Much more complicated is the manufacture of the perle di luce, or beads of light, which so delight the natives of India and Africa. The name is taken from the way in which they are prepared, namely, by means of a jet of intense flame, and great skill and dexterity is required on the part of the workman, who can display his talent and originality by ornamenting them with flowers and arabesques. The combined effects of light and colour are often very beautiful, and seem a fit adornment for all those eastern and southern nations over whom a halo of fable and romance is cast.

In the interior of Africa, these perle di luce are frequently used as payment instead of coin, and the cunning Arab, in whose hands almost the whole of the trade lies, generally turns to his own profit the delight that the innocent negresses exhibit at his gay wares.

But contrary to what one might expect, the black, woolly-headed children of Nature show a strange distaste for glossy beads; so much so indeed, that the Venetians find it necessary to deaden the natural brilliancy which all glass obtains when it becomes cold, by grinding it, and thus softening the otherwise shining surface.

Notwithstanding all this, however, the bead industry of Venice is but a poorly-paid one; only the most skilful among the hands can manage to make a decent livelihood. Not very many of the women can earn more than about 4-1/2d. a day, so that for them all the fast-days decreed by their Church are quite superfluous; their fasts last from Ash Wednesday to Ash Wednesday. Even polenta, that very frugal Italian national dish, is for them only a Sunday's treat; the rest of the week nature provides them with turnips and other roots, great piles of which, cooked on an open hearth, greet us in all the streets of Venice, where they are eagerly devoured by the hungry crowd. And yet these poor people work hard to give pleasure and delight to both great and little folk.

Truly they exemplify the old proverb, "Some must sow, that others may reap."

M. H.

[ANSWER TO "OUR IMAGINARY DISSOLVING VIEWS"—VI. (See Vol. XIX., p. 351.) 1. Henrietta, Maria. 2. Vandyke's picture of Charles I. and his queen: the children were afterwards Charles II. and James II. 3. The Fronde. 4. Trial of Charles I. in Westminster Hall.]



A PRACTICAL JOKE.

'Twas noon-tide on a summer day, And in a hammock Bruin lay, Studying the price of pork and veal, And wondering how to get a meal, And what his little ones would do If all the papers said was true.

The sun was very warm that day, And having trudged a weary way In search of food, 'twas no surprise That Mr. Bruin shut his eyes Now and again, and did not see Two monkeys o'er him in the tree.

"Hurrah!" they whispered, "here's a chance Of making Mr. Bruin dance! Oft has he put us in a fix: We'll pay him out now for his tricks, And let him know that, though we're small, We're not so harmless after all!"



Then, knife in hand, one monkey passed From branch to branch, until at last He reached the bough wherefrom was hung Old Bruin's hammock, firmly slung; And made one sudden vigorous slash Through all the ropes: then—crash, crash, crash!

Upon the ground, with aching bones, Poor Bruin mingled sighs and groans, Compelled to linger there and hear The monkeys' frequent taunt and jeer, While "What's the price, of bear's grease, please?" Went echoing through the forest trees.

G. W.



LITTLE TOILERS OF THE NIGHT.

I.—THE PRINTER'S READING-BOY.

It is a gusty Friday night just after Easter. A night full of wind which comes in sudden blasts and drives the sharp shining rain along the streets so that it seems to pierce through coats and umbrellas, and makes such a quick pattering sound upon the pavement that people who are indoors, and just going to bed, pull aside their window-curtains, look out at the flickering lights, and feel glad to be at home.

Looking up from between the tall flat walls of the houses in a narrow court in Fleet Street, London, any one who has eyes can see the gleam of the moon, and the two or three stars that hang in the long strip of blue overhead. They can hear the rumble of the late cab, and the tramp of the policeman outside so plainly that these sounds are quite startling. For all day long Fleet Street is a busy place, with thousands of people going up and down, and hundreds of carts, cabs, waggons, cars, and carriages, hustling in the roadway, and people who have only seen and heard it in the day-time are surprised to find how silent and deserted it is at midnight.

But in the narrow court, and in many other courts and passages close by, there are other sounds and other lights than the noise of the policeman's boots and the gleaming of the stars. Any one who is standing there may hear a curious buzzing, and now and then a dull thump, and looking about may see more than one big building with its windows all aglow, and the shadows of people moving across them. Now and then a door will open, and a lad, perhaps without a cap, and with his jacket tied round his neck by the sleeves, will rush out as though the place were on fire and he had been sent to fetch an engine.

If you are standing near the door you will have to get out of the way of that lad, or he will be likely to run you down, or jam you against the wall, for he is in a hurry. He is not going to fetch an engine, for if you watch him he scampers down the next court, or perhaps across Fleet Street, and in less time than you can get your breath properly, is back with a tray piled with steaming mugs, and plates of thick bread-and-butter; and while you are wondering how he can have got them so quickly, and whether he will ever carry them up that steep flight of stairs behind the door of the big building, he gives a shout that seems to make twenty echoes, and then you lose sight of him.

In those big buildings with the dark doors and the lighted windows the news of the week is being printed, that people may read it in the papers. There the printers are at work, and will be at work all night; the lad who has just gone in is a printer's lad, and because of some part of the work he has to do he is called a "reading-boy."

Nearly every day this week numbers of letters and telegrams and written accounts of various things that have taken place in different parts of the world have been coming in to this building. When they come in the editor looks at them and sends them up to the chief compositor. The "compositors," up in the top rooms where the lights are shining, stand before large wooden trays or "cases," each of which is divided into a number of small squares, like boxes without lids. These boxes hold what are called the types. The types are little slips of metal, and on the end of each slip is stamped a letter. One of the boxes in the tray holds the a's, another the b's, another the c's, and the capital letters and the stops also have their proper places. When the compositor has the writing before him on his case, he takes a small metal box open at one end, and of the proper width, in his left hand, and with his right hand picks up one by one the metal letters that spell the words which are on the page. These he places in the box with the letter end upwards, putting a slip of metal without any letter upon it to make a space between each word. When he has filled his box he lifts all the letters carefully out without jumbling any of them up together, stands them in a tray, and keeps them from falling down by placing a flat rule of brass against the side of them. When he has set up so many of these metal letters that they are enough, when properly arranged in columns, to make a whole page of printing, they are all brought close together and then tightly fastened in a kind of frame, so that they are quite firm. They are next sent downstairs and placed on the press, or printing-machine. Large smooth rollers spread a thin coating of ink upon this metal page, and then the sheet of white paper is brought very firmly against it by a strong machine, which presses so evenly that the ink is stamped from the metal page of the types on to the paper. When that paper is removed it is a printed page, with the same words upon it that the compositor read upon the letter or written page sent in a little while ago. All night long these types with the letters upon them are being set up, all night long patient men pick up the metal letters and form them into pages; all night long the steam engine is going, and the letters from the inky metal pages are being stamped upon the clean white paper, which, when it is printed all over, will contain the week's history of the world, and will be read by thousands of people.

There are many lads in this printing-office, and all night they are running up and down with letters and sheets of writing and printing, or are cleaning the inky surface of the metal pages, or helping to fix up the frames. But why are some of them called "reading-boys?"

Of course when the metal letters are set up mistakes will occur now and then; so in the first impression printed from the type, before it is made up into the pages for printing already referred to and fastened into the metal frame, these mistakes must be put right. To do this one person takes the writing from which the type was set up, and another the impression from the type, and the man or boy who has the writing reads it aloud distinctly, while the other, who has the impression from the type, reads that to himself at the same time, and compares what he sees there with what he hears being read. If he comes to a word where there is a mistake he makes a mark against it, and sets it right. When the mistakes are all marked, the compositor sets them right by putting in the proper letters and words, instead of the wrong ones, and then another impression is printed to see whether all is right this time. These impressions that are read for mistakes are called "proofs," because they prove whether the work has been properly done. Sometimes, if the reading-boy is very clever, he can read the first writing, but the writing is very often so bad that even the men who set up the metal types can hardly read it. It is not pleasant work to sit all night in a close little hot room, with the gas flaring, and to hear the din, and feel the rolling of the great machinery, while you have to read all sorts of things that you don't care much for, and haven't time to think about; but that is what the "reading-boy" has often to do, though he sometimes has a good deal of running up and down stairs, and now and then rushes out to fetch tea, bread-and-butter, bacon, and other things for the men, or for himself and his companions. It is to get a second supply of these dainties that the boy whom we saw just now comes out again head-first, and with no jacket at all on this time. He carries the tray full of empty mugs, and before he can quite stop himself he comes suddenly against a burly, weather-beaten looking man, who is walking up the court, and seems to be lurching from side to side of the pavement. Before the lad can stop short, the edge of the tray comes against this man's elbow, and crash goes one of the mugs on the stones of the court.

"Now, then, stoopid!" shouts the boy. "Why can't you keep on your right side?"

"Is that the way you speaks to your uncle, Bennie?" says the big man, laughing. He is a short broad man, dressed in rough blue cloth, and with a shiny sou'-wester on his head. He looks like a pilot, but he is really a fisherman and a sailor, and he has come up all the way from Yarmouth on purpose to see Benny's mother, who is his own sister.

"Well, uncle, who could ha' thought of seeing you here; haven't you been to mother's?"

"No, my boy, I got to London by the late train, and so I thought I'd try and find you out, and we'll go home together. What a place this London is, to be sure, and what a stifly sort of alley this here is to be workin' in all night; it don't seem quite right for a lad of your age, Benny."

"Come, don't you go running down our court," says the boy. "I'm all right, uncle, specially since you was so kind as to pay for me to go to the classes. Why, bless you, I'm learning French and Latin now, and I'm put on to reading regular. I shouldn't wonder if I was to come to be a printer's reader, instead of a reading-boy, and earn ever so much a week by-and-by."

"What do you get now, Benny?"

"Eight shillings a week, uncle, and then you know I can help mother in the shop a bit; but I say, you don't mind waitin' a minute, while I go to the house over the way. There's only one or two places that keep open after twelve, because of our wanting tea, and ham, and rolls, and coffee, and all sorts o' things, to keep us going. It makes you precious faint to keep up night work without anything to eat, I can tell you, uncle."

"Well, I'll come with you, Benny, and wait for you at the shop, where I can fill my pipe. But where's your jacket, and where's your cap?"

"Oh, we don't have time to think about that. Something's wanted, and the bell rings, and somebody shouts down the speaking-tube, and off you go. It is precious cold sometimes, though, for the men at our place keep the room so hot. They can't bear a breath of air here, and for fear of a draught, and then getting their fingers cold so that they can't feel the type, they paste paper over every crack, and have all the windows fastened down, and make you pay a fine for leaving the door open. Why, uncle, you don't a bit know what it is. Talk about the hardships at sea, and being out night after night off what I've heard you call the Dogger Bank to catch codfish, they're nothing to being a boy in a printin' office where the machine's always going, and you've I don't know how many masters to order you about; but never you mind, I'm going to stick to it, and if they don't give me a rise to ten shillings next week, I'll leave and go into another place where they'll be proud of my talent, and admire me for my strength. Though I think I would rather be aboard the Saucy Nancy with you, after all. I should 'like 'a life on the ocean wave, uncle, and I do get so tired of the night work sometimes."

"Bless your heart, my boy; there's lads no bigger than you at the fishing stations that have as much night work as you do. Hard work in the cold and the wind and the wet, and often hungry work, and a good deal of danger too. There, get along, and fetch your coat, Benny. I'll wait here, and then we'll go home together to see mother, and as she tells me you're to have a holiday, Saturday to Monday night, you shall come home along o' me, and then we will just see what it's like to be a Fisher Boy."

THOMAS ARCHER.



THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

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

CHAPTER I.—A VISITOR TO RIVERSDALE.

"How I wish it was a boy. I don't like girls!" Bertie Rivers cried, tossing aside his book. "Do come out, Eddie, and let us watch for the carriage."

Eddie laid aside his book a little reluctantly, and followed his brother through the open French window of the study. They were two bright, handsome lads, of twelve and thirteen: Edward the elder, but scarcely as tall as Bertie, and far slighter, with a grave reserved air, and rather thoughtful face; Bertie sturdy, gay, careless, and frank, with restless, observant blue eyes, and a somewhat unceremonious way of dealing with people and things. Eddie called him rough and boisterous, and gave way to him in everything, not at all because Bertie's will was the stronger, but that Eddie, unless very much interested, was too indolent to assert himself, and found it much easier to do just as he was asked on all occasions than argue or explain.

There was a visitor expected at Riversdale that day, and they were very curious concerning her, though in different ways: Bertie openly, restlessly, questioningly; Eddie with a quiet, rather gloomy, expectation.

"I wonder if she will like us?" Bertie said, as he climbed to the top of a gate, and looked anxiously down the white dusty road.

"I wonder if we shall like her?" Eddie replied: "that's of more importance, I think."

"I do wish she was a boy," Bertie repeated for about the hundredth time in the course of three days. "One never knows what to do with a girl cousin. Of course she won't care about cricket, though Lillie Mayson likes it, and she will be afraid of the dogs, and scream at old Jerry. I wonder we never even heard of her before, or of Uncle Frank either. I wonder——"

"What's the use of wondering, Bert?" Eddie interrupted, a little impatiently. "Papa told us all he wished us to know, I dare say. Come along for a walk. What's the good of idling here all the morning? It won't bring the carriage a minute sooner to stand watching for it."

"No, of course not; but I want to rush down the road to meet it, and we can't go for a walk till it comes. It would be a poor sort of welcome for Cousin Agnes;" and Bertie took another long look down the road, where nothing was visible save a cloud of fine white dust.

Three mornings before Mr. Rivers had summoned both boys to his study, and very gravely informed them that their Uncle Frank was dead, and his only child, Agnes Rivers, was coming to reside at Riversdale.

"She has no home, no friends, no money, no mother. Try and be kind to her, boys. Don't ignore her, Edward; don't tease her, Bertie; and ask her no questions about her parents or her past history, remember that!"

The boys promised; they always obeyed their father implicitly: indeed, absolute unquestioning obedience was one thing Mr. Rivers exacted from every person he came in contact with.

But Bertie was far from satisfied with the very meagre information he had received, and directly he got a favourable opportunity, he besieged Mrs. Mittens, the old housekeeper, with questions concerning the new relation who was coming to make her home with them, and of the Uncle Frank whose name he had never heard before. Eddie did not share his curiosity, or perhaps concluded that his father's command to ask no questions was a general one; Bertie insisted it only referred to Agnes herself, and repeated his father's exact words to the housekeeper.

"I think, Master Bertie, your papa meant you to ask no questions of anybody; and I have very little to tell," she said, gravely. "But this much I think you may know. Your Uncle Frank was your papa's only brother: he displeased your grandpapa, and left home in consequence."

"But what did he do?" Bertie cried eagerly.

"Everything he should not have done; but his worst fault was disobedience, and a world of trouble it got him into. Remember that, Master Bertie: your grandpapa would be obeyed, and your papa is his own son in that respect. So take care, my dear, take care!" and the old lady shook her forefinger warningly. "But everything's forgot and forgave now," she added, more cheerfully; "and right glad I am Miss Agnes is coming here!"



Bertie turned away grumbling; he was not a whit wiser than he had been before, and he felt somehow that he had been reproved, and, more than that, warned. But he was not very seriously impressed, and he determined some day to find out the whole history of his Uncle Frank: know exactly what he did, and why he did it; and as he turned the matter over in his mind, as he sat perched on the gate, he came to the conclusion that his was a very strange family, and that there were a great many skeletons concealed in Riversdale.

"Perhaps Aunt Amy will be sending us a boy or girl cousin some day or other," he said to Eddie suddenly. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised."

Eddie started from a reverie, and looked questioningly at his brother. "Aunt Amy? what put her into your head, Bert?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, unless it's Uncle Frank. Don't you think it's very funny to have a lot of relations you never see, hear from, or speak about—very exciting, too, to have cousins drop in on you when you least expect it. I hope, Ned, when you're master of Riversdale, you won't banish me, and forget my very existence till I'm dead. What did Aunt Amy do, I wonder?"

"She married some one papa did not approve of—an artist, I think: that's all," Eddie said gravely. "I think Aunt Amy is very happy, and I'm sure she is very beautiful. She does not come to Riversdale, because papa is always ill, I suppose; and perhaps she likes London better, and she has not got any boys or girls."

"Oh!" Bertie said, opening his eyes wide; "you seem to know all about them. Who told you?"

"Papa. I asked him one day."

"Oh! and Uncle Gregory: what did he do? He never comes here either;" and Bertie looked up the road again, as if he did not care very much to hear the probable reason of that relative's absence.

"Uncle Gregory is a merchant, and has to attend to his business, I suppose," Eddie replied, rather loftily. "He came here often enough—too often, I believe—when our mother was alive, and then papa and he disagreed, and he has not come since."

"Hum!" Bertie said, slipping down and stretching himself. "How did you find out, Eddie?"

"Why, I didn't find out. Papa talks to me sometimes about our relatives; you talk as if it were a crime for people not to come here when they have their own houses and things to attend to. You might just as well ask why we always stay at home."

"Oh! but that's different: Riversdale is such a jolly place. Why, I wouldn't live anywhere else for anything, would you, Eddie?"

"I don't know; I think it would be wise to see other places before deciding. I should like to see a great city—London for instance."

"I wonder if Agnes is coming from London?" Bertie cried; "if so, she can tell us all about it."

"But I'd like to see for myself, to travel everywhere, visit all the famous places in the world—Italy, Greece, Egypt—see pictures, statues, beautiful churches."

"I think I'd prefer to stay at home: those places are such a long way off. I dare say I should be tired before I got there; and I don't care for pictures much, except of dogs and horses. I'd just like to stay here always, hunt and shoot and fish when I grow up, and play cricket and football, and just enjoy myself all the time," Bertie said soberly.

"That's because you're ignorant, Bertie, and have no taste or ambition," Eddie replied. "You know what Doctor Mayson says: 'Travel improves the mind, and enlarges the understanding.'"

"Yes, but that's only in a copy-book!" Bertie exclaimed triumphantly. "Besides, papa is the cleverest man in the world, and he's happy enough here. Oh! the carriage at last. Come and welcome our new cousin;" and in a moment Bertie had vaulted over the gate and shouted to the coachman to stop, while Eddie followed in a more orthodox fashion, and both boys stood bowing, with their caps in their hands, to a little girl dressed in black, with a small pale face, and a quantity of light hair pushed back from her forehead. She clung to Mrs. Mittens nervously with one hand, while she extended the other first to Bertie, then to Eddie and said, "Thank you, cousins," for their welcome in the sweetest, saddest voice in the world. Then the carriage drove on before Bertie had quite recovered his astonishment at the fact that the little girl seemed no more than a baby, yet wore blue glasses, and spoke with the voice of a grown-up person. He had meant to spring into the carriage, give her a hearty kiss and a noisy greeting, and go on to the house with her; but such familiarities were entirely out of the question with the grave little lady in black. Turning round, he looked questioningly at Eddie, who had returned to the grounds. "Well," he cried, "what do you think?"

"I think Cousin Agnes is an ugly, sickly little thing, not more than seven!" he cried scornfully. "The idea of a girl in blue spectacles! Come and have a walk." For once Bertie followed instead of leading, though he was strongly inclined to return to the house. He did not think his cousin was ugly, and he pitied her for being so pale and sad-looking; but somehow he felt disappointed too, and out of humour with himself, and Eddie, and every one else, and in an unusually silent mood he set off for a ramble in the woods. Both boys were disappointed in Agnes, but in a different way.

CHAPTER II.—AGNES FINDS A FRIEND.

"I hope you will be very happy here, child, and make yourself at home. Take care of her, Mittens, and see that the boys don't tease her;" and Mr. Rivers kissed the trembling, nervous little girl on the forehead, and waved her out of the room. The interview had been brief, and conducted with absolute silence on the child's part. She was overpowered by the magnificence and awed by the solemnity of her new home.

"Is that grand gentleman Uncle Hugh, ma'am?" she asked timidly, as she clung to the good-natured housekeeper's hand.

"Yes, my dear; and very kind and good you will find him if you always do just as he tells you. Now you must come to my room, and have a cup of tea before dinner. Your cousins never have any luncheon, and dine with me at three o'clock. Your Uncle Hugh always dines in his own apartments: indeed, he seldom leaves them, except for a turn on the terrace. The children go in every evening to see him for half an hour, and you will go with them. We have breakfast at nine, and tea at seven. Your cousins drive in to Wakeley every day to Doctor Mayson's school; they leave at half-past nine, and get back by three. Sometimes they ride their ponies, but oftener they drive in the little dog-cart; and I dare say a young person will come to give you lessons, but the master has not made any arrangement yet. You're to sleep in the room next to mine; and Prudence Briggs, the under housemaid, will wait upon you. But the first thing you must do, my dear Miss Agnes, is to get well, and strong, and rosy. You have been ill, surely."

"No, ma'am, not worse than usual; but I have been up a good deal at night with father."

"You up at night, child! Dear, dear! what could folk be thinking of to let you?"

"There was no one else, ma'am, and father had to have his medicine regularly," Agnes replied gravely. "Even when Doctor Evans did send a nurse, she used to fall asleep at night, and forget poor father."

Mrs. Mittens took off her spectacles, wiped them carefully, put them on again, and looked earnestly at the child seated opposite to her. But either her eyes or the glasses were dim again in a moment. That poor, fragile little creature up at night, ministering to the wants of a dying man! It seemed incredible, and yet the child's face and voice and words bore the living impress of truth.

"How old are you, my dear?"

"Twelve last birthday. I know I'm very little and weak, and my back aches dreadfully sometimes; but Doctor Evans said rest and care would do wonders for me. I never had much rest at home, and I was always very anxious about poor father; ever since my darling mamma died, four years ago, I had to take care of him."

"Dear heart alive! Why did you never write to your uncle?" Mrs. Mittens cried, holding up both her hands.

"I never knew I had an uncle till after father's death; then Doctor Evans told me, and sent me here. He was very, very kind, and so was my Aunt Amy. Was it not strange to have an aunt in London and never know it? But she came at once, and took me away to her house—ever so much a finer house than the one we lodged in, but not nearly so fine or beautiful as this; and she made my black frocks, and took me to dear father's funeral in a carriage. Aunt Amy was very kind, and kissed me very often, and said she wished she could keep me always, but Uncle Clair said it was best for me to come to Riversdale. Do you think it was best?"

"Yes, my dear, of course. Certainly it was best for you to come," the old lady replied briskly.

"And do you think my cousins will love me?"

"I'm quite sure of it, Miss Agnes. They are the best and dearest boys in the world."

"And Uncle Hugh?" Agnes added wistfully.

"Well, my dear, your uncle is not quite like other people. He suffers a great deal with his nerves, and he has had a many sorrows, which he keeps all to himself; but he's the most just and most generous gentleman in the world, and I'm sure he will be very kind to you; only you must do just what he says, my dear. All the troubles in the world came of disobedience, I think, and have done so since the Garden of Eden. If poor Mr. Frank had only——but there, what is the use of talking?" and Mrs. Mittens sighed.

"Did you know my father, ma'am?"

"Yes, indeed! I carried him about in my arms many a time."

"Did you love him, please?"

"Love him, Miss Agnes? that I did! Who could help loving his bright bonnie face? Why, we all loved him, dearie: he was the light and life of the house, but he would have his own way—he would have it, and I fear it led him through a tangled, thorny path."

Agnes looked up at Mrs. Mittens.

"Please, please tell me one thing more, ma'am," she whispered nervously, yet eagerly. "Did my Uncle Hugh love my father?"

"As the apple of his eye, my dearie: there's no mistake about that; he would have given his heart's best blood for him!"

"Did he know my dear father was so sad and so sorry, so poor, so friendless, so—so unhappy?"

"No, child, that he did not. Your father would have none of him; he was proud with the pride that goes before destruction. My master would have loved him, but Master Frank would not."

"Then there has been some dreadful mistake somewhere, ma'am," Agnes said gently, but firmly. "My father was an angel and a martyr. He was not proud or unforgiving, and he suffered, oh, so much! But if you tell me my uncle knew nothing of it, I cannot blame him."

"I tell you more, dearie," said the old housekeeper earnestly, holding both the child's hands, and looking into her pale, earnest face. "My master would have given half his fortune to have made your father happy, but the wrong was done before you were born; and it's righted at last, thank Heaven! righted at last. Now, my poor lamb, we will talk of all those things no more; your troubles are over, and all you have to do is to get well and strong and rosy, and be as happy as ever you can; and always remember, little one, you have a true friend in old Mittens. She loved your father, and she will always love you; and now you must lie down on that sofa, and rest for an hour. The boys are sure to be in for dinner, and I want you to be nice and bright."



So Agnes lay down very contentedly.

"Oh, how I shall enjoy this place!" she said to herself. "How I shall love it!—my own father's home, where he played as a child. Perhaps he lay on this sofa, just like me, and looked across the beautiful park, smelt the flowers, heard the birds sing. If he knew I was here now, how happy he would be!" So Agnes mused aloud, resting in the warm summer sunshine. Her thoughts flew back to the dreary London lodging where her whole short life had been passed; her heart swelled as she thought of the cares, troubles, anxieties, and bitter losses she had endured; and then her eyes overflowed with gratitude at finding such kind friends and such a beautiful home. At last, weary with her journey, she fell asleep.

After a while the sound of voices roused her, and in a bewildered kind of way she looked round.

"I say she's an ugly, miserable-looking little thing. I shouldn't think it worth my while to sketch her!" one voice said, contemptuously. "If she had been pretty, now, she would have made a splendid Sleeping Beauty!"

"She looks pale and ill, poor mite, and tired too; but she's not ugly," another voice said decidedly. "She might not make a nice picture, but she looks pleasant enough curled up there. Come on away; don't let us wake her."

"I am awake," said Agnes, sitting up, her cheeks flushed, her eyes full of tears, but no one answered. The boys, who had been looking in at the window of the housekeeper's room, had turned into the shrubbery, and Agnes felt as if she had been guilty of a very mean, unworthy action in listening, even involuntarily, to a conversation not intended for her ears. Her cousins, too, she felt quite sure, would be exceedingly cross if they knew she had overheard them; and yet she said to herself—"I was only half awake. I did not want to listen, and I could not help it." It would not mend matters in the least to tell them that she had overheard their criticism, so she resolved to be silent, but when Mrs. Mittens came, a little later, to conduct her to the dining-room, she was very shy and nervous. As she took her place, she looked at the boys wistfully, wondering which of them thought her "ugly," and which thought her pleasant enough to look at curled up on the sofa. Secretly, she hoped that Eddie was her champion, but before the dinner was over it was easy enough to see that Bertie was going to be the shy little girl's friend, for Eddie scarcely condescended to look at her, much less speak to her, during the meal, while Bertie rattled on merrily, telling her of all their favourite amusements and walks, and promising to show her all his treasures and lend her his storybooks. Still, though Bertie was kind, and Eddie cold and silent, Agnes thought her elder cousin was far handsomer and cleverer than his brother. Perhaps he would be an artist, like Uncle Clair; and when he knew that she too could use her pencil a little, and loved pictures a great deal, he might be kinder to her.

CHAPTER III.—AN UNEXPECTED GUEST.

Three months passed away, and Agnes Rivers was feeling quite at home in her uncle's house. She had lost much of her nervous shyness, but except with Mrs. Mittens she was very quiet and reserved. She was a little afraid of her uncle, as were the whole family; a little in awe of Eddie too, who was still somewhat stately and grand in his manner; and she always had an uncomfortable sort of feeling that Bertie was kind to her just because she was little and weak, and his cousin.

But on the whole she was happy and contented. She ran about the park and gardens all the morning, did no lessons whatever, and amused herself sketching all the pretty bits of scenery, huge trees on the lawn, or Mrs. Mittens' dog and cat, called Punch and Judy, who lived the most useless, indolent, amiable life imaginable in the housekeeper's room. She could hit off likenesses, too, in quite a startling way, and Eddie said he would give her some lessons in painting if she wished. Agnes was enthusiastic in her thanks for what was, after all, but a trifling service, and while the lessons lasted Bertie was rather glum, as he had to ramble about alone, and amuse himself as best he could. But Eddie very soon grew tired of a pupil who after three lessons far excelled the teacher, and as a change, proposed teaching her German. Agnes consented, as she would have done to any plan or project of Eddie's. But that course of instruction also came to an untimely end; perhaps Agnes was a little dull, certainly Eddie was impatient. And then Bertie had his turn: he taught his cousin how to play chess, to spin tops, play cricket (theoretically), regretting every minute that she was not big and strong like Lillie Mayson, the doctor's daughter—the doctor who kept the grammar-school, not the one who came to see them when they were ill.

Once or twice Mrs. Mittens suggested to the master that some one should come and teach Miss Agnes, saying that the child was left too much alone during the day, as the boys went to school every morning. But Mr. Rivers shook his head impatiently. "Leave the child alone; let her eat and sleep and run wild till she's stronger. She ought not to be dull in Riversdale."

Nor was she. How could any one with a deep instinctive love of Nature be dull, or lonely, or sad with a beautiful park to wander in? who with an observant eye could walk through the shady lanes or ramble in the woods without seeing objects of interest and admiration at every step?

"How good of God to not only give us flowers, but eyes to see their beauty and hearts to love them," the child said solemnly one day. "What would the world be if there were not any flowers?"

Bertie, who chanced to overhear her soliloquy, remarked that he thought they could get on better without flowers than trees, vegetables, or even animals; "because, we cannot eat flowers, can we?"

"But if you had read a little about the subject, Bertie," Agnes replied, "you would learn that we could have neither trees nor vegetables nor fruit if we had not flowers first. But it's those dear little wild things that seem to grow here just to make us happy that I love best. I prefer painting flowers to anything."

"I don't; great artists never trouble about flowers," Eddie said, joining them. "When I grow up, I'll paint splendid figures and grand scenes, like the 'Raising of Lazarus,' or the 'Descent from the Cross': those are the kind of pictures great men love to paint and the world to look at."

"But Uncle Clair says people can't paint like the old masters now, and that no one would buy their pictures if they did," Agnes replied.

"I wish some of you would paint up this mask for me like a North American Indian," Bertie interrupted, pulling a hideous pasteboard face from his pocket. "Will you, Eddie? If I attempt to put on the war-paint, I shall make a mess of it." But Eddie indignantly refused to lend his talent to such base uses, and Agnes declared she would paint the face with pleasure, only she had not the least idea what an Indian was like. That was an unforeseen difficulty, but Bertie suggested their looking in the library for a book with pictures, and copying one.

As they approached the house, they were all surprised to see Dr. Bird's carriage at the door. "Some one must be ill, surely—I hope it's not papa," Eddie cried, hurrying on in advance, Bertie and Agnes following. "He seemed quite well this morning. Oh! there's Lawyer Hurst's gig—what can he want? Johnson," to a servant standing at the door, "whatever is the matter? Is papa ill?"

"It's nothing, my dears—that is, nothing to be frightened about," Mrs. Mittens said, as the boys, both startled-looking, rushed into the dining-room. "Your papa had a turn this morning, and I thought it as well to send for Doctor Bird."

"But why is Mr. Hurst here?" Eddie asked.

"I don't know, dearie. I think he just called by accident, or about some ordinary business."

"Has papa asked for us—for me?"

"No, Master Edward. Now, don't look so scared; there's nothing the matter, only, as I said, he got a turn. I think it was something in the paper, for when I went in with his beef-tea, he had it in his hand, and looked quite sad and white. I hoped he was not feeling bad, and he said 'No, no, Mittens. Put that down and leave me'; then when I was at the door, he called out, 'Mittens, set the house in order. I'm going on a journey; see to it without delay!' That's every word, Master Edward; but knowing as the master has not been anywhere for so long, and seeing him look pale and troubled like, I just took the liberty of sending a line to Doctor Bird, asking him to look in quite in a friendly way. He came at once, and he's with the master now. I left the room as you came in, and the doctor said, 'Your master is no worse—rather better, I think.' So now, my dears, will you sit down to dinner?"

Bertie's answer was practical compliance; Eddie stood for a few minutes at the window, wondering if it were the death of another estranged relative that had affected his father; then he, too, took his place, and ate his dinner in silence. Presently the doctor's carriage drove away, and both boys felt less anxious; but to Agnes there was something terrible in the unusual hush of the house: it seemed as if the servants moved about more noiselessly than at other times, and spoke in hushed whispers. Eddie went to the library, and Bertie went out immediately after dinner, and, left to herself, Agnes curled herself up in an easy chair in the dining-room with a book, and after reading for an hour, she fell asleep. It was dusk when she was roused by the sudden ringing of bells and the hurrying of feet across the passage leading to Mr. Rivers' apartments. For a few minutes she sat quite still, pale, frightened, scarcely daring to breathe; then she opened the door and peeped out timidly, but no one took the least notice of her. Mrs. Mittens crossed the hall hurriedly, looking very pale and anxious; there were strange voices too, somewhere. One, Agnes thought, seemed loud and angry. Then she hurried back to the dining-room and shut the door, pressing both her hands on her heart to stop its beating. Something dreadful was happening, she felt sure, but in that household she was quite alone and forgotten; no one thought of her at all.

The quiet, glorious autumn night closed in; still Agnes sat silent and solitary, hoping the best, fearing the worst. It was quite eleven o'clock when the dining-room door was opened softly, and a fair troubled face peered in. It was Bertie. He alone had thought of her, even in his own great sorrow—and Bertie was impulsive and passionate, and felt things deeply. He remembered the poor lonely little girl, and asked Prudence Briggs if his cousin had gone to bed. The girl started guiltily; she had seen nothing of Miss Agnes all the evening; so Bertie began a hunt over the house for her, and found her at last in the dining-room alone.

"Oh, Agnes! what shall we do? Poor papa!" he cried, bursting into tears; and she clung to him, weeping too, but trying to comfort him, and then brokenly he told her all that had happened. At five o'clock Mr. Rivers became suddenly worse. The doctor had stayed with him, and only sent home his carriage, and when he saw the change he sent for the boys at once. Eddie was in the library, Bertie was out in the grounds. "But it was all the same," the lad added, brokenly; "he was quite unconscious when Eddie reached the room. I was there half an hour after, but he never spoke, and now it's all over! Oh, Agnes! what shall we do? I can't believe papa is dead!"

"Telegraph for Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair," she replied, with the promptness of a person used to act in an emergency; and then Bertie, who had never thought of that, rushed off to the library to suggest it to his brother, who seemed quite dazed by the sudden calamity, while Mrs. Mittens entered the dining-room also in search of Agnes.

"It's all over, dearie; the master meant to go on a journey; instead, an unexpected guest came to him. I'm all dazed and scared like, and can hardly realise it yet; and would you believe it? four gentlemen came from London this evening to see your uncle, and not one of them would believe he was 'gone' till they saw him lying there so still and restful, and one of them now acts just as if he was master of this house, so I suppose he must be Master Edward's guardian. But I do wish there was some one here to manage things!"

"Send for Aunt Amy," Agnes suggested again; and the housekeeper seized the idea gladly.

"That I will, dearie, and for Mr. Gregory too, first thing to-morrow morning. Surely, child, you have an old head on young shoulders! Now come and help me to comfort the poor darling boys. Ah! Miss Agnes, you are all orphans together now; and I how things are going to end is more than I know!"

(To be continued.)



About Some Famous Railway Trains.

SOME FAMOUS RAILWAY TRAINS AND THEIR STORY.

By HENRY FRITH.

I.—THE "FLYING DUTCHMAN."



"Where to, sir?" said the cab-driver, touching his hat.

"Great Western, please, Paddington," we replied, and in a moment the trap of the hansom was shut, and we were bowling along Piccadilly.

A civil porter received us at Paddington Station, and took our luggage for Swindon. We are going no farther to-day, because we want to see the "Flying Dutchman," not only "flying," but at rest. So first we secure a seat and then walk down the platform. We have some minutes to spare; the clock points to 11.38; we must start at 11.45 by the Great Western express, the "Dutchman," as it is familiarly called, after that mysterious sailor who came and went with such alarming celerity.

Here we are then, the summer holidays before us; and perhaps many of the readers of LITTLE FOLKS will be travelling by the "Flying (railway) Dutchman," by the time these lines are before them. Come with me and look at our big "iron horse," which will pull us to Swindon at the average speed of fifty-three miles an hour, which means at times the fine rate of sixty miles an hour.

Our "Dutchman's" engine on this occasion is named "Crimea," and a fine fellow he is. This engine has eight wheels; two immense "driving wheels" eight feet high, more than twenty-four feet round, so each time that wheel revolves we travel (say) twenty-five feet, and when we are in full swing we shall go about thirty yards a second! The 11.45 down train from Paddington, and the corresponding up train from Exeter, are the two "Flying Dutchmen." There are two other trains which run equally fast, up and down in the afternoon. These are the "Zulu" trains, for they were started as expresses at the time the Prince Imperial was killed in Zululand.

The great engine waits at the end of the platform, and as we are good little people—like the fairies—we will jump up on the foot-plate of the "Crimea" locomotive, and no one will notice us. Give me your hand—there. Now you are standing on the foot-plate; the engine-tender, full of water and topped with coal, is behind you, the great high boiler with the furnace is in front. That long handle which comes from the middle of the boiler on a level with your little head is the regulator, which when pulled out lets the steam into the cylinders, and it then moves the pistons and rods, and they move the big eight-feet wheels. Perhaps, when we reach Swindon workshops, we shall go underneath an engine and see the machinery.

"What is that other handle?" you say. That is "the lever." It is at the side next the engine-driver, you see, and he can pull it back so as to save his steam, and not use too much; he "expands" it and makes a little keep the train going after it has once got into its pace. There are the steam and water "gauges," to tell the "driver" and fireman when the steam is at proper pressure, and when the water is high enough in the boiler. The steam gauge is like a clock, or an Aneroid barometer, right before the driver. Those other handles near it are the whistle-handles. One whistle is small, and very shrill, to warn people on the line, and to tell people the train is coming. The other is a deep-toned booming whistle which tells of danger perhaps, and when blown means "Stop the train, there is obstruction in front."

"Crimea" is now ready. The engine-driver pulls open the regulator, and we glide back and are attached to the train. We have air-breaks worked on the engine, vacuum-breaks which can pull us up quickly, and when all the connections are made the "Flying Dutchman" is ready; he is harnessed to his eight coaches full of people—the solemn and sorry; the glad and the cheerful; and boys and girls, going on all sorts of errands.

"Right!" says the station-superintendent.

The clock over the platform is exactly 11.45 a.m. The fireman, who is looking on, says "Right, Tom," the guard whistles, then the driver touches the small whistle-handle in front; a shrill scream rouses the many sleeping echoes in the roof, where they had got to be out of the way perhaps, and the engine-driver opens the regulator valve—"Crimea" fizzes a little in front of the cylinders. Off we go!

"Puff-puff," slowly at first, in a solemn and majestic manner. We cannot expect such big wheels to hurry themselves. Under the bridge, puffing a little more quickly, then we rattle through Westbourne Park and by Wormwood Scrubs. Puff-puffing much more quickly now, but not quite so loudly, as the driver has pulled the lever back and the steam goes up with less force through the chimney: working quietly. Away, away, on our iron steed through Ealing and Hanwell—across the viaduct over the River Brent, which runs to Brentford—past the pretty church and the dull lunatic asylum, and so on to Slough, which is passed in twenty-three minutes after quitting Paddington. Then we reach Taplow, and have just fifty-five miles to do within the hour. "Crimea" rushes across the Thames below Maidenhead, with a parting roar, but we shall meet the river again soon, and run alongside it, by picturesque Pangbourne, Goring, and Moulsford.

Are we stopping? No, we are only just slackening for Reading. But we cannot wait. The "Flying Dutchman" has only done about thirty-six of his seventy-seven miles; he has been forty-two minutes already, and has got forty-five minutes left to reach Swindon. A long shriek, and Reading is behind us; then the river flashes out between the trees.

Hurrah! Hurrah! Didcot with its Banbury cakes and tumble-down station is passed. Hurrah for the "Flying Dutchman," running easily and smoothly, sixty miles an hour, well within himself. He is not tired, he does not pant or whistle, he goes calmly, swiftly along.... Here is Swindon—what o'clock is it? Look! Twelve minutes past one! "Crimea" is punctual to the minute. Well done, "Dutchman!"

Good-bye, "Crimea," we are going to see your friends in the shops; we are going to hear some anecdotes of your powers, and your friends' speedy runs or adventures. We are going to be introduced to "Lightning," "Inkerman," and the "Morning Star," the first engine made for the railway by George Stephenson.

At the works we are courteously received and conducted to the various shops devoted to the manufacture of the engines and carriages—the wheels, whistles, rails, cranks, and cylinders, and everything else connected with the rolling-stock, which brings in money to the shareholders, and proves that if "a rolling stone gathers no moss," rolling-stock does in plenty. Here we find young gentlemen who are pupils and apprentices at work learning mechanical engineering, and how to make the future "Flying Dutchmen" and "Zulus."

We see the old "nine feet" Bristol and Exeter engines, and are told how one once went off the line with the "Dutchman" long ago; but it was a trifling accident. Our "Dutchman," though he flies, is pretty safe; and runs free from accident. We see an engine whose boiler burst the other day, but fortunately hurt no one much. This engine looks very much ashamed of itself in the shed, and has had to submit to a severe operation to put it right again, which, perhaps, will be a lesson to it in future.

Then we go under the engines and see the machinery, which works so easily; and then we sit down, and ask the driver whether any adventures have happened with the "Flying Dutchman."

"Nothing particular; but I can tell you a story about the railway which will amuse you. It happened several years ago—but I won't tell you where exactly, sir."

"Let us hear the tale," we said.

"It was in my father's time, before I was a driver, that it happened. An aunt of mine—a youngish woman then—was travelling by the G. W. R. ('Great Way Round' they used to call us), when a young man entered the carriage, where she was sitting alone, and asked where the train stopped first. This was (say) at Paddington. My aunt said 'Reading' was the first station, and the train immediately started.

"'Excuse me, ma'am,' said the gentleman; 'but will you oblige me by cutting my hair a little.'

"My aunt thought the man was mad, but being alarmed by his manner, consented.

"Then the young man changed his coat, his collar, his waistcoat, and tie. He put on a pair of spectacles, and when my aunt dared to look at him he was for all the world like a clergyman—an elderly gentleman in spectacles!

"'Now,' said he; 'you must promise to be quiet, and never contradict me. If you do you will rue it.' So my aunt—she was young then—promised, and before they reached Reading the train was stopped. A guard and a constable came up, and looked into every carriage.

"'Have you the tickets, dear?' said the man to my aunt.

"'All right, sir,' said the guard. 'We don't want to disturb you at all. We are looking for some one else.'

"The train went on, but the 'old' clergyman, as he seemed, left the train at Reading. He had committed forgery, but by disguising himself, escaped. 'Clever rogue,' was he not?"

By the time we had heard this tale we were at Swindon Station again waiting for the "Zulu," for we are bound for Bath and Bristol. Here it comes just as the other train came, very punctually. We take a farewell of our friend, and as we pass the shops on our way, we jot down in our note-book what we have seen, and some of our pleasant experiences of the "Flying Dutchman."



Mornings at the Zoo.

MORNINGS AT THE ZOO.

VI.—THE STORK FAMILY.

Whatever they may be in their native countries, the Storks at the Zoological Gardens, London, are lone and melancholy birds. They seem to take their pleasure sadly—as was once said of the English folk—but they look so much like very wise and profound philosophers that perhaps they view life gravely because they have themselves realised in their own experience how serious a matter it is. In the Gardens they appear to lead a hermit's existence. They are treated with severe neglect by the bulk of the visitors, though possibly they consider the respect of an occasional distinguished Royal Academician of greater value than the homage of an indifferent multitude.

Yet in other lands than ours the Stork family is held in high honour. In many parts of the Continent they are encouraged to build their nests in chimneys, steeples, and trees near dwellings. Indeed, as an inducement to them to pitch their quarters on the houses, boxes are sometimes erected on the roofs, and happy is the household which thus secures the patronage of a stork. Some of the people among whom they sojourn during the warm summer days regard the presence of the bird as a kind of safeguard against fire. And as an illustration of their love for their young, a story is told of a stork which, rather than desert its helpless offspring during a conflagration in Delft, in Holland, remained heroically by their side and perished with them in the flames.



In Morocco and in Eastern countries also storks are looked upon as sacred birds. And with good reason, for they render very useful service both as scavengers and as slayers of snakes and other reptiles. In most of the towns a storks' hospital will be found. It consists of an enclosure to which are sent all birds that have been injured. They are kept in this infirmary—which is generally supported by voluntary contributions—until they have regained health and strength. To kill a stork is regarded as an offence. In Sweden also the stork is held as holy, there being a legend in that country to the effect that this bird flew around the cross of Christ, crying "Styrka!" "Styrka!" ("Strengthen!" "Strengthen!") But, as Dr. Brewer points out, this tradition clashes with fact, inasmuch as stork's have no voice. For the valuable offices which they perform in the removal of garbage they are, in some countries, protected by law. At one time the White Stork was a pretty common bird in England, where it helped the farmers by clearing the soil of noxious insects. It disappeared, however, partly because it was subjected to a good deal of persecution, but mainly because an improved method of agriculture took away its occupation.

In India the stork's cousin is called the Adjutant, and a very appropriate name it is. It is a familiar figure in most of the towns and villages where its scavenging is of the greatest use. But the adjutant is not endowed with so much wisdom as we should naturally expect such a serviceable bird to possess. The following notes about an adjutant's curious ways have been sent to the Editor of LITTLE FOLKS by a lady in Calcutta, and will be read with interest.

"When the rainy season comes in Calcutta, the adjutants are soon seen resting on one leg on the house-tops, kneeling in all kinds of funny places, or stalking very grandly through the wet grass. Sometimes in the dim lamp-light they look as they stand about on the edge of the flat roofs like stiff, badly-arranged ornaments, and sometimes ten or twelve settle on some tree, when it seems as if their heavy bodies must weigh it down.

"They do not often come in numbers into the gardens of houses or the outskirts of the town, but one was a very faithful visitor for a little while in the neighbourhood of a house which was not at all central. This house has a garden or compound, as Indians would say, which is connected by a gate with a large square containing a large tank. There are many of these tanks, in appearance like ponds or reservoirs at home, about Calcutta and the neighbourhood. The natives fetch water to drink from all, and in some they bathe and wash clothes. The tank now to be described is enclosed by a wall with gates to the main road and into the compounds of houses which come up to it. Round the tank is a broad gravel-walk, and on either side the walk grows long rank grass. Frogs abound in this grass, and crickets come out of holes in the ground, and make a terrible whistling at night. For some time no adjutants appeared in this tank square to feast on the rich supply of frogs; but at last one day an adjutant was seen walking down the grass. With self-important step and craning his long neck forward, he came slowly on, hurrying a little when some frightened frog foolishly made a hop out of his way. At last he reached a gate leading into one of the private compounds, and there he paused. What he saw inside no one can guess, as the grass is kept short; and except in one corner far, far away from the gate, there were not half the fine fat frogs that Mr. Adjutant might have found on his own side of the gate. Whatever he saw, certainly the bird longed to get through. He poked his head through the bars as far as he could on one side, took two steps to the other and tried that, back again to the first, and so on, till that foolish, foolish bird had walked twenty times to and fro. Then he went off in a huff, and stood on one leg near the tank till dark, when it is to be hoped he recovered his temper. About the same hour next day back came the adjutant to repeat his yesterday's performance, except that he walked slowly round the tank instead of standing on one leg when he found it a failure. Perhaps he was thinking the thing over. He did not think to much purpose, for day after day for more than a week back came the adjutant to walk like a soldier on duty up and down, up and down, poking his head through the bars each time. Sometimes he did it a score of times, sometimes only two or three. After ten days he disappeared. Where is he? Has he gone to find a blacksmith among the adjutants? or have his brother adjutants had him shut up till he has sense to know the best way for a bird with wings is, not to try to get through narrow bars, but to fly over the top?"

Unlike its white cousin, the Black Stork rather avoids the society of man, frequenting solitary places and building its nest on the very top of the very tallest trees. It is really, however, not an unamiable bird, as was proved by Colonel Montagu in the case of one which he managed to catch by means of a slight wound in the wing, and which lived with him for upwards of a year. It used to follow its feeder about, and displayed a most inoffensive disposition. With other birds it was on terms, of peace, and goodwill, never threatening them with its big, strong bill. An excellent angler, its skill in capture was seen to greatest advantage when it had to encounter an unusually slippery eel.

Canon Tristram observed black storks among the shallows of the Dead Sea, to which their prey was brought down by tributary streams. Surely no picture more suggestive of utter solitude could be imagined than this of the black storks, lovers of loneliness, fishing on the silent shores of the Dead Sea.

JAMES A. MANSON.



The Children's Own Garden.

THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN IN JULY.



July being generally the hottest month of the year, plenty of water is an important thing in connection with Gardening, and as we have previously recommended, apply it right and left, to shrubs, grass, trees, flowers, and walks. It is most important for the leaves and stems of plants to be perfectly free from dust and dirt, as this is one of the very first steps to securing a strong, healthy, and vigorous growth. A writer once described the pleasure in dry weather of attaching a hose to a main and sending a stream of water over and on to the tops of the young trees and shrubs as well worth 100 pounds a year to any lover of Nature. A great drawback to town gardens, or gardens situated near crowded thoroughfares, is that the plants there grown are almost invariably smothered with dust: under such circumstances successful gardening becomes simply a matter of impossibility, as hardly any plants will thrive, or even live, under such conditions. A proper site is, therefore, a matter of primary importance.

* * * * *

There is, however, plenty of work, other than watering, to be done this month. Seed of a great number of plants should now be saved and carefully placed in dry cool places until the time arrives for sowing them. Cuttings of a multitude of perennials ought now to be secured and immediately planted: those of such important plants as chrysanthemums, pansies, snapdragons, stocks, and wallflowers, in particular; divisions of auriculas and polyanthuses may now be made. If a cold frame be available, utilise the same by keeping cuttings of the very hardy sorts in it until they have thoroughly rooted, and transfer them to the open border. Less hardy plants will need a protection of some sort through the winter, and few things are more suitable for such a purpose than a frost-proof frame, where air can be plentifully given every time the state of the weather admits.

* * * * *

Dahlias will be now coming into full glory, and as the first three or four flowers are usually worthless, cut them off before they fully expand. Hollyhocks may now be frequently supplied with liquid manure. Rose-trees will require looking after: give them plenty of rich food, and, when the "perpetual" flowering section has done blooming, cut back each shoot to about two or three buds from its base. Small pieces of grass will periodically need mowing, and this ought to be done with a proper mowing-machine, as a pair of shears invariably causes an irregular and jagged after-growth. All unsightly vegetation, such as dead leaves or flowers, dried up stems, &c., must be promptly removed; weeds ought not to be allowed to grow a second pair of leaves—much less to flower—before being exterminated. Trailing and climbing plants, especially roses, will need careful attention, and keeping within bounds: straggly or weakly shoots must be at once cut away.

* * * * *

The most important requirement just now in the kitchen-garden is water: during hot weather completely saturate the ground with it. July is not a very brisk month in the Children's Kitchen-garden; however, seeds of such useful salads as lettuce and radish may still be sown; and a few dwarf French beans can be put in if there is sufficient room. By sowing a small quantity of the early sorts of peas, it is just possible to obtain a fair crop, and particularly so if the autumn holds fine.

* * * * *

It may not be amiss to make a few remarks as regards gathering fruit, flowers, and vegetables, as this is a much more important matter than is usually thought. In gathering such salads as cress or mustard, and fruit of every sort, an absolute rule is to exercise the utmost care; and such "telltales" as broken branches, mutilated stems, and salads—cress, for example—entirely up-rooted, will at once proclaim a slovenly method of gardening. This, above all things, must be avoided. Skilful gardeners, whether amateur or professional, will sever a flower with so much care that its parent plant will scarcely be seen to shake whilst undergoing the operation. In gathering peas, most people tug and pull at these as if anxious to see how much strength the pods can possibly bear. In this instance, as in others where the same carelessness is employed, the plants get severely disturbed, and a consequent short crop is put down to the score of bad seed. Neatness, order, and care are principles of great moment in Gardening.



A SUMMER HOUR.



A wide expanse of yellow sand, A breeze so fresh and free, Which, gently rippling, scarcely wakes The calm and tranquil sea.

Beneath the clear and shining wave Bright shells and sea-weeds lie, Reflecting all the golden light Of the sweet summer sky.

And many a crystal pool is there, Where hermits lurk below, And restless shrimps in coat of mail Flash swiftly to and fro.

A noon-day hush is over all, Unbroken by a sound; Till ... sudden peals of baby mirth Wake all the echoes round.

'Tis here the children love to come, On the bright sand to lie, Or in the gleaming water hold Their mimic revelry.

Oh, happy hearts! those gladsome day Upon the golden shore Will linger on in memory still, A joy for evermore.

D. B. MCKEAN.



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

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

"I should like my little pupils to learn to roast meat to-day," said Mrs. Herbert, as she entered the kitchen where the children were waiting for her.

"You will let it be beef, though, won't you?" said Margaret. "If we have to cook meat we might as well cook the best kind of meat there is."

"You consider beef the best kind of meat then, do you?" said Mrs. Herbert.

"Oh, yes! I should think every one does. Father says there is nothing like the roast beef of old England."

"English people generally like roast beef, I know," said Mrs. Herbert. "Indeed, they have been so accustomed to take pains with it, that now it is often said that English cooks roast well, if they do nothing else well."

"It seems to me that there is nothing to do in roasting meat," said Margaret. "The fire does all the work; we put the meat down to the fire, and in a little time we take it up, and it is done."

"But the right kind of fire for roasting is not always made up in any kitchen," said Mrs. Herbert. "The first thing which the cook who intends to roast has to see after is the fire; and she ought to make it ready quite an hour before she puts the meat down."

"Oh dear, what a trouble!" said Margaret.

"Please, ma'am, I know how to make up a fire for roasting," said Mary. "I have done it many a time for my aunt."

"Then tell us what you know about it," said Mrs. Herbert.

"The fire must be a good size, larger than the meat which is to be roasted before it. The cinders and dust must be cleared thoroughly away from the bottom of the range, the live hot coals must be pushed to the front, and the space at the back which is made empty must be filled up with knobbly pieces of coal packed closely together, though not so closely that the air cannot get through. The hearth must be swept up tidily, and the cinders, mixed with a little damped coal-dust, must be put at the back on the knobbly pieces of coal, and that is all."

"Very good indeed, Mary," said Mrs. Herbert, "you evidently know all about this part of the business."

"But I don't see the good," said Margaret. "Why do we not make up the fire when we are ready for it? It would last all the longer."

"Because we want to have the fire clear and bright, not dull and smoky. It must be kept bright all the time too, and it must not be allowed to get hollow in places. Can you tell us, Mary, what you are to do if the fire needs to be mended before the joint is finished?"

"The live coal must be drawn to the front, ma'am, gently, so as not to let any cinders go into the dripping-tin," said Mary. "But we ought not to let the fire need mending; we must watch it and keep putting cinders and pieces of coal on to keep it up."

"You see now, Margaret, how important it is to have the right kind of fire," said Mrs. Herbert. "Have you heard that red meat which is to be roasted should hang for a while before being cooked?"

"At any rate I have heard people say 'This meat is not tender; it has not been hung long enough.'"

"Just so. It is very important that red meats which are to be roasted should be left to hang till tender. When we have a cool airy larder, we can hang meat for ourselves, when there is no such larder the butcher will hang it for us. The time which the meat must hang depends upon the weather. In dry cold weather it may hang a long time—two or three weeks—but in hot weather it must be quickly cooked, or it will not keep. In frosty weather, too, it should be put in a warm kitchen for some hours before being roasted, or it will not be tender."

"What do you mean by red meats, ma'am?"

"I mean, Mary, meats red in colour when cut, such as beef, mutton, and game. What are called white meats, such as veal, lamb, and pork, will not keep, and they therefore have to be cooked when fresh. Can either of you tell me what is the first thing to be done when you are going to roast meat?"

The little girls thought for a minute, then Mary said, "When we were going to boil the leg of mutton we weighed it, that we might know how long we were to let it simmer."

"Quite right, Mary. So you must do with this piece of beef. Weigh it and then allow for roasting a quarter of an hour for every pound, and a quarter of an hour over. If the joint is thick and solid we allow twenty minutes to the pound. In fact, we should always have a little consultation with ourselves before we begin to roast, and say to ourselves, 'Is this meat solid and thick with little bone, or is it thin and small?'"

"How long must we give the sirloin of beef?"

"A quarter of an hour to the pound and a quarter of an hour over. Cook is now going to put down the dripping-tin and screen for us. I should like you to watch her and then try to remember what is necessary. Do you notice that she puts a large slice of dripping into the pan first thing?"

"What is that for?" said Margaret. "I thought the dripping dropped from the fat."

"So it will in a little time, but we want some hot fat to baste the meat with immediately. If we put a slice in the tin a few minutes before the meat is hung on the hook, the fat will melt and be ready for our purpose. Never wash the meat before roasting it. If you do, it will not brown properly, and the juices will be drawn out. Some cooks are very particular to wash meat, and they say that it is dirty not to do so, for we never know by whom meat has been handled. For my part I never feel uneasy about meat which has been bought of a good butcher. If I had any doubt on the subject I should wipe it well, but not wash it."

"The dripping is quite melted now, mother. Shall we hang the meat on the hook, and wind up the jack?" said Margaret.

"Yes, dear; wind the jack before you put the meat up. In hanging the meat recollect to put the thickest part downwards, because the heat of the fire will be greatest at the bottom. Be careful, too, to pass the hook through a secure place where there is little juice, for the flesh will give way with cooking, and if you do not provide for this your joint may fall into the pan. Do you recollect that when we were boiling meat we first plunged the meat into boiling water to harden the albumen on the outside so as to make a case to keep in the juices."

"We cannot do that now, though," said Mary.

"We can do something of the same sort. If we put the meat close to the fire and baste it with hot fat for a few minutes at the beginning we shall harden the outside. Then we may draw it back and roast it more slowly till done. Above all things, however, we must be careful to baste it well. Stand at one side of the fire, take the fat up carefully with the basting-spoon, and pour it over the lean part of the meat. The basting-spoon will not become too hot if you put it in a plate by the side, not in the tin. If you baste the meat well, it will not shrink or become dry and hard, it will be juicy and savoury, and it will be a good rich brown colour."

"How quickly the fat melts!" said Mary. "There is plenty of dripping in the pan now."

"We will pour a little of the dripping away shortly, for we want to have it a good colour," said Mrs. Herbert. "If we let it remain too long before the fire it will be burnt and discoloured."

Very patiently and for a long time the little girls basted the roasting joint, and at last they were rewarded by seeing it take a rich brown colour.

"In another quarter of an hour the beef will be roasted enough, ma'am," at length said Mary, looking at the clock.

"It smells as if it would taste all right, does it not?" said Margaret.

"Now we must prepare for the gravy. Cook has put the dish for the meat and the plates where they will get hot, for little girls cannot see after everything. In this small saucepan is a little stock made by stewing two or three bones and scraps (with no fat whatever), a sprig of parsley, a few rings of onion, which have been fried till brown, an inch of celery, and five or six peppercorns in water. I do not know whether you noticed that this stock has been stewing by the side of the fire ever since we came into the kitchen; I have skimmed it every now and then, and covered it closely again."

"I noticed it," said Margaret. "I thought it would turn out to be for something which we wanted."

"It is for gravy. You see it is a rich deep brown colour, gained from the browned onion. We must strain this gravy, put a little salt with it, let it boil, then unhook the joint, pour a couple of table-spoonfuls of this gravy into the dish, put the rest into a gravy tureen, and serve at once. There will be plenty of gravy altogether, if we use that which is in the tureen and the dish as well. Besides, our joint has been well basted, and is not dry, so gravy will run from the meat into the dish."

"Can't we make gravy from the dripping-tin?"

"We should have had to do so if there had been no stock," said Mrs. Herbert. "In that case we should pour out the fat from the tin very gently and carefully till we come to the brown sediment at the bottom. We should mix with the sediment a breakfast-cupful of boiling water, and scrape, with the spoon, any little brown dried specks of gravy there might be. When we had obtained as much gravy as possible we should strain it into a saucepan and keep it hot till the meat was quite ready."

"I am sure father will enjoy this roast beef," said Margaret.

"I hope and think he will," said Mrs. Herbert. "Beef roasted in this way before the fire is most excellent. It is, however, not nearly so common as it once was, for with the stoves and kitcheners now in use, it is easier to bake, or, as it is called, to roast meat in the oven. I therefore wanted you to understand the best way of roasting meat, and you shall next learn how to roast it in the oven."

(To be continued.)



HOW PAULINA WON BACK PETER.

A FAIRY STORY.

"Bravo! bravo! bravo!"

It was a tiny voice that spoke, sweet and clear as a nightingale's; but it was not a nightingale. It was a large brown and scarlet butterfly, with a dash of purple in its wings.

The mannikins paused in their gambols, and one made a bow, whilst another skipped up the scarlet runner that had suddenly shot up out of the ground, and twined in and out in fantastic knots, and brought himself to a level with the butterfly.

"If you had but wings!" added the butterfly.



"Wings, ah yes! how we should like them! Then we'd fly so high, so high, Turning somersaults, and fluttering Like——a graceful butterfly."

"Now," continued the mannikin, "as you are an emperor, I really think that you might order some wings for us. What do you say?"

"A Red Emperor," observed the butterfly; "but after all there's not much in it. It is, you see, all in the name. And I haven't really any power whatever to give wings or anything else. For you must know that I am under orders myself."

The mannikin looked at the Red Emperor in surprise.

"And you an Emperor?" said he. "Hasn't this scarlet runner sprung up so that we might run up it to speak to you?"

"That may or may not be," began the Emperor. "But——"

II.

"But what?"

No, the Red Emperor was not speaking now. Somehow the butterfly and the mannikins had got into the book that Paulina was reading to Peter.

Peter was sitting up in bed; he had also a book in his hand, and he threw it down and sprang out of bed, crying out—

"But what a splendid butterfly!"

"Oh, your sprained ankle, Peter!" cried Paulina.

But Peter was at the window, in fact, half out of it; and his left ankle, which was bound up with bandages, suddenly appeared to be quite as free from pain as his right ankle, which had nothing whatever the matter with it, and he leaned over the window-sill, murmuring—

"Dancing, prancing. Flitting, glancing, Now retreating, now advancing, Wait, and I will come to you, Through the window, through, through, through."

"Oh, Peter! how can you?" said Paulina.

But Peter was gone, and when Paulina looked out of the window, she could see neither him, nor the mannikins, nor the scarlet runner.

Of course she could not, for they were not there. Where had they gone? oh where? oh where?



III.

"Never mind, Paulina; it is a warm summer day."

Was it the great butterfly who spoke? No one else was near, and he was sunning himself among the elder blossoms.

"Ho, ho, ho! away they go, High and low, swift and slow, Over and over, heels over head, Peter and all the mannikins red."

Paulina now listened breathlessly.

"That is to say, the mannikins have red jackets and caps, and they are rolling along so fast, with Peter in the midst of them, that you will find it quite impossible to overtake them."

"Are you speaking to me?" said Paulina.

"Of course I am. Can't you hear what I am saying? I am the Red Emperor."

"Then please, good Mr. Red Emperor, fly away, and tell Peter to come home again."

"I am an Emperor," replied the butterfly, "and I cannot be ordered by a little girl. You must get back Peter yourself."

"But I can't see Peter. Where is he?"

"He's out of sight, oh quite! oh quite! And up in cloudland such a height! He's in a state of much delight, But you must get him home ere night."

"But I can't get to cloudland."

"Of course not, you're much too heavy."

Paulina began to cry.

"If you make such a dreadful noise I shall fly away. Otherwise I shall stay, and tell you what to do in order to get Peter back."

"I will do anything in the world," said Paulina; "whatever you tell me to do I will at once do."



"There is but one thing to do—you must become an artist."

"That is impossible," sobbed Paulina. "What shall I do? What shall I do?"

"Take off that prim little cap. Tie up your hair with black ribbon, and put on a blouse. Then you will be an artist."

"But I've never learned to draw."

"Pooh!" said the Red Emperor.

IV.

Paulina did not know where she was or how she came there, but she found herself before a wall on which hung a scroll with a face roughly sketched upon it. Paulina had a stick with a bit of chalk at the end of it in her hand, and she did not know whether she had drawn the face or not.

"Perhaps I did," said she. "I think it is a likeness of the moon."

"Pooh!" answered a voice.

Paulina knew that it was not the Red Emperor, for he had flown away. She looked round, but there was no one to be seen. Still the voice went on speaking—

"It's the sun but just begun; When it's done there will be fun. Mannikins in red and blue, Will bring something good for you."

"Who are you? where are you?" asked Paulina. "And do you know anything of Peter? He went with the mannikins."



"Yes, up in the clouds with them. I saw him. The clouds were drifting hither and thither, and he could not keep steady upon them, so he tumbled down to the earth again."

"Oh dear! Oh dear! What a fall he must have had!"

Paulina heard a curious whistling, crackling laugh that seemed to go off in gusts: puff, puff! blow, blow, blow! phew, phew! And then it subsided into a gentle whistle.

"It's nothing to laugh at," said Paulina. "He'll catch cold, and he must be very much hurt."

"No he isn't; he has hurt some one else instead. I saw him standing over the boy that he had knocked down."

"He was always fighting," murmured Paulina.

"And he had on a full suit of blue clothes," said the voice, "and striped stockings and a white collar."

"Blue! That's his best suit. How did he get it?"

"I don't know everything," replied the Wind, for it was the Wind who was speaking to Paulina; "but

I boxed his ears, and ruffled his hair, And left him standing astonished there."

"Oh!" ejaculated Paulina. "How can I get him home again?"

The Wind whistled for a short time, and then answered—

"By getting a palette, and brushes, and paint, and canvas, and becoming an artist. What is the use of wearing a blouse and long stockings, and having your hair tied with black ribbon, if you are not going to be an artist?"

V.

The Wind had gone away, the scroll with the sun's face drawn upon it had vanished, and Paulina was not where she had been a few moments before. She did not know where she was, and everything seemed to be going the wrong way; but she saw the Red Emperor resting upon a rosebush, so she felt that she was not without a friend.

"I've been waiting for hours," said the Red Emperor testily, "and so has the easel, also the paints and palette; and the canvas is stretched and the sketch made. You have nothing to do but to mount up to your seat, and fill in with colours. Shade away, beginning at the left corner, and make haste."

Paulina looked at the canvas, upon which was the outline of a figure reclining upon a rock. She was going to say she could not shade it, when the Red Emperor said sternly—

"No nonsense! Mount to the seat and paint as fast as you can, for if the painting is not finished before the stars come out, Peter will never come home again."

Paulina scrambled up; she took the palette in one hand, the brush in the other, and began to put on the colour as fast as she could. She did not take any pains, but dabbed away, beginning in the left-hand corner. She scarcely looked at what she was doing; but somehow or other it answered, and the picture progressed rapidly. Paulina herself was surprised, but she knew that she must lose no time, for the stars were only waiting for the twilight.

"The evening star, oh! don't let it come," said a very tiny little voice, that sounded like Peter's, a long way off; and it went on saying—

"Oh, Paulina! I have been a Naughty boy, I know. Don't look up and don't look down, dear, On with the painting go."



"I should be dizzy if I looked down: I'm so very high up," answered Paulina; "but I should like to know where you are, Peter."

"Never mind where he is," said the Red Emperor, "so that he is somewhere; that is enough for you. He is not far off. You will descend as the picture draws near completion, and at the last stroke of your brush you will see him. Obey me, or Peter will vanish away, and you will never see him again."

Again Peter's voice was heard—

"Yes, I'm near you, but I've grown very small; the Wind shook me about till I was only half the size I ought to be, just for knocking down a boy who came in my way. Go on, Paulina; paint away, make no delay, or I shall have to go away."

And the Red Emperor also said, "Go on."

VI.

And Paulina went on with her work. Her palette was almost clean, so thoroughly had she used up all the colours upon it, and the painting only wanted a few more touches, which she added carefully. Then she drew a little backward to take a view of her picture. She closed her eyes for a moment, the better to consider the subject, and when she opened them, the picture, the easel, the palette, and brushes had disappeared, and she was standing in a garden where roses and lilies and red carnations were growing, and fountains were sending up cool white spray. The Red Emperor was there also.

And beside Paulina there stood Peter himself.

"I am my proper size again," said he. "It's been all a very wonderful journey, and I've seen wonderful sights."

Paulina kissed him, saying—

"Peter, let us happy be With one another; Henceforth be content with me, Little brother."

"Of course he must be content," said the Red Emperor severely.

"Of course he must," echoed the Wind, "if not, I shall whirl him away to the top of a mountain."



"Of course he must," said two mannikins who suddenly appeared in sight, rolling and pushing along what seemed to Paulina to be the half of a large orange.

Not that it was anything of the sort.

"It's a casket of gold From the caverns old, Where the dwarfs are working for ever. All that it doth hold, If you should be told, Oh! would you believe it? no, never!"

And one of the mannikins tumbled over it, and turned somersaults, and rolled it up to Paulina.

And then the Wind whispered very softly to her—

"Little maid, I told you true, Mannikins in red and blue Would bring something good for you If the painting well were done Ere the setting of the sun."

"Yes, yes," said Paulina; "it's all true; but the painting's gone, and it all seems like a dream; and I've got Peter back, and his ankle's well. But how did he get his blue suit?"

But that neither the Red Emperor nor the Wind told her; neither did Peter, for when she asked him the question he only said—

"I don't know!"

JULIA GODDARD.



The Natural Bridge, Virginia.

The two greatest natural curiosities—if one may use the phrase in this connection—in North America are the Falls of Niagara and the Natural Bridge in Virginia. A picture of the latter will be seen in our new heading. It is an arch cut, so to speak, out of the rock, and stands upwards of two hundred feet above the ground below. How it originated has been a kind of puzzle, some urging that the rock was hollowed by an earthquake, others that the bridge is the result of the action of water. Unfortunately for these conjectures no ruins are to be seen beneath. The bridge has formed the scene of several hair-breadth escapes.

The Colossus of Rhodes.

The city of Rhodes is situated on the island of that name, which lies some twelve miles from the coast of Asia Minor. It was founded four hundred years before the birth of Christ, and, among other things, was noted for its Colossus—pictured in our heading—which was reckoned to be one of the Seven Wonders of the ancient world. The Colossus was a gigantic statue in brass of Helios, or the Sun, and stood at the entrance of one of the ports. It was 105 feet high. According to one belief—which, however, is now abandoned—the Colossus bestrode the harbour, one foot resting upon a pier at one side, the other upon a pier at the other, while the figure itself was so lofty that ships in full sail could pass underneath the outstretched legs. Sixty years after it was built it was thrown down by an earthquake.

Chinese Palanquins.

A favourite mode of travelling in China and other countries of the East is by palanquin, which is a kind of wooden box, about twice as long as it is high, with shutters and other appliances to make it comfortable. The palanquin is carried by porters—just as in the drawing given above. The vehicle is furnished inside with a mattress—on which the traveller reclines—and cushions, and is also fitted with shelves and drawers. Travelling is continued day and night. There are different kinds of palanquins, some resembling the sedan chairs that used to be fashionable in England.

The Flamingo.

This queer bird—also shown in the heading above—is found in the tropical and temperate regions of the globe, and frequents marshes and shallow lakes. In deep water flamingoes swim, but they prefer to wade, for then they can bend down their necks and rake the bottom with their peculiar-shaped bill in search of food. Flocks of these birds, with their red plumage, when seen from a distance, have been likened by observers to troops of soldiers.

"God's Providence House."

The house represented in the new heading, and bearing the above quaint name, is situated in Chester, a city famed for its picturesque old buildings. It is built of timber and brick, and upon the beam supporting the second floor is carved "God's Providence is mine Inheritance, 1652." It is supposed that Chester was visited with plague in that year, and that this house was the only one which escaped the pestilence. Hence arose the pious inscription of the grateful tenant.

An Ancient Monster.

Once upon a time, so long ago that I cannot tell when, strange creatures lived on land and sea. They have all died out now, but their bones are sometimes found in a fossil state, and by means of them scientific men have been able to construct, or piece together, as it were, these old-world monsters. You will see the picture of one of them in the new Pocket-book heading. It is called by the long name "Ichthyosaurus"—a Greek term meaning "fish-reptile." This animal was a huge creature something like a crocodile, with four paddles and a tail, and its native element was water. It had a large head with big eyes, and its jaws were well filled with terrible teeth. It possessed features in common with fishes as well as with reptiles, and hence its compound name.

Arabs of the Soudan.

Little folk who read their newspapers know something of the dauntless courage of the Soudanese Arabs. The Soudan is a desert of vast extent, partly bordering upon the boundaries of Upper Egypt. It is inhabited by wandering Arabs and some other peoples. They are, most of them, quite fearless, and even when opposed to British forces have shown a courage worthy of their foes. Armed—like the one drawn in our heading—with spear and shield—for but a few of them owned rifles and fired them unskilfully—they rushed again and again right up to the serried ranks of the British soldiers. These Arabs have several vices, but no one has denied them the highest degree of bravery.

A Lesson in Charity.

It is related of the late Mr. Peter Cooper, an American benefactor, that he was one day watching the pupils in the portrait class connected with the Women's Art School of Cooper Institute. About thirty pupils were engaged in drawing likenesses of the same model from various points of view—some in profile, some full face, some nearer and others farther from the light, and so forth. After studying the scene for a while Mr. Cooper said, "Such a sight as this should be a lesson in charity, when we perceive how the same person may be so different, according to the way he is looked at by various people."