetse. At other times they would halt before a dense bunch of trees, and would have to stop until a clearing had been cut through. Such was the life of Mrs. Livingstone during her first years in Africa. For a time, following this, she lived in England with her children, and had there to endure sufferings greater than any she had shared with her husband, for during most of her time at home Livingstone was cut off from the world in the middle of Africa. When he reached the coast once more she went back to him, unable to endure the separation longer. But, soon after landing, her health gave way. At the end of April her condition was hopeless; she lay upon "a rude bed formed of boxes, but covered with a soft mattress," and thus, her husband beside her, she died in the heart of the great continent for which she and those most dear to her had spent themselves. [Sidenote: Lady Baker] An even greater African explorer than Mrs. Livingstone was Lady Baker, wife of Sir Samuel Baker. She was a Hungarian, and married Baker in 1860, when he had already done some colonisation work by settling a number of Englishmen in Ceylon. In the year following their marriage, the Bakers went to Egypt, determined to clear up that greatest of all mysteries to African explorers--the secret of the Nile sources. Arrived at Khartoum, they fitted out an expedition and set off up the river with twenty-nine camels. One day, as they pushed on slowly in that silent, burning land, they heard that white men were approaching; and sure enough, there soon appeared before them the figures of Speke and Grant, two well-known explorers who had gone out a year before and whom many feared to have been lost. These men had found the source of the Nile in the Victoria Nyanza. But they told the Bakers a wonderful story of how they had heard rumours from time to time of the existence of another lake into which the Nile was said to flow. The minds of Baker and his wife were fired to emulation. Parting from their newly-met countrymen, they pressed onwards and southwards. They had to go a long distance out of their way to avoid the slave-traders who were determined to wreck their plans if they could. "We have heard a good deal recently of lady travellers in Africa," said the _Times_ a long time afterwards, "but their work has been mere child's play compared with the trials which Lady Baker had to undergo in forcing her way into a region absolutely unknown and bristling with dangers of every kind." But after encountering many adventures, the determined traveller and his brave wife at last reached the top of a slope from which, on looking down, they saw a vast inland ocean. No eye of white man had ever beheld this lake before, and to Lady Baker, not less than to her husband, belongs the glory of the discovery of the lake which all the world knows to-day as the Albert Nyanza. "Thus," to quote an earlier passage in the same _Times_ article, "amid many hardships and at the frequent risk of death at the hands of Arab slavers and hostile chiefs, Baker and his wife forged one of the most important links in the course of one of the world's most famous rivers." After many further difficulties, the explorers found their way back to the coast, and thence to England. But their fame had gone before them, and everywhere they were welcomed. And though it was Baker who was awarded a gold medal by the Royal Geographical Society, all must have felt that the honour belonged, not less, to his courageous wife. [Sidenote: Mary Kingsley] It may be said that Lady Baker was not alone in her journeys. On the other hand, Mary Kingsley, another woman African traveller, led her own expeditions. Moreover, her travelling was often done through territory reeking with disease. At the age of twenty-nine she explored the Congo River, and visited Old Calabar, and in 1894 ascended the mountain of Mungo Mah Lobeh. After her return to England she lectured upon her adventures. One more journey, this time not of exploration, was she to make to the great African continent. In 1900 she volunteered as a nurse during the war, and went out to the Cape. Here she was employed to nurse sick Boer prisoners. But her work was done. Enteric fever struck her down and, before long, the traveller had set out upon her last journey. The names we have mentioned have been those of famous travellers--women whose work is part of the history of discovery. But there are hundreds of courageous women to-day, not perhaps engaged in exploration, but who, nevertheless, are living in remote stations in the heart of Africa, in the midst of the Australian "never-never," in the lonely islands of the Pacific--women whose husbands, whose fathers, whose brothers are carrying on the work of Empire, or the greater work of the gospel. Often one of these women is the only white person of her sex for hundreds of miles. Perhaps she is the first who has ever set foot in the region wherein she lives. Yet her courage does not fail. When, as sometimes she does, she writes a book describing her adventures, it is sure to be full of high spirits and amusing descriptions of the primitive methods of cooking and housekeeping to which she must submit. The other side of the picture, the loneliness, the intense heat or cold, the mosquitoes or other pests, the compulsion, through absence of assistance, to do what at home could be done by a servant--all this is absent. Women may have changed, but certainly woman in the difficult places of the Empire, whether she be missionary, squatter, or consul's wife, has lost nothing in courage, in perseverance, in cheerful or even smiling submission to hard conditions. [Sidenote: A rural story this--of adventurous youngsters and a pathetic figure that won their sympathy.] Poor Jane's Brother BY MARIE F. SALTON Ever since the twins could remember Poor Jane had lived in the village. In fact, she had lived there all her life, though one could not expect the twins to remember that, for they were very young indeed, and Poor Jane was quite old. Poor Jane did not dress like other folks. Her boots were so large and sloppy that her feet seemed to shake about in them, and she shuffled along the ground when she walked. These boots could never have been cleaned since Jane had had them, and the twins firmly believed that they always had been that queer dust-colour, until one day Nan told them that when they were quite new they were black and shiny like ordinary boots. Poor Jane always wore a brown, muddy, gingham skirt, frayed and tattered, and the torn pieces hung like a frill from her knees to the tops of her dust-coloured boots. Over her chest she wore a dark-grey woollen cross-over, and on her head was a dirty shawl, which hung down her back, and was pinned across her breast. Little straw-like wisps of straight brown hair stuck out from under the shawl over her forehead and ears. Her face was dried up and shrivelled, and her cheek-bones were so sharp that they tried to prick through the skin. Poor Jane did not often wash, so her wrinkles, and what Dumpty called her "laughing lines," were marked quite black with dirt. Her lips were not rosy and fresh like mummie's or Dumpty's, but they were of a purple-grey colour, and when she opened her mouth, instead of a row of pearly white teeth showing, there was only one very large yellow tooth, which looked as if it could not stay much longer in the gum. The twins always thought that she must live on milk, as babies do before they have any teeth, but to their amazement they heard that last Christmas, at the Old People's Tea, Poor Jane had eaten two plates of salt beef. "Do you think she sucked it?" Dumpty asked her brother that evening when nurse was safely out of the way. Humpty asked daddy the next day at lunch how old people managed to eat when they had only one tooth. [Sidenote: Humpty's Experiment] Daddy said they "chewed," and showed Humpty how it was done, and there was a scene that afternoon in the nursery at tea, when Humpty practised "chewing" his bread and honey. And in the end Dumpty went down alone to the drawing-room for games that evening, with this message from Nan: "Master Humphrey has behaved badly at the tea-table, and been sent to bed." [Illustration: BARBARA'S VISIT.] But although the children met Poor Jane every time that they went into the village they had never once spoken to her. That was because she was not one of nurse's friends, like old Mrs. Jenks, whom Barbara, the twins' elder sister, visited every week with flowers or fruit or other good things. Nan considered that Poor Jane was too dirty for one of her friends. Poor Jane was so interesting because she had so much to say to herself, and, as daddy said, "gibbered like a monkey" when she walked alone. All day long she would wander up and down the village street, and when the children came out of school and the boys began to tease, she would curl her long black-nailed fingers--which were so like birds' claws--at her persecutors, and would run towards them as if she meant to scratch out their eyes. Early last spring the twins met with their first real adventure. They had had lots of little adventures before, such as the time when Humpty fell into the pond at his cousins' and was nearly drowned, and when Dumpty had a tooth drawn, and because she was brave and did not make a fuss, daddy and mummie each presented her with a shilling, and even the dentist gave her a penny and a ride in his chair. But this time it was a real adventure because every one--twins included--was frightened. The twins had just recovered from bad colds in their heads, which they had passed on to all the grown-ups in the house, and a cold in the head makes grown-ups particularly cross, so the twins found. Mum came up to the nursery with a very hoarse voice and streaming eyes, but when she saw Nan she forgot about her own cold, and said that Nan must go to bed at once, and have something warm to drink, and put a nice hot-water bottle between the sheets. For a long time Nan said that nothing would make her go to bed, but at last mum, who is very sweet, and of whom Nan is really quite afraid, persuaded her to lie down, and herself brought up a dose of quinine. It had rained all the morning, but the sun was shining so brightly now that the twins stood looking longingly out of the nursery window, while mummie helped Nan into bed. "Can we go out, mum?" asked Humpty. "There is no one to take you out, darling," said mummie thoughtfully; "but it is so nice and sunny now that I think you ought to go. It is too wet to play in the garden, and if you go alone you must promise to walk along the road to the end of the village, and straight back again. Now, remember to walk where it is clean and dry, and keep moving, and do not stop to play with the puddles, and when you come in you shall have tea with me." "Hooray!" shouted the children; "two treats in one afternoon!" It did not take the twins long to get ready for their walk that afternoon. They were so excited, for they had never been out alone for a walk before, though, of course, they used to play by themselves in the garden. Each was inwardly hoping that they might meet Poor Jane, and so they did. As they came out of the drive gate they saw Poor Jane shuffling quickly up the road. "Let's walk slowly," whispered Dumpty, quivering with excitement, "and perhaps she will catch us up." In a few minutes the old woman had overtaken them. [Sidenote: Jane's New Gloves] All Nurse's injunctions were forgotten. The children stood still and stared, for Poor Jane was wearing a pair of brand new, red woollen gloves! Poor Jane saw them looking, and she crossed from the other side of the road and came near the children. Dumpty gave a little scream of terror, but Humpty caught her by the hand, so that she could not run away. "Good afternoon," he said; "what nice red gloves you have!" The old woman looked at her hands with great pride. "Beautiful red gloves," she said, spreading out her fingers. "I had the chilblains bad, so Mrs. Duke gave 'em to me. Beautiful red gloves!" She began cackling to herself, staring hard at the children as she did so. She had brown, staring eyes that looked very large and fierce in her thin face. "Where's your nuss?" she asked, beginning to walk along by the side of the children. "Our what?" asked Dumpty, puzzled. "She means nurse," said Humpty, with great emphasis. "Nan is ill with a cold in her head," he explained, "and mum has just made her go to bed and drink hot milk." "I often see ye passin'," said Poor Jane conversationally. "Yes," said Humpty, who was still holding his sister's hand tight, "we often come this way for a walk, and we always see you." "You always walk this way, don't you?" said Dumpty bravely, though she still trembled with fright. "Yes, I allus come along 'ere, every day, wet or fine." "Why?" asked Humpty, who had an inquiring mind. Then the old woman seized him by the arm. Humpty turned white with terror, but his courage did not forsake him. "Why?" he repeated boldly. The old woman pinched his arm. "Don't you know why I come here?" she asked, her voice getting shriller and shriller; "don't you know why I walk up and down this road every day, fine or wet, through snow and hail?" She lowered her voice mysteriously, and clutched hold of Dumpty, who could not help shrieking. "You're a lucky little miss; you keep your brother as long as you can. Ah! my poor brother, my poor brother!" "Is your brother dead?" asked Dumpty sympathetically. She was not so frightened now, for although the old woman still held her pretty tight she did not look as if she meant to hurt them. "No, he is alive! He is alive! They tell me he is dead, but I know better. A circus came to Woodstead" (the little shopping-town two miles from the village), "and he joined that--he had to go; the circus people--they was gipsies most of 'em--forced him--and he 'ad to go; 'e is a clown now." "A clown!" cried the twins. "Yus, and they won't let 'im come back to his poor old Jane. They're a keepin' us apart, they're a keepin' us apart!" And her voice died away in a wail. She stopped in the middle of the road. "Poor Jane!" whispered Dumpty; "poor Jane! I am so sorry"; but Jane took no more notice of them, but went on murmuring to herself, "Keepin' us apart--keepin' us apart." "Come on, Dump," said Humpty at last; "it's no good staying, she doesn't seem to want us." Dumpty joined him, and there were tears in her eyes. What Poor Jane had said was so very, very sad. The twins had so much to think about now that they talked very little during their walk, but when they did, it was all about Poor Jane and her brother, who was the clown in a circus. When they got home the children had tea and games downstairs, and altogether it was great fun, but they did not mention their meeting with Poor Jane. That was their secret. For days afterwards they talked it over and wondered whether Jane would speak to them the next time they met on the road, but when they went down the village again with nurse the old woman passed them by without a sign of recognition. Three months passed and June had come, and one day Nan and the children went down to the village shop to buy slate-pencils. [Sidenote: Mrs. Moses' Question] "Are you taking the children to the circus?" asked Mrs. Moses, the shopwoman. The twins pricked up their ears. "When is it?" asked Nan. "To-morrow, at Woodstead," answered Mrs. Moses; and she showed the children two large bills with pictures on them, of a beautiful young lady with yellow hair, who was walking on a tight-rope, a dark lady balancing herself on a golden globe, a young man riding, bare-back, on a fierce white horse, and a lion jumping through flames of fire, while in the corner was the picture of a clown grinning through a hoop. "Oh, Nan!" said Humpty, when they were outside, "can we go?" "I shall ask mummie when we get home what she thinks about it," said nurse, "but you are not to be disappointed or cross if she won't let you." That evening when mummie came up to bid good-night to the twins in bed they were told that they might go. Nurse had been promised to-morrow off, so that she might have tea with her sister, who lived at Woodstead, but she had very kindly said that she would be quite willing to take the twins with her, and put them into seats in the circus, and then she would come for them at the end of the performance. The twins were delighted, and almost too excited to speak. After mummie had gone they lay awake thinking. "Humpty," said Dumpty presently, "what are you thinking about?" "The circus," answered Humpty promptly. "And I," said Dumpty pensively--"I have been thinking about Poor Jane." "I have been thinking about her lots too," said Humpty. "And oh, Humpty! supposing the clown should be her brother, what should we do?" "We should bring him back to Poor Jane of course," said Humpty. "But how shall we know whether he is her brother?" "He will look like her, of course, stupid," replied Humpty, a little crossly, for he was beginning to feel sleepy. [Sidenote: At the Circus] They had an early dinner next day, and then Edward brought the pony round to the door, and they set off for Woodstead. Nurse was looking very smart in a black bonnet and silk mantle, and the children felt almost as if she were a stranger. Soon they came to a large meadow, where stood a great tent with steps leading up to it, and a man stood on the top of the steps beating a drum and crying, "Children half-price! Walk up! Walk up!" There was a nice man inside, who led the children past rows of bare seats, raised one above the other, till he came to a part which was curtained off from the rest. He drew the curtain to one side to let the children pass in, and they saw four rows of comfortable seats with backs, covered with scarlet cloth. "Yes, these will do nicely," said Nan; "and now, children, you must sit here quietly till the circus is over, and I shall come and fetch you at half-past four." The children now had time to look about. A large plot of grass had been encircled with a low wooden fence, hung with more red cloth. Inside this ring some of the grass had been taken up, so that there was a narrow path where the horses would canter right round the ring. Quite close to the children was an elegant carriage--wagon-shaped--where the musicians sat, and made a great noise with their instruments. One of the men played the drum and cymbals at the same time. On their right the tent was open and led out on to the meadow, and this was the entrance for the horses and performers. After playing the same tune through seven times, the band changed its music and began a quick, lively air, and in came trotting, mounted on a black horse with a white nose, a rather elderly lady with golden hair. She did not sit on an ordinary saddle, but on what appeared to be an oval tea-tray covered with blue satin. Behind her followed a serious, dignified gentleman, who was busily cracking a long whip. His name, the twins soon learned, was Mr. Brooks, for so all the performers addressed him. The lady rode twice round the ring, and on dismounting kissed her hands to the audience in a friendly manner. "I want to introduce to you, ladies and gentlemen, my wonderful performing horse Diamond. Diamond, make your bow." Whereupon Diamond--with some difficulty--bent his knees, and thrust his head down to the ground. The twins were enchanted. But this was by no means the best of Diamond's accomplishments. By looking at a watch he could tell the time, and explained to the audience that it was now seventeen minutes past three, by pawing on a plank of wood with his hoof three times, and then, after a moment's pause, seventeen times. He could shake his head wisely to mean "yes" or "no"; he could find the lady's pocket-handkerchief amongst the audience, and, finally, he refused to leave the ring without his mistress, and when she showed no sign of accompanying him, he trotted behind her, and pushed her out with his soft white nose. Next an acrobat came somersaulting in. He did all sorts of strange things, such as balancing himself upside down on the broad shoulders of Mr. Brooks, and tying himself into a kind of knot and so entangling his limbs that it became impossible to tell the legs from the arms. After he had gone there was a long pause, and then came tottering in, with slow and painful footsteps, an old, old man. He was dressed in a dirty black suit, and wore an old battered bowler. His clothes were almost in rags, and he had muffled up his face with a long black comforter. A strange hush came over the audience as he sat down in the ring to rest, only Humpty and Dumpty leaned forward eagerly to watch. "It is Poor Jane's brother," said Humpty very loudly. Mr. Brooks went up to the tired old man. "I am afraid you are very tired, my good man," he said kindly. "Very tired, very tired indeed, Mr. Brooks," sighed Poor Jane's brother. "Mr. Brooks!" cried the owner of that name, "how, sir, do you know that my name is Brooks?" And then a wonderful thing happened. The old man sprang to his feet, his rags dropped from him, he tore off the black comforter, and behold! he was a clown with a large red nose, who cried, "Here we are again!" How the children laughed and clapped, and how pleased the twins were to have discovered Poor Jane's brother! Oh, the things that clown did! The familiar way in which he spoke to Mr. Brooks! The practical jokes that he played on him! Then in trotted old Diamond to join in the fun, and here was a chance for the clown to take a lesson in riding. He mounted by climbing up the tail, and then he rode sitting with his back to the horse's head. He tried standing upright whilst Diamond was galloping, but could not keep his balance, and fell forward with his arms clasped tightly round the animal's neck. In the end Diamond, growing tired of his antics, pitched him over his head, but the clown did not seem to mind, for before he had reached the ground he turned an immense somersault--then another--and the third carried him right through the entrance back into the meadow where the caravans were standing. "Humpty," asked Dumpty, "what are we to do?" [Sidenote: To the Rescue!] "We must go at once and rescue him," answered the boy. The twins slipped from their seats, and crept to the back of the tent. "I think we can squeeze under this," said Humpty, as he began wriggling under the awning. He then helped Dumpty, who was rather fat, and showed signs of getting stuck. "How cool it is outside!" remarked Dumpty, who had found it hot and stifling under the tent. "I would like to know what is going on, wouldn't you?" she added, as a peal of merry laughter came from the tent. "We will go back presently," said Humpty; "but we must first find Poor Jane's brother." There were two or three small tents, and one large one, in which the horses were stabled. Dumpty longed to stop and talk to a dear little piebald pony, but Humpty carried her on till they came to the caravans. Four or five men were lying face downwards on the grass--worn out and tired. Before the steps of one caravan a group of children were playing, whilst one woman in a red shawl sat on the steps smoking a clay pipe, and holding a dirty-looking baby in her arms. The twins stole round the caravan, taking good care not to be seen. There was as yet no sign of the clown. At last they found a smaller caravan which stood apart from the others, and the door was ajar. "Perhaps he is in there," suggested Humpty. "I am going to see." And he ran up the steps and peeped inside. "Oh, do come, Dumpty!" he cried; "it is awfully interesting." Dumpty tumbled up the steps. "Oh, Humpty!" she said, "how lovely!" It really was a very nice caravan, and spotlessly clean. There were dear little red curtains in front of the window and a red mat on the floor. All over the wall hung baskets made in pretty green and blue straw of all shapes and sizes. On the chair lay a bundle of peacock's feathers. "These are like what the gipsies sell," remarked Dumpty. A gipsy's basket was lying on the floor, in which were tin utensils for cooking, and two or three saucepans. Bootlaces had been wound round the handle. The twins were fascinated, and turned everything over with great interest. They found a large cupboard, too, containing all sorts of beautiful clothes--lovely velvet dresses, and robes of gold and silver. "How dark it is getting!" said Humpty presently; "why did you shut the door?" "I didn't shut the door," answered Dumpty; "I spect the wind did." They took a long time in exploring the cupboard. Suddenly Humpty cried, "We have forgotten Poor Jane's brother!" They made a rush for the door. "Here, Humpty, will you open it? This handle is stiff." Humpty pulled and struggled with the handle until he was red in the face. "I can't get it open," he said at last. "Let me try again," said Dumpty, and she pushed and struggled, but to no purpose. For a long time she and Humpty tried alternately to open the door, but nothing that they could do was of any avail. [Sidenote: Locked in] "I think it is locked," said Humpty at last, sitting down despondently. He was panting breathlessly, and began to swing his legs. Dumpty's eyes grew wide with terror, her lips trembled. "Have they locked us in on purpose?" she asked. "Yes," said Humpty, "the circus people have locked us in, and they won't unlock the door until they have left Woodstead." "And then?" asked Dumpty. "Then they will keep us, and never let us come home again--like they did to Poor Jane's brother, and I shall be a bare-back rider, and you will wear the blue velvet gown, and ride in the processions on the piebald pony." "And we shall never see mummie or daddy again--or Nan--or Poor Jane," said Dumpty, beginning to cry. "No, we shall never see them again," answered Humpty, swallowing hard to keep himself from crying. Dumpty was crying bitterly now, and the loud sobs shook her small body. Humpty looked dismally at his surroundings, and continued to swing his legs. "Give over!" he said to Dumpty, after one of her loudest sobs; "it will never do for them to see that you've been crying, or they will be just furious." After a time Dumpty dried her eyes, and went to the window, and drew back the curtains. "It's getting dark," she said. Humpty began to whistle. Suddenly he stopped. "I am getting awful hungry," he remarked. "We shan't have nuffin' to eat until the morning," said Dumpty. "Humpty," she continued, "would it be any good if we screamed and banged the door?" "No," said the boy; "if they heard us trying to give the alarm, they would be very angry, and perhaps they wouldn't give us anything to eat for days--not until we were nearly dead." "I think we had better go to sleep," said Dumpty, yawning, and began saying her prayers. In a few minutes both children were lying fast asleep on the floor of the caravan. * * * * * "My eye! jest look 'ere, Bill!" "Well, I'm blowed!" said Bill, gaping open-mouthed at the sight of the two children asleep in the caravan. "'Ow in the world did they get 'ere?" continued the woman who had first found them. "Wike up! wike hup!" she cried, giving them each a violent shaking. Humpty began to open his eyes. He stared in astonishment at the people round him. "Are you the circus people?" he asked. "Yes, and who are you, we're wanting to know, and 'ow did you come 'ere?" By this time Dumpty was awake. On seeing the strange faces, she immediately began to cry. "Don't 'e cry, dear," said the woman; "there's no call to be afraid." But Dumpty still cried. "Why did you lock us in?" asked Humpty defiantly. "I believe they think as 'ow we locked 'em in for the purpose," laughed the woman, and then she explained to them what had happened, how they always kept this caravan locked, for they did not use it for sleeping or living in, but filled it with baskets and tins, which they sold as they travelled through the villages. She told the twins, too, that three policemen were out searching for them everywhere, and had come to make inquiries of her husband, and of the man who sold the tickets, but they could tell them nothing. And in their turn the twins had to explain how it was that they had found their way into the caravan. [Sidenote: An Early Breakfast] It was just three o'clock now, and the men were all at work, for by four o'clock they must be on the way to the next town, where they were "billed" to give a performance that very afternoon. "And now," said the woman, "you must 'ave a bite of breakfast, and then Bill shall tike you 'ome. What'll your ma and pa say when they see you? they'll be mighty pleased, I guess." The twins had never been up so early in the morning before. They felt ill and stiff all over from sleeping on the hard floor, and they were very hungry, and cold too, for the morning air seemed chill and biting. The women had made a fire of sticks, and a great black kettle was hanging over it. The water was boiling and bubbling. Soon the men left their work and came to join in the meal. They all sat round the fire on the wet grass, and shared the large, thick mugs of tea and sugar, and stared at the little strangers. All the children were up, too, and rubbed their eyes and tried hard not to look sleepy, but the little ones were cross and peevish. Each child had a large slice of bread, and a piece of cold pork, and even the little, sore-eyed baby held a crust of bread and a piece of pork in his hand, which he tried to stuff into his mouth. The twins, because they were the guests, were given each a hard-boiled egg. Dumpty was getting over her shyness now, and tried to behave as mummie does when she is out to tea. "Eggs are very dear now," she announced gravely, during a lull in the conversation; "how much do you pay for yours?" How the men and women laughed! It seemed as if Bill would never stop chuckling, and repeating to himself, "Pay for our eggs! That's a good un"; and every time that he said "Pay for our eggs!" he gave his leg a loud slap with his hand. When breakfast was over--and you may be sure that the twins ate a good one, although they did not much like the strong tea, without any milk--the woman said it was time for them to be starting home. "Please," begged Dumpty, summoning all her courage--"please, may the piebald pony take us?" and in a few minutes Bill drove it up, harnessed to an old rickety cart, and the two children were packed in. Just as they were starting Dumpty said, with a sigh, to the kind gipsy woman, "Thank you very, very much, and will you, please, tell the clown how sorry I am that I have not seen him to speak to?" "'Ere I am, young mon--'ere I am!" It was Bill who spoke. The twins could not believe their ears. "Are you the clown?" said Dumpty in an awestruck voice; "are you really and truly the clown?" Bill jerked the reins, and the piebald pony set off at a weary trot. "Yes, missie, I am the clown," he said. "Where's your nose?" asked Humpty suspiciously. "One's on my face--t'other's in the dressing-up box," answered the man, with a shout of laughter. "Then you're not Poor Jane's brother?" said Dumpty. "Don't know nuffun about Poor Jine--we've got only one Jine here, and that's the monkey, and she ain't my sister, leastways it's to be hoped as she in't." But although it was disappointing to find that the clever clown was only Bill all the time, the twins enjoyed their drive home, for Bill told them many wonderful tales of his life in the ring, and of the animals which he had trained. Soon they came to the village, which looked so strange and quiet by the early morning light, with the cottage-doors all shut, and the windows closed and the blinds drawn. Humpty jumped down to open the gate leading up the drive, and there on the doorstep were mummie and daddy, looking so white and ill, who had come out of the house at the sound of the wheels on the gravel to greet them. [Sidenote: Home Again] The twins were hurried indoors and taken up to the nursery, and Nan cried when she saw them and forgot to scold. From the window they watched mum and daddy thanking Bill, and giving him some money, and they waved "goodbye" to him, and he flourished his whip in return, gave another tug at the reins, and the old piebald pony cantered bravely down the drive, and they saw them no more. The twins were not allowed to see their mother, for Nan said that she was feeling ill with a dreadful headache, and it was all on account of their "goings-on"; and after Nan had stopped crying, she began to scold, and was very cross all day. That evening when the twins were in bed mummie came to tuck them up. But instead of saying "Good-night," and then going out as she generally did, she stayed for a long, long time and talked. She told them that it was very wrong to have disobeyed nurse, who had told them to stay in the seats and not to go away. "But," cried Humpty, "we had to try to rescue Poor Jane's brother!" "Poor Jane's brother!" repeated mummie, looking puzzled. And then the twins explained. Mummie sat silent for a long time. "Remember, children," she said at last, "never do evil that good may come--I can't expect you to understand that--but I can tell you a little story." "A story!" cried the twins. "Hooray!" "Once upon a time a town was besieged. It was night, and only the sentinels on the walls were left on guard, and told to give the alarm by clanging a large bell, should the enemy force an attack. There was one sentinel who had never done this work before, and he was given the least important tower to guard. During the night a loud bell clanged out, and a soldier came running along the wall to speak to the new sentinel. 'Do come,' he said, 'we want as many helpers as we can get at once, and there will be plenty of fighting.' The young sentinel longed to go with him, and join the fight, but he remembered his duty in time. "'I cannot leave this tower,' he said; 'I have had orders to stay and give the alarm should the enemy appear, and the town trusts me to do so.' "'I believe that you are afraid,' said the soldier as he hurried away. "And this was the hardest of all, and the sentinel longed to join in the fighting to show that he, too, was no coward, but could fight like a man. "He stood there, listening to the noise in the distance, to the shouts of the enemy, and the screams of those who were struck down. And as he looked below the walls into the valley beyond he thought that he could distinguish men moving, and while he watched he saw a number of soldiers creeping up to the walls, and one man had even placed his foot on the steps that led up to his tower. Quick as thought, the sentinel seized the rope of the large bell that hung over his head and clanged it again and again. "In a few minutes the troops were assembled, and, making their way down the steep steps, they charged at the enemy, and followed them into the valley. "Late on the following evening the soldiers returned, but not all, for many were killed--and they brought back news of a great victory. The enemy was routed and the town saved. So you see, children," said mother gravely, "how much better it is to do what is right. If that young sentinel had left his post, even though it were to help the men in the other tower, the enemy would have climbed up those steps and got into the town. You must try to remember this always. You should have obeyed nurse, and remembered that she was trusting you to do what she had said. It was a kind thought of yours to try to rescue Poor Jane's brother, but obedience to nurse should have come first." [Sidenote: Jane's Delusion] "But we forgot, mummie," said Humpty. "What would have happened if the sentinel had forgotten that he was trusted to do his duty, and stay in the tower?" Humpty was silent. "And now," said mummie cheerfully, "we will forget all about the terrible fright you have given us, and you must try to remember what I have said. I want to know all about Poor Jane's brother," she continued, smiling; "is it some one you have been imagining about?" "Oh, no!" cried the twins at once. And then they told her of the conversation which they had had with Poor Jane, and of what she had said about her brother. "But Poor Jane has no brother," said mummie; "he died long ago. Jane's mind has never grown up. One day, when she was a girl, her mother took her to a circus at Woodstead, and when they came home, after it was over, they were told the sad news that Jane's brother had fallen from the top of a wagon of hay on to his head. He died a few hours later. But Jane could not understand death--she only knew that Harry had gone away from them, and she believed that the circus people had stolen him from the village and made him a clown. Ever since that sad day Jane has gone up and down the village to look for him, hoping that he will come back." "And will Poor Jane never see him again?" asked Dumpty. "Yes," answered mummie, with her sweetest smile--"yes, darlings, one day she may!" [Sidenote: An Englishwoman's adventure in Arkansas, issuing in a great surprise to all concerned.] The Sugar Creek Highwayman BY ADELA E. ORPEN When Mrs. Boyd returned from Arkansas, I, having myself spent a very uneventful summer at home, with only the slight excitement of a month at Margate, was most anxious to hear an account of her adventures. That she had had adventures out there on those wild plains of course I felt certain. It would be manifestly preposterous to go to Arkansas for three months, and come back without an adventure. So, on the first day when Mrs. Boyd was to be "at home" after her return, I went to see her; and I found, already assembled in her cosy drawing-room, several other friends, impelled there, like myself, by curiosity to hear what she had to say, as well as by a desire to welcome her back. "I was just asking Mrs. Boyd what she thought the most singular thing in America," said Miss Bascombe, by way of putting me _au courant_ with the conversation after my greeting was over with our hostess. "And I," replied Mrs. Boyd, "was just going to say I really did not know what was the one most curious thing in America, where most things seem curious, being different from here, you know. I suppose it is their strange whining speech which most strikes one at the outset. It is strong in New York, certainly, but when you get out West it is simply amazing. But then they thought my speech as curious as I did theirs. A good woman in Arkansas said I talked 'mighty crabbed like.' But a man who travelled in the next seat to me, across Southern Illinois, after talking with me for a long time, said, 'Wal, now, you dew talk purty tol'eble square for an Englishwoman. You h'aint said 'Hingland' nor 'Hameriky' onst since you sot there as I knows on!'" Mrs. Boyd put on so droll a twang, and gave her words such a curious, downward jerk in speaking, that we all laughed, and felt we had a pretty fair idea of how the Illinois people talk at all events. "Everybody is very friendly," continued Mrs. Boyd, "no matter what may be their station in life, nor what you may suppose to be yours. I remember in Cincinnati, where I stopped for a couple of days, the porter who got out my box for me saw it had some London and Liverpool labels on it, whereupon he said, with a pleasant smile, 'Wal, how's Eurôpe gettin' on, anyhow?' Fancy a Cannon Street porter making such a remark to a passenger! But it was quite simply said, without the faintest idea of impertinence. In fact, it is almost impossible to say that anybody is impertinent where you are all so absolutely on an equality." Now all this was interesting enough, no doubt, but what I wanted to hear about was something more startling. I could not really give up all at once the idea of an adventure in the West, so I said, "But didn't anything wonderful happen to you, Mrs. Boyd?" "No, I can't say there did," replied the lady, slightly surprised, I could see, by my question. Then, rallying my geography with an effort, I asked, "Weren't you carried off by the Indians, or swept away by a flood?" "No, I was many hundred miles away from the Indian Reservation, and did not see a single Red man," replied Mrs. Boyd; "and as for floods--well, my dear, I could tell you the ridiculous straits we were put to for want of water, but I can't even imagine a flood on those parched and dried-up plains." [Sidenote: An Adventure] "Well," said I, in an aggrieved voice, "I think you might have come back with at least one adventure after being away for three months." "An adventure!" exclaimed Mrs. Boyd, in astonishment, and then a flash of recollection passed over her countenance, and she continued, "Oh, yes, I did have one; I had an adventure with an highwayman." "Oh!" cried all the ladies, in a delighted chorus. "See there, now!" said Miss Bascombe, as if appropriating to herself the credit of the impending narrative. "I knew it!" said I, with triumph, conscious that to me was due the glory of unearthing the tale. "I'll tell it to you, if you like," said Mrs. Boyd. "Oh, pray do; we are dying to hear about it!" said Miss Bascombe. "A highwayman above all! How delicious!" "Was he handsome?" asked one of the ladies, foolishly, as if that had anything to say to it. "Wait," said Mrs. Boyd, who assumed a grave expression of countenance, which we felt to be due to the recollection of the danger she had run. We also looked serious, as in politeness bound, and sat in eager expectation of her story. "One day we were all invited to spend the whole afternoon at a neighbour's house. We were to go early for dinner at half-past twelve, stay until tea at five, and then drive home in the evening. The neighbour lived twelve miles away, but as there was to be a moon we anticipated no difficulty in driving home over the prairie. You see, as a rule, people are not out after dark in those wild regions; they get up very early, work hard all day, and are quite ready to go to bed soon after sunset. Anyway, there is no twilight; the sun sets, and it is dark almost immediately. When the day came, Emily (my sister, you know, with whom I was staying) wasn't able to go because the baby was not at all well, and she could not leave him for so long a time. So my brother-in-law and I set off alone, promising to come home early. I enjoyed the drive over the prairie very much, and we got to our destination about midday. Then we had dinner, a regular out-West dinner, all on the table together, everything very good and very plentiful. We dined in the kitchen, of course, and after dinner I helped Mrs. Hewstead to wash up the dishes, and then we went out and sat on the north side of the house in the shade and gossiped, while the men went and inspected some steam-ploughs and corn-planters, and what not. Then at five o'clock we had supper. Dear me! when I think of that square meal, and then look at this table, I certainly realise there is a world of difference between England and Arkansas." "Why," said Miss Bascombe, "don't they have tea in America?" "Oh, yes," replied Mrs. Boyd, "we had tea and coffee, any number of cakes and pies, and the coloured man brought up a wheelbarrowful of water-melons and piled them on the floor, and we ate them all!" "Dear me," I remarked, "what a very extraordinary repast! I think you must have felt rather uncomfortable after such a gorge." "Oh dear, no," returned Mrs. Boyd, smiling; "one can eat simply an unlimited quantity of water-melons on those thirsty plains. The water is always sickeningly warm in the summer-time, so that any substitute for it is eagerly welcomed." Mrs. Boyd, lost in the recollections of the appetising water-melons, was clearly forgetting the great point of her story, so I ventured to suggest it by remarking: "And the highwayman?" "I am coming to that directly," said Mrs. Boyd. "Well, we started home just before sundown; and as it was very hot, we could not drive fast. Indeed, the horses were in a sheet of lather almost immediately, and the air seemed fairly thick with the heat-rays, and absolutely breathless. Just as we got to the bluff overlooking the Big Sugar Creek, the sun set. [Sidenote: A Dangerous District] "'I wish we were on the other side of the creek, I know,' said my brother-in-law. "'Why so?' said I; 'this part of the country is perfectly safe, is it not?' "'Yes,' he replied, 'it is pretty safe now, but there are always some rough customers about the bush, and there have been one or two shootings on the Big Sugar. Orlando Morse saw a man on horseback one night just after he had crossed the ford, waiting for him by the side of the road under the trees. But Orlando is an old frontier-man, so he is pretty quick with his trigger. He fired twice at the man, after challenging; whereupon the scoundrel vanished rapidly, and Orlando got safe home.' "I felt very uncomfortable at this, as you may imagine; still, as I knew my brother-in-law had a very poor opinion of the nerves of Englishwomen, I made an effort to say, as lightly as I could: 'What a very extraordinary country, to be sure! And do you always shoot anybody you may happen to see standing by the roadside of a summer's evening?' "'Oh no,' laughed Louis; 'we're not quite so savage as that. But you may fire at any suspicious body or thing, after due challenge, if the answer is not satisfactory. That's the rule of the road.' "After that I began to peer about in the gloom, rather anxiously trying to see if I could discover any suspicious body or thing, but I could make out nothing on account of the gloom, made more complete by the surrounding trees. Besides, we were going down hill very fast; we were, in fact, descending the steep bank of the first creek; then there was a bit of level in the wooded valley, then another stream, the South Fork it was called, then another steep climb, and we would once more be on the high and open prairie. "'Now, then, hold on tight!' said my brother-in-law, as he clutched the reins in both hands, braced his feet against the dashboard, and leaned far back in his seat. The horses seemed literally to disappear beneath our feet; the wagon went down head foremost with a lunge, there was a sudden jerk and great splashing and snorting, followed by a complete cessation of noise from the wheels, and a gentle swaying to and fro of the wagon. We were crossing the ford with the water breast high on the horses. "'I'm always glad when that ford is behind me,' said Louis to me, when we were again driving on quietly through the valley. "'Why?' said I; 'for there's another ford in front of us still.' "'Oh, the South Fork is nothing, but the Big Sugar is treacherous. I've known it rise twenty feet in two hours, and once I was water-bound on the other side for eleven days, unable to ford it. Emily would have gone out of her mind with anxiety, for the country was very disturbed at the time, only one of our neighbours, who saw me camping there, rode down to the house, and told her where I was, but, all the same----Hold! what's that?' "I didn't scream; I couldn't, for my heart almost stopped beating with terror. "'Take the reins,' said Louis, in a quick whisper. "I took hold of them as firmly as I could, but a pair of kittens could have run away with us, my hands trembled so. Louis got out his revolver; I heard click, click, click, in his hand, and then in the faint light I saw the gleam of steel. "'Halt! Who goes there?' called Louis, in a voice of thunder. I never heard his soldier-voice before, for ordinarily he speaks in a melodious baritone; and I then quite understood what Emily meant when she told me how his voice was heard above the din of battle, cheering his men on for the last charge at Gettysburg. I strained my eyes to see what it was, and there in front of us, not fifteen yards away, on the side of the road, I saw a man seated on horseback standing motionless, his right arm stretching forward, aiming straight towards us. [Sidenote: Two Pistol-shots] "Two livid tongues of flame darted from beside me--two quick reports of pistol-shots rang on the night air, then all was still. I felt the horses quiver, for the motion was communicated to me by the reins I held in my hands, but they were admirably trained animals, and did not move to the right or the left, only the younger one, a bay filly, snorted loudly. Louis sat silent and motionless, his revolver still pointing at the highwayman. "I scarcely breathed, but in all my life I never thought with such lightning rapidity. My whole household over here was distinct before me, with my husband and the children, and what they would do on getting the cablegram saying 'waylaid and murdered.' "I thought of a myriad things. I remember, amongst others, that it worried me to think that an over-charge of five shillings from Perkins for fowl, which my husband had just written to ask about, would now be paid because I could never explain that the pair of chickens had been returned. All this time--only a moment or two, you know--I was expecting instant death, while Louis and the horses remained motionless. "The smoke from the revolver slowly cleared away; a bat, startled by the noise, flapped against my face, and we saw the highwayman seated on his horse, standing immovable where he was, his right arm stretching out towards us with the same deadly aim. "'If that man is mortal, he should have dropped,' said Louis softly. 'Both bullets struck him.' "We waited a moment longer. The figure remained as before. "'I must reconnoitre,' said Louis; 'I don't understand his tactics.' And, to my dismay, he prepared to get out of the wagon. "'Are you going away?' I asked breathlessly. "'Yes; sit still--the horses won't stir. I'm going to open fire at close quarters.' "I thought Louis's attempt at jocularity most ill-timed, but I said nothing. It seemed to me an immense time that he was gone, but he declares that it was not more than a minute and a quarter. Then I heard him laugh quietly to himself. "'All right, come on,' he said to me. 'Gee, whoa, haw, get up, girlies,' he said to the horses, and those sagacious beasts immediately walked straight towards the spot whence his voice came, without paying the least attention to me, who was holding the reins so tight, as I thought. "'Well, Milly, I suppose you'll never stop laughing,' was the first thing he said to me when the horses came to a standstill, with their noses almost in his beard. "'I never felt less like laughing,' I replied, hardly daring to believe that the peril was past and that I was still alive. "'Our highwayman is an old stump, don't you see?' exclaimed Louis. I looked again and saw that what he said was true; a gnarled tree stump, some twisted branches, a deceiving white vapour, and perhaps, too, our own vivid imaginations, these were the elements which had given birth to our highwayman. "'I never was more taken in,' said Louis, as he resumed his seat beside me. 'It was the dead image of a man on horseback holding out a pistol. I'll come down here to-morrow and examine the place, to find out how I could have been so silly, but in the daylight, of course, it will look quite different. I shan't ever dare to tell the story, however, for they'll laugh at me from the Red River to the Mississippi, and say I'm getting to be an old fool, and ought to have somebody to look after me!' "I saw that Louis was ashamed of the mistake he had made, but I was so thankful to be safe that I paid little heed to what he said. The next day he rode down to the Big Sugar Creek, sure enough, to identify the slain, as he said. When he came back, a couple of hours later, he was in high good-humour. "'I shall not be afraid to tell the story against myself now,' he said. 'What do you think I found in the stump?' "'What did you find?' asked I, full of interest in this, the only highwayman I ever met. [Sidenote: The Last Laugh] "'_Sixteen bullet-holes!_ You see, there have been other fools as great as myself, but they were ashamed of their folly and kept it dark. I shall tell mine abroad and have the last laugh at all events.'" [Sidenote: Dorothy played a highly important part at a critical period in the life of her father. She begins in disgrace and ends in triumph.] Dorothy's Day BY M. E. LONGMORE "My costume!" said Dorothy Graham, jumping up from the breakfast-table. "You need not smash _all_ the china!" observed Dick. "The parcels post never comes so early," murmured Dorothy's mother. "How impulsive that child is!" In a few minutes Dorothy came back with a crestfallen air and laid a brown, uninteresting-looking envelope by her mother's plate. "I might have known he never comes so early, except with letters," she remarked, sitting down again. "Of course you might," said Dick, clearing the bacon dish, "but you never know anything worth knowing." "Don't tease her," said Mrs. Graham kindly; "it is not often she gets a new frock." "A _costume_," corrected Dick, imitating Dorothy's voice. "A _real_ tailor one--made in Bond Street!" Mr. Graham rustled his newspaper, and Dick succumbed. "Why, Dorothy!" Mrs. Graham was looking at her letter. "Dear me!" She ran her eyes quickly through its contents. "I'm afraid that costume won't come to-day. They've had a fire." [Sidenote: A Fire in Bond Street] "'Prescott's, Bond Street,'" said Mr. Graham, reading from a paragraph in the morning paper. "Here it is: 'A fire occurred yesterday afternoon in the ladies' tailoring department. The stock-room was gutted, but fortunately the assistants escaped without injury.'" Dorothy, with a very long face, was reading over her mother's shoulder: "In consequence of a fire in the tailoring department Messrs. Prescott beg to inform their customers that some delay will be caused in getting out this week's orders. Business will, however, be continued as usual, and it will greatly facilitate matters if ladies having costumes now in hand will repeat the order by wire or telephone to avoid mistakes." "It's very smart of them to have got that notice here so soon," said Mr. Graham. "Mother," said Dorothy, swallowing very hard, "do you think it is burnt? After being fitted and all!" "It is a disappointment," said her mother kindly, "but they'll make you another." "It's a _shame_!" burst out Dorothy, with very hot cheeks. "These sort of things always happen to _me_! Can't we go to Chelmsford and get one ready-made?" "That's a girl all over!" exclaimed Dick. "Now the man's down, let's kick him!" Mr. Graham turned his head with a sharp look at Dick, who immediately, getting very red, pretended to be picking up something under the table. "I didn't say _anything_ about _any_ man!" said Dorothy, appealing all round. "Mother, can't I have a costume from Chelmsford?" "No, dear," said Mrs. Graham coldly; "this one is ordered." "Dick is right, Dolly," said her father. "Don't you see it is the people who have had the _fire_ we should pity? And is it not bad enough to have their place burnt, without losing their customers?" Dorothy sulked. She thought every one was very unkind, and it seemed the last straw when father took Dick's part against her. It was time for Mr. Graham to go to town. He had eaten scarcely any breakfast, and Mrs. Graham, who had been anxiously watching him, had eaten none at all, but things of this sort children don't often notice. When he passed his little girl's chair, he put his hand kindly on her shoulder, and the tears that had been so near welled into her eyes. "Poor Dolly!" Mr. Graham said presently, as he reached for his hat, "everything seems of a piece." And he gave a great sigh. Mrs. Graham always went as far as the gate with him, and he thought they were alone in the hall, but Dick had followed them to the dining-room door. It was holiday-time, yet Dick was going to Chelmsford for an examination. He had come out intending to ask his father before he went to London for half a crown. Dick was just at the age when schoolboys try to appear exactly the reverse from what they are. He squabbled constantly with Dorothy, though he loved her very much, and now, when he heard his father sigh, he put his hands in his pockets as if he didn't care about anything, and went upstairs whistling. When Dick got to his room, he took a money-box from the mantelpiece and smashed it open with the poker. He had been saving up for a new bat, and the box contained seven shillings. He put the money in his pocket and ran down again in a great hurry. "Dick! Dick!" exclaimed his mother, catching him. "Come here! Let me brush your collar. How rough your hair is! Dick, you must have a new hat! You can't go into the hall with that one." "All serene, mother," said the boy, submitting impatiently to be overhauled. "I can buy a new hat and pitch the old one away." "How grandly some people talk!" said his mother, pinching his ear. "As if the world belonged to them. Well, never mind, dear boy! If you get on well and _pass_, no one will remember your hat was shabby. Have you got your fare?" [Sidenote: A Telegram] "Oh, mother, how you _do_ worry!" exclaimed Dick, wrenching himself away; "I've got lots of money--_heaps_!" He ran across the lawn, and just because he knew she was watching, jumped right over the azalea-bushes and wire fence instead of going out at the gate, and yet the tired look went out of Mrs. Graham's eyes, and a smile crept round her mouth as she watched him. Dorothy, standing at the dining-room window, saw him go too, and thought how horrid it was of Dick to look so glad when she was so unhappy. "Boys are always like that," she thought. "They don't care a bit about any one but themselves." Mrs. Graham came back into the room holding a telegram in her hand which she tore open quickly. Her face went red and then rather white. "What is it, mother?" said Dorothy eagerly. "Have they arrived?" "They have been in London two days," said Mrs. Graham, with a curious catch in her breath, and she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "They want me up for a day's shopping. If I had known, I could have gone with father." Dorothy stood staring at her mother with wide-open eyes. Half a dozen castles in the air seemed tumbling about her head at the same time. They were expecting her mother's cousins over from America. Dorothy had been chattering about them to the girls at school all the term, and it was in honour of these very cousins she was having her first Bond Street costume. Her mother had not said that was the reason, but Dorothy knew it. She had a _sweet_, really _big_ hat too, with tiny rosebuds, and new gloves and boots. As a rule her mother was not particular about getting everything new at the same time, but she had taken enough pains this time to please Dorothy herself. "They do dress children so at Boston," Dorothy had overheard her mother say to Mr. Graham, as a sort of excuse. "I should like Dollie to look nice." And from that one sentence Dorothy had conjured up all sorts of things about these wonderful cousins. Of course she thought they were coming to stay with them. She expected there would be girls of her own age, and that they would be so charmed with their English cousin that they would invite her to go back to Boston with them. She had talked about them, and thought about them so much that she imagined her mother had _told_ her all this, but really Mrs. Graham, who talked very little, didn't know much about her cousins herself, so she could not have given her little daughter all this information if she had been inclined to. And now it all seemed so _tame_. First no costume, then an ordinary wire to ask mother to go up for a day's shopping. They might have come from Surrey instead of America. And two whole days before they wired at all. Perhaps Mrs. Graham was thinking something of the kind too, for she stood biting her lip, with the colour going and coming in pretty blushes on her cheek, as if she could not make up her mind. She was just "mother" to Dorothy, but to other people Mrs. Graham was both pretty and sweet. "I _must_ go," she said at length, "and there is scarcely time to get ready." "Oh, _mother_!" cried Dorothy, "can't I come too?" Mrs. Graham still seemed to be considering something else, and she merely answered, "No, dear," and went quickly upstairs. Dorothy sank down on the sofa in a terribly injured mood. Nobody seemed to be thinking of _her_ at all. And before she had got over the first brunt of this discovery her mother was back again ready to go, with her purse-bag and gloves in her hand. [Sidenote: Left in Charge] "Dorothy," she said, arranging her hat before the mirror of the overmantel, "you may choose any pudding you like, tell cook. Here are the keys"--she paused to throw a small bunch in Dorothy's lap. "Get out anything they want. And Dick won't be in till half-past one, tell her. And Dollie"--there was again that queer little catch in her voice--"it is possible Miss Addiscombe may call this afternoon. I have told Louisa to show her right into the drawing-room without telling her I am out, and come and find you. I want you to be very nice to her, and explain about the Merediths. Tell her I was obliged to go because they only gave me the place of meeting, and I have not their address. I shall be home as soon as possible, between four and five at latest, so do your best to keep her till I come back." "Did you say Miss _Addiscombe_, mother?" said Dorothy dismally, yet a little comforted by having the keys, and with the thought of choosing the pudding, "I don't think _she's_ likely to call." "I said Miss Addiscombe," Mrs. Graham answered decidedly. "Do you understand what I wish you to do, Dollie?" "Yes, mother," said Dorothy, subdued but mutinous. Then she ran after her to the hall door. "Mayn't I ask some one to spend the day, mother?" she called, but Mrs. Graham was almost at the gate, nearly running to be in time for her train, and did not hear her. * * * * * Mrs. Graham came home looking very white and tired. "Did Miss Addiscombe call?" were the first words she said. Louisa, who was bringing in the tea, looked meaningly at Dorothy, and went out without speaking. "Oh, mother!" said Dorothy, "I am so sorry, I had been in all day, and Helen Jones just asked me to come to the post with her, and when I came back there was a motor at the door, and----" "She _came_!" exclaimed Mrs. Graham. "And you did not give her my message! Oh, Dorothy!" Her tone was almost like a cry of pain. Dorothy was startled. "She wouldn't wait, mother, and--and of course it _was_ strange she came to-day when she hasn't called for ages and ages! I didn't think she would, or I wouldn't have gone," she explained. Mrs. Graham did not argue the point. She lay down on the sofa and closed her eyes. Dorothy longed to ask her about the American cousins, but did not dare. Presently she poured out a cup of tea and brought it to her mother. "If you take some tea you will feel better, mother," she said softly. "If I had asked Dick to do something for me he would have done it, Dorothy," said Mrs. Graham bitterly, and without seeming to notice the tea she got up and gathered her things together. "I have a headache," she said. "I am not coming down again. Father will not be home to-night, so you can tell Louisa there will be no need to lay the cloth for dinner. I don't wish any one to come near me." And she went out of the room. Poor Dorothy felt dreadfully uncomfortable and crestfallen. She had been alone all day, and it did seem such a little thing to go to the post with Helen Jones, who knew all about her costume, and quite agreed with her that it was a 'horrid shame' for people to be so careless as to have _fires_, when they had the charge of other people's things. Louisa had scolded her, and been very cross when she came in, but Dorothy really saw no reason why it mattered very much what Miss Addiscombe thought. It wasn't like mother to mind anything like that so much. Dick came in about half an hour later. He had been home to dinner, and had gone out again to a cricket match. "Mother has gone to bed," said Dorothy rather importantly. "She doesn't want to be disturbed, and you are not to go to her. She's got a headache, and father isn't coming home." [Sidenote: Dick's Strange Silence] Dick looked at her very hard, and without speaking went straight upstairs, listened a little, and opened his mother's door. "He _is_ a tiresome boy!" thought Dorothy; "now mother will think I never told him." Louisa brought in a poached egg, and some baked apples as he came down again. "Cook says it's so late, you had better make it your supper, sir," she said. "Mother wants a hot-water bottle," answered Dick; "she's as cold as ice. I think you or cook had better go up and see about her. Perhaps she'd better have a fire." "A fire in August! Oh, Dick, how _ridiculous_!" exclaimed Dorothy. "All right, sir," said Louisa, taking the indiarubber bottle he had brought down; "don't you worry." Dick took a book, and planting his elbows on the table, seemed to be reading; in reality he was blinking his eyelashes very hard, to keep back tears. Dorothy thought the whole world was going mad. As far as she knew the only trouble in it was her own. "Aren't you going to take any supper, Dick?" she said plaintively. Dick pushed the egg and apples away, and cutting himself a hunch of bread, went out of the room without speaking. "Every one is very polite to-night," thought Dorothy. However, she sat down, ate Dick's egg and helped herself to apples with plenty of sugar, and felt a little comforted. At eight o'clock she went up to bed, glad the tiresome, miserable day was at an end. She trod very softly, but her mother heard her and called her in. Dorothy was glad, for she spoke in her natural voice and not at all as if she were angry. She was still dressed and lying on the bed, but her hand, which had frightened Dick by being so cold, was now burning. "I spoke hastily to you, Dollie," she said. "You didn't know how important it was. I am going to tell you now, dear, for it may be a lesson to you." Dorothy stood awkwardly by the bed; she didn't like her mother to apologise, and she didn't want the lecture which she imagined was coming. "Father," said Mrs. Graham, "is in a very bad way indeed. I can't explain to you all about it because you would not understand, but a friend he trusted very much has failed him, and another friend has been spreading false rumours about his business. If he doesn't get enough money to pay his creditors by Saturday he must go bankrupt. Miss Addiscombe was a friend of his long ago. She has not been kind to him lately, and she has always been rude to me. I didn't tell father because I knew he would not let me, but I wrote and told her just how it was, and asked her to let bygones be bygones. I was hoping so much she would come, and if she came she would have lent him the money. She has so much it would mean nothing to her. Then I was disappointed in London. I thought Mr. Meredith would have been there--he is rich too--and my cousin, but he is not over at all: just his wife and daughter, and they are rushing through London. They were so busy we had scarcely time to speak. I half wonder they remembered my existence." "Oh, mother!" protested Dorothy; and then with great effort: "You could go over to-morrow to Miss Addiscombe, or write, mother; she would understand." "No, dear. It is no use thinking of it. To offend her once is to offend her always. Besides, I am tired out, and there are only two more days. I have told you because I didn't want it to all come quite suddenly, and you are so wrapt up in yourself, Dollie, you don't notice the way Dick does. If you had told me he had _passed_, Dorothy, when I came in, I should not have felt quite so bad." "But I didn't know, mother," said Dorothy. "Dick didn't tell me. _Has_ he passed?" "Whose fault was it, Dollie? He came home to dinner and found you all alone. Did you _ask_ him how he had got on?" Dorothy hung her head. Mrs. Graham kissed her. "Well, go to bed and pray for dear father," she said. "It is worse for him than for any of us." Dorothy felt as if she were choking. When she got to the door she stood hesitating with her hand on the handle. "I have a hundred pounds in the Bank, mother, that grandma left me. Father can have that if it would be any use." She had made the offer with an effort, for Dorothy liked to have a hundred pounds of her own. What little girl would not? But her mother answered peevishly: "It would be no more use than if you offered him a halfpenny. Don't be foolish." Dick's door was open and Dorothy went in. "Isn't it dreadful, Dick!" she said. "What is _bankrupt_? How much money does father want?" "About fifteen hundred," said Dick savagely. "It's all that old Pemberton backing out of it. Father wanted to get his patents to Brussels, and he's got medals for them all, but it cost a lot of money and now they are not bought. So the business will go to smash, and he'll lose the patents besides, that's the worst of it!" "Dick," said Dorothy wistfully, "don't you think it would be better if father attended to his proper business and stopped inventing things when it costs so much?" Dick sprang up with blazing eyes. "You little brute!" he said, "go out of my room. No, I don't. Father's the cleverest and best man in the world. He can't help being a genius!" [Sidenote: The Last Straw] This was Dorothy's last straw; she went away and threw herself, dressed, on her bed, sobbing as if her heart would break. And only this morning she thought she was miserable because her new dress had not come. Dorothy cried till she could cry no longer, and then she got up and slowly undressed. The house was very still. A clock somewhere was striking ten, and it seemed to Dorothy as if it were the middle of the night. She was cold now as her mother had been, but no one was likely to come to her. She felt alone and frightened, and as if a wall had descended between her and Dick, and her mother and father. Among all the other puzzling and dreadful things, nothing seemed so strange to Dorothy as that Dick showed better than herself. He had gone up to mother when he was told not, and yet it was _right_ (even Dorothy could understand that) for him to disobey her, and _she_ had just gone to the post, and all this dreadful thing would come of it. Dorothy had always thought Dick was such a bad boy and she was so good, and now it seemed all the other way. She was _father's_ girl, too, and father was always down on Dick, yet--her eyes filled when she thought of it--Dick was loyal, and had called her a little brute, and mother said it was worst of all for father. She knelt down by her bed. Until to-night Dorothy had never really felt she needed Jesus as a friend, though she sometimes thought she loved Him. Now it seemed as if she _must_ tell some one, and she wanted Him very, very badly. So she knelt and prayed, and though she cried nearly all the time she felt much happier when she got up. "I am so selfish. I am so sorry. Please help me!" was the burden of poor Dollie's prayer, but she got into bed feeling as if Jesus had understood, and fell asleep quite calmly. In the morning Dorothy awoke early. It was scarcely light. It was the first time in her life she had woke to sorrow, and it seemed very dreadful. Yet Dorothy felt humble this morning, and not helpless as she had done last night. She felt as if Someone, much stronger than herself, was going to stand by her and help her through. [Sidenote: Dorothy's Project] Lying there thinking, many things seemed plain to her that she had not understood before, and a thought came into her head. It was _her_ fault, and she was the one who should suffer; not father, nor mother, nor Dick. It would not be easy, for Dorothy did not like Miss Addiscombe, and she was afraid of her, but she must go to her. Directly the thought came into her head Dorothy was out of bed and beginning to dress. And that mysterious clock which she had never heard before was just striking five when she stole like a little white ghost downstairs, carrying her shoes in her hand, and unbolting the side door, slipped out into a strange world which was still fast asleep. Miss Addiscombe lived ten miles away, but Dorothy did not remember anything about that. All her thought was to get there as soon as possible. One thing, she knew the way, for the flower-show was held in her grounds every year, and Dorothy had always been driven there. It was a nearly straight road. * * * * * About ten o'clock that morning a gentleman was driving along the high-road when he suddenly pulled up his horse and threw the reins to the groom. It had been quite cool when Dorothy started, but now it was very hot, and there seemed no air at all. A little girl in a white frock was lying by the roadside. He stooped over her and felt her pulse, and Dorothy opened large, startled blue eyes. "What is it, my dear?" he said. "I am dying, I think," said Dorothy. "Tell mother I did _try_." He lifted her into his trap and got in beside her, telling the groom to drive on, and wondering very much. Dorothy gave a great sigh and began to feel better. "I think it is because I had no breakfast," she said. "Perhaps I am dying of _hunger_." The gentleman smiled, and searched his pockets. After a time he found some milk chocolate. Dorothy would rather have had water, but he made her eat a little. Then he took off her hat and gloves, and with a cool, soft handkerchief pushed back the hair that was clinging about her damp forehead and carefully wiped her face. "You'll feel better now," he said, fanning her with her hat, and putting it on again, as if he had never done anything but dress little girls in his life. Dorothy smiled with a great sigh of relief, and the gentleman smiled too. "Now tell us all about it," he said in a friendly way. "Where do you live, and where are you going?" When Dorothy told him he looked very much surprised, and at the same time interested, and before she knew what she was about, he had drawn from her the whole story, and the more she told him the more surprised and interested he became. "What was the name of the friend who failed your father?" he said at last, but Dorothy could not remember. "Was it Pemberton?" he suggested. "Oh, yes, Mr. Pemberton," said Dorothy. "At least, Dick said so." "You don't happen to be _Addiscombe_ Graham's little daughter," he said with a queer look, "do you?" "Father's name is Richard Addiscombe," said Dorothy doubtfully. "Well, the best thing you can do now is to come home with me and get some breakfast," he said. "It is no use going to the Park, for I have just been to the station, and Miss Addiscombe was there, with all her luggage, going off to the Continent." Poor Dorothy's heart sank like lead. "Oh, dear!" she said, "then it's been no use. Poor father!" and her eyes filled with tears. The gentleman did not speak, and in a few minutes they drove in at the gates of a beautiful country house, and he lifted her down and took her in with him, calling out "Elizabeth!" A tall girl, about eighteen, came running to him, and after whispering to her for a minute, he left Dorothy in her charge, and went into the room where his wife was sitting. "I thought you had gone to town?" she said. [Sidenote: Mr. Lawrence's Mistake] "Providentially, no," he said, so gravely that she looked surprised. "Do you remember Addiscombe Graham, dear?" "Has anything happened to him?" said Mrs. Lawrence. "I have just been reading about him in the paper; all his life-saving appliances have had gold medals at the exhibition. What is it, Edward? Of course, I know you are a friend of his." "A Judas sort of friend," said Mr. Lawrence. "Do you know what I've done? I've nearly landed him in the Bankruptcy Court. Pemberton told me a few weeks ago he had promised to give him some spare cash that would be loose at the end of the year, and I persuaded him to put it in something else. I said, 'Graham doesn't want it, he's simply _coining_ over his inventions,' and I thought it too. Now it appears he was _counting_ on that money to pull him through the expenses." The tall girl took Dorothy upstairs to a beautiful bathroom, got her warm water, and asked if she would like a maid to do her hair. After a little while she came for her again and took her into a very pretty room, where there was a dainty little table laid for breakfast. "When you have finished," she said, "just lie on the sofa and rest. I am sorry I can't stay with you, but I must go and feed the peacocks." [Illustration: HER HOSTESS HAD BEEN FEEDING THE PEACOCKS.] Dorothy took a little toast and tea, but she did not feel so very hungry after all, and for a time was quite glad to lie down on the couch. Once or twice she got up and looked out of the window. Her girl hostess was moving across the lawn. She had evidently been feeding the peacocks, and was now gathering flowers. How pleasant all this wealth and comfort seemed to Dorothy! And then, by comparison, _she_ was feeling so miserable! Everything was quite quiet in the house save for the telephone bell, which kept sounding in the hall. Then she heard Mr. Lawrence calling out: "Are you _there_? Look sharp! Yes, to-day. Money down! Do you understand?" Then he would ring off and call up some one else. Last of all his voice changed from a business tone to a very friendly one. "Are you there? What cheer, old chap? _That's_ all right! I'll see you through. Two o'clock, Holborn Restaurant." Dorothy could not hear what was said on the other side. How surprised she would have been if she had known the last conversation was with her own father! Then a very kind-looking lady came in and kissed her. "The motor is round," she said. "I'm so glad to have seen you, dear. We all admire your father very much." Dorothy felt bewildered but followed her out, and there was a lovely motor, and her friend in it! "You won't faint by the way this time," he said, "eh? Now, if you can keep your own counsel, little lady, you may hear some good news to-night." They were tearing along the level road already, and almost in a flash, it seemed to Dorothy, they were passing the church of her own village. "Oh, please let me get out!" she said to Mr. Lawrence in an agony. "If mother heard the motor she might think it was Miss Addiscombe, and be so disappointed. You have been kind, very, very kind, but I can't help thinking about father." He let her out, and waving his hand, was soon off and out of sight. Dorothy walked slowly and sadly home. It seemed as if she had been away for _days_, and she was half afraid to go in, but to her surprise nothing seemed to have happened at all. Only Dick came rushing out, and, to her surprise, kissed her. [Sidenote: A Heroine] "I say, Dollie!" he began, "where _have_ you been? You gave me an awful fright. Don't tell any one I called you a brute." "Is mother frightened?" said Dollie. "I--I meant to help, but I've done nothing." "How could you help?" said Dick, surprised. "Mother stayed in bed; she is only getting up now." A boy came up with a telegram. Dick took it and after holding it a moment tore it open. "Oh, Dick!" expostulated Dorothy, "opening mother's telegram!" But Dick threw his cap high up in the air, and shouted "_Jubilate!_" Then he rushed up the stairs, Dorothy timidly following. This was the wire: "_See daylight. Meeting Lawrence at Holborn Restaurant._--FATHER." "Don't shut Dorothy out," said Mrs. Graham, holding the yellow paper, and with tears of joy standing in her eyes. "Why, my little girl, how pale you are! I wish I had not told you. You need never have known. Mr. Lawrence is just the man." "Oh, mother!" said Dorothy, springing into her arms, and beginning to laugh and cry at once, yet happier than she had ever been in her life before. "But if you hadn't told me it couldn't have happened." When Mr. Lawrence and father came down together that evening and the whole story was told, Dorothy, to her surprise, found when thinking least about herself she had suddenly become a heroine, even in the eyes of Dick. [Sidenote: A very unusual hunting episode, that nearly ended in a tragedy.] A Strange Moose Hunt BY HENRY WILLIAM DAWSON Some years ago, while living in Canada, in a village situated on the bank of a large river, I was a spectator of a moose hunt of a most novel and exciting character. That you may the better understand what I am going to relate I will first introduce you to our village Nimrod. As his real name is no concern of ours I will here give him his popular nickname of "Ramrod," a name by which he was well known not only in our village but for a considerable distance around. It was conferred upon him, I suppose, because he walked so upright and stiff, and also perhaps because he at one time had worn the Queen's uniform. A queer old stick was Ramrod. He knew a little of most mechanical things and was for ever tinkering at something or other, useful or otherwise as the case might be. He could also "doctor" a sick cow or dog, and was even known to have successfully set the broken leg of an old and combative rooster. His mechanical turn of mind was continually leading him to the construction of the most wonderful arrangements of wood and iron ever seen. In fact, his operations in this direction were only held in check by one want, but that a great one, namely, the want of a sufficiency of cash. [Sidenote: A Mystery] Now for the greater part of one spring Ramrod had shut himself up in his woodshed, and there he was heard busy with hammer and saw all day long, except when called forth by the tinkle of the little bell attached to the door of his shop, where almost anything might have been purchased. Many were the guesses as to "what can Ramrod be up to now?" And often did we boys try to catch a glimpse of what was going on within that mysterious shed; but in vain. Ramrod seemed to be always on the alert, and the instant an intrusive boy's head appeared above the first dusty pane of the small window by which the shed was lighted, it was greeted with a fierce and harsh gar-r-ar-r-r, often accompanied with a dash of cold water, which the old fellow always seemed to have in readiness. But one day as a lot of youngsters were down on the river bank preparing for an early swim they were startled by the advent of another lad, who, with scared looks and awful voice, declared that Ramrod was "making his own coffin," and that he, the boy, had seen it with his own eyes. The rumour spread, and many were the visits paid that afternoon to the little shop by the river. But Ramrod kept his secret well, and baffled curiosity had to return as wise as it came. Ramrod was determined that his work should not be criticised until completed. He had evidently heard the saying that "women, children, and fools should not be allowed to see a thing until finished." At last one day the great work _was_ completed, and turned out to be, not a coffin, but what the happy builder called a boat. But to call it a boat was a misnomer, for the thing was to be propelled not by oars but by a paddle. And certainly through all the ages since the construction of the ark of Noah was never such a boat as this. It would be impossible to convey in words a true idea of what the craft was like. Perhaps to take an ordinary boat, give it a square stern, a flat bottom without a keel, and straight sides tapering to a point at the bow, would give an approximate idea of what the thing actually was, and also how difficult to navigate. The winter had been unusually uneventful. Nothing had happened to break the cold monotony of our village life, so that when one day an excited and panting individual rushed up the river bank screaming out "A moose, a moose in the river!" it was only natural that we should all be thrown into a state of ferment. Some who possessed firearms rushed off to get them out, while others ran along the bank seeking a boat. As, however, the ice having only just "run," the boats and punts ordinarily fringing the river were still all up in the various barns and sheds where they had been stowed at the close of navigation, their efforts were in vain, and they could only stand fuming and casting longing eyes at the now retreating moose. For of course the animal had turned as soon as he perceived the hubbub which his appearance under such unusual circumstances had created. Instead, therefore, of crossing the river, it now made for an island which was about half a mile out in the stream. It had a good distance to swim, however, before it could accomplish that, and in the meantime preparations were being made a short way up the river which promised serious trouble for Mr. Moose. Of course, you may be sure that Ramrod had caught the excitement with the rest of us, and was equally desirous of the capture of the moose. But he was a modest man and would let others have a chance first. After a little while, though, when it became evident that unless something was done pretty soon the moose would escape, it was noticed that he became graver, and that his face wore a puzzled look of uncertainty. [Sidenote: Ramrod's "Coffin"] All at once, however, the doubt vanished, and Ramrod started off towards his house as fast as his long stiff legs would carry him. When he emerged he bore in one hand an ordinary rope halter, with a noose at one end, just such a halter as was used by all the farmers for securing their horses to their stalls. In his other hand was a paddle, and with these harmless-looking implements he was about to start in chase of the moose. Quickly proceeding to the river bank, he drew out from beneath a clump of bushes the "coffin," and, unheeding alike the warnings of the elders and derisive shouts of the youngsters, elicited by the appearance of his curious-looking craft, he knelt down in the stern and set out on his perilous adventure. But he had not gone far before it was seen that something was wrong. The boat had a will of its own, and that will was evidently exerted in direct opposition to the will of its owner. It went, but how? No schoolboy ever drew a truer circle with a bit of string and a slate-pencil than that cranky craft made on the placid surface of the river each time Ramrod put a little extra strength into his stroke. At last, however, the gallant boatman managed to make headway, and, aided by the current, he now rapidly approached the moose, which was considerably distressed by the great length of its swim. But the instant the animal became aware that it was being pursued, it redoubled its efforts to gain the island, which was not very distant. And this it would have succeeded in doing had it not been for the almost herculean exertions of Ramrod, by which it was eventually headed up stream again. And now a stern chase up and down and across the river ensued. It really did not last long, though it seemed hours to us who were watching from the bank. Just as Ramrod thought he had made sure of the moose this time, and dropping his paddle would seize the halter to throw over the head of the animal, the latter would make a sudden turn, and before the baffled hunter could regain command of his boat, would be well on his way down stream again. All this time the crowd collected on the bank were greatly concerned about Ramrod's safety. They saw, what he did not, that the affair would end in his getting a ducking at the very least. But worse than that was feared, as, once overturned, the miserable conception of a boat would be beyond the power of any one in the water to right it again. And, moreover, the water was still intensely cold, and a very few minutes would have sufficed to give the cramp to a much stronger man than Ramrod. Perceiving all this, some of the more energetic had from the first bestirred themselves in preparations for launching a boat. But this occupied some time, for, as I have said, the boats usually to be seen fringing the bank during the summer months had not yet made their appearance. Oars also and tholepins had to be hunted up, and by the time all this was accomplished the need of help out there on the river was very urgent indeed. Plenty of pluck had Ramrod, or he would have given up the chase when he found himself becoming so exhausted, by the tremendous exertion necessary to keep control of his cranky craft, that he had scarcely sufficient strength left to follow the deer in its many dodges and turnings. But strong as the moose was, its time had come. Suddenly the animal stopped, gave a scream that made the blood curdle in all our veins, and would have sunk out of sight only that, with a last desperate effort, Ramrod got up with it, and this time succeeded in throwing the halter over its head and drawing the noose tight. [Sidenote: An Upset] Thoroughly exhausted as the moose appeared to be, this act of Ramrod's roused it to make one more effort for life and freedom. Turning quickly about and snorting furiously, it made for its assailant, and before Ramrod could check it had capsized the boat and sent that worthy head over heels into the water. Presence of mind is a splendid quality, and Ramrod possessed it to the full. Retaining his hold of the halter, he endeavoured to right the boat, but soon perceiving the impossibility of so doing, he relinquished the attempt, and being a good swimmer, boldly struck out for the island, that being the nearest land. Refreshed by his involuntary bath, and not yet feeling the effects of the cold, Ramrod made no doubt but that he should easily accomplish the task. As for the moose, it was completely done up, and was now no more trouble than a log of wood. The effort by which it had overturned the boat was the last it made, and its captor was now quietly towing it ashore. But cold water does not agree with all constitutions, especially if the body has been fatigued and heated before its application. Cramp seized upon poor Ramrod, and though he made a gallant and desperate struggle to reach land with the aid of his arms alone, he felt that only by a miracle could he do so. Moment by moment he felt himself growing weaker and less able to withstand the chill which was striking through to his very heart. At last the supreme moment came. He could go no farther. Brave and collected to the last, he raised his eyes to heaven as in thought he commended his soul to his Maker. At that instant the sound of oars struck his ear, and the hope it brought him gave him sufficient strength to keep up until a friendly hand grasped him under the arm. With his last little bit of strength he raised his hand, still grasping the halter, and smiled triumphantly; then he lost consciousness. The "coffin" was brought ashore afterwards, but no one had the hardihood to navigate it. Even towing it was a trial of temper, for it kept swinging from side to side with a heavy jerking motion with every pull at the oars. Ramrod, I am glad to say, lived to have many a quiet paddle in his queer boat whenever he went a-fishing; and this, it appears, was all he intended it for when he built it. Thus ended this famous moose hunt, but the talk of it lasted for many a year; and whenever a pleasure-party were out on the river enjoying a sail by moonlight, this was the one story that was never stale, and mention of "Ramrod's coffin" would cause a smile to appear on the face of even the most grave. The moose, when brought ashore, proved to be quite young, though full-grown, as its horns were not much more than "buds." [Sidenote: Edith Harley was called upon to play a rather difficult part. But her patience and her obedience to the call of duty brought their own reward.] A Girl's Patience BY C. J. BLAKE "A letter from Rachel! Is it possible she can have relented at last?" Dr. Harley looked across the breakfast-table at his wife as he spoke; and the children, of all ages and sizes, who were busy with their bowls of porridge, stopped the clatter of tongues and spoons to listen. "Read it, dear," said Mrs. Harley, in her slow, gentle voice. "It must be ten years since Rachel wrote that last dreadful letter. Surely she must have learnt to forgive and forget by this time!" "Send some of these children away, then. Maude and Jessie can stay; but it is time the others were getting ready for lessons." There was a hurried, scrambling finish of the simple breakfast; then a little troop of boys and girls filed out of the rather shabby dining-room, and Dr. and Mrs. Harley were alone with their elder daughters. "'MY DEAR BROTHER,'" began the doctor,--"'I am growing an old woman now, and in spite of the good reasons I had for ceasing to write, or to communicate with you in any way, I do not feel that I can keep up the estrangement from my own flesh and blood any longer. "'If you like to let bygones be bygones, I, on my side, am quite willing to do the same. I am writing, too, because I have heard a good deal, in one way or another, about your large and expensive family, and the difficulty you have in making both ends meet. It has been more than hinted to me that I ought to render, or at least offer, you some assistance. I have thought perhaps the best thing would be to take one of your girls for a six months' visit; to stay longer, or, indeed, always, if I should, after such a trial, continue to be pleased with her. "'I don't want a young child, but one old enough to be companionable. Of course I would provide for education, and everything, so long as she stayed with me. It would surely be a relief to have even one of such a number taken off your hands, and it would be the girl's own fault if the relief were not made permanent. If this should meet your views, write at once, and fix a date for one of your daughters to come to me. Your affectionate sister, "'RACHEL HARLEY.'" "Oh, papa!" exclaimed Maude and Jessie in a breath, "how could we ever leave you, and dear mamma too! We should be miserable away from home." "From Aunt Rachel's letter, I should think she must be a dreadfully stiff sort of person," added audacious Jessie. "Please don't say that we shall have to go." "Not so fast, my dear," returned her father. "Only one of you all can go, and I do not think either you or Maude could possibly be spared. But what does mamma say?" "You know my wretched health, Henry," said Mrs. Harley. "I never could do without Maude to look after the housekeeping; and Jessie saves both school and governess for the younger ones. But then there is Edith. Why should not Edith go?" [Sidenote: Edith Harley] "Why, indeed?" repeated the doctor. "Edith does nothing but mischief--at least, so far as the account of her doings reaches my ears. She is quite too big for Jessie to teach, and we cannot afford to send her to a good school at present, which is the thing that ought to be done. It really seems to me a providential opening for Edith." "Poor Edie!" sighed the mother again. "It would be a hard life for her, I am afraid." "Oh, nonsense, Maria! You were always unjust to Rachel. You think, because she took such deep offence, that there can be nothing good in her. Surely I ought to know my own sister's character! Rachel would do her duty by any inmate of her home--of that I am quite certain." "Well, Henry, it would be a help in many ways. Edith is growing such a great girl, nearly fifteen now, and if it would lighten your cares to have her provided for, I ought not to resist. But at least it would be well to let her know what you think of doing, and hear what she says." "I don't know that what she says need affect the question much. The fact is, Maria, something will have to be done. We are exceeding what we can afford even now, and the children will be growing more expensive instead of less so. For my own part, I can only feel glad of Rachel's offer. I must go now; but you can tell Edith, if you like; and tell her, too, to hold herself in readiness, for the sooner the matter is settled the better." Edith Harley, called indifferently by her brothers and sisters the Middle One and the Odd One, was the third daughter and the fifth child of this family of nine. She was a rather tall, awkward girl, who grew out of her frocks, and tumbled her hair, and scandalised her elder sisters, in their pretty prim young ladyhood, by playing with the boys and clinging obstinately, in spite of her fifteen years, to her hoop and skipping-rope. An unfortunate child was this chosen one, always getting into scrapes, and being credited with more mischief than she ever really did. It was Edith who had caught the whooping-cough through playing with some of the village children, and had brought it home, to be the plague of all the nine for a whole winter and spring. It was Edith who took Johnnie and Francie down to the pondside to play, and let them both tumble in. True, she went bravely in herself and rescued them, but that did not count for very much. They were terribly wet, and if they had been drowned it would have been all her fault. It was Edith who let Tom's chickens out for a run, and the cat came and killed two of them; that was just before she forgot to shut the paddock-gate, when the donkey got into mamma's flower-garden and spoilt all the best plants. So poor Edith went on from day to day, thankful if she could only lay her head upon her pillow at night without being blamed for some fresh escapade, yet thoroughly happy in the freedom of her country life, in the enjoyment of long summer-day rambles, and endless games with the little brothers, who thought her "the jolliest girl that ever was," and followed her lead without scruple, sure that whatever mischief she might get them into she would bravely shield them from the consequences. A country doctor, with a not very lucrative practice, Dr. Harley had, when Edith was about ten years old, sustained a severe pecuniary loss which greatly reduced his income. It was then that the governess had to be given up, and the twin boys who came next to Maude and Jessie were sent to a cheaper school. These boys were leaving now, one to go to the university, through the kindness of a distant relative, the other to pass a few weeks with the London coach who would prepare him for a Civil Service examination. Jessie, a nice, clever girl, with a decided taste for music, could teach the four younger ones very well--had done so, indeed, ever since Miss Phipps left; but in this, as in everything, Edith was the family problem. She could not, or would not, learn much from Jessie; she hated the piano and needlework, and even professed not to care for books. [Sidenote: "Would it help Papa?"] Yet she astonished the entire family sometimes by knowing all sorts of odd out-of-the-way facts; she could find an apt quotation from some favourite poet for almost any occasion, and did a kind of queer miscellaneous reading in "a hole-and-corner way," as her brother Tom said, that almost drove the sister-governess to distraction. And now the choice of a companion for Miss Rachel Harley, the stern, middle-aged aunt, whom even the elder girls could scarcely remember to have seen, had fallen upon Edith. The news came to her first as a great blow. There could not be very much sympathy between the gentle, ailing, slightly querulous mother and the vigorous, active girl; yet Edith had very strong, if half-concealed, home affections, and it hurt her more than she cared to show that even her mother seemed to feel a sort of relief in the prospect of her going away for so long. "Don't you _mind_ my going, mamma?" she said at last, with a little accent of surprise. "Well, Edith dear, papa and I think it will be such a good thing for you and for us all. You have been too young, of course, to be told about money matters, but perhaps I may tell you now, for I am sure you are old enough to understand, that papa has a great many expenses, and is often very much worried. There are so many of you," added the poor mother, thinking with a sigh of her own powerlessness to do much towards lifting the burden which pressed so heavily upon her husband's shoulders. "Do you think it would help papa, then, if I went?" asked the girl slowly. "Indeed I do. You would have a good home for a time, at all events; and if your Aunt Rachel should take to you, as we may hope she will if you earnestly try to please her, she may be a friend to you always." "Very well, then; I shall try my best to do as you and papa wish." That was all Edith said, and Mrs. Harley was quite surprised. She had expected tears and protests, stormy and passionate remonstrances--not this quiet submission so unlike Edith. Perhaps no one understood the girl less than her own mother. It might have helped Mrs. Harley to know something of her daughter's inner nature if she could have seen her, after their talk together, steal quietly up to the nursery, where there were only the little ones at play, and, throwing her arms round little Francie, burst into a fit of quiet sobbing that fairly frightened the child. "What is it, Edie? Don't cry, Edie! Francie'll give you a kiss, twenty kisses, if you won't cry," said the pretty baby voice. "Your poor Edie's going away, and it will break her heart to leave you, my pet," said the girl through her tears, straining the child in a passionate embrace. Presently she grew calmer, and put the wondering little one down. "There, Francie, I've done crying now, and you needn't mind. You'll always love Edie, won't you, if she does go away?" "Yes, always, always love Edie," said the child; and Johnnie chimed in too, "And me--me always love Edie." But there were the boys to be told after that--Alfred and Claude, the two bright boys of ten and eight years, who had been her own especial playmates; and loud was their outcry when they heard that Edith was going. "We might as well have no sisters," said the ungrateful young rascals. "Maude and Jessie don't care for us. They only think we're in the way. They're always telling us to wipe our feet, and not make such a noise; and Francie's too little for anything. We'd only got Edith, and now she's to go. It's too bad, that it is!" But their protest availed nothing. The very same night Dr. Harley wrote to his sister, thanking her for her kind offer, and adding that, if convenient, he would bring his daughter Edith, fifteen years of age, to her aunt's home at Silchester in a week's time. There was much to do in that short week in getting Edith's wardrobe into something like order. Each of the elder sisters sacrificed one of their limited number of dresses to be cut down and altered for the younger one. The May sunshine of a rather late spring was beginning to grow warm and genial at last, and the girl really must have a new hat and gloves and shoes, and one or two print frocks, before she could possibly put in an appearance at Aunt Rachel's. Almost anything had done for running about the lanes at Winchcomb, where every one knew the Harleys, and respected them far more for not going beyond their means, than they would have done for any quantity of fine apparel. [Sidenote: Goodbye!] But the preparations were finished at last, the goodbyes were said, and Edith, leaving home for the first time in her life, sat gravely by her father's side in the train that was timed to reach Silchester by six in the evening. She had been up very early that morning, before any of the others were astir; and when she was dressed, went out into the garden, where she could be alone, to think her last thoughts of the wonderful change in her life. She had gone on always so carelessly and happily, that the new turn of affairs sobered and startled her. She seemed to herself to say goodbye, not only to her home, but to the long, bright, happy childhood that had been spent there. And her thoughts were full of the few words Mrs. Harley had spoken about her papa's expenses and worries. "If I had only known," she said to herself; "if I had only thought about things, I would have tried to learn more, and be some help while I was here. But it is no use grieving about that now; it seems to me I am come to what our rector calls a 'turning point.' I can begin from to-day to act in a different way, and I will. I will just think in everything how I can help them all at home. I will try to please Aunt Rachel, and get her to like me, and then perhaps I shall grow in time to bear the thought of staying with her for a long, long while. Only, my poor boys and my dear little Johnnie and Francie--I did think I should have had you always. But it will be good for you, too, if I get on well at Silchester." When she had gone so far, Nancy, the housemaid, came out with broom and bucket, and the mingled sounds of laughing and crying, and babel of many voices that floated out through the opened windows, told Edith that the family were rising for the last breakfast together. It was a good thing when all the farewells were over, and for the first few miles of the journey she was thankful to sit in silence in the stuffy second-class carriage, and use all her strength of will to keep back the tears that would try to come. "Papa," she said shyly, as her father laid down his newspaper, and woke up to the fact that the two ladies who had begun the journey with them had got out at the last station--"papa, I want you to promise me something, please." "Well, Edith, what is it?" "I want you to promise not to tell Aunt Rachel about all the things that I have done--while I was at home, I mean." "You have never done anything very dreadful, child," said the doctor with a smile. "Your Aunt Rachel has not been accustomed to little girls, it is true; but I suppose she won't expect you to be quite like an old woman." [Sidenote: "I will do my very best"] "No; but if she knew about Johnnie and Francie falling into the water, and about the chickens, and how Alfred and I let Farmer Smith's cow into the potato-field, and the other things, she might not understand that I am going to be different; and I shall be different--I shall indeed, papa." "Yes, Edith, it is time you began to be more thoughtful, and to remember that there are things in the world, even for boys and girls, far more important than play. If it will be any comfort to you, I will readily promise not to mention the cow, or the chickens, or even that famous water escapade. But I shall trust to your own good sense and knowledge of what is right, and shall expect you to make for yourself a good character with your aunt. You may be sure she will, from the first, be influenced much more by your behaviour than by anything I can say." "Yes, I know," murmured Edith. "I will do my very best." She would have liked to say something about helping her father in his difficulties, but the shyness that generally overcame her when she talked to him prevented any further words on the subject; and Dr. Harley began to draw her attention to the objects of interest they were passing, and to remark that in another twenty minutes they would be half-way to Silchester. It seemed a long while to Edith before the train drew up in the large, glass-roofed station, so different from the little platform at Winchcomb, with the station-master's white cottage and fragrant flower-borders. Silchester is not a very large town, but to the country-bred girl the noise and bustle of the station, and of the first two or three streets through which they were driven in the cab Dr. Harley had called, seemed almost bewildering. Very soon, however, they began to leave shops and busy pavements behind, and to pass pretty, fancifully-built villas, with very high-sounding names, and trim flower-gardens in front. Even these ceased after a while, and there were first some extensive nursery grounds, and then green open fields on each hand. "It will be quite the country after all, papa!" exclaimed Edith, surprised. "Not quite, Edith. You will only be two or three miles out of Silchester, instead of twenty miles from everywhere, as we are at Winchcomb. Look! that is Aunt Rachel's house, just where the old Milford Lane turns out of the road--that house at the corner, I mean." "Where?" said Edith, half-bewildered. Her unaccustomed eyes could see nothing but greenery and flowers at first, for Miss Harley's long, low, two-storey cottage was entirely overgrown with dense masses of ivy and other creeping plants. It stood well back from the road, in a grassy, old-fashioned garden, shaded by some fine elms; and one magnificent pear-tree, just now glorious in a robe of white blossoms, grew beside the entrance-gate. "Oh, papa, what a lovely old house!" cried the girl involuntarily. "Did you know it was like this?" Dr. Harley smiled. "I suppose you think it lovely, Edith. I have often wondered, for my own part, why your aunt should bury herself here. But come--jump out; there she is at the door. The King's Majesty would not draw her to the garden gate, I think." Edith got out of the cab, feeling like a girl in a dream, and followed her father up the gravel walk, noting mechanically the gorgeous colouring of tulips and hyacinths that filled the flower-beds on either hand. A tall, grey-haired lady, well advanced in life, came slowly forward, holding out a thin, cold hand, and saying in a frigid tone, "Well, brother, so we meet again after these ten years. I hope you are well, and have left your wife and family well also." [Sidenote: A Doubtful Welcome] "Quite well, thank you, Rachel, excepting Maria, who is never very well, you know," said the doctor heartily, taking the half-proffered hand in both his. "And how are you, after all this long time? You don't look a day older than when we parted." "I am sorry I cannot return the compliment," remarked the lady, with a grim smile. "I suppose it is all the care and worry of your great family of children that have aged you so. And Maria was always such a poor, shiftless creature. I daresay, now, with all that your boys and girls cost you, you have two or three servants to keep, instead of making the girls work, and saving the wages and the endless waste that the best of servants make." "We have but two," said the doctor, in a slightly irritated tone of voice. "My girls and their mother are ladies, Rachel, if they are poor. I can't let them do the rough work. For the rest, they have their hands pretty full, I can assure you. You have little idea, living here as you do, how much there is to be done for a family of nine children." "No, I am thankful to say I have not. But you had better come in, and bring the girl with you." With these ungracious words Aunt Rachel cast her eyes for the first time upon Edith, who had stood a silent and uncomfortable listener while her father and aunt were talking. "Humph!" ejaculated Miss Harley, after looking her niece over from top to toe with a piercing, scrutinising gaze, that seemed to take in every detail of figure, face, and toilette, and to disapprove of all; "humph! The child looks healthy, and that is all I can say for her. But bring her in, Henry--Stimson and the boy can see to her box. I suppose you will stay yourself for to-night?" "I should not be able to go home to-night, as you know," replied Dr. Harley. "But if my staying would be at all inconvenient, I can go to one of the Silchester hotels." His sister Rachel proved to be the same irritating, cross-grained woman he had quarrelled with and parted from so long before, and he was a little disappointed, for it is wonderful how time softens our thoughts of one another, and how true it is that-- "No distance breaks the tie of blood, Brothers are brothers evermore." Although Miss Rachel ruffled and annoyed him at every second word--"rubbed him up the wrong way," as her maid Stimson would have said--the doctor had a real regard for her in his heart, and respected her as a woman of sterling principle, and one whose worst faults were all upon the surface. "There is no need to talk about hotels," and Miss Harley drew herself up, half-offended in her turn. "It's a pity if I can't find houseroom for my own brother, let him stay as long as he will. Now, Edith, if that is your name, go along with Stimson, and she will show you your room, where you can take off your hat and things. And be sure, mind you brush your hair, child, and tie it up, or something. Don't come down with it hanging all wild about your shoulders like that." Poor Edith's heart sank. She was rather proud of her luxuriant brown tresses, which her mother had always allowed her to wear in all their length and beauty, and she did not even know how to tie them up herself. "This way, miss," said the prim, elderly servant. "I knew as soon as I saw you that your hair would never do for Miss Harley. I'll fix it neatly for you." "Oh, thank you!" said Edith, much relieved; and in a few minutes all the flowing locks were gathered into one stiff braid, and tied at the end with a piece of black ribbon. "There, now you look more like a young lady should!" cried Stimson, surveying her handiwork with pleasure. "You'll always find me ready to oblige you, miss, if you'll only try to please Miss Harley; and you won't mind my saying that I hope you'll be comfortable here, and manage to stay, for it's frightful lonely in the house sometimes, and some one young about the place would do the mistress and me good, I'm sure." [Sidenote: A Great Improvement] "Oh, thank you!" said Edith again. She could not trust herself to say more, for the words, that she felt were kindly meant, almost made her cry. "Now you had better go down to the parlour," Stimson went on. "Miss Harley and your papa won't expect you to be long, and the tea is ready, I know." With a beating heart Edith stepped down the wide, old-fashioned staircase, and went shyly in at the door which Stimson opened for her. She found herself in a large, handsomely-furnished room, where the table was laid for tea; and Miss Harley sat before the tray, already busy with cups and saucers. "Come here, Edith, and sit where I can see you. Yes, that is a great improvement. Your hair looks tidy and respectable now." After this greeting, to Edith's great relief, she was left to take her tea in peace and silence, the doctor and his sister being occupied in conversation about their early days, and continually mentioning the names of persons and places of whom she knew little or nothing. Only once the girl started to hear her aunt say, "I always told you, Henry, that it was a great mistake. With your talents you might have done almost anything; and here you are, a man still in middle life, saddled and encumbered with a helpless invalid wife and half a score of children, to take all you earn faster than you can get it. It is a mere wasted existence, and if you had listened to me it might all have been different." "How cruel!" exclaimed Edith to herself indignantly. "Does Aunt Rachel think I am a stock or a stone, to sit and hear my mother--all of us--spoken about like that? I shall never, never be able to bear it!" Even the doctor was roused. "Once for all, Rachel," he said in a peremptory tone, "you must understand that I cannot allow my wife and children to be spoken of in this manner. No doubt I have had to make sacrifices, but my family have been a source of much happiness to me; and Maria, who cannot help her health, poor thing! has done her best under circumstances that would have crushed a great many women. As for the children, of course they have their faults, but altogether they are good children, and I often feel proud of them. You have been kind enough to ask Edith to stay here, but if I thought you would make her life unhappy with such speeches as you made just now, I would take her back with me to-morrow." "Well, well," said Miss Harley, a little frightened at the indignation she had raised. "You need not take me up so, Henry. Of course I shall not be so foolish as to talk to the child just as I would to you. I have her interest and yours truly at heart; and since I don't want to quarrel with you again, we will say no more of your wife and family. If you have quite finished, perhaps we might take a turn in the garden." The rest of the evening passed quietly away. Edith was glad when the time came to go to her room, only she so dreaded the morrow, that would have to be passed in Aunt Rachel's company, without her father's protecting presence. Soon after breakfast in the morning the doctor had to say goodbye. It was a hard parting for both father and daughter. Edith had never known how dearly she loved that busy and often-anxious father till she was called to let him go. As for the doctor, he was scarcely less moved, and Miss Rachel had to hurry him away at last, or he would have lost the train it was so important he should catch. Somehow the doctor never could be spared from Winchcomb. There was no other medical man for miles round, and people seemed to expect Dr. Harley to work on from year's end to year's end, without ever needing rest or recreation himself. [Sidenote: A Close Examination] As soon as they were left alone, Miss Rachel called Edith into the parlour, and bidding her sit down, began a rigorous inquiry as to her capabilities and accomplishments--whether she had been to school, or had had a governess; whether she was well grounded in music, and had studied drawing and languages; what she knew of plain and fancy needlework; if her mother had made her begin to learn cookery--"as all young women should," added Miss Rachel, sensibly enough. Poor Edith's answers were very far from satisfying Miss Harley. "You say you have had no teacher but your sister since Miss Phelps, or Phipps, or whatever her name was, left. And how old is your sister, may I ask?" "Jessie is eighteen," answered Edith. "And she is very clever--every one says so, especially at music." "Why didn't she teach you, then, and make you practise regularly? You tell me you have had no regular practice, and cannot play more than two or three pieces." "It is not Jessie's fault," said Edith, colouring up. "Papa and mamma liked us all to learn, but I am afraid, aunt, I have no natural talent for music. I get on better with some other things." Aunt Rachel opened a French book that lay on the table. "Read that," she said shortly, pointing to the open page. Edith was at home here; her pronunciation was rather original, it is true, but she read with ease and fluency, and translated the page afterwards without any awkward pauses. "That is better," said her aunt, more graciously. "You shall have some lessons. As for the music, I don't believe in making girls, who can't tell the National Anthem from the Old Hundredth, strum on the piano whether they like it or not. You may learn drawing instead. And then I shall expect you to read with me--good solid authors, you know, not poetry and romances, which are all the girls of the present day seem to care for." "Thank you, aunt," said Edith. "I should like to learn drawing very much." "Wait a while," continued Miss Harley. "Perhaps you won't thank me when you have heard all. I shall insist upon your learning plain needlework in all its branches, and getting a thorough insight into cookery and housekeeping. With your mother's delicate health there ought to be at least one of the daughters able to take her place whenever it is needful. Your sisters don't know much about the house, I daresay." "Maude does," answered Edith, proud of her sister's ability. "Maude can keep house well--even papa says so." "And Jessie?" "Jessie says her tastes are not domestic, and she has always had enough to do teaching us, and looking after the little ones." "And what did you do?" demanded Aunt Rachel. "You can't play; you can't sew. By your own confession, you don't know the least thing about household matters. It couldn't have taken you all your time to learn a little French and read a few books. What _did_ you do?" Edith blushed again. "I--I went out, Aunt Rachel," she said at last. "Went out, child?" "Yes. Winchcomb is a beautiful country place, you know, and Alfred and Claude and I were nearly always out when it was fine. We did learn something, even in that way, about the flowers and plants and birds and live creatures. Papa always said plenty of fresh air would make us strong and healthy, and, indeed, we _are_ well. As for me, I have never been ill that I remember since I was quite a little thing." [Sidenote: We will Change all that!] "My patience, child! And did Maria--did your mother allow you to run about with two boys from morning till night?" "It is such a quiet place, aunt, no one thought it strange. We knew all the people, and they were always glad to see us--nearly always," added truthful Edith, with a sudden remembrance of Mr. Smith's anger when he found his cow in the potato field, and one or two other little matters of a like nature. "Well, I can only say that you have been most strangely brought up. But we will change all that. You will now find every day full of regular employments, and when I cannot walk out with you I shall send Stimson. You must not expect to run wild any more, but give yourself to the improvement of your mind, and to fitting yourself for the duties of life. Now I have letters to write, and you may leave me till I send for you again. For this one day you will have to be idle, I suppose." Edith escaped into the garden, thankful that the interview was over, and that, for the time at least, she was free. The very next day she was introduced to Monsieur Delorme, who undertook to come from Silchester three times a week to give her lessons in French, and to Mr. Sumner, who was to do the same on the three alternate days, for drawing. It seemed a terrible thing to Edith at first to have to learn from strangers; but Monsieur Delorme was a charming old gentleman, with all the politeness of his nation; and, as Edith proved a very apt pupil, they soon got on together beautifully. Mr. Sumner was not so easy to please. A disappointed artist, who hated teaching, and only gave lessons from absolute necessity, this gentleman had but little patience with the natural inexperience of an untrained girl. But Edith had made up her mind to overcome all difficulties, and it was not very long before she began to make progress with the pencil too, and to enjoy the drawing-lesson almost as well as the pleasant hours with Monsieur Delorme. These were almost the only things she did enjoy, however. It was hard work to read for two hours every morning with Miss Rachel, who made her plod wearily through dreary histories and works of science that are reduced to compendiums and abridgements for the favoured students of the present day. But even that was better than the needlework, the hemming and stitching and darning, over which Stimson presided, and which, good and useful as it is, is apt to become terribly irksome when it is compulsory, and a poor girl must get through her allotted task before she can turn to any other pursuit. Every day, too, Edith went into the kitchen and learned pastry-making and other mysteries from the good-natured cook, who, with Stimson, and the boy who came daily to look after the garden and pony made up Aunt Rachel's household. What with these occupations, and the daily walk or drive, the girl found her time pretty well taken up, and had little to spare for the rambles in the garden she loved so much, and for writing letters home. To write and to receive letters from home were her greatest pleasures, for the separation tried her terribly. It was difficult, too, for one who had lived a free, careless life, to have to do everything by rule, and submit to restraint in even the smallest matters. In spite of her efforts to be cheerful and to keep from all complaining, Edith grew paler and thinner, and so quiet, that Aunt Rachel was quite pleased with what she called her niece's "becoming demeanour." The girl was growing fast; she was undoubtedly learning much that was useful and good, but no one knew what it cost her to go quietly on from day to day and never send one passionate word to the distant home, imploring her father to let her return to the beloved circle again. [Sidenote: A Welcome Letter] But the six months, though they had seemed such a long time to look forward to, flew quickly by when there were so many things to be done and learned in them. Edith began to wonder very much in the last few weeks whether she had really been able to please her aunt or not. It was not Miss Harley's way to praise or commend her niece at all. Young people required setting down and keeping in their proper places, she thought, rather than having their vanity flattered. Yet she could not be blind to Edith's honest and earnest efforts to please and to learn, and at the end of the six months a letter went to Winchcomb, which made both Dr. and Mrs. Harley proud of their child. "Edith has her faults, as all girls have," wrote Miss Rachel; "but I may tell you that ever since she came I have been pleased with her conduct. She makes the best use of the advantages I am able to give her, and I think you will find her much improved both in knowledge and deportment. You had better have her home for a week or two, to see you and her brothers and sisters, and then she can return, and consider my house her home always. I make no doubt that you will be glad to yield her to me permanently, but be good enough not to tell her how much I have said in her favour. I don't want the child's head turned." "It is very kind of Rachel," said Mrs. Harley, after reading this letter for the third or fourth time. "I must say I never expected Edith to get to the end of her six months, still less that she should gain so much approval. She was always such a wild, harem-scarem girl at home." "She only wanted looking after, my dear, and putting in a right way," said the doctor, in a true masculine spirit; and Mrs. Harley answered, with her usual gentle little sigh: "I don't think that was quite all. Maude and Jessie, who have been brought up at home, have done well, you must admit. But I sometimes think there is more in Edith--more strength of character and real patience than we ever gave her credit for. You must excuse my saying so, but she could never have borne with your sister so long if she had not made a very great effort." "And now she is to go back to this tyrant of a maiden aunt," laughed the doctor. "But by all means let her come home first, as Rachel suggests, and then we shall see for ourselves, and hear how she likes the prospect too." That week or two at home seemed like a delightful dream to Edith. It is true the fields and woods had lost all their sweet summer beauty; but the mild late autumn, which lasted far into November that year, had a charm of its own; and then it was so pleasant to be back again in the dear old room which she had always shared with Jessie, to have the boys and Francie laughing and clinging about her, and to find that they had not forgotten her "one bit," as Johnnie said, and that to have their dear Edith back was the most charming thing that could possibly have happened to them. "You must make much of your sister while she is here," said the doctor. "It will not be long before you have to say 'Goodbye' again." "Oh, papa, can't she stay till Christmas?" cried a chorus of voices. "No, no, children. We must do as Aunt Rachel says, and she wants Edith back in a fortnight at the outside." Both father and mother, though they would not repeat Miss Harley's words, could not help telling their daughter how pleased they were with her. "You have been a real help to your father, Edith," said Mrs. Harley. "Now you have done so well with Aunt Rachel, we may feel that you are provided for, and I am sure you will be glad to think that your little brothers and sisters will have many things they must have gone without if you had had to be considered too." [Sidenote: A Trying Time] Edith felt rewarded then for all it had cost her to please her aunt and work quietly on at Silchester, and she went back to Ivy House with all her good resolutions strengthened, and her love for the dear ones at home stronger than ever. For a while things went on without much change. The wild, country girl was fast growing into a graceful accomplished young woman, when two events happened which caused her a great deal of thought and anxiety. First, Aunt Rachel, who had all her life enjoyed excellent health, fell rather seriously ill. She had a sharp attack of bronchitis, and instead of terminating in two or three weeks, as she confidently expected, the disease lingered about her, and at last settled into a chronic form, and made her quite an invalid. Both Edith and Stimson had a hard time while Miss Harley was at the worst. Unaccustomed to illness, she proved a very difficult patient, and kept niece and maid continually running up and downstairs, and ministering to her real and fancied wants. The warm, shut-up room where she now spent so many hours tried Edith greatly, and she longed inexpressibly sometimes for the free air of her dear Winchcomb fields, and the open doors and windows of the old house at home. Life at Silchester had always been trying to her; it became much more so when she had to devote herself constantly to an exacting invalid, who never seemed to think that young minds and eyes and hands needed rest and recreation--something over and above continued work and study. Even when she was almost too ill to listen, Aunt Rachel insisted on the hours of daily reading; she made Edith get through long tasks of household needlework, and, to use her own expression, "kept her niece to her duties" quite as rigidly in sickness as in health. Then, when it seemed to Edith that she really must give up, and petition for at least a few weeks at home, came a letter from her father, containing some very surprising news. A distant relative had died, and quite unexpectedly had left Dr. Harley a considerable legacy. "I am very glad to tell you," wrote her father, "that I shall now be relieved from all the pecuniary anxieties that have pressed upon me so heavily for the last few years. Your mother and I would now be very glad to have you home again, unless you feel that you are better and happier where you are. We owe your Aunt Rachel very many thanks for all her kindness, but we think she will agree that, now the chief reason for your absence from home is removed, your right place is with your brothers and sisters." To go home! How delightful it would be! That was Edith's first thought; but others quickly followed. What would Aunt Rachel say? Would she really be sorry to lose her niece, or would she perhaps feel relieved of a troublesome charge, and glad to be left alone with her faithful Stimson, as she had been before? "I must speak to my aunt about it at once," thought Edith. "And no doubt papa will write to her too." But when she went into the garden, where her aunt was venturing to court the sunshine, she found her actually in tears. "Your father has written me a most unfeeling letter," said the poor lady, sitting on a seat, and before Edith could utter a word. "Because he is better off he wants to take you away. He seems not to think in the least of my lonely state, or that I may have grown attached to you, but suggests that you should return home as soon as we can arrange it, without the least regard for my feelings." "Papa would never think you cared so much, Aunt Rachel. Would you really rather I should stay, then?" "Child, I could never go back to my old solitary life again. I did not mean to tell you, and perhaps I am not wise to do so now, but I will say it, Edith--I have grown to love you, my dear, and if you love me, you will not think of going away and leaving me to illness and solitude. Your father and mother have all their other children--I have nothing and no one but you. Promise that you will stay with me?" [Sidenote: "I have Grown to Love you!"] "I must think about it, aunt," said Edith, much moved by her aunt's words. "Oh, do not think me ungrateful, but it will be very hard for me to decide; and perhaps papa will not let me decide for myself." But when Edith, in her own room, came to consider all her aunt's claim, it really seemed that she had no right, at least if her parents would consent to her remaining, to abandon one who had done so much for her. It was, indeed, as she had said, a very difficult choice; there was the old, happy, tempting life at Winchcomb, the pleasant home where she might now return, and live with the dear brothers and sisters without feeling herself a burden upon her father's strained resources; and there was the quiet monotonous daily round at Ivy House, the exacting invalid, the uncongenial work, the lack of all young companionship, that already seemed so hard to bear. And yet, Edith thought, she really ought to stay. Wonderful as it seemed, Aunt Rachel had grown to love her. How could she say to the lonely, stricken woman, "I will go, and leave you alone"? "Well, Edith?" said Miss Harley eagerly, when her niece came in again after a prolonged absence. "I will stay, Aunt Rachel, if my father will let me. I feel that I cannot--ought not--to leave you after all that you have done for me." So it was settled, after some demur on Dr. Harley's part, and the quiet humdrum days went on again, and Edith found out how, as the poet says-- "Tasks, in hours of insight willed, May be in hours of gloom fulfilled." For Miss Harley, after that involuntary betrayal of her feelings, relapsed into her own hard, irritable ways, and often made her niece's life a very uncomfortable one. Patiently and tenderly Edith nursed her aunt through the lingering illness that went on from months to years; very rarely she found time for a brief visit to the home where the little ones were fast growing taller and wiser, the home which Jessie had now exchanged for one of her own, and where careful Maude was still her mother's right hand. Often it seemed to the girl that her lot in life had been rather harshly determined, and she still found it a struggle to be patient and cheerful through all. And yet through this patient waiting there came to Edith the great joy and blessing of her life. Mr. Finch, the elderly medical man who had attended Miss Harley throughout her illness, grew feeble and failing in health himself. He engaged a partner to help him in his heavy, extensive practice, and this young man, Edward Hallett by name, had not been many times to Ivy House before he became keenly alive to the fact that Miss Harley's niece was not only a pretty, but a good and very charming girl. It was strange how soon the young doctor's visits began to make a brightness in Edith's rather dreary days, how soon they both grew to look forward to the two or three minutes together which they might hope to spend every alternate morning. Before very long, Edith, with the full approval of her parents and her aunt, became Edward Hallett's promised wife. They would have to wait a long while, for the young doctor was a poor man, and Dr. Harley could not, even now, afford to give his daughter a marriage portion. But, while they waited, Edith's long trial came to a sudden, unexpected end. Poor Miss Harley was found one morning, when Stimson, who had been sleeping more heavily than usual, arose from the bed she occupied in her mistress's room, lying very calmly and quietly, as though asleep, with her hands tightly clasped over a folded paper, which she must have taken, after her maid had left her for the night, from the box which always stood at her bedside. The sleep proved to be that last long slumber which knows no waking on earth, and the paper, when the dead fingers were gently unclasped, was found to contain the poor lady's last will and testament, dated a year previously, and duly signed and witnessed. [Sidenote: Miss Harley's Will] In it she left the Ivy House and the whole of her, property to her "dear niece, Edith Harley, who," said the grateful testatrix, "has borne with me, a lonely and difficult old woman; has lived my narrow life for my sake, and, as I have reason to believe, at a great sacrifice of her own inclinations and without a thought of gain, and who richly deserves the reward herein bequeathed to her." * * * * * There could be no happier home found than that of Edith Hallett and her husband in the Ivy House at Silchester. Nor did they forget how that happiness came about. [Illustration: "AS HE KISSED THEIR FIRSTBORN UNDER THE MISTLETOE."] "We owe all to your patience," said Dr. Hallett to Edith, as he kissed their firstborn under the mistletoe at the second Christmastide of their wedded life. [Sidenote: A story, founded on fact, of true love, of changed lives, and of loving service.] The Tasmanian Sisters BY E. B. MOORE The evening shadows were settling down over Mount Wellington in Tasmania. The distant city was already bathed in the rosy after-glow. It was near one of the many lakes which abound amongst the mountains round Hobart that our short tale begins. It was in the middle of January--midsummer in Tasmania. It had been a hot day, but the heat was of a dry sort, and therefore bearable, and of course to those born and bred in that favoured land, it was in no way trying. On the verandah of a pretty wooden house of the châlet description, stood a lady, shading her eyes from the setting sun, a tall, graceful woman; but as the sun's rays fell on her hair, it revealed silver threads, and the sweet, rather worn face, with a few lines on the forehead, was that of a woman of over forty; and yet she was a woman to whom life's romance had only just come. She was gazing round her with a lingering, loving glance; the gaze of one who looks on a loved scene for the last time. On the morrow Eva Chadleigh, for so she was called, was leaving her childhood's home, where she had lived all her life, and going to cross the water to the old--though to her new--country. Sprinkled all down the mountain sides were fair white villas, or wooden châlet-like houses, with their terraces and gardens, and most of them surrounded by trees, of which the eucalyptus was the most common. The soft breezes played round her, and at her feet the little wavelets of the lake rippled in a soft cadence. Sounds of happy voices came wafted out on the evening air, intermingled with music and the tones of a rich tenor voice. That voice, or rather the owner of it, had made a havoc in that quiet home. Till its owner had appeared on the scene, Eva and her sister had lived quietly together, never dreaming of change. They had been born, and had lived all their lives in the peaceful châlet, seeing no one, going nowhere. [Sidenote: A Belated Traveller] One night, about a year previously, a belated traveller knocked at the door, was given admittance, and, in return for the hospitality shown him, had the audacity to fall in love with Blanche Chadleigh, Eva's twin sister. Then, indeed, a change came into Eva's life. Hitherto the two sisters had sufficed to each other; now she had to take a secondary position. The intruder proved to be a wealthy settler, a Mr. Wells, a man of good family, though alone in the world. In due course the two were married, but Blanche was loath to leave her childhood's home. So it resulted in their remaining there while his own pretty villa, a little higher up the mountain, was being built. And now Eva too had found her fate. A church "synod" had been held; clergymen of all denominations and from all parts of the earth being present. The sisters had been asked to accommodate one or two clergymen; one of these was an old Scotch minister with snowy locks, and keen dark eyes. How it came about Eva Chadleigh never knew; she often said he never formally proposed to her, but somehow, without a word on either side, it came to be understood that she should marry him. "Now you're just coming home with me, lassie," said the old man to the woman of forty-five, who appeared to him as a girl. "I'll make ye as happy as a queen; see here, child, two is company, and three is trumpery, as the saying goes. It isn't that your sister loves ye less," seeing a pained look cross her face, "but she has her husband, don't ye see?" And Eva did see. She fell in love, was drawn irresistibly to her old minister, and it is his voice, with its pleasant Scotch accent, that is now rousing her from her reverie at the time our tale begins. "Come away--come away, child. The night dews are falling; they're all wearying for ye indoors; come now, no more looking around ye, or I'll never get ye away to-morrow." "But you promise to bring me back some day, Mr. Cameron, before very long." "Ay, ay, we'll come back sure enough, don't fret yourself; but first ye must see the old country, and learn to know my friends." Amongst their neighbours at this time was a young man, apparently about thirty years old; he had travelled to Hobart in the same ship as Mr. Cameron, for whom he had conceived a warm feeling of friendship. Captain Wylie had lately come in for some property in Tasmania, and as he was on furlough and had nothing to keep him at home, he had come out to see his belongings, and since his arrival at Hobart had been a frequent visitor at the châlet. Though a settled melancholy seemed to rest upon him, his history explained it, for Captain Wylie was married, and yet it was years since he had seen his wife. They had both met at a ball at Gibraltar many years ago. She had been governess in an officer's family on the "Rock" while his regiment had been stationed there. She was nineteen, very pretty, and alone in the world. They had married after five or six weeks' acquaintance, and parted by mutual consent after as many months. She had been self-willed and extravagant, he had nothing but his pay at that time, and she nearly ruined him. [Sidenote: Captain Wylie] It ended in recriminations. He had a violent temper, and she was proud and sarcastic. They had parted in deep anger and resentment, she to return to her governessing, for she was too proud to accept anything from him, he to remove to another regiment and go to India. At first he had tried to forget all this short interlude of love and happiness, and flung himself into a gay, wild life: but it would not do. He had deeply loved her with the first strong, untried love of a young impetuous man, and her image was always coming before him. An intense hunger to see her again had swept away every feeling of resentment. Lately he had heard of her as governess to a family in Gibraltar, and a great longing had come over him just to see her once more, and to find out if she still cared for him. He and Mr. Cameron had travelled out together on a sailing ship, and during the voyage he had been led to confide in the kindly, simple old gentleman; but so sacred did the latter consider his confidence that even to his affianced bride he had never recalled it. All these thoughts crowded into the young officer's mind as he paced up and down in the stillness of the night, disinclined to turn in. He was startled from his reverie by a voice beside him. "So you have really decided to come with us to-morrow?" It was Mr. Cameron who spoke. "Ye know, lad, the steamer is not one of the fine new liners. I doubt she's rather antiquated, and as I told ye yesterday, she is a sort of ambulance ship, as one may say. She is bringing home a good many invalided officials and officers left at the hospital here by other ships. It seems a queer place to spend our honeymoon in, and I offered my bride to wait for the next steamer, which won't be for another fortnight or three weeks, and what do you think she said? 'Let us go; we may be of use to those poor things!' That's the sort she is." "She looks like that," said Captain Wylie, heartily. "I should like to go with you," continued the young man. "Since I have decided on the step I told you of, I cannot remain away a day longer. I saw the mate of the _Minerva_ yesterday, and secured my cabin. He says they have more invalids than they know what to do with. I believe there are no nurses, only one stewardess and some cabin boys to wait on us all." The night grew chill, and after a little more talk the older gentleman went in, but the younger one continued pacing up and down near the lake, till the rosy dawn had begun to light up the summits. * * * * * It was in the month of February, a beautiful bright morning; brilliant sunshine flooded the Rock of Gibraltar, and made the sea of a dazzling blueness, whilst overhead the sky was unclouded. A young lady who stood in a little terraced garden in front of a house perched on the side of the "Rock" was gazing out on the expanse of sea which lay before her, and seemed for the moment oblivious of two children who were playing near her, and just then loudly claiming her attention. She was their governess, and had the charge of them while their parents were in India. The house they lived in was the property of Mr. Somerset, who was a Gibraltarian by birth, and it was the children's home at present. Being delicate, the climate of Gibraltar was thought better for them than the mists of England. Major and Mrs. Somerset were shortly expected home for a time on furlough, and there was great excitement at this prospect. "Nory, Nory, you don't hear what I am saying! When will mamma come? You always say 'soon,' but what does 'soon' mean? Nory, you don't hear me," and the governess's dress was pulled. This roused her from her reverie, and like one waking from a dream she turned round. "What did you say, dear? Oh, yes, about your mother. Well, I am expecting a letter every mail. I should think she might arrive almost any time; they were to arrive in Malta last Monday, and now it is Wednesday. And that reminds me, children, run and get on your things, we have just time for a walk before your French mistress comes." [Sidenote: At Gibraltar] "Oh, do let us go to the market, Nory, it is so long since we went there. It is so stupid always going up the 'Rock,' and you are always looking out to sea, and don't hear us when we talk to you. I know you don't, for when I told you that lovely story about the Brownies, the other day, you just said 'yes' and 'no' in the wrong places, and I knew you were not attending," said sharp little Ethel, who was not easily put off. "Oh, Nory, see the monkeys," cried the little boy, "they are down near the sentry box, and one of them is carrying off a piece of bread." "They are very tame, aren't they, Nory?" asked Ethel. "The soldiers leave bread out for them on purpose, Maria says." "Yes, but you know I don't care for them, Ethel. They gave me such a fright last year they came down to pay a visit, and I discovered one in the bathroom. But run to Maria, and ask her to get you ready quickly, and I will take you to the market." In great glee the happy little children quickly donned their things, and were soon walking beside their governess towards the gay scene of bargaining and traffic. Here Moors are sitting cross-legged, with their piles of bright yellow and red slippers turned up at the toe, and calling out in loud harsh voices, "babouchas, babouchas," while the wealthier of them, dressed in their rich Oriental dress, are selling brass trays and ornaments. The scene is full of gaiety and life, and it is with difficulty that the young governess drags the children away. But now fresh delights begin: they are in the narrow streets where all the Moorish shops with their tempting array of goods attract the childish eye--sweets of all sorts, cocoanut, egg sweets, almond sweets, pine-nut sweets, and the lovely pink and golden "Turkish delight," dear to every child's heart. "Oh, Nory!" in pleading tones, and "Nory" knows that piteous appeal well, and is weak-minded enough to buy some of the transparent amber-like substance, which is at all events very wholesome. The sun was so powerful that it was quite pleasant on their return to sit in the little terraced garden and take their lunch before lesson-time, and while their governess sipped her tea, the children drank their goat's milk, and ate bread and quince jelly. The warm February sun shone down on her, but she heeded it not; a passage in Mrs. Somerset's letter, which had just been handed to her, haunted her, and she read again and again: she could get no farther. "I believe it is very likely we shall take the next ship that touches here, it is the _Minerva_ from Tasmania. They say it is a hospital ship, but I cannot wait for another, I hunger so for a sight of the children." The young governess was none other than Norah Wylie. She had never ceased following her husband's movements with the greatest, most painful interest. She knew he had lately gone to Tasmania; suppose he should return in that very ship? More unlikely things had happened. She was at times very weary of her continual monotonous round, though she had been fortunate enough to have got a very exceptional engagement, and had been with Mrs. Somerset's children almost ever since she and her husband had parted. As Norah sat and knitted, looking out to sea and wondering where her husband was, he, at the very moment, was pacing up and down the deck of the _Minerva_. They had so far had a prosperous journey, fair winds, and a calm sea. Some of the invalids were improving, and even able to come to table, for sea air is a wonderful life-giver. But there were others who would never see England. It was a day of intense heat in the Red Sea, and even at that early season of the year there was not a breath of air. Amongst those who had been carried up out of the stifling cabin was one whose appearance arrested Captain Wylie's attention, as he took his constitutional in the lightest of light flannels. He could not but be struck by the appearance of the young man. He had never seen him before, but he looked so fragile that the young officer's kind heart went out to him. He was lying in an uncomfortable position, his head all twisted and half off the limp cabin pillow. Something in the young face, so pathetic in its youth, with the ravages of disease visible in the hectic cheek, and harsh, rasping cough, touched the strong young officer. He stooped down and put his hand on the young lad's forehead; it was cold and clammy. Was he dying? Mrs. Cameron had come over and was standing beside him. She ran down and brought up the doctor, explaining the young man's state. [Sidenote: The Doctor's Verdict] "He will pass away in one of these fainting fits," said the tired man as he followed her. He was kind in his way, but overwhelmed with work. "This may revive him for the time being," he went on as they ascended the cabin stairs, "but he cannot live long. I do feel for that young fellow, he is so patient. You never hear a word of complaint." By this time they had reached the sick man. "Here, my good fellow, try and take this," said the doctor, as Eva Cameron gently raised the young head on her arm. The large dark eyes were gratefully raised to the doctor's face, and a slight tinge of colour came to the pale lips. [Illustration: "NOW I AM GOING TO FAN YOU," SHE SAID.] "Now I am going to fan you," said Mrs. Cameron, as she sat beside him. Now and then she sprinkled lavender water on his head and hands. "Thank you," he said; "how nice that is! Would you sing to me? I heard you singing the other day." Eva softly sang a Tasmanian air which was wild and sweet. "Will you do me a favour?" asked the young man. "Please sing me one of the dear old psalms. I am Scotch, and at times yearn for them, you would hardly believe how much." She sang: "God is our refuge and our strength, In straits a present aid: Therefore, although the earth remove, We will not be afraid." As she sang tears rolled down the wan cheek, but a look of perfect peace came over the pale face. She went on: "A river is, whose streams do glad The city of our God, The holy place, wherein the Lord Most High hath His abode." He was asleep, the wan young cheek leaning on his hand in a child-like attitude of repose. Eva sat and watched him, her heart full of pity. She did not move, but sat fanning him. Soon Mr. Cameron and Captain Wylie joined her; as they approached she put her finger on her lips to inspire silence. She had no idea what the words of the dear old psalm had been to the young Highlander--like water to a parched soul, bringing back memories of childhood, wooded glens, heather-clad hills, rippling burns, and above all the old grey kirk where the Scotch laddie used to sit beside his mother--that dear mother in whom his whole soul was wrapped up--and join lustily in the psalms. The dinner-bell rang unheeded--somehow not one of the three could leave him. "How lovely!" he said at last, opening and fixing his eyes on Eva. "I think God sent you to me." "Ay, laddie," said the old Scotchman, taking the wasted hand in his, "but it seems to me you know the One who 'sticketh closer than a brother'? I see the 'peace of God' in your face." "Ah, you are from my part of the country," said the lad joyfully, trying to raise himself, but sinking back exhausted. "I know it in your voice, it's just music to me. How good God has been to me!" They were all too much touched by his words to answer him, and Eva could only bend over him and smooth his brow. "Now mother will have some one to tell her about me," he added, turning to Mrs. Cameron, and grasping her hand. Then, as strength came back in some measure to the wasted frame, he went on in broken sentences to tell how he had been clerk in a big mercantile house in Hobart, how he had been invalided and lying in the hospital there for weeks. "But I have saved money," he added joyfully, "she need not feel herself a burden on my sister any more; my sister is married to a poor Scotch minister, and she lives with them, or was to, till I came home. Now that will never be. Oh, if I could just have seen her!" "But you will see her again, laddie," said the old man. "Remember our own dear poet Bonar's words: "Where the child shall find his mother, Where the mother finds the child, Where dear families shall gather That were scattered o'er the wild; Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest." "Thank you," said the dying lad. "I think I could sleep." His eyes were closing, when a harsh loud voice with a foreign accent was heard near. [Sidenote: "I say I will!"] "I say I will, and who shall hinder me?" "Hush, there is a dying man here!" It was the doctor who spoke. A sick-looking, but violent man, who had been reclining in a deck chair not far off, was having a tussle with a doctor, and another man who seemed his valet. "Indeed you should come down, sir," the man was saying, "there is quite a dew falling." "You want to make out that I am dying, I suppose, but I have plenty of strength, I can tell you, and will be ordered by no one!" "Well, then, you will hasten your end, I tell you so plainly," said the doctor sternly. The man's face altered as he spoke, a kind of fear came over him, as he rose to follow the doctor without a word. As he passed near the young Highlander, he glanced at him and shuddered, "He's young to die, and have done with everything." "He would tell you he is just going to begin with everything," said Mr. Cameron, who had heard the words, and came forward just then. "Doctor, I suppose we need not move him," he added, glancing at the dying lad, "you see he is going fast." "No, nothing can harm him now, poor young fellow. I will go and speak to the captain--will you help Mr. Grossman to his cabin?" As they reached the state-room door, Mr. Cameron said, "Friend, when your time comes, may you too know the peace that is filling the heart of yon lad." "He is believing in a lie, I fear," said the other. "And yet, when you were in pain the other day, I heard you call loudly, 'God help me!'" "Oh, well, I suppose it is a kind of instinct--a habit one gets into, like any other exclamation." "I think not," said the old man. "I believe that in your inmost, soul is a conviction that there is a God. Don't you remember hearing that Voltaire, with almost his last breath, said, 'Et pourtant, il y a un Dieu!'" Returning on deck, Mr. Cameron took his watch beside the young Highlander. There was no return of consciousness, and very soon the happy spirit freed itself from its earthly tenement without a struggle. Next morning they consigned all that was mortal of him to the deep, in sure and certain hope that he shall rise again. God knows where to find His own, whether in the quiet leafy "God's acre," or in the depths of the sea. * * * * * The year was advancing. It was towards the end of February. At Gibraltar great excitement prevailed in the house perched on the side of the "Rock." Major Somerset and his wife were expected! Norah paused suddenly to look out over the blue expanse of sea, to-day ruffled with a slight breeze--and then exclaimed: "Children! children! come, a steamer with the British flag is coming in! Hurry and get on your things." There was no need for urging them to haste--the outdoor wrappings were on in no time, and they ran down to the landing-stage just as the ship had cast anchor. Numerous boats were already making their way out to her. They soon learnt that the ship was from Malta, though she was not the _Minerva_ they had expected. How Norah's heart beat as she eagerly, breathlessly, watched the passengers descend the ladder and take their places in the different boats. A keen breeze had got up, and even in the harbour there were waves already. [Sidenote: "There is Mamma!"] "There is mamma!" exclaimed little Ethel--"see her, Nory, in the white hat! Oh, my pretty mamma!" she exclaimed, dancing with glee as the boat came nearer and nearer. Then came exclamations, hugs and kisses, intermingled with the quick vivacious chattering of the boatmen bargaining over their fares. A perfect Babel of sound! Several passengers were landing--so a harvest was being reaped by these small craft. The children clung to their parents, and Norah followed behind, feeling a little lonely, and out of it all--would there ever come a time of joy for her--a time when she too would be welcoming a dear one?--or should she just have to go on living the life of an outsider in other people's lives--having no joys or sorrows of her own, she who might have been so blessed and so happy? How long those five years had seemed, a lifetime in themselves, since she had last heard her husband's voice! Well, he had not come, that was clear. That evening as Norah was preparing to go to bed, a knock came to her door, and Mrs. Somerset came in. "I thought I might come in, Norah dear; I wanted to tell you how pleased my husband and I are with the improvement in the children, they look so well, and are so much more obedient. You have managed them very well, and we are very grateful," and Mrs. Somerset bent forward and kissed her. "Now, dear, we want you to accept a small present from us--it is very commonplace--but there is little variety where we are stationed." Norah undid the cedar box put into her hand and drew out a most lovely gold bracelet of Indian workmanship. "Oh, how very good of you, it is far too pretty!" she exclaimed, returning Mrs. Somerset's embrace. "But, indeed, I have only done my duty by the children: they are very good, and I love them dearly." "Well, dear, I hope you will long remain with them--and yet--I cannot wish it for your sake, for I wish a greater happiness for you. You remember when you first came to me, telling me your history, Norah, and begging me never to refer to it? Well, I have never done so, but to-night I must break my promise, as I think I ought to tell you that I have actually met Captain Wylie, though he did not know who I was." Norah's colour came and went; she said nothing, only fixed her eyes on Mrs. Somerset in speechless attention, while a tremor ran through her being. "Now, dear, listen to me; I believe you will see him in Gibraltar very soon. You know we were to have come here in the _Minerva_, which is actually in port in Malta now, but as she is detained there for some slight repairs, we did not wait for her. I went on board the _Minerva_ with my husband, who had business with the captain--and there he was. The captain introduced us. When he heard I was a native of the 'Rock,' he became quite eager, and asked me many questions about the different families living there, and told me he intended staying a few days here on his way to England. He was standing looking so sad when we came on board, looking out to sea, and he brightened up so when he spoke of Gibraltar. But, dear child, don't cry, you should rejoice." For Norah had broken down and was weeping bitterly, uncontrollably. She could not speak, she only raised Mrs. Somerset's hand to her lips. The latter saw she was best alone, and was wise enough to leave her. "Oh Edgar! Edgar!" was the cry of her heart. "Shall I ever really see you? Can you forgive me?" Just about the same time as Norah Wylie was weeping in her room, her heart torn asunder with hopes and fears, her husband was again pacing the deck of the _Minerva_. They had sailed from Malta the previous day, but owing to fogs, which had checked their progress, were hardly out of sight of land. Captain Wylie's thoughts as he passed up and down were evidently of a serious nature. For the first time in his life he had began to think seriously of religious things. Ever since the death of the young Highlander, Kenneth McGregor, he had had deep heart-searchings. Besides, another event had occurred that had cast a shadow over the whole ship, so sudden and so awful had it been. [Sidenote: "In Spite of the Doctor"] Mr. Grossman had made a wonderful recovery. Contrary to all explanations, he was apparently almost well. It was his constant boast that he had recovered "in spite of the doctor." One evening dinner was going on, and Herr Grossman, who was still on diet, and did not take all the courses, got up and declared that he would go on deck. It was misty and raining a little. He sent for his great coat and umbrella, and as his valet helped him on with his coat, the doctor called out to him: "Don't stay up long in the damp." "Oh, I'll be down directly," he had answered. "I've no wish to lay myself up again." The company at table fell into talk, and it was some time before they dispersed. "It is time Mr. Grossman was down," said the doctor; "did you see him, steward?" "I saw him near an hour ago, sir, he stopped on his way up to light his cigar at the tinder lamp on the stairs." The doctor went up, but no Herr Grossman was to be seen. He and others hunted all over the ship. At last a sort of panic prevailed. Where was he? What had happened? The ship was stopped and boats lowered. Captain Wylie was one of those who volunteered to go with the search party. Clouds of mist hung over the sea, and although lanterns were held aloft, nothing was visible. The search was in vain. No one ever knew precisely what had happened, nor would know. Whether a sudden giddiness seized him, or whether he leaned too far forward, misled by the fog which makes things look so different; certain it is that he had disappeared--not even his umbrella was found. No one slept that night; a great awe had settled down over the whole ship. The next day a furious gale sprang up. Captain Wylie, who was an old sailor, crawled up on deck; he was used to roughing it, and the waves dashing over him as they swept the deck had an invigorating effect. "We ought to be in this afternoon," shouted the captain, as he passed, "but the propeller has come to grief; you see we are not moving, and hard enough it will be to fix the other in in such weather," and he looked anxiously around. The wind almost blew his words away. Captain Wylie then perceived that they were in the trough of the sea, helplessly tossed about, while the waves were mounting high, and any moment the engine fires might be extinguished. Should that happen, indeed they would be in a bad strait. With difficulty he made his way to where the men were vainly trying to fix the monster screw. Each time they thought they had it in place, the heavy sea shifted it, and the men were knocked down in their attempts. Captain Wylie willingly gave a hand, and after a long time, so it seemed to the weary men, the screw was in its place, and doing its work. The brave ship battled on. Already in the far distance the great "Rock" was visible, and the young soldier's heart turned passionately to her whom he loved. And now a fresh disaster had arisen; the steam steering-gear had come to grief, and the old, long-neglected wheel had to be brought into use. It had not been used for years, and though constantly cleaned and kept in order, the salt water had been washing over it now for hours, and it was very hard to turn. The question now was, should they remain in the open sea, or venture into the harbour? A discussion on the subject was taking place between the captain and the first mate. The steering-gear did not seem to do its work properly, and the captain anxiously kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, as they were drawn irresistibly nearer and nearer to the harbour. "It is the men-of-war I dread coming near," the captain was saying to his mates; "those deadly rams are a terror in this weather." [Sidenote: A Critical Moment] It was a critical moment. Darkness was coming down, the rain became more violent, the wind cold and cutting, with now and then fierce showers of hail. On, on they were being driven; nothing could keep them back. The captain shouted orders, the men did their best, but the wheel did not work properly. Captain Wylie as he stood near, holding on while the waves dashed over him, saw the lights twinkling in the town, and felt that the cup of happiness so near might now at any moment be dashed from his lips. The danger was clear to all, nearer and nearer they drew. "Out with the life-belts!" shouted the captain; "lower the boats!" There was no time to be lost, faster and faster they were being driven into the harbour. Captain Wylie rushed downstairs; and here confusion and terror reigned, for bad news travels fast, and a panic had seized the poor fellows who were still weak from recent illness. They were dragging themselves out of their berths. "Get her ready, here are two belts," he cried, and, throwing them to Mr. Cameron, he hurried to the assistance of the invalids. All were soon provided with belts. A wonderful calm succeeded to the confusion, and great self-control was exercised. "Courage!" cried the young soldier; "remember we are close to shore. If you can keep your heads above water you will speedily be rescued." The one frail woman was as calm as any. It came at last! A crash, a gurgling sound of rushing water, a ripping, rasping noise. "Up on deck," shouted Captain Wylie, as seizing the one helpless invalid in his arms, he hastened on deck. An awful scene met the eye. What the ship's captain feared had indeed come true! The boats were soon freighted and pushed off. * * * * * While this terrible scene was taking place, anxious eyes were taking it all in from the shore. Early that day the _Minerva_ had been signalled, and Norah with her heart in her mouth had watched almost all day from the veranda, scanning the sea with a pair of binoculars. Mrs. Somerset kept the children entirely, knowing well what her poor young governess was going through. [Sidenote: A Weary Night] The storm had raged fiercely all day, but as night came on it grew worse. Norah could remain no longer in the house, and had gone down to the quay. As she reached it she saw a large ship driving furiously forward to its doom. There she stood as though turned to stone, and was not aware of a voice speaking in her ear, and a hand drawing her away. "This is no place for you, Mrs. Wylie; my wife sent me for you. You can do no good here; you will learn what there is to learn quicker at home--one can't believe a word they say." Her agony was too great for words or tears. She had gone through so much all those years, and now happiness had seemed so near, she had believed it might even yet be in store for her since Mrs. Somerset had spoken to her on the subject, and now? . . . She let herself be led into the house, and when Mrs. Somerset ran to meet her and clasp her in her arms, it was as if she grasped a statue, so cold and lifeless was Norah. "She is stunned," the major said; "she is exhausted." Mechanically she let herself be covered up and put on the sofa, her feet chafed by kind hands--it gave a vague sense of comfort, though all the time she felt as if it were being done to some one else. And yet had Norah only known, grief would have been turned into thanksgiving. Her husband was not dead. The weary night came to an end at last, as such nights do. Several times Mrs. Somerset had crept in. They had been unable to gather any reliable news about the _Minerva's_ passengers. The ship had gone down, but whether the people had been saved they had been unable as yet to ascertain. A glorious sunrise succeeded a night of storm and terror, and its crimson beams came in on Norah. Hastily rising, and throwing on her hat and jacket she ran out into the morning freshness longing to feel the cool air. She only wanted to get away from herself. She climbed the steep ascent up the "Rock," past the governor's house, then stood and gazed at this wonderful scene. And she stood thus, wrapped up in sad thoughts and anticipations of evil, a great, great joy lay very near her. Edgar Wylie had thrown himself into the sea, and lost consciousness from the effects of a blow. Several boats had braved the furious sea, and come out to save the unfortunate people if possible. Thus it was that he was picked up, as well as a young fellow he had risked his life to save. When he came to himself, he found he had been brought to the nearest hotel, and a doctor was in attendance. There was, however, nothing really the matter with him. He had, it is true, been stunned by the sharp spar that had come in contact with his head, but no real injury had been done. A good night's rest had restored him to himself. He woke early the following morning, and rising went out to breathe the fresh pure air. Thus it came to pass that the husband and wife were passing each other in their morning walk, and they did not know it. And yet, as his tall figure passed her, a thrill of memory went through her, a something in the walk reminded her of her husband. Both had arrived at the supreme crisis of their lives, and yet they might never have met, but for a small incident, and a rather funny one. Norah had taken off her hat and had laid it carelessly beside her on the low wall on which she was leaning, when she became aware of some one taking possession of it, and looking round she saw the impudent face of a monkey disappearing with it up the steep side of the "Rock." She had no energy to recover it, and was standing helplessly watching his movements when she saw the stranger who had passed her set off in pursuit of the truant. She soon lost sight of him, and had again sunk into a reverie when a voice said: "Here is your hat; I have rescued it. I think it is none the worse for this adventure." Oh, that voice! Norah's heart stood still, she was stunned and could not believe that she heard aright. Was she dreaming? "The rascal was caught by one of the sentries, evidently he is quite at home with them, and the soldier on duty coaxed it from him." Then Norah turned, there was no longer room for doubt, her eyes were riveted on the grey ones fixed on her. [Sidenote: "You are not Dead!"] "Then you are not dead," was the thought that flashed through her mind. Her tongue was dry and parched; her heart, which had seemed to stop, bounded forward, as though it must burst its bonds. "Oh, Edgar!" she cried, losing all self-command; "oh, if it is you, forgive me, don't leave me. Don't let me wake and find it a dream!" A strange whizzing and whirling came over her, and then she felt herself held securely by a strong arm and a face was bent to hers. When she recovered herself somewhat, she found that she was seated on a bank, supported by her husband. It was his voice that said in the old fond tones: "Oh, Norah, my Norah, we are together again, never, never more to part. Forgive me, darling, for all I have made you suffer in the past." "Forgive you! Oh, Edgar! Will you forgive me?" The sun rose higher, and sounds of everyday life filled the air, drawing those two into the practical everyday world, out of the sunny paradise in which they had been basking while Norah sat leaning against that strong true heart that all these years had beat only for her. [Sidenote: The story of a simple Irish girl, a sorrow, and a disillusion.] The Queen of Connemara BY FLORENCE MOON The mountains of Connemara stretched bare and desolate beneath the November sky. Down the bleak mountain side, with his broad-leaved _caubeen_ (peasant's hat) pulled well over his face, tramped a tall young countryman, clad in a stout frieze coat. His was an honest face, with broad, square brow, eyes of speedwell-blue that looked steadfast and fearless, and a mouth and chin expressive both of strength and sweetness. Dermot O'Malley was the only son of Patrick and Honor O'Malley, who dwelt in a little white-washed farmhouse near the foot of the mountain. His father tilled a few acres of land--poor stony ground, out of which he contrived to keep his family and to save a little besides. The little patch surrounding the farmhouse was, in its proper season, gay with oats and barley, while potatoes and cabbage, the staple food of the peasant, flourished in plenty. With such a desirable home, such a "likeable" face, and steady, upright character, it was no wonder that Dermot O'Malley was the object of much admiration among the people of the mountains, and several scheming parents had offered their daughters and their "fortunes" to him through the medium of his father, according to the custom of the country. But Dermot resisted all their overtures; his heart, and all the honest true love that filled it to overflowing, was given to Eily Joyce, the carrier's daughter; for her he would have laid down his strong young life. It was Eily's duty during the summer to take a daily supply of fresh eggs from her own hens to the proprietor of the hotel, and every morning she presented herself at the door, a bewitching little figure, her basket slung on her arm. Coyly she glanced from beneath her black silky lashes at the little group of men who, cigar in hand, loitered about the hotel steps, chatting on the chances of sport or the prospects of the weather. [Sidenote: The Artist's Model] Beauty like hers could not fail to attract the attention of the artists present, and as day after day went by, flattering remarks and undisguised admiration did not fail to strike home; attentions from the "gentry" were grateful to one who was a born coquette, and Eily's visits were gradually prolonged. Then one of the artists sought to paint her; he was a young fellow, rising in his profession, and in quest of a subject for his next Academy picture. In Eily he found what he sought, and there, among her own wild mountains, he painted her. Day after day, week after week, Eily stole from her father's little cabin to meet the stranger, a downward glance in her dark eyes, a blush on her cheek. The handsome face of the artist, his languid manner, his admiration of her beauty, his talk about the great world that lay beyond those mountains, fascinated and bewildered poor simple Eily, who told him in her trusting innocence all the thoughts of her young heart. So the summer passed by, till at last the picture was completed, and Eily heard, with white face and tearful eye, that the painter was going away. Time had passed, and the little world among the mountains went on its quiet way, but the summer had left its impress on Eily's heart. No more was her laugh the merriest, or her foot the fleetest; she joined neither wake nor dance, but her eye wore a far-away, thoughtful look, and her manner was cold and somewhat scornful; she looked with contempt on her old comrades, and began to pine for a peep at the great world, where she would see _him_, and he would welcome her, his beautiful "Queen of Connemara," as he had called her. As though her unspoken words were heard, an opportunity to gratify her wishes soon occurred. Her mother's sister, who had married young and gone with her husband to England, returned to visit her old home; she was a middle-aged, hard-faced woman, with a shrewd eye and cruel heart; she had worked hard, and made a little money by keeping a lodging-house in the east of London. London! Eily's heart leapt as she heard the word. Was not that the great city _he_ had spoken of, where she would be worshipped for her lovely face, and where great lords and ladies would bow down before her beauty? Shyly, but with determination, she expressed her desire to go there with her aunt. Well-pleased, Mrs. Murphy consented to take her, inwardly gloating over her good luck, for she saw that Eily was neat and handy, and had the "makings" of a good servant. It would enable her to save the wages of her present drudge, and a girl who had no friends near to "mither" her could be made to perform wonders in the way of work. So a day was fixed for their departure, and Eily's eyes regained their old sparkle, her spirits their wonted elasticity. Without a regret or fear she was leaving the little cabin in which she was born, her whole heart full of rapture that she was going to see _him_, and of the joy he would experience at the sight of her. Small wonder, then, was it that Dermot sighed as he walked homeward that bleak November day, for his heart was well-nigh broken at the thought of parting from the girl he loved. As he rounded the shoulder of the mountain the clouds parted, and a shaft of bright sunlight lit up his path. Dermot looked eagerly before him. There was Eily standing outside the cabin door, bare-footed, bare-headed. Cocks and hens strutted in and out of the thatched cottage, a pig was sniffing at a heap of cabbage-leaves that lay on the ground, and a black, three-legged pot, the chief culinary utensil in a peasant's cot, stood just outside the doorway. Eily was busy knitting, and pretended not to see the tall form of her lover until he drew near, then she looked up suddenly and smiled. "Is it knitting y'are, Eily? Shure it's the lucky fellow he'll be that'll wear the socks those fairy hands have made!" "Is it flattherin' me y'are, Dermot? because if so ye may go away! Shure, 'tis all the blarney the bhoys does be givin' me is dhrivin' me away from me home. Maybe ye'll get sinse whin I lave ye all, as I will to-morrow!" [Sidenote: "Will ye Stay?"] "Oh, Eily, jewil, don't say that! don't!" he pleaded, his blue eyes looking earnestly into hers. "Whin ye go, you will take all the sunshine out of me poor heart; it's to Ameriky I will go, for nothin' will be the same to me without you, mavourneen! Eily, Eily, will ye stay?" But Eily was firm. "Faith, thin, I will not, Dermot! I'm weary of my life here; I want to see London and the world. Shure, I'll come back some day with gold of me own, a rale lady, for all the world like the gintry at the castle below." He took her hands for a moment and wrung them in his, then, with a look of dumb agony in his blue eyes, turned his back upon her and continued his way down the mountain side. * * * * * London! was this indeed London, the goal of all her hopes, the place where _he_ lived, and moved, and had his being? [Illustration: EILY STOOD A FORLORN DESOLATE FIGURE ON EUSTON PLATFORM.] Eily stood, a forlorn, desolate figure, among the crowds that jostled each other carelessly on Euston platform. The pretty face that peeped from the folds of a thick woollen shawl looked tired after the long journey, and her feet--oh, how they ached! for they were unaccustomed to the pressure of the heavy, clumsy boots in which they were now encased. What a crowd of people, and how "quare" the talk sounded! How grandly they were all dressed! not one with a red petticoat like the new one she had been so proud of only yesterday morning; she glanced at it now with contempt, deciding to discard it before she had been another day in London. There was a girl sitting on her box not far from Eily; she was evidently waiting for some one to fetch her. Eily eyed her garments with envy; they were of dazzling crimson, plentifully besprinkled with jet; she wore a large hat trimmed with roses; a "diamond" brooch fastened her neck-ribbon, and a "golden" chain fell from neck to waist; but what Eily liked best of all was the thick, black fringe that covered her forehead; such "style" the simple peasant had never before beheld; if only her aunt would be generous she would buy just such a dress as that, but whether or not, the fringe could be had for nothing, and _he_ should see that she could be as genteel as any one else, he need never be ashamed of her. Her plans and projects were alike cut short by her aunt, who, hot and excited after a wordy war with porters and cabmen, ran breathlessly along the platform. "Make haste, Eily! how long are you goin' to stand there staring like a sick owl? Hurry up, child; the cabman will be for charging me overtime if you're so slow, and it's bad enough to have to pay ordinary fare all that way." Eily took up the little tin box that held all her worldly possessions, and followed her aunt to the cab like one in some horrible dream. The fog, the crowds, the noises, the strangeness of everything! With a chill at her warm young heart she took her seat in the cab, and was driven swiftly through the streets. The fog was lifting slightly; she could see the houses and buildings stretching as far as eyes could follow them; houses everywhere, people everywhere; men, women, and children hurrying along the pavements; cabs and carts rolling unceasingly. [Sidenote: "Is there a Fair To-day?"] "Is there a fair to-day?" she asked her aunt, who was sitting opposite with closed eyes. "Fair? Simpleton! it's this way every day, only worse, because this is early morning, and there's only a few about yet;" and Mrs. Murphy's eyes closed again. The cab rattled along, the streets became narrow and unsavoury, but Eily knew no difference; it was all grand to her unsophisticated eyes; the little shops, with lights that flared dismally in their untidy windows, caused her much excitement and speculation. At last the cab drew up, and her aunt awoke from her nap in a bad temper. "Get my things together, quick, and don't dawdle; we're at home now, and you will have to set about your work!" Eily gathered together bags and boxes and set them down upon the pavement, while her aunt haggled with the driver in a spirited manner; the man went off, grumbling at the meanness of a "couple o' Hirishers," but Eily, not understanding the English manner of using the aspirate, was blissfully unconscious of his meaning. The house door opened, and an elderly man, looking cowed and humble, shuffled out to meet them. "We've come at last!" cried out her aunt in a loud voice; "it's the last time I'll take the trouble to visit my folks! What the better am I for all the money I've spent on the trip? Better, indeed! A good deal worse _I_ should say! Take in the box, William! what are you stopping for?" she demanded angrily. "Oh, nothing, nothing, my dear! I'll take the box in at once, certainly!" The old man hurried to do his wife's bidding, and entered the squalid house. Eily followed with her parcels, and stood in doubt as to what her next proceedings should be, while her aunt bustled away somewhere, on food intent. The old man, having obediently deposited the box in the region of upstairs, shuffled down again, and approached Eily gently. "Are you her niece, my poor girl?" he whispered, with a backward glance in the direction of his departed spouse. "I am, sorr," answered Eily; "I am come to help me aunt wid the claning and the lodgers." "Poor child! poor child! I was afraid so," he murmured, shaking his head dolefully; "but, look here, don't notice her tempers and her tantrums, her carries on fearful sometimes, but least said soonest mended, and if you want to please her keep a still tongue in your head; I've learnt to do it, and it pays best. If ever you want a friend your uncle William will stand by you; now, not a word, not a word!" and he shuffled noiselessly away as loud footsteps drew near, and Mrs. Murphy appeared on the scene. "Now then, girl, come downstairs and set to work; the fire's black out, and not a drop o' water to be had! It's like him; he's got a brain like a sieve"--pointing to her husband, "and here am I nigh dying of thirst. Drat that bell!" she exclaimed, as a loud peal from upstairs sounded in the passage. William lit the fire, boiled the kettle, and frizzled the bacon, his wife sitting by criticising the work of his hands, and warming her elastic-sided boots at the fire. She ate her breakfast in silence, and then remembered Eily, who was sitting on the stairs, hungry, forlorn, and desolate, the tears running down her cheeks. "Come, girl, get your tea!" she called, as she replenished the pot from the kettle; "here's bread for you, better than that rubbishy stuff your mother makes; such bread as that I never see, it's that heavy it lies on your chest like a mill-stone." Eily took the slice of bread offered her and gnawed it hungrily; she had tasted nothing since the previous evening, as her aunt objected to waste money on "them swindling refreshment rooms," and the stock of bread and cakes her mother had given her was soon exhausted. "Now, girl, if you start crying you'll find you make a great mistake. I brought you here to work, and work you must! Fie, for shame! an ignorant country girl like you should be thankful for such a start in life as you are getting." "I'm not ignorant," Eily answered with spirit, "and it's yourself that knows it!" [Sidenote: "Do what you're Told!"] "Then get up and wash that there delf--don't give me any imperence, or you'll find yourself in the street; there's others better than you I've turned away, and the work'us has been their end--so mind your business, and do what you're told!" With this parting injunction Mrs. Murphy left the kitchen. The winter passed--cold, foggy, murky, miserable winter. Eily was transformed. No longer bright, sparkling, and gay, but pale, listless, and weary--the veriest drudge that ever lived under an iron rule. A thick black fringe adorned her forehead, her ears were bedecked with gaudy rings, and her waist squeezed into half its ordinary size; her clothes, bought cheaply at a second-hand shop, were tawdry and ill-fitting, yet they were her only pleasure; she watched herself gradually developing into a "fine lady" with a satisfaction and excitement that alone kept her from giving way altogether. Her heart was still aching for a sight of her lover, and many a time when her aunt was out she neglected tasks that she might sit at the parlour window and watch with feverish expectancy for the owner of the fair moustache and languid manner that had so completely taken her fancy; but he never came, and she rose from her vigils with a sore heart. Two friends she had; two who never spoke roughly, nor upbraided her. "Uncle William," himself cowed and subdued, stood first. Sometimes, when the lady of the house became unbearable, and poor Eily's head ached with all the tears she shed, he would take her in the cool of the evening away to a large green park, where the wind blew fresh, the dew sparkled on the grass, and the noisy traffic of the streets was still; there she would rest her weary body, while the old man soothed her gently and stroked her poor hands, all chapped and red with hard work. Eily's other friend was a lady who occupied a single top room in her aunt's tall house. She was a gentle, white-haired woman, with faded blue eyes and a sweet smile. She had won Eily's heart from the first by the soft, kindly tones of her voice, and the consideration she showed for the severely-tried feet of the little Irish maid. Mrs. Grey taught drawing and painting; her pupils were few, her terms low; it was a difficult matter to make both ends meet, but she managed it by careful contriving, and sometimes had enough to treat her waiting-maid to a morsel of something savoury cooked on her own little stove. * * * * * It was May. Eily was standing at the window while Mrs. Murphy went forth on a bargain-hunting expedition. "Eily, come upstairs, child; I have something to show you." Mrs. Grey was in the room, looking flushed and excited; she was flourishing a book in her hand. Eily's heart beat rapidly as she ascended the steep staircase in the wake of her friend. Was it possible she could have news of _him_? Then she shook her head, for Mrs. Grey was not in her secret. They entered the neat little room at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Grey, walking to the table, never pausing to unfasten her bonnet-strings or to unbutton her gloves, opened the book and laid it on the table, exclaiming in triumph, "There you are to the life, Eily! See! it is the picture of the year, and is called 'The Queen of Connemara.'" A girl with eyes half-defiant, half-coquettish, lips demure and smiling, hair tied loosely in a knot at the back of her proudly-set head, was leaning against the white-washed wall of a thatched cabin--ah! it was Dermot's own! Eily noted the geraniums in the little blue box that he had tended himself. Eily's heart leapt, and then was still; there were her two bare feet peeping from beneath her thick red petticoat, just as they used in the olden times, and there was the blue-checked apron she had long ago discarded. With face now white, now red, she gazed at the picture, then spelt out its title, "The Queen of Connemara," painted by Leslie Hamilton. "Arrah, 'tis Misther Hamilton himself! 'twas he painted me!" she cried breathlessly, and sank into a chair completely overcome. "Then, Eily, you are a lucky girl! Every one in London is talking about 'The Queen of Connemara,' and this Hamilton has made his name and fortune by your picture. Well, well! no wonder you are surprised! Here is the artist's portrait; do you remember him?" She turned over a few leaves of the book and pushed it towards Eily. [Sidenote: "At Last!"] Did Eily remember him? Ay, indeed! There were the clear blue eyes, the straight nose, the drooping moustache. Eily snatched up the book eagerly, "Misther Hamilton! at last! at last!" With a great sob her head fell forward on the table, and Mrs. Grey guessed the young girl's secret. Leslie Hamilton, R.A., was entertaining. In the middle of a smart crowd of society people he stood, the lion of the season. "The Queen of Connemara" had made him name and fame. He was smiling on all, as well he might, for his name was in every one's mouth. Standing about the studio, chattering gaily, or lounging idly, the guests of Leslie Hamilton were admiring everything while they sipped tea out of delicate Sèvres cups. The artist himself was busy, yet his attention was chiefly directed to a beautiful young girl who sat on a velvet lounge, a tiny lap-dog on her knee. She was tall and dignified in mien, with soft grey eyes and bronze-gold hair, among which the sunlight was playing as it stole through a window behind her. She was the beauty of the season, and her father's sole heiress. Cold and distant with others, she was affable and even kind to Leslie Hamilton, and among her friends it was whispered such treatment could only end in one way; and though better things had been spoken of for Bee Vandaleur, the wife of an R.A. was by no means a position to be despised, and if Bee's fancy lay that way, why----! a shrug of its white shoulders, an elevation of its pencilled eyebrows, and Society went on its way. Leslie Hamilton had taken up his position near the door that he might easily acknowledge each new arrival. He was leaning over the fair Bee Vandaleur, watching the animation in her beautiful face, the grace with which she wore her large picture-hat, and the regal manner in which she sat. He glanced at the gay throng that filled his rooms, growing gayer still as the tinkle of tiny silver spoons increased in number and volume; there was not one to compare with Bee, _his_ Bee as he dared, in his own mind, to call her already. Gentle, dignified, graceful, always sweet and gracious to him, and with an ample fortune of her own, it was no wonder the artist felt that she was worth the winning. "How I should enjoy a peep at your model!" she was saying as she looked at a rough sketch he was showing her. "Was she as beautiful as you have made her?" "She was tolerably----" Hamilton hesitated. "Well, of course an artist's business is to make the most of good points, and omit the bad. She was a little rough and troublesome sometimes, but, on the whole, not a bad sitter." "And her name?" asked Miss Vandaleur. "Her name? oh, Mary, or Biddy, or Eily Joyce; really I cannot be sure; every one in that part of the world is either Eily or Biddy, and Joyce is the surname of half the population. She was a vain girl, I assure you; no beauty in her first season thought more of herself than did she." "I do not wonder at that," said Bee gently; "there are few women who possess beauty to such a marvellous degree. If only your Biddy could come to London she would be worshipped by all who were not utterly envious." Just what he had assured Eily himself nine months back, but it is inconvenient to remember everything one has said so long ago; we live at a pace now, and nine months is quite an epoch in our existence--so many things change in nine months! [Sidenote: A Startling Visitor] Hamilton smiled; it was rare to hear one beauty acknowledge another. He bent his head to make some remark that her ear alone might catch, but as he did so a slight stir at the door attracted his attention, and he looked up. The sight that met his gaze froze the smile on his lips; with a start which he could scarcely conceal the blood left his cheeks; him face became stern and white as death. There stood Eily herself, behind her the page who did duty at the door. The boy was pulling angrily at her sleeve, and an altercation was going on. "Shure 'tis himself will be glad to see me, ye spalpeen! Shame on yez to insult a poor girl. Musha, is it Misther Hamilton within and ashamed to spake to his Eily!" One more moment, then within that room in which art, and beauty, and refinement were gathered in one harmonious whole, a figure stole shyly. It was a young girl, gaudily attired in a blue dress; a hat, encircled by a long pink feather, crowned a face that was beautiful, were it not that it was marred by its many adornments. Gilt earrings glistened in the ears, a dark curly fringe covered forehead and eyebrows, and the chin was embedded in a tawdry feather boa of a muddy hue. An excited flush lay on her cheeks as she looked at the gay crowd within, searching for the loved face. At last a joyful recognition shone in her dark eyes, and forgetful of everything and everybody, she rushed across the polished floor to the horror-stricken artist. "Ah, Misther Hamilton, acushla! shure it's your own Eily has found yez at last!" She caught the artist's hand in her own impulsively--"Arrah, but it's the wide world I have searched, and I've found yez at last!" Silence had fallen on that part of the room where this little _contretemps_ was taking place. Hamilton saw the looks of wonderment on his guests' faces change into an amused smile as the little comedy progressed. The girl was looking earnestly at him. "Shure, you do not forget your own Eily--the girl you made into the picthur, your colleen oge! But maybe it's the jiwils and the clothes that has changed me; it's mighty grand they make me, to be sure, but it was so you should not be ashamed of me I put them on. Arrah, shpake to me, and let me hear the sound of your voice!" She looked pleadingly into his eyes, but he was speechless. At last by a mighty effort he turned with a sickly smile to some of his guests-- "Here is the original of 'The Queen of Connemara'--scarcely recognisable in her new clothes, is she? Why, Eily, my child," with a paternal air, "whatever brought you here to London?" It was an unwise question; the answer was plain enough. "Faith, thin, 'twas yourself, Misther Hamilton! You promised to come back to me, and said you would make me the finest lady in the land; and I waited, but faix, I got sick and sore, so I came to find yez, and it's well-nigh at death's door I was till I heard of yez and found where ye live--and musha, but it's a grand place, God bless it!" Eily was looking around her now at the beautiful room, the lovely women, their smart attire, and shyness seized her; she hung her head in dismay; every one in the room was pressing forward to see the girl whom Hamilton had immortalised, and comments on her appearance passed from lip to lip. "Stand there, Eily," said Hamilton kindly, placing her on a low stool that stood near. The game should be played out now. The crowd pressed around eagerly, delighted and curious. [Sidenote: A Pleasant Surprise!] "What a pleasant surprise you have prepared for us, dear Mr. Hamilton! quite unprepared, I assure you! but ah, how you artists idealise to be sure! who but genius itself could find anything picturesque under so much glitter and vulgarity?" and so on and so on, until Eily's blushing face grew paler and paler. "Now, Eily, you may go; the ladies and gentlemen have looked at you long enough. Here is something to buy a new gown and bonnet," and Leslie Hamilton, with a patronising smile, put some gold into her hand. "How kind and considerate!" murmured the highborn dames as they turned away. He escorted the girl to the door, and drew aside the _portière_ courteously, but his face became livid with rage as he spoke in a low, stern voice, "Go, girl! never dare to come here again--if you do, I swear I will call the police!" He closed the door after her retreating figure, and turned with a smile to the company; his eyes sought those of beautiful Bee Vandaleur, but she had gone. Outside in the busy street Eily stood, leaning for support against a stone pillar. She heard nothing, saw nothing. A mist swam before her eyes; she was dumb with shame and disappointment; her face, a moment before so eager, was pale as death, and deep sobs that came from her very soul shook her poor body. She clenched the gold in her hands, and then with a bitter, passionate cry threw it into the street, and watched while two street-urchins picked it up and ran off with their treasure-trove. "May I help you, my poor girl? Are you in trouble?" Bee Vandaleur spoke gently and softly; she had heard all that passed between the artist and his model. Eily looked up. "Oh, me lady, God bless ye! but I'm past the helping now! I loved him, I would have died to save him from a minute's sorrow, and he threatened the police on me!" "Come with me; I will take care of you, and you shall tell me all." Miss Vandaleur hailed a passing hansom and jumped in, followed by Eily, white, shivering, and limp. "Now tell me all," she said, as they were driven at a rapid pace through the streets. Eily, won by her gentleness, told her the pitiful story of her love; told her of her simple mountain home, of the handsome stranger who had promised to return and carry her to a land where she would be fairest of the fair; told it with dry eyes and white set lips, while her heart was breaking and her temples beat, beat, beat, like sledge-hammers beneath the weight of the fringe with which she had thought to please him. Miss Vandaleur heard all, and made no sign, save that her lips tightened now and then, and an expression of pain stole into her soft grey eyes. It was a pathetic story, and the rich girl was touched as she listened to the poor simple one at her side. "Where do you live, Eily?" she asked, as the girl stopped speaking, and lay back with closed eyes. "At me aunt's, your honour, but I won't go back! shure, I cannot! Oh, me lady, let me go; it's not for the likes of me to be keeping your ladyship away from her grand friends. God's blessing upon ye for your kindness to a poor girl!" Bee was silent, wondering what she could do with the unhappy creature beside her; presently a bright thought struck her. "I am looking out for a girl who will attend on me, Eily; do you think you would like the place if you are taught?" [Sidenote: "An Angel from Heaven!"] "Arrah, me lady, me lady! it's an angel from heaven ye are!" cried Eily gratefully, but her head sank back again, till the gaudy pink feather in her hat was spoilt for ever. That night Eily was taken to hospital. Brain fever set in, and the doctors and nurses feared the worst. * * * * * Bee Vandaleur sat in her boudoir thinking. Her pretty brow was puckered as she gazed at the photograph of a young man, tall, fair, and handsome. For some time she cogitated, then, setting her lips together, she tore the card straight across, dropped it into the waste-paper basket beside her, and shrugged her pretty shoulders, exclaiming in a tone more forcible than polite, "Brute!" * * * * * Leslie Hamilton stood outside the door of Mr. Vandaleur's handsome town residence. The footman, gorgeously attired, opened the heavy door. "Not at 'ome, sir," he answered pompously in answer to inquiries. "My good man, you have made some mistake; I am Leslie Hamilton, and I wish to see Miss Vandaleur." "Very sorry, sir, no mistake, sir; Miss Vandaleur is not at 'ome!" and the door closed in the face of the astonished artist. * * * * * It was June in Connemara. Where else is the month of roses half as lovely? where does the sky show bluer, or the grass greener? and where is the air so clear and cool and fragrant, or the lakes half as still and azure as in that blessed country? The sun rode high in the sky, monarch of all, and men smiled as they went about their daily toil, and thanked the good God who was sending them favourable weather. Here and there, dotted about the hillsides, the tiny white-washed cabins were full of life; the cocks crowed proudly as they strutted in and out among their plump, sleek wives; the useful ass brayed loudly, roaming about field and lane in enjoyment of a leisure hour; the men were in the fields, cutting the sweet-scented grass, and the women busied themselves about the midday meal, while babies, with dirty faces and naked feet, tumbled about among the wandering pigs and quacking ducks in blissful content. Along the white road that bordered the lake a cart was jolting slowly along; it was painted in a startling shade of blue, with shafts of brightest red that projected both back and front; upon it was arranged, with neatness and precision, a load of turf just cut from the bog; on one side, painted black, that all who run might read, was the name of "Patrick O'Malley" in crude lettering, and Patrick himself, in working dress of coarse cream homespun, walked beside his slow-going jennet, idly smoking his tin-topped pipe. From time to time he drew from his trouser pocket a letter, which he fingered with respect, gazing at it with profoundest wonder. "Shure, 'tis the grandest and the natest letther ever seen, and the ilegant picthur on the back! Musha, musha, 'tis not the likes o' that comes to Biddy Joyce ivery day, no, nor to no one else neither in these parts! It minds me of a letther her ladyship at the castle aksed me to take to the posht, and her in a hurry; begob, but the paper's thick and good entoirely!" and he rubbed it softly between his finger and thumb. "Shure 'tis from London itself, and maybe the one as wrote it is some friend o' Eily's. Ah, but it's she is the foolish one that she did not take the boy! it's long ere she'll find another such a match again, and him with cattle and sheep and pigs o' his own, a house that many a girl would be wild for to get, and maybe--maybe--a bit laid by for a rainy day into the bargain!" [Sidenote: "Too Good for Her!"] The jennet jogged slowly on as Patrick soliloquised. "The poor lad, but it makes me heart ache to see him so low-like, setting so quiet in the house, and him thinking, thinking all the blessed while, and never a word out o' his mouth to complain. He's a rale good lad, and it's sorry I am that he should take on so bad, and all for the sake o' a pair o' bright eyes! To see him when Biddy Joyce was sick and Mike got laid up with rheumatics; who was it minded the cattle, and fed the pigs, and sat early and late 'tending on the pair o' thim but Dermot! It's mighty high the girl is, with her talk o' the gintry and the ilegant places she seen in London, and never a mintion o' his name in all her letthers, the foolish craythur! it's too good the bhoy is for the likes o' her!" The old man was beginning to wax indignant over his son's unfavoured suit when a voice, rich and strong, called to him across the loose stone wall that divided the road from the fields. "Any news going down Lissough way, father?" It was Dermot, who had stopped for a moment in his task of cutting down the long grass. "Arrah, phwat news is it likely an old man like me should bring? You ask me so eager-like that I misdoubt me but it's some colleen that's caught your eye!" Patrick's eyes twinkled merrily as he made his little joke. Dermot's face saddened, and he turned to his scythe once more. His father, sorry that he had brought back the cloud once more to his son's face, pulled the letter from his pocket and laid it on the wall. "Now, there's for yez! as lovely a letther as ever you seen, all the way from London, with a little picthur of an agle on the back o' it! 'Tis for Biddy Joyce, and maybe ye'll take it, Dermot, seeing your legs is younger than mine?" Dermot was off already, climbing the mountain slopes in hot haste. Biddy Joyce stood watching him from the door where Eily and he had parted months before. "The poor fellow! it's like me own son he has been all this time, so kind when the sickness took hould o' Mike and me! It's meself that wishes he could forget me daughter, for it's poor comfort she will ever be to him. Faith, thin, Dermot," she exclaimed, as he came towards her, "phwat is it at all at all that ye come hurrying like this when the sun is warm enough to kill a body? Come inside, lad, and taste a sup o' me nice, sweet butther-milk; shure the churn's just done, though the butther's too soft entoirely"--she shook her head sadly. "A letther!" cried Dermot, drawing out the treasured epistle from between the folds of his shirt, where he had hastily thrust it, that his hands might not soil the creamy paper. "Thanks be to God!" exclaimed the woman, raising her eyes and hands for one moment to heaven. "'Tis long sence she wrote to me, the poor darlint, and it's many a time I lie awake and think o' the child all alone wid sthrangers not of her own blood. Whisht, boy, but you are worse nor meself I make no doubts"--as Dermot snatched the letter from her and hastily tore open the envelope. His face was pale with excitement and dread, for he feared, with a lover's jealous fear, that this was an announcement of Eily's marriage with some of the grand folks she had talked about. "Rade it, Dermot; 'tis long sence I was at school, and the writin's not aisy." Dermot obeyed, and this is the letter he spelt out slowly, with no little difficulty and several interruptions-- "Miss Vandaleur is sorry to tell Mrs. Joyce that her daughter Eily has been suffering from a severe illness; she has been in hospital for three weeks with brain fever, and until a few days ago was unable to give her mother's address. She is now much better, and the doctors hope to allow her to leave soon; she is being taken every care of by friends, but if some one could be spared to come such a long distance to see her, it would be the best thing for the poor girl, as she is always wishing for her home, and seems tired of living in London." Biddy Joyce was weeping bitterly before the end of the letter, with her blue-checked apron held up to her eyes; three or four of the little ones had gathered around, staring with wide-open eyes. [Sidenote: Dermot's Resolve] Dermot kept up bravely till the last sentence, and then he could stand it no longer; he rushed out of the house, down the stony boreen. Eily sick and ill! Eily well-nigh at death's door! Eily far away in hospital with strange hands to tend her! Poor girl, his love, his darlint! she was tired of it all, wishing for home; oh, how his heart yearned for her, and he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her. He wandered aimlessly about the mountain side until his emotion had well-nigh subsided, and then he plunged into the Joyces' cabin once more. "Mrs. Joyce, it's to-morrow, early mornin', you and me musht shtart for London!" Biddy looked up quickly. "To-morrow! the bhoy's crazy entoirely! It will be a week before I can go. Who will look after the house and the hins, and the childer, not forgetting Mike himself? I musht wait till me sister comes from Ballinahinch, and thin I will go to the child. She's betther, and near well, or the docthors wouldn't be for lettin' her out o' hospital, and faith, her aunt, me sisther Delia, will look afther her for a bit until I find it convaynient to lave; shure Mike himself will write to Eily and tell her I'm coming; that will cheer her heart up, the poor sowl." "Maybe ye are right, Mrs. Joyce." Dermot said no more, but turned slowly away. With a firm step and an air of decision he walked homewards across the fields. "Mother, it's going to London I am," he said as he entered the house; "will ye see me clothes is ready, and put me up a bit o' bread? That's all I'll trouble ye for." Honor O'Malley looked at the tall, manly figure of her only son, at the frank, proud face, the bright blue eyes, and the firmly-set mouth; the exclamation that was on her lips died away. "God bless ye, me own bhoy!" she cried instead, in a half-smothered voice, and bent, down over the hearth to hide the tears that rose to her eyes and choked her utterance. Dermot climbed the ladder that led to the tiny room in the roof where he slept; from beneath the mattress he drew a box, which he unlocked carefully. A small pile of sovereigns lay at the bottom; he counted them carefully, although he knew exactly the sum the little box contained; after fingering them almost lovingly for a few moments he transferred them to a small canvas bag, which he put in his pocket. "Maybe 'twill all be wanted," he exclaimed, with a happy gleam in his eye; "maybe, and maybe not, but howsoever it goes, one look at her blessed face will be worth it all!" * * * * * In a pretty, low-ceiled parlour, whose windows looked out upon a pleasant garden, lay Eily. The wide, old-fashioned sofa was drawn close to an open window, that she might feel the soft, cool air on her cheeks, and sniff the fragrance of the mignonette that filled the beds outside. It was a very thin face that lay upon the soft down pillow, but a slight tinge of pink on her cheeks told of returning health. Her abundant black tresses had been ruthlessly shorn away, and tiny curls clustered around forehead and neck; her eyes, dark as sloes, were large and thoughtful. Two days before she had been removed from the great London hospital, and brought by Miss Vandaleur to her father's country-home, where the kindliest of white-haired house-keepers watched over her beloved Miss Bee's _protégée_, tending her with gentlest care. "Good-morning, Eily;" Miss Vandaleur, in a simple morning gown of white, entered the room. Eily struggled to her feet. "Good-morning, miss, your honour!" Bee laughed good-naturedly; it was funny to hear herself addressed by such a title. "Now lie still, Eily, you are not quite strong yet. Tell me, are you happy here?" "Happy! Arrah, it's like heaven, miss; my blessin' and the blessin' of God on ye for all your kindness to a poor girl. Shure, but for yourself I would have been in me grave this day." [Sidenote: "Is there no one else?"] "I am glad you are happy, Eily; but is there no one you would like to see, no one from home, I mean? Just say the word; perhaps I can manage it," she said slyly. "Shure there's me mother--maybe me father too; but you could scarce get them here, miss--beggin' your honour's pardon," she added hastily. "Is there no one else, Eily? no one that you think of sometimes--no one who was kind to you, and loved you dearly?" Bee was leaning over the wan face eagerly, and what she saw for answer was a deep crimson flush that covered face, neck, and brow, while tears rolled down the cheeks. Eily had been thinking of Dermot continually of late, wishing with all her heart that she had not so scorned his love; she had learnt many lessons in the quiet watches of the night and the weary hours of weakness through which she had passed. Bee Vandaleur said no more, but patted the dark curls gently. "Don't cry, Eily, all will be right soon," and she left the room. Eily was alone once more. "Ah, Dermot, Dermot asthore! why was it I trated ye so!" The tears were trickling through her fingers, and her heart was aching with self-reproach. "Eily, mavourneen!" The tear-stained fingers were taken in two big, strong hands, and Dermot, with a depth of love in his eyes, bent over the sorrow-stricken face and laid a kiss on the quivering lips; not another word was spoken, but Dermot's protecting arms were around her, and with her head on the heart that throbbed with love and devotion all the past was blotted out, all her folly forgotten, and Eily found rest. In a surprisingly short time Eily regained her health; happiness is the best of medicine, and Eily felt she had as much as her heart could hold. Looking at Dermot with a lover's eyes she found out all that was noble and good in him, and when he asked her to be his wife ere a week had flown by she gave a glad consent. Unwin Brothers, Limited, The Gresham Press, Woking and London * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Varied hyphenation retained between different authors' stories. Page 4, "Sedgmoor" changed to "Sedgemoor." (in Sedgemoor days) Page 30, "Fraülein" changed to "Fräulein." (to be respected Fräulein) Page 32, same. (Fräulein Christina Fasch) Page 63, A character named "Robert" appears in a sidenote and one paragraph. In the next paragraph his name is changed to Max. The first two instances have been changed to Max to conform. ([Sidenote: Uncle Max]) and (it was so, Max.) List of Illustrations and on Illustration, "MARTIN" changed to "MARTYN" to conform to text. (SELINA MARTYN GAVE) Illustration caption, "FIRST-BORN" changed to "FIRSTBORN" to reflect text. (THEIR FIRSTBORN) Page 176, "half mended" changed to "half-mended." (was only half-mended) Page 240, "Kaffir" changed to "Kafir." (and a Kafir sprang out) Page 314, "ever" changed to "over." (throw over the head) Page 317, "unbotton" changed to "unbutton." (unbutton her gloves) Page 323, sidenote "Good-bye" changed to "Goodbye." The story entitled "Poor Jane's Brother" is credited to M. Ling in the table of contents and in the list of authors, but the page on which the story begins lists Marie F. Salton as the author. This discrepancy was retained. The illustration labelled "AT THE PICNIC:" seems to go with no story in this text. 
32241	----	images generously made available by Internet Archive (http://www.archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 32241-h.htm or 32241-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32241/32241-h/32241-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32241/32241-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See http://www.archive.org/details/dickensstoriesab00dick DICKENS' STORIES ABOUT CHILDREN EVERY CHILD CAN READ Edited by REV. JESSE LYMAN HURLBUT, D.D. [Illustration: CHARLES DICKENS.] Illustrated [Illustration: Every Child's Library] The John C. Winston Co. Philadelphia Copyright, 1909, By The John C. Winston Co. PREFACE. TO THE YOUNG READER: Charles Dickens was one of the greatest among the many story-writers of "the Victorian age;" that is, the middle and latter part of the Nineteenth Century, when Victoria was Queen of Great Britain. Perhaps he was the greatest of them all for now, a generation after he passed away, more people read the stories of Dickens than those by any other author of that period. In those wonderful writings are found many pictures of child-life connected with the plan of the novels or stories. These child-stories have been taken out of their connections and are told by themselves in this volume. By and by you will read for yourselves, "The Christmas Carol," "The Chimes," "David Copperfield," "The Old Curiosity Shop," and the other great books by that fascinating writer, who saw people whom nobody else ever saw, and made them real. When you read those books you will meet again these charming children, and will remember them as the friends of your childhood. JESSE L. HURLBUT. CONTENTS. PAGE TROTTY VECK AND MEG. _From "The Chimes"_ 9 TINY TIM. _From "Christmas Carol"_ 24 THE RUNAWAY COUPLE. _From "The Holly-Tree Inn"_ 34 LITTLE DORRIT. _From "Little Dorrit"_ 49 THE TOY-MAKER AND HIS BLIND DAUGHTER. _From "Cricket on the Hearth"_ 68 LITTLE NELL. _From "The Old Curiosity Shop"_ 86 LITTLE DAVID COPPERFIELD. _From "David Copperfield"_ 123 JENNY WREN. _From "Our Mutual Friend"_ 178 PIP'S ADVENTURE. _From "Great Expectations"_ 185 TODGERS' 196 DICK SWIVELLER AND THE MARCHIONESS 219 MR. WARDLE'S SERVANT JOE 233 THE BRAVE AND HONEST BOY, OLIVER TWIST 248 ILLUSTRATIONS. CHARLES DICKENS _Frontispiece_ PAGE "THEY BROKE IN LIKE A GRACE, MY DEAR." 13 "MR. CLENNAM FOLLOWED HER HOME." 65 LITTLE NELL AND HER GRANDFATHER 86 DAVID COPPERFIELD AND LITTLE EM'LY 131 SEATED ON THE CRYSTAL CARPET WERE TWO GIRLS 179 "KEEP STILL, YOU LITTLE IMP, OR I'LL CUT YOUR THROAT." 185 "MR. TUPMAN, WE ARE OBSERVED!" 240 I. TROTTY VECK AND HIS DAUGHTER MEG. "TROTTY" seems a strange name for an old man, but it was given to Toby Veck because of his always going at a trot to do his errands; for he was a ticket porter or messenger and his office was to take letters and messages for people who were in too great a hurry to send them by post, which in those days was neither so cheap nor so quick as it is now. He did not earn very much, and had to be out in all weathers and all day long. But Toby was of a cheerful disposition, and looked on the bright side of everything, and was grateful for any small mercies that came in his way; and so was happier than many people who never knew what it is to be hungry or in want of comforts. His greatest joy was his dear, bright, pretty daughter Meg, who loved him dearly. One cold day, near the end of the year, Toby had been waiting a long time for a job, trotting up and down in his usual place before the church, and trying hard to keep himself warm, when the bells chimed twelve o'clock, which made Toby think of dinner. "There's nothing," he remarked, carefully feeling his nose to make sure it was still there, "more regular in coming round than dinner-time, and nothing less regular in coming round than dinner. That's the great difference between 'em." He went on talking to himself, trotting up and down, and never noticing who was coming near to him. "Why, father, father," said a pleasant voice, and Toby turned to find his daughter's sweet, bright eyes close to his. "Why, pet," said he, kissing her and squeezing her blooming face between his hands, "what's to-do? I didn't expect you to-day, Meg." "Neither did I expect to come, father," said Meg, nodding and smiling. "But here I am! And not alone, not alone!" "Why you don't mean to say," observed Trotty, looking curiously at the covered basket she carried, "that you----" "Smell it, father dear," said Meg. "Only smell it!" Trotty was going to lift up the cover at once, in a great hurry, when she gaily interposed her hand. "No, no, no," said Meg, with the glee of a child. "Lengthen it out a little. Let me just lift up the corner; just a lit-tle, ti-ny cor-ner, you know," said Meg, suiting the action to the word with the utmost gentleness, and speaking very softly, as if she were afraid of being overheard by something inside the basket. "There, now; what's that?" Toby took the shortest possible sniff at the edge of the basket, and cried out in rapture: "Why, it's hot," he said. But to Meg's great delight he could not guess what it was that smelt so good. "Polonies? Trotters? Liver? Pigs' feet? Sausages?" he tried one after the other. At last he exclaimed in triumph. "Why, what am I a-thinking of? It's tripe." And it was. "And so," said Meg, "I'll lay the cloth at once, father; for I have brought the tripe in a basin, and tied the basin up in a pocket-handkerchief; and if I like to be proud for once, and spread that for a cloth, and call it a cloth, there's nobody to prevent me, is there father?" "Not that I know of, my dear," said Toby; "but they're always a-bringing up some new law or other." "And according to what I was reading you in the paper the other day, father, what the judge said, you know, we poor people are supposed to know them all. Ha, ha! What a mistake! My goodness me, how clever they think us!" "Yes, my dear," cried Trotty; "and they'd be very fond of any one of us that _did_ know 'em all. He'd grow fat upon the work he'd get, that man, and be popular with the gentlefolks in his neighborhood. Very much so!" "He'd eat his dinner with an appetite, whoever he was, if it smelt like this," said Meg cheerfully. "Make haste, for there's a hot potato besides, and half a pint of fresh-drawn beer in a bottle. Where will you dine, father--on the post or on the steps? Dear, dear, how grand we are! Two places to choose from!" "The steps to-day, my pet," said Trotty. "Steps in dry weather, post in wet. There's greater conveniency in the steps at all times, because of the sitting down; but they're rheumatic in the damp." "Then, here," said Meg, clapping her hands after a moment's bustle; "here it is all ready! And beautiful it looks! Come, father. Come!" [Illustration: "They Broke in Like a Grace, My Dear." Page 13] And just as Toby was about to sit down to his dinner on the door-steps of a big house close by, the chimes rang out again, and Toby took off his hat and said, "Amen." "Amen to the bells, father?" "They broke in like a grace, my dear," said Trotty; "they'd say a good one if they could, I'm sure. Many's the kind thing they say to me. How often have I heard them bells say, 'Toby Veck, keep a good heart, Toby!' A million times? More!" "Well, I never!" cried Meg. "When things is very bad, then it's 'Toby Veck, Toby Veck, job coming soon, Toby!'" "And it comes--at last, father," said Meg, with a touch of sadness in her pleasant voice. "Always," answered Toby. "Never fails." While this discourse was holding, Trotty made no pause in his attack upon the savory meat before him, but cut and ate, and cut and drank, and cut and chewed, and dodged about from tripe to hot potato, and from hot potato back again to tripe, with an unfailing relish. But happening now to look all round the street--in case anybody should be beckoning from any door or window for a porter--his eyes, in coming back again, saw Meg sitting opposite him, with her arms folded, and only busy in watching his dinner with a smile of happiness. "Why, Lord forgive me!" said Trotty, dropping his knife and fork. "My dove! Meg! why didn't you tell me what a beast I was?" "Father!" "Sitting here," said Trotty, in a sorrowful manner, "cramming, and stuffing, and gorging myself, and you before me there, never so much as breaking your precious fast, nor wanting to, when----" "But I have broken it, father," interposed his daughter, laughing, "all to bits. I have had my dinner." "Nonsense," said Trotty. "Two dinners in one day! It ain't possible! You might as well tell me that two New Year's days will come together, or that I have had a gold head all my life, and never changed it." "I have had my dinner, father, for all that," said Meg, coming nearer to him. "And if you will go on with yours, I'll tell you how and where, and how your dinner came to be brought and--and something else besides." Toby still appeared not to believe her; but she looked into his face with her clear eyes, and, laying her hand upon his shoulder, motioned him to go on while the meat was hot. So Trotty took up his knife and fork again and went to work, but much more slowly than before, and shaking his head, as if he were not at all pleased with himself. "I had my dinner, father," said Meg, after a little hesitation, "with--with Richard. His dinner-time was early; and as he brought his dinner with him when he came to see me, we--we had it together, father." Trotty took a little beer and smacked his lips. Then he said "Oh!" because she waited. "And Richard says, father--" Meg resumed, then stopped. "What does Richard say, Meg?" asked Toby. "Richard says, father--" Another stoppage. "Richard's a long time saying it," said Toby. "He says, then, father," Meg continued, lifting up her eyes at last, and speaking in a tremble, but quite plainly, "another year is nearly gone, and where is the use of waiting on from year to year, when it is so unlikely we shall ever be better off than we are now? He says we are poor now, father, and we shall be poor then; but we are young now, and years will make us old before we know it. He says that if we wait, people as poor as we are, until we see our way quite clearly, the way will be a narrow one indeed--the common way--the grave, father." A bolder man than Trotty Veck must needs have drawn upon his boldness largely to deny it. Trotty held his peace. "And how hard, father, to grow old and die, and think we might have cheered and helped each other! How hard in all our lives to love each other, and to grieve, apart, to see each other working, changing, growing old and gray. Even if I got the better of it, and forgot him (which I never could), oh, father, dear, how hard to have a heart so full as mine is now, and live to have it slowly drained out every drop, without remembering one happy moment of a woman's life to stay behind and comfort me and make me better!" Trotty sat quite still. Meg dried her eyes, and said more gaily--that is to say, with here a laugh and there a sob, and here a laugh and sob together: "So Richard says, father, as his work was yesterday made certain for some time to come, and as I love him and have loved him full three years--ah, longer than that, if he knew it!--will I marry him on New Year's Day?" Just then Richard himself came up to persuade Toby to agree to their plan; and, almost at the same moment, a footman came out of the house and ordered them all off the steps, and some gentlemen came out who called up Trotty, and asked a great many questions, and found a good deal of fault, telling Richard he was very foolish to want to get married, which made Toby feel very unhappy, and Richard very angry. So the lovers went off together sadly; Richard looking gloomy and downcast, and Meg in tears. Toby, who had a letter given him to carry, and a sixpence, trotted off in rather low spirits to a very grand house, where he was told to take the letter in to the gentleman. While he was waiting, he heard the letter read. It was from Alderman Cute, to tell Sir Joseph Bowley that one of his tenants named Will Fern, who had come to London to try to get work, and been brought before him charged with sleeping in a shed, and asking if Sir Joseph wished him to be dealt kindly with or otherwise. To Toby's great disappointment, for Sir Joseph had talked a great deal about being a friend to the poor, the answer was given that Will Fern might be sent to prison as a vagabond, and made an example of, though his only fault was that he was poor. On his way home, Toby, thinking sadly, with his hat pulled down low on his head, ran against a man dressed like a country-man, carrying a fair-haired little girl. Toby enquired anxiously if he had hurt either of them. The man answered no, and seeing Toby had a kind face, he asked him the way to Alderman Cute's house. "It's impossible," cried Toby, "that your name is Will Fern?" "That's my name," said the man. Thereupon Toby told him what he had just heard, and said, "Don't go there." Poor Will told him how he could not make a living in the country, and had come to London with his orphan niece to try to find a friend of her mother's and to endeavor to get some work, and, wishing Toby a happy New Year, was about to trudge wearily off again, when Trotty caught his hand, saying-- "Stay! The New Year never can be happy to me if I see the child and you go wandering away without a shelter for your heads. Come home with me. I'm a poor man, living in a poor place; but I can give you lodging for one night, and never miss it. Come home with me! Here! I'll take her!" cried Trotty, lifting up the child. "A pretty one! I'd carry twenty times her weight and never know I'd got it. Tell me if I go too quick for you. I'm very fast. I always was!" Trotty said this, taking about six of his trotting paces to one stride of his tired companion, and with his thin legs quivering again beneath the load he bore. "Why, she's as light," said Trotty, trotting in his speech as well as in his gait--for he couldn't bear to be thanked, and dreaded a moment's pause--"as light as a feather. Lighter than a peacock's feather--a great deal lighter. Here we are and here we go!" And, rushing in, he set the child down before his daughter. The little girl gave one look at Meg's sweet face and ran into her arms at once, while Trotty ran round the room, saying, "Here we are and here we go. Here, Uncle Will, come to the fire. Meg, my precious darling, where's the kettle? Here it is and here it goes, and it'll bile in no time!" "Why, father!" said Meg, as she knelt before the child and pulled off her wet shoes, "you're crazy to-night, I think. I don't know what the bells would say to that. Poor little feet, how cold they are!" "Oh, they're warmer now!" exclaimed the child. "They're quite warm now!" "No, no, no," said Meg. "We haven't rubbed 'em half enough. We're so busy. And when they're done, we'll brush out the damp hair; and when that's done, we'll bring some color to the poor pale face with fresh water; and when that's done, we'll be so gay and brisk and happy!" The child, sobbing, clasped her round the neck, saying, "O Meg, O dear Meg!" "Good gracious me!" said Meg presently, "father's crazy. He's put the dear child's bonnet on the kettle, and hung the lid behind the door!" Trotty hastily repaired this mistake, and went off to find some tea and a rasher of bacon he fancied "he had seen lying somewhere on the stairs." He soon came back and made the tea, and before long they were all enjoying the meal. Trotty and Meg only took a morsel for form's sake (for they had only a very little, not enough for all), but their delight was in seeing their visitors eat, and very happy they were--though Trotty had noticed that Meg was sitting by the fire in tears when they had come in, and he feared her marriage had been broken off. After tea Meg took Lilian to bed, and Toby showed Will Fern where he was to sleep. As he came back past Meg's door he heard the child saying her prayers, remembering Meg's name and asking for his. Then he went to sit by the fire and read his paper, and fell asleep to have a wonderful dream, so terrible and sad, that it was a great relief when he woke. "And whatever you do, father," said Meg, "don't eat tripe again without asking some doctor whether it's likely to agree with you; for how you _have_ been going on! Good gracious!" She was working with her needle at the little table by the fire, dressing her simple gown with ribbons for her wedding--so quietly happy, so blooming and youthful, so full of beautiful promise that he uttered a great cry as if it were an angel in his house, then flew to clasp her in his arms. But he caught his feet in the newspaper, which had fallen on the hearth, and somebody came rushing in between them. "No!" cried the voice of this same somebody. A generous and jolly voice it was! "Not even you; not even you. The first kiss of Meg in the New Year is mine--mine! I have been waiting outside the house this hour to hear the bells and claim it. Meg, my precious prize, a happy year! A life of happy years, my darling wife!" And Richard smothered her with kisses. You never in all your life saw anything like Trotty after this, I don't care where you have lived or what you have seen; you never in your life saw anything at all approaching him! He kept running up to Meg, and squeezing her fresh face between his hands and kissing it, going from her backwards not to lose sight of it, and running up again like a figure in a magic lantern; and whatever he did, he was constantly sitting himself down in his chair, and never stopping in it for one single moment, being--that's the truth--beside himself with joy. "And to-morrow's your wedding-day, my pet!" cried Trotty. "Your real, happy wedding-day!" "To-day!" cried Richard, shaking hands with him. "To-day. The chimes are ringing in the New Year. Hear them!" They _were_ ringing! Bless their sturdy hearts, they _were_ ringing! Great bells as they were--melodious, deep-mouthed, noble bells, cast in no common metal, made by no common founder--when had they ever chimed like that before? Trotty was backing off to that wonderful chair again, when the child, who had been awakened by the noise, came running in half-dressed. "Why, here she is!" cried Trotty, catching her up. "Here's little Lilian! Ha, ha, ha! Here we are and here we go. Oh, here we are and here we go again! And here we are and here we go! And Uncle Will, too!" Before Will Fern could make the least reply, a band of music burst into the room, attended by a flock of neighbors, screaming, "A Happy New Year, Meg!" "A happy wedding!" "Many of 'em!" and other fragmentary good-wishes of that sort. The Drum (who was a private friend of Trotty's) then stepped forward and said: "Trotty Veck, my boy, it's got about that your daughter is going to be married to-morrow. There ain't a soul that knows you that don't wish you well, or that knows her and don't wish her well. Or that knows you both, and don't wish you both all the happiness the New Year can bring. And here we are to play it in and dance it in accordingly." Then Mrs. Chickenstalker came in (a good-humored, nice-looking woman who, to the delight of all, turned out to be the friend of Lilian's mother, for whom Will Fern had come to look), with a stone pitcher full of "flip," to wish Meg joy, and then the music struck up, and Trotty, making Meg and Richard second couple, led off Mrs. Chickenstalker down the dance, and danced it in a step unknown before or since, founded on his own peculiar trot. II. TINY TIM. IT will surprise you all very much to hear that there was once a man who did not like Christmas. In fact, he had been heard on several occasions to use the word _humbug_ with regard to it. His name was Scrooge, and he was a hard, sour-tempered man of business, intent only on saving and making money, and caring nothing for anyone. He paid the poor, hard-working clerk in his office as little as he could possibly get the work done for, and lived on as little as possible himself, alone, in two dismal rooms. He was never merry or comfortable or happy, and he hated other people to be so, and that was the reason why he hated Christmas, because people _will_ be happy at Christmas, you know, if they possibly can, and like to have a little money to make themselves and others comfortable. Well, it was Christmas eve, a very cold and foggy one, and Mr. Scrooge, having given his poor clerk permission very unwillingly to spend Christmas day at home, locked up his office and went home himself in a very bad temper, and with a cold in his head. After having taken some gruel as he sat over a miserable fire in his dismal room, he got into bed, and had some wonderful and disagreeable dreams, to which we will leave him, whilst we see how Tiny Tim, the son of his poor clerk, spent Christmas day. The name of this clerk was Bob Cratchit. He had a wife and five other children besides Tim, who was a weak and delicate little cripple, and for this reason was dearly loved by his father and the rest of the family; not but what he was a dear little boy, too, gentle and patient and loving, with a sweet face of his own, which no one could help looking at. Whenever he could spare the time, it was Mr. Cratchit's delight to carry his little boy out on his shoulder to see the shops and the people; and to-day he had taken him to church for the first time. "Whatever has got your precious father and your brother Tiny Tim!" exclaimed Mrs. Cratchit, "here's dinner all ready to be dished up. I've never known him so late on Christmas day before." "Here he is, mother!" cried Belinda, and "here he is!" cried the other children. In came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look just as well as possible; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame! "Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit, looking round. "Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Not coming!" said Bob, with a sudden dropping in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant. "Not coming upon Christmas day!" Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out sooner than had been agreed upon from behind the closet-door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper kettle. "And how did Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit. "As good as gold and better," replied his father. "I think, wife, the child gets thoughtful, sitting at home so much. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people in church who saw he was a cripple, would be pleased to remember on Christmas day who it was who made the lame to walk." "Bless his sweet heart!" said the mother in a trembling voice, and the father's voice trembled, too, as he remarked that "Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty at last." His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, led by his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; while Bob, Master Peter, and the two young Cratchits (who seemed to be everywhere at once) went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession. Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a perfect marvel, to which a black swan was a matter of course--and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with tremendous vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah! There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size, and cheapness were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at that! Yet everyone had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits, in particular, were steeped in sage and onions to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone--too nervous to bear witnesses--to take up the pudding and bring it in. Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back yard and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose--a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed. Halloo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook's next door to each other, with a laundress' next door to that! That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered--flushed, but smiling proudly--with the pudding like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of lighted brandy, and decorated with Christmas holly stuck into the top. Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that, now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was a small pudding for a large family. It would have been really wicked to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing. At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The hot stuff in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass. Two tumblers and a custard cup without a handle. These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed: "A merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!" Which all the family re-echoed. "God bless us everyone!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all. Now I told you that Mr. Scrooge had some disagreeable and wonderful dreams on Christmas eve, and so he had; and in one of them he dreamt that a Christmas spirit showed him his clerk's home; he saw them all gathered round the fire, and heard them drink his health, and Tiny Tim's song, and he took special note of Tiny Tim himself. How Mr. Scrooge spent Christmas day we do not know. He may have remained in bed, having a cold, but on Christmas night he had more dreams, and in one of his dreams the spirit took him again to his clerk's poor home. The mother was doing some needlework, seated by the table, a tear dropped on it now and then, and she said, poor thing, that the work, which was black, hurt her eyes. The children sat, sad and silent, about the room, except Tiny Tim, who was not there. Upstairs the father, with his face hidden in his hands, sat beside a little bed, on which lay a tiny figure, white and still. "My little child, my pretty little child," he sobbed, as the tears fell through his fingers on to the floor. "Tiny Tim died because his father was too poor to give him what was necessary to make him well; _you_ kept him poor;" said the dream-spirit to Mr. Scrooge. The father kissed the cold, little face on the bed, and went downstairs, where the sprays of holly still remained about the humble room; and taking his hat, went out, with a wistful glance at the little crutch in the corner as he shut the door. Mr. Scrooge saw all this, and many more things as strange and sad, the spirit took care of that; but, wonderful to relate, he woke the next morning feeling a different man--feeling as he had never felt in his life before. For after all, you know that what he had seen was no more than a dream; he knew that Tiny Tim was not dead, and Scrooge was resolved that Tiny Tim should not die if he could help it. "Why, I am as light as a feather, and as happy as an angel, and as merry as a schoolboy," Scrooge said to himself as he skipped into the next room to breakfast and threw on all the coals at once, and put two lumps of sugar in his tea. "I hope everybody had a merry Christmas, and here's a happy New Year to all the world." On that morning, the day after Christmas poor Bob Cratchit crept into the office a few minutes late, expecting to be roundly abused and scolded for it, but no such thing; his master was there with his back to a good fire, and actually smiling, and he shook hands with his clerk, telling him heartily he was going to raise his salary and asking quite affectionately after Tiny Tim! "And mind you make up a good fire in your room before you set to work, Bob," he said, as he closed his own door. Bob could hardly believe his eyes and ears, but it was all true. Such doings as they had on New Year's day had never been seen before in the Cratchits' home, nor such a turkey as Mr. Scrooge sent them for dinner. Tiny Tim had his share too, for Tiny Tim did not die, not a bit of it. Mr. Scrooge was a second father to him from that day, he wanted for nothing, and grew up strong and hearty. Mr. Scrooge loved him, and well he might, for was it not Tiny Tim who had without knowing it, through the Christmas dream-spirit, touched his hard heart and caused him to become a good and happy man? III. THE RUNAWAY COUPLE. THE Boots at the Holly Tree Inn was the young man named Cobbs, who blacked the shoes, and ran errands, and waited on the people at the inn; and this is the story that he told, one day. "Supposing a young gentleman not eight years old was to run away with a fine young woman of seven, would you consider that a queer start? That there is a start as I--the Boots at the Holly Tree Inn--have seen with my own eyes; and I cleaned the shoes they ran away in, and they was so little that I couldn't get my hand into 'em. "Master Harry Walmers' father, he lived at the Elms, away by Shooter's Hill, six or seven miles from London. He was uncommon proud of Master Harry, as he was his only child; but he didn't spoil him neither. He was a gentleman that had a will of his own, and an eye of his own, and that would be minded. Consequently, though he made quite a companion of the fine bright boy, still he kept the command over him, and the child _was_ a child. I was under-gardener there at that time; and one morning Master Harry, he comes to me and says-- "'Cobbs, how should you spell Norah, if you was asked?' and then begun cutting it in print, all over the fence. "He couldn't say he had taken particular notice of children before that; but really it was pretty to see them two mites a-going about the place together, deep in love. And the courage of the boy! Bless your soul, he'd have throwed off his little hat, and tucked up his little sleeves, and gone in at a lion, he would, if they had happened to meet one and she had been frightened of him. One day he stops along, with her, where Boots was hoeing weeds in the gravel, and says--speaking up, 'Cobbs,' he says, 'I like you.' 'Do you, sir? I'm proud to hear it.' 'Yes, I do, Cobbs. Why do I like you, do you think, Cobbs?' 'Don't know, Master Harry, I am sure.' 'Because Norah likes you, Cobbs.' 'Indeed, sir? That's very gratifying.' 'Gratifying, Cobbs? It's better than millions of the brightest diamonds to be liked by Norah.' 'Certainly, sir.' 'You're going away, ain't you, Cobbs?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Would you like another situation, Cobbs?' 'Well, sir, I shouldn't object, if it was a good 'un.' 'Then, Cobbs,' says he, 'you shall be our head-gardener when we are married.' And he tucks her, in her little sky-blue mantle, under his arm, and walks away. "It was better than a picter, and equal to a play, to see them babies with their long, bright, curling hair, their sparkling eyes, and their beautiful light tread, a-rambling about the garden, deep in love. Boots was of opinion that the birds believed they was birds, and kept up with 'em, singing to please 'em. Sometimes, they would creep under the Tulip tree, and would sit there with their arms round one another's necks, and their soft cheeks touching, a-reading about the prince and the dragon, and the good and bad enchanters, and the king's fair daughter. Sometimes he would hear them planning about having a house in a forest, keeping bees and a cow, and living entirely on milk and honey. Once he came upon them by the pond, and heard Master Harry say, 'Adorable Norah, kiss me, and say you love me to distraction, or I'll jump in headforemost.' And Boots made no question he would have done it, if she hadn't done as he asked her. "'Cobbs,' says Master Harry, one evening, when Cobbs was watering the flowers, 'I am going on a visit, this present mid-summer, to my grandmamma's at York.' "'Are you, indeed, sir? I hope you'll have a pleasant time. I am going into Yorkshire myself when I leave here.' "'Are you going to your grandmamma's, Cobbs?' "'No, sir. I haven't got such a thing.' "'Not as a grandmamma, Cobbs?' "'No, sir.' "The boy looked on at the watering of the flowers for a little while and then said, 'I shall be very glad, indeed, to go, Cobbs--Norah's going.' "'You'll be all right then, sir,' says Cobbs, 'with your beautiful sweetheart by your side.' "'Cobbs,' returned the boy, flushing, 'I never let anybody joke about it when I can prevent them.' "'It wasn't a joke, sir,' says Cobbs, with humility--'wasn't so meant.' "'I am glad of that, Cobbs, because I like you! you know, and you're going to live with us, Cobbs. "'Sir.' "'What do you think my grandmamma gives me, when I go down there?' "'I couldn't so much as make a guess, sir.' "'A Bank of England five-pound note, Cobbs.'[A] "'Whew!' says Cobbs, 'that's a spanking sum of money, Master Harry.' "'A person could do a great deal with such a sum of money as that. Couldn't a person, Cobbs?' "'I believe you, sir!' "'Cobbs,' said the boy, 'I'll tell you a secret. At Norah's house they have been joking her about me, and pretending to laugh at our being engaged. Pretending to make game of it, Cobbs!' "'Such, sir,' says Cobbs, 'is the wickedness of human natur'.' "The boy, looking exactly like his father, stood for a few minutes with his glowing face towards the sunset, and then departed with, 'Good night, Cobbs. I'm going in.' "I was the Boots at the Holly Tree Inn when one summer afternoon the coach drives up, and out of the coach gets these two children. "The guard says to our governor, the inn-keeper, 'I don't quite make out these little passengers, but the young gentleman's words was, that they were to be brought here.' The young gentleman gets out; hands his lady out; gives the driver something for himself; says to our governor, 'We're to stop here to-night, please. Sitting-room and two bedrooms will be required. Chops and cherry-pudding for two!' and tucks her, in her little sky-blue mantle, under his arm, and walks into the house much bolder than brass. "Boots leaves me to judge what the amazement of that establishment was when those two tiny creatures, all alone by themselves, was marched into the parlor--much more so when he, who had seen them without their seeing him, gave the governor his views of the errand they was upon. 'Cobbs,' says the governor, 'if this is so, I must set off myself to York and quiet their friends' minds. In which case you must keep your eye upon 'em, and humor 'em, till I come back. But, before I take these measures, Cobbs, I should wish you to find out from themselves whether your opinions is correct.' 'Sir, to you,' says Cobbs, 'that shall be done directly.' "So Boots goes up stairs to the parlor, and there he finds Master Harry on an enormous sofa a-drying the eyes of Miss Norah with his pocket-hankecher. Their little legs were entirely off the ground of course, and it really is not possible for Boots to express to me how small them children looked. "'It's Cobbs! It's Cobbs!' cries Master Harry, and comes running to him, and catching hold of his hand. Miss Norah comes running to him on t'other side, and catching hold of his t'other hand, and they both jump for joy. "'I see you a-getting out, sir,' says Cobbs. 'I thought it was you. I thought I couldn't be mistaken in your height and figure. What's the object of your journey, sir? Are you going to be married?' "'We are going to be married, Cobbs, at Gretna Green,' returned the boy. 'We have run away on purpose. Norah has been in rather low spirits, Cobbs; but she'll be happy, now we have found you to be our friend.' "'Thank you, sir, and thank _you_, miss,' says Cobbs, 'for your good opinion. Did you bring any luggage with you, sir?' "If I will believe Boots when he gives me his word and honor upon it, the lady had got a parasol, a smelling-bottle, a round and a half of cold buttered toast, eight peppermint drops, and a hair-brush--seemingly a doll's. The gentleman had got about half a dozen yards of string, a knife, three or four sheets of writing-paper folded up surprisingly small, an orange, and a china mug with his name upon it. "'What may be the exact natur' of your plans, sir?' says Cobbs. "'To go on,' replied the boy--which the courage of that boy was something wonderful!--'in the morning, and be married to-morrow.' "'Just so, sir,' says Cobbs. 'Would it meet your views, sir, if I was to go with you?' "When Cobbs said this, they both jumped for joy again, and cried out, 'Oh, yes, yes, Cobbs! Yes!' "'Well, sir,' says Cobbs. 'If you will excuse my having the freedom to give an opinion, what I should recommend would be this. I'm acquainted with a pony, sir, which, put in a phaeton that I could borrow, would take you and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Jr. (myself driving, if you agree), to the end of your journey in a very short space of time. I am not altogether sure, sir, that this pony will be at liberty to-morrow, but even if you had to wait over to-morrow for him, it might be worth your while. As to the small account for your board here, sir, in case you was to find yourself running at all short, that don't signify, because I'm a part proprietor of this inn, and it could stand over.' "Boots tells me that when they clapped their hands and jumped for joy again, and called him, 'Good Cobbs!' and 'Dear Cobbs!' and bent across him to kiss one another in the delight of their trusting hearts, he felt himself the meanest rascal for deceiving 'em that ever was born. "'Is there anything you want just at present, sir?' says Cobbs, mortally ashamed of himself. "'We would like some cakes after dinner,' answered Master Harry, folding his arms, putting out one leg, and looking straight at him, 'and two apples--and jam. With dinner, we should like to have toast and water. But Norah has always been accustomed to half a glass of currant wine at dessert. And so have I.' "'It shall be ordered at the bar, sir,' says Cobbs, and away he went. "'The way in which the women of that house--without exception--everyone of 'em--married and single, took to that boy when they heard the story, Boots considers surprising. It was as much as he could do to keep 'em from dashing into the room and kissing him. They climbed up all sorts of places, at the risk of their lives, to look at him through a pane of glass. They were seven deep at the key-hole. They were out of their minds about him and his bold spirit. "In the evening Boots went into the room, to see how the runaway couple was getting on. The gentleman was on the window-seat, supporting the lady in his arms. She had tears upon her face, and was lying, very tired and half-asleep, with her head upon his shoulder. "'Mrs. Harry Walmers, Jr., tired, sir?' says Cobbs. "'Yes, she is tired, Cobbs; but she is not used to be away from home, and she has been in low spirits again. Cobbs, do you think you could bring a biffin, please?' "'I ask your pardon, sir,' says Cobbs. 'What was it you--' "'I think a Norfolk biffin[B] would rouse her, Cobbs. She is very fond of them.' "Boots withdrew in search of the required restorative, and, when he brought it in, the gentleman handed it to the lady, and fed her with a spoon, and took a little himself. The lady being heavy with sleep, and rather cross. 'What should you think, sir,' says Cobbs, 'of a chamber candlestick?' The gentleman approved; the chambermaid went first, up the great staircase; the lady, in her sky-blue mantle, followed, gallantly led by the gentleman; the gentleman kissed her at the door, and retired to his own room, where Boots softly locked him up. "Boots couldn't but feel what a base deceiver he was when they asked him at breakfast (they had ordered sweet milk-and-water, and toast and currant jelly, overnight) about the pony. It really was as much as he could do, he don't mind confessing to me, to look them two young things in the face, and think how wicked he had grown up to be. Howsomever, he went on a-lying like a Trojan, about the pony. He told 'em it did so unfortunately happen that the pony was half-clipped, you see, and that he couldn't be taken out in that state for fear that it should strike to his inside. But that he'd be finished clipping in the course of the day, and that to-morrow morning at eight o'clock the phaeton would be ready. Boots' view of the whole case, looking back upon it in my room, is, that Mrs. Harry Walmers, Jr., was beginning to give in. She hadn't had her hair curled when she went to bed, and she didn't seem quite up to brushing it herself, and it's getting in her eyes put her out. But nothing put out Master Harry. He sat behind his breakfast cup, a-tearing away at the jelly, as if he had been his own father. "After breakfast Boots is inclined to think that they drawed soldiers--at least, he knows that many such was found in the fireplace, all on horseback. In the course of the morning Master Harry rang the bell--it was surprising how that there boy did carry on--and said in a sprightly way, 'Cobbs, is there any good walks in this neighborhood?' "'Yes, sir,' says Cobbs. 'There's Love Lane.' "'Get out with you, Cobbs!'--that was that there boy's expression--'you're joking.' "'Begging your pardon, sir,' says Cobbs, 'there really is Love Lane. And a pleasant walk it is, and proud I shall be to show it to yourself and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Jr.' "'Norah, dear,' said Master Harry, 'this is curious. We really ought to see Love Lane. Put on your bonnet, my sweetest darling, and we will go there with Cobbs.' "Boots leaves me to judge what a beast he felt himself to be, when that young pair told him, as they all three jogged along together, that they had made up their minds to give him two thousand guineas a year as head-gardener, on account of his being so true a friend to 'em. Boots could have wished at the moment that the earth would have opened and swallowed him up; he felt so mean with their beaming eyes a-looking at him, and believing him. Well, sir, he turned the conversation as well as he could, and he took 'em down Love Lane to the water-meadows, and there Master Harry would have drowned himself in half a moment more, a-getting out a water-lily for her--but nothing frightened that boy. Well, sir, they was tired out. All being so new and strange to 'em, they was tired as tired could be. And they laid down on a bank of daisies, like the children in the wood, leastways meadows, and fell asleep. "Well, sir, they woke up at last, and then one thing was getting pretty clear to Boots, namely, that Mrs. Harry Walmers', Jr., temper was on the move. When Master Harry took her round the waist she said he 'teased her so,' and when he says, 'Norah, my young May Moon, your Harry tease you?' she tells him, 'Yes; and I want to go home!' "However, Master Harry he kept up, and his noble heart was as fond as ever. Mrs. Walmers turned very sleepy about dusk and began to cry. Therefore, Mrs. Walmers went off to bed as per yesterday; and Master Harry ditto repeated. "About eleven or twelve at night comes back the inn-keeper in a chaise, along with Mr. Walmers and an elderly lady. Mr. Walmers looks amused and very serious, both at once, and says to our missis, 'We are very much indebted to you, ma'am, for your kind care of our little children, which we can never sufficiently acknowledge. Pray, ma'am where is my boy?' Our missis says, 'Cobbs has the dear children in charge, sir. Cobbs, show forty!' Then he says to Cobbs, 'Ah, Cobbs! I am glad to see _you_. I understand you was here!' And Cobbs says, 'Yes, sir. Your most obedient, sir.' "I may be surprised to hear Boots say it, perhaps, but Boots assures me that his heart beat like a hammer, going up-stairs. 'I beg your pardon, sir,' says he, while unlocking the door; 'I hope you are not angry with Master Harry. For Master Harry is a fine boy, sir, and will do you credit and honor.' And Boots signifies to me that if the fine boy's father had contradicted him in the daring state of mind in which he then was, he thinks he should have 'fetched him a crack,' and taken the consequences. "But Mr. Walmers only says, 'No, Cobbs. No, my good fellow. Thank you!' And the door being open, goes in. "Boots goes in too, holding the light, and he sees Mr. Walmers go up to the bedside, bend gently down, and kiss the little sleeping face. Then he stands looking at it for a minute, looking wonderfully like it; and then he gently shakes the little shoulder. "'Harry, my dear boy! Harry!' "Master Harry starts up and looks at him. Looks at Cobbs, too. Such is the honor of that mite that he looks at Cobbs to see whether he has brought him into trouble. "'I am not angry, my child. I only want you to dress yourself and come home.' "'Yes, pa.' "Master Harry dresses himself quickly. His breast begins to swell when he has nearly finished, and it swells more and more as he stands a-looking at his father; his father standing a-looking at him, the quiet image of him. "'Please may I'--the spirit of that little creatur', and the way he kept his rising tears down!--'Please, dear pa--may I--kiss Norah before I go?' "'You may, my child.' "So he takes Master Harry in his hand, and Boots leads the way with the candle, and they come to that other bedroom; where the elderly lady is seated by the bed, and poor little Mrs. Harry Walmers, Jr., is fast asleep. There the father lifts the child up to the pillow, and he lays his little face down for an instant by the little warm face of poor unconscious little Mrs. Harry Walmers, Jr., and gently draws it to him--a sight so touching to the chambermaids who are peeping through the door that one of them calls out, 'It's a shame to part 'em!' But this chambermaid was always, as Boots informs me, a soft-hearted one. Not that there was any harm in that girl. Far from it." FOOTNOTES: [A] For the benefit of some of our young readers, it may be well to explain that this is about the same as a bill of twenty-five dollars would be in America. [B] A biffin is a red apple, growing near Norfolk, and generally eaten after having been baked. IV. LITTLE DORRIT. MANY years ago, when people could be put in prison for debt, a poor gentleman, who was unfortunate enough to lose all his money, was brought to the Marshalsea prison, which was the prison where debtors were kept. As there seemed no prospect of being able to pay his debts, his wife and their two little children came to live there with him. The elder child was a boy of three; the younger a little girl of two years old, and not long afterwards another little girl was born. The three children played in the courtyard, and on the whole were happy, for they were too young to remember a happier state of things. But the youngest child, who had never been outside the prison walls, was a thoughtful little creature, and wondered what the outside world could be like. Her great friend, the turnkey, who was also her godfather, became very fond of her, and as soon as she could walk and talk he brought a little arm-chair and stood it by his fire at the lodge, and coaxed her with cheap toys to come and sit with him. In return the child loved him dearly, and would often bring her doll to dress and undress as she sat in the little arm-chair. She was still a very tiny creature when she began to understand that everyone did not live locked up inside high walls with spikes at the top, and though she and the rest of the family might pass through the door that the great key opened, her father could not; and she would look at him with a wondering pity in her tender little heart. One day, she was sitting in the lodge gazing wistfully up at the sky through the barred window. The turnkey, after watching her some time, said: "Thinking of the fields, ain't you?" "Where are they?" she asked. "Why, they're--over there, my dear," said the turnkey, waving his key vaguely, "just about there." "Does anybody open them and shut them? Are they locked?" "Well," said the turnkey, not knowing what to say, "not in general." "Are they pretty, Bob?" She called him Bob, because he wished it. "Lovely. Full of flowers. There's buttercups, and there's daisies, and there's--" here he hesitated not knowing the names of many flowers--"there's dandelions, and all manner of games." "Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob?" "Prime," said the turnkey. "Was father ever there?" "Hem!" coughed the turnkey. "O yes, he was there, sometimes." "Is he sorry not to be there now?" "N--not particular," said the turnkey. "Nor any of the people?" she asked, glancing at the listless crowd within. "O are you quite sure and certain, Bob?" At this point, Bob gave in and changed the subject to candy. But after this chat, the turnkey and little Amy would go out on his free Sunday afternoons to some meadows or green lanes, and she would pick grass and flowers to bring home, while he smoked his pipe; and then they would go to some tea-gardens for shrimps and tea and other delicacies, and would come back hand in hand, unless she was very tired and had fallen asleep on his shoulder. When Amy was only eight years old, her mother died; and the poor father was more helpless and broken-down than ever, and as Fanny was a careless child and Edward idle, the little one, who had the bravest and truest heart, was led by her love and unselfishness to be the little mother of the forlorn family, and struggled to get some little education for herself and her brother and sister. At first, such a baby could do little more than sit with her father, deserting her livelier place by the high fender, and quietly watching him. But this made her so far necessary to him that he became accustomed to her, and began to be sensible of missing her when she was not there. Through this little gate, she passed out of her childhood into the care-laden world. What her pitiful look saw, at that early time, in her father, in her sister, in her brother, in the jail; how much or how little of the wretched truth it pleased God to make plain to her, lies hidden with many mysteries. It is enough that she was inspired to be something which was not what the rest were, and to be that something, different and laborious, for the sake of the rest. Inspired? Yes. Shall we speak of a poet or a priest, and not of the heart impelled by love and self-devotion to the lowliest work in the lowliest way of life? The family stayed so long in the prison that the old man came to be known as "The Father of the Marshalsea;" and little Amy, who had never known any other home, as "The Child of the Marshalsea." At thirteen she could read and keep accounts--that is, could put down in words and figures how much the bare necessaries that they wanted would cost, and how much less they had to buy them with. She had been, by snatches of a few weeks at a time, to an evening school outside, and got her sister and brother sent to day-schools from time to time during three or four years. There was no teaching for any of them at home; but she knew well--no one better--that a man so broken as to be the Father of the Marshalsea, could be no father to his own children. To these scanty means of improvement, she added another of her own contriving. Once among the crowd of prisoners there appeared a dancing-master. Her sister had a great desire to learn the dancing-master's art, and seemed to have a taste that way. At thirteen years old, the Child of the Marshalsea presented herself to the dancing-master, with a little bag in her hand, and offered her humble petition. "If you please, I was born here, sir." "Oh! you are the young lady, are you?" said the dancing-master, surveying the small figure and uplifted face. "Yes, sir." "And what can I do for you?" said the dancing-master. "Nothing for me, sir, thank you," anxiously undrawing the strings of the little bag; "but if, while you stay here, you could be so kind as to teach my sister cheap--" "My child, I'll teach her for nothing," said the dancing-master, shutting up the bag. He was as good-natured a dancing-master as ever danced to the Insolvent Court, and he kept his word. The sister was so apt a pupil, and the dancing-master had such abundant time to give her, that wonderful progress was made. Indeed, the dancing-master was so proud of it, and so wishful to show it before he left, to a few select friends among the collegians (the debtors in the prison were called "collegians"), that at six o'clock on a certain fine morning, an exhibition was held in the yard--the college-rooms being of too small size for the purpose--in which so much ground was covered, and the steps were so well executed, that the dancing-master, having to play his fiddle besides, was thoroughly tired out. The success of this beginning, which led to the dancing-master's continuing his teaching after his release, led the poor child to try again. She watched and waited months for a seamstress. In the fullness of time a milliner came in, sent there like all the rest for a debt which she could not pay; and to her she went to ask a favor for herself. "I beg your pardon, ma'am," she said, looking timidly round the door of the milliner, whom she found in tears and in bed: "but I was born here." Everybody seemed to hear of her as soon as they arrived; for the milliner sat up in bed, drying her eyes, and said, just as the dancing-master had said: "Oh! _you_ are the child, are you?" "Yes, ma'am." "I am sorry I haven't got anything for you," said the milliner, shaking her head. "It's not that, ma'am. If you please, I want to learn needlework." "Why should you do that," returned the milliner, "with me before you? It has not done me much good." "Nothing--whatever it is--seems to have done anybody much good who comes here," she returned in her simple way; "but I want to learn, just the same." "I am afraid you are so weak, you see," the milliner objected. "I don't think I am weak, ma'am." "And you are so very, very little, you see," the milliner objected. "Yes, I am afraid I am very little indeed," returned the Child of the Marshalsea; and so began to sob over that unfortunate smallness of hers, which came so often in her way. The milliner--who was not unkind or hardhearted, only badly in debt--was touched, took her in hand with good-will, found her the most patient and earnest of pupils, and made her a good workwoman. In course of time, the Father of the Marshalsea gradually developed a new trait of character. He was very greatly ashamed of having his two daughters work for their living; and tried to make it appear that they were only doing work for pleasure, not for pay. But at the same time he would take money from any one who would give it to him, without any sense of shame. With the same hand that had pocketed a fellow-prisoner's half-crown half an hour ago, he would wipe away the tears that streamed over his cheeks if anything was spoken of his daughters' earning their bread. So, over and above her other daily cares, the Child of the Marshalsea had always upon her the care of keeping up the make-believe that they were all idle beggars together. The sister became a dancer. There was a ruined uncle in the family group--ruined by his brother, the Father of the Marshalsea, and knowing no more how, than his ruiner did, but taking the fact as something that could not be helped. Naturally a retired and simple man, he had shown no particular sense of being ruined, at the time when that calamity fell upon him, further than he left off washing himself when the shock was announced, and never took to washing his face and hands any more. He had been a rather poor musician in his better days; and when he fell with his brother, supported himself in a poor way by playing a clarionet as dirty as himself in a small theatre band. It was the theatre in which his niece became a dancer; he had been a fixture there a long time when she took her poor station in it; and he accepted the task of serving as her guardian, just as he would have accepted an illness, a legacy, a feast, starvation--anything but soap. To enable this girl to earn her few weekly shillings, it was necessary for the Child of the Marshalsea to go through a careful form with her father. "Fanny is not going to live with us, just now, father. She will be here a good deal in the day, but she is going to live outside with uncle." "You surprise me. Why?" "I think uncle wants a companion, father. He should be attended to and looked after." "A companion? He passes much of his time here. And you attend and look after him, Amy, a great deal more than ever your sister will. You all go out so much; you all go out so much." This was to keep up the form and pretense of his having no idea that Amy herself went out by the day to work. "But we are always very glad to come home father; now, are we not? And as to Fanny, perhaps besides keeping uncle company and taking care of him, it may be as well for her not quite to live here always. She was not born here as I was you know, father." "Well, Amy, well. I don't quite follow you, but it's natural I suppose that Fanny should prefer to be outside, and even that you often should, too. So, you and Fanny and your uncle, my dear, shall have your own way. Good, good. I'll not meddle; don't mind me." To get her brother out of the prison; out of the low work of running errands for the prisoners outside, and out of the bad company into which he had fallen, was her hardest task. At eighteen years of age her brother Edward would have dragged on from hand to mouth, from hour to hour, from penny to penny, until eighty. Nobody got into the prison from whom he gained anything useful or good, and she could find no patron for him but her old friend and godfather, the turnkey. "Dear Bob," said she, "what is to become of poor Tip?" His name was Edward, and Ted had been changed into Tip, within the walls. The turnkey had strong opinions of his own as to what would become of poor Tip, and had even gone so far with the view of preventing their fulfilment, as to talk to Tip in urging him to run away and serve his country as a soldier. But Tip had thanked him, and said he didn't seem to care for his country. "Well, my dear," said the turnkey, "something ought to be done with him. Suppose I try and get him into the law?" "That would be so good of you, Bob!" The turnkey now began to speak to the lawyers as they passed in and out of the prison. He spoke so perseveringly that a stool and twelve shillings a week were at last found for Tip in the office of a lawyer at Clifford's Inn, in the Palace Court. Tip idled in Clifford's Inn for six months, and at the end of that term sauntered back one evening with his hands in his pockets, and remarked to his sister that he was not going back again. "Not going back again?" said the poor little anxious Child of the Marshalsea, always calculating and planning for Tip, in the front rank of her charges. "I am so tired of it," said Tip, "that I have cut it." Tip tired of everything. With intervals of Marshalsea lounging, and errand-running, his small second mother, aided by her trusty friend, got him into a warehouse, into a market garden, into the hop trade, into the law again, into an auctioneer's, into a brewery, into a stockbroker's, into the law again, into a coach office, into a wagon office, into the law again, into a general dealer's, into a distillery, into the law again, into a wool house, into a dry goods house, into the fish-market, into the foreign fruit trade, and into the docks. But whatever Tip went into he came out of tired, announcing that he had cut it. Wherever he went, this useless Tip appeared to take the prison walls with him, and to set them up in such trade or calling; and to prowl about within their narrow limits in the old slipshod, purposeless, down-at-heel way; until the real immovable Marshalsea walls asserted their power over him and brought him back. Nevertheless, the brave little creature did so fix her heart on her brother's rescue that, while he was ringing out these doleful changes, she pinched and scraped enough together to ship him for Canada. When he was tired of nothing to do, and disposed in its turn to cut even that, he graciously consented to go to Canada. And there was grief in her bosom over parting with him, and joy in the hope of his being put in a straight course at last. "God bless you, dear Tip. Don't be too proud to come and see us, when you have made your fortune." "All right!" said Tip, and went. But not all the way to Canada; in fact, not further than Liverpool. After making the voyage to that port from London, he found himself so strongly impelled to cut the vessel, that he resolved to walk back again. Carrying out which intention, he presented himself before her at the expiration of a month, in rags, without shoes, and much more tired than ever. At length, after another period of running errands, he found a pursuit for himself, and announced it. "Amy, I have got a situation." "Have you really and truly, Tip?" "All right. I shall do now. You needn't look anxious about me any more, old girl." "What is it, Tip?" "Why, you know Slingo by sight?" "Not the man they call the dealer?" "That's the chap. He'll be out on Monday, and he's going to give me a berth." "What is he a dealer in, Tip?" "Horses. All right! I shall do now, Amy." She lost sight of him for months afterwards, and only heard from him once. A whisper passed among the elder prisoners that he had been seen at a mock auction in Moorfields, pretending to buy plated articles for real silver, and paying for them with the greatest liberality in bank-notes; but it never reached her ears. One evening she was alone at work--standing up at the window, to save the twilight lingering above the wall--when he opened the door and walked in. She kissed and welcomed him; but was afraid to ask him any question. He saw how anxious and timid she was, and appeared sorry. "I am afraid, Amy, you'll be vexed this time. Upon my life I am!" "I am very sorry to hear you say so, Tip. Have you come back?" "Why--yes." "Not expecting this time that what you had found would answer very well, I am less surprised and sorry than I might have been, Tip." "Ah! But that's not the worst of it." "Not the worst of it?" "Don't look so startled. No, Amy, not the worst of it. I have come back, you see; but--_don't_ look so startled--I have come back in what I may call a new way. I am off the volunteer list altogether. I am in now, as one of the regulars. I'm here in prison for debt, like everybody else." "Oh! Don't say that you are a prisoner, Tip! Don't, don't!" "Well, I don't want to say it," he returned in unwilling tone; "but if you can't understand me without my saying it, what am I to do? I am in for forty pound odd." For the first time in all those years, she sunk under her cares. She cried, with her clasped hands lifted above her head, that it would kill their father if he ever knew it; and fell down at Tip's worthless feet. It was easier for Tip to bring her to her senses than for her to bring _him_ to understand that the Father of the Marshalsea would be beside himself if he knew the truth. Tip thought that there was nothing strange in being there a prisoner, but he agreed that his father should not be told about it. There were plenty of reasons that could be given for his return; it was accounted for to the father in the usual way; and the collegians, with a better understanding of the kind fraud than Tip, stood by it faithfully. This was the life, and this the history, of the Child of the Marshalsea, at twenty-two. With a still abiding interest in the one miserable yard and block of houses as her birthplace and home, she passed to and fro in it shrinking now, with a womanly consciousness that she was pointed out to everyone. Since she had begun to work beyond the walls, she had found it necessary to hide where she lived, and to come and go secretly as she could, between the free city and the iron gates, outside of which she had never slept in her life. Her original timidity had grown with this concealment, and her light step and her little figure shunned the thronged streets while they passed along them. Worldly wise in hard and poor necessities, she was innocent in all things else. Innocent, in the mist through which she saw her father, and the prison, and the dark living river that flowed through it and flowed on. [Illustration: "Mr. Clennam Followed Her Home." Page 65] This was the life, and this the history, of Little Dorrit, until the son of a lady, Mrs. Clennam, to whose house Amy went to do needlework, became interested in the pale, patient little creature. He followed her to her home one day and when he found that it was the debtor's prison, he walked in. Learning her sad history from her father, Arthur Clennam resolved to do his best to try to get him released and to help them all. One day when he was walking home with Amy to try to find out the names of some of the people her father owed money to, a voice was heard calling, "Little mother, little mother," and a strange figure came bouncing up to them and fell down, scattering her basketful of potatoes on the ground. "Oh Maggie," said Amy, "what a clumsy child you are!" She was about eight and twenty, with large bones, large features, large hands and feet, large eyes, and no hair. Amy told Mr. Clennam that Maggie was the granddaughter of her old nurse, who had been dead a long time, and that her grandmother had been very unkind to her and beat her. "When Maggie was ten years old she had a fever, and she has never grown older since." "Ten years old," said Maggie. "But what a nice hospital! So comfortable, wasn't it? Such a 'e'v'nly place! Such beds there is there! Such lemonades! Such oranges! Such delicious broth and wine! Such chicking! Oh, AIN'T it a delightful place to stop at!" "Poor Maggie thought that a hospital was the nicest place in all the world, because she had never seen another home as good. For years and years she looked back to the hospital as a sort of heaven on earth." "Then when she came out, her grandmother did not know what to do with her, and was very unkind. But after some time Maggie tried to improve, and was very attentive and industrious and now she can earn her own living entirely, sir!" Amy did not say who had taken pains to teach and encourage the poor half-witted creature, but Mr. Clennam guessed from the name "little mother" and the fondness of the poor creature for Amy. One cold, wet evening, Amy and Maggie went to Mr. Clennam's house to thank him for having freed Edward from the prison, and on coming out found it was too late to get home, as the gate was locked. They tried to get in at Maggie's lodgings, but, though they knocked twice, the people were asleep. As Amy did not wish to disturb them, they wandered about all night, sometimes sitting at the gate of the prison, Maggie shivering and whimpering. "It will soon be over, dear," said patient Amy. "Oh, it's all very well for you, mother," said Maggie, "but I'm a poor thing, only ten years old." Thanks to Mr. Clennam, a great change took place in the fortunes of the family, and not long after this wretched night it was discovered that Mr. Dorrit was owner of a large property, and they became very rich. But Little Dorrit never forgot, as, sad to say, the rest of the family did, the friends who had been kind to them in their poverty; and when, in his turn, Mr. Clennam became a prisoner in the Marshalsea, Little Dorrit came to comfort and console him, and after many changes of fortune she became his wife, and they lived happy ever after. V. THE TOY-MAKER AND HIS BLIND DAUGHTER. CALEB PLUMMER and his blind daughter lived alone in a little cracked nutshell of a house. They were toy-makers, and their house, which was so small that it might have been knocked to pieces with a hammer, and carried away in a cart, was stuck like a toadstool on to the premises of Messrs. Gruff & Tackleton, the toy merchants for whom they worked--the latter of whom was himself both Gruff and Tackleton in one. I am saying that Caleb and his blind daughter lived here. I should say Caleb did, while his daughter lived in an enchanted palace, which her father's love had created for her. She did not know that the ceilings were cracked, the plaster tumbling down, and the woodwork rotten; that everything was old and ugly and poverty-stricken about her, and that her father was a gray-haired, stooping old man, and the master for whom they worked a hard and brutal taskmaster; oh, dear no, she fancied a pretty, cosy, compact little home full of tokens of a kind master's care, a smart, brisk, gallant-looking father, and a handsome and noble-looking toy merchant who was an angel of goodness. This was all Caleb's doing. When his blind daughter was a baby he had determined, in his great love and pity for her, that her loss of sight should be turned into a blessing, and her life as happy as he could make it. And she was happy; everything about her she saw with her father's eyes, in the rainbow-colored light with which it was his care and pleasure to invest it. Caleb and his daughter were at work together in their usual working-room, which served them for their ordinary living-room as well; and a strange place it was. There were houses in it, finished and unfinished, for dolls of all stations in life. Tenement houses for dolls of moderate means; kitchens and single apartments for dolls of the lower classes; capital town residences for dolls of high estate. Some of these establishments were already furnished with a view to the needs of dolls of little money; others could be fitted on the most expensive scale, at a moment's notice, from whole shelves of chairs and tables, sofas, bedsteads, and upholstery. The nobility and gentry and public in general, for whose use these doll-houses were planned, lay, here and there, in baskets, staring straight up at the ceiling; but in showing their degrees in society, and keeping them in their own stations (which is found to be exceedingly difficult in real life), the makers of these dolls had far improved on nature, for they, not resting on such marks as satin, cotton-print, and bits of rag, had made differences which allowed of no mistake. Thus, the doll-lady of high rank had wax limbs of perfect shape; but only she and those of her grade; the next grade in the social scale being made of leather; and the next coarse linen stuff. As to the common-people, they had just so many matches out of tinder-boxes for their arms and legs, and there they were--established in their place at once, beyond the possibility of getting out of it. There were various other samples of his handicraft besides dolls in Caleb Plummer's room. There were Noah's Arks, in which the birds and beasts were an uncommonly tight fit, I assure you; though they could be crammed in, anyhow, at the roof, and rattled and shaken into the smallest compass. Most of these Noah's Arks had knockers on the doors; perhaps not exactly suitable to an Ark as suggestive of morning callers and a postman, yet a pleasant finish to the outside of the building. There were scores of melancholy little carts, which, when the wheels went round, performed most doleful music. Many small fiddles, drums, and other instruments of torture; no end of cannon, shields, swords, spears, and guns. There were little tumblers in red breeches, incessantly swarming up high obstacles of red-tape, and coming down, head first, upon the other side; and there were innumerable old gentlemen of respectable, even venerable, appearance, flying like crazy people over pegs, inserted, for the purpose, in their own street-doors. There were beasts of all sorts, horses, in particular, of every breed, from the spotted barrel on four pegs, with a small tippet for a mane, to the fine rocking horse on his highest mettle. "You were out in the rain last night in your beautiful new overcoat," said Bertha. "Yes, in my beautiful new overcoat," answered Caleb, glancing to where a roughly-made garment of sackcloth was hung up to dry. "How glad I am you bought it, father." "And of such a tailor! quite a fashionable tailor; a bright blue cloth, with bright buttons; it's a deal too good a coat for me." "Too good!" cried the blind girl, stopping to laugh and clap her hands--"as if anything was too good for my handsome father, with his smiling face, and black hair, and his straight figure, as if _any_ thing could be too good for my handsome father!" "I'm half ashamed to wear it, though," said Caleb, watching the effect of what he said upon her brightening face; "upon my word. When I hear the boys and people say behind me: 'Halloa! Here's a swell!' I don't know which way to look. And when the beggar wouldn't go away last night; and, when I said I was a very common man, said 'No, your honor! Bless your honor, don't say that!' I was quite ashamed. I really felt as if I hadn't a right to wear it." Happy blind girl! How merry she was in her joy! "I see you, father," she said, clasping her hands, "as plainly as if I had the eyes I never want when you are with me. A blue coat!"---- "Bright blue," said Caleb. "Yes, yes! Bright blue!" exclaimed the girl, turning up her radiant face; "the color I can just remember in the blessed sky! You told me it was blue before! A bright blue coat----" "Made loose to the figure," suggested Caleb. "Yes! loose to the figure!" cried the blind girl, laughing heartily; "and in it you, dear father, with your merry eye, your smiling face, your free step, and your dark hair; looking so young and handsome!" "Halloa! Halloa!" said Caleb. "I shall be vain presently." "I think you are already," cried the blind girl, pointing at him, in her glee. "I know you, father! Ha, ha, ha! I've found you out, you see!" How different the picture in her mind from Caleb, as he sat observing her! She had spoken of his free step. She was right in that. For years and years he never once had crossed that threshold at his own slow pace, but with a footfall made ready for her ear, and never had he, when his heart was heaviest, forgotten the light tread that was to render hers so cheerful and courageous. "There we are," said Caleb, falling back a pace or two to form the better judgment of his work; "as near the real thing as sixpen'orth of halfpence is to sixpence. What a pity that the whole front of the house opens at once! If there was only a staircase in it now, and regular doors to the rooms to go in at! but that's the worst of my calling. I'm always fooling myself, and cheating myself." "You are speaking quite softly. You are not tired, father?" "Tired," echoed Caleb, with a great burst in his manner, "what should tire me, Bertha? _I_ was never tired. What does it mean?" To give the greater force to his words, he stopped himself in an imitation of two small stretching and yawning figures on the mantel-shelf, who were shown as in one eternal state of weariness from the waist upwards; and hummed a bit of a song. It was a drinking song, something about a sparkling bowl; and he sang it with an air of a devil-may-care voice, that made his face a thousand times more meager and more thoughtful than ever. "What! you're singing, are you?" said Tackleton, the toy-seller for whom he worked, putting his head in at the door. "Go it! _I_ can't sing." Nobody would have thought that Tackleton _could_ sing. He hadn't what is generally termed a singing face, by any means. "I can't afford to sing," said Tackleton. "I'm glad you can. I hope you can afford to work, too. Hardly time for both, I should think?" "If you could only see him, Bertha, how he's winking at me!" whispered Caleb. "Such a man to joke! you'd think, if you didn't know him, he was in earnest, wouldn't you, now?" The blind girl smiled and nodded. "I am thanking you for the little tree, the beautiful little tree," replied Bertha, bringing forward a tiny rose-tree in blossom, which, by an innocent story, Caleb had made her believe was her master's gift, though he himself had gone without a meal or two to buy it. "The bird that can sing and won't sing must be made to sing, they say," grumbled Tackleton. "What about the owl that can't sing, and oughtn't to sing, and will sing; is there anything that he should be made to do?" "The extent to which he's winking at this moment!" whispered Caleb to his daughter. "Oh, my gracious!" "Always merry and light-hearted with us!" cried the smiling Bertha. "Oh! you're there, are you?" answered Tackleton. "Poor idiot!" He really did believe she was an idiot; and he founded the belief, I can't say whether consciously or not, upon her being fond of him. "Well! and being there--how are you?" said Tackleton, in his cross way. "Oh! well; quite well. And as happy as even you can wish me to be. As happy as you would make the whole world, if you could!" "Poor idiot!" muttered Tackleton. "No gleam of reason! Not a gleam!" The blind girl took his hand and kissed it; held it for a moment in her own two hands; and laid her cheek against it tenderly, before releasing it. There was such unspeakable affection and such fervent gratitude in the act, that Tackleton himself was moved to say, in a milder growl than usual: "What's the matter now?" "Bertha!" said Tackleton, assuming, for once, a little cordiality. "Come here." "Oh! I can come straight to you. You needn't guide me," she rejoined. "Shall I tell you a secret, Bertha?" "If you will!" she answered, eagerly. How bright the darkened face! How adorned with light the listening head! "This is the day on which little what's-her-name, the spoilt child, Peerybingle's wife, pays her regular visit to you--makes her ridiculous picnic here; ain't it?" said Tackleton, with a strong expression of distaste for the whole concern. "Yes," replied Bertha. "This is the day." "I thought so!" said Tackleton. "I should like to join the party." "Do you hear that, father!" cried the blind girl in delight. "Yes, yes, I hear it," murmured Caleb, with the fixed look of a sleep-walker "but I do not believe it. It's one of my lies, I've no doubt." "You see I--I want to bring the Peerybingles a little more into company with May Fielding," said Tackleton. "I am going to be married to May." "Married!" cried the blind girl, starting from him. "She's such a confounded idiot," muttered Tackleton, "that I was afraid she'd never understand me. Yes, Bertha! Married! Church, parson, clerk, glass-coach, bells, breakfast, bride-cake, favors, marrow-bones, cleavers, and all the rest of the tomfoolery. A wedding, you know; a wedding. Don't you know what a wedding is?" "I know," replied the blind girl, in a gentle tone. "I understand!" "Do you?" muttered Tackleton. "It's more than I expected. Well, on that account I want you to join the party, and to bring May and her mother. I'll send a little something or other, before the afternoon. A cold leg of mutton, or some comfortable trifle of that sort. You'll expect me?" "Yes," she answered. She had drooped her head, and turned away; and so stood, with her hands crossed, musing. "I don't think you will," muttered Tackleton, looking at her; "for you seem to have forgotten all about it already. Caleb!" "I may venture to say, I'm here, I suppose," thought Caleb. "Sir!" "Take care she don't forget what I've been saying to her." "_She_ never forgets," returned Caleb. "It's one of the few things she ain't clever in." "Every man thinks his own geese swans," observed the toy merchant, with a shrug. "Poor devil!" Having delivered himself of which remark with infinite contempt, old Gruff & Tackleton withdrew. Bertha remained where he had left her, lost in meditation. The gaiety had vanished from her downcast face, and it was very sad. Three or four times she shook her head, as if bewailing some remembrance or some loss; but her sorrowful reflections found no vent in words. "Father, I am lonely in the dark. I want my eyes; my patient, willing eyes." "Here they are," said Caleb. "Always ready. They are more yours than mine, Bertha, any hour in the four-and-twenty. What shall your eyes do for you, dear?" "Look round the room, father." "All right," said Caleb. "No sooner said than done, Bertha." "Tell me about it." "It's much the same as usual," said Caleb. "Homely, but very snug. The gay colors on the walls; the bright flowers on the plates and dishes; the shining wood, where there are beams or panels; the general cheerfulness and neatness of the building, make it very pretty." Cheerful and neat it was, wherever Bertha's hands could busy themselves. But nowhere else were cheerfulness and neatness possible, in the crazy shed which Caleb's fancy so transformed. "You have your working dress on, and are not so gay as when you wear the handsome coat?" said Bertha, touching him. "Not quite so gay," answered Caleb. "Pretty brisk though." "Father," said the blind girl, drawing close to his side and stealing one arm round his neck, "tell me something about May. She is very fair." "She is, indeed," said Caleb. And she was indeed. It was quite a rare thing to Caleb not to have to draw on his invention. "Her hair is dark," said Bertha, pensively, "darker than mine. Her voice is sweet and musical I know. I have often loved to hear it. Her shape--" "There's not a doll's in all the room to equal it," said Caleb. "And her eyes--" He stopped; for Bertha had drawn closer round his neck; and, from the arm that clung about him, came a warning pressure which he understood too well. He coughed a moment, hammered for a moment, and then fell back upon the song about the sparkling bowl; the song which helped him through all such difficulties. "Our friend, father; the one who has helped us so many times, Mr. Tackleton. I am never tired you know, of hearing about him. Now was I, ever?" she said, hastily. "Of course not," answered Caleb. "And with reason." "Ah! with how much reason?" cried the blind girl, with such fervency that Caleb, though his motives were pure, could not endure to meet her face, but dropped his eyes, as if she could have read in them his innocent deceit. "Then tell me again about him, dear father," said Bertha. "Many times again! His face is good, kind, and tender. Honest and true, I am sure it is. The manly heart that tries to cloak all favors with a show of roughness and unwillingness beats in its every look and glance." "And makes it noble," added Caleb in his quiet desperation. "And makes it noble!" cried the blind girl. "He is older than May, father?" "Ye-es," said Caleb, reluctantly. "He's a little older than May, but that don't signify." "Bertha," said Caleb softly, "what has happened? How changed you are, my darling, in a few hours--since this morning. _You_ silent and dull all day! What is it? Tell me!" "Oh father, father!" cried the blind girl, bursting into tears. "Oh, my hard, hard fate!" Caleb drew his hand across his eyes before he answered her. "But think how cheerful and how happy you have been, Bertha! How good, and how much loved, by many people." "That strikes me to the heart, dear father! Always so mindful of me! Always so kind to me!" Caleb was very much perplexed to understand her. "To be--to be blind, Bertha, my poor dear," he faltered, "is a great affliction; but----" "I have never felt it!" cried the blind girl. "I have never felt it in its fullness. Never! I have sometimes wished that I could see you, or could see him; only once, dear father; only for one little minute. But, father! Oh, my good, gentle father, bear with me, if I am wicked!" said the blind girl. "This is not the sorrow that so weighs me down!" "Bertha, my dear!" said Caleb, "I have something on my mind I want to tell you, while we are alone. Hear me kindly! I have a confession to make to you, my darling." "A confession, father?" "I have wandered from the truth and lost myself, my child," said Caleb, with a pitiable look on his bewildered face. "I have wandered from the truth, intending to be kind to you; and have been cruel." She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him, and repeated, "Cruel! He cruel to me!" cried Bertha, with a smile of incredulity. "Not meaning it, my child," said Caleb. "But I have been; though I never suspected it till yesterday. My dear blind daughter, hear me and forgive me! The world you live in, heart of mine, doesn't exist as I have represented it. The eyes you have trusted in have been false to you." She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him still. "Your road in life was rough, my poor one," said Caleb, "and I meant to smooth it for you. I have altered objects, invented many things that never have been, to make you happier. I have had concealments from you, put deceptions on you, God forgive me! and surrounded you with fancies." "But living people are not fancies?" she said hurriedly, and turning very pale, and still retiring from him. "You can't change them." "I have done so, Bertha," pleaded Caleb. "There is one person that you know, my Dove--" "Oh, father! why do you say I know?" she answered in a tone of keen reproach. "What and whom do I know! I, who have no leader! I, so miserably blind!" In the anguish of her heart she stretched out her hands, as if she were groping her way; then spread them, in a manner most forlorn and sad, upon her face. "The marriage that takes place to-day," said Caleb, "is with a stern, sordid, grinding man. A hard master to you and me, my dear, for many years. Ugly in his looks and in his nature. Cold and callous always. Unlike what I have painted him to you in everything, my child. In everything." "Oh, why," cried the blind girl, tortured, as it seemed, almost beyond endurance, "why did you ever do this? Why did you ever fill my heart so full, and then come in, like death, and tear away the objects of my love? Oh, heaven, how blind I am! How helpless and alone!" Her afflicted father hung his head, and offered no reply but in his grief. "Tell me what my home is. What it truly is." "It is a poor place, Bertha; very poor and bare indeed. The house will scarcely keep out wind and rain another winter. It is as roughly shielded from the weather, Bertha, as your poor father in his sackcloth coat." "Those presents that I took such care of, that came almost at my wish, and were so dearly welcome to me," she said, trembling; "where did they come from?" Caleb did not answer. She knew already, and was silent. "I see, I understand," said Bertha, "and now I am looking at you, at my kind, loving compassionate father, tell me what is he like?" "An old man, my child; thin, bent, gray-haired, worn-out with hard work and sorrow; a weak, foolish, deceitful old man." The blind girl threw herself on her knees before him, and took his gray head in her arms. "It is my sight, it is my sight restored," she cried. "I have been blind, but now I see; I have never till now truly seen my father. Does he think that there is a gay, handsome father in this earth that I could love so dearly, cherish so devotedly, as this worn and gray-headed old man? Father there is not a gray hair on your head that shall be forgotten in my prayers and thanks to heaven." "My Bertha!" sobbed Caleb, "and the brisk smart father in the blue coat--he's gone, my child." "Dearest father, no, he's not gone, nothing is gone, everything I loved and believed in is here in this worn, old father of mine, and more--oh, so much more, too! I have been happy and contented, but I shall be happier and more contented still, now that I know what you are. I am _not_ blind, father, any longer." VI. LITTLE NELL. THE house where little Nell and her grandfather lived was one of those places where old and curious things were kept, one of those old houses which seem to crouch in odd corners of the town, and to hide their musty treasures from the public eye in jealousy and distrust. There were suits of mail standing like ghosts in armor, here and there; curious carvings brought from monkish cloisters; rusty weapons of various kinds; distorted figures in china, and wood, and iron, and ivory; tapestry, and strange furniture that might have been designed in dreams; and in the old, dark, dismal rooms there lived alone together the man and a child--his grandchild, Little Nell. Solitary and dull as was her life, the innocent and cheerful spirit of the child found happiness in all things, and through the dim rooms of the old curiosity shop Little Nell went singing, moving with gay and lightsome step. [Illustration: Little Nell and Her Grandfather. Page 86] But gradually over the old man, whom she so tenderly loved, there stole a sad change. He became thoughtful, sad and wretched. He had no sleep or rest but that which he took by day in his easy-chair; for every night, and all night long, he was away from home. To the child it seemed that her grandfather's love for her increased, even with the hidden grief by which she saw him struck down. And to see him sorrowful, and not to know the cause of his sorrow; to see him growing pale and weak under his trouble of mind, so weighed upon her gentle spirit that at times she felt as though her heart must break. At last the time came when the old man's feeble frame could bear up no longer against his hidden care. A raging fever seized him, and, as he lay delirious or insensible through many weeks, Nell learned that the house which sheltered them was theirs no longer; that in the future they would be very poor; that they would scarcely have bread to eat. At length the old man began to mend, but his mind was weakened. He would sit for hours together, with Nell's small hand in his, playing with the fingers, and sometimes stopping to smooth her hair or kiss her brow; and when he saw that tears were glistening in her eyes he would look amazed. As the time drew near when they must leave the house, he made no reference to the necessity of finding other shelter. An indistinct idea he had that the child was desolate and in need of help; though he seemed unable to understand their real position more distinctly. But a change came upon him one evening, as he and Nell sat silently together. "Let us speak softly, Nell," he said. "Hush! for if they knew our purpose they would say that I was mad, and take thee from me. We will not stop here another day. We will travel afoot through the fields and woods, and trust ourselves to God in the places where He dwells. To-morrow morning, dear, we'll turn our faces from this scene of sorrow, and be as free and happy as the birds." The child's heart beat high with hope and confidence. She had no thought of hunger, or cold, or thirst, or suffering. To her it seemed that they might beg their way from door to door in happiness, so that they were together. When the day began to glimmer they stole out of the house, and, passing into the street, stood still. "Which way?" asked the child. The old man looked doubtfully and helplessly at her, and shook his head. It was plain that she was thenceforth his guide and leader. The child felt it, but had no doubts or misgivings, and, putting her hand in his, led him gently away. Forth from the city, while it yet was asleep went the two poor wanderers, going, they knew not whither. They passed through the long, deserted streets, in the glad light of early morning, until these streets dwindled away, and the open country was about them. They walked all day, and slept that night at a small cottage where beds were let to travelers. The sun was setting on the second day of their journey, and they were jaded and worn out with walking, when, following a path which led through a churchyard to the town where they were to spend the night, they fell in with two traveling showmen, the exhibitors or keepers of a Punch and Judy show. These two men raised their eyes when the old man and his young companion were close upon them. One of them, the real exhibitor, no doubt, was a little, merry-faced man with a twinkling eye and a red nose, who seemed to be something like old Punch himself. The other--that was he who took the money--had rather a careful and cautious look, which perhaps came from his business also. The merry man was the first to greet the strangers with a nod; and following the old man's eyes, he observed that perhaps that was the first time he had ever seen a Punch off the stage. "Why do you come here to do this?" said the old man sitting down beside them, and looking at the figures with extreme delight. "Why, you see," rejoined the little man, "we're putting up for to-night at the public house yonder, and it wouldn't do to let 'em see the present company undergoing repair." "No!" cried the old man, making signs to Nell to listen, "why not, eh? why not?" "Because it would destroy all the reality of the show and take away all the interest, wouldn't it?" replied the little man. "Would you care a ha'penny for the Lord Chancellor if you know'd him in private and without his wig?--certainly not."[C] "Good!" said the old man, venturing to touch one of the puppets, and drawing away his hand with a shrill laugh. "Are you going to show 'em to-night? are you?" "That is the purpose, governor," replied the other, "and unless I'm much mistaken, Tommy Codlin is a-calculating at this minute what we've lost through your coming upon us. Cheer up, Tommy, it can't be much." The little man accompanied these latter words with a wink, expressive of the estimate he had formed of the travelers' pocketbook. To this Mr. Codlin, who had a surly, grumbling manner, replied, as he twitched Punch off the tombstone and flung him into the box: "I don't care if we haven't lost a farden, but you're too free. If you stood in front of the curtain and see the public's faces as I do, you'd know human natur' better." Turning over the figures in the box like one who knew and despised them, Mr. Codlin drew one forth and held it up for the inspection of his friend: "Look here; here's all this Judy's clothes falling to pieces again. You haven't got a needle and thread, I suppose?" The little man shook his head and scratched it sadly, as he contemplated this condition of a principal performer in his show. Seeing that they were at a loss, the child said, timidly: "I have a needle, sir, in my basket, and thread too. Will you let me try to mend it for you? I think I could do it neater than you could." Even Mr. Codlin had nothing to urge against a proposal so seasonable. Nell, kneeling down beside the box, was soon busily engaged in her task, and finished it in a wonderful way. While she was thus at work, the merry little man looked at her with an interest which did not appear to be any less when he glanced at her helpless companion. When she had finished her work he thanked her, and asked to what place they were traveling. "N--no farther to-night, I think," said the child, looking toward her grandfather. "If you're wanting a place to stop at," the man remarked. "I should advise you to take up at the same house with us. That's it. The long low, white house there. It's very cheap." They went to the little inn, and when they had been refreshed, the whole house hurried away into an empty stable where the show stood, and where, by the light of a few flaring candles stuck round a hoop which hung by a line from the ceiling, it was to be forthwith shown. And now Mr. Thomas Codlin, after blowing away at the Pan's pipes, took his station on one side of the curtain which concealed the mover of the figures, and, putting his hands in his pockets, prepared to reply to all questions and remarks of Punch, and to make a pretence of being his most intimate private friend, of believing in him to the fullest and most unlimited extent, of knowing that Mr. Punch enjoyed day and night a merry and glorious life in that temple, and that he was at all times and under every circumstance the same wise and joyful person that all present then beheld him. The whole performance was applauded until the old stable rang, and gifts were showered in with a liberality which testified yet more strongly to the general delight. Among the laughter none was more loud and frequent than the old man's. Nell's was unheard, for she, poor child, with her head drooping on his shoulder, had fallen asleep, and slept too soundly to be roused by any of his efforts to awaken her to a part in his glee. The supper was very good, but she was too tired to eat, and yet would not leave the old man until she had kissed him in his bed. He, happily insensible to every care and anxiety, sat listening with a vacant smile and admiring face to all that his new friends said; and it was not until they retired yawning to their room that he followed the child up-stairs. She had a little money, but it was very little; and when that was gone they must begin to beg. There was one piece of gold among it, and a need might come when its worth to them would be increased a hundred times. It would be best to hide this coin, and never show it unless their case was entirely desperate, and nothing else was left them. Her resolution taken, she sewed the piece of gold into her dress, and going to bed with a lighter heart sunk into a deep slumber. "And where are you going to-day?" said the little man the following morning, addressing himself to Nell. "Indeed I hardly know--we have not made up our minds yet," replied the child. "We're going on to the races," said the little man. "If that's your way and you like to have us for company, let us travel together. If you prefer going alone, only say the word and you'll find that we sha'n't trouble you." "We'll go with you," said the old man. "Nell--with them, with them." The child thought for a moment, and knowing that she must shortly beg, and could scarcely hope to do so at a better place than where crowds of rich ladies and gentlemen were met together for enjoyment, determined to go with these men so far. She therefore thanked the little man for his offer, and said, glancing timidly toward his friend, that they would if there was no objection to their staying with them as far as the race-town. And with these men they traveled forward on the following day. They made two long days' journey with their new companions, passing through villages and towns, and meeting upon one occasion with two young people walking upon stilts, who were also going to the races. And now they had come to the time when they must beg their bread. Soon after sunrise the second morning, she stole out, and, rambling into some fields at a short distance, plucked a few wild roses and such humble flowers, purposing to make them into little nosegays and offer them to the ladies in the carriages when the company arrived. Her thoughts were not idle while she was thus busy; when she returned and was seated beside the old man, tying her flowers together, while the two men lay dozing in the corner, she plucked him by the sleeve, and, slightly glancing toward them, said in a low voice: "Grandfather, don't look at those I talk of, and don't seem as if I spoke of anything but what I am about. What was that you told me before we left the old house? That if they knew what we were going to do, they would say that you were mad, and part us?" The old man turned to her with a look of wild terror; but she checked him by a look, and bidding him hold some flowers while she tied them up, and so bringing her lips closer to his ear, said: "I know that was what you told me. You needn't speak, dear. I recollect it very well. It was not likely that I should forget it. Grandfather, I have heard these men say they think that we have secretly left our friends, and mean to carry us before some gentleman and have us taken care of and sent back. If you let your hand tremble so, we can never get away from them, but if you're only quiet now, we shall do so easily." "How?" muttered the old man. "Dear Nell, how? They will shut me up in a stone-room, dark and cold, and chain me up to the wall, Nell--flog me with whips, and never let me see thee more!" "You're trembling again," said the child. "Keep close to me all day. Never mind them, don't look at them, but me. I shall find a time when we can steal away. When I do, mind you come with me, and do not stop or speak a word. Hush! That's all." "Halloo! what are you up to, my dear?" said Mr. Codlin, raising his head, and yawning. "Making some nosegays," the child replied; "I am going to try to sell some, these three days of the races. Will you have one--as a present, I mean?" Mr. Codlin would have risen to receive it, but the child hurried toward him and placed it in his hand, and he stuck it in his button-hole. As the morning wore on, the tents at the race-course assumed a gayer and more brilliant appearance, and long lines of carriages came rolling softly on the turf. Black-eyed gipsy girls, their heads covered with showy handkerchiefs, came out to tell fortunes, and pale, slender women with wasted faces followed the footsteps of conjurers, and counted the sixpences with anxious eyes long before they were gained. As many of the children as could be kept within bounds were stowed away, with all the other signs of dirt and poverty, among the donkeys, carts, and horses; and as many as could not be thus disposed of ran in and out in all directions, crept between people's legs and carriage wheels, and came forth unharmed from under horses' hoofs. The dancing-dogs, the stilts, the little lady and the tall man, and all the other attractions, with organs out of number and bands innumerable, came out from the holes and corners in which they had passed the night, and flourished boldly in the sun. Along the uncleared course, Short led his party, sounding the brazen trumpet and speaking in the voice of Punch; and at his heels went Thomas Codlin, bearing the show as usual, and keeping his eye on Nell and her grandfather, as they rather lingered in the rear. The child bore upon her arm the little basket with her flowers, and sometimes stopped, with timid and modest looks, to offer them at some gay carriage; but alas! there were many bolder beggars there, gipsies who promised husbands, and others skillful in their trade; and although some ladies smiled gently as they shook their heads, and others cried to the gentlemen beside them, "See what a pretty face!" they let the pretty face pass on, and never thought that it looked tired or hungry. There was but one lady who seemed to understand the child, and she was one who sat alone in a handsome carriage, while two young men in dashing clothes, who had just stepped out from it, talked and laughed loudly at a little distance, appearing to forget her, quite. There were many ladies all around, but they turned their backs, or looked another way, or at the two young men (not unfavorably at _them_), and left her to herself. The lady motioned away a gipsy woman, eager to tell her fortune, saying that it was told already and had been for some years, but called the child toward her, and, taking her flowers, put money into her trembling hand, and bade her go home and keep at home. Many a time they went up and down those long, long lines, seeing everything but the horses and the race; when the bell rung to clear the course, going back to rest among the carts and donkeys, and not coming out again until the heat was over. Many a time, too, was Punch displayed in the full glory of his humor; but all this while the eye of Thomas Codlin was upon them, and to escape without notice was almost impossible. At length, late in the day, Mr. Codlin pitched the show in a spot right in the middle of the crowd, and the Punch and Judy were surrounded by people who were watching the performance. Short was moving the images, and knocking them in the fury of the combat against the sides of the show, the people were looking on with laughing faces, and Mr. Codlin's face showed a grim smile as his roving eye detected the hands of thieves in the crowd going into waistcoat pockets. If Nell and her grandfather were ever to get away unseen, that was the very moment. They seized it, and fled. They made a path through booths and carriages and throngs of people, and never once stopped to look behind. The bell was ringing, and the course was cleared by the time they reached the ropes, but they dashed across it, paying no attention to the shouts and screeching that assailed them for breaking in it, and, creeping under the brow of the hill at a quick pace, made for the open fields. At last they were free from Codlin and Short. That night they reached a little village in a woody hollow. The village schoolmaster, a good and gentle man, pitying their weariness, and attracted by the child's sweetness and modesty, gave them a lodging for the night; nor would he let them leave him until two days more had passed. They journeyed on, when the time came that they must wander forth again, by pleasant country lanes; and as they passed, watching the birds that perched and twittered in the branches overhead, or listening to the songs that broke the happy silence, their hearts were peaceful and free from care. But by-and-by they came to a long winding road which lengthened out far into the distance, and though they still kept on, it was at a much slower pace, for they were now very weary. The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful evening, when they arrived at a point where the road made a sharp turn and struck across a common. On the border of this common, and close to the hedge which divided it from the cultivated fields, a caravan was drawn up to rest; upon which they came so suddenly that they could not have avoided it if they would. Do you know what a "caravan" is? It is a sort of gipsy house on wheels in which people live, while the house moves from place to place. It was not a shabby, dingy, dusty cart, but a smart little house with white dimity curtains hung over the windows, and window-shutters of green picked out with panels of a staring red, in which happily-contrasted colors the whole house shone brilliant. Neither was it a poor caravan drawn by a single donkey or feeble old horse, for a pair of horses in pretty good condition were released from the shafts and grazing on the frouzy grass. Neither was it a gipsy caravan, for at the open door (graced with a bright brass knocker) sat a Christian lady, stout and comfortable to look upon, who wore a large bonnet trembling with bows. And that it was not a caravan of poor people was clear from what this lady was doing; for she was taking her tea. The tea-things, including a bottle of rather suspicious looks and a cold knuckle of ham, were set forth upon a drum, covered with a white napkin; and there, as if at the most convenient round-table in all the world, sat this roving lady, taking her tea and enjoying the prospect. It happened at that moment that the lady of the caravan had her cup (which, that everything about her might be of a stout and comfortable kind, was a breakfast cup) to her lips, and that having her eyes lifted to the sky in her enjoyment of the full flavor of her tea, it happened that, being thus agreeably engaged, she did not see the travelers when they first came up. It was not until she was in the act of setting down the cup, and drawing a long breath after the exertion of swallowing its contents, that the lady of the caravan beheld an old man and a young child walking slowly by, and glancing at her proceedings with eyes of modest, but hungry admiration. "Hey!" cried the lady of the caravan, scooping the crumbs out of her lap and swallowing the same before wiping her lips. "Yes, to be sure------Who won the Helter-Skelter Plate, child?" "Won what, ma'am?" asked Nell. "The Helter-Skelter Plate at the races, child--the plate that was run for on the second day." "On the second day, ma'am?" "Second day! Yes, second day," repeated the lady, with an air of impatience. "Can't you say who won the Helter-Skelter Plate when you're asked the question civilly?" "I don't know, ma'am." "Don't know!" repeated the lady of the caravan; "why, you were there. I saw you with my own eyes." Nell was not a little alarmed to hear this, supposing that the lady might be intimately acquainted with the firm of Short and Codlin; but what followed tended to put her at her ease. "And very sorry I was," said the lady of the caravan, "to see you in company with a Punch--a low, common, vulgar wretch, that people should scorn to look at." "I was not there by choice," returned the child; "we didn't know our way, and the two men were very kind to us, and let us travel with them. Do you--do you know them, ma'am?" "Know 'em, child?" cried the lady of the caravan, in a sort of shriek. "Know _them_! But you're young and ignorant, and that's your excuse for asking sich a question. Do I look as if I know'd 'em? does the caravan look as if _it_ know'd 'em?" "No, ma'am, no," said the child, fearing she had committed some grievous fault. "I beg your pardon." The lady of the caravan was in the act of gathering her tea things together preparing to clear the table, but noting the child's anxious manner, she hesitated and stopped. The child courtesied, and, giving her hand to the old man, had already got some fifty yards or so away, when the lady of the caravan called to her to return. "Come nearer, nearer still," said she, beckoning to her to ascend the steps. "Are you hungry, child?" "Not very, but we are tired, and it's--it _is_ a long way------" "Well, hungry or not, you had better have some tea," rejoined her new acquaintance. "I suppose you are agreeable to that old gentleman?" The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat and thanked her. The lady of the caravan then bade him come up the steps likewise, but the drum proving an inconvenient table for two, they went down again, and sat upon the grass, where she handed down to them the tea-tray, the bread and butter, and the knuckle of ham. "Set 'em out near the hind wheels child, that's the best place," said their friend, superintending the arrangement from above. "Now hand up the tea-pot for a little more hot water and a pinch of fresh tea, and then both of you eat and drink as much as you can, and don't spare anything; that's all I ask of you." The mistress of the caravan, saying the girl and her grandfather could not be very heavy, invited them to go along with them for a while, for which Nell thanked her with all her heart. When they had traveled slowly forward for some short distance, Nell ventured to steal a look round the caravan and observe it more closely. One-half of it--that part in which the comfortable proprietress was then seated--was carpeted, and so divided the farther end as to form a sleeping-place, made after the fashion of a berth on board ship, which was shaded, like the little windows, with fair white curtains, and looked comfortable enough, though by what kind of gymnastic exercise the lady of the caravan ever contrived to get into it was a mystery. The other half served for a kitchen, and was fitted up with a stove whose small chimney passed through the roof. The mistress sat looking at the child for a long time in silence, and then, getting up, brought out from a corner a large roll of canvas about a yard in width, which she laid upon the floor and spread open with her foot until it nearly reached from one end of the caravan to the other. "There, child," she said, "read that." Nell walked down it, and read aloud, in enormous black letters, the inscription, "JARLEY'S WAX-WORK." "Read it again," said the lady, complacently. "Jarley's Wax-work," repeated Nell. "That's me," said the lady. "I am Mrs. Jarley." Giving the child an encouraging look, the lady of the caravan unfolded another scroll, whereon was the inscription, "One hundred figures the full size of life;" and then another scroll, on which was written, "The only stupendous collection of real wax-work in the world;" and then several smaller scrolls, with such inscriptions as "Now exhibiting within"--"The genuine and only Jarley"--"Jarley's unrivaled collection"--"Jarley is the delight of the Nobility and Gentry"--"The Royal Family are the patrons of Jarley." When she had exhibited these large painted signs to the astonished child, she brought forth specimens of the lesser notices in the shape of hand-bills, some of which were printed in the form of verses on popular times, as "Believe me if all Jarley's wax-work so rare"--"I saw thy show in youthful prime"--"Over the water to Jarley;" while, to satisfy all tastes, others were composed with a view to the lighter and merrier spirits, as a verse on the favorite air of "If I had a donkey," beginning If I know'd a donkey wot wouldn't go To see Mrs. Jarley's wax-work show, Do you think I'd own him? Oh no, no! Then run to Jarley's------ besides several compositions in prose, pretending to be dialogues between the Emperor of China and an oyster. "I never saw any wax-work, ma'am," said Nell. "Is it funnier than Punch?" "Funnier!" said Mrs. Jarley in a shrill voice. "It is not funny at all." "Oh!" said Nell, with all possible humility. "It isn't funny at all," repeated Mrs. Jarley. "It's calm and--what's that word again--critical?--no--classical, that's it--it's calm and classical. No low beatings and knockings about, no jokings and squeakings like your precious Punches, but always the same, with a constantly unchanging air of coldness and dignity; and so like life that, if wax-work only spoke and walked about you'd hardly know the difference. I won't go so far as to say that, as it is, I've seen wax-work quite like life, but I've certainly seen some life that was exactly like wax-work." This conference at length concluded, she beckoned Nell to sit down. "And the old gentleman, too," said Mrs. Jarley; "for I want to have a word with him. Do you want a good place for your granddaughter, master? If you do, I can put her in the way of getting one. What do you say?" "I can't leave her," answered the old man. "We can't separate. What would become of me without her?" "If you're really ready to employ yourself," said Mrs. Jarley, "there would be plenty for you to do in the way of helping to dust the figures, and take the checks, and so forth. What I want your granddaughter for is to point 'em out to the company; they would be soon learned and she has a way with her that people wouldn't think unpleasant, though she _does_ come after me; for I've been always accustomed to go round with visitors myself, which I should keep on doing now, only that my spirits make a little rest absolutely necessary. It's not a common offer, bear in mind," said the lady, rising into the tone and manner in which she was accustomed to address her audiences; "it's Jarley's wax-work, remember. The duty's very light and genteel, the company particularly select, the exhibition takes place in assembly-rooms, town-halls, large rooms at inns, or auction galleries. There is none of your open-air wondering at Jarley's, recollect; there is no tarpaulin and sawdust at Jarley's, remember. Every promise made in the hand-bills is kept to the utmost, and the whole forms an effect of splendor hitherto unknown in this kingdom. Remember that the price of admission is only sixpence, and that this is an opportunity which may never occur again!" "We are very much obliged to you, ma'am," said Nell, "and thankfully accept your offer." "And you'll never be sorry for it," returned Mrs. Jarley. "I'm pretty sure of that. So as that's all settled, let us have a bit of supper." Rumbling along with most unwonted noise, the caravan stopped at last at the place of exhibition, where Nell came down from the wagon among an admiring group of children, who evidently supposed her to be an important part of the curiosities, and were almost ready to believe that her grandfather was a cunning device in wax. The chests were taken out of the van for the figures with all haste, and taken in to be unlocked by Mrs. Jarley, who, attended by George and the driver, arranged their contents (consisting of red festoons and other ornamental work) to make the best show in the decoration of the room. When the festoons were all put up as tastily as they might be, the wonderful collection was uncovered; and there were shown, on a raised platform some two feet from the floor, running round the room and parted from the rude public by a crimson rope, breast high, a large number of sprightly waxen images of famous people, singly and in groups, clad in glittering dresses of various climes and times, and standing more or less unsteadily upon their legs, with their eyes very wide open, and their nostrils very much inflated, and the muscles of their legs, and arms very strongly developed, and all their faces expressing great surprise. All the gentlemen were very narrow in the breast, and very blue about the beards; and all the ladies were wonderful figures; and all the ladies and all the gentlemen were looking intensely nowhere, and staring with tremendous earnestness at nothing. When Nell had shown her first wonder at this glorious sight, Mrs. Jarley ordered the room to be cleared of all but herself and the child, and, sitting herself down in an arm-chair in the center, presented Nell with a willow wand, long used by herself for pointing out the characters, and was at great pains to instruct her in her duty. "That," said Mrs. Jarley, in her exhibition tone, as Nell touched a figure at the beginning of the platform, "is an unfortunate maid of honor in the time of Queen Elizabeth, who died from pricking her finger in consequence of working upon a Sunday. Observe the blood which is trickling from her finger; also the gold-eyed needle of the period, with which she is at work." All this Nell repeated twice or thrice--pointing to the finger and the needle at the right times; and then passed on to the next. "That, ladies and gentlemen," said Mrs. Jarley, "is Jasper Packlemerton, of terrible memory, who courted and married fourteen wives, and destroyed them all, by tickling the soles of their feet when they were sleeping in the consciousness of innocence and virtue. On being brought to the scaffold and asked if he was sorry for what he had done, he replied yes, he was sorry for having let 'em off so easy, and hoped all Christian husbands would pardon him the offense. Let this be a warning to all young ladies to be particular in the character of the gentlemen of their choice. Observe that his fingers are curled as if in the act of tickling, and that his face is represented with a wink, as he appeared when committing his barbarous murders." When Nell knew all about Mr. Packlemerton, and could say it without faltering, Mrs. Jarley passed on to the fat man, and then to the thin man, the tall man, the short man, the old lady who died of dancing at a hundred and thirty-two, the wild boy of the woods, the woman who poisoned fourteen families with pickled walnuts, and other historical characters and interesting but misguided individuals. And so well did Nell profit by her instructions, and so apt was she to remember them, that by the time they had been shut up together for a couple of hours, she was in full possession of the history of the whole establishment, and perfectly able to tell the stories of the wax-work to visitors. For some time her life and the life of the poor vacant old man passed quietly and happily. They traveled from place to place with Mrs. Jarley; Nell spoke her piece, with the wand in her hand, before the waxen images; and her grandfather in a dull way dusted the images when he was told to do so. But heavier sorrow was yet to come. One night, a holiday night for them, Neil and her grandfather went out to walk. A terrible thunderstorm coming on, they were forced to take refuge in a small public house; and here they saw some shabbily dressed and wicked looking men were playing cards. The old man watched them with increasing interest and excitement, until his whole appearance underwent a complete change. His face was flushed and eager, his teeth set. With a hand that trembled violently he seized Nell's little purse, and in spite of her pleadings joined in the game, gambling with such a savage thirst for gain that the distressed and frightened child could almost better have borne to see him dead. It was long after midnight when the play came to an end; and they were forced to remain where they were until the morning. And in the night the child was wakened from her troubled sleep to find a figure in the room--a figure busying its hands about her garments, while its face was turned to her, listening and looking lest she should awake. It was her grandfather himself, his white face pinched and sharpened by the greediness which made his eyes unnaturally bright, counting the money of which his hands were robbing her. Evening after evening, after that night, the old man would steal away, not to return until the night was far spent, demanding, wildly, money. And at last there came an hour when the child overheard him, tempted beyond his feeble powers of resistance, undertake to find more money to feed the desperate passion which had laid its hold upon his weakness by robbing the kind Mrs. Jarley, who had done so much for them. The poor old man had become so weak in his mind, that he did not understand how wicked was his act. That night the child took her grandfather by the hand and led him forth. Through the strait streets and narrow outskirts of the town their trembling feet passed quickly; the child sustained by one idea--that they were flying from wickedness and disgrace, and that she could save her grandfather only by her firmness unaided by one word of advice or any helping hand; the old man following her as though she had been an angel messenger sent to lead him where she would. The hardest part of all their wanderings was now before them. They slept in the open air that night, and on the following morning some men offered to take them a long distance on their barge on the river. These men, though they were not unkindly, were very rugged, noisy fellows, and they drank and quarreled fearfully among themselves, to Nell's inexpressible terror. It rained, too, heavily, and she was wet and cold. At last they reached the great city whither the barge was bound, and here they wandered up and down, being now penniless, and watched the faces of those who passed, to find among them a ray of encouragement or hope. Ill in body, and sick to death at heart, the child needed her utmost courage and will even to creep along. They lay down that night, and the next night too, with nothing between them and the sky; a penny loaf was all they had had that day, and when the third morning came, it found the child much weaker, yet she made no complaint. The great city with its many factories hemmed them in on every side, and seemed to shut out hope. Faint and spiritless as they were, its streets were terrible to them. After humbly asking for relief at some few doors, and being driven away, they agreed to make their way out of it as speedily as they could, and try if the people living in some lone house beyond would have more pity on their worn out state. They were dragging themselves along through the last street, and the child felt that the time was close at hand when her enfeebled powers would bear no more. There appeared before them, at this moment, going in the same direction as themselves, a traveler on foot, who, with a bundle of clothing strapped to his back, leaned upon a stout stick as he walked, and read from a book which he held in his other hand. It was not an easy matter to come up with him and ask his aid, for he walked fast, and was a little distance in advance. At length he stopped, to look more attentively at some passage in his book. Encouraged by a ray of hope, the child shot on before her grandfather, and, going close to the stranger without rousing him by the sound of her footsteps, began, in a few faint words, to beg his help. He turned his head. The child clapped her hands together, uttered a wild shriek, and fell senseless at his feet. It was the poor schoolmaster. No other than the poor schoolmaster. Scarcely less moved and surprised by the sight of the child than she had been on recognizing him, he stood, for a moment, silent, without even the presence of mind to raise her from the ground. But, quickly recovering himself, he threw down his stick and book, and, dropping on one knee beside her, tried simple means as came to his mind, to restore her to herself; while her grandfather, standing idly by, wrung his hands, and begged her, with many words of love, to speak to him, were it only a whisper. "She appears to be quite worn out," said the schoolmaster, glancing upward into his face. "You have used up all her strength, friend." "She is dying of want," answered the old man. "I never thought how weak and ill she was till now." Casting a look upon him, half-angry and half-pitiful, the schoolmaster took the child in his arms, and, bidding the old man gather up her little basket and follow him directly, bore her away at his utmost speed. There was a small inn within sight, to which, it would seem, he had been walking when so unexpectedly overtaken. Toward this place he hurried with his unconscious burden, and rushing into the kitchen, and calling upon the company there assembled to make way for God's sake, laid it down on a chair before the fire. The company, who rose in confusion on the schoolmaster's entrance, did as people usually do under such circumstances. Everybody called for his or her favorite remedy, which nobody brought; each cried for more air, at the same time carefully shutting out what air there was, by closing round the object of sympathy; and all wondered why somebody else didn't do what it never appeared to occur to them might be done by themselves. The landlady, however, who had more readiness and activity than any of them, and who seemed to understand the case more quickly, soon came running in, with a little hot medicine, followed by her servant-girl, carrying vinegar, hartshorn, smelling-salts, and such other restoratives; which, being duly given, helped the child so far as to enable her to thank them in a faint voice, and to hold out her hand to the poor schoolmaster, who stood, with an anxious face, near her side. Without suffering her to speak another word, or so much as to stir a finger any more, the women straightway carried her off to bed; and, having covered her up warm, bathed her cold feet, and wrapped them in flannel, they sent a messenger for the doctor. The doctor, who was a red-nosed gentleman with a great bunch of seals dangling below a waistcoat of ribbed black satin, arrived with all speed, and taking his seat by the bedside of poor Nell, drew out his watch, and felt her pulse. Then he looked at her tongue, then he felt her pulse again, and while he did so, he eyed the half-emptied wine-glass as if in profound abstraction. "I should give her," said the doctor at length, "a teaspoonful, every now and then, of hot medicine." "Why, that's exactly what we've done, sir!" said the delighted landlady. "I should also," observed the doctor, who had passed the foot-bath on the stairs, "I should also," said the doctor, in a very wise tone of voice, "put her feet in hot water and wrap them up in flannel. I should likewise," said the doctor, with increased solemnity, "give her something light for supper--the wing of a roasted chicken now------" "Why, goodness gracious me, sir, it's cooking at the kitchen fire this instant!" cried the landlady. And so indeed it was, for the schoolmaster had ordered it to be put down, and it was getting on so well that the doctor might have smelled it if he had tried; perhaps he did. "You may then," said the doctor, rising gravely, "give her a glass of hot mulled port-wine, if she likes wine------" "And a piece of toast, sir?" suggested the landlady. "Ay," said the doctor, in a very dignified tone, "And a toast--of bread. But be very particular to make it of bread, if you please, ma'am." With which parting advice, slowly and solemnly given, the doctor departed, leaving the whole house in admiration of that wisdom which agreed so closely with their own. Everybody said he was a very shrewd doctor indeed, and knew perfectly what people's bodies needed; which there appears some reason to suppose he did. While her supper was preparing, the child fell into a refreshing sleep, from which they were obliged to rouse her when it was ready. As she showed extraordinary uneasiness on learning that her grandfather was below stairs, and as she was greatly troubled at the thought of their being apart, he took his supper with her. Finding her still very anxious for the old man, they made him up a bed in an inner room, to which he soon went. The key of this room happened by good-fortune to be on that side of the door which was in Nell's room; she turned it on him when the landlady had withdrawn, and crept to bed again with a thankful heart. The schoolmaster sat for a long time smoking his pipe by the kitchen fire, which was now deserted, thinking, with a very happy face, on the fortunate chance which had brought him at just the right moment to the child's assistance. The schoolmaster, as it appeared, was on his way to a new home. And when the child had recovered somewhat from her hunger and weariness, it was arranged that she and her grandfather should go with him to the village whither he was bound, and that he should endeavor to find them some work by which they could get their living. It was a lonely little village, lying among the quiet country scenes Nell loved. And here, her grandfather being peaceful and at rest, a great calm fell upon the spirit of the child. Often she would steal into the church, and, sitting down among the quiet figures carved upon the tombs, would think of the summer days and the bright spring-time that would come; of the rays of sun that would fall in, aslant those sleeping forms; of the songs of birds, and the sweet air that would steal in. What if the spot awakened thoughts of death! It would be no pain to sleep amid such sights and sounds as these. For the time was drawing nearer every day when Nell was to rest indeed. She never murmured or complained, but faded like a light upon a summer's evening and died. Day after day and all day long, the old man, broken-hearted and with no love or care for anything in life, would sit beside her grave with her straw hat and the little basket she had been used to carry, waiting till she should come to him again. At last they found him lying dead upon the stone. And in the church where they had often prayed and mused and lingered, hand in hand, the child and the old man slept together. FOOTNOTE: [C] The Lord Chancellor, it may be explained, is the highest judge in the courts of England; and when in court always wears a great wig and a robe. VII. LITTLE DAVID COPPERFIELD. I, little David Copperfield, lived with my mother in a pretty house in the village of Blunderstone in Suffolk. I had never known my father, who died before I could remember anything, and I had neither brothers nor sisters. I was fondly loved by my pretty young mother, and our kind, good servant, Peggotty, and was a very happy little fellow. We had very few friends, and the only relation my mother talked about was an aunt of my father's, a tall and rather terrible old lady, from all accounts, who had once been to see us when I was quite a tiny baby, and had been so angry to find I was not a little girl that she had left the house quite offended, and had never been heard of since. One visitor, a tall dark gentleman, I did not like at all, and was rather inclined to be jealous that my mother should be so friendly with the stranger. Peggotty and I were sitting one night by the parlor fire, alone. I had been reading to Peggotty about crocodiles. I was tired of reading, and dead sleepy; but having leave, as a high treat, to sit up until my mother came home from spending the evening at a neighbor's, I would rather have died upon my post (of course) than have gone to bed. I had reached that stage of sleepiness when Peggotty seemed to swell and grow immensely large. I propped my eyelids open with my two forefingers, and looked perseveringly at her as she sat at work; at the little house with a thatched roof, where she kept her yard-measure; at her work-box with a sliding-lid, with a view of St. Paul's Cathedral (with a pink dome) painted on the top; at the brass thimble on her finger; at herself, whom I thought lovely. I felt so sleepy that I knew if I lost sight of anything, for a moment, I was gone. "Peggotty," says I, suddenly, "were you ever married?" "Lord, Master Davy!" replied Peggotty. "What's put marriage in your head?" She answered with such a start that it quite awoke me. And then she stopped in her work and looked at me, with her needle drawn out to its thread's length. "But _were_ you ever married, Peggotty?" says I. "You are a very handsome woman, ain't you?" "Me handsome, Davy!" said Peggotty. "Lawk, no, my dear! But what put marriage in your head?" "I don't know! You mustn't marry more than one person at a time, may you, Peggotty?" "Certainly not," says Peggotty, with the promptest decision. "But if you marry a person, and the person dies, why then you may marry another person, mayn't you, Peggotty?" "You MAY," says Peggotty, "if you choose, my dear. That's a matter of opinion." "But what is your opinion, Peggotty?" said I. I asked her and looked curiously at her, because she looked so curiously at me. "My opinion is," said Peggotty, taking her eyes from me, after waiting a little, and going on with her work, "that I never was married myself, Master Davy, and that I don't expect to be. That's all I know about the subject." "You ain't cross, I suppose, Peggotty, are you?" said I, after sitting quiet for a minute. I really thought she was, she had been so short with me; but I was quite mistaken; for she laid aside her work (which was a stocking of her own) and opening her arms wide, took my curly head within them, and gave it a good squeeze. I know it was a good squeeze, because, being very plump, whenever she made any little exertion after she was dressed, some of the buttons on the back of her flew off. And I recollect two bursting to the opposite side of the parlor while she was hugging me. One day Peggotty asked me if I would like to go with her on a visit to her brother at Yarmouth. "Is your brother an agreeable man, Peggotty?" I inquired. "Oh, what an agreeable man he is!" cried Peggotty. "Then there's the sea, and the boats and ships, and the fishermen, and the beach. And 'Am to play with." Ham was her nephew. I was quite anxious to go when I heard of all these delights; but my mother, what would she do all alone? Peggotty told me my mother was going to pay a visit to some friends, and would be sure to let me go. So all was arranged, and we were to start the next day in the carrier's cart. I was so eager that I wanted to put my hat and coat on the night before! But when the time came to say good-by to my dear mamma, I cried a little, for I had never left her before. It was rather a slow way of traveling, and I was very tired and sleepy when I arrived at Yarmouth, and found Ham waiting to meet me. He was a great strong fellow, six feet high, and took me on his back and the box under his arm to carry both to the house. I was delighted to find that this house was made of a real big black boat, with a door and windows cut in the side, and an iron funnel sticking out of the roof for a chimney. Inside, it was very cozy and clean, and I had a tiny bedroom in the stern. I was very much pleased to find a dear little girl, about my own age, to play with, and after tea I said: "Mr. Peggotty." "Sir," says he. "Did you give your son the name of Ham because you lived in a sort of ark?" Mr. Peggotty seemed to think it a deep idea, but answered: "No, sir. I never giv' him no name." "Who gave him that name, then?" said I, putting question number two of the catechism to Mr. Peggotty. "Why, sir, his father giv' it him," said Mr. Peggotty. "I thought you were his father!" "My brother Joe was _his_ father," said Mr. Peggotty. "Dead, Mr. Peggotty?" I hinted, after a respectful pause. "Drowndead," said Mr. Peggotty. I was very much surprised that Mr. Peggotty was not Ham's father, and began to wonder whether I was mistaken about his relationship to anybody else there. I was so curious to know that I made up my mind to have it out with Mr. Peggotty. "Little Em'ly," I said, glancing at her. "She is your daughter, isn't she, Mr. Peggotty?" "No, sir. My brother-in-law, Tom, was _her_ father." I couldn't help it. "----Dead, Mr. Peggotty?" I hinted, after another respectful silence. "Drowndead," said Mr. Peggotty. I felt the difficulty of resuming the subject, but had not got to the bottom of it yet, and must get to the bottom somehow. So I said: "Haven't you _any_ children, Mr. Peggotty?" "No, master," he answered, with a short laugh. "I'm a bacheldore." "A bachelor!" I said, astonished. "Why, who's that, Mr. Peggotty?" Pointing to the person in the apron who was knitting. "That's Missis Gummidge," said Mr. Peggotty. "Gummidge, Mr. Peggotty?" But at this point Peggotty--I mean my own Peggotty--made such impressive motions to me not to ask any more questions, that I could only sit and look at all the company, until it was time to go to bed. Mrs. Gummidge lived with them too, and did the cooking and cleaning, for she was a poor widow and had no home of her own. I thought Mr. Peggotty was very good to take all these people to live with him, and I was quite right, for Mr. Peggotty was only a poor man himself and had to work hard to get a living. Almost as soon as morning shone upon the oyster-shell frame of my mirror I was out of bed, and out with tittle Em'ly, picking up stones upon the beach. "You're quite a sailor I suppose?" I said to Em'ly. I don't know that I supposed anything of the kind, but I felt it proper to say something; and a shining sail close to us made such a pretty little image of itself, at the moment, in her bright eye, that it came into my head to say this. "No," replied Em'ly, shaking her head, "I'm afraid of the sea." "Afraid!" I said, with a becoming air of boldness, and looking very big at the mighty ocean. "I ain't." "Ah! but it's cruel," said Em'ly. "I have seen it very cruel to some of our men. I have seen it tear a boat as big as our house all to pieces." "I hope it wasn't the boat that--" "That father was drowned in?" said Em'ly. "No. Not that one, I never see that boat." "Nor him?" I asked her. Little Em'ly shook her head. "Not to remember!" Here was something remarkable. I immediately went into an explanation how I had never seen my own father; and how my mother and I had always lived by ourselves in the happiest state imaginable, and lived so then, and always meant to live so; and how my father's grave was in the churchyard near our house, and shaded by a tree, beneath the boughs of which I had walked and heard the birds sing many a pleasant morning. But there were some differences between Em'ly's orphanhood and mine, it appeared. She had lost her mother before her father, and where her father's grave was no one knew, except that it was somewhere in the depths of the sea. "Besides," said Em'ly, as she looked about for shells and pebbles, "your father was a gentleman and your mother is a lady; and my father was a fisherman and my mother was a fisherman's daughter, and my Uncle Dan is a fisherman." "Dan is Mr. Peggotty, is he?" said I. [Illustration: David Copperfield and Little Em'ly. Page 131] "Uncle--yonder," answered Em'ly, nodding at the boat-house. "Yes. I mean him. He must be very good, I should think." "Good?" said Em'ly. "If I was ever to be a lady, I'd give him a sky-blue coat with diamond buttons, nankeen trousers, a red velvet waistcoat, a cocked hat, a large gold watch, a silver pipe, and a box of money." I said I had no doubt that Mr. Peggotty well deserved these treasures. Little Em'ly had stopped and looked up at the sky while she named these articles, as if they were a glorious vision. We went on again picking up shells and pebbles. "You would like to be a lady?" I said. Em'ly looked at me, and laughed and nodded "yes." "I should like it very much. We would all be gentlefolks together, then. Me, and uncle, and Ham, and Mrs. Gummidge. We wouldn't mind then, when there come stormy weather. Not for our own sakes, I mean. We would for the poor fishermen's, to be sure, and we'd help 'em with money when they come to any hurt." I was quite sorry to leave these kind people and my dear little companion, but I was glad to think I should get back to my own dear mamma. When I reached home, however, I found a great change. My mother was married to the dark man I did not like, whose name was Mr. Murdstone, and he was a stern, hard man, who had no love for me, and did not allow my mother to pet and indulge me as she had done before. Mr. Murdstone's sister came to live with us, and as she was even more difficult to please than her brother, and disliked boys, my life was no longer a happy one. I tried to be good and obedient, for I knew it made my mother very unhappy to see me punished and found fault with. I had always had lessons with my mother, and as she was patient and gentle, I had enjoyed learning to read, but now I had a great many very hard lessons to do, and was so frightened and shy when Mr. and Miss Murdstone were in the room, that I did not get on at all well, and was continually in disgrace. Let me remember how it used to be, and bring one morning back again. I come into the second-best parlor after breakfast, with my books, and an exercise-book and a slate. My mother is ready for me at her writing-desk, but not half so ready as Mr. Murdstone in his easy-chair by the window (though he pretends to be reading a book), or as Miss Murdstone, sitting near my mother stringing steel beads. The very sight of these two has such an influence over me that I begin to feel the words I have been at infinite pains to get into my head all sliding away, and going I don't know where. I wonder where they _do_ go, by-the-by? I hand the first book to my mother. Perhaps it is a grammar, perhaps a history, or geography. I take a last drowning look at the page as I give it into her hand, and start off aloud at a racing pace while I have got it fresh. I trip over a word. Mr. Murdstone looks up. I trip over another word. Miss Murdstone looks up. I redden, tumble over half a dozen words and stop. I think my mother would show me the book if she dared, but she does not dare, and she says softly: "Oh, Davy, Davy!" "Now, Clara," says Mr. Murdstone, "be firm with the boy. Don't say, 'Oh, Davy, Davy!' That's childish. He knows his lesson, or he does not know it." "He does _not_ know it," Miss Murdstone interposes awfully. "I am really afraid he does not," says my mother. "Then you see, Clara," returns Miss Murdstone, "you should just give him the book back, and make him know it." "Yes, certainly," says my mother; "that is what I intend to do, my dear Jane. Now, Davy, try once more, and don't be stupid." I obey the first clause of my mother's words by trying once more, but am not so successful with the second, for I am very stupid. I tumble down before I get to the old place, at a point where I was all right before, and stop to think. But I can't think about the lesson. I think of the number of yards of net in Miss Murdstone's cap, or of the price of Mr. Murdstone's dressing-gown, or any such ridiculous matter that I have no business with, and don't want to have anything at all to do with. Mr. Murdstone makes a movement of impatience which I have been expecting for a long time. Miss Murdstone does the same. My mother glances submissively at them, shuts the book, and lays it by, to be worked out when my other tasks are done. There is a pile of these tasks very soon, and it swells like a rolling snowball. The bigger it gets, the more stupid _I_ get. The case is so hopeless, and I feel that I am wallowing in such a bog of nonsense, that I give up all idea of getting out, and abandon myself to my fate. The despairing way in which my mother and I look at each other, as I blunder on, is truly melancholy. But the greatest effect in these miserable lessons is when my mother (thinking nobody is observing her) tries to give me the cue by the motion of her lips. At that instant, Miss Murdstone, who has been lying in wait for nothing else all along says in a deep warning voice: "Clara!" My mother starts, colors, and smiles faintly. Mr. Murdstone comes out of his chair, takes the book, throws it at me, or boxes my ears with it, and turns me out of the room by the shoulders. My only pleasure was to go up into a little room at the top of the house where I had found a number of books that had belonged to my own father, and I would sit and read Robinson Crusoe, and many tales of travels and adventures, and I imagined myself to be sometimes one and sometimes another hero, and went about for days with the centre-piece out of an old set of boot-trees, pretending to be a captain in the British Royal Navy. One morning when I went into the parlor with my books, I found my mother looking anxious, Miss Murdstone looking firm, and Mr. Murdstone binding something round the bottom of a cane--a lithe and limber cane, which he left off binding when I came in, and poised and switched in the air. "I tell you, Clara," said Mr. Murdstone, "I have often been flogged myself." "To be sure; of course," said Miss Murdstone. "Certainly, my dear Jane," faltered my mother, meekly. "But--but do you think it did Edward good?" "Do you think it did Edward harm, Clara?" asked Mr. Murdstone, gravely. "That's the point!" said his sister. To this my mother returned, "Certainly, my dear Jane," and said no more. I felt afraid that all this had something to do with myself, and sought Mr. Murdstone's eye as it lighted on mine. "Now, David," he said--and I saw that cast again, as he said it--"you must be far more careful to-day than usual." He gave the cane another poise and another switch; and having finished his preparation of it, laid it down beside him, with an expressive look, and took up his book. This was a good freshener to my memory, as a beginning. I felt the words of my lessons slipping off, not one by one, or line by line, but by the entire page. I tried to lay hold of them; but they seemed, if I may so express it, to have put skates on, and to skim away from me with a smoothness there was no checking. We began badly, and went on worse. I had come in with an idea of doing better than usual, thinking that I was very well prepared; but it turned out to be quite a mistake. Book after book was added to the heap of failures, Miss Murdstone being firmly watchful of us all the time. And when we came at last to a question about five thousand cheeses (canes he made it that day, I remember), my mother burst out crying. "Clara!" said Miss Murdstone, in her warning voice. "I am not quite well, my dear Jane, I think," said my mother. I saw him wink, solemnly, at his sister, as he rose and said, taking up the cane: "Why, Jane, we can hardly expect Clara to bear, with perfect firmness, the worry and torment that David has caused her to-day. Clara is greatly strengthened and improved; but we can hardly expect so much from her. David, you and I will go up-stairs, boy." As he took me out at the door, my mother ran towards us. Miss Murdstone said, "Clara! are you a perfect fool?" and interfered. I saw my mother stop her ears then, and I heard her crying. He walked me up to my room slowly and gravely--I am certain he had a delight in that formal show of doing justice--and when we got there, suddenly twisted my head under his arm. "Mr. Murdstone! Sir!" I cried to him. "Don't! Pray don't beat me! I have tried to learn, sir, but I can't learn while you and Miss Murdstone are by. I can't indeed!" "Can't you, indeed, David?" he said. "We'll try that." He had my head as in a vise, but I twined round him somehow, and stopped him for a moment, entreating him not to beat me. It was only for a moment that I stopped him, for he cut me heavily an instant afterwards, and in the same instant I caught the hand with which he held me in my mouth, between my teeth, and bit it through. It sets my teeth on edge to think of it. He beat me then, as if he would have beaten me to death. Above all the noise we made, I heard them running up the stairs, and crying out--I heard my mother crying out--and Peggotty. Then he was gone; and the door was locked outside; and I was lying, fevered, and hot, and torn, and raging in my puny way, upon the floor. How well I recollect, when I became quiet, what an unnatural stillness seemed to reign through the whole house! How well I remember, when my smart and passion began to cool, how wicked I began to feel! I sat listening for a long while, but there was not a sound. I crawled up from the floor, and saw my face in the glass, so swollen, red, and ugly that it almost frightened me. My stripes were sore and stiff, and made me cry afresh, when I moved; but they were nothing to the guilt I felt. It lay heavier on my breast than if I had been a most terrible criminal, I dare say, and the longer I thought of it the greater the offense seemed. It had begun to grow dark, and I had shut the window (I had been lying, for the most part, with my head upon the sill, by turns crying, dozing, and looking listlessly out), when the key was turned, and Miss Murdstone came in with some bread and meat and milk. These she put down upon the table without a word, glaring at me the while and then retired, locking the door after her. I never shall forget the waking next morning; the being cheerful and fresh for the first moment, and then the being weighed down by the stale and dismal oppression of remembrance. Miss Murdstone came again before I was out of bed; told me, in so many words, that I was free to walk in the garden for half an hour and no longer; retired, leaving the door open, that I might avail myself of that permission. I did so, and did so every morning of my imprisonment, which lasted five days. If I could have seen my mother alone, I should have gone down on my knees to her and besought her forgiveness; but I saw no one, Miss Murdstone excepted, during the whole time. The length of those five days I can convey no idea of to anyone. They occupy the place of years in my remembrance. On the last night of my restraint, I was awakened by hearing my own name spoken in a whisper. I started up in bed, and, putting out my arms in the dark, said: "Is that you, Peggotty?" There was no immediate answer, but presently I heard my name again, in a tone so very mysterious and awful, that I think I should have gone into a fit, if it had not occurred to me that it must have come through the keyhole. I groped my way to the door, and, putting my own lips to the keyhole, whispered: "Is that you, Peggotty, dear?" "Yes, my own precious Davy," she replied. "Be as soft as a mouse, or the cat'll hear us." I understood this to mean Miss Murdstone, and knew that we must be careful and quiet; her room being close by. "How's mamma, dear Peggotty? Is she very angry with me?" I could hear Peggotty crying softly on her side of the keyhole, as I was doing on mine, before she answered. "No. Not very." "What is going to be done with me, Peggotty, dear? Do you know?" "School. Near London," was Peggotty's answer. I was obliged to get her to repeat it, for she spoke it the first time quite down my throat in consequence of my having forgotten to take my mouth away from the keyhole and put my ear there; and, though her words tickled me a good deal, I didn't hear them. "When, Peggotty?" "To-morrow." "Is that the reason why Miss Murdstone took the clothes out of my drawers?" which she had done, though I have forgotten to mention it. "Yes," said Peggotty. "Box." "Shan't I see mamma?" "Yes," said Peggotty. "Morning." Then Peggotty fitted her mouth close to the keyhole, and spoke these words through it with as much feeling and earnestness as a keyhole has ever been the means of communicating, I will venture to say, shooting in each broken little sentence in a convulsive little burst of its own. "Davy, dear. If I ain't been azackly as intimate with you. Lately, as I used to be. It ain't because I don't love you. Just as well and more, my pretty poppet. It's because I thought it better for you. And for someone else besides. Davy, my darling, are you listening? Can you hear?" "Ye--ye--ye--yes, Peggotty!" I sobbed. "My own!" said Peggotty, with infinite compassion. "What I want to say, is. That you must never forget me. For I'll never forget you. And I'll take as much care of your mamma, Davy. As I ever took of you. And I won't leave her. The day may come when she'll be glad to lay her poor head. On her stupid, cross old Peggotty's arm again. And I'll write to you, my dear. Though I ain't no scholar. And I'll--I'll--" Peggotty fell to kissing the keyhole, as she couldn't kiss me. "Thank you, dear Peggotty!" said I. "Oh, thank you! Thank you! Will you promise me one thing, Peggotty? Will you write and tell Mr. Peggotty and little Em'ly and Mrs. Gummidge and Ham that I am not so bad as they might suppose, and that I sent 'em all my love--especially to little Em'ly? Will you, if you please, Peggotty?" The kind soul promised, and we both of us kissed the keyhole with the greatest affection--I patted it with my hand, I recollect, as if it had been her honest face--and parted. In the morning Miss Murdstone appeared as usual, and told me I was going to school; which was not altogether such news to me as she supposed. She also informed me that when I was dressed, I was to come down-stairs into the parlor and have my breakfast. There I found my mother, very pale and with red eyes; into whose arms I ran, and begged her pardon from my suffering soul. "Oh, Davy!" she said. "That you could hurt anyone I love! Try to be better, pray to be better! I forgive you; but I am so grieved, Davy, that you should have such bad passions in your heart." Miss Murdstone was good enough to take me out to the cart, and to say on the way that she hoped I would repent, before I came to a bad end; and then I got into the cart, and the lazy horse walked off with it. We might have gone about half a mile, and my pocket handkerchief was quite wet through, when the carrier stopped short. Looking out to ascertain for what, I saw, to my amazement, Peggotty burst from a hedge and climb into the cart. She took me in both her arms and squeezed me until the pressure on my nose was extremely painful, though I never thought of that till afterwards, when I found it very tender. Not a single word did Peggotty speak, releasing one of her arms, she put it down in her pocket to the elbow, and brought out some paper-bags of cakes, which she crammed into my pockets, and a purse which she put into my hand, but not one word did she say. After another and a final squeeze with both arms, she got down from the cart and ran away; and my belief is, and has always been, without a solitary button on her gown. I picked up one, of several that was rolling about, and treasured it as a keepsake for a long time. The carrier looked at me, as if to inquire if she were coming back. I shook my head, and said I thought not. "Then come up!" said the carrier to the lazy horse, who came up accordingly. Having by this time cried as much as I possibly could, I began to think it was of no use crying any more. The carrier seeing me in this resolution, proposed that my pocket handkerchief should be spread upon the horse's back to dry. I thanked him and agreed; and particularly small it looked under those circumstances. I had now time to examine the purse. It was a stiff leather purse, with a snap, and had three bright shillings in it, which Peggotty had evidently polished up with whitening, for my greater delight. But its precious contents were two half-crowns folded together in a bit of paper, on which was written, in my mother's hand, "For Davy. With my love." I was so overcome by this, that I asked the carrier to be so good as reach me my pocket handkerchief again, but he said he thought I had better do without it; and I thought I really had; so I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and stopped myself. For good, too; though, in consequence of my previous feelings, I was still occasionally seized with a stormy sob. After we had jogged on for some little time, I asked the carrier if he was going all the way. "All the way where?" inquired the carrier. "There," I said. "Where's there?" inquired the carrier. "Near London," I said. "Why, that horse," said the carrier, jerking the rein to point him out, "would be deader than pork afore he got over half the ground." "Are you only going to Yarmouth then?" I asked. "That's about it," said the carrier. "And there I shall take you to the stage-cutch, and the stage-cutch that'll take you to--wherever it is." I shared my cakes with the carrier, who asked if Peggotty made them, and told him yes, she did all our cooking. The carrier looked thoughtful, and then asked if I would send a message to Peggotty from him. I agreed, and the message was "Barkis is willing." While I was waiting for the coach at Yarmouth, I wrote to Peggotty: "MY DEAR PEGGOTTY:--I have come here safe. Barkis is willing. My love to mamma. Yours affectionately. "_P.S._--He says he particularly wanted you to know _Barkis is willing_." At Yarmouth I found dinner was ordered for me, and felt very shy at having a table all to myself, and very much alarmed when the waiter told me he had seen a gentleman fall down dead after drinking some of their beer. I said I would have some water, and was quite grateful to the waiter for drinking the ale that had been ordered for me, for fear the people of the hotel should be offended. He also helped me to eat my dinner, and accepted one of my bright shillings. After a long, tiring journey by the coach, for there were no trains in those days, I arrived in London and was taken to the school at Blackheath, by one of the masters, Mr. Mell. I gazed upon the schoolroom into which he took me, as the most forlorn and desolate place I had ever seen. I see it now. A long room, with three long rows of desks, and six of long seats, bristling all round with pegs for hats and slates. Scraps of old copy-books and exercises litter the dirty floor. Mr. Mell having left me for a few moments, I went softly to the upper end of the room, observing all this as I crept along. Suddenly I came upon a pasteboard placard, beautifully written which was lying on the desk, and bore these words--"_Take care of him._ _He bites._" I got upon the desk immediately, afraid of at least a great dog underneath. But, though I looked all round with anxious eyes, I could see nothing of him. I was still engaged in peering about when Mr. Mell came back, and asked me what I did up there. "I beg your pardon, sir," says I, "if you please, I'm looking for the dog." "Dog?" says he. "What dog?" "Isn't it a dog, sir?" "Isn't what a dog?" "That's to be taken care of, sir; that bites." "No, Copperfield," says he, gravely, "that's not a dog. That's a boy. My instructions are, Copperfield, to put this placard on your back. I am sorry to make such a beginning with you, but I must do it." With that, he took me down, and tied the placard, which was neatly constructed for the purpose, on my shoulders like a knapsack; and wherever I went, afterwards, I had the consolation of carrying it. What I suffered from that placard, nobody can imagine. Whether it was possible for people to see me or not, I always fancied that somebody was reading it. It was no relief to turn round and find nobody; for wherever my back was, there I imagined somebody always to be. There was an old door in this playground, on which the boys had a custom of carving their names. It was completely covered with such inscriptions. In my dread of the end of the vacation and their coming back, I could not read one boy's name, without inquiring in what tone and with what emphasis _he_ would read, "Take care of him. He bites." There was one boy--a certain J. Steerforth--who cut his name very deep and very often, who, I conceived, would read it in a rather strong voice, and afterwards pull my hair. There was another boy, one Tommy Traddles, who I dreaded would make game of it, and pretend to be dreadfully frightened of me. There was a third, George Demple, who I fancied would sing it. I have looked, a little shrinking creature, at that door, until the owners of all the names--there were five-and-forty of them in the school then, Mr. Mell said--seemed to cry out, each in his own way, "Take care of him. He bites!" Tommy Traddles was the first boy who returned. He introduced himself by informing me that I should find his name on the right-hand corner of the gate, over the top bolt; upon that I said, "Traddles?" to which he replied, "The same," and then he asked me for a full account of myself and family. It was fortunate for me that Traddles came back first. He enjoyed my placard so much that he saved me from the embarrassment of either telling about it or trying to hide it by presenting me to every other boy who came back, great or small, immediately on his arrival, in this form of introduction, "Look here! Here's a game!" Happily, too, the greater part of the boys came back low-spirited, and were not so boisterous at my expense as I had expected. Some of them certainly could not resist the temptation of pretending that I was a dog, and patting and smoothing me lest I should bite, and saying, "Lie down, sir!" and calling me Towzer. This was naturally confusing, among so many strangers, and cost some tears, but on the whole it was much better than I had anticipated. I was not considered as being formally received into the school, however, until J. Steerforth arrived. Before this boy, who was reputed to be a great scholar, and was very good-looking, and at least half-a-dozen years older than I, I was carried as before a judge. He inquired, under a shed in the playground, into the particulars of my punishment, and was pleased to express his opinion that it was a "jolly shame;" for which I became bound to him ever afterwards. "What money have you got, Copperfield?" he said, walking aside with me when he had disposed of my affair in these terms. I told him seven shillings. "You had better give it to me to take care of," he said. "At least, you can, if you like. You needn't if you don't like." I hastened to comply with his friendly suggestion, and, opening Peggotty's purse, turned it upside down into his hand. "Do you want to spend anything now?" he asked me. "No, thank you," I replied. "You can, if you like, you know," said Steerforth. "Say the word." "No, thank you, sir," I repeated. "Perhaps you'd like to spend a couple of shillings or so in a bottle of currant wine by-and-by, up in the bedroom?" said Steerforth. "You belong to my bedroom, I find." It certainly had not occurred to me before, but I said, Yes, I should like that. "Very good," said Steerforth. "You'll be glad to spend another shilling or so in almond cakes, I dare say?" I said, "Yes, I should like that, too." "And another shilling or so in biscuits, and another in fruit, eh?" said Steerforth. "I say, young Copperfield, you're going it!" I smiled because he smiled, but I was a little troubled in my mind, too. "Well!" said Steerforth. "We must make it stretch as far as we can; that's all. I'll do the best in my power for you. I can go out when I like, and I'll smuggle the prog in." With these words he put the money in his pocket, and kindly told me not to make myself uneasy; he would take care it should be all right. He was as good as his word, if that were all right which I had a secret misgiving was nearly all wrong--for I feared it was a waste of my mother's two half-crowns--though I had preserved the piece of paper they were wrapped in; which was a precious saving. When we went up-stairs to bed, he produced the whole seven shillings worth, and laid it out on my bed in the moonlight, saying: "There you are, young Copperfield, and a royal spread you've got!" I couldn't think of doing the honors of the feast at my time of life, while he was by; my hand shook at the very thought of it. I begged him to do me the favor of taking charge of the treat; and my request being seconded by the other boys who were in that room, he agreed to it, and sat upon my pillow, handing round the food--with perfect fairness, I must say--and giving out the currant wine in a little glass without a foot, which was his own property. As to me, I sat on his left hand, and the rest were grouped about us, on the nearest beds and on the floor. How well I recollect our sitting there, talking in whispers; or their talking, and my respectfully listening, I ought rather to say; the moonlight falling a little way into the room, through the window, painting a pale window on the floor, and the greater part of us in shadow, except when Steerforth scratched a match, when he wanted to look for anything on the board, and shed a blue glare over us that was gone directly! A certain mysterious feeling, consequent on the darkness, the secrecy of the revel, and the whisper in which everything was said, steals over me again, and I listen to all they tell me, with a vague feeling of solemnity and awe, which makes me glad they are all so near, and frightens me (though I feign to laugh) when Traddles pretends to see a ghost in the corner. I heard all kinds of things about the school and all belonging to it. I heard that Mr. Creakle was the sternest and most severe of masters; that he laid about him, right and left, every day of his life, charging in among the boys like a trooper, and slashing away, unmercifully. I heard that the man with the wooden leg, whose name was Tungay, was an obstinate fellow who had formerly been in the hop business, but had come into the line with Mr. Creakle, in consequence, as was supposed among the boys, of his having broken his leg in Mr. Creakle's service, and having done a deal of dishonest work for him, and knowing his secrets. But the greatest wonder that I heard of Mr. Creakle was, there being one boy in the school on whom he never ventured to lay a hand, and that that boy being J. Steerforth. Steerforth himself confirmed this when it was stated, and said that he should like to begin to see him do it. On being asked by a mild boy (not me) how he would proceed if he did begin to see him do it, he scratched a match on purpose to shed a glare over his reply, and said he would commence with knocking him down with a blow on the forehead from the seven-and-six-penny ink-bottle that was always on the mantelpiece. We sat in the dark for some time, breathless. I heard that Miss Creakle was regarded by the school in general as being in love with Steerforth; and I am sure, as I sat in the dark, thinking of his nice voice, and his fine face, and his easy manner, and his curling hair, I thought it very likely. I heard that Mr. Mell was not a bad sort of fellow, but hadn't a sixpence to bless himself with; and that there was no doubt that old Mrs. Mell, his mother, was as poor as Job. One day, Traddles (the most unfortunate boy in the world) breaks a window accidentally with a ball. I shudder at this moment with the tremendous sensation of seeing it done, and feeling that the ball has bounded on to Mr. Creakle's sacred head. Poor Traddles! In a tight sky-blue suit that made his arms and legs like German sausages, or roly-poly puddings, he was the merriest and most miserable of all the boys. He was always being caned--I think he was caned every day that half-year, except one holiday Monday, when he was only rulered on both hands--and was always going to write to his uncle about it, and never did. After laying his head on the desk for a little while, he would cheer up somehow, begin to laugh again, and draw skeletons all over his slate before his eyes were dry. I used at first to wonder what comfort Traddles found in drawing skeletons. But I believe he only did it because they were easy, and didn't want any features. He was very honorable, Traddles was; and held it as a solemn duty in the boys to stand by one another. He suffered for this on several occasions; and particularly once, when Steerforth laughed in church, and the beadle thought it was Traddles, and took him out. I see him now, going away under guard, despised by the congregation. He never said who was the real offender, though he smarted for it next day, and was imprisoned so many hours that he came forth with a whole churchyard full of skeletons swarming all over his Latin Dictionary. But he had his reward. Steerforth said there was nothing of the sneak in Traddles, and we all felt that to be the highest praise. For my part, I could have gone through a great deal (though I was much less brave than Traddles, and nothing like so old) to have won such a reward, as praise from J. Steerforth. To see Steerforth walk to church before us, arm-in-arm with Miss Creakle, was one of the great sights of my life. I didn't think Miss Creakle equal to little Em'ly in point of beauty, and I didn't love her (I didn't dare); but I thought her a young lady of extraordinary attractions, and in point of gentility not to be surpassed. When Steerforth, in white trousers, carried her parasol for her, I felt proud to know him; and believed that she could not choose but adore him with all her heart. Mr. Sharp and Mr. Mell were both great personages in my eyes; but Steerforth was to them what the sun was to two stars. An accidental matter strengthened the friendship between Steerforth and me, in a manner that inspired me with great pride and satisfaction, though it sometimes led to inconvenience. It happened on one occasion, when he was doing me the honor of talking to me in the playground that I remarked that something or somebody--I forget what now--was like something or somebody in the story of Peregrine Pickle. He said nothing at the time; but when I was going to bed at night, asked me if I had got that book. I told him no, and explained how it was that I had read it, and all those other books of which I had made mention. "And do you recollect them?" Steerforth said. "Oh yes," I replied; I had a good memory, and I believed I recollected them very well. "Then I tell you what, young Copperfield," said Steerforth, "you shall tell 'em to me. I can't get to sleep very early at night, and I generally wake rather early in the morning. We'll go over 'em one after another. We'll make some regular Arabian Nights of it." I felt extremely flattered by this arrangement, and we commenced carrying out the plan that very evening. Steerforth showed his thought for me in one particular instance, in an unflinching manner that was a little troublesome, to poor Traddles and the rest. Peggotty's promised letter--what a comfortable letter it was!--arrived before "the half" of the school-term was many weeks old; and with it a cake in a perfect nest of oranges, and two bottles of cowslip wine. This treasure, as in duty bound, I laid at the feet of Steerforth, and begged him to divide it among the boys. "Now, I'll tell you what, young Copperfield," said he, "the wine shall be kept to wet your whistle when you are story-telling." I blushed at the idea, and begged him, in my modesty, not to think of it. But he said he had observed I was sometimes hoarse--a little roopy was his exact expression--and it should be, every drop, set apart to the purpose he had mentioned. Accordingly, it was locked up in his box, and drawn off by himself in a phial, and administered to me through a piece of quill in the cork, when I was supposed to be in want of something to restore my voice. Sometimes, to make it more powerful, he was so kind as to squeeze orange juice into it, or to stir it up with ginger, or dissolve a peppermint drop in it. We seem to me to have been months over Peregrine, and months more over the other stories. The school never flagged for want of a story, I am certain; and the wine lasted out almost as well as the matter. Poor Traddles--I never think of that boy but with a strange disposition to laugh, and with tears in my eyes--was a sort of echo to the story; and pretended to be overcome with laughing at the funny parts, and to be overcome with fear when there was any passage of an alarming character in the story. This rather put me out very often. It was a great jest of his, I recollect, to pretend that he couldn't keep his teeth from chattering, whenever mention was made of an Alguazil in connection with the adventures of Gil Blas; and I remember when Gil Blas met the captain of the robbers in Madrid, this unlucky joker acted such a shudder of terror that he was overheard by Mr. Creakle, who was prowling about the passage, and handsomely flogged for disorderly conduct in the bedroom. One day I had a visit from Mr. Peggotty and Ham, who had brought two enormous lobsters, a huge crab, and a large canvas bag of shrimps, as they "remembered I was partial to a relish with my meals." I was proud to introduce my friend Steerforth to these kind, simple friends, and told them how good Steerforth was to me, and how he helped me with my work and took care of me, and Steerforth delighted the fishermen with his friendly, pleasant manners. The "relish" was greatly enjoyed by the boys at supper that night. Only poor Traddles became very ill from eating crab so late. At last the holidays came, and I went home. The carrier, Barkis, met me at Yarmouth, and was rather gruff, which I soon found out was because he had not had any answer to his message. I promised to ask Peggotty for one. Ah, what a strange feeling it was to be going home when it was not home, and to find that every object I looked at reminded me of the happy old home, which was like a dream I could never dream again! God knows how like a child the memory may have been that was awakened within me by the sound of my mother's voice in the old parlor, when I set foot in the hall. I believed, from the solitary and thoughtful way in which my mother murmured her song, that she was alone. And I went softly into the room. She was sitting by the fire, nursing an infant, whose tiny hand she held against her neck. Her eyes were looking down upon its face, and she sat singing to it. I was so far right, that she had no other companion. I spoke to her, and she started, and cried out. But seeing me, she called me her dear Davy, her own boy; and, coming half across the room to meet me, kneeled down upon the ground and kissed me, and laid my head down on her bosom near the little creature that was nestling there, and put its hand up to my lips. I wish I had died. I wish I had died then, with that feeling in my heart! I should have been more fit for heaven than I ever have been since. "He is your brother," said my mother, fondling me. "Davy, my pretty boy: my poor child!" Then she kissed me more and more, and clasped me round the neck. This she was doing when Peggotty came running in, and bounced down on the ground beside us and went mad about us both for a quarter of an hour. We had a very happy afternoon the day I came. Mr. and Miss Murdstone were out, and I sat with my mother and Peggotty, and told them all about my school and Steerforth, and took the little baby in my arms and nursed it lovingly. But when the Murdstones came back I was more unhappy than ever. I felt uncomfortable about going down to breakfast in The morning, as I had never set eyes on Mr. Murdstone since the day when I committed my memorable offense. However, as it must be done, I went down, after two or three false starts halfway, and as many runs back on tiptoe to my own room, and presented myself in the parlor. He was standing before the fire with his back to it, while Miss Murdstone made the tea. He looked at me steadily as I entered, but made no sign of recognition whatever. I went up to him, after a moment of confusion, and said, "I beg your pardon, sir. I am very sorry for what I did, and I hope you will forgive me." "I am glad to hear you are sorry, David," he replied. "How do you do, ma'am?" I said to Miss Murdstone. "Ah, dear me!" sighed Miss Murdstone, giving me the tea-caddy scoop instead of her finger. "How long are the holidays?" "A month, ma'am." "Counting from when?" "From to-day, ma'am." "Oh!" said Miss Murdstone. "Then here's _one_ day off." She kept a calendar of the holidays in this way, and every morning checked a day off in exactly the same manner. She did it gloomily until she came to ten, but when she got into two figures she became more hopeful, and, as the time advanced, even jocular. Thus the holidays lagged away, until the morning came when Miss Murdstone said: "Here's the last day off!" and gave me the closing cup of tea of the vacation. I was not sorry to go. Again Mr. Barkis appeared at the gate, and again Miss Murdstone in her warning voice said: "Clara!" when my mother bent over me, to bid me farewell. I kissed her and my baby brother; it is not so much the embrace she gave me that lives in my mind, though it was as fervent as could be, as what followed the embrace. I was in the carrier's cart when I heard her calling to me. I looked out, and she stood at the garden gate alone, holding her baby up in her arms for me to see. It was cold, still weather; and not a hair of her head, or fold of her dress, was stirred, as she looked intently at me, holding up her child. So I lost her. So I saw her afterwards in my sleep at school--a silent presence near my bed--looking at me with the same intent face--holding up her baby in her arms. About two months after I had been back at school I was sent for one day to go into the parlor. I hurried in joyfully, for it was my birthday, and I thought it might be a box from Peggotty--but, alas! no; it was very sad news Mrs. Creakle had to give me--my dear mamma had died! Mrs. Creakle was very kind and gentle to me, and the boys, especially Traddles, were very sorry for me. I went home the next day, and heard that the dear baby had died too. Peggotty received me with great tenderness, and told me about my mother's illness and how she had sent a loving message to me. "Tell my dearest boy that his mother, as she lay here, blessed him not once, but a thousand times," and she had prayed to God to protect and keep her fatherless boy. Mr. Murdstone did not take any notice of me, nor had Miss Murdstone a word of kindness for me. Peggotty was to leave in a month, and, to my great joy, I was allowed to go with her on a visit to Mr. Peggotty. On our way I found out that the mysterious message I had given to Peggotty meant that Barkis wanted to marry her, and Peggotty had consented. Everyone in Mr. Peggotty's cottage was pleased to see me, and did their best to comfort me. Little Em'ly was at school when I arrived, and I went out to meet her. I knew the way by which she would come, and presently found myself strolling along the path to meet her. A figure appeared in the distance before long, and I soon knew it to be Em'ly, who was a little creature still in stature, though she was grown. But when she drew nearer, and I saw her blue eyes looking bluer, and her dimpled face looking brighter, and her own self prettier and gayer, a curious feeling came over me that made me pretend not to know her, and pass by as if I were looking at something a long way off. I have done such a thing since in later life, or I am mistaken. Little Em'ly didn't care a bit. She saw me well enough; but instead of turning round and calling after me, ran away laughing. This obliged me to run after her, and she ran so fast that we were very near the cottage before I caught her. "Oh, it's you, is it?" said little Em'ly. "Why, you knew who it was, Em'ly," said I. "And didn't _you_ know who it was?" said Em'ly. I was going to kiss her, but she covered her cherry lips with her hands, and said she wasn't a baby now, and ran away, laughing more than ever, into the house. She seemed to delight in teasing me, which was a change in her I wondered at very much. The tea-table was ready, and our little locker was put out in its old place, but instead of coming to sit by me, she went and bestowed her company upon that grumbling Mrs. Gummidge; and on Mr. Peggotty's inquiring why, rumpled her hair all over her face to hide it, and would do nothing but laugh. "A little puss it is!" said Mr. Peggotty, patting her with his great hand. "Ah," said Peggotty, running his fingers through her bright curls, "here's another orphan, you see, sir, and here," giving Ham a backhanded knock in the chest, "is another of 'em, though he don't look much like it." "If I had _you_ for a guardian, Mr. Peggotty," said I, "I don't think I should _feel_ much like it." Em'ly was confused by our all observing her, and hung down her head, and her face was covered with blushes. Glancing up presently through her stray curls, and seeing that we were all looking at her still (I am sure I, for one, could have looked at her for hours), she ran away, and kept away till it was nearly bedtime. I lay down in the old little bed in the stern of the boat, and the wind came moaning on across the flat as it had done before. But I could not help fancying, now that it moaned, of those who were gone; and instead of thinking that the sea might rise in the night and float the boat away, I thought of the sea that had risen, since I last heard those sounds, and drowned my happy home, I recollect, as the wind and water began to sound fainter in my ears, putting a short clause into my prayers, petitioning that I might grow up to marry little Em'ly, and so dropping lovingly asleep. During this visit Peggotty was married to Mr. Barkis, and had a nice little house of her own, and I spent the night before I was to return home in a little room in the roof. "Young or old, Davy dear, so long as I have this house over my head," said Peggotty, "you shall find it as if I expected you here directly every minute. I shall keep it as I used to keep your old little room, my darling, and if you was to go to China, you might think of its being kept just the same all the time you were away." I felt how good and true a friend she was, and thanked her as well as I could, for they had brought me to the gate of my home, and Peggotty had me clasped in her arms. I was poor and lonely at home, with no one near to speak a loving word, or a face to look on with love or liking, only the two persons who had broken my mother's heart. How utterly wretched and forlorn I felt! I found I was not to go back to school any more, and wandered about sad and solitary, neglected and uncared for. Peggotty's weekly visits were my only comfort. I longed to go to school, however hard an one, to be taught something anyhow, anywhere--but no one took any pains with me, and I had no friends near who could help me. At last one day, after some weary months had passed, Mr. Murdstone told me I was to go to London and earn my own living. There was a place for me at Murdstone & Grinby's, a firm in the wine trade. My lodging and clothes would be provided for me by my step-father, and I would earn enough for my food and pocket money. The next day, I was sent up to London with the manager, dressed in a shabby little white hat with black crape round it for my mother, a black jacket, and hard, stiff corduroy trousers, a little fellow of ten years old, to fight my own battles with the world! My place, I found, was one of the lowest in the firm of Murdstone & Grinby, with boys of no education and in quite an inferior station to myself--my duties were to wash the bottles, stick on labels, and so on. I was utterly miserable at being degraded in this way, when I thought of my former companions, Steerforth and Traddles, and my hopes of becoming a learned and famous man, and shed bitter tears, as I feared I would forget all I had learnt at school. My lodging, one bare little room, was in the house of some people named Micawber, shiftless, careless, good-natured people, who were always in debt and difficulties. I felt great pity for their misfortunes and did what I could to help poor Mrs. Micawber to sell her books and other little things she could spare, to buy food for herself, her husband, and their four children. I was too young and childish to know how to provide properly for myself, and often found I was obliged to live on bread and slices of cold pudding at the end of the week. If I had not been a very innocent-minded, good little boy, I might easily have fallen into bad ways at this time. But God took care of me and kept me from harm. I would not even tell Peggotty how miserable I was, for fear of distressing her. The troubles of the Micawbers increased more and more, until at last they were obliged to leave London. I was very sad at this, for I had been with them so long that I felt they were my friends, and the prospect of being once more utterly alone and having to find a lodging with strangers, made me so unhappy that I determined to endure this sort of life no longer. The last Sunday the Micawbers were in town I dined with them. I had bought a spotted horse for their little boy and a doll for the little girl, and had saved up a shilling for the poor servant-girl. After I had seen them off the next morning by the coach, I wrote to Peggotty to ask her if she knew where my aunt, Miss Betsy Trotwood, lived, and to borrow half-a-guinea; for I had resolved to run away from Murdstone & Grinby's, and go to this aunt and tell her my story. I remembered my mother telling me of her visit when I was a baby, and that she fancied Miss Betsy had stroked her hair gently, and this gave me courage to appeal to her. Peggotty wrote, enclosing the half-guinea, and saying she only knew Miss Trotwood lived near Dover, but whether in that place itself, or at Folkestone, Sandgate, or Hythe, she could not tell. Hearing that all these places were close together, I made up my mind to start. As I had received my week's wages in advance, I waited till the following Saturday, thinking it would not be honest to go before. I went out to look for someone to carry my box to the coach office, and unfortunately hired a wicked young man who not only ran off with the box, but robbed me of my half-guinea, leaving me in dire distress. In despair, I started off to walk to Dover, and was forced to sell my waistcoat to buy some bread. The first night I found my way to my old school at Blackheath, and slept on a haystack close by, feeling some comfort in the thought of the boys being near. I knew Steerforth had left, or I would have tried to see him. On I trudged the next day and sold my jacket at Chatham to a dreadful old man, who kept me waiting all day for the money, which was only one shilling and fourpence. I was afraid to buy anything but bread or to spend any money on a bed or a shelter for the night, and was terribly frightened by some rough tramps, who threw stones at me when I did not answer to their calls. After six days, I arrived at Dover, ragged, dusty, and half-dead with hunger and fatigue. But here, at first, I could get no tidings of my aunt, and, in despair, was going to try some of the other places Peggotty had mentioned, when the driver of a fly dropped his horsecloth, and as I was handing it up to him, I saw something kind in the man's face that encouraged me to ask once more if he knew where Miss Trotwood lived. The man directed me towards some houses on the heights, and thither I toiled. Going into a little shop, I by chance met with Miss Trotwood's maid, who showed me the house, and went in leaving me standing at the gate, a forlorn little creature, without a jacket or waistcoat, my white hat crushed out of shape, my shoes worn out, my shirt and trousers torn and stained, my pretty curly hair tangled, my face and hands sunburnt and covered with dust. Lifting my eyes to one of the windows above, I saw a pleasant-faced gentleman with gray hair, who nodded at me several times, then shook his head and went away. I was just turning away to think what I should do, when a tall, erect elderly lady, with a gardening apron on and a knife in her hand, came out of the house, and began to dig up a root in the garden. "Go away," she said. "Go away. No boys here." But I felt desperate. Going in softly, I stood beside her, and touched her with my finger, and said timidly, "If you please, ma'am--" and when she looked up, I went on-- "Please, aunt, I am your nephew." "Oh, Lord!" she exclaimed in astonishment, and sat flat down on the path, staring at me, while I went on-- "I am David Copperfield of Blunderstone, in Suffolk, where you came the night I was born, and saw my dear mamma. I have been very unhappy since she died. I have been neglected and taught nothing, and thrown upon myself, and put to work not fit for me. It made me run away to you. I was robbed at first starting out and have walked all the way, and have never slept in a bed since I began the journey." Here I broke into a passion of crying, and my aunt jumped up and took me into the house, where she opened a cupboard and took out some bottles, pouring some of the contents of each into my mouth, not noticing in her agitation what they were, for I fancied I tasted anise-seed water, anchovy sauce, and salad dressing! Then she put me on the sofa and sent the servant to ask "Mr. Dick" to come down. The gentleman whom I had seen at the window came in and was told by Miss Trotwood who the ragged little object on the sofa was, and she finished by saying-- "Now here you see young David Copperfield, and the question is what shall I do with him?" "Do with him?" answered Mr. Dick. Then, after some consideration, and looking at me, he said, "Well, if I was you, I should wash him!" Miss Trotwood was quite pleased at this, and a warm bath was got ready at once, after which I was dressed in a shirt and trousers belonging to Mr. Dick (for Janet had burnt my rags), rolled up in several shawls, and put on the sofa till dinner-time, where I slept, and woke with the impression that my aunt had come and put my hair off my face, and murmured, "Pretty fellow, poor fellow." After dinner I had to tell my story all over again to my aunt and Mr. Dick. Miss Trotwood again asked Mr. Dick's advice, and was delighted when that gentleman suggested I should be put to bed. I knelt down to say my prayers that night in a pleasant room facing the sea, and as I lay in the clean, snow-white bed, I felt so grateful and comforted that I prayed earnestly I might never be homeless again, and might never forget the homeless. The next morning my aunt told me she had written to Mr. Murdstone. I was alarmed to think that my step-father knew where I was, and exclaimed-- "Oh, I don't know what I shall do if I have to go back to Mr. Murdstone!" But my aunt said nothing of her intentions, and I was uncertain what was to become of me. I hoped she might befriend me. At last Mr. and Miss Murdstone arrived. To Miss Betsy's great indignation, Miss Murdstone rode a donkey across the green in front of the house, and stopped at the gate. Nothing made Miss Trotwood so angry as to see donkeys on that green, and I had already seen several battles between my aunt or Janet and the donkey boys. After driving away the donkey and the boy who had dared to bring it there, Miss Trotwood received her visitors. She kept me near her, fenced in with a chair. Mr. Murdstone told Miss Betsy that I was a very bad, stubborn, violent-tempered boy, whom he had tried to improve, but could not succeed; that he had put me in a respectable business from which I had run away. If Miss Trotwood chose to protect and encourage me now, she must do it always, for he had come to fetch me away from there and then, and if I was ready to come, and Miss Trotwood did not wish to give me up to be dealt with exactly as Mr. Murdstone liked, he would cast me off for always, and have no more to do with me. "Are you ready to go, David?" asked my aunt. But I answered no, and begged and prayed her for my father's sake to befriend and protect me, for neither Mr. nor Miss Murdstone had ever liked me or been kind to me and had made my mamma, who always loved me dearly, very unhappy about me, and I had been very miserable. "Mr. Dick," said Miss Trotwood, "what shall I do with this child?" Mr. Dick considered. "Have him measured for a suit of clothes directly." "Mr. Dick," said Miss Trotwood, "your common sense is invaluable." Then she pulled me towards her, and said to Mr. Murdstone, "You can go when you like. I'll take my chance with the boy. If he's all you say he is I can at least do as much for him as you have done. But I don't believe a word of it." Then she told Mr. Murdstone what she thought of the way he had treated me and my mother, which did not make that gentleman feel very comfortable, and finished by turning to Miss Murdstone and saying-- "Good-day to you, too, ma'am, and if I ever see you ride a donkey across my green again, as sure as you have a head upon your shoulders, I'll knock your bonnet off and tread upon it!" This startled Miss Murdstone so much that she went off quite quietly with her brother, while I, overjoyed, threw my arms round my aunt's neck, and kissed and thanked her with great heartiness. Some clothes were bought for me that same day and marked "Trotwood Copperfield," for my aunt wished to call me by her name. Now I felt my troubles were over, and I began quite a new life, well cared for and kindly treated. I was sent to a very nice school in Canterbury, where my aunt left me with these words, which I never forgot: "Trot, be a credit to yourself, to me, and Mr. Dick, and heaven be with you. Never be mean in anything, never be false, never be cruel. Avoid these three vices, Trot, and I shall always be hopeful of you?" I did my best to show my gratitude to my dear aunt by studying hard, and trying to be all she could wish. When you are older you can read how Little David Copperfield grew up to be a good, clever man, and met again all his old friends, and made many new ones. Also, what became of Steerforth, Traddles, the Peggottys, little Em'ly, and the Micawbers. VIII. JENNY WREN. WALKING into the city one holiday, a great many years ago, a gentleman ran up the steps of a tall house in the neighborhood of St. Mary Axe. The lower windows were those of a counting-house but the blinds, like those of the entire front of the house, were drawn down. The gentleman knocked and rang several times before any one came, but at last an old man opened the door. "What were you up to that you did not hear me?" said Mr. Fledgeby irritably. "I was taking the air at the top of the house, sir," said the old man meekly, "it being a holiday. What might you please to want, sir?" "Humph! Holiday indeed," grumbled his master, who was a toy merchant amongst other things. He then seated himself in the counting-house and gave the old man--a Jew and Riah by name--directions about the dressing of some dolls about which he had come to speak, and, as he rose to go, exclaimed-- [Illustration: "Seated on the Crystal Carpet Were Two Girls." Page 179] "By-the-by, how _do_ you take the air? Do you stick your head out of a chimney-pot?" "No, sir, I have made a little garden on the leads." "Let's look it at," said Mr. Fledgeby. "Sir, I have company there," returned Riah hesitating, "but will you please come up and see them?" Mr. Fledgeby nodded, and, passing his master with a bow, the old man led the way up flight after flight of stairs, till they arrived at the house-top. Seated on a carpet, and leaning against a chimney-stack, were two girls bending over books. Some humble creepers were trained round the chimney-pots, and evergreens were placed round the roof, and a few more books, a basket of gaily colored scraps, and bits of tinsel, and another of common print stuff lay near. One of the girls rose on seeing that Riah had brought a visitor, but the other remarked, "I'm the person of the house down-stairs, but I can't get up, whoever you are, because my back is bad and my legs are queer." "This is my master," said Riah, speaking to the two girls, "and this," he added, turning to Mr. Fledgeby, "is Miss Jenny Wren; she lives in this house, and is a clever little dressmaker for little people. Her friend Lizzie," continued Riah, introducing the second girl. "They are good girls, both, and as busy as they are good; in spare moments they come up here and take to book learning." "We are glad to come up here for rest, sir," said Lizzie, with a grateful look at the old Jew. "No one can tell the rest what this place is to us." "Humph!" said Mr. Fledgeby, looking round, "Humph!" He was so much surprised that apparently he couldn't get beyond that word, and as he went down again the old chimney-pots in their black cowls seemed to turn round and look after him as if they were saying "Humph" too. Lizzie, the elder of these two girls, was strong and handsome, but little Jenny Wren, whom she so loved and protected, was small and deformed, though she had a beautiful little face, and the longest and loveliest golden hair in the world, which fell about her like a cloak of shining curls, as though to hide the poor little mis-shapen figure. The Jew Riah, as well as Lizzie, was always kind and gentle to Jenny Wren, who called him her godfather. She had a father, who shared her poor little rooms, whom she called her child; for he was a bad, drunken, worthless old man, and the poor girl had to care for him, and earn money to keep them both. She suffered a great deal, for the poor little bent back always ached sadly, and was often weary from constant work but it was only on rare occasions, when alone or with her friend Lizzie, who often brought her work and sat in Jenny's room, that the brave child ever complained of her hard lot. Sometimes the two girls Jenny helping herself along with a crutch, would go and walk about the fashionable streets, in order to note how the grand folks were dressed. As they walked along, Jenny would tell her friend of the fancies she had when sitting alone at her work. "I imagine birds till I can hear them sing," she said one day, "and flowers till I can smell them. And oh! the beautiful children that come to me in the early mornings! They are quite different to other children, not like me, never cold, or anxious, or tired, or hungry, never any pain; they come in numbers, in long bright slanting rows, all dressed in white, and with shiny heads. 'Who is this in pain?' they say, and they sweep around and about me, take me up in their arms, and I feel so light, and all the pain goes. I know when they are coming a long way off, by hearing them say, 'Who is this in pain?' and I answer, 'Oh my blessed children, it's poor me! have pity on me, and take me up and then the pain will go." Lizzie sat stroking and brushing the beautiful hair, whilst the tired little dressmaker leant against her when they were at home again, and as she kissed her good-night, a miserable old man stumbled into the room. "How's my Jenny Wren, best of children?" he mumbled, as he shuffled unsteadily towards her, but Jenny pointed her small finger towards him, exclaiming--"Go along with you, you bad, wicked old child, you troublesome, wicked old thing, _I_ know where you have been, _I_ know your tricks and your manners." The wretched man began to whimper like a scolded child. "Slave, slave, slave, from morning to night," went on Jenny, still shaking her finger at him, "and all for this; ain't you ashamed of yourself, you disgraceful boy?" "Yes; my dear, yes," stammered the tipsy old father, tumbling into a corner. Thus was the poor little dolls' dressmaker dragged down day by day by the very hands that should have cared for and held her up; poor, poor little dolls' dressmaker! One day when Jenny was on her way home with Riah, who had accompanied her on one of her walks to the West End, they came on a small crowd of people. A tipsy man had been knocked down and badly hurt. "Let us see what it is!" said Jenny, coming swiftly forward on her crutches. The next moment she exclaimed--"Oh, gentlemen--gentlemen, he is my child, he belongs to me, my poor, bad old child!" "Your child--belongs to you," repeated the man who was about to lift the helpless figure on to a stretcher, which had been brought for the purpose. "Aye, it's old Dolls--tipsy old Dolls," cried someone in the crowd, for it was by this name that they knew the old man. "He's her father, sir," said Riah in a low tone to the doctor who was now bending over the stretcher. "So much the worse," answered the doctor, "for the man is dead." Yes, "Mr. Dolls" was dead, and many were the dresses which the weary fingers of the sorrowful little worker must make in order to pay for his humble funeral and buy a black frock for herself. Riah sat by her in her poor room, saying a word of comfort now and then, and Lizzie came and went, and did all manner of little things to help her; but often the tears rolled down on to her work. "My poor child," she said to Riah, "my poor old child, and to think I scolded him so." "You were always a good, brave, patient girl," returned Riah, smiling a little over her quaint fancy about her _child_, "always good and patient, however tired." And so the poor little "person of the house" was left alone but for the faithful affection of the kind Jew and her friend Lizzie. Her room grew pretty and comfortable, for she was in great request in her "profession," as she called it, and there were now no one to spend and waste her earnings. But nothing could make her life otherwise than a suffering one till the happy morning when her child-angels visited her for the last time and carried her away to the land where all such pain as hers is healed for evermore. [Illustration: "Keep Still, You Little Imp, or I'll Cut Your Throat." Page 185] IX. PIP'S ADVENTURE ALL that little Philip Pirrip, usually called Pip, knew about his father and mother, and his five little brothers, was from seeing their tombstones in the churchyard. He was cared for by his sister, who was twenty years older than himself. She had married a blacksmith, named Joe Gargery, a kind, good man, while she, unfortunately, was a hard, stern woman, and treated her little brother and her amiable husband with great harshness. They lived in a marshy part of the country, about twenty miles from the sea. One cold, raw day towards evening, when Pip was about six years old, he had wandered into the churchyard, and was trying to make out what he could of the inscriptions on his family tombstones. The darkness was coming on, and feeling very lonely and frightened, he began to cry. "Hold your noise!" cried a terrible voice; and a man started up from among the graves close to him. "Keep still, you little imp, or I'll cut your throat!" He was a dreadful looking man, dressed in coarse gray cloth, with a great iron on his leg. Wet, muddy, and miserable, he limped and shivered, and glared and growled; his teeth chattered in his head, as he seized Pip, by the chin. "Oh! don't cut my throat, sir," cried Pip, in terror. "Pray don't do it, sir." "Tell us your name!" said the man. "Quick!" "Pip, sir." "Once more," said the man, staring at him, "Give it mouth." "Pip. Pip, sir." "Show us where you live," said the man. "Point out the place." Pip showed him the village, about a mile or more from the church. The man looked at him for a moment, and then turned him upside down and emptied his pockets. He found nothing in them but a piece of bread, which he ate ravenously. "You young dog," said the man, licking his lips, "what fat cheeks you ha' got.... Darn me if I couldn't eat 'em, and if I han't half a mind to!" Pip said earnestly that he hoped he would not. "Now lookee here," said the man. "Where's your mother?" "There sir," said Pip. At this the man started and seemed about to run away, but stopped and looked over his shoulder. "There, sir," explained Pip, showing him the tombstone. "Oh, and is that your father along of your mother?" "Yes, sir," said Pip. "Ha!" muttered the man, "then who d'ye live with--supposin' you're kindly let to live, which I han't made up my mind about?" "My sister, sir, Mrs. Joe Gargery, wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir." "Blacksmith, eh?" said the man, and looked down at his leg. Then he seized the trembling little boy by both arms, and glaring down at him, he said-- "Now lookee here, the question being whether you're to be let to live. You know what a file is?" "Yes, sir." "And you know what wittles is. Something to eat?" "Yes, sir." "You get me a file, and you get me wittles--you bring 'em both to me." All this time he was tilting poor Pip backwards till he was so dreadfully frightened and giddy that he clung to the man with both hands. "You bring me, to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles. You do it, and you never dare to say a word or dare to make a sign concerning your having seen such a person as me, or any person sumever, and you shall be let to live." Then he threatened all sorts of dreadful and terrible things to poor Pip if he failed to do all he had commanded, and made him solemnly promise to bring him what he wanted, and to keep the secret. Then he let him go, saying, "You remember what you've undertook, and you get home." "Goo--good-night, sir," faltered Pip. "Much of that!" said he, glancing over the cold wet flat. "I wish I was a frog or a eel!" Pip ran home without stopping. Joe was sitting in the chimney-corner, and told him Mrs. Joe had been out to look for him, and taken Tickler with her. Tickler was a cane, and Pip was rather downhearted by this piece of news. Mrs. Joe came in almost directly, and, after having given Pip a taste of Tickler, she sat down to prepare the tea, and, cutting a huge slice of bread and butter, she gave half of it to Joe and half to Pip. Pip managed, after some time, to slip his down the leg of his trousers, and Joe, thinking he had swallowed it, was dreadfully alarmed and begged him not to bolt his food like that. "Pip, old chap, you'll do yourself a mischief--it'll stick somewhere, you can't have chewed it, Pip. You know, Pip, you and me is always friends and I'd be the last one to tell upon you any time, but such a--such a most uncommon bolt as that." "Been bolting his food, has he?" cried Mrs. Joe. "You know, old chap," said Joe. "I bolted myself when I was your age--frequent--and as a boy I've been among a many bolters; but I never see your bolting equal yet, Pip, and it's a mercy you ain't bolted dead." Mrs. Joe made a dive at Pip, fished him up by the hair, saying, "You come along and be dosed." It was Christmas eve, and Pip had to stir the pudding from seven to eight, and found the bread and butter dreadfully in his way. At last he slipped out and put it away in his little bedroom. Poor Pip passed a wretched night, thinking of the dreadful promise he had made, and as soon as it was beginning to get light outside he got up and crept down-stairs, fancying that every board creaked out "Stop thief!" and "Get up, Mrs. Joe!" As quickly as he could, he took some bread, some rind of cheese, about half a jar of mince-meat, which he tied up in a handkerchief, with the slice of bread and butter, some brandy from a stone bottle, a meat-bone with very little on it, and a pork-pipe, which he found on an upper shelf. Then he got a file from among Joe's tools, and ran for the marshes. It was a very misty morning, and Pip imagined that all the cattle stared at him, as if to say, "Halloa, young thief!" and one black ox with a white cravat on, that made Pip think of a clergyman, looked so accusingly at him, that Pip blubbered out, "I couldn't help it, sir! It wasn't for myself I took it." Upon which the ox put down his head, blew a cloud of smoke out of his nose, and vanished with a kick-up of his hind legs and a flourish of his tail. Pip was soon at the place of meeting after that, and there was the man--hugging himself and limping to and fro, as if he had never all night left off hugging and limping. He was awfully cold, to be sure. Pip half expected to see him drop down before his face and die of cold. His eyes looked so awfully hungry, too, that when Pip handed him the file it occurred to him he would have tried to eat it, if he had not seen the bundle. He did not turn Pip upside down, this time, to get at what he had, but left him right side upward while he opened the bundle and emptied his pockets. "What's in the bottle, boy?" said he. "Brandy," said Pip. He was already handing mince-pie down his throat in the most curious manner, more like a man who was putting it away somewhere in a violent hurry than a man who was eating it--but he left off to take some of the liquor, shivering all the while so violently that it was quite as much as he could do to keep the neck of the bottle between his teeth. "I think you have got the chills," said Pip. "I'm much of your opinion, boy," said he. "It's bad about here. You've been lying out on the marshes, and they're dreadful for the chills. Rheumatic, too." "I'll eat my breakfast before they're the death of me," said he. "I'd do that, if I was going to be strung up to that there gallows as there is over there directly arterward. I'll beat the shivers so far, I'll bet you a guinea." He was gobbling mince-meat, meat-bone, bread, cheese, and pork-pie all at once, staring distrustfully while he did so at the mist all round, and often stopping--even stopping his jaws--to listen. Some real or fancied sound, some clink upon the river or breathing of beasts upon the marsh, now gave him a start, and he said, suddenly: "You're not a false imp? You brought no one with you?" "No, sir! No!" "Nor told nobody to follow you?" "No!" "Well," said he, "I believe you. You'd be but a fierce young hound indeed, if at your time of life you should help to hunt a wretched warmint, hunted as near death and dunghill as this poor wretched warmint is!" Something clicked in his throat, as if he had works in him like a clock, and was going to strike. And he smeared his ragged, rough sleeve over his eyes. Pitying his desolation, and watching him as he gradually settled down upon the pie, Pip made bold to say, "I am glad you enjoy it." "Did you speak?" "I said I was glad you enjoyed it." "Thankee, my boy--. I do." Pip had often watched a large dog eating his food; and he now noticed a decided similarity between the dog's way of eating and the man's. The man took strong, sharp, sudden bites, just like the dog. He swallowed, or rather snapped up, every mouthful too soon and too fast; and he looked sideways here and there while he ate, as if he thought there was danger of somebody's coming to take the pie away. He was altogether too unsettled in his mind over it to enjoy it comfortably, Pip thought, or to have anybody to dine with him, without making a chop with his jaws at the visitor. In all of which particulars he was very like the dog. Pip watched him trying to file the iron off his leg, and then being afraid of stopping longer away from home, he ran off. Pip passed a wretched morning, expecting every moment that the disappearance of the pie would be found out. But Mrs. Joe was too much taken up with preparing the dinner, for they were expecting visitors, and were to have a superb dinner, consisting of a leg of pickled pork and greens, and a pair of roast stuffed fowls, a mince-pie, and a pudding. Just at the end of the dinner Pip thought his time had come to be found out, for his sister said graciously to her guests-- "You must taste a most delightful and delicious present I have had. It's a pie, a savory pork-pie." Pip could bear it no longer, and ran for the door, and there ran head foremost into a party of soldiers with their muskets, one of whom held out a pair of handcuffs to him, saying, "Here you are, look sharp, come on." But they had not come for him, they only wanted Joe to mend the handcuffs, for they were on the search for two convicts who had escaped and were somewhere hid in the marshes. This turned the attention of Mrs. Joe from the disappearance of the pie, without which she had come back, in great astonishment. When the handcuffs were mended the soldiers went off, accompanied by Joe and one of the visitors, and Joe took Pip and carried him on his back. Pip whispered, "I hope, Joe, we shan't find them," and Joe answered, "I'd give a shilling if they had cut and run, Pip." But the soldiers soon caught them, and one was the wretched man who had talked with Pip; and once when he looked at Pip, the child shook his head to try and let him know he had said nothing. But the convict, without looking at anyone, told the sergeant he wanted to say something to prevent other people being under suspicion, and said he had taken some "wittles" from the blacksmith's. "It was some broken wittles, that's what it was, and a dram of liquor, and a pie." "Have you happened to miss such an article as a pie, blacksmith?" inquired the sergeant. "My wife did, at the very moment when you came in. Don't you know, Pip?" "So," said the convict, looking at Joe, "you're the blacksmith, are you? Then, I'm sorry to say, I've eat your pie." "God knows you're welcome to it," said Joe. "We don't know what you have done, but we wouldn't have you starved to death for it, poor miserable fellow-creature. Would us, Pip?" Then the boat came, and the convicts were taken back to their prison, and Joe carried Pip home. * * * * * Some years after, some mysterious friend sent money for Pip to be educated and brought up as a gentleman; but it was only when Pip was quite grown up that he discovered this mysterious friend was the wretched convict who had frightened him so dreadfully that cold, dark Christmas eve. He had been sent to a far away land, and there had grown rich; but he never forgot the little boy who had been kind to him. X. TODGERS'. THIS is the story of a visit made by Mr. Pecksniff, a very pompous man, and his two daughters Miss Mercy and Miss Charity, to the boarding-house kept by Mrs. Todgers, in London; and a call while there on Miss Pinch, a governess or young lady teaching in a rich family. Mr. Pecksniff with his two beautiful young daughters looked about him for a moment, and then knocked at the door of a very dingy building, even among the choice collection of dingy houses around, on the front of which was a little oval board, like a tea-tray, with this inscription--"Commercial Boarding-house: M. Todgers." It seemed that M. Todgers was not up yet, for Mr. Pecksniff knocked twice and rang three times without making any impression on anything but a dog over the way. At last a chain and some bolts were withdrawn with a rusty noise, and a small boy with a large red head, and no nose to speak of, and a very dirty boot on his left arm, appeared; who (being surprised) rubbed the nose just mentioned with the back of a shoe-brush, and said nothing. "Still abed, my man?" asked Mr. Pecksniff. "Still abed!" replied the boy. "I wish they was still abed. They're very noisy abed; all calling for their boots at once. I thought you was the paper, and wondered why you didn't shove yourself through the grating as usual. What do you want?" Considering his years, which were tender, the youth may be said to have asked this question sternly, and in something of a defiant manner. But Mr. Pecksniff, without taking offense at his bearing, put a card in his hand, and bade him take that up-stairs, and show them in the meanwhile into a room where there was a fire. Surely there never was, in any other borough, city, or hamlet, in the world, such a singular sort of a place as Todgers'. And surely London, to judge from that part of it which hemmed Todgers' round, and hustled it, and crushed it, and stuck its brick-and-mortar elbows into it, and kept the air from it, and stood perpetually between it and the light, was worthy of Todgers'. There were more trucks near Todgers' than you would suppose a whole city could ever need; not trucks at work but a vagabond race, forever lounging in the narrow lanes before their masters' doors and stopping up the pass; so that when a stray hackney-coach or lumbering wagon came that way, they were the cause of such an uproar as enlivened the whole neighborhood, and made the very bells in the next church-tower ring again. In the narrow dark streets near Todgers', wine-merchants and wholesale dealers in grocery-ware had perfect little towns of their own; and, deep among the very foundations of these buildings, the ground was undermined and burrowed out into stables, where cart-horses, troubled by rats, might be heard on a quiet Sunday, rattling their halters, as disturbed spirits in tales of haunted houses are said to clank their chains. To tell of half the queer old taverns that had a drowsy and secret existence near Todgers' would fill a goodly book; while a second volume no less in size might be given to an account of the quaint old guests who frequented their dimly-lighted parlors. The top of the house was worthy of notice. There was a sort of terrace on the roof, with posts and fragments of rotten lines, once intended to dry clothes upon; and there were two or three tea-chests out there, full of earth, with forgotten plants in them, like old walking-sticks. Whoever climbed to this observatory was stunned at first from having knocked his head against the little door in coming out; and, after that, was for the moment choked from having looked, perforce, straight down the kitchen chimney; but these two stages over, there were things to gaze at from the top of Todgers', well worth your seeing, too. For, first and foremost, if the day were bright, you observed upon the house-tops, stretching far away, a long dark path--the shadow of the tall Monument which stands in memory of the great fire in London many years before: and turning round, the Monument itself was close beside you, with every hair erect upon his golden head, as if the doings of the city frightened him. Then there were steeples, towers, belfries, shining vanes and masts of ships, a very forest. Gables, house-tops, garret-windows, wilderness upon wilderness. Smoke and noise enough for all the world at once. After the first glance, there were slight features in the midst of this crowd of objects, which sprung out from the mass without any reason, as it were, and took hold of the attention whether the spectator would or no. Thus, the revolving chimney-pots on one great stack of buildings seemed to be turning gravely to each other every now and then, and whispering the result of their separate observation of what was going on below. Others, of a crooked-back shape, appeared to be maliciously holding themselves askew, that they might shut the prospect out and baffle Todgers'. The man who was mending a pen at an upper window over the way became of vast importance in the scene, and made a blank in it, ridiculously large in its size, when he went away. The fluttering of a piece of cloth upon the dyer's pole had far more interest for the moment than all the changing motion of the crowd. Yet even while the looker-on felt angry with himself for this, and wondered how it was the tumult swelled into a roar; the hosts of objects seemed to thicken and expand a hundredfold; and after gazing round him, quite scared, he turned into Todgers' again, much more rapidly than he came out; and ten to one he told M. Todgers afterwards that if he hadn't done so, he would certainly have come into the street by the shortest cut: that is to say, head-foremost. So said the two Miss Pecksniffs, when they came down with Mrs. Todgers from the roof of the house; leaving the youthful porter to close the door and follow them down-stairs: who being of a playful temperament, and contemplating with a delight peculiar to his sex and time of life any chance of dashing himself into small fragments, lingered behind to walk upon the wall around the roof. It was the second day of their stay in London, and by this time the Misses Pecksniff and Mrs. Todgers were becoming very friendly, insomuch that the last-named lady had already told the story of three early disappointments in love; and had furthermore given her young friends a general account of the life, conduct, and character of Mr. Todgers: who, it seemed, had cut his life as a husband rather short, by unlawfully running away from his happiness, and staying for a time in foreign countries as a bachelor. "Your pa was once a little particular in his attentions, my dears," said Mrs. Todgers, "but to be your ma was too much happiness denied me. You'd hardly know who this was done for, perhaps?" She called their attention to an oval miniature, like a little blister, which was tacked up over the kettle-holder, and in which there was a dreamy shadowing forth of her own visage. "It's a speaking likeness!" cried the two Misses Pecksniff. "It was considered so once," said Mrs. Todgers, warming herself in a gentlemanly manner at the fire: "but I hardly thought you would have known it, my loves." They would have known it anywhere. If they could have met with it in the street or seen it in a shop-window, they would have cried, "Good gracious! Mrs. Todgers!" "Being in charge of a boarding-house like this makes sad havoc with the features, my dear Misses Pecksniff," said Mrs. Todgers. "The gravy alone is enough to add twenty years to one's age, I do assure you." "Lor!" cried the two Misses Pecksniff. "The anxiety of that one thing, my dears," said Mrs. Todgers, "keeps the mind continually upon the stretch. There is no such passion in human nature as the passion for gravy among business men. It's nothing to say a joint won't yield--a whole animal wouldn't yield--the amount of gravy they expect each day at dinner. And what I have undergone in consequence," cried Mrs. Todgers, raising her eyes and shaking her head, "no one would believe!" "Just like Mr. Pinch, Mercy!" said Charity. "We have always noticed it in him, you remember?" "Yes, my dear," giggled Mercy, "but we have never given it him, you know." Mr. Pecksniff kept what was called a school for architects, and Tom Pinch was one of his students. "You, my dears, having to deal with your pa's pupils who can't help themselves, are able to take your own way," said Mrs. Todgers, "but in a boarding-house, where any gentleman may say, any Saturday evening, 'Mrs. Todgers, this day week we part, in consequence of the cheese,' it is not so easy to preserve a pleasant understanding. Your pa was kind enough," added the good lady, "to invite me to take a ride with you to-day; and I think he mentioned that you were going to call upon Miss Pinch. Any relation to the gentleman you were speaking of just now, Miss Pecksniff?" "For goodness' sake, Mrs. Todgers," interposed the lively Mercy, "don't call him a gentleman. My dear Cherry, Pinch a gentleman! The idea!" "What a wicked girl you are!" cried Mrs. Todgers, embracing her with great affection. "You are quite a joker, I do declare! My dear Miss Pecksniff, what a happiness your sister's spirits must be to your pa and self!" "That Pinch is the most hideous, goggle-eyed creature, Mrs. Todgers, in existence," resumed Mercy: "quite an ogre. The ugliest, awkwardest, frightfullest being, you can imagine. This is his sister, so I leave you to suppose what _she_ is. I shall be obliged to laugh outright, I know I shall!" cried the charming girl. "I never shall be able to keep my face straight. The notion of a Miss Pinch really living at all is sufficient to kill one, but to see her--oh my stars!" Mrs. Todgers laughed immensely at the dear love's humor, and declared she was quite afraid of her, that she was. She was so very severe. "Who is severe?" cried a voice at the door. "There is no such thing as severity in our family, I hope!" And then Mr. Pecksniff peeped smilingly into the room, and said, "May I come in, Mrs. Todgers?" Mrs. Todgers almost screamed, for the little door between that room and the inner one being wide open, there was a full showing of the sofa-bedstead open as a bed, and not closed as a sofa. But she had the presence of mind to close it in the twinkling of an eye; and having done so, said, though not without confusion, "Oh yes, Mr. Pecksniff, you can come in if you please." "How are we to-day," said Mr. Pecksniff, jocosely; "and what are our plans? Are we ready to go and see Tom Pinch's sister? Ha, ha, ha! Poor Thomas Pinch!" "Are we ready," returned Mrs. Todgers, nodding her head in a mysterious manner, "to send a favorable reply to Mr. Jinkins' round-robin?[D] That's the first question, Mr. Pecksniff." "Why Mr. Jinkins' robin, my dear madam?" asked Mr. Pecksniff, putting one arm round Mercy and the other round Mrs. Todgers, whom he seemed for the moment, to mistake for Charity. "Why Mr. Jinkins'?" "Because he began to get it up, and indeed always takes the lead in the house," said Mrs. Todgers, playfully. "That's why, sir." "Jinkins is a man of superior talents," observed Mr. Pecksniff. "I have formed a great regard for Jinkins. I take Jinkins' desire to pay polite attention to my daughters as an additional proof of the friendly feelings of Jinkins, Mrs. Todgers." "Well now," returned the lady, "having said so much, you must say the rest, Mr. Pecksniff: so tell the dear young ladies all about it." With these words, she gently drew away from Mr. Pecksniff's grasp, and took Miss Charity into her own embrace; though whether she was led to this act solely by the affection she had conceived for that young lady, or whether it had any reference to a lowering, not to say distinctly spiteful expression which had been visible in her face for some moments, has never been exactly ascertained. Be this as it may, Mr. Pecksniff went on to inform his daughters of the purpose and history of the round-robin aforesaid, which was, in brief, that the young men who helped to make up the sum and substance of that company, called Todgers', desired the honor of their presence at the general table so long as they remained in the house, and besought that they would grace the board at dinner-time next day, the same being Sunday. He further said that, Mrs. Todgers having consented to this invitation, he was willing, for his part, to accept it; and so left them that he might write his gracious answer, the while they armed themselves with their best bonnets for the utter defeat and overthrow of Miss Pinch. Tom Pinch's sister was governess in a family, a lofty family; perhaps the wealthiest brass and copper founder's family known to mankind. They lived at Camberwell; in a house so big and fierce that its mere outside, like the outside of a giant's castle, struck terror into vulgar minds and made bold persons quail. There was a great front gate, with a great bell, whose handle was in itself a note of admiration; and a great lodge, which, being close to the house, rather spoiled the look-out certainly, but made the look-in tremendous. At this entry, a great porter kept constant watch and ward; and when he gave the visitor high leave to pass, he rang a second great bell, answering to whose notes a great footman appeared in due time at the great hall-door with such great tags upon his liveried shoulders that he was perpetually entangling and hooking himself among the chairs and tables and led a life of torment which could scarcely have been surpassed if he had been a blue-bottle in a world of cobwebs. To this mansion, Mr. Pecksniff, accompanied by his daughters and Mrs. Todgers, drove gallantly in a one-horse fly. The foregoing ceremonies having been all performed, they were ushered into the house, and so, by degrees, they got at last into a small room with books in it, where Mr. Pinch's sister was at that moment instructing her eldest pupil: to wit, a little woman thirteen years old, who had already arrived at such a pitch of whalebone and education that she had nothing girlish about her; which was a source of great rejoicing to all her relations and friends. "Visitors for Miss Pinch!" said the footman. He must have been an ingenious young man, for he said it very cleverly; with a nice distinction in his manner between the cold respect with which he would have announced visitors to the family and the warm personal interest with which he would have announced visitors to the cook. "Visitors for Miss Pinch!" Miss Pinch rose hastily with such tokens of agitation as plainly declared that her list of callers was not numerous. At the same time, the little pupil became alarmingly upright, and prepared herself to take notice of all that might be said and done. For the lady of the establishment was curious in the natural history and habits of the animal called Governess, and encouraged her daughters to report thereon whenever occasion served; which was, in reference to all parties concerned, very proper, improving, and pleasant. It is a melancholy fact, but it must be related, that Mr. Pinch's sister was not at all ugly. On the contrary, she had a good face--a very mild and friendly face; and a pretty little figure--slight and short, but remarkable for its neatness. There was something of her brother, much of him indeed, in a certain gentleness of manner, and in her look of timid truthfulness; but she was so far from being a fright, or a dowdy, or a horror, or anything else predicted by the two Misses Pecksniff, that those young ladies naturally regarded her with great indignation, feeling that this was by no means what they had come to see. Miss Mercy, as having the larger share of gayety, bore up the best against this disappointment, and carried it off, in outward show at least, with a titter; but her sister, not caring to hide her disdain, expressed it pretty openly in her looks. As to Mrs. Todgers, she leaned on Mr. Pecksniff's arm and preserved a kind of genteel grimness, suitable to any state of mind, and involving any shade of opinion. "Don't be alarmed, Miss Pinch," said Mr. Pecksniff, taking her hand condescendingly in one of his, and patting it with the other. "I have called to see you, in pursuance of a promise given to your brother, Thomas Pinch. My name--compose yourself, Miss Pinch--is Pecksniff." The good man spoke these words as though he would have said, "You see in me, young person, the friend of your race; the patron of your house; the preserver of your brother, who is fed with manna daily from my table; and in right of whom there is a considerable balance in my favor at present standing in the books beyond the sky. But I have no pride, for I can afford to do without it!" The poor girl felt it all as if it had been Gospel Truth. Her brother, writing in the fullness of his simple heart, had often told her so, and how much more! As Mr. Pecksniff ceased to speak, she hung her head, and dropped a tear upon his hand. "Oh, very well, Miss Pinch!" thought the sharp pupil, "crying before strangers as if you didn't like the situation!" "Thomas is well," said Mr. Pecksniff; "and sends his love and this letter. I cannot say, poor fellow, that he will ever become great in our profession; but he has the will to do well, which is the next thing to having the power; and, therefore, we must bear with him. Eh?" "I know he has the will, sir," said Tom Pinch's sister, "and I know how kindly and thoughtfully you cherish it, for which neither he nor I can ever be grateful enough, as we often say in writing to each other. The young ladies, too," she added, glancing gratefully at his two daughters. "I know how much we owe to them." "My dears," said Mr. Pecksniff, turning to them with a smile: "Thomas' sister is saying something you will be glad to hear, I think." "We can't take any merit to ourselves, papa!" cried Cherry, as they both showed Tom Pinch's sister, with a courtesy, that they would feel obliged if she would keep her distance. "Mr. Pinch's being so well provided for is owing to you alone, and we can only say how glad we are to hear that he is as grateful as he ought to be." "Oh, very well, Miss Pinch!" thought the pupil again. "Got a grateful brother, living on other people's kindness!" "It was very kind of you," said Tom Pinch's sister, with Tom's own simplicity and Tom's own smile, "to come here--very kind indeed: though how great a kindness you have done me in gratifying my wish to see you, and to thank you with my own lips, you, who make so light of benefits conferred, can scarcely think." "Very grateful; very pleasant; very proper;" murmured Mr. Pecksniff. "It makes me happy too," said Ruth Pinch, who, now that her first surprise was over, had a chatty, cheerful way with her, and a single-hearted desire to look upon the best side of everything, which was the very moral and image of Tom; "very happy to think that you will be able to tell him how more than comfortably I am situated here, and how unnecessary it is that he should ever waste a regret on my being cast upon my own resources. Dear me! So long as I heard that he was happy and he heard that I was," said Tom's sister, "we could both bear, without one impatient or complaining thought, a great deal more than ever we have had to endure, I am certain." And if ever the plain truth were spoken on this occasionally false earth, Tom's sister spoke it when she said that. "Ah!" cried Mr. Pecksniff, whose eyes had in the meantime wandered to the pupil; "certainly. And how do _you_ do, my very interesting child?" "Quite well, I thank you, sir," replied that frosty innocent. "A sweet face this, my dears," said Mr. Pecksniff, turning to his daughters. "A charming manner!" Both young ladies had been in delight with the child of a wealthy house (through whom the nearest road and shortest cut to her parents might be supposed to lie) from the first. Mrs. Todgers vowed that anything one-quarter so angelic she had never seen. "She wanted but a pair of wings, a dear," said that good woman, "to be a young syrup"--meaning, possibly, young sylph or seraph. "If you will give that to your distinguished parents, my amiable little friend," said Mr. Pecksniff, producing one of his professional cards, "and will say that I and my daughters----" "And Mrs. Todgers, pa," said Mercy. "And Mrs. Todgers, of London," added Mr. Pecksniff, "that I, and my daughters, and Mrs. Todgers, of London, did not intrude upon them, as our object simply was to take some notice of Miss Pinch, whose brother is a young man in my employment; but that I could not leave this very noble mansion without adding my humble tribute, as an architect, to the correctness and elegance of the owner's taste, and to his just appreciation of that beautiful art, to the cultivation of which I have devoted a life, and to the promotion of whose glory and advancement I have sacrificed a--a fortune--I shall be very much obliged to you." "Missis' compliments to Miss Pinch," said the footman, suddenly appearing and speaking in exactly the same key as before, "and begs to know wot my young lady is a-learning of just now." "Oh!" said Mr. Pecksniff, "here is the young man. _He_ will take the card. With my compliments, if you please, young man. My dears, we are interrupting the studies. Let us go." One evening, following the visit to Miss Pinch, there was a great bustle at Todgers', partly owing to some additional domestic preparations for the morrow and partly to the excitement always arising in that house from Saturday night, when every gentleman's linen arrived at a different hour in his own little bundle, with his private account pinned on the outside. Shrill quarrels from time to time arose between Mrs. Todgers and the girls in remote back kitchens; and sounds were occasionally heard, indicative of small articles of ironmongery and hardware being thrown at the boy. It was the custom of that youth on Saturdays to roll up his shirt sleeves to his shoulders, and pervade all parts of the house in an apron of coarse green baize; moreover, he was more strongly tempted on Saturdays than on other days (it being a busy time) to make bolts into the neighboring alleys when he answered the door, and there to play at leap-frog and other sports with vagrant lads, until pursued and brought back by the hair of his head or the lobe of his ear; thus, he was quite a conspicuous feature among the peculiar incidents of the last day in the week at Todgers'. He was especially so on this particular Saturday evening, and honored the Misses Pecksniff with a deal of notice; seldom passing the door of Mrs. Todgers' private room, where they sat alone before the fire, without putting in his head and greeting them with some such compliments as, "There you are again!" "Ain't it nice?"--and similar humorous attentions. "I say," he whispered, stopping in one of his journeys to and fro, "young ladies, there's soup to-morrow. She's a-making it now. Ain't she a-putting in the water? Oh! not at all neither!" In the course of answering another knock, he thrust in his head again: "I say--there's fowls to-morrow. Not skinny ones. Oh no!" Presently he called through the keyhole: "There's a fish to-morrow--just come. Don't eat none of him!" and with this spectral warning vanished again. By-and-by, he returned to lay the cloth for supper. He entertained them on this occasion by thrusting the lighted candle into his mouth, after the performance of which feat, he went on with his professional duties; brightening every knife as he laid it on the table, by breathing on the blade and afterwards polishing the same on the apron already mentioned. When he had completed his preparations, he grinned at the sisters, and expressed his belief that the approaching meal would be of "rather a spicy sort." "Will it be long before it's ready, Bailey?" asked Mercy. "No," said Bailey, "it _is_ cooked. When I come up she was dodging among the tender pieces with a fork, and eating of 'em." But he had scarcely achieved the utterance of these words, when he received a sudden blow on the head, which sent him staggering against the wall; and Mrs. Todgers, dish in hand, stood indignantly before him. "Oh you little villain!" said that lady. "Oh you bad, false boy!" "No worse than yerself," retorted Bailey, guarding his head with his arm. "Ah! Come now! Do that agin, will yer!" "He's the most dreadful child," said Mrs. Todgers, setting down the dish, "I ever had to deal with. The gentlemen spoil him to that extent, and teach him such things, that I'm afraid nothing but hanging will ever do him any good." "Won't it!" cried Bailey. "Oh! Yes! Wot do you go a-lowerin' the table-beer for, then, and destroying my constitooshun?" "Go down-stairs, you vicious boy!" said Mrs. Todgers, holding the door open. "Do you hear me? Go along!" After two or three skilful dodges he went, and was seen no more that night, save once, when he brought up some tumblers and hot water, and much disturbed the two Misses Pecksniff by squinting hideously behind the back of the unconscious Mrs. Todgers. Having done this justice to his wounded feelings, he retired under-ground; where, in company with a swarm of black beetles and a kitchen candle, he employed himself in cleaning boots and brushing clothes until the night was far advanced. Benjamin was supposed to be the real name of this young servant, but he was known by a great variety of names. Benjamin, for instance, had been converted into Uncle Ben, and that again had been corrupted into Uncle. The gentlemen at Todgers' had a merry habit, too, of bestowing upon him, for the time being, the name of any notorious criminal or minister; and sometimes, when current events were flat, they even sought the pages of history for these distinctions; as Mr. Pitt, Young Brownrigg, and the like. At the period of which we write, he was generally known among the gentlemen as Bailey junior; a name bestowed upon him in contradistinction, perhaps, to the Old Bailey prison; and possibly as involving the recollection of an unfortunate lady of the same name, who perished by her own hand early in life, and has been made famous in a song. The usual Sunday dinner-hour at Todgers' was two o'clock--a suitable time, it was considered, for all parties; convenient to Mrs. Todgers, on account of the baker's; and convenient to the gentlemen, with reference to their afternoon engagements. But on the Sunday which was to introduce the two Misses Pecksniff to a full knowledge of Todgers' and its society, the dinner was postponed until five, in order that everything might be as genteel as the occasion demanded. When the hour drew nigh, Bailey junior, testifying great excitement, appeared in a complete suit of cast-off clothes several sizes too large for him, and, in particular, mounted a clean shirt of such extraordinary magnitude that one of the gentlemen (remarkable for his ready wit) called him "collars" on the spot. At about a quarter before five a deputation, consisting of Mr. Jinkins and another gentleman whose name was Gander, knocked at the door of Mrs. Todgers' room, and, being formally introduced to the two Misses Pecksniff by their parent, who was in waiting, besought the honor of showing them up-stairs. Here the gentlemen were all assembled. There was a general cry of "Hear, hear!" and "Bravo, Jink!" when Mr. Jinkins appeared with Charity on his arm: which became quite rapturous as Mr. Gander followed, escorting Mercy, and Mr. Pecksniff brought up the rear with Mrs. Todgers. "The wittles is up!" FOOTNOTE: [D] A "round-robin" is a letter signed by all the people of a company, with the names written in a circle around the letter so that no name will be first or last. XI. DICK SWIVELLER AND THE MARCHIONESS. RICHARD SWIVELLER, a good-hearted, though somewhat queer young man, the clerk of Sampson Brass, a scheming lawyer, often found time hanging heavily on his hands; and for the better preservation of his cheerfulness therefore, and to prevent his faculties from rusting, he provided himself with a cribbage-board and pack of cards, and accustomed himself to play at cribbage with a dummy, for twenty, thirty, or sometimes even fifty thousand pounds a side, besides many hazardous bets to a considerable amount. As these games were very silently conducted, notwithstanding the greatness of the interests involved, Mr. Swiveller, began to think that on those evenings when Mr. and Miss Brass were out (and they often went out now) he heard a kind of snorting or hard-breathing sound in the direction of the door, which it occurred to him, after some thought, must proceed from the small servant, who always had a cold from damp living. Looking intently that way one night, he plainly distinguished an eye gleaming and glistening at the keyhole; and having now no doubt that his suspicions were correct, he stole softly to the door and pounced upon her before she was aware of his approach. "Oh! I didn't mean any harm indeed. Upon my word I didn't," cried the small servant, struggling like a much larger one. "It's so very dull down-stairs. Please don't you tell upon me; please don't." "Tell upon you!" said Dick. "Do you mean to say you were looking through the keyhole for company?" "Yes, upon my word I was," replied the small servant. "How long have you been cooling your eye there?" said Dick. "Oh, ever since you first began to play them cards, and long before." Vague recollections of several fantastic exercises such as dancing around the room, and bowing to imaginary people with which he had refreshed himself after the fatigues of business; all of which, no doubt, the small servant had seen through the keyhole, made Mr. Swiveller feel rather awkward; but he was not very sensitive on such points, and recovered himself speedily. "Well--come in," he said, after a little thought. "Here--sit down, and I'll teach you how to play." "Oh! I durstn't do it," rejoined the small servant. "Miss Sally 'ud kill me, if she know'd I came up here." "Have you got a fire down-stairs?" said Dick. "A very little one," replied the small servant. "Miss Sally couldn't kill me if she know'd I went down there, so I'll come," said Richard, putting the cards into his pocket. "Why, how thin you are! What do you mean by it?" "It ain't my fault." "Could you eat any bread and meat?" said Dick, taking down his hat. "Yes? Ah! I thought so. Did you ever taste beer?" "I had a sip of it once," said the small servant. "Here's a state of things!" cried Mr. Swiveller, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "She _never_ tasted it--it can't be tasted in a sip! Why, how old are you?" "I don't know." Mr. Swiveller opened his eyes very wide and appeared thoughtful for a moment; then, bidding the child mind the door until he came back, vanished straightway. Presently he returned, followed by the boy from the public house, who bore in one hand a plate of bread and beef and in the other a great pot, filled with some very fragrant compound, which sent forth a grateful steam, and was indeed choice purl made after a particular rule which Mr. Swiveller had given to the landlord at a period when he was deep in his books and desirous to win his friendship. Relieving the boy of his burden at the door, and charging his little companion to fasten it to prevent surprise, Mr. Swiveller followed her into the kitchen. "There!" said Richard, putting the plate before her. "First of all, clear that off, and then you'll see what's next." The small servant needed no second bidding, and the plate was soon empty. "Next," said Dick, handing the purl, "take a pull at that; but moderate your delight, you know, for you're not used to it. Well, is it good?" "Oh! isn't it?" said the small servant. Mr. Swiveller appeared gratified beyond all expression by this reply, and took a long draught himself, steadfastly regarding his companion while he did so. These matters disposed of, he applied himself to teaching her the game, which she soon learnt tolerably well, being both sharp-witted and cunning. "Now," said Mr. Swiveller, putting two sixpences into a saucer, and trimming the wretched candle, when the cards had been cut and dealt, "those are the stakes. If you win, you get 'em all. If I win, I get 'em. To make it seem more real and pleasant, I shall call you the Marchioness, do you hear?" The small servant nodded. "Marchioness," as the reader knows, is a title to a lady of very high rank, and such Mr. Swiveller chose to imagine this small servant to be. "Then, Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller, "fire away!" The Marchioness, holding her cards very tight in both hands, considered which to play, and Mr. Swiveller, assuming the gay and fashionable air which such society required, took another pull at the jug and waited for her to lead in the game. Mr. Swiveller and his partner played several rubbers with varying success, until the loss of three sixpences, the gradual sinking of the purl, and the striking of ten o'clock, combined to render that gentleman mindful of the flight of time, and the wisdom of withdrawing before Mr. Sampson and Miss Sally Brass returned. "With which object in view, Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller gravely, "I shall ask your ladyship's permission to put the board in my pocket, and to retire from the presence when I have finished this glass; merely observing, Marchioness, that since life like a river is flowing, I care not how fast it rolls on, ma'am, on, while such purl on the bank still is growing, and such eyes light the waves as they run. Marchioness, your health! You will excuse my wearing my hat but the palace is damp, and the marble floor is--if I may be allowed the expression--sloppy." As a protection against this latter inconvenience Mr. Swiveller had been sitting for some time with his feet on the hob, in which attitude he now gave utterance to these apologetic observations, and slowly sipped the last choice drops of nectar. "The Baron Sampsono Brasso and his fair sister are (you tell me) at the Play?" said Mr. Swiveller, leaning his left arm heavily upon the table, and raising his voice and his right leg after the manner of a bandit in the theater. The Marchioness nodded. "Ha!" said Mr. Swiveller with a portentous frown. "'Tis well, Marchioness!--but no matter. Some wine there. Ho!" He illustrated these melodramatic morsels by handing the glass to himself with great humility, receiving it haughtily, drinking from it thirstily, and smacking his lips fiercely. The small servant, who was not so well acquainted with theatrical customs as Mr. Swiveller (having indeed never seen a play or heard one spoken of, except by some chance through chinks of doors and in other forbidden places), was rather alarmed by demonstrations so strange in their nature, and showed her concern so plainly in her looks that Mr. Swiveller felt it necessary to change his brigand manner for one more suitable to private life, as he asked: "Do they often go where glory waits 'em, and leave you here?" "Oh, yes; I believe they do," returned the small servant. "Miss Sally's such a one-er for that, she is." "Such a what?" said Dick. "Such a one-er," returned the Marchioness. After a moment's reflection, Mr. Swiveller determined to forego his responsible duty of setting her right and to suffer her to talk on, as it was evident that her tongue was loosened by the purl and her opportunities for conversation were not so frequent as to render a momentary check of little consequence. "They sometimes go to see Mr. Quilp," said the small servant with a shrewd look; "they go to a good many places, bless you." "Is Mr. Brass a wunner?" said Dick. "Not half what Miss Sally is, he isn't," replied the small servant, shaking her head. "Bless you, he'd never do anything without her." "Oh! He wouldn't, wouldn't he?" said Dick. "Miss Sally keeps him in such order," said the small servant; "he always asks her advice, he does; and he catches it sometimes. Bless you, you wouldn't believe how much he catches it." "I suppose," said Dick, "that they consult together a good deal, and talk about a great many people--about me, for instance sometimes, eh, Marchioness?" The Marchioness nodded amazingly. "Do they speak of me in a friendly manner?" said Mr. Swiveller. The Marchioness changed the motion of her head, which had not yet left off nodding, and suddenly began to shake it from side to side so hard as to threaten breaking her neck. "Humph!" Dick muttered. "Would it be any breach of confidence, Marchioness, to relate what they say of the humble individual who has now the honor to----?" "Miss Sally says you're a funny chap," replied his friend. "Well, Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller, "that's not uncomplimentary. Merriment, Marchioness, is not a bad or degrading quality. Old King Cole was himself a merry old soul, if we may put any faith in the pages of history." "But she says," pursued his companion, "that you ain't to be trusted." "Why, really, Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller thoughtfully; "several ladies and gentlemen--not exactly professional persons, but tradespeople, ma'am, tradespeople--have made the same remark. The person who keeps the hotel over the way inclined strongly to that opinion to-night when I ordered him to prepare the banquet. It's a popular prejudice, Marchioness; and yet I am sure I don't know why, for I have been trusted in my time to a considerable amount, and I can safely say that I never forsook my trust until it deserted me--never. Mr. Brass is of the same opinion, I suppose?" His friend nodded again, with a cunning look which seemed to hint that Mr. Brass held stronger opinions on the subject than his sister; and seeming to recollect herself, added imploringly, "But don't you ever tell upon me, or I shall be beat to death." "Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller, rising, "the word of a gentleman is as good as his bond--sometimes better; as in the present case, where his bond might prove but a doubtful sort of security. I am your friend, and I hope we shall play many more rubbers together in the same saloon. But, Marchioness," added Richard, stopping on his way to the door, and wheeling slowly round upon the small servant, who was following with the candle, "it occurs to me that you must be in the constant habit of airing your eye at keyholes, to know all this." "I only wanted," replied the trembling Marchioness, "to know where the key of the safe was hid; that was all; and I wouldn't have taken much, if I had found it--only enough to squench my hunger." "You didn't find it, then?" said Dick. "But of course you didn't, or you'd be plumper. Good-night, Marchioness. Fare thee well, and if forever, then forever fare thee well--and put up the chain, Marchioness, in case of accidents." With this parting word, Mr. Swiveller came out from the house; and feeling that he had by this time taken quite as much to drink as promised to be good for his constitution (purl being a rather strong and heady compound), wisely resolved to betake himself to his lodgings, and to bed at once. Homeward he went therefore; and his apartments (for he still spoke of his one little room as "apartments") being at no great distance from the office, he was soon seated in his own bed-chamber, where, having pulled off one boot and forgotten the other, he fell into deep thought. "This Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller, folding his arms, "is a very extraordinary person--surrounded by mysteries, ignorant of the taste of beer, unacquainted with her own name (which is less remarkable), and taking a limited view of society through the keyholes of doors--can these things be her destiny, or has some unknown person started an opposition to the decrees of fate? It is a most amazing staggerer!" When his meditations had attained this satisfactory point, he became aware of his remaining boot, of which, with great solemnity, he proceeded to divest himself; shaking his head with exceeding gravity all the time, and sighing deeply. "These rubbers," said Mr. Swiveller, putting on his nightcap in exactly the same style as he wore his hat, "remind me of the matrimonial fireside. My old girl, Chegg's wife, plays cribbage; all-fours alike. She rings the changes on 'em now. From sport to sport they hurry her, to banish her regrets, and when they win a smile from her, they think that she forgets--but she don't. By this time, I should say," added Richard, getting his left cheek into profile, and looking complacently at the reflection of a very little scrap of whisker in the looking-glass; "by this time, I should say, the iron has entered into her soul. It serves her right." Mr. Swiveller, it must be said had been at one time somewhat in love with a young lady: but she had left his love and married a Mr. Cheggs. Melting from this stern and harsh into the tender and pathetic mood, Mr. Swiveller groaned a little, walked wildly up and down, and even made a show of tearing his hair, which, however, he thought better of, and wrenched the tassel from his nightcap instead. At last, undressing himself with a gloomy resolution, he got into bed. Some men, in his blighted position, would have taken to drinking; but as Mr. Swiveller had taken to that before, he only took, on receiving the news that this girl was lost to him forever, to playing the flute; thinking, after mature consideration, that it was a good, sound, dismal occupation, not only in unison with his own sad thoughts, but tending to awaken a fellow-feeling in the bosom, of his neighbors. Following out this resolution, he now drew a little table to his bedside, and, arranging the light and a small oblong music-book to the best advantage, took his flute from its box and began to play most mournfully. The air was "Away with melancholy"--a composition, which, when it is played very slowly on the flute in bed, with the farther disadvantage of being performed by a gentleman not fully acquainted with the instrument, who repeats one note a great many times before he can find the next, has not a lively effect. Yet for half the night, or more, Mr. Swiveller, lying sometimes on his back with his eyes upon the ceiling and sometimes half out of bed to correct himself by the book, played this unhappy tune over and over again; never leaving off, save for a minute or two at a time to take breath and talk to himself about the Marchioness and then beginning again with renewed vigor. It was not until he had quite exhausted his several subjects of meditation, and had breathed into the flute the whole sentiment of the purl down to its very dregs, and had nearly maddened the people of the house, and at both the next doors, and over the way--that he shut up the music-book, extinguished the candle, and, finding himself greatly lightened and relieved in his mind, turned round and fell asleep. Dick continued his friendly relations towards the Marchioness, and when he fell ill with typhoid fever his little friend nursed him back to health. Just after this illness an aunt of his died and left him quite a large sum of money, a portion of which he used to educate the Marchioness, whom he afterwards married. XII. MR. WARDLE'S SERVANT JOE. AN old country gentleman named Wardle had a servant of whom he was very proud, not because of the latter's diligence, but because Joe, commonly called the "Fat Boy," was a character which could not be matched anywhere in the world. At the time when our story opens, Mr. Pickwick of London, and three others of his literary club, were traveling in search of adventure. With Mr. Pickwick, the founder and head of the Pickwick club, were Mr. Tupman, whose great weakness for the ladies brought him frequent troubles, Mr. Winkle, whose desire to appear as a sport brought much ridicule upon himself, and Mr. Snodgrass, whose poetic nature induced him to write many romantic verses which amused his friends and all who read them. These four Pickwickians were introduced one day to Mr. Wardle, his aged sister Miss Rachel Wardle, and his two daughters, Emily and Isabella, as they were looking at some army reviews from their coach. Mr. Wardle hospitably asked Mr. Pickwick and his friends to join them in the coach. "Come up here! Mr. Pickwick," said Mr. Wardle, "come along sir. Joe! Drat that boy! He's gone to sleep again. Joe, let down the steps and open the carriage door. Come ahead, room for two of you inside and one outside. Joe, make room for one. Put this gentleman on the box!" Mr. Wardle mounted with a little help and the fat boy, where he was, fell fast asleep. One rank of soldiers after another passed, firing over the heads of another rank, and when the cannon went off the air resounded with the screams of ladies. Mr. Snodgrass actually found it necessary to support one of the Misses Wardle with his arm. Their maidenly aunt was in such a dreadful state of nervous alarm that Mr. Tupman found that _he_ was obliged to put his arm about _her_ waist to keep her up at all. Everyone was excited with the exception of the fat boy, and he slept as soundly as if the roaring of cannon were his ordinary lullaby. "Joe! Joe!" called Mr. Wardle. "Drat that boy! He's gone asleep again. Pinch him in the leg, if you please. Nothing else wakens him. Thank you. Get out the lunch, Joe." The fat boy, who had been effectually aroused by Mr. Winkle, proceeded to unpack the hamper with more quickness than could have been expected from his previous inactivity. "Now Joe, knives and forks." The knives and forks were handed in and each one was furnished with these useful implements. "Now Joe, the fowls. Drat that boy! He's gone asleep again. Joe! Joe!" Numerous taps on the head with a stick and the fat boy with some difficulty was awakened. "Go hand in the eatables." There was something in the sound of the last word which aroused him. He jumped up with reddened eyes which twinkled behind his mountainous cheeks, and feasted upon the food as he unpacked it from the basket. "Now make haste," said Mr. Wardle, for the fat boy was hanging fondly over a chicken which he seemed wholly unable to part with. The boy sighed deeply and casting an ardent gaze upon its plumpness, unwillingly handed it to his master. "A very extraordinary boy, that," said Mr. Pickwick. "Does he always sleep in this way?" "Sleep!" said the old gentleman. "He's always sleeping. Goes on errands fast asleep and snores as he waits at table." "How very odd," said Mr. Pickwick. "Ah! odd indeed," returned the old gentleman. "I'm proud of that boy. Wouldn't part with him on any account. He's a natural curiosity. Here, Joe, take these things away and open another bottle. Do you hear?" The fat boy aroused, opened his eyes, started and finished the piece of pie he was in the act of eating when he fell fast asleep, and slowly obeyed his master's orders, looking intently upon the remains of the feast as he removed the plates and stowed them in the hamper. At last Mr. Wardle and his party mounted the coach and prepared to drive off. "Now mind," he said, as he shook hands with Mr. Pickwick, "we expect to see you all to-morrow. You have the address?" "Manor Farm, Dingley Dell," said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his pocket-book. "That's it," said the old gentleman. "You must come for at least a week. If you are traveling to get country life, come to me and I will give you plenty of it. Joe! Drat that boy, he's gone to sleep again. Help put in the horses." The horses were put in and the driver mounted and the boy clambered up by his side. The farewells were exchanged and the carriage rolled off. As the Pickwickians turned around to take a last glimpse of it the setting sun cast a red gold upon the faces of their entertainers, and fell upon the form of the fat boy. His head was sunk upon his bosom, and he slumbered again. After some amusing difficulties, which we have not space to describe here, Mr. Pickwick and his friends arrived safely at the country home of Mr. Wardle. The time passed very pleasantly. One day some of the men decided upon a shooting trip, and Mr. Winkle, to maintain his reputation as a sport, did not admit that he knew nothing about guns. Mr. Pickwick, early in the morning, seeing Mr. Wardle carrying a gun, asked what they were going to do. "Why, your friend and I are going out rook shooting. He's a very good shot, isn't he?" said Mr. Wardle. "I have heard him say he's a capital one," replied Mr. Pickwick, "but I never saw him aim at anything." "Well," said the host, "I wish Mr. Tupman would join us. Joe! Joe!" The fat boy who, under the exciting influences of the morning, did not appear to be more than three parts and a fraction asleep, emerged from the house. "Go up and call Mr. Tupman, and tell him he will find us waiting." At last the party started, Mr. Tupman having joined them. Some boys, who were with them, discovered a tree with a nest in one of the branches, and when all was ready Mr. Wardle was persuaded to shoot first. The boys shouted, and shook a branch with a nest on it, and a half-a-dozen young rooks, in violent conversation, flew out to ask what the matter was. Mr. Wardle leveled his gun and fired; down fell one and off flew the others. "Pick him up, Joe," said the old gentleman. There was a smile upon the youth's face as he advanced, for an indistinct vision of rook pie floated through his imagination. He laughed as he retired with the bird. It was a plump one. "Now, Mr. Winkle," said the host, reloading his own gun, "fire away." Mr. Winkle advanced and raised his gun. Mr. Pickwick and his friends crouched involuntarily to escape damage from the heavy fall of birds which they felt quite certain would be caused by their friend's skill. There was a solemn pause, a shout, a flapping of wings. Mr. Winkle closed his eyes and fired; there was a scream from an individual, not a rook. Mr. Tupman had saved the lives of innumerable birds by receiving a portion of the charge in his left arm. Though it was a very slight wound, Mr. Tupman made a great fuss about it and everyone was horror-stricken. He was partly carried to the house. The unmarried aunt uttered a piercing scream, burst into an hysterical laugh and fell backwards into the arms of her nieces. She recovered, screamed again, laughed again and fainted again. "Calm yourself," said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears by this expression of sympathy. "Dear, dear Madam, calm yourself." "You are not dead?" exclaimed the hysterical lady. "Say you are not dead!" "Don't be a fool, Rachel," said Mr. Winkle. "What the mischief is the use of his saying he isn't dead?" "No! No! I am not," said Mr. Tupman. "I require no assistance but yours. Let me lean on your arm," he added in a whisper. Miss Rachel advanced and offered her arm. They turned into the breakfast parlor. Mr. Tupman gently pressed her hands to his lips and sunk upon the sofa. Presently the others left him to her tender mercies. That afternoon Mr. Tupman, much affected by the extreme tenderness of Miss Rachel, suggested that as he was feeling much better they take a short stroll in the garden. There was a bower at the farther end, all honeysuckles and creeping plants, and somehow they unconsciously wandered in its direction and sat down on a bench within. "Miss Wardle," said Mr. Tupman, "you are an angel." Miss Rachel blushed very becomingly. Much more conversation of this nature followed until finally Mr. Tupman proceeded to do what his enthusiastic emotions prompted and what were, (for all we know, for we are but little acquainted with such matters) what people in such circumstances always do. She started, and he, throwing his arms around her neck imprinted upon her lips numerous kisses, which, after a proper show of struggling and resistance, she received so passively that there is no telling how many more Mr. Tupman might have bestowed if the lady had not given a very unaffected start and exclaimed: "Mr. Tupman, we are observed! We are discovered!" Mr. Tupman looked around. There was the fat boy perfectly motionless, with his large, circular eyes staring into the arbor, but without the slightest expression on his face. Mr. Tupman gazed at the fat boy and the fat boy stared at him, but the longer Mr. Tupman observed the utter vacancy of the fat boy's face, the more convinced he became that he either did not know or did not understand anything that had been happening. Under this impression he said with great fierceness: "What do you want here?" [Illustration: "Mr. Tupman, We Are Observed!" Page 240] "Supper is ready, sir," was the prompt reply. "Have you just come here?" inquired Mr. Tupman, with a piercing look. "Just," replied the fat boy. Mr. Tupman looked at him very hard again but there was not a wink of his eye or a movement in his face. Mr. Tupman took the arm of the spinster aunt and walked toward the house. The fat boy followed behind. "He knows nothing of what has happened," he whispered. "Nothing," said the spinster aunt. There was a sound behind them as of an imperfectly suppressed chuckle. Mr. Tupman turned sharply around. No, it could not have been the fat boy. There was not a gleam of mirth or anything but feeding in his whole visage. "He must have been fast asleep," whispered Mr. Tupman. "I have not the least doubt of it," replied Miss Rachel, and they both laughed heartily. Mr. Tupman was wrong. The fat boy for once had not been fast asleep. He was awake, wide awake to everything that had happened. The day following, Joe saw his mistress, Mr. Wardle's aged mother, sitting in the arbor. Without saying a word he walked up to her, stood perfectly still and said nothing. The old lady was easily frightened; most old ladies are, and her first impression was that Joe was about to do her some bodily harm with a view of stealing what money she might have with her. She therefore watched his motions, or rather lack of motions, with feelings of intense terror, which were in no degree lessened by his finally coming close to her and shouting in her ear, for she was very deaf, "Missus!" "Well, Joe," said the trembling old lady, "I am sure I have been a good mistress to you." He nodded. "You have always been treated very kindly?" He nodded. "You have never had too much to do?" He nodded. "You have always had enough to eat?" This last was an appeal to the fat boy's most sensitive feelings. He seemed touched as he replied, "I know I has." "Then what do you want to do now?" "I wants to make yo' flesh creep," replied the boy. This sounded like a very blood-thirsty method of showing one's gratitude and so the old lady was as much frightened as before. "What do you think I saw in this very arbor last night?" inquired the boy. "Mercies, what?" screamed the old lady, alarmed at the mysterious manner of the corpulent youth. "A strange gentleman as had his arm around her, a kissin' and huggin'." "Who, Joe, who? None of the servants, I hope?" "Worser than that," roared the fat boy in the old lady's ear. "None of my granddaughters." "Worser than that," said Joe. "Worse than that?" said the old lady, who had thought this the extreme limit. "Who was it, Joe? I insist upon knowing!" The fat boy looked cautiously about and having finished his survey shouted in the old lady's ear, "Miss Rachel!" "What?" said the old lady in a shrill tone, "speak louder!" "Miss Rachel," roared the fat boy. "My daughter?" The succession of nods which the fat boy gave by way of assent could not be doubted. "And she allowed him?" exclaimed the old lady. A grin stole over the fat boy's features as he said, "I see her a kissin' of him agin!" Joe's voice of necessity had been so loud that another party in the garden could not help hearing the entire conversation. If they could have seen the expression of the old lady's face at this time it is probable that a sudden burst of laughter would have betrayed them. Fragments of angry sentences drifted to them through the leaves, such as "Without my permission!" "At her time of life!" "Might have waited until I was dead," etc. Then they heard the heels of the fat boy's foot crunching the gravel as he retired and left the old lady alone. Mr. Tupman would probably have found himself in considerable trouble if one of his friends, who had overheard the conversation had not told Mrs. Wardle that perhaps Joe had dreamed the entire incident, which did not seem altogether improbable. She watched Mr. Tupman at supper that evening, but this gentleman, having been warned, paid no attention whatever to Miss Rachel, and the old lady was finally persuaded that it was all a mistake. Finally the visit of Mr. Pickwick and his friends came to an end, and it was several months before they again partook of Mr. Wardle's hospitality. The Pickwickians had arrived at the Inn near Mr. Wardle's place for dinner before completing the rest of their journey to Dingley Dell. Mr. Pickwick had brought with him several barrels of oysters and some special wine as a gift to his host, and he stood examining his packages to see that they had all arrived when he felt himself gently pulled by the skirts of his coat. Looking around he discovered that the individual who used this means of drawing his attention was no other than Mr. Wardle's favorite page, the fat boy. "Aha!" said Mr. Pickwick. "Ah!" said the fat boy, and as he said it he glanced from the wine to the oysters and chuckled joyously. He was fatter than ever. "Well, you look rosy enough my young friend," said Mr. Pickwick. "I have been sitting in front of the fire," replied the fat boy, who had indeed heated himself to the color of a new chimney pot in the course of an hour's nap. "Master sent me over with the cart to carry your luggage over to the house." Mr. Pickwick called his man, Sam Weller, to him and said, "Help Mr. Wardle's servant to put the packages into the cart and then ride on with him. We prefer to walk." Having given this direction Mr. Pickwick and his three friends walked briskly away, leaving Mr. Weller and the fat boy face to face for the first time. Sam looked at the fat boy with great astonishment but without saying a word, and began to put the things rapidly upon the cart while Joe stood calmly by and seemed to think it a very interesting sort of thing to see Mr. Weller working by himself. "There," said Sam, "everything packed at last. There they are." "Yes," said the fat boy in a very satisfied tone, "there they are." "Well, young twenty stone," said Sam. "You're a nice specimen, you are." "Thankee," said the fat boy. "You ain't got nothing on your mind as makes you fret yourself, have you?" inquired Sam. "Not as I knows of," replied the boy. "I should rather have thought, to look at you, that you was a laborin' under a disappointed love affair with some young woman," said Sam. "Vell, young boa-constrictor," said Sam, "I'm glad to hear it. Do you ever drink anythin'?" "I likes eatin' better," replied the boy. "Ah!" said Sam. "I should ha' 'sposed that, but I 'spose you were never cold with all them elastic fixtures?" "Was sometimes," replied the boy, "and I likes a drop of something that's good." "Ah! you do, do you," said Sam, "come this way." Then after a short interruption they got into the cart. "You can drive, can you?" said the fat boy. "I should rather think so," replied Sam. "Well then," said the fat boy, putting the reins in his hands and pointing up a lane, "it's as straight as you can drive. You can't miss it." With these words the fat boy laid himself affectionately down by the side of the provisions and placing an oyster barrel under his head for a pillow, fell asleep instantly. "Vell," said Sam, "of all the boys ever I set my eyes on--wake up young dropsy." But as young dropsy could not be awakened, Sam Weller set himself down in front of the cart, started the old horse with a jerk of the rein, and jogged steadily on toward Manor Farm. XIII. A BRAVE AND HONEST BOY, OLIVER TWIST. LITTLE Oliver Twist was an orphan. He never saw his mother or his father. He was born at the workhouse, the home for paupers, where his poor heart-broken mother had been taken just a short time before baby Oliver came; and, the very night he was born, she was so sick and weak she said: "Let me see my child and then I will die." The old nurse said: "Nonsense, my dear, you must not think of dying, you have something now to live for." The good kind doctor said she must be very brave and she might get well. They brought her little baby boy to her, and she hugged him in her weak arms and she kissed him on the brow many times and cuddled him up as close as her feeble arms could hold him; and then she looked at him long and steadily, and a sweet smile came over her face and a bright light came into her eyes, and before the smile could pass from her lips she died. The old nurse wept as she took the little baby from its dead mother's arms; and the good doctor had to wipe the tears from his eyes, it was so very, very sad. After wrapping the baby in a blanket and laying him in a warm place, the old nurse straightened out the limbs of the young mother and folded her hands on her breast; and, spreading a white sheet over her still form, she called the doctor to look at her--for the nurse and the doctor were all who were there. The same sweet smile was on her face, and the doctor said as he looked upon her: "Poor, poor girl, she is so beautiful and so young! What strange fate has brought her to this poor place? Nurse, take good care of the baby, for his mother must have been, at one time, a kind and gentle woman." The next day they took the unknown woman out to the potter's field and buried her; and, for nine months, the old nurse at the workhouse took care of the baby; though, it is sad to say, this old woman, kind-hearted though she was, was at the same time so fond of gin that she often took the money, which ought to have bought milk for the baby, to buy drink for herself. Nobody knew what the young mother's name was, and so this baby had no name, until, at last, Mr. Bumble, who was one of the parish officers who looked after the paupers, came and named him _Oliver Twist_. When little Oliver was nine months old they took him away from the workhouse and carried him to the "Poor Farm," where there were twenty-five or thirty other poor children who had no parents. A woman by the name of Mrs. Mann had charge of this cottage. The parish gave her an allowance of enough money to keep the children in plenty of food and clothing; but she starved the little ones to keep the money for herself, so that many of them died and others came to take their places. But young Oliver was a tough little fellow, and, while he looked very pale and thin, he was, otherwise, healthy and hung on to his life. Mrs. Mann was also very cruel to the children. She would scold and beat them and shut them up in the cellar and treat them meanly in many ways when no visitors were there. But, when any of the men who had control or visitors came around, she would smile and call the children "dear," and all sorts of pet names. She told them if any of them should tell on her she would beat them; and, furthermore, that they should tell visitors that she was very kind and good to them and that they loved her very much. Mr. Bumble was a very mean man, too, as we shall see. They called him the _Beadle_, which means he was a sort of sheriff or policeman; and he was supposed to look after the people at the workhouse and at the poor farm and to wait on the directors who had charge of these places. He had the right to punish the boys if they did not mind, and they were all afraid of him. Oliver remained at the cottage on the poor farm until he was nine years old, though he was a pale little fellow and did not look to be over seven. On the morning of his birthday, Mrs. Mann had given Oliver and two other boys a bad whipping and put them down in a dark coal-cellar. Presently she saw Mr. Bumble coming and she told her servant to take the boys out and wash them quick, for she did not let Mr. Bumble know she ever punished them, and was fearful he might hear them crying in the dark, damp place. Mrs. Mann talked very nicely to Mr. Bumble and made him a "toddy" (a glass of strong liquor) and kept him busy with her flattering and kindness until she knew the boys were washed. Mr. Bumble told her Oliver Twist was nine years old that day, and the Board (which meant the men in charge) had decided they must take him away from the farm and carry him back to the workhouse. Mrs. Mann pretended to be very sorry, and she went out and brought Oliver in, telling him on the way that he must appear very sorry to leave her, otherwise she would beat him. So when Oliver was asked if he wanted to go, he said he was sorry to leave there. This was not a falsehood, for, miserable as the place was, he dearly loved his little companions. They were all the people he knew; and he did feel sad, and really wept with sorrow as he told them good-by and was led by Mr. Bumble back to the workhouse, where he was born and where his mother died nine years ago that very day. When he got back there he found the old nurse who remembered his mother, and she told him she was a beautiful sweet woman and how she had kissed him and held him in her arms when she died. Night after night little Oliver dreamed about his beautiful mother, and she seemed sometimes to stand by his bed and to look down upon him with the same beautiful eyes and the same sweet smile of which the nurse told him. Every time he had the chance he asked questions about her, but the nurse could not tell him anything more. She did not even know her name. Oliver had been at the workhouse only a very short time when Mr. Bumble came in and told him he must appear before the Board at once. Now Oliver was puzzled at this. He thought a board was a piece of flat wood, and he could not imagine why he was to appear before that. But he was too much afraid of Mr. Bumble to ask any questions. This gentleman had treated him roughly in bringing him to the workhouse; and, now, when he looked a little puzzled--for his expressive face always told what was in his honest little heart--Mr. Bumble gave him a sharp crack on the head with his cane and another rap over the back and told him to wake up and not look so sleepy, and to mind to be polite when he went before the Board. Oliver could not help tears coming into his eyes as he was pushed along, and Mr. Bumble gave him another sharp rap, telling him to hush, and ushered him into a room where several stern-looking gentlemen sat at a long table. One of them, in a white waistcoat, was particularly hard-looking. "Bow to the Board," said Mr. Bumble to Oliver. Oliver looked about for a board, and, seeing none, he bowed to the table, because it looked more like a board than anything else. The men laughed, and the man in the white waistcoat said: "The boy is a fool. I thought he was." After other ugly remarks, they told Oliver he was an orphan and they had supported him all his life. He ought to be very thankful. (And he was, when he remembered how many had been starved to death.) "Now," they said, "you are nine years old, and we must put you out to learn a trade." They told him he should begin the next morning at six o'clock to pick oakum, and work at that until they could get him a place. Oliver was faithful at his work, in which several other boys assisted, but oh! so hungry they got, for they were given but one little bowl of gruel at a meal--hardly enough for a kitten. So one day the boys said they must ask for more; and they "drew straws" to see who should venture to do so. It fell to Oliver's lot to do it, and the next meal, when they had emptied their bowls, Oliver walked up to the man who helped them and said very politely, "Please, sir, may I not have some more? I am very hungry." This made the man so angry that he hit Oliver over the head with his ladle and called for Mr. Bumble. He came, and when told that Oliver had "asked for more," he grabbed him by the collar and took him before the Board and made the complaint that he had been very naughty and rebellious, telling the circumstance in an unfair and untruthful way. The Board was angry at Oliver, and the man in the white waistcoat told them again as he had said before. "This boy will be hung sometime. We must get rid of him at once." So they offered five pounds, or twenty-five dollars to anyone who would take him. The first man who came was a very mean chimney-sweeper, who had almost killed other boys with his vile treatment. The Board agreed to let him have Oliver; but, when they took him before the magistrates, Oliver fell on his knees and begged them not to let that man have him, and they would not. So Oliver was taken back to the workhouse. The next man who came was Mr. Sowerberry, an undertaker. He was a very good man, and the magistrates let him take Oliver along. But he had a very cross, stingy wife, and a mean servant-girl by the name of Charlotte, and a big overbearing boy by the name of Noah Claypole, whom he had taken to raise. Oliver thought he would like Mr. Sowerberry well enough, but his heart fell when "the Mrs." met him and called him "boy" and a "measly-looking little pauper," and gave him for supper the scraps she had put for the dog. But this was so much better than he got at the workhouse, he would not complain about the food; and he hoped, by faithful work, to win kind treatment. They made him sleep by himself in the shop among the coffins, and he was very much frightened; but he would rather sleep there than with the terrible boy, Noah. The first night he dreamed of his beautiful mother, and thought again he could see her sitting among those black, fearful coffins, with the same sweet smile upon her face. He was awakened the next morning by Noah, who told him he had to obey him, and he'd better lookout or he'd wear the life out of him. Noah kicked and cuffed Oliver several times, but the poor boy was too much used to that to resent it, and determined to do his work well. Mr. Sowerberry found Oliver so good, sensible, and polite that he made him his assistant and took him to all the funerals, and occasionally gave him a penny. Oliver went into fine houses and saw people and sights he had never dreamed of before. Mr. Sowerberry had told him he might some day be an undertaker himself; and Oliver worked hard to please his master, though Noah and Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte grew more unkind to him all the time, because "he was put forward," they said, "and Noah was kept back." This, of course, made Noah meaner than ever to Oliver--determined to endure it all rather than complain, and try to win them over after while by being kind. He could have borne any insult to himself, but Noah tried the little fellow too far when he attacked the name of Oliver's mother, and it brought serious trouble, as we shall see. One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, when, Charlotte being called out of the way, there came a few minutes of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalizing young Oliver Twist. Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the tablecloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a "sneak;" and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various other topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, none of these taunts producing the desired effect of making Oliver cry, Noah began to talk about his mother. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" Noah had given Oliver this name because he had come from the workhouse. "She's dead," replied Oliver; "don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's color rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Noah thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge. "What did she die of, Work'us?" said Noah. "Of a broken-heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself than answering Noah. "I think I know what it must be to die of that!" "Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us," said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's check. "What's set you a sniveling now?" "Not _you_," replied Oliver, hastily brushing the tear away. "Don't think it." "Oh, not me, eh?" sneered Noah. "No, not you," replied Oliver, sharply. "There, that's enough. Don't say anything more to me about her; you'd better not!" "Better not!" exclaimed Noah. "Well! Better not! Work'us, don't be impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice 'un, she was. Oh, Lor'!" And here Noah nodded his head expressively and curled his small red nose. "Yer know, Work'us," continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity. "Yer know, Work'us, it can't be helped now; and of course yer couldn't help it then. But yer must know, Work'us, yer mother was a regular-down bad 'un." "What did you say?" inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly. "A regular right-down bad'un, Work'us," replied Noah, coolly. "And it's a great deal better, Work'us, that she died when she did, or else she'd have been hard laboring in the jail, or sent out of the country, or hung; which is more likely than either, isn't it?" Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table; seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till his teeth chattered in his head; and, collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground. A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet, mild, dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved; his form was erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay crouching at his feet; and defied him with an energy he had never known before. "He'll murder me!" blubbered Noah. "Charlotte! missis! Here's the new boy a-murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver's gone mad! Char--lotte!" Noah's shouts were responded to by a loud scream from Charlotte and a louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite certain that it was safe to come farther down. "Oh, you little wretch!" screamed Charlotte, seizing Oliver with her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in particularly good training. "Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!" And between every syllable Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might. Charlotte's fist was by no means a light one; and Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen and assisted to hold him with one hand, while she scratched his face with the other. In this favorable position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground and pommeled him behind. When they were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair and burst into tears. "Oh! Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!" "Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am," was the reply. "I only hope this'll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! he was all but killed, ma'am, when I come in." "Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously on the charity-boy. "What's to be done!" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. "Your master's not at home; there's not a man in the house, and he'll kick that door down in ten minutes." Oliver's vigorous plunges against the door did seem as if he would break it. "Dear, dear! I don't know, ma'am," said Charlotte, "unless we send for the police officers." "Or the millingtary," suggested Noah. "No, no," said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver's old friend. "Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste!" Noah set off with all his might, and paused not once for breath until he reached the workhouse gate. "Why, what's the matter with the boy!" said the people as Noah rushed up. "Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!" cried Noah, with well-pretended alarm. "Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir! Oliver, sir--Oliver has--" "What? What?" interposed Mr. Bumble, with a gleam of pleasure in his steel-like eyes. "Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?" "No, sir, no! Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious," replied Noah. "He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!" And here Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions, by which the gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round and inquired what that young cur was howling for. "It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has been nearly murdered--all but murdered, sir--by young Twist." "By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short. "I knew it! I felt from the very first that that terrible young savage would come to be hung!" "He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. "And his missis," interposed Noah. "And his master, too. I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble. "No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said he wanted to." "Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Yes, sir. And please, sir," replied Noah, "missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him--'cause master's out." "Certainly, my boy; certainly," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, smiling benignly and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches higher than his own. "You're a good boy--a very good boy. Here's a penny for you. Bumble just step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble." "No, I will not, sir," replied the beadle as he hurried away. Meantime, Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigor, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity, as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and then, putting his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone: "Oliver!" "Come, you let me out!" replied Oliver, from the inside. "Do you know this here voice, Oliver?" said Mr. Bumble. "Yes," replied Oliver. "Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while I speak, sir?" said Mr. Bumble. "No!" replied Oliver, boldly. An answer so different from the one he had expected to hear, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. "Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you." "It's not madness, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deep meditation. "It's meat." "What?" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. "Meat, ma'am, meat," replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. "You've overfed him, ma'am." "Dear, dear!" ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling; "this comes of being liberal!" The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver had consisted in a bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat. "Ah!" said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again; "the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a little starved down; and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through his apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said that that mother of his made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks before." At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some new allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this moment. Oliver's offense having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out by the collar. Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed. "Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?" said Sowerberry, giving Oliver a shake and a box on the ear. "He called my mother names," replied Oliver. "Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?" said Mrs. Sowerberry. "She deserved what he said, and worse." "She didn't," said Oliver. "She did," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "It's a lie!" said Oliver. Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry nothing else to do; so he at once gave Oliver a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself. For the rest of the day he was shut up in the backs kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and, at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means kind to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him up-stairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry; for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there was none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept bitter tears and prayed in his bleeding heart that God would help him to get away from these cruel people. There, upon his knees, Oliver determined to run away, and, rising, tied up a few clothes in a handkerchief and went to bed. With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose and unbarred the door. One timid look around--one moment's pause of hesitation--he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street. He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain which way to fly. He remembered to have seen the wagons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a foot-path across the fields, which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road, struck into it, and walked quickly on. Along this same foot-path, Oliver well remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this, and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on. He reached the house. There was no appearance of the people inside stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together many and many a time. "Hush, Dick!" said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. "Is anyone up?" "Nobody but me," replied the child. "You mustn't say you saw me, Dick," said Oliver. "I am running away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune some long way off. I don't know where. How pale you are!" "I heard the doctor tell them I was dying," replied the child, with a faint smile. "I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't stop, don't stop!" "Yes, yes, I will to say good-by to you," replied Oliver. "I shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall. You will be well and happy!" "I hope so," replied the child. "After I am dead, but not before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of heaven and angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me," said the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms around Oliver's neck: "Good-by, dear! God bless you!" The blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles and sufferings, and troubles and changes of his after-life, he never once forgot it. Oliver soon got into the high-road. It was eight o'clock now. Though he was nearly five miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by turns, till noon, fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to rest by the side of the mile-stone. The stone by which he was seated had a sign on it which said that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened a new train of ideas in the boy's mind, London!--that great large place!--nobody--not even Mr. Bumble--could ever find him there! He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no lad of spirit need want in London; and that there were ways of living in that vast city which those who had been bred in the country parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets unless some-one helped him. As these things passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet and again walked forward. He had made the distance between himself and London less by full four miles more, before he thought how much he must undergo ere he could hope to reach the place toward which he was going. As this consideration forced itself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his means of getting there. He had a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and two pairs of stockings in his bundle. He had a penny too--a gift of Sowerberry's after some funeral in which he had acquitted himself more than ordinarily well--in his pocket. "A clean shirt," thought Oliver, "is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs of darned stockings; and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a sixty-five miles' walk in winter-time." Thus day after day the weary but plucky little boy walked on, and early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver limped slowly into the little town of Barnet, and sat down on a doorstep to rest. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver for a moment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried by; but none helped him, or troubled themselves to inquire how he came there. He had no heart to beg. And there he sat for some time when he was roused by observing that a boy was watching him most earnestly from the opposite side of the way. He took little heed of this at first; but the boy remained in the same attitude so long that Oliver raised his head and returned his steady look. Upon this, the boy crossed over, and, walking close up to Oliver, said: "Hullo, my covey! What's the row?" The boy who had spoken to the young wayfarer was about his own age: but one of the queerest-looking boys that Oliver had ever seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a youth as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and manners of a man. He was short for his age; with rather bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so lightly that it threatened to fall off every moment. He wore a man's coat, which reached nearly to his heels. "Hullo, my covey! What's the row?" said the stranger. "I am very hungry and tired," replied Oliver: the tears standing in his eyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days." "Walking for sivin days!" said the young gentleman. "Oh, I see. Beak's order, eh? But," he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, "I suppose you don't know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on." Oliver mildly replied that he had always heard a bird's mouth described by the word beak. "My eyes, how green!" exclaimed the young gentleman. "Why, a beak's a madgst'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight forerd. "But come," said the young gentleman; "you want grub, and you shall have it. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then!" Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to a near by grocery store, where he bought a supply of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, "a fourpenny bran!" Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentleman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here a pot of beer was brought in by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?" said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded. "Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy whistled, and put his arms into his pockets as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go. "Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver. "Yes, I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?" "I do, indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I left the country." "Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old genelman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change--that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he know me? Oh, no! not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!" which was his queer way of saying he and the old gentleman were good friends. This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted, especially as it was immediately followed up by the assurance that the old gentleman referred to would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and free talk, from which Oliver learned that his friend's name was Jack Dawkins--among his intimate friends better known as the "Artful Dodger"--and that he was a peculiar pet of the elderly gentleman before mentioned. As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the small city street, along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow close at his heels. Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either side of the way as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he had never seen. Oliver was just considering whether he hadn't better run away, when they reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the arm, pushed open the door of a house, and, drawing him into the passage, closed it behind them. "Now, then!" cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the Dodger. "Plummy and slam!" was the reply. This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the passage, and a man's face peeped out from where a balustrade of the old kitchen staircase had been broken away. "There's two of you," said the man, thrusting the candle farther out, and shading his eyes with his hand. "Who's the t'other one?" "A new pal," replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward. "Where did he come from?" "Greenland. Is Fagin up-stairs?" "Yes; he's a sortin' the wipes. Up with you!" The candle was drawn back, and the face disappeared. Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly grasped by his companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and broken stairs; which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition that showed he was well acquainted with them. He threw open the door of a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him. The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and dirt. There was a deal table before the fire, upon which were a candle stuck in a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter-pots, a loaf and butter, and a plate. Seated round the table were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking clay pipes and drinking spirits, with the air of middle-aged men. These all crowded about their friend as he whispered a few words to the Jewish proprietor; and then turned round and grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew himself, toasting-fork in hand. "This is him, Fagin," said Jack Dawkins; "my friend, Oliver Twist." The Jew grinned, and, making a low bow to Oliver, took him by the hand, and hoped he should have the honor of a closer acquaintance. Upon this, the young gentlemen with the pipes came round him and shook both his hands very hard. "We are very glad to see you. Oliver, very," said the Jew. "Dodger, take off the sausages, and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver. Ah! you're a-staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my dear! There are a good many of 'em, ain't there? We've just looked 'em out, ready for the wash: that's all, Oliver--that's all. Ha! ha! ha!" The latter part of this speech was hailed by a noisy shout from all the pupils of the merry old gentleman; in the midst of which they went to supper. Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot gin and water, telling him he must drink it off directly, because another gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired. Immediately afterward he felt himself gently lifted on to one of the sacks; and then he sunk into a deep sleep. It was late next morning when Oliver awoke from a sound, long sleep. There was no other person in the room but the old Jew, who was boiling some coffee in a saucepan for breakfast, and whistling softly to himself as he stirred it round and round with an iron spoon. He would stop every now and then to listen when there was the least noise below; and when he had satisfied himself, he would go on, whistling and stirring again, as before. Although Oliver had roused himself from sleep, he was not thoroughly awake. Oliver was precisely in this condition. He saw the Jew with his half-closed eyes; heard his low whistling; and recognized the sound of the spoon grating against the saucepan's sides. When the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan to the hob, looked at Oliver, and called him by his name. He did not answer, and was to all appearance asleep. After satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently to the door, which he fastened. He then drew forth, as it seemed to Oliver, from some trap in the floor, a small box, which he placed carefully on the table. His eyes glistened as he raised the lid and looked in. Dragging an old chair to the table, he sat down; and took from it a magnificent gold watch, sparkling with jewels. "Aha!" said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders and distorting every feature with a hideous grin. "Clever dogs! Clever dogs! Stanch to the last! Never told the old parson where they were. Never peached upon old Fagin! And why should they? It wouldn't have loosened the knot, or kept the drop up, a minute longer. No, no, no! Fine fellows! Fine fellows!" With these and other muttered remarks of the like nature, the Jew once more laid the watch in its place of safety. At least half a dozen more were severally drawn forth from the same box, and looked at with equal pleasure; besides rings, bracelets, and other articles of jewelry, of such magnificent materials, and costly workmanship, that Oliver had no idea even of their names. As the Jew looked up, his bright dark eyes, which had been staring at the jewelry, fell on Oliver's face; the boy's eyes were fixed on his in mute curiosity; and although the recognition was only for an instant, it was enough to show the old man that he had been observed. He closed the lid of the box with a loud crash; and, laying his hand on a bread-knife which was on the table, started furiously up. "What's that?" said the Jew. "What do you watch me for? Why are you awake? What have you seen? Speak out boy! Quick--quick! for your life!" "I wasn't able to sleep any longer, sir," replied Oliver, meekly. "I am very sorry if I have disturbed you, sir." "You were not awake an hour ago?" said the Jew, scowling fiercely. "No! No, indeed!" replied Oliver. "Are you sure?" cried the Jew, with a still fiercer look than before, and a threatening attitude. "Upon my word I was not, sir," replied Oliver, earnestly. "Tush, tush, my dear!" said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old manner, and playing with the knife a little, before he laid it down; to make Oliver think that he had caught it up in mere sport. "Of course I know that, my dear. I only tried to frighten you. You're a brave boy. Ha! ha! you're a brave boy, Oliver!" The Jew rubbed his hands with a chuckle, but glanced uneasily at the box, notwithstanding. "Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?" said the Jew, laying his hand upon it after a short pause. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver. "Ah!" said the Jew, turning rather pale. "They--they're mine, Oliver: my little property. All I have to live upon in my old age. The folks call me a miser, my dear. Only a miser; that's all." Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live in such a dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that perhaps his fondness for the Dodger and the other boys cost him a good deal of money, he only looked kindly at the Jew, and asked if he might get up. "Certainly, my dear, certainly," replied the old gentleman. "There's a pitcher of water in the corner by the door. Bring it here, and I'll give you a basin to wash in, my dear." Oliver got up, walked across the room, and stooped for an instant to raise the pitcher. When he turned his head the box was gone. He had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy by emptying the basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew's directions, when the Dodger returned, accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom Oliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formally introduced to him as Charley Bates. The four sat down to breakfast on the coffee and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought home in the crown of his hat. "Well," said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself to the Dodger, "I hope you've been at work this morning, my dears?" "Hard," replied the Dodger. "As nails," added Charley Bates. "Good boys, good boys!" said the Jew. "What have _you_, Dodger?" "A couple of pocket-books," replied that young gentleman. "Lined?" inquired the Jew, with eagerness. "Pretty well," replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books. "Not so heavy as they might be," said the Jew, after looking at the insides carefully; "but very neat and nicely made. A good workman, ain't he, Oliver?" "Very, indeed, sir," said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laughed uproariously, very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to laugh at in anything that had passed. "And what have you got, my dear?" said Fagin to Charley Bates. "Wipes," replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs. "Well," said the Jew, inspecting them closely; "they're very good ones, very. You haven't marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall be picked out with a needle, and we'll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!" "If you please, sir," said Oliver. "You'd like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley Bates, wouldn't you, my dear?" said the Jew. "Very much, indeed, if you'll teach me, sir," replied Oliver. Master Bates burst into another laugh. "He is so jolly green!" said Charley when he recovered, as an apology to the company for his impolite behavior. The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver's hair over his eyes, and said he'd know better by-and-by. When the breakfast was cleared away, the merry old gentleman and the two boys played at a very curious and uncommon game, which was performed in this way: The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of his trousers, a note-case in the other, and a watch in his waistcoat pocket, with a guard-chain round his neck, and sticking a mock-diamond pin in his shirt, buttoned his coat tight around him, and putting his spectacle-case and handkerchief in his pockets, trotted up and down the room with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen walk about the streets any hour in the day. Now during all this time the two boys followed him closely about, getting out of his sight, so nimbly, every time he turned round that it was impossible to follow their motions. At last the Dodger trod upon his toes or ran upon his boot accidentally, while Charley Bates stumbled up against him behind; and in that one moment they took from him, with the most extraordinary rapidity, snuff-box, note-case, watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin, pocket handkerchief, even the spectacle-case. If the old gentleman felt a hand in any one of his pockets, he cried out where it was, and then the game began all over again. When this game had been played a great many times, Charley Bates expressed his opinion that it was time to pad the hoof. This, it occurred to Oliver, must be French for going out; for, directly afterward, the Dodger and Charley went away together, having been kindly furnished by the amiable old Jew with money to spend. "There, my dear," said Fagin. "That's a pleasant life, isn't it? They have gone out for the day." "Have they done work, sir?" inquired Oliver. "Yes," said the Jew; "that is, unless they should unexpectedly come across any when they are out; and they won't neglect it, if they do, my dear, depend upon it. Make 'em your models, my dear. Make 'em your models," tapping the fire-shovel on the hearth to add force to his words; "do everything they bid you, and take their advice in all matters--especially the Dodger's my dear. He'll be a great man himself, and will make you one too, if you take pattern by him. Is my handkerchief hanging out of my pocket, my dear?" said the Jew, stopping short. "Yes, sir," said Oliver. "See if you can take it out, without my feeling it, as you saw them do when we were at play this morning." Oliver held up the bottom of the pocket with one hand, as he had seen the Dodger hold it, and drew the handkerchief lightly out with the other. "Is it gone?" cried the Jew. "Here it is, sir," said Oliver, showing it in his hand. "You're a clever boy, my dear," said the playful old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head approvingly. "I never saw a sharper lad. Here's a shilling for you. If you go on in this way, you'll be the greatest man of the time. And now come here, and I'll show you how to take the marks out of the handkerchief." Oliver wondered what picking the old gentleman's pocket in play had to do with his chances of being a great man. But, thinking that the Jew, being so much older must know best, he followed him quietly to the table, and was soon deeply at work in his new study. For many days Oliver remained in the Jew's room, picking the marks out of the pocket-handkerchiefs (of which a great number were brought home), and sometimes taking part in the game already described, which the two boys and the Jew played, regularly, every morning. At length, one morning, Oliver obtained the permission to go out with the boys. There had been no handkerchiefs to work upon for two or three days, and the dinners had been rather meager. Perhaps these were reasons for the old gentleman giving his assent; but, whether they were or no, he told Oliver he might go, and placed him under the joint care of Charley Bates and his friend, the Dodger. The three boys started out; the Dodger with his coat-sleeves tucked up and his hat cocked, as usual; Master Bates sauntering along with his hands in his pockets; and Oliver between them, wondering where they were going, and what they would teach him to make first. They were just coming from a narrow court not far from an open square, which is yet called "The Green," when the Dodger made a sudden stop, and, laying his finger on his lip, drew his companions back again, with the greatest caution. "What's the matter?" demanded Oliver. "Hush!" replied the Dodger. "Do you see that old cove at the book-stall?" "The old gentleman over the way?" said Oliver. "Yes, I see him." "He'll do," said the Dodger. "A prime plant," observed Master Charley Bates. Oliver looked from one to the other with the greatest surprise, but he was not permitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked stealthily across the road and slunk close behind the old gentleman. Oliver walked a few paces after them, and, not knowing whether to advance or retire, stood looking on in silent amazement. The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a powdered head and gold spectacles, as he stood reading a book; and what was Oliver's horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking on with his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the Dodger plunge his hand into the old gentleman's pocket and draw from thence a handkerchief! To see him hand the same to Charley Bates; and finally to behold them both running away round the corner. In an instant the whole mystery of the handkerchiefs, and the watches, and the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy's mind. He stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling through all his veins from terror that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused and frightened, he took to his heels, and, not knowing what he did, made off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground. This was all done in a minute's space. In the very instant when Oliver began to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding away at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the thief; and, shouting "Stop thief!" with all his might, made off after him, book in hand. But the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the hue-and-cry. The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public attention by running down the open street, had merely retired into the very first doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and saw Oliver running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they issued forth with great quickness; and shouting "Stop thief!" too, joined in the pursuit like good citizens. Away they ran, pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash; tearing, yelling, screaming, knocking down the passengers as they turn the corners, rousing up the dogs, and astonishing the fowls; and making streets, squares, and courts re-echo with the sound. At last a burly fellow struck Oliver a terrible blow and he went down upon the pavement; and the crowd eagerly gathered round him, each newcomer jostling and struggling with the others to catch a glimpse. "Stand aside!" "Give him a little air!" "Nonsense! he don't deserve it!" "Where's the gentleman?" "Here he is, coming down the street." "Make room there for the gentleman!" "Is this the boy, sir?" Oliver lay covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth, looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when the old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by the foremost of the pursuers. "Yes," said the gentleman, "I am afraid it is the boy." "Afraid!" murmured the crowd. "That's a good 'un!" "Poor fellow!" said the gentleman, "he has hurt himself." "I did that, sir," said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward; "and preciously I cut my knuckle agin his mouth. I stopped him, sir." The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his pains; but the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of dislike, looked anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away himself; which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and thus have afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is generally the last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made his way through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar. "Come, get up," said the man, roughly. "It wasn't me, indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys," said Oliver, clasping his hands passionately and looking round. "They are here somewhere." "Oh no, they ain't," said the officer. He meant this to be ironical, but it was true besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off down the first convenient court they came to. "Come, get up!" "Don't hurt him," said the old gentleman, compassionately. "Oh no, I won't hurt him," replied the officer, tearing his jacket half off his back, in proof thereof. "Come, I know you; it won't do. Will you stand upon your legs, you young devil?" Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his feet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar at a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer's side. At last they came to a place called Mutton Hill. Here he was led beneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, where they saw a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face and a bunch of keys in his hand. "What's the matter now?" said the man carelessly. "A young fogle-hunter," replied the officer who had Oliver in charge. "Are you the party that's been robbed, sir?" inquired the man with the keys. "Yes, I am," replied the old gentleman; "but I am not sure that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I would rather not press the case." "Must go before the magistrate now, sir," replied the man. "His worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!" This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched, and, nothing being found upon him, locked up. The old gentleman looked almost as unhappy as Oliver when the key grated in the lock. At last this gentleman, Mr. Brownlow, was summoned before the magistrate--a very mean man, whose name was Fang. Oliver was brought in, and the magistrate, after using very abusive language to Mr. Brownlow, had him sworn, but would not let him tell his story. He flew into a rage and told the policeman to tell what happened. The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the boy; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how that was all he knew about it. "Are there any witnesses?" inquired Mr. Fang. "None, your worship," replied the policeman. Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to Mr. Brownlow, said in a towering passion: "Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence, I'll punish you for disrespect to the bench." With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run after the boy because he saw him running away. "He has been hurt already," said the old gentleman, in conclusion. "And I fear," he added, with great energy, looking toward the bar, "I really fear that he is ill." "Oh! yes, I dare say!" said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. "Come, none of your tricks here, you young vagabond; they won't do. What's your name?" Oliver tried to reply, but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale; and the whole place seemed turning round and round. "What's your name, you hardened scoundrel?" demanded Mr. Fang. At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head, and, looking round with imploring eyes, asked feebly for a drink of water. "Stuff and nonsense!" said Fang; "don't try to make a fool of me." "I think he really is ill, your worship," said the officer. "I know better," said Mr. Fang. "Take care of him, officer," said the old gentleman, raising his hands instinctively; "he'll fall down." "Stand away, officer," cried Fang; "let him, if he likes." Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one dared to stir. "I knew he was shamming," said Fang, as if this were enough proof of the fact. "Let him lie there; he'll soon be tired of that." "How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?" inquired the clerk in a low voice. "Summarily," replied Mr. Fang. "He stands committed for three months--hard labor, of course. Clear the office." The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell, when an elderly man of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed in. "Stop! stop! Don't take him away! For heaven's sake stop a moment!" cried the newcomer, breathless with haste. "What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office," cried Mr. Fang. "I _will_ speak," cried the man; "I will not be turned out. I saw it all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You must not refuse, sir." The man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter was growing rather too serious to be hushed up. "Swear the man," growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill grace. "Now, man, what have you to say?" "This," said the man: "I saw three boys--two two others and the prisoner here--loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman was reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done; and I saw this boy was perfectly amazed and stupefied by it." "Why didn't you come here before?" said Fang, after a pause. "I hadn't a soul to mind the shop," replied the man. "Everybody who could have helped me had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five minutes ago; and I have run here all the way to speak the truth." "The boy is discharged. Clear the office!" shouted the angry magistrate. The command was obeyed; and as Oliver was taken out he fainted away again in the yard, and lay with his face a deadly white and a cold tremble convulsing his frame. "Poor boy! poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. "Call a coach, somebody, pray. Directly!" A coach was obtained, and Oliver, having been carefully laid on one seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other. "May I go with you?" said the book-stall keeper, looking in. "Bless me, yes, my dear sir," said Mr. Brownlow quickly. "I forgot you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow! No time to lose." The book-stall keeper got into the coach, and it rattled away. It stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet shady street. Here a bed was prepared, without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and comfortably laid; and here he was tended with a kindness and solicitude that knew no bounds. At last the sick boy began to recover, and one day Mr. Brownlow came to see him. You may imagine how happy Oliver was to see his good friend; but he was no more delighted than was Mr. Brownlow. The old gentleman came to spend a short time with him every day; and, when he grew stronger, Oliver went up to the learned gentleman's study and talked with him by the hour and was astonished at the books he saw, and which Mr. Brownlow told him to look at and read as much as he liked. Oliver was soon well, and no thought was in Mr. Brownlow's mind but that he should keep him, and raise him and educate him to be a splendid man; for no father loves his own son better than Mr. Brownlow had come to love Oliver. Now, I know, you want to ask me what became of Oliver Twist. But I cannot tell you here. Let us leave him in this beautiful home of good Mr. Brownlow; and, if you want to read the rest of his wonderful story, get Dickens' big book called _Oliver Twist_, and read it there. There were many surprises and much trouble yet in store for Oliver, but he was always noble, honest, and brave. ------THE------ Famous Standard Juveniles * * * * * Published by THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. Philadelphia * * * * * EDWARD S. ELLIS Edward S. Ellis, the popular writer of boys' books, is a native of Ohio, where he was born somewhat more than a half-century ago. His father was a famous hunter and rifle shot, and it was doubtless his exploits and those of his associates, with their tales of adventure which gave the son his taste for the breezy backwoods and for depicting the stirring life of the early settlers on the frontier. Mr. Ellis began writing at an early age and his work was acceptable from the first. His parents removed to New Jersey while he was a boy and he was graduated from the State Normal School and became a member of the faculty while still in his teens. He was afterward principal of the Trenton High School, a trustee and then superintendent of schools. By that time his services as a writer had become so pronounced that he gave his entire attention to literature. He was an exceptionally successful teacher and wrote a number of text-books for schools, all of which met with high favor. For these and his historical productions, Princeton College conferred upon him the degree of Master of Arts. 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Jesse Lyman Hurlbut, D.D., to make sure that the style is simple and suitable for Young Readers, and to eliminate anything which might be objectionable. Dr. Hurlbut's large and varied experience in the instruction of young people, and in the preparation of literature in language that is easily understood, makes this series of books a welcome addition to libraries, reading circles, schools and home. Issued in uniform style of binding. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, 75 cents * * * * * LIST OF TITLES DICKENS' STORIES ABOUT CHILDREN. Every Child can read LIVES OF OUR PRESIDENTS. Every Child can read LEATHER STOCKING TALES. Every Child can read PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. Every Child can read STORIES ABOUT CHILDREN OF ALL NATIONS. Every Child can read STORIES OF GREAT AMERICANS. Every Child can read STORIES OF OUR NAVAL HEROES. Every Child can read STORY OF JESUS, THE. Every Child can read STORY OF OUR COUNTRY, THE. 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WINSTON CO., _Publishers_ WINSTON BUILDING PHILADELPHIA Critics uniformly agree that parents can safely place in the hands of boys and girls any book written by Edward S. Ellis The "FLYING BOYS" Series By EDWARD S. ELLIS Author of the Renowned "Deerfoot" Books, and 100 other famous volumes for young people During his trip abroad last summer, Mr. Ellis became intensely interested in æroplane and airship flying in France, and this new series from his pen is the visible result of what he would call a "vacation." He has made a study of the science and art of æronautics, and these books will give boys just the information they want about this marvelous triumph of man. First Volume: THE FLYING BOYS IN THE SKY Second Volume: THE FLYING BOYS TO THE RESCUE The stories are timely and full of interest and stirring events. Handsomely illustrated and with appropriate cover design. Price Per volume, 60 cents. Postpaid * * * * * This series will appeal to up-to-date American Girls. 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Postpaid * * * * * RECOMMENDED BY REAR ADMIRAL MELVILLE, WHO COMMANDED THREE EXPEDITIONS TO THE ARCTIC REGIONS ----THE---- New Popular Science Series BY PROF. EDWIN J. HOUSTON THE NORTH POLE SERIES. By Prof. Edwin J. Houston. This is an entirely new series, which opens a new field in Juvenile Literature. Dr. Houston has spent a lifetime in teaching boys the principles of physical and scientific phenomena and knows how to talk and write for them in a way that is most attractive. In the reading of these stories the most accurate scientific information will be absorbed. THE SEARCH FOR THE NORTH POLE THE DISCOVERY OF THE NORTH POLE CAST AWAY AT THE NORTH POLE Handsomely bound. The volumes, 12mo. in size, are bound in Extra English Cloth, and are attractively stamped in colors and full gold titles. Sold separately or in sets, boxed. Price $1.00 per volume. Postpaid * * * * * THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO., _Publishers_ WINSTON BUILDING PHILADELPHIA * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious punctuation errors were corrected. Page 156, repeated word "were" removed (were both great personages) Page 197, "though" changed to "through" (yourself through the grating) Page 237, "Wardle" changed to "Winkle" (Winkle, to maintain his) Page 248, "X.III" changed to "XIII." Page 276, "on" changed to "of" (There's two of you) 
7870	----	Merged with an earlier text produced by Juliet Sutherland, Thomas Hutchinson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team [Illustration] TALES OF DARING AND DANGER. [Illustration] [Illustration: SIGHTING THE WRECK OF THE STEAMER.] TALES OF DARING AND DANGER. BY G.A. HENTY, Author of "Yarns on the Beach;" "Sturdy and Strong;" "Facing Death;" "By Sheer Pluck;" "With Clive in India;" &c. _ILLUSTRATED._ [Illustration] LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, 49 & 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C. GLASGOW, EDINBURGH, AND DUBLIN. 1890. CONTENTS. Page BEARS AND DACOITS, 7 THE PATERNOSTERS, 37 A PIPE OF MYSTERY, 71 WHITE-FACED DICK, 99 A BRUSH WITH THE CHINESE, 119 [Illustration] BEARS AND DACOITS. A TALE OF THE GHAUTS. CHAPTER I. A merry party were sitting in the verandah of one of the largest and handsomest bungalows of Poonah. It belonged to Colonel Hastings, colonel of a native regiment stationed there, and at present, in virtue of seniority, commanding a brigade. Tiffin was on, and three or four officers and four ladies had taken their seats in the comfortable cane lounging chairs which form the invariable furniture of the verandah of a well-ordered bungalow. Permission had been duly asked, and granted by Mrs. Hastings, and the cheroots had just begun to draw, when Miss Hastings, a niece of the colonel, who had only arrived the previous week from England, said,-- "Uncle, I am quite disappointed. Mrs. Lyons showed me the bear she has got tied up in their compound, and it is the most wretched little thing, not bigger than Rover, papa's retriever, and it's full-grown. I thought bears were great fierce creatures, and this poor little thing seemed so restless and unhappy that I thought it quite a shame not to let it go." Colonel Hastings smiled rather grimly. "And yet, small and insignificant as that bear is, my dear, it is a question whether he is not as dangerous an animal to meddle with as a man-eating tiger." "What, that wretched little bear, Uncle?" "Yes, that wretched little bear. Any experienced sportsman will tell you that hunting those little bears is as dangerous a sport as tiger-hunting on foot, to say nothing of tiger-hunting from an elephant's back, in which there is scarcely any danger whatever. I can speak feelingly about it, for my career was pretty nearly brought to an end by a bear, just after I entered the army, some thirty years ago, at a spot within a few miles from here. I have got the scars on my shoulder and arm still." "Oh, do tell me all about it," Miss Hastings said; and the request being seconded by the rest of the party, none of whom, with the exception of Mrs. Hastings, had ever heard the story before--for the colonel was somewhat chary of relating this special experience--he waited till they had all drawn up their chairs as close as possible, and then giving two or three vigorous puffs at his cheroot, began as follows:-- "Thirty years ago, in 1855, things were not so settled in the Deccan as they are now. There was no idea of insurrection on a large scale, but we were going through one of those outbreaks of Dacoity, which have several times proved so troublesome. Bands of marauders kept the country in confusion, pouring down on a village, now carrying off three or four of the Bombay money-lenders, who were then, as now, the curse of the country; sometimes making an onslaught upon a body of traders; and occasionally venturing to attack small detachments of troops or isolated parties of police. They were not very formidable, but they were very troublesome, and most difficult to catch, for the peasantry regarded them as patriots, and aided and shielded them in every way. The head-quarters of these gangs of Dacoits were the Ghauts. In the thick bush and deep valleys and gorges there they could always take refuge, while sometimes the more daring chiefs converted these detached peaks and masses of rock, numbers of which you can see as you come up the Ghaut by railway, into almost impregnable fortresses. Many of these masses of rock rise as sheer up from the hillside as walls of masonry, and look at a short distance like ruined castles. Some are absolutely inaccessible; others can only be scaled by experienced climbers; and, although possible for the natives with their bare feet, are impracticable to European troops. Many of these rock fortresses were at various times the head-quarters of famous Dacoit leaders, and unless the summits happened to be commanded from some higher ground within gunshot range they were all but impregnable except by starvation. When driven to bay, these fellows would fight well. "Well, about the time I joined, the Dacoits were unusually troublesome; the police had a hard time of it, and almost lived in the saddle, and the cavalry were constantly called up to help them, while detachments of infantry from the station were under canvas at several places along the top of the Ghauts to cut the bands off from their strongholds, and to aid, if necessary, in turning them out of their rock fortresses. The natives in the valleys at the foot of the Ghauts, who have always been a semi-independent race, ready to rob whenever they saw a chance, were great friends with the Dacoits, and supplied them with provisions whenever the hunt on the Deccan was too hot for them to make raids in that direction. "This is a long introduction, you will say, and does not seem to have much to do with bears; but it is really necessary, as you will see. I had joined about six months when three companies of the regiment were ordered to relieve a wing of the 15th, who had been under canvas at a village some four miles to the north of the point where the line crosses the top of the Ghauts. There were three white officers, and little enough to do, except when a party was sent off to assist the police. We had one or two brushes with the Dacoits, but I was not out on either occasion. However, there was plenty of shooting, and a good many pigs about, so we had very good fun. Of course, as a raw hand, I was very hot for it, and as the others had both passed the enthusiastic age, except for pig-sticking and big game, I could always get away. I was supposed not to go far from camp, because, in the first place, I might be wanted; and, in the second, because of the Dacoits; and Norworthy, who was in command, used to impress upon me that I ought not to go beyond the sound of a bugle. Of course we both knew that if I intended to get any sport I must go further afoot than this; but I merely used to say 'All right, sir, I will keep an ear to the camp,' and he on his part never considered it necessary to ask where the game which appeared on the table came from. But in point of fact, I never went very far, and my servant always had instructions which way to send for me if I was wanted; while as to the Dacoits I did not believe in their having the impudence to come in broad daylight within a mile or two of our camp. I did not often go down the face of the Ghauts. The shooting was good, and there were plenty of bears in those days, but it needed a long day for such an expedition, and in view of the Dacoits who might be scattered about, was not the sort of thing to be undertaken except with a strong party. Norworthy had not given any precise orders about it, but I must admit that he said one day:-- "'Of course you won't be fool enough to think of going down the Ghauts, Hastings?' But I did not look at that as equivalent to a direct order--whatever I should do now," the colonel put in, on seeing a furtive smile on the faces of his male listeners. "However, I never meant to go down, though I used to stand on the edge and look longingly down into the bush and fancy I saw bears moving about in scores. But I don't think I should have gone into their country if they had not come into mine. One day the fellow who always carried my spare gun or flask, and who was a sort of shekarry in a small way, told me he had heard that a farmer, whose house stood near the edge of the Ghauts, some two miles away, had been seriously annoyed by his fruit and corn being stolen by bears. "'I'll go and have a look at the place to-morrow,' I said, 'there is no parade, and I can start early. You may as well tell the mess cook to put up a basket with some tiffin and a bottle of claret, and get a boy to carry it over.' "'The bears not come in day,' Rahman said. "'Of course not,' I replied; 'still I may like to find out which way they come. Just do as you are told.' "The next morning, at seven o'clock, I was at the farmer's spoken of, and there was no mistake as to the bears. A patch of Indian corn had been ruined by them, and two dogs had been killed. The native was in a terrible state of rage and alarm. He said that on moonlight nights he had seen eight of them, and they came and sniffed around the door of the cottage. "'Why don't you fire through the window at them?' I asked scornfully, for I had seen a score of tame bears in captivity, and, like you, Mary, was inclined to despise them, though there was far less excuse for me; for I had heard stories which should have convinced me that, small as he is, the Indian bear is not a beast to be attacked with impunity. Upon walking to the edge of the Ghauts there was no difficulty in discovering the route by which the bears came up to the farm. For a mile to the right and left the ground fell away as if cut with a knife, leaving a precipice of over a hundred feet sheer down; but close by where I was standing was the head of a watercourse, which in time had gradually worn a sort of cleft in the wall, up or down which it was not difficult to make one's way. Further down this little gorge widened out and became a deep ravine, and further still a wide valley, where it opened upon the flats far below us. About half a mile down where the ravine was deepest and darkest was a thick clump of trees and jungle. "'That's where the bears are?' I asked Rahman. He nodded. It seemed no distance. I could get down and back in time for tiffin, and perhaps bag a couple of bears. For a young sportsman the temptation was great. 'How long would it take us to go down and have a shot or two at them?' "'No good go down. Master come here at night, shoot bears when they come up.' "I had thought of that; but, in the first place, it did not seem much sport to shoot the beasts from cover when they were quietly eating, and, in the next place, I knew that Norworthy could not, even if he were willing, give me leave to go out of camp at night. I waited, hesitating for a few minutes, and then I said to myself, 'It is of no use waiting. I could go down and get a bear and be back again while I am thinking of it;' then to Rahman, 'No, come along; we will have a look through that wood anyhow.' "Rahman evidently did not like it. "'Not easy find bear, sahib. He very cunning.' "'Well, very likely we sha'n't find them,' I said, 'but we can try anyhow. Bring that bottle with you; the tiffin basket can wait here till we come back.' In another five minutes I had begun to climb down the watercourse--the shekarry following me. I took the double-barrelled rifle and handed him the shot-gun, having first dropped a bullet down each barrel over the charge. The ravine was steep, but there were bushes to hold on by, and although it was hot work and took a good deal longer than I expected, we at last got down to the place which I had fixed upon as likely to be the bears' home. "'Sahib, climb up top,' Rahman said; 'come down through wood; no good fire at bear when he above.' "I had heard that before; but I was hot, the sun was pouring down, there was not a breath of wind, and it looked a long way up to the top of the wood. "'Give me the claret. It would take too long to search the wood regularly. We will sit down here for a bit, and if we can see anything moving up in the wood, well and good; if not, we will come back again another day with some beaters and dogs.' So saying, I sat down with my back against a rock, at a spot where I could look up among the trees for a long way through a natural vista. I had a drink of claret, and then I sat and watched till gradually I dropped off to sleep. I don't know how long I slept, but it was some time, and I woke up with a sudden start. Rahman, who had, I fancy, been asleep too, also started up. [Illustration: "MY GUN, RAHMAN," I SHOUTED.] "The noise which had aroused us was made by a rolling stone striking a rock; and looking up I saw some fifty yards away, not in the wood, but on the rocky hillside on our side of the ravine, a bear standing, as though unconscious of our presence, snuffing the air. As was natural, I seized my rifle, cocked it, and took aim, unheeding a cry of 'No, no, sahib,' from Rahman. However, I was not going to miss such a chance as this, and I let fly. The beast had been standing sideways to me, and as I saw him fall I felt sure I had hit him in the heart. I gave a shout of triumph, and was about to climb up, when, from behind the rock on which the bear had stood, appeared another growling fiercely; on seeing me, it at once prepared to come down. Stupidly, being taken by surprise, and being new at it, I fired at once at its head. The bear gave a spring, and then--it seemed instantaneous--down it came at me. Whether it rolled down, or slipped down, or ran down, I don't know, but it came almost as if it had jumped straight at me. "'My gun, Rahman,' I shouted, holding out my hand. There was no answer. I glanced round, and found that the scoundrel had bolted. I had time, and only just time, to take a step backwards, and to club my rifle, when the brute was upon me. I got one fair blow at the side of its head, a blow that would have smashed the skull of any civilized beast into pieces, and which did fortunately break the brute's jaw; then in an instant he was upon me, and I was fighting for life. My hunting-knife was out, and with my left hand I had the beast by the throat; while with my right I tried to drive my knife into its ribs. My bullet had gone through his chest. The impetus of his charge had knocked me over, and we rolled on the ground, he tearing with his claws at my shoulder and arm, I stabbing and struggling, my great effort being to keep my knees up so as to protect my body with them from his hind claws. After the first blow with his paw, which laid my shoulder open, I do not think I felt any special pain whatever. There was a strange faint sensation, and my whole energy seemed centered in the two ideas--to strike and to keep my knees up. I knew that I was getting faint, but I was dimly conscious that his efforts, too, were relaxing. His weight on me seemed to increase enormously, and the last idea that flashed across me was that it was a drawn fight. "The next idea of which I was conscious was that I was being carried. I seemed to be swinging about, and I thought I was at sea. Then there was a little jolt and a sense of pain. 'A collision,' I muttered, and opened my eyes. Beyond the fact that I seemed in a yellow world--a bright orange-yellow--my eyes did not help me, and I lay vaguely wondering about it all, till the rocking ceased. There was another bump, and then the yellow world seemed to come to an end; and as the daylight streamed in upon me I fainted again. This time when I awoke to consciousness things were clearer. I was stretched by a little stream. A native woman was sprinkling my face and washing the blood from my wounds; while another, who had with my own knife cut off my coat and shirt, was tearing the latter into strips to bandage my wounds. The yellow world was explained. I was lying on the yellow robe of one of the women. They had tied the ends together, placed a long stick through them, and carried me in the bag-like hammock. They nodded to me when they saw I was conscious, and brought water in a large leaf, and poured it into my mouth. Then one went away for some time, and came back with some leaves and bark. These they chewed and put on my wounds, bound them up with strips of my shirt, and then again knotted the ends of the cloth, and lifting me up, went on as before. "I was sure that we were much lower down the Ghaut than we had been when I was watching for the bears, and we were now going still lower. However, I knew very little Hindustani, nothing of the language the women spoke. I was too weak to stand, too weak even to think much; and I dozed and woke, and dozed again, until, after what seemed to me many hours of travel, we stopped again, this time before a tent. Two or three old women and four or five men came out, and there was great talking between them and the young women--for they were young--who had carried me down. Some of the party appeared angry; but at last things quieted down, and I was carried into the tent. I had fever, and was, I suppose, delirious for days. I afterwards found that for fully a fortnight I had lost all consciousness; but a good constitution and the nursing of the women pulled me round. When once the fever had gone, I began to mend rapidly. I tried to explain to the women that if they would go up to the camp and tell them where I was they would be well rewarded; but although I was sure they understood, they shook their heads, and by the fact that as I became stronger two or three armed men always hung about the tent, I came to the conclusion that I was a sort of prisoner. This was annoying, but did not seem serious. If these people were Dacoits, or, as was more likely, allies of the Dacoits, I could be kept only for ransom or exchange. Moreover, I felt sure of my ability to escape when I got strong, especially as I believed that in the young women who had saved my life, both by bringing me down and by their careful nursing, I should find friends." "Were they pretty, uncle?" Mary Hastings broke in. "Never mind whether they were pretty, Mary; they were better than pretty." "No; but we like to know, uncle." "Well, except for the soft, dark eyes, common to the race, and the good temper and lightheartedness, also so general among Hindu girls, and the tenderness which women feel towards a creature whose life they have saved, whether it is a wounded bird or a drowning puppy, I suppose they were nothing remarkable in the way of beauty, but at the time I know that I thought them charming. CHAPTER II. "Just as I was getting strong enough to walk, and was beginning to think of making my escape, a band of five or six fellows, armed to the teeth, came in, and made signs that I was to go with them. It was evidently an arranged thing, the girls only were surprised, but they were at once turned out, and as we started I could see two crouching figures in the shade with their cloths over their heads. I had a native garment thrown over my shoulders, and in five minutes after the arrival of the fellows found myself on my way. It took us some six hours before we reached our destination, which was one of those natural rock citadels. Had I been in my usual health I could have done the distance in an hour and a half, but I had to rest constantly, and was finally carried rather than helped up. I had gone not unwillingly, for the men were clearly, by their dress, Dacoits of the Deccan, and I had no doubt that it was intended either to ransom or exchange me. "At the foot of this natural castle were some twenty or thirty more robbers, and I was led to a rough sort of arbour in which was lying, on a pile of maize straw, a man who was evidently their chief. He rose and we exchanged salaams. "'What is your name, sahib?' he asked in Mahratta. "'Hastings--Lieutenant Hastings,' I said. 'And yours?' "'Sivajee Punt!' he said. "This was bad. I had fallen into the hands of the most troublesome, most ruthless, and most famous of the Dacoit leaders. Over and over again he had been hotly chased, but had always managed to get away; and when I last heard anything of what was going on four or five troops of native police were scouring the country after him. He gave an order which I did not understand, and a wretched Bombay writer, I suppose a clerk of some money-lender, was dragged forward. Sivajee Punt spoke to him for some time, and the fellow then told me in English that I was to write at once to the officer commanding the troops, telling him that I was in his hands, and should be put to death directly he was attacked. "'Ask him,' I said, 'if he will take any sum of money to let me go?' "Sivajee shook his head very decidedly. "A piece of paper was put before me, and a pen and ink, and I wrote as I had been ordered, adding, however, in French, that I had brought myself into my present position by my own folly, and would take my chance, for I well knew the importance which Government attached to Sivajee's capture. I read out loud all that I had written in English, and the interpreter translated it. Then the paper was folded and I addressed it, 'The Officer Commanding,' and I was given some chupattis and a drink of water, and allowed to sleep. The Dacoits had apparently no fear of any immediate attack. "It was still dark, although morning was just breaking, when I was awakened, and was got up to the citadel. I was hoisted rather than climbed, two men standing above with a rope, tied round my body, so that I was half-hauled, half-pushed up the difficult places, which would have taxed all my climbing powers had I been in health. "The height of this mass of rock was about a hundred feet; the top was fairly flat, with some depressions and risings, and about eighty feet long by fifty wide. It had evidently been used as a fortress in ages past. Along the side facing the hill were the remains of a rough wall. In the centre of a depression was a cistern, some four feet square, lined with stone-work, and in another depression a gallery had been cut, leading to a subterranean store-room or chamber. This natural fortress rose from the face of the hill at a distance of a thousand yards or so from the edge of the plateau, which was fully two hundred feet higher than the top of the rock. In the old days it would have been impregnable, and even at that time it was an awkward place to take, for the troops were armed only with Brown Bess, and rifled cannon were not thought of. Looking round, I could see that I was some four miles from the point where I had descended. The camp was gone; but running my eye along the edge of the plateau I could see the tops of tents a mile to my right, and again two miles to my left; turning round, and looking down into the wide valley, I saw a regimental camp. "It was evident that a vigorous effort was being made to surround and capture the Dacoits, since troops had been brought up from Bombay. In addition to the troops above and below, there would probably be a strong police force, acting on the face of the hill. I did not see all these things at the time, for I was, as soon as I got to the top, ordered to sit down behind the parapet, a fellow armed to the teeth squatting down by me, and signifying that if I showed my head above the stones he would cut my throat without hesitation. There were, however, sufficient gaps between the stones to allow me to have a view of the crest of the Ghaut, while below my view extended down to the hills behind Bombay. It was evident to me now why the Dacoits did not climb up into the fortress. There were dozens of similar crags on the face of the Ghauts, and the troops did not as yet know their whereabouts. It was a sort of blockade of the whole face of the hills which was being kept up, and there were, probably enough, several other bands of Dacoits lurking in the jungle. "There were only two guards and myself on the rock plateau. I discussed with myself the chances of my overpowering them and holding the top of the rock till help came; but I was greatly weakened, and was not a match for a boy, much less for the two stalwart Mahrattas; besides, I was by no means sure that the way I had been brought up was the only possible path to the top. The day passed off quietly. The heat on the bare rock was frightful, but one of the men, seeing how weak and ill I really was, fetched a thick rug from the storehouse, and with the aid of a stick made a sort of lean-to against the wall, under which I lay sheltered from the sun. "Once or twice during the day I heard a few distant musket-shots, and once a sharp heavy outburst of firing. It must have been three or four miles away, but it was on the side of the Ghaut, and showed that the troops or police were at work. My guards looked anxiously in that direction, and uttered sundry curses. When it was dusk, Sivajee and eight of the Dacoits came up. From what they said, I gathered that the rest of the band had dispersed, trusting either to get through the line of their pursuers, or, if caught, to escape with slight punishment, the men who remained being too deeply concerned in murderous outrages to hope for mercy. Sivajee himself handed me a letter, which the man who had taken my note had brought back in reply. Major Knapp, the writer, who was the second in command, said that he could not engage the Government, but that if Lieutenant Hastings was given up the act would certainly dispose the Government to take the most merciful view possible; but that if, on the contrary, any harm was suffered by Lieutenant Hastings, every man taken would be at once hung. Sivajee did not appear put out about it. I do not think he expected any other answer, and imagine that his real object in writing was simply to let them know that I was a prisoner, and so enable him the better to paralyse the attack upon a position which he no doubt considered all but impregnable. "I was given food, and was then allowed to walk as I chose upon the little plateau, two of the Dacoits taking post as sentries at the steepest part of the path, while the rest gathered, chatting and smoking, in the depression in front of the storehouse. It was still light enough for me to see for some distance down the face of the rock, and I strained my eyes to see if I could discern any other spot at which an ascent or descent was possible. The prospect was not encouraging. At some places the face fell sheer away from the edge, and so evident was the impracticability of escape that the only place which I glanced at twice was the western side, that is the one away from the hill. Here it sloped gradually for a few feet. I took off my shoes and went down to the edge. Below, some ten feet, was a ledge, on to which with care I could get down, but below that was a sheer fall of some fifty feet. As a means of escape it was hopeless, but it struck me that if an attack was made I might slip away and get on to the ledge. Once there I could not be seen except by a person standing where I now was, just on the edge of the slope, a spot to which it was very unlikely that anyone would come. "The thought gave me a shadow of hope, and, returning to the upper end of the platform, I lay down, and in spite of the hardness of the rock, was soon asleep. The pain of my aching bones woke me up several times, and once, just as the first tinge of dawn was coming, I thought I could hear movements in the jungle. I raised myself somewhat, and I saw that the sounds had been heard by the Dacoits, for they were standing listening, and some of them were bringing spare fire-arms from the storehouse, in evident preparation for attack. "As I afterwards learned, the police had caught one of the Dacoits trying to effect his escape, and by means of a little of the ingenious torture to which the Indian police then frequently resorted, when their white officers were absent, they obtained from him the exact position of Sivajee's band, and learned the side from which the ascent must be made. That the Dacoit and his band were still upon the slopes of the Ghauts they knew, and were gradually narrowing their circle, but there were so many rocks and hiding-places that the process of searching was a slow one, and the intelligence was so important that the news was off at once to the colonel, who gave orders for the police to surround the rock at daylight and to storm it if possible. The garrison was so small that the police were alone ample for the work, supposing that the natural difficulties were not altogether insuperable. "Just at daybreak there was a distant noise of men moving in the jungle, and the Dacoit half-way down the path fired his gun. He was answered by a shout and a volley. The Dacoits hurried out from the chamber, and lay down on the edge, where, sheltered by a parapet, they commanded the path. They paid no attention to me, and I kept as far away as possible. The fire began--a quiet, steady fire, a shot at a time, and in strong contrast to the rattle kept up from the surrounding jungle; but every shot must have told, as man after man who strove to climb that steep path, fell. It lasted only ten minutes, and then all was quiet again. "The attack had failed, as I knew it must do, for two men could have held the place against an army; a quarter of an hour later a gun from the crest above spoke out, and a round shot whistled above our heads. Beyond annoyance, an artillery fire could do no harm, for the party could be absolutely safe in the store cave. The instant the shot flew overhead, however, Sivajee Punt beckoned to me, and motioned me to take my seat on the wall facing the guns. Hesitation was useless, and I took my seat with my back to the Dacoits and my face to the hill. One of the Dacoits, as I did so, pulled off the native cloth which covered my shoulders, in order that I might be clearly seen. "Just as I took my place another round shot hummed by; but then there was a long interval of silence. With a field-glass every feature must have been distinguishable to the gunners, and I had no doubt that they were waiting for orders as to what to do next. "I glanced round and saw that with the exception of one fellow squatted behind the parapet some half-dozen yards away, clearly as a sentry to keep me in place, all the others had disappeared. Some, no doubt, were on sentry down the path, the others were in the store beneath me. After half an hour's silence the guns spoke out again. Evidently the gunners were told to be as careful as they could, for some of the shots went wide on the left, others on the right. A few struck the rock below me. The situation was not pleasant, but I thought that at a thousand yards they ought not to hit me, and I tried to distract my attention by thinking out what I should do under every possible contingency. "Presently I felt a crash and a shock, and fell backwards to the ground. I was not hurt, and on picking myself up saw that the ball had struck the parapet to the left, just where my guard was sitting, and he lay covered with its fragments. His turban lay some yards behind him. Whether he was dead or not I neither knew nor cared. "I pushed down some of the parapet where I had been sitting, dropped my cap on the edge outside, so as to make it appear that I had fallen over, and then picking up the man's turban, ran to the other end of the platform and scrambled down to the ledge. Then I began to wave my arms about--I had nothing on above the waist--and in a moment I saw a face with a uniform cap peer out through the jungle, and a hand was waved. I made signs to him to make his way to the foot of the perpendicular wall of rock beneath me. I then unwound the turban, whose length was, I knew, amply sufficient to reach to the bottom, and then looked round for something to write on. I had my pencil still in my trousers pocket, but not a scrap of paper. "I picked up a flattish piece of rock and wrote on it, 'Get a rope-ladder quickly, I can haul it up. Ten men in garrison. They are all under cover. Keep on firing to distract their attention." "I tied the stone to the end of the turban, and looked over. A non-commissioned officer of the police was already standing below. I lowered the stone; he took it, waved his hand to me, and was gone. "An hour passed: it seemed an age. The round shots still rang overhead, and the fire was now much more heavy and sustained than before. Presently I again saw a movement in the jungle, and Norworthy's face appeared, and he waved his arm in greeting. "Five minutes more and a party were gathered at the foot of the rock, and a strong rope was tied to the cloth. I pulled it up. A rope-ladder was attached to it, and the top rung was in a minute or two in my hands. To it was tied a piece of paper with the words: 'Can you fasten the ladder?" I wrote on the paper: 'No; but I can hold it for a light weight.' "I put the paper with a stone in the end of the cloth, and lowered it again. Then I sat down, tied the rope round my waist, got my feet against two projections, and waited. There was a jerk, and then I felt some one was coming up the rope-ladder. The strain was far less than I expected, but the native policeman who came up first did not weigh half so much as an average Englishman. There were now two of us to hold. The officer in command of the police came up next, then Norworthy, then a dozen more police. I explained the situation, and we mounted to the upper level. Not a soul was to be seen. Quickly we advanced and took up a position to command the door of the underground chamber; while one of the police waved a white cloth from his bayonet as a signal to the gunners to cease firing. Then the police officer hailed the party within the cave. "'Sivajee Punt! you may as well come out and give yourself up! We are in possession, and resistance is useless!' "A yell of rage and surprise was heard, and the Dacoits, all desperate men, came bounding out, firing as they did so. Half of their number were shot down at once, and the rest, after a short, sharp struggle, were bound hand and foot. "That is pretty well all of the story, I think. Sivajee Punt was one of the killed. The prisoners were all either hung or imprisoned for life. I escaped my blowing-up for having gone down the Ghauts after the bear, because, after all, Sivajee Punt might have defied their force for months had I not done so. "It seemed that that scoundrel Rahman had taken back word that I was killed. Norworthy had sent down a strong party, who found the two dead bears, and who, having searched everywhere without finding any signs of my body, came to the conclusion that I had been found and carried away, especially as they ascertained that natives used that path. They had offered rewards, but nothing was heard of me till my note saying I was in Sivajee's hands arrived." "And did you ever see the women who carried you off?" "No, Mary, I never saw them again. I did, however, after immense trouble, succeed in finding out where it was that I had been taken to. I went down at once, but found the village deserted. Then after much inquiry I found where the people had moved to, and sent messages to the women to come up to the camp, but they never came; and I was reduced at last to sending them down two sets of silver bracelets, necklaces, and bangles, which must have rendered them the envy of all the women on the Ghauts. They sent back a message of grateful thanks, and I never heard of them afterwards. No doubt their relatives, who knew that their connection with the Dacoits was now known, would not let them come. However, I had done all I could, and I have no doubt the women were perfectly satisfied. So you see, my dear, that the Indian bear, small as he is, is an animal which it is as well to leave alone, at any rate when he happens to be up on the side of a hill while you are at the foot." [Illustration] [Illustration] THE PATERNOSTERS. A YACHTING STORY. "And do you really mean that we are to cross by the steamer, Mr. Virtue, while you go over in the _Seabird_? I do not approve of that at all. Fanny, why do you not rebel, and say we won't be put ashore? I call it horrid, after a fortnight on board this dear little yacht, to have to get on to a crowded steamer, with no accommodation and lots of sea-sick women, perhaps, and crying children. You surely cannot be in earnest?" "I do not like it any more than you do, Minnie; but, as Tom says we had better do it, and my husband agrees with him, I am afraid we must submit. Do you really think it is quite necessary, Mr. Virtue? Minnie and I are both good sailors, you know; and we would much rather have a little extra tossing about on board the _Seabird_ than the discomforts of a steamer." "I certainly think that it will be best, Mrs. Grantham. You know very well we would rather have you on board, and that we shall suffer from your loss more than you will by going the other way; but there's no doubt the wind is getting up, and though we don't feel it much here, it must be blowing pretty hard outside. The _Seabird_ is as good a sea-boat as anything of her size that floats; but you don't know what it is to be out in anything like a heavy sea in a thirty-tonner. It would be impossible for you to stay on deck, and we should have our hands full, and should not be able to give you the benefit of our society. Personally, I should not mind being out in the _Seabird_ in any weather, but I would certainly rather not have ladies on board." "You don't think we should scream, or do anything foolish, Mr. Virtue?" Minnie Graham said indignantly. "Not at all, Miss Graham. Still, I repeat, the knowledge that there are women on board, delightful at other times, does not tend to comfort in bad weather. Of course, if you prefer it, we can put off our start till this puff of wind has blown itself out. It may have dropped before morning. It may last some little time. I don't think myself that it will drop, for the glass has fallen, and I am afraid we may have a spell of broken weather." "Oh no; don't put it off," Mrs. Grantham said; "we have only another fortnight before James must be back again in London, and it would be a great pity to lose three or four days perhaps; and we have been looking forward to cruising about among the Channel Islands, and to St. Malo, and all those places. Oh no; I think the other is much the better plan--that is, if you won't take us with you." "It would be bad manners to say that I won't, Mrs. Grantham; but I must say I would rather not. It will be a very short separation. Grantham will take you on shore at once, and as soon as the boat comes back I shall be off. You will start in the steamer this evening, and get into Jersey at nine or ten o'clock to-morrow morning; and if I am not there before you, I shall not be many hours after you." "Well, if it must be it must," Mrs. Grantham said, with an air of resignation. "Come, Minnie, let us put a few things into a hand-bag for to-night. You see the skipper is not to be moved by our pleadings." "That is the worst of you married women, Fanny," Miss Graham said, with a little pout. "You get into the way of doing as you are ordered. I call it too bad. Here have we been cruising about for the last fortnight, with scarcely a breath of wind, and longing for a good brisk breeze and a little change and excitement, and now it comes at last, we are to be packed off in a steamer. I call it horrid of you, Mr. Virtue. You may laugh, but I do." Tom Virtue laughed, but he showed no signs of giving way, and ten minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Grantham and Miss Graham took their places in the gig, and were rowed into Southampton Harbour, off which the _Seabird_ was lying. The last fortnight had been a very pleasant one, and it had cost the owner of the _Seabird_ as much as his guests to come to the conclusion that it was better to break up the party for a few hours. Tom Virtue had, up to the age of five-and-twenty, been possessed of a sufficient income for his wants. He had entered at the bar, not that he felt any particular vocation in that direction, but because he thought it incumbent upon him to do something. Then, at the death of an uncle, he had come into a considerable fortune, and was able to indulge his taste for yachting, which was the sole amusement for which he really cared, to the fullest. He sold the little five-tonner he had formerly possessed, and purchased the _Seabird_. He could well have afforded a much larger craft, but he knew that there was far more real enjoyment in sailing to be obtained from a small craft than a large one, for in the latter he would be obliged to have a regular skipper, and would be little more than a passenger, whereas on board the _Seabird_, although his first hand was dignified by the name of skipper, he was himself the absolute master. The boat carried the aforesaid skipper, three hands, and a steward, and with them he had twice been up the Mediterranean, across to Norway, and had several times made the circuit of the British Isles. He had unlimited confidence in his boat, and cared not what weather he was out in her. This was the first time since his ownership of her that the _Seabird_ had carried lady passengers. His friend Grantham, an old school and college chum, was a hard-working barrister, and Virtue had proposed to him to take a month's holiday on board the _Seabird_. "Put aside your books, old man," he said. "You look fagged and overworked; a month's blow will do you all the good in the world." "Thank you, Tom; I have made up my mind for a month's holiday, but I can't accept your invitation, though I should enjoy it of all things. But it would not be fair to my wife; she doesn't get very much of my society, and she has been looking forward to our having a run together. So I must decline." Virtue hesitated a moment. He was not very fond of ladies' society, and thought them especially in the way on board a yacht; but he had a great liking for his friend's wife, and was almost as much at home in his house as in his own chambers. "Why not bring the wife with you?" he said, as soon as his mind was made up. "It will be a nice change for her too; and I have heard her say that she is a good sailor. The accommodation is not extensive, but the after-cabin is a pretty good size, and I would do all I could to make her comfortable. Perhaps she would like another lady with her; if so by all means bring one. They could have the after-cabin, you could have the little state-room, and I could sleep in the saloon." "It is very good of you, Tom, especially as I know that it will put you out frightfully; but the offer is a very tempting one. I will speak to Fanny, and let you have an answer in the morning." "That will be delightful, James," Mrs. Grantham said, when the invitation was repeated to her. "I should like it of all things; and I am sure the rest and quiet and the sea air will be just the thing for you. It is wonderful, Tom Virtue making the offer; and I take it as a great personal compliment, for he certainly is not what is generally called a lady's man. It is very nice, too, of him to think of my having another lady on board. Whom shall we ask? Oh, I know," she said suddenly; "that will be the thing of all others. We will ask my cousin Minnie; she is full of fun and life, and will make a charming wife for Tom!" James Grantham laughed. "What schemers you all are, Fanny! Now I should call it downright treachery to take anyone on board the _Seabird_ with the idea of capturing its master." "Nonsense, treachery!" Mrs. Grantham said indignantly; "Minnie is the nicest girl I know, and it would do Tom a world of good to have a wife to look after him. Why, he is thirty now, and will be settling down into a confirmed old bachelor before long. It's the greatest kindness we could do him, to take Minnie on board; and I am sure he is the sort of man any girl might fall in love with when she gets to know him. The fact is, he's shy! He never had any sisters, and spends all his time in winter at that horrid club; so that really he has never had any women's society, and even with us he will never come unless he knows we are alone. I call it a great pity, for I don't know a pleasanter fellow than he is. I think it will be doing him a real service in asking Minnie; so that's settled. I will sit down and write him a note." "In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose," was Tom Virtue's comment when he received Mrs. Grantham's letter, thanking him warmly for the invitation, and saying that she would bring her cousin, Miss Graham, with her, if that young lady was disengaged. As a matter of self-defence he at once invited Jack Harvey, who was a mutual friend of himself and Grantham, to be of the party. "Jack can help Grantham to amuse the women," he said to himself; "that will be more in his line than mine. I will run down to Cowes to-morrow and have a chat with Johnson; we shall want a different sort of stores altogether to those we generally carry, and I suppose we must do her up a bit below." Having made up his mind to the infliction of female passengers, Tom Virtue did it handsomely, and when the party came on board at Ryde they were delighted with the aspect of the yacht below. She had been repainted, the saloon and ladies' cabin were decorated in delicate shades of gray, picked out with gold; and the upholsterer, into whose hands the owner of the _Seabird_ had placed her, had done his work with taste and judgment, and the ladies' cabin resembled a little boudoir. "Why, Tom, I should have hardly known her!" Grantham, who had often spent a day on board the _Seabird_, said. "I hardly know her myself," Tom said, rather ruefully; "but I hope she's all right, Mrs. Grantham, and that you and Miss Graham will find everything you want." "It is charming!" Mrs. Grantham said enthusiastically. "It's awfully good of you, Tom, and we appreciate it; don't we, Minnie? It is such a surprise, too; for James said that while I should find everything very comfortable, I must not expect that a small yacht would be got up like a palace." So a fortnight had passed; they had cruised along the coast as far as Plymouth, anchoring at night at the various ports on the way. Then they had returned to Southampton, and it had been settled that as none of the party, with the exception of Virtue himself, had been to the Channel Islands, the last fortnight of the trip should be spent there. The weather had been delightful, save that there had been some deficiency in wind, and throughout the cruise the _Seabird_ had been under all the sail she could spread. But when the gentlemen came on deck early in the morning a considerable change had taken place; the sky was gray and the clouds flying fast overhead. "We are going to have dirty weather," Tom Virtue said at once. "I don't think it's going to be a gale, but there will be more sea on than will be pleasant for ladies. I tell you what, Grantham; the best thing will be for you to go on shore with the two ladies, and cross by the boat to-night. If you don't mind going directly after breakfast I will start at once, and shall be at St. Helier's as soon as you are." And so it had been agreed, but not, as has been seen, without opposition and protest on the part of the ladies. Mrs. Grantham's chief reason for objecting had not been given. The little scheme on which she had set her mind seemed to be working satisfactorily. From the first day Tom Virtue had exerted himself to play the part of host satisfactorily, and had ere long shaken off any shyness he may have felt towards the one stranger of the party, and he and Miss Graham had speedily got on friendly terms. So things were going on as well as Mrs. Grantham could have expected. No sooner had his guests left the side of the yacht than her owner began to make his preparations for a start. "What do you think of the weather, Watkins?" he asked his skipper. "It's going to blow hard, sir; that's my view of it, and if I was you I shouldn't up anchor to-day. Still, it's just as you likes; the _Seabird_ won't mind it if we don't. She has had a rough time of it before now; still, it will be a case of wet jackets, and no mistake." "Yes, I expect we shall have a rough time of it, Watkins, but I want to get across. We don't often let ourselves be weather-bound, and I am not going to begin it to-day. We had better house the topmast at once, and get two reefs in the main-sail. We can get the other down when we get clear of the island. Get number three jib up, and the leg-of-mutton mizzen; put two reefs in the foresail." Tom and his friend Harvey, who was a good sailor, assisted the crew in reefing down the sails, and a few minutes after the gig had returned and been hoisted in, the yawl was running rapidly down Southampton waters. "We need hardly have reefed quite so closely," Jack Harvey said, as he puffed away at his pipe. "Not yet, Jack; but you will see she has as much as she can carry before long. It's all the better to make all snug before starting; it saves a lot of trouble afterwards, and the extra canvas would not have made ten minutes' difference to us at the outside. We shall have pretty nearly a dead beat down the Solent. Fortunately tide will be running strong with us, but there will be a nasty kick-up there. You will see we shall feel the short choppy seas there more than we shall when we get outside. She is a grand boat in a really heavy sea, but in short waves she puts her nose into it with a will. Now, if you will take my advice, you will do as I am going to do; put on a pair of fisherman's boots and oilskin and sou'-wester. There are several sets for you to choose from below." As her owner had predicted, the _Seabird_ put her bowsprit under pretty frequently in the Solent; the wind was blowing half a gale, and as it met the tide it knocked up a short, angry sea, crested with white heads, and Jack Harvey agreed that she had quite as much sail on her as she wanted. The cabin doors were bolted, and all made snug to prevent the water getting below before they got to the race off Hurst Castle; and it was well that they did so, for she was as much under water as she was above. "I think if I had given way to the ladies and brought them with us they would have changed their minds by this time, Jack," Tom Virtue said, with a laugh. "I should think so," his friend agreed; "this is not a day for a fair-weather sailor. Look what a sea is breaking on the shingles!" "Yes, five minutes there would knock her into matchwood. Another ten minutes and we shall be fairly out; and I sha'n't be sorry; one feels as if one was playing football, only just at present the _Seabird_ is the ball and the waves the kickers." Another quarter of an hour and they had passed the Needles. "That is more pleasant, Jack," as the short, chopping motion was exchanged for a regular rise and fall; "this is what I enjoy--a steady wind and a regular sea. The _Seabird_ goes over it like one of her namesakes; she is not taking a teacupful now over her bows. "Watkins, you may as well take the helm for a spell, while we go down to lunch. I am not sorry to give it up for a bit, for it has been jerking like the kick of a horse. "That's right, Jack, hang up your oilskin there. Johnson, give us a couple of towels; we have been pretty well smothered up there on deck. Now what have you got for us?" "There is some soup ready, sir, and that cold pie you had for dinner yesterday." "That will do; open a couple of bottles of stout." Lunch, over, they went on deck again. "She likes a good blow as well as we do," Virtue said, enthusiastically, as the yawl rose lightly over each wave. "What do you think of it, Watkins? Is the wind going to lull a bit as the sun goes down?" "I think not, sir. It seems to me it's blowing harder than it was." "Then we will prepare for the worst, Watkins; get the try-sail up on deck. When you are ready we will bring her up into the wind and set it. That's the comfort of a yawl, Jack; one can always lie to without any bother, and one hasn't got such a tremendous boom to handle." The try-sail was soon on deck, and then the _Seabird_ was brought up into the wind, the weather fore-sheet hauled aft, the mizzen sheeted almost fore and aft, and the _Seabird_ lay, head to wind, rising and falling with a gentle motion, in strong contrast to her impetuous rushes when under sail. "She would ride out anything like that," her owner said. "Last time we came through the Bay on our way from Gib., we were caught in a gale strong enough to blow the hair off one's head, and we lay to for nearly three days, and didn't ship a bucket of water all the time. Now let us lend a hand to get the main-sail stowed." Ten minutes' work and it was securely fastened and its cover on; two reefs were put in the try-sail. Two hands went to each of the halliards, while, as the sail rose, Tom Virtue fastened the toggles round the mast. "All ready, Watkins?" "All ready, sir." "Slack off the weather fore-sheet, then, and haul aft the leeward. Slack out the mizzen-sheet a little, Jack. That's it; now she's off again, like a duck." The _Seabird_ felt the relief from the pressure of the heavy boom to leeward and rose easily and lightly over the waves. "She certainly is a splendid sea-boat, Tom; I don't wonder you are ready to go anywhere in her. I thought we were rather fools for starting this morning, although I enjoy a good blow; but now I don't care how hard it comes on." By night it was blowing a downright gale. "We will lie to till morning, Watkins. So that we get in by daylight to-morrow evening, that is all we want. See our side-lights are burning well, and you had better get up a couple of blue lights, in case anything comes running up Channel and don't see our lights. We had better divide into two watches; I will keep one with Matthews and Dawson, Mr. Harvey will go in your watch with Nicholls. We had better get the try-sail down altogether, and lie to under the foresail and mizzen, but don't put many lashings on the try-sail, one will be enough, and have it ready to cast off in a moment, in case we want to hoist the sail in a hurry. I will go down and have a glass of hot grog first, and then I will take my watch to begin with. Let the two hands with me go down; the steward will serve them out a tot each. Jack, you had better turn in at once." Virtue was soon on deck again, muffled up in his oilskins. "Now, Watkins, you can go below and turn in." "I sha'n't go below to-night, sir--not to lie down. There's nothing much to do here, but I couldn't sleep, if I did lie down." "Very well; you had better go below and get a glass of grog; tell the steward to give you a big pipe with a cover like this, out of the locker; and there's plenty of chewing tobacco, if the men are short." "I will take that instead of a pipe," Watkins said; "there's nothing like a quid in weather like this, it ain't never in your way, and it lasts. Even with a cover a pipe would soon be out." "Please yourself, Watkins; tell the two hands forward to keep a bright look-out for lights." The night passed slowly. Occasionally a sea heavier than usual came on board, curling over the bow and falling with a heavy thud on the deck, but for the most part the _Seabird_ breasted the waves easily; the bowsprit had been reefed in to its fullest, thereby adding to the lightness and buoyancy of the boat. Tom Virtue did not go below when his friend came up to relieve him at the change of watch, but sat smoking and doing much talking in the short intervals between the gusts. The morning broke gray and misty, driving sleet came along on the wind, and the horizon was closed in as by a dull curtain. "How far can we see, do you think, Watkins?" "Perhaps a couple of miles, sir." "That will be enough. I think we both know the position of every reef to within a hundred yards, so we will shape our course for Guernsey. If we happen to hit it off, we can hold on to St. Helier; but if when we think we ought to be within sight of Guernsey we see nothing of it, we must lie to again, till the storm has blown itself out or the clouds lift. It would never do to go groping our way along with such currents as run among the islands. Put the last reef in the try-sail before you hoist it. I think you had better get the foresail down altogether, and run up the spit-fire jib." The _Seabird_ was soon under way again. "Now, Watkins, you take the helm; we will go down and have a cup of hot coffee, and I will see that the steward has a good supply for you and the hands; but first, do you take the helm, Jack, whilst Watkins and I have a look at the chart, and try and work out where we are, and the course we had better lie for Guernsey." Five minutes were spent over the chart, then Watkins went up and Jack Harvey came down. "You have got the coffee ready, I hope, Johnson?" "Yes, sir, coffee and chocolate. I didn't know which you would like." "Chocolate, by all means. Jack, I recommend the chocolate. Bring two full-sized bowls, Johnson, and put that cold pie on the table, and a couple of knives and forks; never mind about a cloth; but first of all bring a couple of basins of hot water, we shall enjoy our food more after a wash." The early breakfast was eaten, dry coats and mufflers put on, pipes lighted, and they then went up upon deck. Tom took the helm. "What time do you calculate we ought to make Guernsey, Tom?" "About twelve. The wind is freer than it was, and we are walking along at a good pace. Matthews, cast the log, and let's see what we are doing. About seven knots, I should say." "Seven and a quarter, sir," the man said, when he checked the line. "Not a bad guess, Tom; it's always difficult to judge pace in a heavy sea." At eleven o'clock the mist ceased. "That's fortunate," Tom Virtue said; "I shouldn't be surprised if we get a glimpse of the sun between the clouds, presently. Will you get my sextant and the chronometer up, Jack, and put them handy?" Jack Harvey did as he was asked, but there was no occasion to use the instruments, for ten minutes later, Watkins, who was standing near the bow gazing fixedly ahead, shouted: "There's Guernsey, sir, on her lee bow, about six miles away, I should say." "That's it, sure enough," Tom agreed, as he gazed in the direction in which Watkins was pointing. "There's a gleam of sunshine on it, or we shouldn't have seen it yet. Yes, I think you are about right as to the distance. Now let us take its bearings, we may lose it again directly." Having taken the bearings of the island they went below, and marked off their position on the chart, and they shaped their course for Cape Grosnez, the north-western point of Jersey. The gleam of sunshine was transient--the clouds closed in again overhead, darker and grayer than before. Soon the drops of rain came flying before the wind, the horizon closed in, and they could not see half a mile away, but, though the sea was heavy, the _Seabird_ was making capital weather of it, and the two friends agreed that, after all, the excitement of a sail like this was worth a month of pottering about in calms. "We must keep a bright look-out presently," the skipper said; "there are some nasty rocks off the coast of Jersey. We must give them a wide berth. We had best make round to the south of the island, and lay to there till we can pick up a pilot to take us into St. Helier. I don't think it will be worth while trying to get into St. Aubyn's Bay by ourselves." "I think so, too, Watkins, but we will see what it is like before it gets dark; if we can pick up a pilot all the better; if not, we will lie to till morning, if the weather keeps thick; but if it clears so that we can make out all the lights we ought to be able to get into the bay anyhow." An hour later the rain ceased and the sky appeared somewhat clearer. Suddenly Watkins exclaimed, "There is a wreck, sir! There, three miles away to leeward. She is on the Paternosters." "Good heavens! she is a steamer," Tom exclaimed, as he caught sight of her the next time the _Seabird_ lifted on a wave. "Can she be the Southampton boat, do you think?" "Like enough, sir, she may have had it thicker than we had, and may not have calculated enough for the current." "Up helm, Jack, and bear away towards her. Shall we shake out a reef, Watkins?" "I wouldn't, sir; she has got as much as she can carry on her now. We must mind what we are doing, sir; the currents run like a millstream, and if we get that reef under our lee, and the wind and current both setting us on to it, it will be all up with us in no time." "Yes, I know that, Watkins. Jack, take the helm a minute while we run down and look at the chart. "Our only chance, Watkins, is to work up behind the reef, and try and get so that they can either fasten a line to a buoy and let it float down to us, or get into a boat, if they have one left, and drift to us." "They are an awful group of rocks," Watkins said, as they examined the chart; "you see some of them show merely at high tide, and a lot of them are above at low water. It will be an awful business to get among them rocks, sir, just about as near certain death as a thing can be." "Well, it's got to be done, Watkins," Tom said, firmly. "I see the danger as well as you do, but whatever the risk, it must be tried. Mr. Grantham and the two ladies went on board by my persuasion, and I should never forgive myself if anything happened to them. But I will speak to the men." He went on deck again and called the men to him. "Look here, lads; you see that steamer ashore on the Paternosters. In such a sea as this she may go to pieces in half an hour. I am determined to make an effort to save the lives of those on board. As you can see for yourselves there is no lying to weather of her, with the current and wind driving us on to the reef; we must beat up from behind. Now, lads, the sea there is full of rocks, and the chances are ten to one we strike on to them and go to pieces; but, anyhow I am going to try; but I won't take you unless you are willing. The boat is a good one, and the zinc chambers will keep her afloat if she fills; well managed, you ought to be able to make the coast of Jersey in her. Mr. Harvey, Watkins, and I can handle the yacht, so you can take the boat if you like." The men replied that they would stick to the yacht wherever Mr. Virtue chose to take her, and muttered something about the ladies, for the pleasant faces of Mrs. Grantham and Miss Graham had, during the fortnight they had been on board, won the men's hearts. "Very well, lads, I am glad to find you will stick by me; if we pull safely through it I will give each of you three months' wages. Now set to work with a will and get the gig out. We will tow her after us, and take to her if we make a smash of it." They were now near enough to see the white breakers, in the middle of which the ship was lying. She was fast breaking up. The jagged outline showed that the stern had been beaten in. The masts and funnel were gone, and the waves seemed to make a clean breach over her, almost hiding her from sight in a white cloud of spray. "Wood and iron can't stand that much longer," Jack Harvey said; "another hour and I should say there won't be two planks left together." "It is awful, Jack; I would give all I have in the world if I had not persuaded them to go on board. Keep her off a little more, Watkins." The _Seabird_ passed within a cable's-length of the breakers at the northern end of the reef. "Now, lads, take your places at the sheets, ready to haul or let go as I give the word." So saying, Tom Virtue took his place in the bow, holding on by the forestay. The wind was full on the _Seabird's_ beam as she entered the broken water. Here and there the dark heads of the rocks showed above the water. These were easy enough to avoid, the danger lay in those hidden beneath its surface, and whose position was indicated only by the occasional break of a sea as it passed over them. Every time the _Seabird_ sank on a wave those on board involuntarily held their breath, but the water here was comparatively smooth, the sea having spent its first force upon the outer reef. With a wave of his hand Tom directed the helmsman as to his course, and the little yacht was admirably handled through the dangers. "I begin to think we shall do it," Tom said to Jack Harvey, who was standing close to him. "Another five minutes and we shall be within reach of her." It could be seen now that there was a group of people clustered in the bow of the wreck. Two or three light lines were coiled in readiness for throwing. "Now, Watkins," Tom said, going aft, "make straight for the wreck. I see no broken water between us and them, and possibly there may be deep water under their bow." It was an anxious moment, as, with the sails flattened in, the yawl forged up nearly in the eye of the wind towards the wreck. Her progress was slow, for she was now stemming the current. Tom stood with a coil of line in his hand in the bow. "You get ready to throw, Jack, if I miss." Nearer and nearer the yacht approached the wreck, until the bowsprit of the latter seemed to stand almost over her. Then Tom threw the line. It fell over the bowsprit, and a cheer broke from those on board the wreck and from the sailors of the _Seabird_. A stronger line was at once fastened to that thrown, and to this a strong hawser was attached. "Down with the helm, Watkins. Now, lads, lower away the try-sail as fast as you can. Now, one of you, clear that hawser as they haul on it. Now out with the anchors." These had been got into readiness; it was not thought that they would get any hold on the rocky bottom, still they might catch on a projecting ledge, and at any rate their weight and that of the chain cable would relieve the strain upon the hawser. Two sailors had run out on the bowsprit of the wreck as soon as the line was thrown, and the end of the hawser was now on board the steamer. "Thank God, there's Grantham!" Jack Harvey exclaimed; "do you see him waving his hand?" "I see him," Tom said, "but I don't see the ladies." "They are there, no doubt," Jack said, confidently; "crouching down, I expect. He would not be there if they weren't, you may be sure. Yes, there they are; those two muffled-up figures. There, one of them has thrown back her cloak and is waving her arm." The two young men waved their caps. "Are the anchors holding, Watkins? There's a tremendous strain on that hawser." "I think so, sir; they are both tight." "Put them round the windlass, and give a turn or two, we must relieve the strain on that hawser." Since they had first seen the wreck the waves had made great progress in the work of destruction, and the steamer had broken in two just aft of the engines. "Get over the spare spars, Watkins, and fasten them to float in front of her bows like a triangle. Matthews, catch hold of that boat-hook and try to fend off any piece of timber that comes along. You get hold of the sweeps, lads, and do the same. They would stave her in like a nut-shell if they struck her. "Thank God, here comes the first of them!" Those on board the steamer had not been idle. As soon as the yawl was seen approaching slings were prepared, and no sooner was the hawser securely fixed, than the slings were attached to it and a woman placed in them. The hawser was tight and the descent sharp, and without a check the figure ran down to the deck of the _Seabird_. She was lifted out of the slings by Tom and Jack Harvey, who found she was an old woman and had entirely lost consciousness. "Two of you carry her down below; tell Johnson to pour a little brandy down her throat. Give her some hot soup as soon as she comes to." Another woman was lowered and helped below. The next to descend was Mrs. Grantham. "Thank God, you are rescued!" Tom said, as he helped her out of the sling. "Thank God, indeed," Mrs. Grantham said, "and thank you all! Oh, Tom, we have had a terrible time of it, and had lost all hope till we saw your sail, and even then the captain said that he was afraid nothing could be done. Minnie was the first to make out it was you, and then we began to hope. She has been so brave, dear girl. Ah! here she comes." But Minnie's firmness came to an end now that she felt the need for it was over. She was unable to stand when she was lifted from the slings; and Tom carried her below. "Are there any more women, Mrs. Grantham?" "No; there was only one other lady passenger and the stewardess." "Then you had better take possession of your own cabin. I ordered Johnson to spread a couple more mattresses and some bedding on the floor, so you will all four be able to turn in. There's plenty of hot coffee and soup. I should advise soup with two or three spoonfuls of brandy in it. Now, excuse me; I must go upon deck." Twelve men descended by the hawser, one of them with both legs broken by the fall of the mizzen. The last to come was the captain. "Is that all?" Tom asked. "That is all," the captain said. "Six men were swept overboard when she first struck, and two were killed by the fall of the funnel. Fortunately we had only three gentlemen passengers and three ladies on board. The weather looked so wild when we started that no one else cared about making the passage. God bless you, sir, for what you have done! Another half-hour and it would have been all over with us. But it seems like a miracle your getting safe through the rocks to us." "It was fortunate indeed that we came along," Tom said; "three of the passengers are dear friends of mine; and as it was by my persuasion that they came across in the steamer instead of in the yacht, I should never have forgiven myself if they had been lost. Take all your men below, captain; you will find plenty of hot soup there. Now, Watkins, let us be off; that steamer won't hold together many minutes longer, so there's no time to lose. We will go back as we came. Give me a hatchet. Now, lads, two of you stand at the chain-cables; knock out the shackles the moment I cut the hawser. Watkins, you take the helm and let her head pay off till the jib fills. Jack, you lend a hand to the other two, and get up the try-sail again as soon as we are free." In a moment all were at their stations. The helm was put on the yacht, and she payed off on the opposite tack to that on which she had before been sailing. As soon as the jib filled, Tom gave two vigorous blows with his hatchet on the hawser, and, as he lifted his hand for a third, it parted. Then came the sharp rattle of the chains as they ran round the hawser-holes. The try-sail was hoisted and sheeted home, and the _Seabird_ was under way again. Tom, as before, conned the ship from the bow. Several times she was in close proximity to the rocks, but each time she avoided them. A shout of gladness rose from all on deck as she passed the last patch of white water. Then she tacked and bore away for Jersey. Tom had now time to go down below and look after his passengers. They consisted of the captain and two sailors--the sole survivors of those who had been on deck when the vessel struck--three male passengers, and six engineers and stokers. "I have not had time to shake you by the hand before, Tom," Grantham said, as Tom Virtue entered; "and I thought you would not want me on deck at present. God bless you, old fellow! we all owe you our lives." "How did it happen, captain?" Tom asked, as the captain also came up to him. "It was the currents, I suppose," the captain said; "it was so thick we could not see a quarter of a mile any way. The weather was so wild I would not put into Guernsey, and passed the island without seeing it. I steered my usual course, but the gale must have altered the currents, for I thought I was three miles away from the reef, when we saw it on our beam, not a hundred yards away. It was too late to avoid it then, and in another minute we ran upon it, and the waves were sweeping over us. Every one behaved well. I got all, except those who had been swept overboard or crushed by the funnel, up into the bow of the ship, and there we waited. There was nothing to be done. No boat would live for a moment in the sea on that reef, and all I could advise was, that when she went to pieces every one should try to get hold of a floating fragment; but I doubt whether a man would have been alive a quarter of an hour after she went to pieces." "Perhaps, captain, you will come on deck with me and give me the benefit of your advice. My skipper and I know the islands pretty well, but no doubt you know them a good deal better, and I don't want another mishap." But the _Seabird_ avoided all further dangers, and as it became dark, the lights of St. Helier's were in sight, and an hour later the yacht brought up in the port and landed her involuntary passengers. A fortnight afterwards the _Seabird_ returned to England, and two months later Mrs. Grantham had the satisfaction of being present at the ceremony which was the successful consummation of her little scheme in inviting Minnie Graham to be her companion on board the _Seabird_. "Well, my dear," her husband said, when she indulged in a little natural triumph, "I do not say that it has not turned out well, and I am heartily glad for both Tom and Minnie's sake it has so; but you must allow that it very nearly had a disastrous ending, and I think if I were you I should leave matters to take their natural course in future. I have accepted Tom's invitation for the same party to take a cruise in the _Seabird_ next summer, but I have bargained that next time a storm is brewing up we shall stop quietly in port." "That's all very well, James," Mrs. Grantham said saucily; "but you must remember that Tom Virtue will only be first-mate of the _Seabird_ in future." "That I shall be able to tell you better, my dear, after our next cruise. All husbands are not as docile and easily led as I am." [Illustration] A PIPE OF MYSTERY. A jovial party were gathered round a blazing fire in an old grange near Warwick. The hour was getting late; the very little ones had, after dancing round the Christmas-tree, enjoying the snapdragon, and playing a variety of games, gone off to bed; and the elder boys and girls now gathered round their uncle, Colonel Harley, and asked him for a story--above all, a ghost story. "But I have never seen any ghosts," the colonel said, laughing; "and, moreover, I don't believe in them one bit. I have travelled pretty well all over the world, I have slept in houses said to be haunted, but nothing have I seen--no noises that could not be accounted for by rats or the wind have I ever heard. I have never"--and here he paused--"never but once met with any circumstances or occurrence that could not be accounted for by the light of reason, and I know you prefer hearing stories of my own adventures to mere invention." "Yes, uncle. But what was the 'once' when circumstances happened that you could not explain?" "It's rather a long story," the colonel said, "and it's getting late." "Oh! no, no, uncle; it does not matter a bit how late we sit up on Christmas Eve, and the longer the story is, the better; and if you don't believe in ghosts, how can it be a story of something you could not account for by the light of nature?" "You will see when I have done," the colonel said. "It is rather a story of what the Scotch call second sight, than one of ghosts. As to accounting for it, you shall form your own opinion when you have heard me to the end. "I landed in India in '50, and after going through the regular drill work, marched with a detachment up country to join my regiment, which was stationed at Jubbalpore, in the very heart of India. It has become an important place since; the railroad across India passes through it, and no end of changes have taken place; but at that time it was one of the most out-of-the-way stations in India, and, I may say, one of the most pleasant. It lay high, there was capital boating on the Nerbudda, and, above all, it was a grand place for sport, for it lay at the foot of the hill country, an immense district, then but little known, covered with forests and jungle, and abounding with big game of all kinds. "My great friend there was a man named Simmonds. He was just of my own standing; we had come out in the same ship, had marched up the country together, and were almost like brothers. He was an old Etonian, I an old Westminster, and we were both fond of boating, and, indeed, of sport of all kinds. But I am not going to tell you of that now. The people in these hills are called Gonds, a true hill tribe--that is to say, aborigines, somewhat of the negro type. The chiefs are of mixed blood, but the people are almost black. They are supposed to accept the religion of the Hindus, but are in reality deplorably ignorant and superstitious. Their priests are a sort of compound of a Brahmin priest and a negro fetish man, and among their principal duties is that of charming away tigers from the villages by means of incantations. There, as in other parts of India, were a few wandering fakirs, who enjoyed an immense reputation for holiness and wisdom. The people would go to them from great distances for charms or predictions, and believed in their power with implicit faith. "At the time when we were at Jubbalpore, there was one of these fellows, whose reputation altogether eclipsed that of his rivals, and nothing could be done until his permission had been asked and his blessing obtained. All sorts of marvellous stories were constantly coming to our ears of the unerring foresight with which he predicted the termination of diseases, both in men and animals; and so generally was he believed in that the colonel ordered that no one connected with the regiment should consult him, for these predictions very frequently brought about their own fulfilment; for those who were told that an illness would terminate fatally, lost all hope, and literally lay down to die. "However, many of the stories that we heard could not be explained on these grounds, and the fakir and his doings were often talked over at mess, some of the officers scoffing at the whole business, others maintaining that some of these fakirs had, in some way or another, the power of foretelling the future, citing many well authenticated anecdotes upon the subject. "The older officers were the believers, we young fellows were the scoffers. But for the well-known fact that it is very seldom indeed that these fakirs will utter any of their predictions to Europeans, some of us would have gone to him, to test his powers. As it was, none of us had ever seen him. "He lived in an old ruined temple, in the middle of a large patch of jungle at the foot of the hills, some ten or twelve miles away. "I had been at Jubbalpore about a year, when I was woke up one night by a native, who came in to say that at about eight o'clock a tiger had killed a man in his village, and had dragged off the body. "Simmonds and I were constantly out after tigers, and the people in all the villages within twenty miles knew that we were always ready to pay for early information. This tiger had been doing great damage, and had carried off about thirty men, women, and children. So great was the fear of him, indeed, that the people in the neighbourhood he frequented scarcely dared stir out of doors, except in parties of five or six. We had had several hunts after him, but, like all man-eaters, he was old and awfully crafty; and although we got several snap shots at him, he had always managed to save his skin. "In a quarter of an hour after the receipt of the message, Charley Simmonds and I were on the back of an elephant, which was our joint property; our shekarry, a capital fellow, was on foot beside us, and with the native trotting on ahead as guide we went off at the best pace of old Begaum, for that was the elephant's name. The village was fifteen miles away, but we got there soon after daybreak, and were received with delight by the population. In half an hour the hunt was organized; all the male population turned out as beaters, with sticks, guns, tom-toms, and other instruments for making a noise. "The trail was not difficult to find. A broad path, with occasional smears of blood, showed where he had dragged his victim through the long grass to a cluster of trees a couple of hundred yards from the village. "We scarcely expected to find him there, but the villagers held back, while we went forward with cocked rifles. We found, however, nothing but a few bones and a quantity of blood. The tiger had made off at the approach of daylight into the jungle, which was about two miles distant. We traced him easily enough, and found that he had entered a large ravine, from which several smaller ones branched off. "It was an awkward place, as it was next to impossible to surround it with the number of people at our command. We posted them at last all along the upper ground, and told them to make up in noise what they wanted in numbers. At last all was ready, and we gave the signal. However, I am not telling you a hunting story, and need only say that we could neither find nor disturb him. In vain we pushed Begaum through the thickest of the jungle which clothed the sides and bottom of the ravine, while the men shouted, beat their tom-toms, and showered imprecations against the tiger himself and his ancestors up to the remotest generations. "The day was tremendously hot, and, after three hours' march, we gave it up for a time, and lay down in the shade, while the shekarries made a long examination of the ground all round the hillside, to be sure that he had not left the ravine. They came back with the news that no traces could be discovered, and that, beyond a doubt, he was still there. A tiger will crouch up in an exceedingly small clump of grass or bush, and will sometimes almost allow himself to be trodden on before moving. However, we determined to have one more search, and if that should prove unsuccessful, to send off to Jubbalpore for some more of the men to come out with elephants, while we kept up a circle of fires, and of noises of all descriptions, so as to keep him a prisoner until the arrival of the reinforcements. Our next search was no more successful than our first had been; and having, as we imagined, examined every clump and crevice in which he could have been concealed, we had just reached the upper end of the ravine, when we heard a tremendous roar, followed by a perfect babel of yells and screams from the natives. "The outburst came from the mouth of the ravine, and we felt at once that he had escaped. We hurried back to find, as we had expected, that the tiger was gone. He had burst out suddenly from his hiding-place, had seized a native, torn him horribly, and had made across the open plain. "This was terribly provoking, but we had nothing to do but follow him. This was easy enough, and we traced him to a detached patch of wood and jungle, two miles distant. This wood was four or five hundred yards across, and the exclamations of the people at once told us that it was the one in which stood the ruined temple of the fakir of whom I have been telling you. I forgot to say, that as the tiger broke out one of the village shekarries had fired at, and, he declared, wounded him. "It was already getting late in the afternoon, and it was hopeless to attempt to beat the jungle that night. We therefore sent off a runner with a note to the colonel, asking him to send the work-elephants, and to allow a party of volunteers to march over at night, to help surround the jungle when we commenced beating it in the morning. "We based our request upon the fact that the tiger was a notorious man-eater, and had been doing immense damage. We then had a talk with our shekarry, sent a man off to bring provisions for the people out with us, and then set them to work cutting sticks and grass to make a circle of fires. "We both felt much uneasiness respecting the fakir, who might be seized at any moment by the enraged tiger. The natives would not allow that there was any cause for fear, as the tiger would not dare to touch so holy a man. Our belief in the respect of the tiger for sanctity was by no means strong, and we determined to go in and warn him of the presence of the brute in the wood. It was a mission which we could not intrust to anyone else, for no native would have entered the jungle for untold gold; so we mounted the Begaum again, and started. The path leading towards the temple was pretty wide, and as we went along almost noiselessly, for the elephant was too well trained to tread upon fallen sticks, it was just possible we might come upon the tiger suddenly, so we kept our rifles in readiness in our hands. "Presently we came in sight of the ruins. No one was at first visible; but at that very moment the fakir came out from the temple. He did not see or hear us, for we were rather behind him and still among the trees, but at once proceeded in a high voice to break into a sing-song prayer. He had not said two words before his voice was drowned in a terrific roar, and in an instant the tiger had sprung upon him, struck him to the ground, seized him as a cat would a mouse, and started off with him at a trot. The brute evidently had not detected our presence, for he came right towards us. We halted the Begaum, and with our fingers on the triggers, awaited the favourable moment. He was a hundred yards from us when he struck down his victim; he was not more than fifty when he caught sight of us. He stopped for an instant in surprise. Charley muttered, 'Both barrels, Harley,' and as the beast turned to plunge into the jungle, and so showed us his side, we sent four bullets crashing into him, and he rolled over lifeless. "We went up to the spot, made the Begaum give him a kick, to be sure that he was dead, and then got down to examine the unfortunate fakir. The tiger had seized him by the shoulder, which was terribly torn, and the bone broken. He was still perfectly conscious. "We at once fired three shots, our usual signal that the tiger was dead, and in a few minutes were surrounded by the villagers, who hardly knew whether to be delighted at the death of their enemy, or to grieve over the injury to the fakir. We proposed taking the latter to our hospital at Jubbalpore, but this he positively refused to listen to. However we finally persuaded him to allow his arm to be set and the wounds dressed in the first place by our regimental surgeon, after which he could go to one of the native villages and have his arm dressed in accordance with his own notions. A litter was soon improvised, and away we went to Jubbalpore, which we reached about eight in the evening. "The fakir refused to enter the hospital, so we brought out a couple of trestles, laid the litter upon them, and the surgeon set his arm and dressed his wounds by torch-light, when he was lifted into a dhoolie, and his bearers again prepared to start for the village. "Hitherto he had only spoken a few words; but he now briefly expressed his deep gratitude to Simmonds and myself. We told him that we would ride over to see him shortly, and hoped to find him getting on rapidly. Another minute and he was gone. "It happened that we had three or four fellows away on leave or on staff duty, and several others knocked up with fever just about this time, so that the duty fell very heavily upon the rest of us, and it was over a month before we had time to ride over to see the fakir. "We had heard he was going on well; but we were surprised, on reaching the village, to find that he had already returned to his old abode in the jungle. However, we had made up our minds to see him, especially as we had agreed that we would endeavour to persuade him to do a prediction for us; so we turned our horses' heads towards the jungle. We found the fakir sitting on a rock in front of the temple, just where he had been seized by the tiger. He rose as we rode up. "'I knew that you would come to-day, sahibs, and was joyful in the thought of seeing those who have preserved my life.' "'We are glad to see you looking pretty strong again, though your arm is still in a sling,' I said, for Simmonds was not strong in Hindustani. "'How did you know that we were coming?' I asked, when we had tied up our horses. "'Siva has given to his servant to know many things,' he said quietly. "'Did you know beforehand that the tiger was going to seize you?' I asked. "'I knew that a great danger threatened, and that Siva would not let me die before my time had come.' "'Could you see into our future?' I asked. "The fakir hesitated, looked at me for a moment earnestly to see if I was speaking in mockery, and then said: "'The sahibs do not believe in the power of Siva or of his servants. They call his messengers impostors, and scoff at them when they speak of the events of the future.' "'No, indeed,' I said. 'My friend and I have no idea of scoffing. We have heard of so many of your predictions coming true, that we are really anxious that you should tell us something of the future.' "The fakir nodded his head, went into the temple, and returned in a minute or two with two small pipes used by the natives for opium-smoking, and a brazier of burning charcoal. The pipes were already charged. He made signs to us to sit down, and took his place in front of us. Then he began singing in a low voice, rocking himself to and fro, and waving a staff which he held in his hand. Gradually his voice rose, and his gesticulations and actions became more violent. So far as I could make out, it was a prayer to Siva that he would give some glimpse of the future which might benefit the sahibs who had saved the life of his servant. Presently he darted forward, gave us each a pipe, took two pieces of red-hot charcoal from the brazier in his fingers, without seeming to know that they were warm, and placed them in the pipes; then he recommenced his singing and gesticulations. "A glance at Charley, to see if, like myself, he was ready to carry the thing through, and then I put the pipe to my lips. I felt at once that it was opium, of which I had before made experiment, but mixed with some other substance, which was, I imagine, haschish, a preparation of hemp. A few puffs, and I felt a drowsiness creeping over me. I saw, as through a mist, the fakir swaying himself backwards and forwards, his arms waving, and his face distorted. Another minute, and the pipe slipped from my fingers, and I fell back insensible. "How long I lay there I do not know. I woke with a strange and not unpleasant sensation, and presently became conscious that the fakir was gently pressing, with a sort of shampooing action, my temples and head. When he saw that I opened my eyes he left me, and performed the same process upon Charley. In a few minutes he rose from his stooping position, waved his hand in token of adieu, and walked slowly back into the temple. "As he disappeared I sat up; Charley did the same. "We stared at each other for a minute without speaking, and then Charley said: "'This is a rum go, and no mistake, old man.' "'You're right, Charley. My opinion is, we've made fools of ourselves. Let's be off out of this.' "We staggered to our feet, for we both felt like drunken men, made our way to our horses, poured a mussuk of water over our heads, took a drink of brandy from our flasks, and then feeling more like ourselves, mounted and rode out of the jungle. "'Well, Harley, if the glimpse of futurity which I had is true, all I can say is that it was extremely unpleasant.' "'That was just my case, Charley.' "'My dream, or whatever you like to call it, was about a mutiny of the men.' "'You don't say so, Charley; so was mine. This is monstrously strange, to say the least of it. However, you tell your story first, and then I will tell mine.' "'It was very short,' Charley said. 'We were at mess--not in our present mess-room--we were dining with the fellows of some other regiment. Suddenly, without any warning, the windows were filled with a crowd of Sepoys, who opened fire right and left into us. Half the fellows were shot down at once; the rest of us made a rush to our swords just as the niggers came swarming into the room. There was a desperate fight for a moment. I remember that Subadar Pirán--one of the best native officers in the regiment, by the way--made a rush at me, and I shot him through the head with a revolver. At the same moment a ball hit me, and down I went. At the moment a Sepoy fell dead across me, hiding me partly from sight. The fight lasted a minute or two longer. I fancy a few fellows escaped, for I heard shots outside. Then the place became quiet. In another minute I heard a crackling, and saw that the devils had set the mess-room on fire. One of our men, who was lying close by me, got up and crawled to the window, but he was shot down the moment he showed himself. I was hesitating whether to do the same or to lie still and be smothered, when suddenly I rolled the dead sepoy off, crawled into the ante-room half-suffocated by smoke, raised the lid of a very heavy trap-door, and stumbled down some steps into a place, half storehouse half cellar, under the mess-room. How I knew about it being there I don't know. The trap closed over my head with a bang. That is all I remember.' "'Well, Charley, curiously enough my dream was also about an extraordinary escape from danger, lasting, like yours, only a minute or two. The first thing I remember--there seems to have been something before, but what, I don't know--I was on horseback, holding a very pretty but awfully pale girl in front of me. We were pursued by a whole troop of Sepoy cavalry, who were firing pistol-shots at us. We were not more than seventy or eighty yards in front, and they were gaining fast, just as I rode into a large deserted temple. In the centre was a huge stone figure. I jumped off my horse with the lady, and as I did so she said, 'Blow out my brains, Edward; don't let me fall alive into their hands.' "'Instead of answering, I hurried her round behind the idol, pushed against one of the leaves of a flower in the carving, and the stone swung back, and showed a hole just large enough to get through, with a stone staircase inside the body of the idol, made no doubt for the priest to go up and give responses through the mouth. I hurried the girl through, crept in after her, and closed the stone, just as our pursuers came clattering into the courtyard. That is all I remember.' "'Well, it is monstrously rum,' Charley said, after a pause. 'Did you understand what the old fellow was singing about before he gave us the pipes?' "'Yes; I caught the general drift. It was an entreaty to Siva to give us some glimpse of futurity which might benefit us.' "We lit our cheroots and rode for some miles at a brisk canter without remark. When we were within a short distance of home we reined up. "'I feel ever so much better,' Charley said. 'We have got that opium out of our heads now. How do you account for it all, Harley?' "'I account for it in this way, Charley. The opium naturally had the effect of making us both dream, and as we took similar doses of the same mixture, under similar circumstances, it is scarcely extraordinary that it should have effected the same portion of the brain, and caused a certain similarity in our dreams. In all nightmares something terrible happens, or is on the point of happening; and so it was here. Not unnaturally in both our cases, our thoughts turned to soldiers. If you remember there was a talk at mess some little time since, as to what would happen in the extremely unlikely event of the sepoys mutinying in a body. I have no doubt that was the foundation of both our dreams. It is all natural enough when we come to think it over calmly. I think, by the way, we had better agree to say nothing at all about it in the regiment.' "'I should think not,' Charley said. 'We should never hear the end of it; they would chaff us out of our lives.' "We kept our secret, and came at last to laugh over it heartily when we were together. Then the subject dropped, and by the end of a year had as much escaped our minds as any other dream would have done. Three months after the affair the regiment was ordered down to Allahabad, and the change of place no doubt helped to erase all memory of the dream. Four years after we had left Jubbalpore we went to Beerapore. The time is very marked in my memory, because the very week we arrived there, your aunt, then Miss Gardiner, came out from England, to her father, our colonel. The instant I saw her I was impressed with the idea that I knew her intimately. I recollected her face, her figure, and the very tone of her voice, but wherever I had met her I could not conceive. Upon the occasion of my first introduction to her, I could not help telling her that I was convinced that we had met, and asking her if she did not remember it. No, she did not remember, but very likely she might have done so, and she suggested the names of several people at whose houses we might have met. I did not know any of them. Presently she asked how long I had been out in India? "'Six years,' I said. "'And how old, Mr. Harley,' she said, 'do you take me to be?' "I saw in one instant my stupidity, and was stammering out an apology, when she went on,-- "'I am very little over eighteen, Mr. Harley, although I evidently look ever so many years older; but papa can certify to my age; so I was only twelve when you left England.' "I tried in vain to clear matters up. Your aunt would insist that I took her to be forty, and the fun that my blunder made rather drew us together, and gave me a start over the other fellows at the station, half of whom fell straightway in love with her. Some months went on, and when the mutiny broke out we were engaged to be married. It is a proof of how completely the opium-dreams had passed out of the minds of both Simmonds and myself, that even when rumours of general disaffection among the Sepoys began to be current, they never once recurred to us; and even when the news of the actual mutiny reached us, we were just as confident as were the others of the fidelity of our own regiment. It was the old story, foolish confidence and black treachery. As at very many other stations, the mutiny broke out when we were at mess. Our regiment was dining with the 34th Bengalees. Suddenly, just as dinner was over, the window was opened, and a tremendous fire poured in. Four or five men fell dead at once, and the poor colonel, who was next to me, was shot right through the head. Every one rushed to his sword and drew his pistol--for we had been ordered to carry pistols as part of our uniform. I was next to Charley Simmonds as the Sepoys of both regiments, headed by Subadar Pirán, poured in at the windows. "'I have it now,' Charley said; 'it is the scene I dreamed.' "As he spoke he fired his revolver at the subadar, who fell dead in his tracks. "A Sepoy close by levelled his musket and fired. Charley fell, and the fellow rushed forward to bayonet him. As he did so I sent a bullet through his head, and he fell across Charley. It was a wild fight for a minute or two, and then a few of us made a sudden rush together, cut our way through the mutineers, and darted through an open window on to the parade. There were shouts, shots, and screams from the officers' bungalows, and in several places flames were already rising. What became of the other men I knew not; I made as hard as I could tear for the colonel's bungalow. Suddenly I came upon a sowar sitting on his horse watching the rising flames. Before he saw me I was on him, and ran him through. I leapt on his horse and galloped down to Gardiner's compound. I saw lots of Sepoys in and around the bungalow, all engaged in looting. I dashed into the compound. "'May! May!' I shouted. 'Where are you?' "I had scarcely spoken before a dark figure rushed out of a clump of bushes close by with a scream of delight. "In an instant she was on the horse before me, and shooting down a couple of fellows who made a rush at my reins, I dashed out again. Stray shots were fired after us. But fortunately the Sepoys were all busy looting, most of them had laid down their muskets, and no one really took up the pursuit. I turned off from the parade-ground, dashed down between the hedges of two compounds, and in another minute we were in the open country. "Fortunately, the cavalry were all down looting their own lines, or we must have been overtaken at once. May happily had fainted as I lifted her on to my horse--happily, because the fearful screams that we heard from the various bungalows almost drove me mad, and would probably have killed her, for the poor ladies were all her intimate friends. "I rode on for some hours, till I felt quite safe from any immediate pursuit, and then we halted in the shelter of a clump of trees. "By this time I had heard May's story. She had felt uneasy at being alone, but had laughed at herself for being so, until upon her speaking to one of the servants he had answered in a tone of gross insolence, which had astonished her. She at once guessed that there was danger, and the moment that she was alone caught up a large, dark carriage rug, wrapped it round her so as to conceal her white dress, and stole out into the verandah. The night was dark, and scarcely had she left the house than she heard a burst of firing across at the mess-house. She at once ran in among the bushes and crouched there, as she heard the rush of men into the room she had just left. She heard them searching for her, but they were looking for a white dress, and her dark rug saved her. What she must have suffered in the five minutes between the firing of the first shots and my arrival, she only knows. May had spoken but very little since we started. I believe that she was certain that her father was dead, although I had given an evasive answer when she asked me; and her terrible sense of loss, added to the horror of that time of suspense in the garden, had completely stunned her. We waited in the tope until the afternoon, and then set out again. "We had gone but a short distance when we saw a body of the rebel cavalry in pursuit. They had no doubt been scouring the country generally, and the discovery was accidental. For a short time we kept away from them, but this could not be for long, as our horse was carrying double. I made for a sort of ruin I saw at the foot of a hill half a mile away. I did so with no idea of the possibility of concealment. My intention was simply to get my back to a rock and to sell my life as dearly as I could, keeping the last two barrels of the revolver for ourselves. Certainly no remembrance of my dream influenced me in any way, and in the wild whirl of excitement I had not given a second thought to Charley Simmonds' exclamation. As we rode up to the ruins only a hundred yards ahead of us, May said,-- "'Blow out my brains, Edward; don't let me fall alive into their hands.' "A shock of remembrance shot across me. The chase, her pale face, the words, the temple--all my dream rushed into my mind. "'We are saved,' I cried, to her amazement, as we rode into the courtyard, in whose centre a great figure was sitting. "I leapt from the horse, snatched the mussuk of water from the saddle, and then hurried May round the idol, between which and the rock behind, there was but just room to get along. "Not a doubt entered my mind but that I should find the spring as I had dreamed. Sure enough there was the carving, fresh upon my memory as if I had seen it but the day before. I placed my hand on the leaflet without hesitation, a solid stone moved back, I hurried my amazed companion in, and shut to the stone. I found, and shot to, a massive bolt, evidently placed to prevent the door being opened by accident or design when anyone was in the idol. "At first it seemed quite dark, but a faint light streamed in from above; we made our way up the stairs, and found that the light came through a number of small holes pierced in the upper part of the head, and through still smaller holes lower down, not much larger than a good-sized knitting-needle could pass through. These holes, we afterwards found, were in the ornaments round the idol's neck. The holes enlarged inside, and enabled us to have a view all round. "The mutineers were furious at our disappearance, and for hours searched about. Then, saying that we must be hidden somewhere, and that they would wait till we came out, they proceeded to bivouac in the courtyard of the temple. "We passed four terrible days, but on the morning of the fifth a scout came in to tell the rebels that a column of British troops marching on Delhi would pass close by the temple. They therefore hastily mounted and galloped off. "Three quarters of an hour later we were safe among our own people. A fortnight afterwards your aunt and I were married. It was no time for ceremony then; there were no means of sending her away; no place where she could have waited until the time for her mourning for her father was over. So we were married quietly by one of the chaplains of the troops, and, as your story-books say, have lived very happily ever after." "And how about Mr. Simmonds, uncle? Did he get safe off too?" "Yes, his dream came as vividly to his mind as mine had done. He crawled to the place where he knew the trap-door would be, and got into the cellar. Fortunately for him there were plenty of eatables there, and he lived there in concealment for a fortnight. After that he crawled out, and found the mutineers had marched for Delhi. He went through a lot, but at last joined us before that city. We often talked over our dreams together, and there was no question that we owed our lives to them. Even then we did not talk much to other people about them, for there would have been a lot of talk, and inquiry, and questions, and you know fellows hate that sort of thing. So we held our tongues. Poor Charley's silence was sealed a year later at Lucknow, for on the advance with Lord Clyde he was killed. "And now, boys and girls, you must run off to bed. Five minutes more and it will be Christmas-day. So you see, Frank, that although I don't believe in ghosts, I have yet met with a circumstance which I cannot account for." "It is very curious anyhow, uncle, and beats ghost stories into fits." "I like it better, certainly," one of the girls said, "for we can go to bed without being afraid of dreaming about it." "Well, you must not talk any more now. Off to bed, off to bed," Colonel Harley said, "or I shall get into terrible disgrace with your fathers and mothers, who have been looking very gravely at me for the last three quarters of an hour." [Illustration] [Illustration] WHITE-FACED DICK, A STORY OF PINE-TREE GULCH. How Pine-tree Gulch got its name no one knew, for in the early days every ravine and hillside was thickly covered with pines. It may be that a tree of exceptional size caught the eye of the first explorer, that he camped under it, and named the place in its honour; or, may be, some fallen giant lay in the bottom and hindered the work of the first prospectors. At any rate, Pine-tree Gulch it was, and the name was as good as any other. The pine-trees were gone now. Cut up for firing, or for the erection of huts, or the construction of sluices, but the hillside was ragged with their stumps. The principal camp was at the mouth of the Gulch, where the little stream, which scarce afforded water sufficient for the cradles in the dry season, but which was a rushing torrent in winter, joined the Yuba. The best ground was at the junction of the streams, and lay, indeed, in the Yuba valley rather than in the Gulch. At first most gold had been found higher up, but there was here comparatively little depth down to the bed-rock, and as the ground became exhausted the miners moved down towards the mouth of the Gulch. They were doing well as a whole, how well no one knew, for miners are chary of giving information as to what they are making; still, it was certain they were doing well, for the bars were doing a roaring trade, and the store-keepers never refused credit--a proof in itself that the prospects were good. The flat at the mouth of the Gulch was a busy scene, every foot was good paying stuff, for in the eddy, where the torrents in winter rushed down into the Yuba, the gold had settled down and lay thick among the gravel. But most of the parties were sinking, and it was a long way down to the bed-rock; for the hills on both sides sloped steeply, and the Yuba must here at one time have rushed through a narrow gorge, until, in some wild freak, it brought down millions of tons of gravel, and resumed its course seventy feet above its former level. A quarter of a mile higher up a ledge of rock ran across the valley, and over it in the old time the Yuba had poured in a cascade seventy feet deep into the ravine. But the rock now was level with the gravel, only showing its jagged points here and there above it. This ledge had been invaluable to the diggers: without it they could only have sunk their shafts with the greatest difficulty, for the gravel would have been full of water, and even with the greatest pains in puddling and timber-work the pumps would scarcely have sufficed to keep it down as it rose in the bottom of the shafts. But the miners had made common cause together, and giving each so many ounces of gold or so many day's work had erected a dam thirty feet high along the ledge of rock, and had cut a channel for the Yuba along the lower slopes of the valley. Of course, when the rain set in, as everybody knew, the dam would go, and the river diggings must be abandoned till the water subsided and a fresh dam was made; but there were two months before them yet, and every one hoped to be down to the bed-rock before the water interrupted their work. The hillside, both in the Yuba Valley and for some distance along Pine-tree Gulch, was dotted by shanties and tents; the former constructed for the most part of logs roughly squared, the walls being some three feet in height, on which the sharp sloping roof was placed, thatched in the first place with boughs, and made all snug, perhaps, with an old sail stretched over all. The camp was quiet enough during the day. The few women were away with their washing at the pools, a quarter of a mile up the Gulch, and the only persons to be seen about were the men told off for cooking for their respective parties. But in the evening the camp was lively. Groups of men in red shirts and corded trousers tied at the knee, in high boots, sat round blazing fires, and talked of their prospects or discussed the news of the luck at other camps. The sound of music came from two or three plank erections which rose conspicuously above the huts of the diggers, and were bright externally with the glories of white and coloured paints. To and from these men were always sauntering, and it needed not the clink of glasses and the sound of music to tell that they were the bars of the camp. Here, standing at the counter, or seated at numerous small tables, men were drinking villainous liquor, smoking and talking, and paying but scant attention to the strains of the fiddle or the accordion, save when some well-known air was played, when all would join in a boisterous chorus. Some were always passing in or out of a door which led into a room behind. Here there was comparative quiet, for men were gambling, and gambling high. Going backwards and forwards with liquors into the gambling-room of the Imperial Saloon, which stood just where Pine-tree Gulch opened into Yuba valley, was a lad, whose appearance had earned for him the name of White-faced Dick. White-faced Dick was not one of those who had done well at Pine-tree Gulch; he had come across the plains with his father, who had died when half-way over, and Dick had been thrown on the world to shift for himself. Nature had not intended him for the work, for he was a delicate, timid lad; what spirits he originally had having been years before beaten out of him by a brutal father. So far, indeed, Dick was the better rather than the worse for the event which had left him an orphan. They had been travelling with a large party for mutual security against Indians and Mormons, and so long as the journey lasted Dick had got on fairly well. He was always ready to do odd jobs, and as the draught cattle were growing weaker and weaker, and every pound of weight was of importance, no one grudged him his rations in return for his services; but when the company began to descend the slopes of the Sierra Nevada they began to break up, going off by twos and threes to the diggings, of which they heard such glowing accounts. Some, however, kept straight on to Sacramento, determining there to obtain news as to the doings at all the different places, and then to choose that which seemed to offer the best prospects of success. Dick proceeded with them to the town, and there found himself alone. His companions were absorbed in the busy rush of population, and each had so much to provide and arrange for, that none gave a thought to the solitary boy. However, at that time no one who had a pair of hands, however feeble, to work need starve in Sacramento; and for some weeks Dick hung around the town doing odd jobs, and then, having saved a few dollars, determined to try his luck at the diggings, and started on foot with a shovel on his shoulder and a few day's provisions slung across it. Arrived at his destination, the lad soon discovered that gold-digging was hard work for brawny and seasoned men, and after a few feeble attempts in spots abandoned as worthless he gave up the effort, and again began to drift; and even in Pine-tree Gulch it was not difficult to get a living. At first he tried rocking cradles, but the work was far harder than it appeared. He was standing ankle deep in water from morning till night, and his cheeks grew paler, and his strength, instead of increasing, seemed to fade away. Still, there were jobs within his strength. He could keep a fire alight and watch a cooking-pot, he could carry up buckets of water or wash a flannel shirt, and so he struggled on, until at last some kind-hearted man suggested to him that he should try to get a place at the new saloon which was about to be opened. "You are not fit for this work, young 'un, and you ought to be at home with your mother; if you like I will go up with you this evening to Jeffries. I knew him down on the flats, and I daresay he will take you on. I don't say as a saloon is a good place for a boy, still you will always get your bellyful of victuals and a dry place to sleep in, if it's only under a table. What do you say?" Dick thankfully accepted the offer, and on Red George's recommendation was that evening engaged. His work was not hard now, for till the miners knocked off there was little doing in the saloon; a few men would come in for a drink at dinner-time, but it was not until the lamps were lit that business began in earnest, and then for four or five hours Dick was busy. A rougher or healthier lad would not have minded the work, but to Dick it was torture; every nerve in his body thrilled whenever rough miners cursed him for not carrying out their orders more quickly, or for bringing them the wrong liquors, which, as his brain was in a whirl with the noise, the shouting, and the multiplicity of orders, happened frequently. He might have fared worse had not Red George always stood his friend, and Red George was an authority in Pine-tree Gulch--powerful in frame, reckless in bearing and temper, he had been in a score of fights and had come off them, if not unscathed, at least victorious. He was notoriously a lucky digger, but his earnings went as fast as they were made, and he was always ready to open his belt and give a bountiful pinch of dust to any mate down on his luck. One evening Dick was more helpless and confused than usual. The saloon was full, and he had been shouted at and badgered and cursed until he scarcely knew what he was doing. High play was going on in the saloon, and a good many men were clustered round the table. Red George was having a run of luck, and there was a big pile of gold dust on the table before him. One of the gamblers who was losing had ordered old rye, and instead of bringing it to him, Dick brought a tumbler of hot liquor which someone else had called for. With an oath the man took it up and threw it in his face. "You cowardly hound!" Red George exclaimed. "Are you man enough to do that to a man?" "You bet," the gambler, who was a new arrival at Pine-tree Gulch, replied; and picking up an empty glass, he hurled it at Red George. The by-standers sprang aside, and in a moment the two men were facing each other with outstretched pistols. The two reports rung out simultaneously: Red George sat down unconcernedly with a streak of blood flowing down his face, where the bullet had cut a furrow in his cheek; the stranger fell back with the bullet hole in the centre of his forehead. The body was carried outside, and the play continued as if no interruption had taken place. They were accustomed to such occurrences in Pine-tree Gulch, and the piece of ground at the top of the hill, that had been set aside as a burial place, was already dotted thickly with graves, filled in almost every instance by men who had died, in the local phraseology, "with their boots on." Neither then nor afterwards did Red George allude to the subject to Dick, whose life after this signal instance of his championship was easier than it had hitherto been, for there were few in Pine-tree Gulch who cared to excite Red George's anger; and strangers going to the place were sure to receive a friendly warning that it was best for their health to keep their tempers over any shortcomings on the part of White-faced Dick. Grateful as he was for Red George's interference on his behalf, Dick felt the circumstance which had ensued more than anyone else in the camp. With others it was the subject of five minutes' talk, but Dick could not get out of his head the thought of the dead man's face as he fell back. He had seen many such frays before, but he was too full of his own troubles for them to make much impression upon him. But in the present case he felt as if he himself was responsible for the death of the gambler; if he had not blundered this would not have happened. He wondered whether the dead man had a wife and children, and, if so, were they expecting his return? Would they ever hear where he had died, and how? But this feeling, which, tired out as he was when the time came for closing the bar, often prevented him from sleeping for hours, in no way lessened his gratitude and devotion towards Red George, and he felt that he could die willingly if his life would benefit his champion. Sometimes he thought, too, that his life would not be much to give, for in spite of shelter and food, the cough which he had caught while working in the water still clung to him, and, as his employer said to him angrily one day-- "Your victuals don't do you no good, Dick; you get thinner and thinner, and folks will think as I starve you. Darned if you ain't a disgrace to the establishment." The wind was whistling down the gorges, and the clouds hung among the pine-woods which still clothed the upper slopes of the hills, and the diggers, as they turned out one morning, looked up apprehensively. "But it could not be," they assured each other. Every one knew that the rains were not due for another month yet; it could only be a passing shower if it rained at all. But as the morning went on, men came in from camps higher up the river, and reports were current that it had been raining for the last two days among the upper hills; while those who took the trouble to walk across to the new channel could see for themselves at noon that it was filled very nigh to the brim, the water rushing along with thick and turbid current. But those who repeated the rumours, or who reported that the channel was full, were summarily put down. Men would not believe that such a calamity as a flood and the destruction of all their season's work could be impending. There had been some showers, no doubt, as there had often been before, but it was ridiculous to talk of anything like rain a month before its time. Still, in spite of these assertions, there was uneasiness at Pine-tree Gulch, and men looked at the driving clouds above and shook their heads before they went down to the shafts to work after dinner. When the last customer had left and the bar was closed, Dick had nothing to do till evening, and he wandered outside and sat down on a stump, at first looking at the work going on in the valley, then so absorbed in his own thoughts that he noticed nothing, not even the driving mist which presently set in. He was calculating that he had, with his savings from his wages and what had been given him by the miners, laid by eighty dollars. When he got another hundred and twenty he would go; he would make his way down to San Francisco, and then by ship to Panama and up to New York, and then west again to the village where he was born. There would be people there who would know him, and who would give him work, for his mother's sake. He did not care what it was; anything would be better than this. Then his thoughts came back to Pine-tree Gulch, and he started to his feet. Could he be mistaken? Were his eyes deceiving him? No; among the stones and boulders of the old bed of the Yuba there was the gleam of water, and even as he watched it he could see it widening out. He started to run down the hill to give the alarm, but before he was half-way he paused, for there were loud shouts, and a scene of bustle and confusion instantly arose. The cradles were deserted, and the men working on the surface loaded themselves with their tools and made for the high ground, while those at the windlasses worked their hardest to draw up their comrades below. A man coming down from above stopped close to Dick, with a low cry, and stood gazing with a white scared face. Dick had worked with him; he was one of the company to which Red George belonged. "What is it, Saunders?" "My God! they are lost," the man replied. "I was at the windlass when they shouted up to me to go up and fetch them a bottle of rum. They had just struck it rich, and wanted a drink on the strength of it." Dick understood at once. Red George and his mates were still in the bottom of the shaft, ignorant of the danger which was threatening them. "Come on," he cried; "we shall be in time yet," and at the top of his speed dashed down the hill, followed by Saunders. "What is it, what is it?" asked parties of men mounting the hill. "Red George's gang are still below." Dick's eyes were fixed on the water. There was a broad band now of yellow with a white edge down the centre of the stony flat, and it was widening with terrible rapidity. It was scarce ten yards from the windlass at the top of Red George's shaft when Dick, followed closely by Saunders, reached it. "Come up, mates; quick, for your lives! The river is rising; you will be flooded out directly. Every one else has gone!" As he spoke he pulled at the rope by which the bucket was hanging, and the handles of the windlass flew round rapidly as it descended. When it had run out, Dick and he grasped the handles. "All right below?" An answering call came up, and the two began their work, throwing their whole strength into it. Quickly as the windlass revolved, it seemed an endless time to Dick before the bucket came up, and the first man stepped out. It was not Red George. Dick had hardly expected it would be. Red George would be sure to see his two mates up before him, and the man uttered a cry of alarm as he saw the water, now within a few feet of the mouth of the shaft. It was a torrent now, for not only was it coming through the dam, but it was rushing down in cascades from the new channel. Without a word the miner placed himself facing Dick and the moment the bucket was again down, the three grasped the handles. But quickly as they worked, the edge of the water was within a few inches of the shaft when the next man reached the surface; but again the bucket descended before the rope tightened. However, the water had began to run over the lip--at first in a mere trickle, and then, almost instantaneously, in a cascade, which grew larger and larger. The bucket was half-way up when a sound like thunder was heard, the ground seemed to tremble under their feet, and then at the turn of the valley above, a great wave of yellow water, crested with foam, was seen tearing along at the speed of a race-horse. "The dam has burst!" Saunders shouted. "Run for your lives, or we are all lost!" The three men dropped the handles and ran at full speed towards the shore, while loud shouts to Dick to follow came from the crowd of men standing on the slope. But the boy still grasped the handles, and with lips tightly closed, still toiled on. Slowly the bucket ascended, for Red George was a heavy man; then suddenly the weight slackened, and the handle went round faster. The shaft was filling, the water had reached the bucket, and had risen to Red George's neck, so that his weight was no longer on the rope. So fast did the water pour in, that it was not half a minute before the bucket reached the surface, and Red George sprang out. There was but time for one exclamation, and then the great wave struck them. Red George was whirled like a straw in the current; but he was a strong swimmer, and at a point where the valley widened out, half a mile lower, he struggled to shore. Two days later the news reached Pine-tree Gulch that a boy's body had been washed ashore twenty miles down, and ten men, headed by Red George, went and brought it solemnly back to Pine-tree Gulch. There, among the stumps of pine-trees, a grave was dug, and there, in the presence of the whole camp, White-faced Dick was laid to rest. Pine-tree Gulch is a solitude now, the trees are growing again, and none would dream that it was once a busy scene of industry; but if the traveller searches among the pine-trees, he will find a stone with the words: "Here lies White-faced Dick, who died to save Red George. 'What can a man do more than give his life for a friend?'" The text was the suggestion of an ex-clergyman working as a miner in Pine-tree Gulch. Red George worked no more at the diggings, but after seeing the stone laid in its place, went east, and with what little money came to him when the common fund of the company was divided after the flood on the Yuba, bought a small farm, and settled down there; but to the end of his life he was never weary of telling those who would listen to it the story of Pine-tree Gulch. [Illustration] [Illustration] A BRUSH WITH THE CHINESE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. It was early in December that H.M.S. _Perseus_ was cruising off the mouth of the Canton River. War had been declared with China in consequence of her continued evasions of the treaty she had made with us, and it was expected that a strong naval force would soon gather to bring her to reason. In the meantime the ships on the station had a busy time of it, chasing the enemy's junks when they ventured to show themselves beyond the reach of the guns of their forts, and occasionally having a brush with the piratical boats which took advantage of the general confusion to plunder friend as well as foe. The _Perseus_ had that afternoon chased two Government junks up a creek. The sun had already set when they took refuge there, and the captain did not care to send his boats after them in the dark, as many of the creeks ran up for miles into the flat country; and as they not unfrequently had many arms or branches, the boats might, in the dark, miss the junks altogether. Orders were issued that four boats should be ready for starting at daybreak the next morning. The _Perseus_ anchored off the mouth of the creek, and two boats were ordered to row backwards and forwards off its mouth all night to insure that the enemy did not slip out in the darkness. Jack Fothergill, the senior midshipman, was commanding the gig, and two of the other midshipmen were going in the pinnace and launch, commanded respectively by the first lieutenant and the master. The three other midshipmen of the _Perseus_ were loud in their lamentations that they were not to take share in the fun. "You can't all go, you know," Fothergill said, "and it's no use making a row about it; the captain has been very good to let three of us go." "It's all very well for you, Jack," Percy Adcock, the youngest of the lads, replied, "because you are one of those chosen; and it is not so hard for Simmons and Linthorpe, because they went the other day in the boat that chased those junks under shelter of the guns of their battery, but I haven't had a chance for ever so long." "What fun was there in chasing the junks?" Simmons said. "We never got near the brutes till they were close to their battery, and then just as the first shot came singing from their guns, and we thought that we were going to have some excitement, the first lieutenant sung out 'Easy all,' and there was nothing for it but to turn round and to row for the ship, and a nice hot row it was--two hours and a half in a broiling sun. Of course I am not blaming Oliphant, for the captain's orders were strict that we were not to try to cut the junks out if they got under the guns of any of their batteries. Still it was horribly annoying, and I do think the captain might have remembered what beastly luck we had last time, and given us a chance to-morrow." "It is clear we could not all go," Fothergill said, "and naturally enough the captain chose the three seniors. Besides, if you did have bad luck last time, you had your chance, and I don't suppose we shall have anything more exciting now; these fellows always set fire to their junks and row for the shore directly they see us, after firing a shot or two wildly in our direction." "Well, Jack, if you don't expect any fun," Simmons replied, "perhaps you wouldn't mind telling the first lieutenant you do not care for going, and that I am very anxious to take your place. Perhaps he will be good enough to allow me to relieve you." "A likely thing that!" Fothergill laughed. "No, Tom, I am sorry you are not going, but you must make the best of it till another chance comes." "Don't you think, Jack," Percy Adcock said to his senior in a coaxing tone later on, "you could manage to smuggle me into the boat with you?" "Not I, Percy. Suppose you got hurt, what would the captain say then? And firing as wildly as the Chinese do, a shot is just as likely to hit your little carcase as to lodge in one of the sailors. No, you must just make the best of it, Percy, and I promise you that next time there is a boat expedition, if you are not put in, I will say a good word to the first luff for you." "That promise is better than nothing," the boy said; "but I would a deal rather go this time and take my chance next." "But you see you can't, Percy, and there's no use talking any more about it. I really do not expect there will be any fighting. Two junks would hardly make any opposition to the boats of the ship, and I expect we shall be back by nine o'clock with the news that they were well on fire before we came up." Percy Adcock, however, was determined, if possible, to go. He was a favourite among the men, and when he spoke to the bow oar of the gig, the latter promised to do anything he could to aid him to carry out his wishes. "We are to start at daybreak, Tom, so that it will be quite dark when the boats are lowered. I will creep into the gig before that and hide myself as well as I can under your thwart, and all you have got to do is to take no notice of me. When the boat is lowered I think they will hardly make me out from the deck, especially as you will be standing up in the bow holding on with the boat-hook till the rest get on board." "Well, sir, I will do my best; but if you are caught you must not let out that I knew anything about it." "I won't do that," Percy said. "I don't think there is much chance of my being noticed until we get on board the junks, and then they won't know which boat I came off in, and the first lieutenant will be too busy to blow me up. Of course I shall get it when I am on board again, but I don't mind that so that I see the fun. Besides, I want to send home some things to my sister, and she will like them all the better if I can tell her I captured them on board some junks we seized and burnt." The next morning the crews mustered before daybreak. Percy had already taken his place under the bow thwart of the gig. The davits were swung overboard, and two men took their places in her as she was lowered down by the falls. As soon as she touched the water the rest of the crew clambered down by the ladder and took their places; then Fothergill took his seat in the stern, and the boat pushed off and lay a few lengths away from the ship until the heavier boats put off. As soon as they were under way Percy crawled out from his hiding-place and placed himself in the bow, where he was sheltered by the body of the oarsmen from Fothergill's sight. Day was just breaking now, but it was still dark on the water, and the boat rowed very slowly until it became lighter. Percy could just make out the shores of the creek on both sides; they were but two or three feet above the level of the water, and were evidently submerged at high tide. The creek was about a hundred yards wide, and the lad could not see far ahead, for it was full of sharp windings and turnings. Here and there branches joined it, but the boats were evidently following the main channel. After another half-hour's rowing the first lieutenant suddenly gave the order, "Easy all," and the men, looking over their shoulders, saw a village a quarter of a mile ahead, with the two junks they had chased the night before lying in front of it. Almost at the same moment a sudden uproar was heard--drums were beaten and gongs sounded. "They are on the look-out for us," the first lieutenant said. "Mr. Mason, do you keep with me and attack the junk highest up the river; Mr. Bellew and Mr. Fothergill, do you take the one lower down. Row on, men." The oars all touched the water together, and the four boats leapt forward. In a minute a scattering fire of gingals and matchlocks was opened from the junks, and the bullets pattered on the water round the boats. Percy was kneeling up in the bow now. As they passed a branch channel three or four hundred yards from the village, he started and leapt to his feet. "There are four or five junks in that passage, Fothergill; they are poling out." The first lieutenant heard the words. "Row on, men; let us finish with these craft ahead before the others get out. This must be that piratical village we have heard about, Mr. Mason, as lying up one of these creeks; that accounts for those two junks not going higher up. I was surprised at seeing them here, for they might guess that we should try to get them this morning. Evidently they calculated on catching us in a trap." Percy was delighted at finding that, in the excitement caused by his news, the first lieutenant had forgotten to take any notice of his being there without orders, and he returned a defiant nod to the threat conveyed by Fothergill shaking his fist at him. As they neared the junks the fire of those on board redoubled, and was aided by that of many villagers gathered on the bank of the creek. Suddenly from a bank of rushes four cannons were fired. A ball struck the pinnace, smashing in her side. The other boats gathered hastily round and took her crew on board, and then dashed at the junks, which were but a hundred yards distant. The valour of the Chinese evaporated as they saw the boats approaching, and scores of them leapt overboard and swam for shore. In another minute the boats were alongside and the crews scrambling up the sides of the junks. A few Chinamen only attempted to oppose them. These were speedily overcome, and the British had now time to look round, and saw that six junks crowded with men had issued from the side creek and were making towards them. "Let the boats tow astern," the lieutenant ordered. "We should have to run the gauntlet of that battery on shore if we were to attack them, and might lose another boat before we reached their side. We will fight them here." The junks approached, those on board firing their guns, yelling and shouting, while the drums and gongs were furiously beaten. "They will find themselves mistaken, Percy, if they think they are going to frighten us with all that row," Fothergill said. "You young rascal, how did you get on board the boat without being seen? The captain will be sure to suspect I had a hand in concealing you." The tars were now at work firing the gingals attached to the bulwarks and the matchlocks, with which the deck was strewn, at the approaching junks. As they took steady aim, leaning their pieces on the bulwarks, they did considerable execution among the Chinamen crowded on board the junks, while the shot of the Chinese, for the most part, whistled far overhead; but the guns of the shore battery, which had now been slewed round to bear upon them, opened with a better aim, and several shots came crashing into the sides of the two captured junks. "Get ready to board, lads!" Lieutenant Oliphant shouted. "Don't wait for them to board you, but the moment they come alongside lash their rigging to ours and spring on board them." The leading junk was now about twenty yards away, and presently grated alongside. Half-a-dozen sailors at once sprang into her rigging with ropes, and after lashing the junks together leaped down upon her deck, where Fothergill was leading the gig's crew and some of those rescued from the pinnace, while Mr. Bellew, with another party, had boarded her at the stern. Several of the Chinese fought stoutly, but the greater part lost heart at seeing themselves attacked by the "white devils," instead of, as they expected, overwhelming them by their superior numbers. Many began at once to jump overboard, and after two or three minutes' sharp fighting, the rest either followed their example or were beaten below. Fothergill looked round. The other junk had been attacked by two of the enemy, one on each side, and the little body of sailors were gathered in her waist, and were defending themselves against an overwhelming number of the enemy. The other three piratical junks had been carried somewhat up the creek by the tide that was sweeping inward, and could not for the moment take part in the fight. "Mr. Oliphant is hard pressed, sir." He asked the master: "Shall we take to the boats?" "That will be the best plan," Mr. Bellew replied. "Quick, lads, get the boats alongside and tumble in; there is not a moment to be lost." The crew at once sprang to the boats and rowed to the other junk, which was but some thirty yards away. The Chinese, absorbed in their contest with the crew of the pinnace, did not perceive the new-comers until they gained the deck, and with a shout fell furiously upon them. In their surprise and consternation the pirates did not pause to note that they were still five to one superior in number, but made a precipitate rush for their own vessels. The English at once took the offensive. The first lieutenant with his party boarded one, while the new-comers leapt on to the deck of the other. The panic which had seized the Chinese was so complete that they attempted no resistance whatever, but sprang overboard in great numbers and swam to the shore, which was but twenty yards away, and in three minutes the English were in undisputed possession of both vessels. "Back again, Mr. Fothergill, or you will lose the craft you captured," Lieutenant Oliphant said; "they have already cut her free." The Chinese, indeed, who had been beaten below by the boarding party, had soon perceived the sudden departure of their captors, and gaining the deck again had cut the lashings which fastened them to the other junk, and were proceeding to hoist their sails. They were too late, however. Almost before the craft had way on her Fothergill and his crew were alongside. The Chinese did not wait for the attack, but at once sprang overboard and made for the shore. The other three junks, seeing the capture of their comrades, had already hoisted their sails and were making up the creek. Fothergill dropped an anchor, left four of his men in charge, and rowed back to Mr. Oliphant. "What shall we do next, sir?" "We will give those fellows on shore a lesson, and silence their battery. Two men have been killed since you left. We must let the other junks go for the present. Four of my men were killed and eleven wounded before Mr. Bellew and you came to our assistance. The Chinese were fighting pluckily up to that time, and it would have gone very hard with us if you had not been at hand; the beggars will fight when they think they have got it all their own way. But before we land we will set fire to the five junks we have taken. Do you return and see that the two astern are well lighted, Mr. Fothergill; Mr. Mason will see to these three. When you have done your work take to your boat and lay off till I join you; keep the junks between you and the shore, to protect you from the fire of the rascals there." "I cannot come with you, I suppose, Fothergill?" Percy Adcock said, as the midshipman was about to descend into his boat again. "Yes, come along, Percy. It doesn't matter what you do now. The captain will be so pleased when he hears that we have captured and burnt five junks, that you will get off with a very light wigging, I imagine." "That's just what I was thinking, Jack. Has it not been fun?" "You wouldn't have thought it fun if you had got one of those matchlock balls in your body. There are a good many of our poor fellows just at the present moment who do not see anything funny in the affair at all. Here we are; clamber up." The crew soon set to work under Fothergill's orders. The sails were cut off the masts and thrown down into the hold; bamboos, of which there were an abundance down there, were heaped over them, a barrel of oil was poured over the mass, and the fire then applied. "That will do, lads. Now take to your boats and let's make a bonfire of the other junk." In ten minutes both vessels were a sheet of flame, and the boat was lying a short distance from them waiting for further operations. The inhabitants of the village, furious at the failure of the plan which had been laid for the destruction of the "white devils," kept up a constant fusilade, which, however, did no harm, for the gig was completely sheltered by the burning junks close to her from their missiles. "There go the others!" Percy exclaimed after a minute or two, as three columns of smoke arose simultaneously from the other junks, and the sailors were seen dropping into their boats alongside. The killed and wounded were placed in the other gig with four sailors in charge. They were directed to keep under shelter of the junks until rejoined by the pinnace and Fothergill's gig, after these had done their work on shore. When all was ready the first lieutenant raised his hand as a signal, and the two boats dashed between the burning junks and rowed for the shore. Such of the natives as had their weapons charged fired a hasty volley, and then, as the sailors leapt from their boats, took to their heels. "Mr. Fothergill, take your party into the village and set fire to the houses; shoot down every man you see. This place is a nest of pirates. I will capture that battery and then join you." Fothergill and his sailors at once entered the village. The men had already fled; the women were turned out of the houses, and these were immediately set on fire. The tars regarded the whole affair as a glorious joke, and raced from house to house, making a hasty search in each for concealed valuables before setting it on fire. In a short time the whole village was in a blaze. "There is a house there, standing in that little grove a hundred yards away," Percy said. "It looks like a temple," Fothergill replied. "However, we will have a look at it." And calling two sailors to accompany him, he started at a run towards it, Percy keeping by his side. "It is a temple," Fothergill said when they approached it. "Still, we will have a look at it, but we won't burn it; it will be as well to respect the religion, even of a set of piratical scoundrels like these." At the head of his men he rushed in at the entrance. There was a blaze of fire as half a dozen muskets were discharged in their faces. One of the sailors dropped dead, and before the others had time to realize what had happened they were beaten to the ground by a storm of blows from swords and other weapons. A heavy blow crashed down on Percy's head, and he fell insensible even before he realized what had occurred. When he recovered, his first sensation was that of a vague wonder as to what had happened to him. He seemed to be in darkness and unable to move hand or foot. He was compressed in some way that he could not at first understand, and was being bumped and jolted in an extraordinary manner. It was some little time before he could understand the situation. He first remembered the fight with the junks, then he recalled the landing and burning the village; then, as his brain cleared, came the recollection of his start with Fothergill for the temple among the trees, his arrival there, and a loud report and flash of fire. "I must have been knocked down and stunned," he said to himself, "and I suppose I am a prisoner now to these brutes, and one of them must be carrying me on his back." Yes, he could understand it all now. His hands and his feet were tied, ropes were passed round his body in every direction, and he was fastened back to back upon the shoulders of a Chinaman. Percy remembered the tales he had heard of the imprisonment and torture of those who fell into the hands of the Chinese, and he bitterly regretted that he had not been killed instead of stunned in the surprise of the temple. "It would have been just the same feeling," he said to himself, "and there would have been an end of it. Now, there is no saying what is going to happen. I wonder whether Jack was killed, and the sailors." Presently there was a jabber of voices; the motion ceased. Percy could feel that the cords were being unwound, and he was dropped on to his feet; then the cloth was removed from his head, and he could look round. A dozen Chinese, armed with matchlocks and bristling with swords and daggers, stood around, and among them, bound like himself and gagged by a piece of bamboo forced lengthways across his mouth and kept there with a string going round the back of the head, stood Fothergill. He was bleeding from several cuts in the head. Percy's heart gave a bound of joy at finding that he was not alone; then he tried to feel sorry that Jack had not escaped, but failed to do so, although he told himself that his comrade's presence would not in any way alleviate the fate which was certain to befall him. Still the thought of companionship, even in wretchedness, and perhaps a vague hope that Jack, with his energy and spirit, might contrive some way for their escape, cheered him up. As Percy, too, was gagged, no word could be exchanged by the midshipmen, but they nodded to each other. They were now put side by side and made to walk in the centre of their captors. On the way they passed through several villages, whose inhabitants poured out to gaze at the captives, but the men in charge of them were evidently not disposed to delay, as they passed through without a stop. At last they halted before two cottages standing by themselves, thrust the prisoners into a small room, removed their gags, and left them to themselves. "Well, Percy, my boy, so they caught you too? I am awfully sorry. It was my fault for going with only two men into that temple, but as the village had been deserted and scarcely a man was found there, it never entered my mind that there might be a party in the temple." "Of course not, Jack; it was a surprise altogether. I don't know anything about it, for I was knocked down, I suppose, just as we went in, and the first thing I knew about it was that I was being carried on the back of one of those fellows. I thought it was awful at first, but I don't seem to mind so much now you are with me." "It is a comfort to have someone to speak to," Jack said, "yet I wish you were not here, Percy; I can't do you any good, and I shall never cease blaming myself for having brought you into this scrape. I don't know much more about the affair than you do. The guns were fired so close to us that my face was scorched with one of them, and almost at the same instant I got a lick across my cheek with a sword. I had just time to hit at one of them, and then almost at the same moment I got two or three other blows, and down I went; they threw themselves on the top of me and tied and gagged me in no time. Then I was tied to a long bamboo, and two fellows put the ends on their shoulders and went off with me through the fields. Of course I was face downwards, and did not know you were with us till they stopped and loosed me from the bamboo and set me on my feet." "But what are they going to do with us do you think, Jack?" "I should say they are going to take us to Canton and claim a reward for our capture, and there I suppose they will cut off our heads or saw us in two, or put us to some other unpleasant kind of death. I expect they are discussing it now; do you hear what a jabber they are kicking up?" Voices were indeed heard raised in angry altercation in the next room. After a time the din subsided and the conversation appeared to take a more amiable turn. "I suppose they have settled it as far as they are concerned," Jack said; "anyhow, you may be quite sure they mean to make something out of us. If they hadn't they would have finished us at once, for they must have been furious at the destruction of their junks and village. As to the idea that mercy has anything to do with it, we may as well put it out of our minds. The Chinaman, at the best of times, has no feeling of pity in his nature, and after their defeat it is certain they would have killed us at once had they not hoped to do better by us. If they had been Indians I should have said they had carried us off to enjoy the satisfaction of torturing us, but I don't suppose it is that with them." "Do you think there is any chance of our getting away?" Percy asked, after a pause. "I should say not the least in the world, Percy. My hands are fastened so tight now that the ropes seem cutting into my wrists, and after they had set me on my feet and cut the cords of my legs I could scarcely stand at first, my feet were so numbed by the pressure. However, we must keep up our pluck. Possibly they may keep us at Canton for a bit, and if they do the squadron may arrive and fight its way past the forts and take the city before they have quite made up their minds as to what kind of death will be most appropriate to the occasion. I wonder what they are doing now? They seem to be chopping sticks." "I wish they would give us some water," Percy said. "I am frightfully thirsty." "And so am I, Percy; there is one comfort, they won't let us die of thirst, they could get no satisfaction out of our deaths now." Two hours later some of the Chinese re-entered the room and led the captives outside, and the lads then saw what was the meaning of the noise they had heard. A cage had been manufactured of strong bamboos. It was about four and a half feet long, four feet wide, and less than three feet high; above it was fastened two long bamboos. Two or three of the bars of the cage had been left open. "My goodness! they never intend to put us in there," Percy exclaimed. "That they do," Jack said. "They are going to carry us the rest of the way." The cords which bound the prisoners' hands were now cut, and they were motioned to crawl into the cage. This they did; the bars were then put in their places and securely lashed. Four men went to the ends of the poles and lifted the cage upon their shoulders; two others took their places beside it, and one man, apparently the leader of the party, walked on ahead; the rest remained behind. "I never quite realized what a fowl felt in a coop before," Jack said, "but if its sensations are at all like mine they must be decidedly unpleasant. It isn't high enough to sit upright in, it is nothing like long enough to lie down, and as to getting out one might as well think of flying. Do you know, Percy, I don't think they mean taking us to Canton at all. I did not think of it before, but from the direction of the sun I feel sure that we cannot have been going that way. What they are up to I can't imagine." In an hour they came to a large village. Here the cage was set down and the villagers closed round. They were, however, kept a short distance from the cage by the men in charge of it. Then a wooden platter was placed on the ground, and persons throwing a few copper coins into this were allowed to come near the cage. "They are making a show of us!" Fothergill exclaimed. "That's what they are up to, you see if it isn't; they are going to travel up country to show the 'white devils' whom their valour has captured." This was, indeed, the purpose of the pirates. At that time Europeans seldom ventured beyond the limits assigned to them in the two or three towns where they were permitted to trade, and few, indeed, of the country people had ever obtained a sight of the white barbarians of whose doings they had so frequently heard. Consequently a small crowd soon gathered round the cage, eyeing the captives with the same interest they would have felt as to unknown and dangerous beasts; they laughed and joked, passed remarks upon them, and even poked them with sticks. Fothergill, furious at this treatment, caught one of the sticks, and wrenching it from the hands of the Chinaman, tried to strike at him through the bars, a proceeding which excited shouts of laughter from the by-standers. "I think, Jack," Percy said, "it will be best to try and keep our tempers and not to seem to mind what they do to us, then if they find they can't get any fun out of us they will soon leave us alone." "Of course, that's the best plan," Fothergill agreed, "but it's not so easy to follow. That fellow very nearly poked out my eye with his stick, and no one's going to stand that if he can help it." It was some hours before the curiosity of the village was satisfied. When all had paid who were likely to do so, the guards broke up their circle, and leaving two of their number at the cage to see that no actual harm was caused to their prisoners, the rest went off to a refreshment house. The place of the elders was now taken by the boys and children of the village, who crowded round the cage, prodded the prisoners with sticks, and, putting their hands through the bars, pulled their ears and hair. This amusement, however, was brought to an abrupt conclusion by Fothergill suddenly seizing the wrist of a big boy and pulling his arm through the cage until his face was against the bars; then he proceeded to punch him until the guard, coming to his rescue, poked Fothergill with his stick until he released his hold. The punishment of their comrade excited neither anger nor resentment among the other boys, who yelled with delight at his discomfiture, but it made them more careful in approaching the cage, and though they continued to poke the prisoners with sticks they did not venture again to thrust a hand through the bars. At sunset the guards again came round, lifted the cage and carried it into a shed. A platter of dirty rice and a jug of water were put into the cage; two of the men lighted their long pipes and sat down on guard beside it, and, the doors being closed, the captives were left in peace. "If this sort of thing is to go on, as I suppose it is," Fothergill said, "the sooner they cut off our heads the better." "It is very bad, Jack. I am sore all over with those probes from their sharp sticks." "I don't care for the pain, Percy, so much as the humiliation of the thing. To be stared at and poked at as if we were wild beasts by these curs, when with half a dozen of our men we could send a hundred of them scampering, I feel as if I could choke with rage." "You had better try and eat some of this rice, Jack. It is beastly, but I daresay we shall get no more until to-morrow night, and we must keep up our strength if we can. At any rate, the water is not bad, that's a comfort." "No thanks to them," Jack growled. "If there had been any bad water in the neighbourhood they would have given it to us." For six weeks the sufferings of the prisoners continued. Their captors avoided towns where the authorities would probably at once have taken the prisoners out of their hands. No one would have recognized the two captives as the midshipmen of the _Perseus_; their clothes were in rags--torn to pieces by the thrusts of the sharp-pointed bamboos, to which they had daily been subjected--the bad food, the cramped position, and the misery which they suffered had worn both lads to skeletons; their hair was matted with filth, their faces begrimed with dirt. Percy was so weak that he felt he could not stand. Fothergill, being three years older, was less exhausted, but he knew that he, too, could not support his sufferings for many days longer. Their bodies were covered with sores, and try as they would they were able to catch only a few minutes' sleep at a time, so much did the bamboo bars hurt their wasted limbs. They seldom exchanged a word during the daytime, suffering in silence the persecutions to which they were exposed, but at night they talked over their homes and friends in England, and their comrades on board ship, seldom saying a word as to their present position. They were now in a hilly country, but had not the least idea of the direction in which it lay from Canton or its distance from the coast. One evening Jack said to his companion, "I think it's nearly all over now, Percy. The last two days we have made longer journeys, and have not stopped at any of the smaller villages we passed through. I fancy our guards must see that we can't last much longer, and are taking us down to some town to hand us over to the authorities and get their reward for us." "I hope it is so, Jack; the sooner the better. Not that it makes much difference now to me, for I do not think I can stand many more days of it." "I am afraid I am tougher than you, Percy, and shall take longer to kill, so I hope with all my heart that I may be right, and that they may be going to give us up to the authorities." The next evening they stopped at a large place, and were subjected to the usual persecution; this, however, was now less prolonged than during the early days of their captivity, for they had now no longer strength or spirits to resent their treatment, and as no fun was to be obtained from passive victims, even the village boys soon ceased to find any amusement in tormenting them. When most of their visitors had left them, an elderly Chinaman approached the side of the cage. He spoke to their guards and looked at them attentively for some minutes, then he said in pigeon English, "You officer men?" "Yes!" Jack exclaimed, starting at the sound of the English words, the first they had heard spoken since their captivity. "Yes, we are officers of the _Perseus_." "Me speeke English velly well," the Chinaman said; "me pilot-man many years on Canton river. How you get here?" "We were attacking some piratical junks, and landed to destroy the village where the people were firing on us. We entered a place full of pirates, and were knocked down and taken prisoners, and carried away up the country; that is six weeks ago, and you see what we are now." "Pirate men velly bad," the Chinaman said; "plunder many junk on river and kill crew. Me muchee hate them." "Can you do anything for us?" Jack asked. "You will be well rewarded if you could manage to get us free." The man shook his head. "Me no see what can do, me stranger here; come to stay with wifey; people no do what me ask them. English ships attack Canton, much fight and take town, people all hate English. Bad country dis. People in one village fight against another. Velly bad men here." "How far is Canton away?" Jack asked. "Could you not send down to tell the English we are here?" "Fourteen days' journey off," the man said; "no see how can do anything." "Well," Jack said, "when you get back again to Canton let our people know what has been the end of us; we shall not last much longer." "All light," the man said, "will see what me can do. Muchee think to-night!" And after saying a few words to the guards, who had been regarding this conversation with an air of surprise, the Chinaman retired. The guards had for some time abandoned the precaution of sitting up at night by the cage, convinced that their captives had no longer strength to attempt to break through its fastenings or to drag themselves many yards away if they could do so. They therefore left it standing in the open, and, wrapping themselves in their thickly-wadded coats, for the nights were cold, lay down by the side of the cage. The coolness of the nights had, indeed, assisted to keep the two prisoners alive. During the day the sun was excessively hot, and the crowd of visitors round the cage impeded the circulation of the air and added to their sufferings. It was true that the cold at night frequently prevented them from sleeping, but it acted as a tonic and braced them up. "What did he mean about the villages attacking each other?" Percy asked. "I have heard," Jack replied, "that in some parts of China things are very much the same as they used to be in the highlands of Scotland. There is no law or order. The different villages are like clans, and wage war on each other. Sometimes the Government sends a number of troops, who put the thing down for a time, chop off a good many heads, and then march away, and the whole work begins again as soon as their backs are turned." That night the uneasy slumber of the lads was disturbed by a sudden firing; shouts and yells were heard, and the firing redoubled. "The village is attacked," Jack said. "I noticed that, like some other places we have come into lately, there is a strong earthen wall round it, with gates. Well, there is one comfort--it does not make much difference to us which side wins." The guards at the first alarm leapt to their feet, caught up their matchlocks, and ran to aid in the defence of the wall. Two minutes later a man ran up to the cage. "All lightee," he said; "just what me hopee." With his knife he cut the tough withes that held the bamboos in their places, and pulled out three of the bars. "Come along," he said; "no time to lose." Jack scrambled out, but in trying to stand upright gave a sharp exclamation of pain. Percy crawled out more slowly; he tried to stand up, but could not. The Chinaman caught him up and threw him on his shoulder. "Come along quickee," he said to Jack; "if takee village, kill evely one." He set off at a run. Jack followed as fast as he could, groaning at every step from the pain the movement caused to his bruised body. They went to the side of the village opposite to that at which the attack was going on. They met no one on the way, the inhabitants having all rushed to the other side to repel the attack. They stopped at a small gate in the wall, the Chinaman drew back the bolts and opened it, and they passed out into the country. For an hour they kept on. By the end of that time Jack could scarcely drag his limbs along. The Chinaman halted at length in a clump of trees surrounded by a thick undergrowth. "Allee safee here," he said, "no searchee so far; here food;" and he produced from a wallet a cold chicken and some boiled rice, and unslung from his shoulder a gourd filled with cold tea. "Me go back now, see what happen. To-mollow nightee come again--bringee more food." And without another word went off at a rapid pace. Jack moistened his lips with the tea, and then turned to his companion. Percy had not spoken a word since he had been released from the cage, and had been insensible during the greater part of his journey. Jack poured some cold tea between his lips. "Cheer up, Percy, old boy, we are free now, and with luck and that good fellow's help we will work our way down to Canton yet." "I shall never get down there; you may," Percy said feebly. "Oh, nonsense, you will pick up strength like a steam-engine now. Here, let me prop you against this tree. That's better. Now drink a drop of this tea; it's like nectar after that filthy water we have been drinking. Now you will feel better. Now you must try and eat a little of this chicken and rice. Oh, nonsense, you have got to do it. I am not going to let you give way when our trouble is just over. Think of your people at home, Percy, and make an effort, for their sakes. Good heavens! now I think of it, it must be Christmas morning. We were caught on the 2nd and we have been just twenty-two days on show. I am sure that it must be past twelve o'clock, and it is Christmas-day. It is a good omen, Percy. This food isn't like roast beef and plum-pudding, but it's not to be despised, I can tell you. Come, fire away, that's a good fellow." Percy made an effort and ate a few mouthfuls of rice and chicken, then he took another draught of tea, and lay down, and was almost immediately asleep. Jack ate his food slowly and contentedly till he finished half the supply, then he, too, lay down, and, after a short but hearty thanksgiving for his escape from a slow and lingering death, he, too, fell off to sleep. The sun was rising when he woke, being aroused by a slight movement on the part of Percy; he opened his eyes and sat up. "Well, Percy, how do you feel this morning?" he asked cheerily. "I feel too weak to move," Percy replied languidly. "Oh, you will be all right when you have sat up and eaten breakfast," Jack said. "Here you are; here is a wing for you, and this rice is as white as snow, and the tea is first rate. I thought last night after I lay down that I heard a murmur of water, so after we have had breakfast I will look about and see if I can find it. We should feel like new men after a wash. You look awful, and I am sure I am just as bad." The thought of a wash inspirited Percy far more than that of eating, and he sat up and made a great effort to do justice to breakfast. He succeeded much better than he had done the night before, and Jack, although he pretended to grumble, was satisfied with his companion's progress, and finished off the rest of the food. Then he set out to search for water. He had not very far to go; a tiny stream, a few inches wide and two or three inches deep, ran through the wood from the higher ground. After throwing himself down and taking a drink, he hurried back to Percy. "It is all right, Percy, I have found it. We can wash to our hearts' content; think of that, lad." Percy could hardly stand, but he made an effort, and Jack half carried him to the streamlet. There the lads spent hours. First they bathed their heads and hands, and then, stripping, lay down in the stream and allowed it to flow over them, then they rubbed themselves with handfuls of leaves dipped in the water, and when they at last put on their rags again felt like new men. Percy was able to walk back to the spot they had quitted with the assistance only of Jack's arm. The latter, feeling that his breakfast had by no means appeased his hunger, now started for a search through the wood, and presently returned to Percy laden with nuts and berries. "The nuts are sure to be all right; I expect the berries are too. I have certainly seen some like them in native markets, and I think it will be quite safe to risk it." The rest of the day was spent in picking nuts and eating them. Then they sat down and waited for the arrival of their friend. He came two hours after nightfall with a wallet stored with provisions, and told them that he had regained the village unobserved. The attack had been repulsed, but with severe loss to the defenders as well as the assailants; two of their guards had been among the killed. The others had made a great clamour over the escape of the prisoners, and had made a close search throughout the village and immediately round it, for they were convinced that their captives had not had the strength to go any distance. He thought, however, that although they had professed the greatest indignation, and had offered many threats as to the vengeance that Government would take upon the village, one of whose inhabitants, at least, must have aided in the evasion of the prisoners, they would not trouble themselves any further in the matter. They had already reaped a rich harvest from the exhibition, and would divide among themselves the share of their late comrades; nor was it at all improbable that if they were to report the matter to the authorities they would themselves get into serious trouble for not having handed over the prisoners immediately after their capture. For a fortnight the pilot nursed and fed the two midshipmen. He had already provided them with native clothes, so that if by chance any villagers should catch sight of them they would not recognize them as the escaped white men. At the end of that time both the lads had almost recovered from the effects of their sufferings. Jack, indeed, had picked up from the first, but Percy for some days continued so weak and ill that Jack had feared that he was going to have an attack of fever of some kind. His companion's cheery and hopeful chat did as much good for Percy as the nourishing food with which their friend supplied them, and at the end of the fortnight he declared that he felt sufficiently strong to attempt to make his way down to the coast. The pilot acted as their guide. When they inquired about his wife, he told them carelessly that she would remain with her kinsfolk, and would travel on to Canton and join him there when she found an opportunity. The journey was accomplished at night, by very short stages at first, but by increasing distances as Percy gained strength. During the daytime the lads lay hid in woods or jungles, while their companion went into the village and purchased food. They struck the river many miles above Canton, and the pilot, going down first to a village on its banks, bargained for a boat to take him and two women down to the city. The lads went on board at night and took their places in the little cabin formed of bamboos and covered with mats in the stern of the boat, and remained thus sheltered not only from the view of people in boats passing up or down the stream, but from the eyes of their own boatmen. After two days' journey down the river without incident, they arrived off Canton, where the British fleet was still lying while negotiations for peace were being carried on with the authorities at Pekin. Peeping out between the mats, the lads caught sight of the English warships, and, knowing that there was now no danger, they dashed out of the cabin, to the surprise of the native boatmen, and shouted and waved their arms to the distant ships. In ten minutes they were alongside the _Perseus_, when they were hailed as if restored from the dead. The pilot was very handsomely rewarded by the English authorities for his kindness to the prisoners, and was highly satisfied with the result of his proceedings, which more than doubled the little capital with which he had retired from business. Jack Fothergill and Percy Adcock declare that they have never since eaten chicken without thinking of their Christmas fare on the morning of their escape from the hands of the Chinese pirates. THE END. [Illustration: Blackie & Son's Books for Young People] _By the Author of "John Herring," "Mehalah," &c._ =Grettir the Outlaw:= A Story of Iceland. By S. Baring-Gould. With 10 full-page Illustrations by M. Zeno Diemer and a Coloured Map. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. A work of special interest, not only because of the high rank which Mr. Baring-Gould has of late years acquired by his brilliant series of novels, _Mehalah_, _John Herring_, _Court Royal_, &c., but because of his earlier won reputation as a historian and explorer of folk-legends and popular beliefs. In the story of Grettir, both the art of the novelist and the lore of the archæologist have had full scope, with the result that we have a narrative of adventure of the most romantic kind, and at the same time an interesting and minutely accurate account of the old Icelandic families, their homes, their mode of life, their superstitions, their songs and stories, their bear-serk fury, and their heroism by land and sea. The story is told throughout with a simplicity which will make it attractive even to the very young, and no boy will be able to withstand the magic of such scenes as the fight of Grettir with the twelve bear-serks, the wrestle with Karr the Old in the chamber of the dead, the combat with the spirit of Glam the thrall, and the defence of the dying Grettir by his younger brother. * * * * * BY G.A. HENTY. * * * * * =With Lee in Virginia:= A Story of the American Civil War. By G.A. Henty. With 10 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. The great war between the Northern and Southern States of America has the special interest for English boys of having been a struggle between two sections of a people akin to us in race and language--a struggle fought out by each side with unusual intensity of conviction in the rightness of its cause, and abounding in heroic incidents. Of these points Mr. Henty has made admirable use in this story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness bring him safely through all difficulties. BY G.A. HENTY. "Mr. Henty is one of the best of story tellers for young people."--_Spectator._ * * * * * =By Pike and Dyke:= A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. By G.A. Henty. With 10 full-page Illustrations by Maynard Brown and 4 Maps. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. A story covering the period which forms the thrilling subject of Motley's _Rise of the Dutch Republic_, when the Netherlands, under the guidance of William of Orange, revolted against the attempts of Alva and the Spaniards to force upon them the Catholic religion. To a story already of the keenest interest, Mr. Henty has added a special attractiveness for boys in tracing through the historic conflict the adventures and brave deeds of an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age--William the Silent. Edward Martin; the son of an English sea-captain, after sharing in the excitement of an escape from the Spaniards and a sea-fight, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges and more than one naval engagement of the time. He is subsequently employed in Holland by Queen Elizabeth, to whom he is recommended by Orange; and ultimately settles down as Sir Edward Martin and the husband of the lady to whom he owes his life, and whom he in turn has saved from the Council of Blood. =The Lion Of St. Mark:= A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth Century. By G.A. Henty. With 10 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "Every boy should read _The Lion of St. Mark_. Mr. Henty has never produced any story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious. From first to last it will be read with keen enjoyment."--_The Saturday Review._ "Mr. Henty has probably not published a more interesting story than _The Lion of St. Mark_. He has certainly not published one in which he has been at such pains to rise to the dignity of his subject. Mr. Henty's battle-pieces are admirable."--_The Academy._ "The young hero has shrewdness, courage, enterprise, principle, all the qualities that help the young in the race and battle of life."--_Literary Churchman._ =Captain Bailey's Heir:= A Tale of the Gold Fields of California. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by H.M. Paget. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "A Westminster boy who, like all this author's heroes, makes his way in the world by hard work, good temper, and unfailing courage. The descriptions given of life are just what a healthy intelligent lad should delight in."--_St. James's Gazette._ "The portraits of Captain Bayley, and the head-master of Westminster school, are admirably drawn; and the adventures in California are told with that vigour which is peculiar to Mr. Henty."--_The Academy._ "Mr. Henty is careful to mingle solid instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the Westminster dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled."--_Christian Leader._ BY G.A. HENTY. "Surely Mr. Henty should understand boys' tastes better than any man living."--_The Times._ * * * * * =Bonnie Prince Charlie:= A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of _Quentin Durward_. The lad's journey across France with his faithful attendant Malcolm, and his hairbreadth escapes from the machinations of his father's enemies, make up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and variety of incident, Mr. Henty has here surpassed himself."--_Spectator._ "A historical romance of the best quality. Mr. Henty has written many more sensational stories, but never a more artistic one."--_Academy._ =For the Temple:= A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. By G.A. Henty. With 10 full-page Illustrations by Solomon J. Solomon: and a coloured Map. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "Mr. Henty is ever one of the foremost writers of historical tales, and his graphic prose pictures of the hopeless Jewish resistance to Roman sway adds another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world. The book is one of Mr. Henty's cleverest efforts."--_Graphic._ "The story is told with all the force of descriptive power which has made the author's war stories so famous, and many an 'old boy' as well as the younger ones will delight in this narrative of that awful page of history."--_Church Times._ =The Lion Of the North:= A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by John Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "As we might expect from Mr. Henty the tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited as well as pleased."--_The Times._ "A praiseworthy attempt to interest British youth in the great deeds of the Scotch Brigade in the wars of Gustavus Adolphus. Mackay, Hepburn, and Munro live again in Mr. Henty's pages, as those deserve to live whose disciplined bands formed really the germ of the modern British army."--_Athenæum._ "A stirring story of stirring times. This book should hold a place among the classics of youthful fiction."--_United Service Gazette._ =The Young Carthaginian:= A story of the Times of Hannibal. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by C.J. Staniland, R.I. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "The effect of an interesting story, well constructed and vividly told, is enhanced by the picturesque quality of the scenic background. From first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a stream, whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force."--_Saturday Review._ "Ought to be popular with boys who are not too ill instructed or too dandified to be affected by a graphic picture of the days and deeds of Hannibal."--_Athenæum._ BY G.A. HENTY. "Among writers of stories of adventure for boys Mr. Henty stands in the very first rank."--_Academy._ * * * * * =With Wolfe in Canada:= Or, The Winning of a Continent. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "A model of what a boys' story-book should be. Mr. Henty has a great power of infusing into the dead facts of history new life, and as no pains are spared by him to ensure accuracy in historic details, his books supply useful aids to study as well as amusement."--_School Guardian._ "It is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field."--_Illustrated London News._ "This is a narrative which will bear retelling, and to which Mr. Henty, whose careful study of details is worthy of all praise, does full justice.... His adventures are told with much spirit; the escape when the birch canoes have been damaged by an enemy is especially well described."--_Spectator._ =With Clive in India:= Or, The Beginnings of an Empire. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "In this book Mr. Henty has contrived to exceed himself in stirring adventures and thrilling situations. The pictures add greatly to the interest of the book."--_Saturday Review._ "Among writers of stories of adventure for boys Mr. Henty stands in the very first rank. Those who know something about India will be the most ready to thank Mr. Henty for giving them this instructive volume to place in the hands of their children."--_Academy._ =True to the Old Flag:= A Tale of the American War of Independence. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British soldiers. The son of an American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very Huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of Hawkeye and Chingachgook."--_The Times._ "Mr. Henty's extensive personal experience of adventures and moving incidents by flood and field, combined with a gift of picturesque narrative, make his books always welcome visitors in the home circle."--_Daily News._ =In Freedom's Cause:= A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s_. "Mr. Henty has broken new ground as an historical novelist. His tale of the days of Wallace and Bruce is full of stirring action, and will commend itself to boys."--_Athenæum._ "Written in the author's best style. Full of the most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one side."--_Schoolmaster._ "Scarcely anywhere have we seen in prose a more lucid and spirit-stirring description of Bannockburn than the one with which the author fittingly closes his volume."--_Dumfries Standard._ BY G.A. HENTY. "Mr. Henty is one of our most successful writers of historical tales."--_Scotsman._ * * * * * =Through the Fray:= A Story of the Luddite Riots. By G.A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by H.M. Paget. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "Mr. Henty inspires a love and admiration for straightforwardness, truth, and courage. This is one of the best of the many good books Mr. Henty has produced, and deserves to be classed with his _Facing Death_."--_Standard._ "The interest of the story never flags. Were we to propose a competition for the best list of novel writers for boys we have little doubt that Mr. Henty's name would stand first."--_Journal of Education._ "This story is told in Mr. Henty's own easy and often graphic style. There is no 'padding' in the book, and its teaching is, that we have enemies within as well as without, and therefore the power of self-control is a quality that should be striven after by every 'true' boy."--_Educational Times._ =Under Drake's Flag:= A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G.A. Henty. Illustrated by 12 full-page Pictures by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "There is not a dull chapter, nor, indeed, a dull page in the hook; but the author has so carefully worked up his subject that the exciting deeds of his heroes are never incongruous or absurd."--_Observer._ "Just such a book, indeed, as the youth of this maritime country are likely to prize highly."--_Daily Telegraph._ "A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough one would think to turn his hair gray."--_Harper's Monthly Magazine._ * * * * * BY PROFESSOR A.J. CHURCH. * * * * * =Two Thousand Years Ago:= Or, The Adventures of a Roman Boy. By Professor A.J. Church. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Adrien Marie. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "Adventures well worth the telling. The book is extremely entertaining as well as useful, and there is a wonderful freshness in the Roman scenes and characters."--_The Times._ "Entertaining in the highest degree from beginning to end, and full of adventure which is all the livelier for its close connection with history."--_Spectator._ "We know of no book which will do more to make the Romans of that day live again for the English reader."--_Guardian._ * * * * * =Robinson Crusoe.= By Daniel Defoe. Illustrated by above 100 Pictures by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "One of the best issues, if not absolutely the best, of Defoe's work which has ever appeared."--_The Standard._ "The best edition I have come across for years. If you know a boy who has not a 'Robinson Crusoe,' just glance at any one of these hundred illustrations, and you will go no further afield in search of a present for him."--_Truth._ BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. "Mr. Fenn is in the front rank of writers of stories for boys."--_Liverpool Mercury._ * * * * * =Quicksilver:= Or a Boy with no Skid to his Wheel. By George Manville Fenn. With 10 full-page Illustrations by Frank Dadd. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "_Quicksilver_ is little short of an inspiration. In it that prince of story-writers for boys--George Manville Fenn--has surpassed himself. It is an ideal book for a boy's library."--_Practical Teacher._ "The story is capitally told, it abounds in graphic and well-described scenes, and it has an excellent and manly tone throughout."--_The Guardian._ "This is one of Mr. Fenn's happiest efforts, and deserves to be read and re-read by every school-boy in the land. We are not exaggerating when we say that _Quicksilver_ has nothing to equal it this season."--_Teacher's Aid._ =Dick o' the Fens:= A Romance of the Great East Swamp. By G. Manville Fenn. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Frank Dadd. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "We conscientiously believe that boys will find it capital reading. It is full of incident and mystery, and the mystery is kept up to the last moment. It is rich in effective local colouring; and it has a historical interest."--_Times._ "We have not of late come across a historical fiction, whether intended for boys or for men, which deserves to be so heartily and unreservedly praised as regards plot, incidents, and spirit as _Dick o' the Fens_. It is its author's masterpiece as yet."--_Spectator._ =Devon Boys:= A Tale of the North Shore. By G. Manville Fenn. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "An admirable story, as remarkable for the individuality of its young heroes as for the excellent descriptions of coast scenery and life in North Devon. It is one of the best books we have seen this season."--_Athenæum._ "We do not know that Mr. Fenn has ever reached a higher level than he has in _Devon Boys_. It must be put in the very front rank of Christmas books."--_Spectator._ =Brownsmith's Boy:= A Romance in a Garden. By G. Manville Fenn. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "Mr. Fenn's books are among the best, if not altogether the best, of the stories for boys. Mr. Fenn is at his best in _Brownsmith's Boy_."--_Pictorial World._ "_Brownsmith's Boy_ must rank among the few undeniably good boys' books. He will be a very dull boy indeed who lays it down without wishing that it had gone on for at least 100 pages more."--_North British Mail._ =In the King's Name:= Or the Cruise of the _Kestrel_. By G. Manville Fenn. Illustrated by 12 full-page Pictures by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "A capital boys' story, full of incident and adventure, and told in the lively style in which Mr. Fenn is such an adept."--_Globe._ "The best of all Mr. Fenn's productions in this field. It has the great quality of always 'moving on,' adventure following adventure in constant succession."--_Daily News._ BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. "Our boys know Mr. Fenn well, his stories having won for him a foremost place in their estimation."--_Pall Mall Gazette._ * * * * * =Bunyip Land:= The Story of a Wild Journey in New Guinea. By G. Manville Fenn. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "Mr. Fenn deserves the thanks of everybody for _Bunyip Land_, and we may venture to promise that a quiet week may be reckoned on whilst the youngsters have such fascinating literature provided for their evenings' amusement."--_Spectator._ "One of the best tales of adventure produced by any living writer, combining the inventiveness of Jules Verne, and the solidity of character and earnestness of spirit which have made the English victorious in so many fields."--_Daily Chronicle._ =The Golden Magnet:= A Tale of the Land of the Incas. By G. Manville Fenn. Illustrated by 12 full-page Pictures by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "This is, we think, the best boys' book Mr. Fenn has produced.... The Illustrations are perfect in their way."--_Globe._ "There could be no more welcome present for a boy. There is not a dull page in the book, and many will be read with breathless interest. 'The Golden Magnet' is, of course, the same one that attracted Raleigh and the heroes of _Westward Ho!_"--_Journal of Education._ * * * * * BY HARRY COLLINGWOOD. =The Log Of the "Flying Fish:"= A Story of Aerial and Submarine Peril and Adventure. By Harry Collingwood. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne, Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "The _Flying Fish_ actually surpasses all Jules Verne's creations; with incredible speed she flies through the air, skims over the surface of the water, and darts along the ocean bed. We strongly recommend our school-boy friends to possess themselves of her log."--_Athenæum._ * * * * * BY SARAH DOUDNEY. =Under False Colours.= By Sarah Doudney. With 12 full-page Illustrations by G.G. Kilburne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _6s._ "This is a charming story, abounding in delicate touches of sentiment and pathos. Its plot is skilfully contrived. It will be read with a warm interest by every girl who takes it up."--_Scotsman._ "Sarah Doudney has no superior as a writer of high-toned stories--pure in style, original in conception, and with skilfully wrought-out plots; but we have seen nothing from this lady's pen equal in dramatic energy to her latest work--_Under False Colours_."--_Christian Leader._ BY G.A. HENTY. "The brightest of all the living writers whose office it is to enchant the boys."--_Christian Leader._ * * * * * =One Of the 28th:= A Tale of Waterloo. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by W.H. Overend, and 2 Maps. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ Herbert Penfold, being desirous of benefiting the daughter of an intimate friend, and Ralph Conway, the son of a lady to whom he had once been engaged, draws up a will dividing his property between them, and places it in a hiding-place only known to members of his own family. At his death his two sisters determine to keep silence, and the authorized search for the will, though apparently thorough, fails to bring it to light. The mother of Ralph, however, succeeds in entering the house as a servant, and after an arduous and exciting search secures the will. In the meantime, her son has himself passed through a series of adventures. The boat in which he is fishing is run down by a French privateer, and Ralph, scrambling on board, is forced to serve until the harbour of refuge is entered by a British frigate. On his return he enters the army, and after some rough service in Ireland, takes part in the Waterloo campaign, from which he returns with the loss of an arm, but with a substantial fortune, which is still further increased by his marriage with his co-heir. =The Cat Of Bubastes:= A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by J.R. Weguelin. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "The story is highly enjoyable. We have pictures of Egyptian domestic life, of sport, of religious ceremonial, and of other things which may still be seen vividly portrayed by the brush of Egyptian artists."--_The Spectator._ "The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skilfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. It is admirably illustrated."--_Saturday Review._ "Mr. Henty has fairly excelled himself in this admirable story of romance and adventure. We have never examined a story-book that we can recommend with more confidence as a boy's reward."--_Teachers' Aid._ =The Dragon and the Raven:= Or, The Days of King Alfred. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by C.J. Staniland, R.I. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "Perhaps the best story of the early days of England which has yet been told."--_Court Journal._ "We know of no popular book in which the stirring incidents of Alfred's reign are made accessible to young readers as they are here."--_Scotsman._ =St. George for England:= A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne, in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "Mr. Henty has done his work well, producing a strong story at once instructive and entertaining."--_Glasgow Herald._ "Mr. Henty's historical novels for boys bid fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labours of Sir Walter Scott in the land of fiction."--_Standard._ BY G.A. HENTY. "Mr. Henty is the king of story-tellers for boys."--_Sword and Trowel._ * * * * * =The Bravest Of the Brave:= With Peterborough in Spain. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Pictures by H.M. Paget. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth, mercy and loving kindness, as indispensable to the making of an English gentleman. British lads will read _The Bravest of the Brave_ with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."--_Daily Telegraph._ =For Name and Fame:= Or, Through Afghan Passes. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne, in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "The best feature of the book, apart from its scenes of adventure, is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan people."--_Daily News._ "Not only a rousing story, replete with all the varied forms of excitement of a campaign, but, what is still more useful, an account of a territory and its inhabitants which must for a long time possess a supreme interest for Englishmen, as being the key to our Indian Empire."--_Glasgow Herald._ =In the Reign Of Terror:= The Adventures of a Westminster Boy. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by J. Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s_. "Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr. Henty's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict. The story is one of Mr. Henty's best."--_Saturday Review._ =Orange and Green:= A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "An extremely spirited story, based on the struggle in Ireland, rendered memorable by the defence of 'Derry and the siege of Limerick."--_Sat. Review._ "The narrative is free from the vice of prejudice, and ripples with life as vivacious as if what is being described were really passing before the eye.... _Orange and Green_ should be in the hands of every young student of Irish history without delay."--_Belfast Morning News._ =By Sheer Pluck:= A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Pictures by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "_By Sheer Pluck_ will be eagerly read. The author's personal knowledge of the west coast has been turned to full advantage."--_Athenæum._ "Morally, the book is everything that could be desired, setting before the boys a bright and bracing ideal of the English gentleman."--_Christian Leader._ BY G.A. HENTY. "Mr. G.A. Henty's fame as a writer of boys' stories is deserved and secure."--_Cork Herald._ * * * * * =A Final Reckoning:= A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by W.B. Wollen. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "Exhibits Mr. Henty's talent as a story-teller at his best.... The drawings possess the uncommon merit of really illustrating the text."--_Saturday Review._ "All boys will read this story with eager and unflagging interest. The episodes are in Mr. Henty's very best vein--graphic, exciting, realistic; and, as in all Mr. Henty's books, the tendency is to the formation of an honourable, manly, and even heroic character."--_Birmingham Post._ =Facing Death:= Or the Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of the Coal Mines. By G.A. Henty. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "If any father, godfather, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the look-out for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend."--_Standard._ * * * * * BY F. FRANKFORT MOORE. =Highways and High Seas:= Cyril Harley's Adventures on both. By F. Frankfort Moore. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Alfred Pearse. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ The story belongs to a period when highways meant post-chaises, coaches, and highwaymen, and when high seas meant post-captains, frigates, privateers, and smugglers; and the hero--a boy who has some remarkable experiences upon both--tells his story with no less humour than vividness. He shows incidentally how little real courage and romance there frequently was about the favourite law-breakers of fiction, but how they might give rise to the need of the highest courage in others and lead to romantic adventures of an exceedingly exciting kind. A certain piquancy is given to the story by a slight trace of nineteenth century malice in the picturing of eighteenth century life and manners. =Under Hatches:= Or Ned Woodthorpe's Adventures. By F. Frankfort Moore. With 8 full-page Illustrations by A. Forestier. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "Mr. Moore has never shown himself so thoroughly qualified to write books for boys as he has done in _Under Hatches_."--_The Academy._ "A first-rate sea story, full of stirring incidents, and, from a literary point of view, far better written than the majority of books for boys."--_Pall Mall Gazette._ "The story as a story is one that will just suit boys all the world over. The characters are well drawn and consistent; Patsy, the Irish steward, will be found especially amusing."--_Schoolmaster._ BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. "No one can find his way to the hearts of lads more readily than Mr. Fenn."--_Nottingham Guardian._ * * * * * =Yussuf the Guide:= Being the Strange Story of the Travels in Asia Minor of Burne the Lawyer, Preston the Professor, and Lawrence the Sick. By G. Manville Fenn. With 8 full-page Illustrations by John Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "The narrative will take its readers into scenes that will have great novelty and attraction for them, and the experiences with the brigands will be especially delightful to boys."--_Scotsman._ =Menhardoc:= A Story of Cornish Nets and Mines. By G. Manville Fenn. With 8 full-page Illustrations by C.J. Staniland. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "They are real living boys, with their virtues and faults. The Cornish fishermen are drawn from life, they are racy of the soil, salt with the sea-water, and they stand out from the pages in their jerseys and sea-boots all sprinkled with silvery pilchard scales."--_Spectator._ "A description of Will Marion's descent into a flooded mine is excellent. Josh is a delightfully amusing character. We may cordially praise the illustrations."--_Saturday Review._ =Mother Carey's Chicken:= Her Voyage to the Unknown Isle. By G. Manville Fenn. With 8 full-page Illustrations by A. Forestier. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "Jules Verne himself never constructed a more marvellous tale. It contains the strongly marked English features that are always conspicuous in Mr. Fenn's stories--a humour racy of the British soil, the manly vigour of his sentiment, and wholesome moral lessons. For anything to match his realistic touch we must go to Daniel Defoe."--_Christian Leader._ "When we get to the 'Unknown Isle,' the story becomes exciting. Mr. Fenn keeps his readers in a suspense that is not intermitted for a moment, and the _dénouement_ is a surprise which is as probable as it is startling."--_Spectator._ =Patience Wins:= Or, War in the Works. By G. Manville Fenn. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "An excellent story, the interest being sustained from first to last. One of the best books of its kind which has come before us this year."--_Saturday Review._ "Mr. Fenn is at his best in _Patience Wins_. It is sure to prove acceptable to youthful readers, and will give a good idea of that which was the real state of one of our largest manufacturing towns not many years ago."--_Guardian._ =Nat the Naturalist:= A Boy's Adventures in the Eastern Seas. By G. Manville Fenn. With 8 full-page Pictures. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "Among the best of the many good books for boys that have come out this season."--_Times._ "This sort of book encourages independence of character, develops resource, and teaches a boy to keep his eyes open."--_Saturday Review._ BY HARRY COLLINGWOOD. * * * * * =The Missing Merchantman.= By Harry Collingwood. With 8 full-page Illustrations by W.H. Overend. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "Mr. Collingwood is _facile princeps_ as a teller of sea stories for boys, and the present is one of the best productions of his pen."--_Standard._ "This is one of the author's best sea stories. The hero is as heroic as any boy could desire, and the ending is extremely happy."--_British Weekly._ =The Rover's Secret:= A Tale of the Pirate Cays and Lagoons of Cuba. By Harry Collingwood. With 8 full-page Illustrations by W.C. Symons. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "_The Rover's Secret_ is by far the best sea story we have read for years, and is certain to give unalloyed pleasure to boys. The illustrations are fresh and vigorous."--_Saturday Review._ =The Pirate Island:= A Story of the South Pacific. By Harry Collingwood. Illustrated by 8 full-page Pictures by C.J. Staniland and J.R. Wells. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "A capital story of the sea; indeed in our opinion the author is superior in some respects as a marine novelist to the better known Mr. Clarke Russell."--_The Times._ "Told in the most vivid and graphic language. It would be difficult to find a more thoroughly delightful gift-book."--_Guardian._ =The Congo Rovers:= A Story of the Slave Squadron. By Harry Collingwood. With 8 full-page Illustrations by J. Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "No better sea story has lately been written than the _Congo Rovers_. It is as original as any boy could desire."--_Morning Post._ * * * * * BY ASCOTT R. HOPE. =The Seven Wise Scholars.= By Ascott R. Hope. With nearly One Hundred Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Square 8vo, cloth elegant, gilt edges, _5s._ "As full of fun as a volume of _Punch_; with illustrations, more laughter-provoking than most we have seen since Leech died."--_Sheffield Independent._ "A capital story, full of fun and happy comic fancies. The tale would put the sourest-tempered _boy_ into a good humour, and to an imaginative child would be a source of keen delight."--_Scotsman._ =The Wigwam and the War-path:= stories of the Red Indians. By Ascott R. Hope. With 8 full-page Pictures by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "All the stories are told well, in simple spirited language and with a fulness of detail that make them instructive as well as interesting."--_Journal of Education._ BY G. NORWAY. The Loss of John Humble: What Led to It, and what Came of It. By G. Norway. With 8 full-page Illustrations by John Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ John Humble, an orphan, is sent to sea with his Uncle Rolf, the captain of the _Erl King_, but in the course of certain adventures off the English coast, in which Rolf shows both skill and courage, the boy is left behind at Portsmouth. He escapes from an English gun-brig to a Norwegian vessel, the _Thor_, which is driven from her course in a voyage to Hammerfest, and wrecked on a desolate shore. The survivors experience the miseries of a long sojourn in the Arctic circle, with inadequate means of supporting life, but ultimately, with the aid of some friendly but thievish Lapps, they succeed in making their way to a reindeer station and so southward to Tornea and home again. The story throughout is singularly vivid and truthful in its details, the individual characters are fresh and well marked, and a pleasant vein of humour relieves the stress of the more tragic incidents in the story. BY ROSA MULHOLLAND. Giannetta: A Girl's Story of Herself. By Rosa Mulholland. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Lockhart Bogle. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "Giannetta is a true heroine--warm-hearted, self-sacrificing, and, as all good women nowadays are, largely touched with the enthusiasm of humanity. The illustrations are unusually good, and combine with the binding and printing to make this one of the most attractive gift-books of the season."--_The Academy._ "No better book could be selected for a young girl's reading, as its object is evidently to hold up a mirror, in which are seen some of the brightest and noblest traits in the female character."--_Schoolmistress._ Perseverance Island: Or the Robinson Crusoe of the 19th Century. By Douglas Frazar. With 12 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _5s._ "This second Robinson Crusoe is certainly a marvellous man. His determination to overcome all difficulties, and his subsequent success, should alone make this a capital book for boys. It is altogether a worthy successor to the ancient Robinson Crusoe."--_Glasgow Herald._ Gulliver's Travels. Illustrated by more than 100 Pictures by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "By help of the admirable illustrations, and a little judicious skipping, it has enchanted a family party of ages varying from six to sixty. Which of the other Christmas books could stand this test?"--Journal of Education. "Mr. Gordon Browne is, to my thinking, incomparably the most artistic, spirited, and brilliant of our illustrators of books for boys, and one of the most humorous also, as his illustrations of 'Gulliver' amply testify."--Truth. NEW EDITION OF THE UNIVERSE. =The Universe:= Or the Infinitely Great and the Infinitely Little. A Sketch of Contrasts in Creation, and Marvels revealed and explained by Natural Science. By F.A. Pouchet, M.D. With 272 Engravings on wood, of which 55 are full-page size, and a Coloured Frontispiece. Tenth Edition, medium 8vo, cloth elegant, gilt edges, _7s. 6d._; also morocco antique, _16s._ "We can honestly commend Professor Pouchet's book, which _is_ admirably, as it is copiously illustrated."--_The Times._ "This book is as interesting as the most exciting romance, and a great deal more likely to be remembered to good purpose."--_Standard._ "Scarcely any book in French or in English is so likely to stimulate in the young an interest in the physical phenomena."--_Fortnightly Review._ * * * * * BY GEORGE MAC DONALD. =At the Back of the North Wind.= By George Mac Donald, LL.D. With 75 Illustrations by Arthur Hughes. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "In _At the Back of the North Wind_ we stand with one foot in fairyland and one on common earth. The story is thoroughly original, full of fancy and pathos, and underlaid with earnest but not too obtrusive teaching."--_The Times._ =Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood.= By George Mac Donald, LL.D. With 36 Illustrations by Arthur Hughes. New Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "The sympathy with boy-nature in _Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood_ is perfect. It is a beautiful picture of childhood, teaching by its impressions and suggestions all noble things."--_British Quarterly Review._ =The Princess and the Goblin.= By George Mac Donald, LL.D. With 30 Illustrations by Arthur Hughes, and 2 full-page Pictures by H. Petherick. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "Little of what is written for children has the lightness of touch and play of fancy which are characteristic of George Mac Donald's fairy tales. Mr. Arthur Hughes's illustrations are all that illustrations should be."--_Manchester Guardian._ "A model of what a child's book ought to be--interesting, instructive, and poetical. We cordially recommend it as one of the very best gift-books we have yet come across."--_Elgin Courant._ =The Princess and Curdie.= By George Mac Donald, LL.D. With 8 full-page Illustrations by James Allen. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "There is the finest and rarest genius in this brilliant story. Upgrown people would do wisely occasionally to lay aside their newspapers and magazines to spend an hour with Curdie and the Princess."--_Sheffield Independent._ =Girl Neighbours:= Or, The Old Fashion and the New. By Sarah Tytler. With 8 full-page Illustrations by C.T. Garland. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _5s._ "One of the most effective and quietly humorous of Miss Sarah Tytler's stories.... Very healthy, very agreeable, and very well written."--_Spectator._ * * * * * BY MARY C. ROWSELL. =Thorndyke Manor:= A Tale of Jacobite Times. By Mary C. Rowsell. With 6 full-page Illustrations by L. Leslie Brooke. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ Thorndyke Manor is an old house, near the mouth of the Thames, which is convenient, on account of its secret vaults and situation, as the base of operations in a Jacobite conspiracy. In consequence its owner, a kindly, quiet, book-loving squire, who lives happily with his sister, bright Mistress Amoril, finds himself suddenly involved by a treacherous steward in the closest meshes of the plot. He is conveyed to the Tower, but all difficulties are ultimately overcome, and his innocence is triumphantly proved by his sister. =Traitor or Patriot?= A Tale of the Rye-House Plot. By Mary C. Rowsell. With 6 full-page Pictures. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "A romantic love episode, whose true characters are lifelike beings, not dry sticks as in many historical tales."--_Graphic._ * * * * * BY ALICE CORKRAN. * * * * * =Meg's Friend.= By Alice Corkran. With 6 full-page Illustrations by Robert Fowler. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "Another of Miss Corkran's charming books for girls, narrated in that simple and picturesque style which marks the authoress as one of the first amongst writers for young people."--_The Spectator._ =Margery Merton's Girlhood.= By Alice Corkran. With 6 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "Another book for girls we can warmly commend. There is a delightful piquancy in the experiences and trials of a young English girl who studies painting in Paris."--_Saturday Review._ =Down the Snow Stairs:= Or, From Good-night to Good-morning. By Alice Corkran. With 60 character Illustrations by Gordon Browne. New Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, _3s. 6d._ "A fascinating wonder-book for children."--_Athenæum._ "A gem of the first water, bearing upon every page the signet mark of genius. All is told with such simplicity and perfect naturalness that the dream appears to be a solid reality. It is indeed a Little Pilgrim's Progress."--_Christian Leader._ BY JOHN C. HUTCHESON. * * * * * =Afloat at Last:= A Sailor Boy's Log of his Life at Sea. By John C. Hutcheson. With 6 full-page Illustrations by W.H. Overend. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ Mr. Hutcheson's reputation for the realistic treatment of life at sea will be fully sustained by the present volume--the narrative of a boy's experiences on board ship during his first voyage. From the stowing of the vessel in the Thames to her recovery from the Pratas Reef on which she is stranded, everything is described with the accuracy of perfect practical knowledge of ships and sailors; and the incidents of the story range from the broad humours of the fo'c's'le to the perils of flight from and fight with the pirates of the China Seas. The captain, the mate, the Irish boatswain, the Portuguese steward, and the Chinese cook, are fresh and cleverly-drawn characters, and the reader throughout has the sense that he is on a real voyage with living men. =The White Squall:= A Story of the Sargasso Sea. By John C. Hutcheson. With 6 full-page Illustrations by John Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "Few writers have made such rapid improvement in the course of a few years as has the author of this capital story.... Boys will find it difficult to lay down the book till they have got to the end."--_Standard._ "The sketches of tropical life are so good as sometimes to remind us of _Tom Cringle_ and the _Cruise of the Midge_."--_Times._ =The Wreck of the Nancy Bell:= Or Cast Away on Kerguelen Land. By John C. Hutcheson. Illustrated by 6 full-page Pictures. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "A full circumstantial narrative such as boys delight in. The ship so sadly destined to wreck on Kerguelen Land is manned by a very lifelike party, passengers and crew. The life in the Antarctic Iceland is well treated."--_Athenæum._ =Picked Up at Sea:= Or the Gold Miners of Minturne Creek. By John C. Hutcheson. With 6 full-page Pictures. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "The author's success with this book is so marked that it may well encourage him to further efforts. The description of mining life in the Far-west is true and accurate."--_Standard._ =Sir Walter's Ward:= A Tale of the Crusades. By William Everard. With 6 full-page Illustrations by Walter Paget. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "This book will prove a very acceptable present either to boys or girls. Both alike will take an interest in the career of Dodo, in spite of his unheroic name, and follow him through his numerous and exciting adventures."--_Academy._ =Stories Of Old Renown:= Tales of Knights and Heroes. By Ascott R. Hope. With 100 Illustrations by Gordon Browne. New Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "A really fascinating book worthy of its telling title. There is, we venture to say, not a dull page in the book, not a story which will not bear a second reading."--_Guardian._ BY CAROLINE AUSTIN. * * * * * =Cousin Geoffrey and I.= By Caroline Austin. With 6 full-page Illustrations by W. Parkinson. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ The only daughter of a country gentleman finds herself unprovided for at her father's death, and for some time lives as a dependant upon the kinsman who has inherited the property. Life is kept from being entirely unbearable to her by her young cousin Geoffrey, who at length meets with a serious accident for which she is held responsible. She is then passed on to other relatives, who prove even more objectionable, and at length, in despair, she runs away and makes a brave attempt to earn her own livelihood. Being a splendid rider, she succeeds in doing this, until the startling event which brings her cousin Geoffrey and herself together again, and solves the problem of the missing will. =Hugh Herbert's Inheritance.= By Caroline Austin. With 6 full-page Illustrations by C.T. Garland. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "Will please by its simplicity, its tenderness, and its healthy interesting motive. It is admirably written."--_Scotsman._ "Well and gracefully written, full of interest, and excellent in tone."--_School Guardian._ * * * * * BY E.S. BROOKS. * * * * * =Storied Holidays:= A Cycle of Red-letter Days. By E.S. Brooks. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Howard Pyle. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "It is a downright good book for a senior boy, and is eminently readable from first to last."--_Schoolmaster._ "Replete with interest from Chapter I. to _finis_, and can be confidently recommended as one of the gems of Messrs. Blackie's collection."--_Teachers' Aid._ =Chivalric Days:= Stories of Courtesy and Courage in the Olden Times. By E.S. Brooks. With 20 Illustrations by Gordon Browne and other Artists. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "We have seldom come across a prettier collection of tales. These charming stories of boys and girls of olden days are no mere fictitious or imaginary sketches, but are real and actual records of their sayings and doings. The illustrations are in Gordon Browne's happiest style."--_Literary World._ =Historic Boys:= Their Endeavours, their Achievements, and their Times. By E.S. Brooks. With 12 full-page Illustrations by R.B. Birch and John Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "A wholesome book, manly in tone, its character sketches enlivened by brisk dialogue. We advise schoolmasters to put it on their list of prizes."--_Knowledge._ BY MRS. E.R. PITMAN. * * * * * =Garnered Sheaves.= A Tale for Boys. By Mrs. E.R. Pitman. With 4 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "This is a story of the best sort ... a noble-looking book, illustrating faith in God, and commending to young minds all that is pure and true."--Rev. C.H. Spurgeon's _Sword and Trowel_. =Life's Daily Ministry:= A Story of Everyday Service for others. By Mrs. E.R. Pitman. With 4 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "Shows exquisite touches of a master hand. She has not only made a close study of human nature in all its phases, but she has acquired the artist's skill in depicting in graphic outline the characteristics of the beautiful and the good in life."--_Christian Union._ =My Governess Life:= Or Earning my Living. By Mrs. E.R. Pitman. With 4 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "Full of sound teaching and bright examples of character."--_Sunday-school Chronicle._ * * * * * BY MRS. R.H. READ. * * * * * =Silver Mill:= A Tale of the Don Valley. By Mrs. R.H. Read. With 6 full-page Illustrations by John Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "A good girl's story-book. The plot is interesting, and the heroine, Ruth, a lady by birth, though brought up in a humble station, well deserves the more elevated position in which the end of the book leaves her. The pictures are very spirited."--_Saturday Review._ =Dora:= Or a Girl without a Home. By Mrs. R.H. Read. With 6 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "It is no slight thing, in an age of rubbish, to get a story so pure and healthy as this."--_The Academy._ * * * * * BY ELIZABETH J. LYSAGHT. * * * * * =Brother and Sister:= Or the Trials of the Moore Family. By Elizabeth J. Lysaght. With 6 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "A pretty story, and well told. The plot is cleverly constructed, and the moral is excellent."--_Athenæum._ =Laugh and Learn:= A Home-book of Instruction and Amusement for the Little Ones. By Jennett Humphreys. Charmingly Illustrated. Square crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ _Laugh and Learn_, a most comprehensive book for the nursery, supplies, what has long been wanted, a means whereby the mother or the governess may, in a series of pleasing lessons, commence and carry on systematic home instruction of the little ones. The various chapters of the _Learn_ section carry the child through the "three R's" to easy stories for reading, and stories which the mother may read aloud, or which more advanced children may read to themselves. The Laugh section comprises simple drawing lessons, home amusements of every kind, innumerable pleasant games and occupations, rhymes to be learnt, songs for the very little ones, action songs, and music drill. =The Search for the Talisman:= A Story of Labrador. By Henry Frith. With 6 full-page Illustrations by J. Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "Mr. Frith's volume will be among those most read and highest valued. The adventures among seals, whales, and icebergs in Labrador will delight many a young reader, and at the same time give him an opportunity to widen his knowledge of the Esquimaux, the heroes of many tales."--_Pall Mall Gazette._ =Self-Exiled:= A Story of the High Seas and East Africa. By J.A. Steuart. With 6 full-page Illustrations by J. Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "It is cram full of thrilling situations. The number of miraculous escapes from death in all its shapes which the hero experiences in the course of a few months must be sufficient to satisfy the most voracious appetite."--_Schoolmaster._ =Reefer and Rifleman:= A Tale of the Two Services. By J. Percy-Groves, late 27th Inniskillings. With 6 full-page Illustrations by John Schönberg. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, _3s. 6d._ "A good, old-fashioned, amphibious story of our fighting with the Frenchmen in the beginning of our century, with a fair sprinkling of fun and frolic."--_Times._ =The Bubbling Teapot.= A Wonder Story. By Mrs. L.W. Champney. With 12 full-page Pictures by Walter Satterlee. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "Very literally a 'wonder story,' and a wild and fanciful one. Nevertheless it is made realistic enough, and there is a good deal of information to be gained from it. The steam from the magic teapot bubbles up into a girl, and the little girl, when the fancy takes her, can cry herself back into a teapot. Transformed and enchanted she makes the tour of the globe."--_The Times._ =Dr. Jolliffe's Boys:= A Tale of Weston School. By Lewis Hough. With 6 full-page Pictures. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _3s. 6d._ "Young people who appreciate _Tom Brown's School-days_ will find this story a worthy companion to that fascinating book. There is the same manliness of tone, truthfulness of outline, avoidance of exaggeration and caricature, and healthy morality as characterized the masterpiece of Mr. Hughes."--_Newcastle Journal._ BLACKIE'S HALF-CROWN SERIES. Illustrated by eminent Artists. In crown 8vo, cloth elegant. * * * * * New Volumes. =The Hermit Hunter of the Wilds.= By Gordon Stables, C.M., M.D., R.N. A dreamy boy, who likes to picture himself as the Hermit Hunter of the Wilds, receives an original but excellent kind of training from a sailor-naturalist uncle, and at length goes to sea with the hope of one day finding the lost son of his uncle's close friend, Captain Herbert. He succeeds in tracing him through the forests of Ecuador, where the abducted boy has become an Indian chief. Afterwards he is discovered on an island which had been used as a treasure store by the buccaneers. The hero is accompanied through his many adventures by the very king of cats, who deserves a place amongst the most famous animals in fiction. =Miriam's Ambition:= A Story for Children. By Evelyn Everett-Green. Miriam's ambition is to make some one happy, and her endeavour to carry it out in the case of an invalid boy, carries with it a pleasant train of romantic incident, solving a mystery which had thrown a shadow over several lives. A charming foil to her grave and earnest elder sister is to be found in Miss Babs, a small coquette of five, whose humorous child-talk is one of the most attractive features of an excellent story. =White Lilac:= Or The Queen of the May. By Amy Walton. When the vicar's wife proposed to call Mrs. White's daughter by the heathen name of Lilac, all the villagers shook their heads; and they continued to shake them sagely when Lilac's father was shot dead by poachers just before the christening, and when, years after, her mother died on the very day Lilac was crowned Queen of the May. And yet White Lilac proved a fortune to the relatives to whose charge she fell--a veritable good brownie, who brought luck wherever she went. The story of her life forms a most readable and admirable rustic idyl, and is told with a fine sense of rustic character. * * * * * =Little Lady Clare.= By Evelyn Everett-Green. "Certainly one of the prettiest, reminding us in its quaintness and tender pathos of Mrs. Ewing's delightful tales. This is quite one of the best stories Miss Green's clever pen has yet given us."--_Literary World._ "We would particularly bring it under the notice of those in charge of girls' schools. The story is admirably told."--_Schoolmaster._ =The Eversley Secrets.= By Evelyn Everett-Green. "Is one of the best children's stories of the year."--_Academy._ "A clever and well-told story. Roy Eversley is a very touching picture of high principle and unshrinking self-devotion in a good purpose."--_Guardian._ =The Brig "Audacious."= By Alan Cole. "This is a real boys' book. We have great pleasure in recommending it."--_English Teacher._ "Bright and vivacious in style, and fresh and wholesome as a breath of sea air in tone."--_Court Journal._ =The Saucy May.= By H. Frith. "The book is certainly both interesting and exciting."--_Spectator._ "Mr. Frith gives a new picture of life on the ocean wave which will be acceptable to all young people."--_Sheffield Independent._ =Jasper's Conquest.= By Elizabeth J. Lysaght. "One of the best boys' books of the season. It is full of stirring adventure and startling episodes, and yet conveys a splendid moral throughout."--_Schoolmaster._ =Sturdy and Strong:= Or, How George Andrews made his Way. By G.A. Henty. "The history of a hero of everyday life, whose love of truth, clothing of modesty, and innate pluck carry him, naturally, from poverty to affluence. He stands as a good instance of chivalry in domestic life."--_The Empire._ =Gutta-Percha Willie=, The Working Genius. By George Mac Donald, LL.D. "Had we space we would fain quote page after page. All we have room to say is, get it for your boys and girls to read for themselves, and if they can't do that read it to them."--_Practical Teacher._ =The War of the Axe:= Or Adventures in South Africa. By J. Percy-Groves. "The story of their final escape from the Caffres is a marvellous bit of writing.... The story is well and brilliantly told, and the illustrations are especially good and effective."--_Literary World._ =The Lads of Little Clayton:= Stories of Village Boy Life. By R. Stead. "A capital book for boys. They will learn from its pages what true boy courage is. They will learn further to avoid all that is petty and mean if they read the tales aright. They may be read to a class with great profit."--_Schoolmaster._ =Ten Boys= who lived on the Road from Long Ago to Now. By Jane Andrews. With 20 Illustrations. "The idea of this book is a very happy one, and is admirably carried out. We have followed the whole course of the work with exquisite pleasure. Teachers should find it particularly interesting and suggestive."--_Practical Teacher._ =Insect Ways on Summer Days= in Garden, Forest, Field, and Stream. By Jennett Humphreys. With 70 Illustrations. "The book will prove not only instructive but delightful to every child whose mind is beginning to inquire and reflect upon the wonders of nature. It is capitally illustrated and very tastefully bound."--_Academy._ =A Waif of the Sea:= Or the Lost Found. By Kate Wood. "A very touching and pretty tale of town and country, full of pathos and interest, told in a style which deserves the highest praise."--_Edinburgh Courant._ =Winnie's Secret:= A Story of Faith and Patience. By Kate Wood. "One of the best story-books we have read. Girls will be charmed with the tale, and delighted that everything turns out so well."--_Schoolmaster._ =Miss Willowburn's Offer.= By Sarah Doudney. "Patience Willowburn is one of Miss Doudney's best creations, and is the one personality in the story which can be said to give it the character of a book not for young ladies but for girls."--_Spectator._ =A Garland for Girls.= By Louisa M. Alcott. "The _Garland_ will delight our girls, and show them how to make their lives fragrant with good deeds."--_British Weekly._ "These little tales are the beau ideal of girls' stories."--_Christian World._ =Hetty Gray:= Or Nobody's Bairn. By Rosa Mulholland. "A charming story for young folks. Hetty is a delightful creature--piquant, tender, and true--and her varying fortunes are perfectly realistic."--_World._' =Brothers in Arms:= A Story of the Crusades. By F. Bayford Harrison. "Full of striking incident, is very fairly illustrated, and may safely be chosen as sure to prove interesting to young people of both sexes."--_Guardian._ =The Ball Of Fortune:= Or Ned Somerset's Inheritance. By Charles Pearce. "A capital story for boys. It is simply and brightly written. There is plenty of incident, and the interest is sustained throughout."--_Journal of Education._ =Miss Fenwick's Failures:= Or "Peggy Pepper-Pot." By Esmé Stuart. "Esmé Stuart may be commended for producing a girl true to real life, who will put no nonsense into young heads."--_Graphic._ =Gytha's Message:= A Tale of Saxon England. By Emma Leslie. "This is a charmingly told story. It is the sort of book that all girls and some boys like, and can only get good from."--_Journal of Education._ =My Mistress the Queen:= A Tale of the 17th Century. By M.A. Paull. "The style is pure and graceful, the presentation of manners and character has been well studied, and the story is full of interest."--_Scotsman._ "This is a charming book. The old-time sentiment which pervades the volume renders it all the more alluring."--_Western Mercury._ =The Stories of Wasa and Menzikoff:= The Deliverer of Sweden, and the Favourite of Czar Peter. "Both are stories worth telling more than once, and it is a happy thought to have put them side by side. Plutarch himself has no more suggestive comparison."--_Spectator._ =Stories of the Sea in Former Days:= Narratives of Wreck and Rescue. "Next to an original sea-tale of sustained interest come well-sketched collections of maritime peril and suffering which awaken the sympathies by the realism of fact. 'Stories of the Sea' are a very good specimen of the kind."--_The Times._ =Tales of Captivity and Exile.= "It would be difficult to place in the hands of young people a book which combines interest and instruction in a higher degree."--_Manchester Courier._ =Famous Discoveries by Sea and Land.= "Such a volume may providentially stir up some youths by the divine fire kindled by these 'great of old' to lay open other lands, and show their vast resources."--_Perthshire Advertiser._ =Stirring Events of History.= "The volume will fairly hold its place among those which make the smaller ways of history pleasant and attractive. It is a gift-book in which the interest will not be exhausted with one reading."--_Guardian._ =Adventures in Field, Flood, and Forest.= Stories of Danger and Daring. "One of the series of books for young people which Messrs. Blackie' excel in producing. The editor has beyond all question succeeded admirably. The present book cannot fail to be read with interest and advantage."--_Academy._ =Jack o' Lanthorn:= A Tale of Adventure. By Henry Frith. "The narrative is crushed full of stirring incident, and _is_ sure to be a prime favourite with our boys, who will be assisted by it in mastering a sufficiently exciting chapter in the history of England."--_Christian Leader._ =The Family Failing.= By Darley Dale. "At once an amusing and an interesting story, and a capital lesson on the value of contentedness to young and old alike."--_Aberdeen Journal._ =The Joyous Story of Toto.= By Laura E. Richards. With 30 humorous and fanciful Illustrations by E.H. Garrett. "An excellent book for children who are old enough to appreciate a little delicate humour. It should take its place beside Lewis Carroll's unique works, and find a special place in the affections of boys and girls."--_Birmingham Gazette._ =BLACKIE'S TWO-SHILLING SERIES.= With Illustrations in Colour and black and tint. In crown 8vo, cloth elegant. * * * * * New Volumes. =Sam Silvan'S Sacrifice:= The Story of Two Fatherless Boys. By Jesse Colman. The story of two brothers--the elder a lad of good and steady disposition; the younger nervous and finely-strung, but weaker and more selfish. The death of their grandparents, by whom they are being brought up, leads to their passing through a number of adventures in uncomfortable homes and among strange people. In the end the elder brother's generous care results in his sacrificing his own life to save that of his brother, who realizes when it is too late the full measure of his indebtedness. =A Warrior King:= The Story of a Boy's Adventures in Africa. By J. Evelyn. A story full of adventure and romantic interest. Adrian Englefield, an English boy of sixteen, accompanies his father on a journey of exploration inland from the West Coast. He falls into the hands of the Berinaquas, and becomes the friend of their prince, Moryosi, but is on the point of being sacrificed when he is saved by the capture of the kraelah by a neighbouring hostile tribe. He is soon after retaken by the Berinaquas, and saves the life of Moryosi. The two tribes are ultimately united, and Adrian and his friends are set at liberty. * * * * * =Susan.= By Amy Walton. "A clever little story, written with some humour. The authoress shows a great deal of insight into children's feelings and motives."--_Pall Mall Gazette._ ="A Pair of Clogs:"= And other Stories. By Amy Walton. "These stories are decidedly interesting, and unusually true to nature. For children between nine and fourteen this book can be thoroughly commended."--_Academy._ =The Hawthorns.= By Amy Walton. "A remarkably vivid and clever study of child-life. At this species of work Amy Walton has no superior."--_Christian Leader._ =Dorothy's Dilemma:= A Tale of the Time of Charles I. By Caroline Austin. "An exceptionally well-told story, and will be warmly welcomed by children. The little heroine, Dorothy, is a charming creation."--_Court Journal._ =Marie's Home:= Or, A Glimpse of the Past. By Caroline Austin. "An exquisitely told story. The heroine is as fine a type of girlhood as one could wish to set before our little British damsels of to-day."--_Christian Leader._ =Warner's Chase:= Or the Gentle Heart. By Annie S. Swan. "In Milly Warren, the heroine, who softens the hard heart of her rich uncle and thus unwittingly restores the family fortunes, we have a fine ideal of real womanly goodness."--_Schoolmaster._ "A good book for boys and girls. There is no sickly goodyism in it, but a tone of quiet and true religion that keeps its own place."--_Perthshire Advertiser._ =Aboard the "Atalanta:"= The Story of a Truant. By Henry Frith. "The story is very interesting and the descriptions most graphic. We doubt if any boy after reading it would be tempted to the great mistake of running away from school under almost any pretext whatever."--_Practical Teacher._ =The Penang Pirate= and The Lost Pinnace. By John C. Hutcheson. "A book which boys will thoroughly enjoy: rattling, adventurous, and romantic, and the stories are thoroughly healthy in tone."--_Aberdeen Journal._ =Teddy:= The Story of a "Little Pickle." By John C. Hutcheson. "He is an amusing little fellow with a rich fund of animal spirits, and when at length he goes to sea with Uncle Jack he speedily sobers down under the discipline of life."--_Saturday Review._ =Linda and the Boys.= By Cecilia Selby Lowndes. "The book is essentially a child's book, and will be heartily appreciated by the young folk."--_The Academy._ "Is not only told in an artless, simple way, but is full of the kind of humour that children love."--_Liverpool Mercury._ =Swiss Stories for Children and those who Love Children.= From the German of Madam Johanna Spyri. By Lucy Wheelock. "Charming stories. They are rich in local colouring, and, what is better, in genuine pathos."--_The Times._ "These most delightful children's tales are essentially for children, but would fascinate older and less enthusiastic minds with their delicate romance and the admirable portraiture of the hard life of the Swiss peasantry."--_Spectator._ =The Squire's Grandson:= A Devonshire Story. By J.M. Callwell. "A healthy tone pervades this story, and the lessons of courage, filial affection, and devotion to duty on the part of the young hero cannot fail to favourably impress all young readers."--_Schoolmaster._ =Magna Charta Stories:= Or Struggles for Freedom in the Olden Time. Edited by Arthur Gilman, A.M. With 12 full-page Illustrations. "A book of special excellence, which ought to be in the hands of all boys."--_Educational News._ =The Wings Of Courage:= And The Cloud-Spinner. Translated from the French of George Sand, by Mrs. Corkran. "Mrs. Corkran has earned our gratitude by translating into readable English these two charming little stories."--_Athenæum._ =Chirp and Chatter:= Or, Lessons from Field and Tree. By Alice Banks. With 54 Illustrations by Gordon Browne. "We see the humbling influence of love on the haughty harvest-mouse, we are touched by the sensibility of the tender-hearted ant, and may profit by the moral of 'the disobedient maggot.' The drawings are spirited and funny."--_The Times._ =Four Little Mischiefs.= By Rosa Mulholland. "Graphically written, and abounds in touches of genuine humour and innocent fun."--_Freeman._ "A charming bright story about real children."--_Watchman._ =New Light through Old Windows.= A Series of Stories illustrating Fables of �sop. By Gregson Gow. "The most delightfully-written little stories one can easily find in the literature of the season. Well constructed and brightly told."--_Glasgow Herald._ =Little Tottie=, and Two Other Stories. By Thomas Archer. "We can warmly commend all three stories; the book is a most alluring prize for the younger ones."--_Schoolmaster._ =Naughty Miss Bunny:= Her Tricks and Troubles. By Clara Mulholland. "This naughty child is positively delightful. Papas should not omit _Naughty Miss Bunny_ from their list of juvenile presents."--_Land and Water._ =Adventures of Mrs. Wishing-to-be=, and other Stories. By Alice Corkran. "Simply a charming book for little girls."--_Saturday Review._ "Just in the style and spirit to win the hearts of children."--_Daily News._ =Our Dolly:= Her Words and Ways. By Mrs. R.H. Read. With many Woodcuts, and a Frontispiece in colours. "Prettily told and prettily illustrated."--_Guardian._ "Sure to be a great favourite with young children."--_School Guardian._ =Fairy Fancy:= What she Heard and Saw. By Mrs. R.H. Read. With many Woodcuts and a Coloured Frontispiece. "All is pleasant, nice reading, with a little knowledge of natural history and other matters gently introduced and divested of dryness."--_Practical Teacher._ =BLACKIE'S EIGHTEENPENNY SERIES.= With Illustrations in Colour, and black and tint. In crown 8vo, cloth elegant. * * * * * New Volumes. =Tales of Daring and Danger.= By G.A. Henty. A selection of five of Mr. Henty's short stories of adventure by land and sea. The volume contains the narrative of an officer's bear-shooting expedition, and his subsequent captivity among the Dacoits; a strange tale of an Indian fakir and two British officers; a tale of the gold-diggings at Pine-tree Gulch, in which a boy saves, at the cost of his own life, a miner who had befriended him, and two others. =The Seven Golden Keys.= By James E. Arnold. Hilda gains entrance into fairy-land, and is there shown a golden casket with seven locks. To obtain the treasure it contains, it is necessary that she should make seven journeys to find the keys, and in her travels she passes through a number of adventures and learns seven important lessons--to speak the truth, to be kind, not to trust to appearances, to hold fast to all that is good, &c. It is one of the most interesting of recent fairy-books, as well as one of the most instructive. =The Story of a Queen.= By Mary C. Rowsell. A pleasant version for young people of the romantic story of Marie of Brabant, the young queen of Philip the Bold of France. Though the interest centres in a heroine rather than in a hero, the book has no lack of adventure, and will be read with no less eagerness by boys than by girls. To the latter it will give a fine example of patient, strong and noble woman-hood, to the former it will teach many lessons in truthfulness and chivalry. =Joan's Adventures=, At the North Pole and Elsewhere. By Alice Corkran. "This is a most delightful fairy story. The charming style and easy prose narrative makes its resemblance striking to Hans Andersen's."--_Spectator._ =Edwy:= Or, Was he a Coward? By Annette Lyster. "This is a charming story, and sufficiently varied to suit children of all ages."--_The Academy._ =Filled with Gold.= By Jennie Perrett. "The tale is interesting, and gracefully told. Miss Perrett's description of life on the quiet Jersey farm will have a great charm."--_Spectator._ =The Battlefield Treasure.= By F. Bayford Harrison. "Jack Warren is a lad of the Tom Brown type, and his search for treasure and the sequel are sure to prove interesting to boys."--_English Teacher._ =By Order of Queen Maude:= A Story of Home Life. By Louisa Crow. "The tale is brightly and cleverly told, and forms one of the best children's books which the season has produced."--_Academy._ =Our General:= A Story for Girls. By Elizabeth J. Lysaght. "A young girl of indomitable spirit, to whom all instinctively turn for guidance--a noble pattern for girls."--_Guardian._ =Aunt Hesba's Charge.= By Elizabeth J. Lysaght. "This well-written book tells how a maiden aunt is softened by the influence of two Indian children who are unexpectedly left upon her hands. Mrs. Lysaght's style is bright and pleasant."--_Academy._ =Into the Haven.= By Annie S. Swan. "No story more attractive, by reason of its breezy freshness, as well as for the practical lessons it conveys."--_Christian Leader._ =Our Frank:= And other Stories. By Amy Walton. "These stories are of the sort that children of the clever kind are sure to like."--_Academy._ =The Late Miss Hollingford.= By Rosa Mulholland. "No book for girls published this season approaches this in the charm of its telling, which will be equally appreciated by persons of all ages."--_Standard._ =The Pedlar and His Dog.= By Mary C. Rowsell. "The opening chapter, with its description of Necton Fair, will forcibly remind many readers of George Eliot. Taken altogether it is a delightful story."--_Western Morning News._ =Yarns on the Beach.= By G.A. Henty. "This little book should find special favour among boys. The yarns are full of romance and adventure, and are admirably calculated to foster a manly spirit."--_The Echo._ =A Terrible Coward.= By G. Manville Fenn. "Just such a tale as boys will delight to read, and as they are certain to profit by."--_Aberdeen Journal._ =Tom Finch's Monkey:= And other Yarns. By J.C. Hutcheson. "Stories of an altogether unexceptionable character, with adventures sufficient for a dozen books of its size."--_U. Service Gazette._ =Miss Grantley's Girls=, And the Stories She Told Them. By Thomas Archer. "For fireside reading more wholesome and highly entertaining reading for young people could not be found."--_Northern Chronicle._ =Down and Up Again:= Being some Account of the Felton Family, and the Odd People they Met. By Gregson Gow. "The story is very neatly told, with some fairly dramatic incidents, and calculated altogether to please young people."--_Scotsman._ =The Troubles and Triumphs of Little Tim.= A City Story. By Gregson Gow. "An undercurrent of sympathy with the struggles of the poor, and an ability to describe their feelings, eminently characteristic of Dickens, are marked features in Mr. Gow's story."--_N.B. Mail._ =The Happy Lad:= A Story of Peasant Life in Norway. From the Norwegian of Björnson. "This pretty story has natural eloquence which seems to carry us back to some of the love stories of the Bible."--_Aberdeen Free Press._ =The Patriot Martyr:= And other Narratives of Female Heroism in Peace and War. "It should be read with interest by every girl who loves to learn what her sex can accomplish in times of danger."--_Bristol Times._ =Madge's Mistake:= A Recollection of Girlhood. By Annie E. Armstrong. "We cannot speak too highly of this delightful little tale. It abounds in interesting and laughable incidents."--_Bristol Times._ =Box of Stories.= Packed for Young Folk by Horace Happyman. =When I was a Boy in China.= By Yan Phou Lee, a native of China, now resident in the United States. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, _1s. 6d._ "This little book has the advantage of having been written not only by a Chinaman, but by a man of culture. His book is as interesting to adults as it is to children."--_The Guardian._ "Not only exceedingly interesting, but of great informative value, for it gives to English readers a peep into the interior and private life of China such as has perhaps never before been afforded."--_The Scottish Leader._ * * * * * THE SHILLING SERIES OF BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. Square 16mo, neatly bound in cloth extra. Each book contains 128 pages and a Coloured Illustration. * * * * * New Volumes. =Mr. Lipscombe's Apples.= By Julia Goddard. =Gladys: or the Sister's Charge.= By E. O'Byrne. =A Gypsy against Her Will.= By Emma Leslie. =The Castle on the Shore.= By Isabel Hornibrook. =An Emigrant Boy's Story.= By Ascott R. Hope. =Jock and his Friend.= By Cora Langton. =John a' Dale.= By Mary C. Rowsell. =In the Summer Holidays.= By Jennett Humphreys. =How the Strike Began.= By Emma Leslie. =Tales from the Russian of Madame Kubalensky.= By G. Jenner. =Cinderella's Cousin, and Other Stories.= By Penelope. =Their New Home.= By Annie S. Fenn. =Janie's Holiday.= By C. Redford. =A Boy Musician:= Or, the Young Days of Mozart. =Hatto's Tower.= By Mary C. Rowsell. =Fairy Lovebairn's Favourites.= By J. Dickinson. =Alf Jetsam:= or Found Afloat. By Mrs. George Cupples. =The Redfords:= An Emigrant Story. By Mrs. George Cupples. =Missy.= By F. Bayford Harrison. =Hidden Seed:= or, A Year in a Girl's Life. By Emma Leslie. =Ursula's Aunt.= By Annie S. Fenn. =Jack's Two Sovereigns.= By Annie S. Fenn. =A Little Adventurer:= or How Tommy Trefit went to look for his Father. By Gregson Gow. =Olive Mount.= By Annie S. Fenn. =Three Little Ones.= Their Haps and Mishaps. By C. Langton. =Tom Watkins' Mistake.= By Emma Leslie. =Two Little Brothers.= By M. Harriet M. Capes. =The New Boy at Merriton.= By Julia Goddard. =The Children of Haycombe.= By Annie S. Fenn. =The Cruise of the "Petrel."= By F.M. Holmes. =The Wise Princess.= By M. Harriet M. Capes. =The Blind Boy of Dresden and his Sister.= =Jon of Iceland:= A Story of the Far North. =Stories from Shakespeare.= =Every Man In his Place:= Or a City Boy and a Forest Boy. =Fireside Fairies and Flower Fancies.= Stories for Girls. =To the Sea in Ships:= Stories of Suffering and Saving at Sea. =Jack's Victory:= and other Stories about Dogs. =Story of a King=, told by one of his Soldiers. =Prince Alexis=, or "Beauty and the Beast." =Little Daniel:= a Story of a Flood on the Rhine. =Sasha the Serf:= and other Stories of Russian Life. =True Stories of Foreign History.= * * * * * _THE ILLUSTRATIONS THROUGHOUT PRINTED IN COLOURS._ 4TO, ONE SHILLING EACH. =GORDON BROWNE'S SERIES OF OLD FAIRY TALES.= 1. HOP O' MY THUMB. 2. BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. Each book contains 32 pages 4to, and is illustrated on every page by Pictures printed in colours. =THE NINEPENNY SERIES OF BOOKS FOR CHILDREN.= Neatly bound in cloth extra. Each contains 96 pages and a Coloured Illustration. * * * * * New Volumes. =Things will Take a Turn.= By Beatrice Harraden. =The Lost Thimble:= and other Stories. By Mrs. Musgrave. =Max or Baby:= the Story of a very Little Boy. By Ismay Thorn. =Jack-a-Dandy:= or the Heir of Castle Fergus. By E.J. Lysaght. =A Day of Adventures:= A Story for little Girls. By Charlotte Wyatt. =The Golden Plums=, and other Stories. By Frances Clare. =The Queen of Squats.= By Isabel Hornibrook. =Shucks:= A Story for Boys. By Emma Leslie. =Sylvia Brooke.= By M. Harriet M. Capes. =The Little Cousin.= By A.S. Fenn. =In Cloudland.= By Mrs. Musgrave. =Jack and the Gypsies.= By Kate Wood. =Hans the Painter.= By Mary C. Rowsell. =Little Troublesome.= By Isabel Hornibrook. =My Lady May:= And one other Story. By Harriet Boultwood. =A Little Hero.= By Mrs. Musgrave. =Prince Jon's Pilgrimage.= By Jessie Fleming. =Harold's Ambition:= Or a Dream of Fame. By Jennie Perrett. =Sepperl the Drummer Boy.= By Mary C. Rowsell. =Aboard the Mersey.= By Mrs. George Cupples. =A Blind Pupil.= By Annie S. Fenn. =Lost and Found.= By Mrs. Carl Rother. =Fisherman Grim.= By Mary C. Rowsell. "The same good character pervades all these books. They are admirably adapted for the young. The lessons deduced are such as to mould children's minds in a good groove. We cannot too highly commend them for their excellence."--_Schoolmistress._ * * * * * =SOMETHING FOR THE VERY LITTLE ONES.= Fully Illustrated with Woodcuts and Coloured Plates. 64 pp., 32mo, cloth. Sixpence each. =Tales Easy and Small= for the Youngest of All. In no word will you see more letters than three. By Jennett Humphreys. =Old Dick Grey= and Aunt Kate's Way. Stories in little words of not more than four letters. By Jennett Humphreys. =Maud's Doll and Her Walk.= In Picture and Talk. In little words of not more than four letters. By Jennett Humphreys. =In Holiday Time.= And other Stories. In little words of not more than five letters. By Jennett Humphreys. =Whisk and Buzz.= By Mrs. A.H. Garlick. =THE SIXPENNY SERIES FOR CHILDREN.= Neatly bound in cloth extra. Each contains 64 pages and a Coloured Cut. =A Little Man of War.= By L.E. Tiddeman. =Lady Daisy.= By Caroline Stewart. =Dew.= By H. Mary Wilson. =Chris's Old Violin.= By J. Lockhart. =Mischievous Jack.= By A. Corkran. =The Twins.= By L.E. Tiddeman. =Pet's Project.= By Cora Langton. =The Chosen Treat.= By Charlotte Wyatt. =Little Neighbours.= By Annie S. Fenn. =Jim:= A Story of Child Life. By Christian Burke. =Little Curiosity:= Or, A German Christmas. By J.M. Callwell. =Sara the Wool-gatherer.= By W.L. Rooper. =Fairy Stories:= told by Penelope. =A New Year's Tale:= and other Stories. From the German. By M.A. Currie. =Little Mop:= and other Stories. By Mrs. Charles Bray. =The Tree Cake:= and other Stories. By W.L. Rooper. =Nurse Peggy, and Little Dog Trip.= =Fanny's King.= By Darley Dale. =Wild Marsh Marigolds.= By D. Dale. =Kitty's Cousin.= By Hannah B. Mackenzie. =Cleared at Last.= By Julia Goddard. =Little Dolly Forbes.= By Annie S. Fenn. =A Year with Nellie.= By A.S. Fenn. =The Little Brown Bird.= =The Maid of Domremy:= and other Tales. =Little Eric:= a Story of Honesty. =Uncle Ben the Whaler.= =The Palace of Luxury.= =The Charcoal Burner.= =Willy Black:= a Story of Doing Right. =The Horse and His Ways.= =The Shoemaker's Present.= =Lights to Walk by.= =The Little Merchant.= =Nicholina:= a Story about an Iceberg. "A very praiseworthy series of Prize Books. Most of the stories are designed to enforce some important moral lesson, such as honesty, industry, kindness, helpfulness."--_School Guardian._ * * * * * =A SERIES OF FOURPENNY REWARD BOOKS.= Each 64 pages, 18mo, Illustrated, in Picture Boards. =A Start in Life.= By J. Lockhart. =Happy Childhood.= By Aimée de Venoix Dawson. =Dorothy's Clock.= By Do. =Toddy.= By L.E. Tiddeman. =Stories about my Dolls.= By Felicia Melancthon. =Stories about my Cat Timothy.= =Delia's Boots.= By W.L. Rooper. =Lost on the Rocks.= By R. Scotter. =A Kitten's Adventures.= By Caroline Stewart. =Holidays at Sunnycroft.= By Annie S. Swan. =Climbing the Hill.= By Do. =A Year at Coverley.= By Do. =Phil Foster.= By J. Lockhart. =Papa's Birthday.= By W.L. Rooper. =The Charm Fairy.= By Penelope. =Little Tales for Little Children.= By M.A. Currie. =Worthy of Trust.= By H.B. Mackenzie. =Brave and True.= By Gregson Gow. =Johnnie Tupper's Temptation.= Do. =Maudie and Bertie.= Do. =The Children and the Water-Lily.= By Julia Goddard. =Poor Tom Olliver.= By Do. =Fritz's Experiment.= By Letitia M'Lintock. =Lucy's Christmas-Box.= LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, 49 OLD BAILEY, E.C. GLASGOW, EDINBURGH, AND DUBLIN. [Transcriber's Note: The following section was at the beginning of the book in the original copy.] MR. HENTY'S HISTORICAL TALES. _Crown 8vo, Cloth elegant, Olivine edges. Each Book is beautifully Illustrated._ The Cat of Bubastes: A Story of Ancient Egypt. _5s._ The Young Carthaginian: A Story of the Times of Hannibal. _6s._ For the Temple: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. _6s._ The Lion of St. Mark: A Story of Venice in the 14th Century. 6s. The Lion of the North: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. _6s._ In the Reign of Terror: The Adventures of a Westminster Boy during the French Revolution. _5s._ The Dragon and the Raven: Or, The Days of King Alfred. _5s._ In Freedom's Cause: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. _6s._ St. George for England: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. _5s._ Under Drake's Flag: A Tale of the Spanish Main. _6s._ Orange and Green: A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick. _5s._ Bonnie Prince Charlie: A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. _6s._ The Bravest of the Brave: Or, With Peterborough in Spain. _5s._ With Wolfe in Canada: Or, The Winning of a Continent. _6s._ With Clive in India: Or, The Beginnings of an Empire. _6s._ True to the Old Flag: A Tale of the American War of Independence. _6s._ Through the Fray: A Story of the Luddite Riots. _6s._ By Sheer Pluck: A Tale of the Ashanti War. _5s._ For Name and Fame: Or, Through Afghan Passes. _5s._ LONDON: BLACKIE & SON: GLASGOW AND EDINBURGH.