Chapter II

The tutor was a stern-looking gentleman in a suit of sombre tweed. He bade our hero, “Good-morning,” and then began to scold him for being late; there were Latin, English, and mathematical exercises to be gone through, and they would occupy much time. With a failing heart Johnny Grudge took up his book and looked at the page. Strangely enough to himself he could read it, and when Mr. Cramwell questioned him about it he could repeat it; but it made his head ache, and he felt sick and weary.

“If you please, may I have a little milk?” he asked; “or a little tea and jam——”

“Certainly not,” interrupted the tutor. “It is time, however, that you took your tonic.”

In answer to Mr. Cramwell’s summons, the man in the striped jacket appeared with a wineglassful of—oh, such nasty stuff! and Johnny was obliged to take it, every drop. Feeling very much the worse for his draught, the poor boy went on with his lessons till half-past seven, when his tutor in a terrible, frigid manner said, “Master Bertrand, it is the hour for your constitutional promenade.”

Johnny Grudge at first thought he was going to have a dose of something more nasty than had been given him before, but he soon learned that he was to accompany his teacher for a stroll in the gardens, and for this he was very glad; they were very beautiful—such beds of flowers, round, diamond, heart, and all sort of shapes, screened from the sun by grand, tall trees, whose leafy luxuriance formed natural groves where the birds perched and sang, to the soft music of a large fountain which splashed and flashed in millions of tiny jets.

Johnny’s first impulse was to dash off at a run when he found himself in the sunshine, but he was sharply rebuked by Mr. Cramwell for his “unpardonable vulgarity,” and forced to walk as solemnly as a mute at a funeral.

When the breakfast bell began to ring our little hero took courage at the thoughts of the wonderfully nice things there would be to eat. Visions of cold wild-duck, ham, pie, eggs, salmon, and jam, flitted before him; but, alas! he was wofully mistaken. All these things and more were on the table; but not for him. He had a bowl of bread and milk and nothing else, on account of his weak digestion. After breakfast there were more hard, dry lessons, accompanied by much severe rebuke, which made the time very dreary indeed. There was a French master, and a dancing master, and a fencing master, who hurt poor Johnny very much, because he couldn’t keep his right elbow in a line with his wrist during the exercise. Ere dinner-time came our hero’s head was ready to crack: it seemed to him to be made up of plates of red-hot iron welded together with boiling lead. Dinner! Only one dish—roast mutton, a piece of stale bread and a glass of water! Oh, how the young wood-cutter yearned for a slice of damper, mounted with a hunk of corned beef and an onion!

After dinner came the music master, and several other masters, and after that the white pony. But by this time Johnny was so sick and tired he begged hard that he might be allowed to go to bed. Mr. Cramwell would not hear of it. So the boy mounted the white pony he had coveted, saw a little girl, as weary as himself, on a cream-coloured pony, was escorted by the tall groom in livery astride a high steed, and felt most miserable.

As the lad rode on the highway where he was wont to journey with the old mare and dray, he saw his own very self, whistling and cracking his whip, and looking as happy as ever boy looked who had the sense to be contented with health and strength. What would he not have given to jump oft the pony’s back and be himself again! Oh, but he couldn’t do that! He had longed for the “wishing-cap,” and now he had it he must wear it!

As he rode onward he began to grumble and mutter as he had done before: “Why should I be shut up in a big house, and made to do this, that, and the other? Oh, I wish——”

He was going to wish that he was at home again with his grandfather; but he held his peace, and rode on with the little lady.

Returning to the mansion he was ushered into a state-room, where a lot of gentlemen in white waistcoats were eating fruit and drinking wine.

He had to stop there for about half an hour without speaking a word, and was regaled with one small bunch of grapes. At the end of that time he was taken away by the tutor, in whose presence he partook of a cup of milk and water with a piece of dry toast. Then he was sent to bed, as miserable as a bandicoot. In his sleep the fairy came to him once more.

“Mortal child,” he cried in his ears, “are you satisfied with the change in your life?”

“No, no, good fairy,” replied the sleeper faintly. “Take back the wishing-cap—let me be my own self again. Do, do!”

“Reflect, Johnny Grudge. You will have to work again, and wear poor clothing.”

“I don’t mind that now,” replied Johnny.

“And drive the old mare to market in the heat and dust,” continued the elfin.

“Send me back to grandfather and the old mare,” he cried pleadingly, “and you shall see I will never grumble again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Please try me, good fay.”

“But what about the white pony?”

“Bother the pony! I don’t want it.”

“And the tall groom?”

“He is a cruel fellow, and I never want to see him again, nor Mr. Cramwell either. Let me be myself again, dear fay! dear, kind fairy! Pray take me home again to good old grandad,” and the poor dreamer began to sob in his sleep.

“Enough,” responded the wee spirit in a kind tone. “The wishing-cap I will take again, and you shall return to your home and to your daily toil. Yet remember, boy, you shall resume your place here the moment you begin to grow dissatisfied. Let this lesson cure you of envy. People who ride white ponies, the same as those who ride in carriages, are no more exempt from care, toil, denial, and suffering than yourself. Learn contentment. It is a rare jewel, and better than fine clothing and white ponies. Ta-ta, Johnny.”

Poor little envious boy! The bitter disappointment he felt at finding out the truth of the old adage, “All that glitters is not gold,” was very keen in his heart. Yet the lesson had done him good, by showing him that we should be very miserable if we only had everything we wished for.

When the boy woke he found himself in his own poor crib within the hut; but Johnny felt very glad he was there. He rather surprised his grandfather by the willing manner in which he began to prepare for breakfast. And then he started off to look for the old mare. How light-hearted and free he felt, as he bounded away, a hop, skip, and a jump over the dewy grass, where the sun’s beams glinted as on a sea of gems!

The old horse felt amazed at the way Johnny caressed her and rubbed his cheek athwart her Roman nose. And indeed the boy felt as much amazed as any of them, and vowed to himself never to be discontented again; and Johnny Grudge kept his word.

TWO GIANTS.

The Blue Mountains of our neighbour New South Wales, are, it has been said, the metropolis of Elfland. On those grand cliffs are caves where grim giants lie in wait ready to be summoned by the fathers and mothers of naughty, disobedient children. Away down in the cool dells the fairies hold their councils and their balls, and many a merry frolic have they when the ghosts are asleep and snoring.

I am going to tell you about giants in this story—about two giants, one called Fog, and the other named Duty, and when the tale is finished, you shall tell me which of the giants you like best.

In one of the most lonesome valleys among the mountains lived Harry Podder, a little boy whose father was a poor selector. The selector, his wife, and their only child, were quite alone in their solitude; the dell which they occupied was shut in by high, rugged cliffs, upon whose steep sides grew dwarfed gum-trees, whose outstretched limbs appeared like the expanded wings of gigantic birds of prey, ready to swoop down upon the frail bark-dwelling beneath. Wild, weird, and fantastic was the scene. Here there was no school for Harry to go to, nor neighbours’ children for him to play with. The mother would take him out among the peaks and turrets, and teach him from the open page of Nature around them, until the mind of the lad became almost as strange and wild as his surroundings.

Many a wondrous tale did the fond parent invent as to what the torrent cried in its rushing, headlong course down the mountain side; and what the trees said, as they bent and whispered one to the other in the breeze; and where the clouds were going, and why the thick mists came to kill the flowers and enfold the highest spurs as with a winding sheet. Thus they were a poor but a very happy family.

But a dreadful winter came, which laid the selector on a bed of sickness, and he was very ill indeed. “Harry, my little son,” said his mother, “you must go to Ridgeford for the doctor.”

Ridgeford, the nearest township, was four miles distant, over a rough track across the hills, where lived the only medical man on the range. The boy hung his head, and she had to repeat her injunction.

“Ridgeford, mother! I can’t go. I’m afraid.”

“Afraid, Harry? Afraid of what?”

“Of the giants, mother.”

“Giants, boy? Why, there are no such beings as giants.”

“Oh, mother, but there is. Did you not show me the Giant Fog, that haunts our valley? Why, you and I have watched him take all kind of shapes to hide the sheep from us. He it was who led father into the river, and caused poor old ‘Possum’ here to fall from the cliff.”

“Possum” was a large kangaroo hound, who looked up into his young master’s face as his name was mentioned, and then began to frisk about him.

The mother appeared puzzled for a moment, and then said quietly,—

“Yes, I remember Giant Fog; but, Harry, I know a giant far more powerful than he. Go to the settlement for the doctor, and I will give you a letter to my giant, and he will surely help you even if Fog were to meet you on the way.”

So the mother took a sheet of paper and printed on it in large letters such as Harry could read, “Duty.”

Then she wrapped up the boy as warmly as she could, gave him a note for the doctor, and pinned the message to her giant on his breast. That done, she called “Possum,” the kangaroo hound, and bade him accompany his master.

Little Harry and the dog started off on their errand, while the woman attended to her sick husband. Towards afternoon a thick fog settled on the mountains, and the mother was heard to mutter, “Giant Fog will overtake my poor child, I fear.”

Many times did she go to the windows and look forth in the hope of seeing him and his faithful companion descending the cliff, but each time she was disappointed.

And where was our hero all this time? Such a road as that poor boy had to travel few little boys have ever seen, much less had to traverse alone.

Harry thought little of the road; he walked along bravely, quite proud of his journey, and, above all, his message to the Giant Duty. As he and Possum climbed the hill-side and looked down on many a rugged slope, he almost laughed and said, “I wonder if there are really such things as giants in the mountains after all?”

Arrived at the township the boy gave the letter to the doctor, who ordered some dinner for Harry, then started him and the dog homeward.

“I hope Giant Fog won’t catch us here, Possum,” cried the youngster, as he mounted the steep crags above Ridgeford in safety. But the words were hardly out of his mouth when both he and the dog were enveloped in a deep mist, whirling and eddying round, till the child was quite giddy and terrified. He put his hand to his breast, pressed the talisman his mother had given him, and cried out, “Duty!” Strange, Giant Fog seemed to clear out of the way for a moment, and they stumbled onward down the crest of the mountain; but it soon became evident to Harry that all shadow of the path was lost. Still the brave boy pursued his way, and when his spirits flagged and the dog whined he cried out, “Duty, Possum, Duty!”

At length they emerged out upon a ledge of ridges with deep ravines intervening. Below the fog looked inky black.

Our hero paused, and Possum rubbed himself against him and looked up whimpering in his face. “Never mind, old boy,” said Harry. “Even if this is the very castle of Giant Fog, we have Duty with us. On, Possum, on.”

The kangaroo hound drew back. The boy pressed forward, and in a moment he felt he was falling rapidly through the air.

How long poor Harry lay at the base of those cruel crags he could not say, but when he recovered consciousness the dog’s cold nose was against his cheek. When he attempted to rise from the ground he found one of his little arms hung useless at his side and sharp pains darted through every limb. The tears started to his eyes, for he was but a little fellow.

“Giant Fog has done us a bad turn, Possum; yet Giant Duty will help us all right,” he muttered, and fell back with a groan of pain.

The dark night fell o’er the mountains. Patiently the mother waited and watched for the return of her son. In her anxiety she was about to issue forth in quest of him when the doctor made his appearance.

“Where is Harry?” he inquired eagerly.

“Not come back yet.”

“No, I made all haste to overtake him, but the fog is so thick I have missed him on the way.”

While they were talking Possum dashed into the house, and without more ado began to tug at the dress of the woman with might and main, and with whines and barkings asked as plain as dog could ask for them to follow him.

The woman understood the mute appeal. Accompanied by the doctor they hastened after Possum, who led them over spurs and ridges to where lay his insensible boy-master.

Tenderly did the kind doctor lift the exhausted child, skilfully did he treat him, and faithfully did the mother nurse and tend him; but for weeks it was doubtful who was to have the victory—the good or the bad giant.

But at last one day Harry opened his eyes and said, “Mother, I hope the doctor came and made father well again?”

“Yes, my darling, the doctor has cured father.”

“I’m so glad, mother. Giant Fog was very cruel, but Giant Duty brought me home to you in spite of him; so if the doctor has made father well, it’s all right. Ah! Possum. Here, Possum, old boy!”

MOTHLAND.