'What is it, Billy?' I asked him.

'He say his people call him "White Witch,"' said Billy. 'He say, "I t'ink I white man like your master."'

Billy again burst out laughing, and again stifled the laugh in shocked surprise at his own rudeness.

I gazed at the sick youth with new curiosity and interest. I examined his features: there was nothing of the low-caste negro type about him, that was clear; but then it often happens that a Zulu or a Matabele is born with features which resemble those of a higher type of humanity.

'Ask him why they call him "White Witch,"' said I.

After a long talk with our new friend, Billy apparently gave up the attempt to solve this mystery.

'No understand,' he told me; 'he talk nonsense—much nonsense; not tell any truth.'

'What's his name?' I next asked.

'Umkopo,' said Billy. 'Dat not white man name—dat Matabele name.'

Billy looked so disgusted, and was clearly so displeased that a nigger should put forward a claim to white man's blood, that I decided to worry the sick man no more at present with questions—at least, he should answer only one more.

'How came he here? ask him,' said I.

'He been see Lobengula at Bulawayo,' said Billy. 'Lobengula chase him away into the jungle because he say bad words.'

'What kind of bad words?' I asked, in some surprise.

'Bad words: he say Lobengula not fight white people; white people eat him up.'

Umkopo, then, thought I, was like one of the prophets, who prophesied evil things which were unwelcome to the king.

'Lobengula chase him into jungle; much men run after him. Umkopo hide, drink bad water, nearly die, then no food.'

It was clear that the poor lad could not be left where he was in his present weak state; he must return with us to camp, which was two or three miles away at the edge of this jungle.

But Umkopo, though he did his best to rise to his feet, and walk with us when invited to do so, proved far too weak. He almost fell in attempting to stand up, and was obliged to cling to the tree-trunk in order to prevent himself from sudden collapse.

'We shall have to carry him, Billy,' said I. 'Collect poles and branches, and we will make a litter for the poor chap.'

Billy was evidently gravely displeased to be asked to do so much for a mere Matabele: he collected materials with his nose in air. 'Who going to carry nigger?' he asked.

And when I replied that, naturally—there being no one else—he and I would do so, I thought Billy would have a fit.

Nevertheless, the Kaffir was obliged to swallow his feelings, for, when I had finished the litter, I took up Umkopo in my arms—I am fairly strong, as you know—and laid him in it, and bade the disgusted Billy catch hold of one end while I took the other.

As for Umkopo himself, he looked very gratefully in my face, but he did not seem in the least overpowered by the fact that a white man was condescending to act as bearer to him. This circumstance seemed to weigh much more heavily upon Billy than upon him; but then Billy was influenced by the feeling of disgust that he, should be called upon to take so much trouble for the sake of a mere native.

We got Umkopo back to camp in safety, Billy making a great show of weariness; and here I had a comfortable couch made for the invalid within the zareeba. He lay at his ease for a day or two, living upon antelope flesh and the best of everything, and even drinking, at my special request, several doses of a tonic which I had brought with me, in case of sickness. The faces he made over it were something too weird to describe.

Under this treatment Umkopo soon picked up strength, and we became great friends, he and I. I endeavoured to teach him a few English words, and one day—to my great astonishment and interest—he rattled off a sentence which I had not taught him, but which was certainly a species of English. It sounded like this: 'Whenima gooboy nannagiv mejam on Sundays.'

It was an obvious attempt to say, 'When I'm a good boy, Nanna gives me jam on Sundays'—a sentence which not only told a tale of its own, but also gave a fellow a pretty wide field 'to think in.'

After this discovery, I began to take a very great and special interest in Umkopo, and taught him all the English I could. He was with me for a fortnight, and grew much attached to me. He was, of course, a bit of a savage, but there was something very attractive about him, and I grew both fond of and interested in him. This interest and fondness for a nigger greatly offended Billy, my chief Kaffir. None of my Kaffirs liked Umkopo, for all were jealous of him, I suppose; but Billy was particularly bitter against him, and once or twice I was obliged to reprimand him severely.

This uncomfortable state of affairs ended in a kind of tragedy, and I will just tell you of this and of its upshot before passing on to the rhinoceros adventure, which is the real part of this yarn.

(Concluded on page 154.)



THE SHEPHERD MOON.

I love to wait till the red sun hides, When from the dusk the Shepherd Moon glides; And by twos and threes around him peep His flock of little white starry sheep.

All night they ramble so far and high, Their pasture wide is the dark blue sky; Then the Shepherd Moon goes on his way, And leads them back to the folds of Day.



PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.

V.—THE LIFE-HISTORY OF THE FRESH-WATER MUSSEL.

Most readers of Chatterbox must have seen the fresh-water mussel in its native element. Let those who have not, search in the shallow water of the nearest river or brook till they are successful. When the stream is clear you may often see them lying on the bottom; in deeper water, you may catch them if you go out armed with a big, long-handled rake; plunge this into the water, drag it along the bottom, and carefully haul up the entangled mud and weed. Sooner or later your search should be rewarded. I have caught hundreds this way. Some of them were not more than an inch and a half long, and when placed in a glass jar were so transparent, that I could watch the beating of the heart through the shell. Indeed, I have two such little beauties before me, on my study table, as I write. One has partly buried himself in the mud, the other is lying on the surface. But, when full-grown, this transparency passes away, and they attain a perfectly huge size—six inches long at any rate!

Once upon a time, no doubt, the ancestors of these creatures lived in the sea; then they migrated to the rivers, creeping farther and farther up into fresh water, till at last their descendants have got so used to this element that they can live only in fresh water. Now, when animals gradually change their mode of life in this way, they at the same time undergo a great many structural and constitutional changes—some slight, some profound—and among these the most important are changes in the provision for the young. There is, as you know, a constant migration going on among the more active animals between the sea and the river, which is entirely on account of the needs of the young. Thus, salmon leave the sea yearly and undertake perilous journeys up the rivers, solely that they may lay their eggs there: while eels, on the other hand, as we have seen, are impelled by instinct to pursue exactly the opposite course, and to brave all dangers, that they may provide a nursery for their young in the deepest depths of the ocean.

Let us apply this to the fresh-water mussels. The ancestors of these very helpless creatures lived, I have remarked, in the sea; and we may be pretty certain that their eggs are hatched out into what we call larvae, or imperfectly developed animals, precisely similar to the young, or larvae, of the marine mussel of our seas. Now, this larva has the form of a tiny little creature covered with 'swimming' hairs. By the constant waving motions of these hairs, the little body is driven through the water, till at last, reaching a favourable spot, or tired out, they settle down at the bottom of the sea and turn into mussels, This free-and-easy life is all very well for the salt-water mussels, with the great wide sea to roam in; but such freedom in rivers would by no means be safe, because, though mussels swim, they are, by reason of their small size, quite unable to force their way against strong currents. Thus, on the outgoing tide, they would be swept off to sea, and would die even before this was reached—as soon, indeed, as the water became really salt. So, to prevent such a disaster, the fresh-water mussel carefully nurses her young between her gills, till they are old enough to help themselves. You will be surprised when I tell you the strange device they have come to adopt, so soon as they are cast adrift, whereby they may complete their days of infancy. Shielded throughout the winter months, they are turned adrift on the first warm day of Spring, a troop of very lively youngsters indeed. Each is encased in a very wonderful shell (S in the figure in the top left-hand corner of the illustration), quite unlike that of their parents, being triangular in shape, and armed with a pair of pointed teeth (T). By means of powerful muscles this shell is made to open and shut with great rapidity, and thus the body of the little creature is quickly driven through the water in a series of spasmodic jumps. Then comes a period of rest, obtained by using the long thread or 'byssus' (B) as a float, this thread being thrown out along the surface of the water. Then the hunt for a host begins again. On and on they go, till one after another—'curiouser and curiouser!'—seizes hold of a fish by means of its hooks. Having caught hold tight, each clings like grim death, and as a result of the irritation set up in the poor fish's skin, swelling follows and soon grows up all round the young mussel, and makes him a prisoner. But this is just what he wants. Snugly tucked away in his living cradle he slowly assumes his adult shape, and at last bursts his prison and falls to the bottom!



There is yet another reason for this very strange and somewhat cruel procedure. The love of self, among the lower animals, is so strong that parents always drive away their young so soon as they become capable of feeding, and fending for themselves; because, if they did not adopt stern measures of this sort, famine and disease would be the result, owing to overcrowding. On the whole, this banishment is not so hard as it looks, the young having no sentiment for the place of their birth, and being probably more capable of migrating than the parents. But the method adopted by the fresh-water mussel is wasteful and dangerous; wasteful, because thousands and thousands of young ones necessarily die every year, through failing to catch their fish; and dangerous, because those who succeed are liable to contract the habit of being a parasite, and this, as always, leads to degradation and ruin. Finally, whenever young animals have to depend on other creatures to provide them with a lodging during some part of their growth, many more thousands have to be hatched than is the case where the young are dependent on themselves entirely, for it must always happen that the necessary hosts are hard to catch, and the young die in countless thousands, being unable to succeed in their search.

W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.



TAKING IT LITERALLY.

All orders to native servants in India must be very carefully and exactly given, for a black servant takes care to obey to the very letter. An Englishman once took with him a native lad as a servant when going on a boating journey. There were no such chances of washing on board the boat as one enjoys at home in a house. Accordingly, a bucket was dipped into the river, and it served as a washing-basin. One day the boy was told to bring some water, and in doing so happened to spill a good deal over his master's feet.



'You clumsy fellow!' cried his master, angrily, 'why don't you throw it all over me?'—of course not using the words in their literal sense.

'Yes, sahib!' said the lad, and, to his master's astonishment, he took up the pail, and emptied it over his employer!

S.



'PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.'

The articles in Chatterbox under this heading have aroused great interest, and doubtless many readers would like to know more about these fascinating subjects than there is room for in the columns of Chatterbox. Mr. Pycraft, the author of these articles, is a well-know authority on Natural History, and is constantly engaged in research at the wonderful Natural History Museum at South Kensington, a place which many Chatterbox readers probably know well; and he has very generously undertaken to give any further information, or answer questions, if readers of Chatterbox like to write to him personally about the matter. Letters should be addressed to—

W. P. PYCRAFT, Esq., c/o The Editor of Chatterbox, 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C.

Readers of Chatterbox will probably be glad of this chance of obtaining information direct from a first-rate authority.



THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 125.)

It so happened that Alan had seen and heard everything. On leaving Marjorie, he had succeeded in getting round the hedge, only to find that it extended to another part of the rampart, and was strongly fortified with barbed wire the whole way. It enclosed a portion of ground completely cleared of trees and brushwood, thus enabling the sun to shine upon the old walls unhindered by foliage. The grey, crumbling stones seemed to spread its heat, and the grass at their base seemed withered and brown. Alan's curiosity was aroused, and he determined to climb the nearest tree. It was the only way to discover what the plot of ground contained, and whether there were any reasons for all the care which appeared to have been taken to give it the full benefit of the hot summer sunshine.

Having selected a young oak which he considered might suit his purpose, Alan began to climb. He had made but little way when the sound of some body moving softly within the enclosure arrested his attention. He paused, clinging to the trunk and listening anxiously. Presently the movement ceased, and he wondered whether he had been heard. He could not remain where he was, however. That would mean certain discovery. He must either drop to the ground and get away, or stick to his original purpose and trust to the foliage to conceal him. Deciding on the latter plan, he crept slowly up till he reached the first branch strong enough to support his weight. Here a bitter disappointment awaited him. His labour had been in vain. Not a glimpse of the fenced-in ground would the dense summer foliage allow him. He was afraid to change his position lest he should be heard, and could only lie prone upon the bough, listening.

He had not long to wait.

A low murmur; a stir, as if some one was attempting to get through the hedge. 'Can't do it,' came a whisper. 'Give me a leg up, and I will manage it that way. Got the rope with you?'

Alan strained his ears for the answer, but none came. The men—there were evidently two—were moving as quietly as possible, assisting each other, and the result of their efforts soon became visible. Thomas's head appeared above the hedge, his hand caught hold of a branch, and the next moment he was close to Alan's tree. A minute later and his companion joined him. Lucky indeed it was for Alan that the leaves screened him so effectually, and that he was so securely placed that no movement was required to maintain his position. The faintest rustle would have betrayed him.

Thomas was holding a box in his hands, which he carried with the greatest care. No time was wasted in talking. Their sole anxiety seemed to be to get through the brushwood as quickly and noiselessly as possible. Alan watched them as they sped along in the direction of the Smuggler's Hole, in the woody hollow. He had no doubt whatever as to their destination, and only waited till they were beyond earshot to jump down and follow them. In his excitement, he forgot that Marjorie was waiting for him.

Something had been stolen, and he alone could trace the thieves. It mattered not whether it were jewels, or silver, or the merest trifle. He meant to recover it: quietly, if he could; if not, then he must fight for it. It must be of value, however. Had not Thomas received a handsome offer for purloining it?

With beating heart, and quick but stealthy step, he followed the two men, love of adventure spurring him on and blinding him to the real dangers of the pursuit. He was pleased, too, that his enjoyment was not wholly selfish: he would be of real service to some person—he would not care even if it were to Peet himself. It was quite possible it was Peet. He made such a fuss about the ruined summer-house, and was so rigid about keeping the door shut, that no doubt he did have something he valued there. It would be fun if Alan were to recover Peet's lost property for him.

As Alan sped along, he tried to make up some plan for securing the box and escaping with it. He knew neither man would hesitate to sacrifice him in their efforts to get it back, and they were not likely to stick at a trifle if he gave them trouble. He was quite alone; a boy against two men. Still, the thought of giving up the pursuit never occurred to him.

'It must be mind versus matter,' he thought, as he chuckled at the idea of outwitting Thomas.

It was not difficult to creep after the men down the rocky steps of the Smuggler's Hole, though they appeared dark after the brilliant sunshine. He was thankful, however, that he had been over the ground before with Marjorie, and had a pretty correct notion of the whereabouts of the dangerous places.

By the time he had reached the cave, the men were sitting on the rocks at the highest part, the tide being still too high for them to go very far down the cave. It was well for Alan that he had their light to guide him, for he could not venture on one for himself. Indeed, he had to keep on the darkest side, close to the wall, for fear of being seen. The men, he was glad to perceive, had so little suspicion that they were being watched that they never even turned their heads or lowered their voices. The box had been placed upon a flat rock just behind them for safety. To get near it was now Alan's aim.

The faint sound of the receding tide and the voices of the two men alone broke the stillness. The slightest noise would be heard therefore, the rolling of a pebble, a slip on the green, slimy seaweed. As he gradually crept nearer with the utmost caution, Alan listened to the talk of the men.

'I'm not sure this was the best way to come,' said the one Alan took to be a foreigner. 'We shall be hindered by the tide. How much longer shall we have to sit here?'

'About a hour, or perhaps a hour and a half,' returned Thomas. 'And when we are on the beach, what do you mean to do? We can't get away without a boat, anyhow.'

'I have made my arrangements. Jean Marie Fargis is up in these parts. He has fished now and again in English waters, and run before the wind at the first sign of danger. I knew the cut of his rig the other day when he was cruising round about.'

'Fishing?' said Thomas, incredulously.

'Well, he calls it so, and really I don't know myself what he is after. He will get into trouble one of these days with the coastguard people, I tell him. But that's nothing to us. I saw him, and went out to him, and he's to take us off if he can.'

'And supposing he can't?'

'Then we must get to Tyre-cum-Widcombe somehow, and slip down to the nearest port. If you had been a little quicker in your part of the business, we should have got off more easily, for he was waiting for us a bit higher up the coast, where there were fewer eyes to see.'

'I couldn't get the key,' returned Thomas in an aggrieved tone. 'It took me some time before I could find out where it was. I had to watch Peet close, and at last, thinks I, I'll climb the oak in the garden of his house, and see if I could catch him putting it away. I could see right into his windows, and it wasn't long before I saw all I wanted to, and had the key safe.'

'But, man, there's the passage you told me about. It's close by, isn't it?'

'I tried that way once,' said Thomas, with an unmirthful laugh. 'I'm not going to try it again in a hurry, not I. Why, I couldn't 'a been half-way down—no, nor yet a quarter—when a big stone came right down on me shoulder and knocks me flat. Mother did wonder why I couldn't move my arm without pain for quite a long time. I crawled back the way I had come. Master Peet was always saying the roof wasn't safe, but I didn't believe him. But I have had enough of it now. I preferred finding the key, even if it was slower.'

There was a pause. The faint ripple of the tide was followed by the hiss of the water as it surged round the rocks and fell back. Not daring to move in the silence, Alan stood still.

'The game's worth the candle, I suppose?' said Thomas, presently.

'I should just think so!' returned his companion, his voice growing hard. 'I have not had time or light to examine the box, but I trusted you to see that it contained all we wanted. Of course, if it does not—— '

'I put in all I could see,' began Thomas, sullenly.

'Then we have a great prize—the only specimen known, and we shall see our money back for that. As to the rest, why—until I can examine things for myself, I can't tell you anything. I should like to get off before the loss is discovered, and—well, how safe are we here? I should not wish to be caught like a rat in a trap while we are waiting for the tide to go down.'

'We're as safe here as anywhere,' returned Thomas, in the same sullen tone. 'Now, tell me,' he continued, with some irritation in his voice, 'have you got to pay that boat and the crew out of our profits in this business?'

His companion gave a low chuckle of amusement.

'There is not much that Jean Marie Fargis will not do for me, my friend.'

'That's the skipper, I suppose?'

'It is. He got into an ugly scrape not many years ago, and people have not forgotten it. I pulled him out of it, and started him in another walk of life. He is not like to forget, even if I would let him. So he's useful, you see.'

'I see. All the same, I expect this business will cost a pretty penny if Fargis is afraid of you.'

'You will get your pay, never fear.'

'But if the coastguard sees him fishing in British waters?'

'Then his orders are—cut and run. He can meet us at Havre or Cherbourg.'

'That's where he come from, is it?'

'No, it isn't. They are some of his places of call in his fishing trade. He lives at Tout-Petit—quite a small place, further south. Go there, man, if ever you find it wise to disappear, and mention my name to Fargis. He will see you are all right till you can look round. By-the-by, I hear the Earl's daughter that lives here is an heiress. Is that so? Hullo! what's that?'

Both men sprang up at the noise, and crept cautiously forward to listen. It had sounded like a stifled cry, and a splash, but so faint that in the stillness which followed they thought themselves mistaken. Their movement give Alan his chance.

(Continued on page 142.)



STORIES FROM AFRICA.

V.—THE STORY OF A RETRIBUTION.

We have had two stories of cruel captivity among the Moors of North Africa, and back in the fifteenth—even in the sixteenth—century, such things seem easy to believe. The hard thing to realise is that, not a hundred years ago, in days which our own grandparents might almost remember, Christian captives were still toiling under the whips of their Moorish taskmasters in the port of Algiers, with the prospect of torture and death before them if they tried to escape and failed. But the cup of Moorish cruelty and evil-doing was very nearly full, the day of retribution was drawing near, and to England fell the honour of striking the first blow.

It was in the spring of the year 1816, when the great cloud which had overhung all Europe had been dispersed by the battle of Waterloo, that the English Admiral, Lord Exmouth, appeared before the port of Algiers, and, in the name of his nation, sent in a demand for the abolition of Christian slavery and the cession of the Ionian Islands. The Turks have always been skilful in putting off the day of submission, and the reply was that the Dey must communicate with his lord, the Sultan of Turkey, before he could make a definite answer. Those unpleasant visitors, the English gunboats, were thus got rid of for three months; but, unfortunately for him, the Dey had not learnt wisdom from the warning. On the Ascension Day following, the crews of a Neapolitan fishing fleet landed at Bona, on the north coast of Africa, to join in the festival service. The pirates of Algiers swooped down upon the defenceless fishermen, and massacred numbers of them on the spot without any provocation. Then, as if to show that the act was one of open defiance, they trampled on and insulted the British flag, and imprisoned the English Vice-Consul.

The news set England aflame, the story of the Bona massacres was told from mouth to mouth, the sufferings of the Christian captives were described in burning words in the House of Commons, and soon the news reached the proud Citadel of the Sea that Lord Exmouth was once more upon his way.

It must have been anxious work for the European consuls in Algiers, knowing that the tyrant, driven to bay, was likely enough to vent his wrath upon those in his power. The English Consul was a married man, with children too to consider, and he determined, if possible, to get his wife and little ones out of the evil place before harm befell them. An English vessel, the Prometheus, was in the harbour, and, though the Dey had forbidden the Consul and his family to leave the city, the Captain of the Prometheus had a scheme for conveying them safely on board. He himself landed on the pretext of conferring with the Dey, and, when he returned to his ship, the Consul's wife and little daughter, disguised as sailors, left the city under his charge. But there was another member of the family who was less easily disposed of, namely, the baby, a very unlikely passenger for a man-of-war's boat, and certain to be detected by the Moorish guard, who watched the crew re-embark.

With many misgivings and in grievous anxiety, the Consul's wife had been induced to leave the little one behind her, the Captain assuring her that he would be on shore again on the following day, and that he had concocted a plan for bringing the baby back with him.

So the boat of the Prometheus put in again on the morrow, watched, doubtless, with eager eyes by the anxious mother and daughter on board the vessel. The little one was drugged into a heavy sleep, and laid at the bottom of a big basket, with vegetables skilfully piled above him. One of the British sailors took the precious burden, and the Consul strolled in front of it towards the harbour. There was nothing remarkable in the sailors wishing for a few fresh vegetables to vary the ship's fare, or in the English Consul seeing his countrymen to their boat. But the Moorish guard had grown suspicious, as men are likely to do who know that their lives will certainly pay for any lack of vigilance. And so the sharp eyes that watched the English tars preparing to embark noticed some rather unusual movements amongst the cabbages that were being carried so carefully; and when a dismal howl arose from under the green stuff and a little arm disturbed the vegetables, concealment was impossible. The basket and its contents were seized by the guard and carried before the Dey, and the Consul and the sailors from the Prometheus were arrested and imprisoned.

It was terrible news, indeed, which reached the poor mother, waiting on board for her husband and child. Life in Algiers must have taught her, only too well, the lengths to which Moorish cruelty could go, and the tyrant who had defied the English nation was not likely to be deterred by fear of consequences from avenging himself on his prisoner. The very approach of the English ships might mean the sword or the bow-string, or a yet more horrible death by torture. Some comfort the poor lady received next day, when her baby was sent her, alive and well. Even the cruelty of the Dey of Algiers had stopped short of hurting the child; but the Consul, heavily ironed, was in the tyrant's dungeon, awaiting, with many another luckless captive, the sentence from which the English Admiral might be too late to save them. And, meanwhile, Lord Exmouth, who had been joined at Gibralter by a Dutch squadron, arrived before the Citadel of the sea, and sent in his demand for immediate release of all Christian prisoners. The Admiral had made his arrangements with the utmost care, and, when the time allowed for answer passed without any reply, he boldly sent his flag-ship, the Queen Charlotte, straight for the strong fort at the end of the pier which guarded the harbour. As the troops flocked to the walls to watch the advance of the fleet, the Admiral himself shouted and signed to them to retire under cover, while he anchored right before the enemy's guns. The fort fired first; then a broadside from the Queen Charlotte crashed with terrible effect into its walls.

Lord Exmouth had come there with the intention of doing his work thoroughly: and very thoroughly he did it, for eight long hours of that hot August day. When darkness fell, the famous forts, built by the hands of thousands of luckless captives, were a mass of ruins. The arsenal, the storehouses, and the fleet in the harbour had been utterly destroyed. With the dawn, a boat, bearing the flag of truce, carried the Admiral's terms to the beaten city. Every captive was to be immediately surrendered, Christian slavery to be abolished, all ransoms paid during the past year to be restored, and the Consul and sailors delivered unhurt, and with due compensation. Three guns were to be fired in token that all demands had been conceded, otherwise the bombardment would re-commence.

Three hours passed, slow hours indeed to those waiting at the harbour's mouth. Then across the water came the boom of three guns, the knell of the old reign of tyranny and cruelty, the message of joy and release to many an anxious heart. The prison doors were opened; the English Consul and his fellow-prisoners, half expecting to be led to execution, found themselves restored to those they loved. Hundreds of Christian slaves, many of them too dazed and bewildered by the sudden change to realise their freedom, thronged the rescuing ships, gazing back upon the shattered fortifications which their hands had helped to build. And fervent indeed must have been the thanksgivings which, by Lord Exmouth's order, went up from the decks of the English ships, for the success of the 'conflict between his Majesty's fleet, and the enemies of mankind.'

MARY H. DEBENHAM.



THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.

Who's that slamming the garden door? I have heard it three times three! And though to the window I run to look, He's hiding away from me. The tree-tops laugh in the windy sky, And the maker-of-mischief, hovering nigh, Is hiding away from me.

Who's that rattling the window-pane? I have heard it three times three! Yet every time I glance that way There's nothing at all to see. But the leaf of a rose bush blown about, While the culprit true, with a noisy shout, Is hiding away from me.

Who's that whistling and calling loud Over my chimney high? 'Tis the maker-of-mischief I cannot see Abroad in the blue, blue sky. Hark! he is shaking the window-pane! Now he is up in the clouds again, Sweeping the blue, blue sky.

Oh, slam as you will my garden door, And whistle your blithest lay; I love your company, though unseen, Dear maker-of-mischief gay. I love to see your clouds go by, And the tree-tops waving against the sky, Oh, wind of the wild March day!



HOW TO OBTAIN FOOD.

When Napoleon the First was a student at the Military College of Brienne, the examiners asked him the following question:—

'Supposing you were in a besieged town, on the verge of starvation, how would you obtain food?'

'From the enemy!' was the prompt answer of the future Emperor.



THE PICTURE-CLEANERS.

'Oh, dear! I do wish Mother and Father were back again. It is horrid to be without them,' exclaimed Sydney.

'Just horrid!' echoed Ella.

'They will be so pleased with you when they do come,' observed Millie, their elder sister, sarcastically.

'Oh!' said Syd, cheerfully, 'they know we can't be like dolls in a shop-window. And we have really been good these days, haven't we, Ella?'

'Rather!' agreed she, emphatically.

'You were pulling each other's hair half an hour ago,' went on Millie, and, longing to finish her story in peace, she rose, frowning, and left the room, saying, 'The nicest game to play at would be that of being quiet, good children, instead of troublesome little monkeys. I wonder you never try it.'

The two, left alone, looked at each other, and burst into a merry laugh. 'What a funny game!' exclaimed Sydney. 'Shall we try it?'

'I don't know how to,' answered Ella gravely.

It did present some difficulty, almost as much, indeed, as being really good, and the children silently reflected for some moments.

'We must sit perfectly still with folded hands, looking as stiff as pokers,' said Syd at last.

'But sometimes good children can do nice things,' observed Ella, gravely.

'I wonder what?' said Syd, doubtfully.

'Well!—Well! sometimes, for instance, they give pleasant surprises.'

'Ella, you're a brick!' exclaimed her brother admiringly. 'That's a splendid idea! Now let's think what surprise we can prepare for Father and Mother when they arrive this evening.'

'Let's tidy the nursery,' proposed Ella.

'Too great a surprise,' Millie would have observed, had she been there to hear. 'Too stupid,' exclaimed Sydney instead. 'Anybody can do that.'

'Let's learn a bit of poetry to recite when they come.'

'What nonsense!'

'Let's pretend to be other people's children, and when Father and Mother are sorry, let's tell them it's not true.' This was a great stretch of imagination for Ella, but Syd shook his head. 'They would never believe it,' said he. Then there was silence for a moment, and light came.

'I've got it! I've got it!' shouted Syd, starting up excitedly. 'Let's brighten up those old pictures in the gallery for them. We have time to paint at least two of them before dark. Dingy old things! One of them is older than our great-great-great-grandmother, and she's never been touched, I believe. It's a shame to neglect old people like that. Hurry up, Ella. Get out the paints; the oil ones.'



The girl eagerly obeyed, and soon the two little mischief-makers were busy at work on the old family pictures. They could not understand the value or the beauty of the mellow browns and dark colours of the portraits, and they only acted with the intention of giving their parents a pleasant surprise. But they forgot that it is possible to do much harm through heedlessness and ignorant haste as well as wilfully.



But how happy they were! 'The old lady, now she's got some pink in her checks, and wears such a lovely sky-blue gown, is almost as nice as mother when she's going to a party,' said Ella, admiringly, 'but I am not pleased with the gentleman yet. Can't we make him smarter, Syd?'

'Let's cut a button-hole in the picture, and stick a nice carnation in his coat. Be quick, Ella.'

* * * * *

There could be no doubt about the surprise. Never were parents more taken aback than Ella's and Syd's, when they saw the wonderful transformation made in their ancestors. Mother gasped some inarticulate words, but Father simply remained speechless and aghast, for several of the valuable old pictures were badly damaged, and the children's heedless behaviour meant a serious loss to him.

'Surprises are not pleasant things at all,' sobbed Ella, shortly afterwards, in bed.

'That beastly game!' growled Syd, hiding his face in the pillow, ashamed of the tears he could not restrain. 'I knew nothing nice could come of it. It's just like Millie to let us get into a scrape.'

Perhaps he was unjust, but Millie was not particularly happy either. It was tiresome to have to look after wild children, and much more amusing to read; but now the story-book was locked away, and Mother did not seem to think that Millie had even played at being good. So that this 'pleasant surprise' had only one good result, and that was not the one which was expected. All three children learnt that it was much better to be good than simply to play at it.



GLIMPSES OF HEDGEHOG LIFE.

A boy who was on a visit to the country once said to me, 'I do so want to find a hedgehog; please tell me where to look for one.' All I could reply was, 'It is not very easy to find a hedgehog. The likeliest place to pop upon one is near some hedgerow; you know he is called hedgehog, or hedgepig. But he much prefers darkness to light, and takes excursions after sunset.'

It may be remarked that hedgehogs must be somewhere in the daytime; this is true, but the difficulty is to discover their hiding-place, which is usually a hole or a thick clump of herbage. A search in the dark with a lantern has been tried, and has been successful, but not often; still, those who know how, manage to secure these animals, for they are to be bought in the London streets. People buy them to keep indoors, as killers of blackbeetles, or perhaps they are turned out to destroy garden insects. Somebody who has had them in his garden remarks that it is no easy task to find them, even though you know every corner, for they have such artful ways.

There are some people who think hedgehogs may do harm amongst garden plants, turning up roots occasionally in their hunts after insects, perhaps even nibbling young shoots; and this is quite possible. Piggy is of a greedy nature, certainly, and if he has the range of a kitchen swarming with blackbeetles, he will feed on them until he makes himself ill. Odd, too, are the noises he produces when he is 'on the warpath.' The sounds come partly from himself, but also partly from things he clatters against during his wanderings. One night, a gentleman who had a hedgehog heard a very peculiar noise in his kitchen; he went to see what it was, and found that the animal had stormed a cheese-dish. It had lifted the heavy lid to feast upon the cheese inside, making the cover rattle on the edge of the dish. We should not, perhaps, fancy a hedgehog capable of gymnastic feats, but it is an animal with rather a liking for a wall-climb, and has been known to mount one that was nine feet high, aided by creepers on the wall. Another has been noticed to climb an ordinary wall, laying hold of little projections. Upon a search for a missing hedgehog, he was found at the bottom of the stairs, having made a nest under the stair-carpet. Another time, the same hedgehog travelled up to a bedroom, and kept still all day; some one went to bed early, but woke suddenly on hearing a noise, and, jumping out of bed, stepped on the animal's back. In a home, Piggy usually becomes amiable, and will shut up his spines to be stroked.



THE REWARD OF A GENIUS.

Dismay and indignation were expressed most obviously on the faces of the group of boys wending their way homewards.

'I'd like to know what "Simmy" expects us to do?' said Crowther, moodily. (Had he heard the remark, Dr. Simpson-Martyn—irreverently nicknamed 'Simmy'—would probably have 'expected' two hundred lines the next morning, for disrespect.)

'Learn crochet and fancy work,' suggested Harvey, helpfully.

'Form an "anti-games" league,' said another.

'Or promote a debating society where your humour and intelligence might be displayed,' added Howard.

'If you chaps would use that brilliance in trying to find a way out of this hole, we might arrive at something definite,' said Crowther, returning to his grievance. '"Substitute some athletic pursuit involving less danger to the general public: something more conducive to the preserving of law and order,"' he quoted, bitterly, with a clever imitation of the fussy little Doctor's pompous manner. 'Fancy giving up hare-and-hounds for some "pursuit" like croquet, or ping-pong,' and Crowther's scowl deepened.

'It was jolly hard that we should be throwing down the scent just as old Simmy's trap drove along. I wonder he isn't ashamed to own an animal, supposed to be a horse, that is frightened at the sight of a few fragments of paper.'

'I suppose he would have no objection to our continuing the pursuit of our favourite pastime, providing no "element of danger," such as paper, was introduced?'

Britt, the common corruption of Leslie's nickname of 'Encyclopaedia Britannica,' spoke with the drawl that usually meant the origination of some new scheme.

'What's the idea?' asked Harvey, coming briefly to the point.

'It is only in the region of the town that Doctor Simpson-Martyn has forbidden us to scatter the dangerous element, is it not?' Britt asked, very calmly, ignoring his questioner. Then he ducked just in time to avoid a well-aimed book.

'Oh, dry up, Britt, and come to the point,' exclaimed the irritated Harvey, but Crowthar nodded in answer to Britt's remark.

'Well, why not make a chalk mark, or something of that kind, on the pavement or walls, as long as we are in the town, and use the paper when we are out of bounds? Of course, it won't be so exciting, and not half such sport, but it is better than nothing, seems to me.'

The group considered thoughtfully.

'It seems a pretty tame idea,' said Harvey, without enthusiasm.

Britt was not in the least disturbed by this cold reception. 'Suggest a better one,' he rejoined, promptly; but Harvey's ideas did not seem to be numerous.

Crowther's brow had cleared. He had great faith in Britt's schemes: they were almost always successful.

'Can any one suggest anything better?' he asked, but the challenge was unanswered.

'Then we will try your dodge, Britt,' said Crowther, decisively, and before parting, the boys laid all their plans accordingly.

The following day was fixed for the run, and promptly at two o'clock the hare and hounds assembled. A good deal of chaff was directed by those who had come to see the start at the bulky lump of chalk that formed part of the scent, but Britt's good-humour was endless. His confidence in the use of the chalk was fully justified, for the chase proved one of the season's most exciting outings, having a spice of originality in addition to its pleasure, and Britt's ingenuity was rewarded by a good hearty cheer from the hounds who had followed him so closely.

(Concluded on page 151.)



THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 135.)

Without allowing himself to hesitate a second, Alan sprang, as he hoped, noiselessly forward, seized the box, which was far lighter than he had imagined it would be, and ran towards the steps to the Smuggler's Hole. Unfortunately for him, the loose stones rattled and scattered under his flying feet, and the men were after him. For a time he managed to keep well ahead, though he could feel he was not increasing the distance between himself and his pursuers. He had excellent training, a natural fleetness of foot, and a light wiry build in his favour; but the enemy had longer legs, and a perfect acquaintance with the cave and steps. It was too dark for recognition, and neither of the men was likely to be very scrupulous should they succeed in catching him.

Up the steps dashed Alan, his breath coming in gasps, and the real difficulties of his enterprise dawning on him for the first time. It had been begun in a spirit of amusement, but it bid fair to end in something very different. But Alan would not drop the precious box. It was a matter of honour now to save it at all costs. What it contained he could not imagine, and he had no time for thinking. He could already hear the panting of the man who had followed closest on his tracks; he was even struck by one of the flying pebbles sent whirling away by his heavy feet. He himself was getting spent. The steps were surely steeper than they had ever been before. He had thought nothing of them the other day, when he and Marjorie were here exploring! Could it have been only the other day? It seemed ages ago. Now he was trying vainly to struggle up to level ground, to the friendly shelter of the Wilderness, and home.

He had come to the turn, and in his relief that the greater part of the steps had been scaled, he sprang forward with renewed hope. The momentary carelessness cost him dear. He stumbled and fell. The box was shot out of his hand by a blow from a projecting angle, and as he spun along the rocky ground, he suddenly felt himself falling, falling, till he came a heavy thud on a soft, sandy floor.

He lay still for a while to collect his senses. Then the keen sting of disappointment prevented him from realising his position. The box was gone! All his labour had been thrown away! Whatever it contained was at the mercy of the men. They had no one to prevent their carrying it off beyond hope of saving. Oh, what a fool he had been! And he had been priding himself on keeping ahead of them!

He could not get over his anger.

He was not badly hurt, however, and it was time to see where his folly had landed him. The prospect was not cheering. He was lying in a 'round hole,' as he called it afterwards, with a sandy bottom, while all around him the mighty rocks towered to immense heights. A strip of sky was just visible, and a star or two glimmered in the blue. He knew that stars could be seen sometimes, even in daylight, from great depths, but the remembrance of this was by no means comforting. Was he, then, at the bottom of a deep, narrow shaft? If so, how was he to get out again? Not a soul, except perhaps Thomas, knew of its existence, and Thomas was not in the least likely to betray his knowledge. In all probability, too, the men had fled with his box, and would be heard of no more, since they were now aware that their doings were known to at least one person.

For some moments Alan felt appalled as he glanced again at the height of his prison walls. The full force of his position came over him.

'Marjorie will give the alarm,' he thought, dismally, 'but they will never know where to look for me. If I'm to get out, it must be by my own efforts.'

He felt very unequal to the task of climbing those grim precipices, frowning so blackly down on him; but the daylight would soon be on the wane, and no time could be lost in vain regrets. Rousing himself, he got up, but found he had not escaped without some severe bruises, which would prove serious drawbacks to an awkward climb. It was miraculous that he had not met with worse injuries from so great a fall; only the soft sand and the smoothness of the walls had saved him. But this same smoothness was the chief hindrance to his escape. There was not a loophole of any sort or kind by which he could raise himself—not a twig or ledge to give him a hold. With increasing anxiety he scanned the walls still more closely, but, even though his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, it was too dark to make out a single projecting edge, or the minutest crevice which could raise his hopes of escape. In despair, and with a sickening sense of dread, he sank down again on the sand. If Thomas had wished to put him out of the way, he could not have done so more completely, thought the boy, with bitterness.



CHAPTER VIII.

As time went on and Alan did not return, Marjorie stood up to listen, wondering what she ought to do. Should she wait, or go at once in search of him? Before she had made up her mind, however, her hesitation was brought to an end by a violent bang—a sound she knew only too well. Springing up the bank, she made her way as rapidly as the brushwood allowed to the ruin, remembering with dismay that Estelle and Georgie had been on the roof. When she got there, no one was to be seen. Georgie had gone away, very deeply hurt that Estelle should have left him in his sleep, from which he had been startled by the crash of the closing door. It was some time before Marjorie found him—safe, though resentful—sitting on a heap of swept-up leaves in the carriage-drive, talking to one of the gardeners.

She was in too great a hurry to listen to her little brother's complaints, and only stopped a moment to ask where Estelle was.

'Gone home, I suppose,' returned Georgie, not in the most gentle of voices. 'Didn't I tell you she was nowhere to be seen when I woke up?'

'If it was anybody else but Estelle, I should be afraid of her being shut into the ruin, as the door must have been open; but she never disobeys. So it's all right, and I must rush after Alan.'

Off she went at the top of her speed. She could get to the Smugglers' Hole more quickly if she ran round by the path to the cliffs. Without reasoning over it, she understood instinctively that the men would go there, and Alan after them. With the fleetness of a lapwing, she flew along the path through the Wilderness, and reached the cliff as the first flush of sunset was beginning to crimson the western sky. Like a ghostly ship, the vessel they had seen that morning glided across the red rippling path of light, the tapering masts dark against the evening glow, while above it white gulls were winging in circles. So beautiful was the scene that she paused, and, as she gazed, she saw a tiny boat leave the ship's side and draw towards the shore. For the moment Alan was forgotten. Watching the little dinghy, her mind became full of the idea suggested by her brother. Was Thomas really going to carry his stolen goods beyond seas?

(Continued on page 146.)



THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 143.)

With the thought that Thomas might put to sea, a multitude of questions came to Marjorie's mind. How had he managed to let the ship's crew know? Was its presence there due to Thomas at all? Who was the man with him? Was he a man who could have a ship when he wanted it, or was he a member of the crew? Alan said that he talked English perfectly, but with a slightly foreign accent. Perhaps the man was a Frenchman. The coastguard had considered the ship was French, with a rig altered since she was built. That would account for its coming to the help of Thomas, and no doubt the dinghy was to fetch the two men. She wondered if it was her duty to tell the coastguard all that she and Alan suspected. 'Perhaps he would only laugh at me,' she thought.

If the coastguard had been in sight she might yet have done so, but there appeared to be no one on the cliffs except herself. The pathway along the edge was quite deserted, and it was a mile or more to the signal station. Moreover, she had no hat; it had been taken off for coolness and left in the ditch, forgotten in her fright at the closing door.

The temptation to watch the little boat was too great to be resisted. If Thomas and his friend should return in it to the ship, what a grand piece of news to tell Alan! There was just a chance he might see it for himself, and she would only get a pinch for stale news; but she hoped otherwise.

Meantime the dinghy drew nearer, and to her practised eye it became evident that the men did not know the coast, for they rowed first one way and then another without finding the entrance to the Bay; they seemed afraid of submerged rocks, which might be quite covered even at the half-tide. They crept in, nevertheless, and Marjorie, for a time, lost sight of them. She crawled closer to the edge of the cliff, but she knew her position to be dangerous if she attempted to get over the light railing which had been put up on account of the crumbling condition of the edge. Further to the right the rail ceased, and the ground became a steep slope to the sea, but trees and low shrubs prevented so good a view as she had at present. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to wait.

Comforting herself with assurances that Alan was far better able to take care of himself than she was, she climbed to the top of the railing, and sat watching the strange ship. Suddenly she noticed that every stitch of canvas was being run up, and a moment later signal flags flew out at the masthead. In great excitement, she glanced down at the surging water below her, and sure enough the little boat was shooting into view, and rowing rapidly away towards the ship. In her efforts to discover what it all meant she almost forgot to look for Thomas in the boat, but when she remembered to count the men, she was disappointed to find exactly the same number that there had been at first.

Greatly puzzled, she gazed at the retreating dinghy. What had been its business, and why had the signal flown out so suddenly? Marjorie hated to be puzzled over things. 'There can be but one explanation,' she thought, 'and that is, Thomas has been too late to catch the boat, and they could not wait for him. It serves him right.' She hoped he would now be caught red-handed. The sun had sunk low in the horizon by the time the dinghy reached the vessel, and nothing could be more beautiful than the slowly sailing ship moving across the great ball of fire. It looked like a fairy craft as it sank out of sight.

Marjorie sprang to her feet. 'How late it is!' she thought, with dismay. 'I wonder where Alan is? He will be in a jolly rage when he finds I'm nowhere to be found; and all for nothing too!'

She ran lightly down the hollow, the wood looking dark and gloomy in the fading light. Fearing she might miss the way into the Smuggler's Hole, she walked more cautiously as the shadows deepened; it was fortunate she did. She had hardly gone ten yards before she heard voices so near that there was barely time to sink down behind the bushes before Thomas and his friend passed along the path towards the cliff.

'Well, what do you make of it?' she heard Thomas say in a sullen tone. 'If it was a bargain, why didn't the fellow stop?'

'That's what Fargis has to answer to me for,' returned his companion, angrily. 'Cutting away like that for no reason at all that I can see, and leaving us—— '

The voices died away, and Marjorie smiled to think how nearly she had guessed right. They had missed the boat. Now she would really have some news for Alan. She resumed her way, though the silence was not encouraging. She ought to meet Alan if he was still on the track of the men. What could he be doing if he was not? It took some careful peering into dark places to discover the entrance to the Smuggler's Hole, and even then the blackness of the steps made her hesitate. Could she get down without a ray of light? Not lacking in courage, however, she ventured to feel her way to the bottom of the first flight. There the dangers of the descent began, and she dared not proceed.

Deep silence reigned. As she stood listening, she did not know for what, she suddenly heard a faint patter of paws, and the next moment, with a whining yelp, a dog jumped up to her and careered round her feet. A touch showed her it was Bootles—Bootles, distressed and eager; now whining, now pulling at her dress, as if he wanted something very badly. Her thoughts flew at once to Alan. Perhaps those horrid men had injured him. In haste she tied a handkerchief to the dog's collar, and let him lead her into the blackness till he halted, sniffing and barking, having attained the object of his desires.

'Alan! Alan!' she called, in terror of what she might hear, yet resolved to find out why the dog was so restless.

The rocks seemed to send back echoes of her voice, and aroused fears lest Thomas might hear and return. Nevertheless she stood still and listened intently; even the dog kept quiet. Was there an answer? She could not quite make out. She must call again, though it required a great effort to do so. There was no mistake this time.

'M-a-r-j-o-r-i-e-e-e!'

Muffled, scarcely audible as it was, the voice was no echo. It appeared to come from the ground, but the dog's pulls and barks confused her. She was afraid to advance, and little imagined how near she was already to the unprotected edge of the rocky shaft down which Alan had fallen. She had seen it during their explorations, but had quite forgotten its existence. Nevertheless, she stooped to listen, and the dog crouched at her side.

(Continued on page 157.)



PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

6.—GEOGRAPHICAL LETTER.

Dear (a town in South Australia),—This morning, being up betimes, and having had an early (town in the West of England) and breakfast, I take the opportunity of writing to you. Yesterday, my uncle (a city of Michigan, U.S.) and his daughter (a city of Italy) came to see us. Two slight accidents marred their visit: to begin with, my cousin fell upon the (an Ayrshire village), and afterwards, while we were out driving, a (town in Staffordshire) caused the horse to slip. We were then obliged to walk, but the way was rough, and presently a stream barred all progress. However, we discovered an (town near Coalbrookdale) which enabled us to go (town in Cheshire). After eating an (river of South Africa) and a (decayed seaport in Kent) apiece, we felt refreshed, and went on until we came to a tall (parish in East London). Here we sat (county in Ireland), and uncle amused us by (town in Berkshire). The rest I will tell you later; till then believe me,—Your affectionate friend, (An Australian colony) (a market town in Herefordshire).

C. J. B.

[Answer on page 179.]

* * * * *

ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 115.

5.—Caroline.

1. C aractacus. 2. A lexander. 3. R oger Bacon. 4. O lney. 5. L atimer. 6. I ndia. 7. N ormandy. 8. E mmet.



THE BARBERRY.

The Barberry is an ornamental shrub, on account of its graceful yellow blossoms and its bright scarlet berries. The fruit is often prescribed by village doctors for the jaundice, but from its sourness it is seldom eaten uncooked. It makes excellent jelly, and is much used in the manufacture of sugar-plums. The roots and bark yield a yellow dye. Cattle and sheep eat the leaves, and the flowers are attractive to insects.

The barberry formerly grew wild, in great quantities, in our English hedgerows, but it has been extirpated from a belief that it injures the growth of corn. It is said that the leaves are frequently infested by a tiny fungus, similar to one which attacks wheat: this is easily dispersed by the wind, and propagatad amongst the corn, causing it much injury.

The barberry seems to be widely distributed: it is found in America, and in most European countries, especially on the shores of the Danube.



MY DREAMS.

My dreams are just like little birds Which in a cage I keep, To set them free when bed-time comes, And I fall fast asleep.

Oh! they are such a pretty sight! The tiny ones are red, And in their blue and golden clouds They flutter round my bed.

They tell me of those wonder things Which I have never seen; And to and fro they swiftly dart As bright as moonlight sheen.

They sing to me so sweet and low, These dreams I fain would keep— Then softly crooning, fly away, When I awake from sleep.



ADVICE TO GOSSIPERS.

It will be quite time enough to talk about the faults and failings of absent friends when we have assured ourselves that we have none of our own of which to speak.



THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.

V.—THE SHO OF JAPAN AND THE KOU OF CHINA.

National character comes out in a curious way in the music of the people, and the whistling of the children as they pass along the streets of China and Japan shows a marked difference between the races. The proud, shy Chinese wants nothing to satisfy his ears but the weird melodies of his own land, whilst to the cosmopolitan Japanese the songs of the world are welcome, and the newest jingle of Paris or London or New York mingles with the airs of Italian or German Opera. Japanese ears are curiously true in catching up airs, and they can imitate with great fidelity.

The national music of Japan finds a place in its mythology, and its origin is ascribed to the Goddess of the Sun, Amaterasu by name. She, thinking herself affronted by her fellow divinities, betook herself to a cavern in the mountains, and declined to come out. Finding the world gloomy without her warmth and radiance, the gods tried every possible form of inducement to make her emerge; but without success, until some original genius hit upon the happy idea of musical sounds, which so enchanted the angry goddess that indignation gave place to curiosity, and she came out to listen, when gods and men once more revelled in her brightness.

Learned Japanese have recently declared Hindostan to have been the cradle of their national music, whereas it was formerly supposed to have been brought from China; certainly both instruments and the music played on them are much alike in these two countries.

In both countries blind men take a large share in performances. They form unions, much after the fashion of our Trades Unions and Benefit Clubs, and have officers to look after the general interests as well as to see that each member receives a fair amount of support. The chief is a very important person, and has great power over his inferiors. Every member of the Guild is bound to work at some trade beside music, and to turn over all his earnings to the Treasurer.

Like music itself, this Japanese method of providing for the blind has a mythological origin. Teki, a favourite prince, was killed in battle, it is said, whilst fighting Joritomo, the Japanese god of war. His general was taken prisoner at the same time, and his captor treated him so well and kindly that, unwilling to seem ungrateful, and yet unable to endure the sight of the hand which had killed his beloved master, he put out his own eyes, and presented them to Joritomo, who, delighted with such courage and affection, set him at liberty. We, having heard and read both of the magnificent bravery of the Japanese soldiers in the late war as well as of their noble and humane treatment of their prisoners, may see in this story a proof that these virtues are hereditary and instinctive in the race. Returning to his own province the blind general sought for new worlds to conquer. He turned musician, and gathered a large following of persons similarly afflicted, finally forming them into a Society of Blind Musicians, and giving it the name of 'Teki,' his dead master.



The instrument called Sho is blown with the mouth, and corresponds to the Chinese Cheng or Mouth Organ. The pipes are made of wood, with reed mouthpieces, and the notes are made by stopping the holes with the fingers. In some ways the construction is like that of a harmonium, but it is much more troublesome to play, and the performer, having to use his own breath to make the sounds, cannot sing at the same time. Unlike a harmonium also, it is difficult to keep in tune, and Miss Bird, a well-known traveller, tells of a concert at which the performer was obliged to be continually warming his instrument at a brazier of coals placed near. Some years ago a Japanese Commission was appointed to consider which of the national instruments were most suitable for use in schools; it rejected the Sho because its manufacture was troublesome and its tuning even worse.



Kou is the Chinese word for drum, of which many kinds are used in China, Japan, and Burmah. Eastern drums differ from those of Europe in having their heads nailed on, not kept movable as ours are for tuning purposes. The body is usually made of sandalwood, cedar, or mulberry wood, or else of baked clay. They are used for many purposes: on State occasions, to tell the hour during the night, to scare away evil spirits as well as to invite visits from good spirits, and to play the 'Amens' at the end of verses in the Confucian services. Tiny drums are also carried by pedlars when hawking their wares. Etiquette insists that on any occasion when the Emperor is present all drums must be muffled by being rolled in folds of cloth.

HELENA HEATH.



MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.

V.—THE GREAT EASTERN.



Hard tasks bravely done, are never wholly done in vain; but sometimes they have been carried out too soon. This was the case in the building of the Great Eastern steamship. Fifty years ago there was no place in the shipping world large enough to accommodate her properly, and Mr. Isambard Kingdom Brunel, who spent hard years of toil planning her construction, was nearly half a century ahead of his fellow-men. Time has proved that his ideas were correct.

The monster ship was first thought of by him about the year 1852, for it was then that he laid his schemes before the Eastern Steam Navigation Company, and explained to them why large ships would be more profitable than small.

'When sending a vessel from London to Calcutta,' said he, 'she will go much more cheaply if she does not have to stop on the way to take in coal. Now, I propose to build ships capable of carrying enough coal to take them round the world; or at any rate to Calcutta and back.'



He also made it clear that there is not so much risk with a large ship as with a small, for damage which would be enough to sink the latter would have but little effect upon the former. Mr. Brunel had already proved his skill in designing iron ships, for even at the time of which we are speaking, the Great Western was steaming between England and America, and the Great Britain had been upon the rocks on the Irish coast, suffering little damage by the collision.

His plan was to build the hull with a double skin, leaving a space of some feet between them, so that if the outside one was burst through, the water failed to get past the inner coat.

The Directors of the Company agreed with his views, and in December, 1853, work upon the Great Eastern was begun.

At Millwall, in the Isle of Dogs, in the shipyard of Messrs. Scott Russell & Co., the foundations were laid, and in a very little time, people passing up and down the river Thames were attracted by the first signs of the building of the 'big ship.' Up from the river's edge, for a distance of 330 feet, ran the two sloping 'ways' or slides, and across these were laid the cradles in which the huge baby was to lie. Each of the 'ways' was 120 feet broad, and they were separated by a distance of some 200 feet. Owing to the size of the proposed ship, it was found impossible to build her, as is usually done, with her stern toward the water. Mr. Brunel feared that it would not be safe to launch her in such a position; he decided therefore to plan the erection parallel with the stream, so that he might lower her gently into the water sideways.

Nothing that had been done before in the way of ship-building could be taken as a guide, for the increase in size made difficulties that no one had yet had to encounter. Little did those who only 'looked on' realise the thought and trouble which this new enterprise meant. Again and again the engineer had to alter his measurements, as fresh considerations arose. Among other things he was obliged to take into account the depth of the water at low tide in the river Hooghly, at Calcutta; for if the Great Eastern was built so as to sink too low in the water when fully loaded, she would never be able to enter the port of the capital of India at all.

But at last all the measurements were decided upon. The ship would be 693 feet long, 83 feet broad, and 58 feet from keel to upper deck; weighing altogether 13,000 tons. With room in its iron shell for 5000 people, the Great Eastern would be a floating town, containing more inhabitants than many flourishing communities in England. The frame, or skeleton, consisted of 'bulkheads,' or huge webs of iron stretching for 400 feet lengthwise of the ship, and crossed by similar bulkheads from side to side, placed at intervals of about 20 feet. These formed a strong framework on which to fasten the walls of the ship. There were no openings between the compartments formed by the bulkheads, except on a level with the first deck; so that if water did, by any misfortune, burst through from the bottom, it would not flood the whole ship.

The hull was completed at the end of the summer of 1857, and was ready for receiving the engines for driving the screw and the two enormous paddlewheels. The latter were between 50 and 60 feet in diameter. Then came the preparations for the launching; and little had the engineer guessed that in the short space of 240 feet, which separated his ship from the main stream of the Thames, would lie the greatest difficulties of all. The 'ways' sloped at a gradient of one foot in twelve, and had iron surfaces. The day before the launch was to take place, these were well greased. Chains were stretched from the stern and the bow to barges in the river while hydraulic jacks, for pushing the huge body from the land side, were anchored firmly to the ground. A careful estimate of how much strength would be required had been made, and additional precautions were taken to prevent the ship sliding too swiftly when once set in motion.

All arrangements being then considered complete, it was decided to attempt the launch on the 3rd of November. On that day, against Mr. Brunel's wishes, vast crowds of sightseers pushed their way into the yard, and even intruded themselves between him and his workmen, so that the signals he wished to make could not be seen. However, at about noon, the Great Eastern began to move on its journey to the river. It slipped a short distance and then stopped. The men on the barges, seeing the monster sliding towards them, deserted their posts in terror. Had they known that nearly three months were to elapse before the ship would be induced to reach the water, they would hardly have given way to such panic.

The unruly crowd went home disappointed on that November day, and Mr. Brunel's troubles were increased by the receipt of large numbers of letters advising him what to do. They mainly came from people who were quite ignorant of mechanical laws. The engineer knew that strength must prevail at last, but though he used all he could obtain at the moment, the ship only moved an inch or two at a time. At last, at the time of his greatest perplexity, Robert Stephenson visited him at Millwall, and gave kindly encouragement as well as aid. He provided greater power than Mr. Brunel had yet been able to obtain, and on January 31st, 1858, the huge vessel imperceptibly slipped the last few inches into the Thames.

But it seems sad to have to say that the Great Eastern was nearly as much trouble on the water as she had been on the land. Her designer never lived to see her face the storm and wave. Anxiety had undermined his health, and he died on September 15th, 1859, as she steered into Weymouth on her first trial journey.

The world was not ready for such big ships, and though she made several voyages to New York (where she was greeted with the flutter of flags and the welcome of cannon), the Great Eastern did not earn her wages.

After a curious existence of thirty years, during which period she changed her masters many times, doing good service, in 1865, by laying the Atlantic cable, she was sold to be broken up as little more than old iron.

Our steamships now are built even larger than Mr. Brunel's vessel, though in a slightly different way. But we have better means of constructing them, and docks large enough for their accommodation.

One of the largest ships yet launched was built for the Cunard Company a short time ago. It is 760 feet long, and 87 feet broad, and is nearly thirty times heavier than the Britannia—the Company's first ship to cross the Atlantic sixty-five years ago. Her saloons and dining-halls are fit apartments for a palace, and are built in a hull measuring sixty feet from keel to upper deck. Still larger vessels are in course of construction.

The poor Great Eastern—the leviathan of other days—has been eclipsed; but whatever admiration we may feel for the new, it must not be allowed to diminish the honour that is due to the old.



THE REWARD OF A GENIUS.

(Concluded from page 142.)

Britt ran home that evening full of excitement and satisfaction. His cap was thrown carelessly on one side as the lad rushed into the sitting-room, and he looked disappointed at finding a maid preparing the supper-table as the only occupant.

'Where's Mother? Hasn't she come home yet, Mary?' he asked.

'Yes, Master Rupert, your mother got back this afternoon, but she was no sooner in than Miss Aleyn sent for her to go in there, and she hasn't come back yet. She sent a note for you, though; it's on the mantel-shelf, there.'

Britt took the envelope. 'It's jolly rough on a fellow to have his mother taken away when he hasn't seen her for a week,' he grumbled, as he opened it.

'My dear boy,' the letter ran, 'I am so sorry not to be with you this evening. Unfortunately Miss Aleyn has got one of her particularly fidgety nervous attacks, and I don't like to leave her. She found a cross chalked on the gate-post this afternoon, and imagines it is a burglar's mark! She won't listen to reason, and absolutely refuses to come home with me, so the house is now being barricaded in preparation for the attack Miss Aleyn confidently expects.'

Rupert read the letter through twice before its meaning dawned on him. Miss Aleyn, an elderly and very eccentric maiden lady, was their near neighbour, and a friend of his mother's. Her hobby was curio-collecting, and she lived in perpetual dread of having her treasures stolen. In fact, judging by the energy and ingenuity she displayed in hunting for them, one might well imagine the old lady was desirous of making a collection of burglars, although so far no success had attended her efforts. She was an ardent admirer of Sherlock Holmes; to her, as to the famous detective, every unfamiliar sign or unusual incident meant a clue to some crime or burglary. Remembering this trait of Miss Aleyn's, Britt suddenly realised how full of meaning must have appeared the hasty scrawl he had left on Miss Aleyn s gate-post for the hounds' guidance that afternoon. He startled the maid-servant by a peal of laughter that echoed through the small house.

'I'll be back directly,' he exclaimed abruptly, as soon as he could speak, seizing his cap, and rushing from the house. The prospect of explaining matters for Miss Aleyn's benefit was no pleasant one. The old lady had a small opinion of boys, and never hesitated to speak her mind, as Britt had already been made aware, but he was anxious to have his mother home once more and eager to tell her of the afternoon's pleasure. Arriving at the picturesque detached cottage which was his destination, Britt noticed that the place appeared totally deserted. His vigorous hammering at both front and kitchen doors was without effect, and Britt began to wonder whether Mrs. Leslie had persuaded terror-stricken Miss Aleyn to accompany her home. As a final resource he lifted the flap of the letterbox and stooped down to it, meaning to shout through; but he met with an unwelcome surprise. He was greeted by a jet of water from a well-directed squirt aimed through the opening. He gave himself a disgusted shake, and ruefully tried to stop the trickling down his neck with a handkerchief; then cautiously advancing once more, and placing his lips to the keyhole, he shouted: 'It's me, Mother!—let me in!'

The sentence, brief and ungrammatical, served its purpose. Mrs. Leslie's voice could be heard inside: 'It's only Rupert, Miss Aleyn. May he come in for a moment?'

Indistinct murmurs answered the question, and Britt added a further appeal: 'I've got something important to tell Miss Aleyn.'

This was more to the point, and Rupert, with secret amusement and enjoyment, heard sounds as of heavy furniture being removed and bolts and bars drawn back. A small space was made in the doorway and the boy slipped through. For a moment he paused, bewildered. In the hall was such a collection of furniture that there was but a few clear yards' space. A sideboard, several chairs, a music-stool, and two fenders had evidently been piled up to barricade the door. A frightened maid held the garden squirt, a pail of water by her side, and in the background stood Miss Aleyn, poker in hand, with a grim expression that boded ill for any intruder. Mrs. Leslie regarded her son with some alarm.

Fervently wishing himself in any region away from this one, Britt blurted out abruptly the reason of his errand. It took Miss Aleyn some time to understand his meaning, but when she did, Britt bitterly regretted his wonderful invention. The old lady's tongue was caustic, and her language eloquent, and this occasion was not one to be lost. For a truly bad quarter of an hour she instilled into poor Britt a sense of his folly and faults, and finally demanded his services in replacing the disordered furniture.

For reasons best known to himself, this unexpected development of his scheme was never revealed by Britt to the other boys. He did not encourage a repetition of the game, nor show any pleasure in its success. As a rule, when new ideas are sought after by Dr. Simpson-Martyn's pupils, Britt now follows Brer Rabbit's excellent example: he lies low and says nothing.



ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

IV.—A FIGHT WITH A RHINOCEROS.

(Concluded from page 131.)

The tragedy (continued Vandeleur) took place after the rhinoceros adventure, but shall be told before it.

After a fortnight Umkopo was quite himself again, and began to go about with me on my hunting expeditions into the veldt. At the end of a month something happened which suddenly ended our relations for the time being. One day, as I sat at dinner, I heard shoutings outside the camp, and the sounds of quarrelling among the native attendants. Presently a man was brought into the zareeba, apparently unconscious; four men carried him, and a fifth—Umkopo—followed the procession, looking dark and forbidding; evidently in the worst of humours.

The wounded man was Billy, and the other four Kaffirs brought his unconscious form and laid him close to me, every man speaking at the same time, endeavouring to explain what had happened.

It seemed that Billy had somehow offended Umkopo, who had straightway fallen upon him with his knob-kerri.

I dismissed the Kaffirs, bidding them attend to Billy, and beckoned Umkopo up to me. He and I had learned to understand one another wonderfully well during the month of our acquaintance. I showed him that I was gravely displeased with him, and this evidently was more than he could bear. Doubtless his uncivilised, untutored mind could not understand why I should be vexed because he had avenged an insult. At any rate poor Umkopo was sadly distressed. He left me looking miserable. He would eat no dinner. Presently, after moping in a corner of the zareeba for a quarter of an hour or so, he went out into the veldt. I watched him walk off into the jungle.

Well, he never returned, and when I next saw him it was at an important moment, which shall be the text of my next yarn. Meanwhile, let me begin and finish my rhinoceros adventure, in which—some three weeks after his arrival—Umkopo played a very notable and important part.

We had begun to despair of that 'rhino.' We had hunted in every direction within a radius of fifteen miles or more of the camp, and though we had once or twice come across his spoor in wet places—which proved that he still haunted the neighbourhood—we could never hit upon the beast. Either he was very shy, or we were very unfortunate.

But one day we three were out after antelope, for the larder required replenishing. The Kaffir Billy carried my second rifle and a large bag of cartridges. Umkopo, who had proved himself a splendid hunter, and who could follow the track of a herd of antelope like a jackal, had taken upon himself the leadership of the party. He walked in front, I was at his shoulder, and Billy walked behind.

Suddenly, while crossing a patch of thin jungle, Umkopo stopped and half-turning towards me, placed his finger on his lip. 'What is it?' I whispered; 'have you sighted the herd?' Umkopo pointed to a sandy spot at his feet. I could discern a track of sorts, but the footmark of the animal was much blurred in the soft sand; I could see that it was not antelope-spoor, and that was all. Umkopo made a mysterious sign over his forehead. For a moment I wondered what in the world he meant; then it occurred to me that he wished to represent a horn.

'Rhinoceros?' I whispered, using the Kaffir word.

Umkopo gravely nodded his head, and moved forward upon the track. For a few yards he followed it, but the jungle here was very dry and difficult for tracking; he soon lost the spoor.

'We must separate,' said I; 'I will go to the right, Umkopo to the left.' Umkopo nodded, and we separated, Billy following me.

Scarcely had we started, one to right, the other to left, when with bewildering suddenness a huge creature charged straight at me from out of a dense clump of brushwood, so suddenly and unexpectedly that my heart seemed to leap into my mouth, and for a moment I felt unable to move from the spot to which I seemed rooted. This was not the case with the Kaffir Billy, who instantly vanished (taking, of course, my spare rifle with him) 'into thin air.'

I recovered my presence of mind just in time to leap aside at the critical instant; that is, I avoided the huge lowered head armed with its great, business-like horn.

But though I avoided instant destruction by moving out of the direct line of his headlong rush, his shoulder caught me as he passed and sent me head over heels, stiff and bruised and knocked half senseless.

The rifle flew from my hands, and for the moment I could not see it. I crept, however, with wonderful swiftness behind a small scrub-bush, and lay an instant with half-closed eyes, trying to recover my full senses, but sufficiently conscious to be aware that I must make no sound if I valued my life.

The rhinoceros had charged on meanwhile, his impetus carrying him thirty yards beyond the spot where he brushed against me in passing. I could see that he had now turned and stood listening and watching, his two wicked little eyes moving this way and that.

Would he see me?

I could now make out the barrel of my rifle lying in a patch of thin grass. The sun had caught the polished steel and caused it to glint brightly. As for me, I dared not breathe, much less move out of my cover in order to secure my weapon.

So matters remained for a full minute; the rhino standing listening, the rifle lying inaccessible to me, though but five yards away; Umkopo invisible, doubtless hiding somewhere like myself; the Kaffir, as usual in moments of danger, goodness only knew where, and my spare rifle with him.

Suddenly, to my horror, I saw Umkopo deliberately step out from behind a prickly pear, in full view of the rhino, which, of course, instantly charged him.

Umkopo vanished, and our friend the rhino galloped at steam-engine pace right through the bush, behind which he seemed to disappear. This, I felt, was intended by Umkopo as an opportunity for me to recover my rifle, and I stepped quickly out from my hiding-place and leaped towards it; I seized it, and looked round.

By all that was horrible, the great beast had heard me, and with marvellous rapidity had wheeled and was already almost upon me! Well, I have never done anything so quickly in all my life as at that moment. I simply flung myself, in a kind of flying leap, back into my thorn-bush, cleared it, and lay down on the other side.

In a quarter of a second the rhino had passed like a flash of substantial lightning through the bush and beyond, galloping almost over me as I lay, and almost kicking me with his hind leg. I twisted myself round to the other side of the bush while his impetus carried him forward, and by the time I was able to peer out at him, he was already twenty-five yards away, and facing once more in my direction.