Chapter I (2)

Five hundred years later another Emperor, of a practical turn of mind, ordered that music should follow the sense of the words, and be simple and free from affectation, and he appointed a censor to see that his instructions were carried out. The latter, 'Couci' by name, declared that when he played upon his 'king,' the animals ranged themselves before him spell-bound by his melody.

We hear elsewhere of another ancient musician of China, whose music was 'so sweet that the very stars drew near to listen.' Later on in the history of the world we find this idea of the effects of music on animals and stars entertained both in Greece and India. The attention of the starry bodies can only be regarded as a beautiful myth, but the writer of this paper personally tested the animal love of music some years ago, when surrounded by a formidable herd of wild cattle in the Rocky Mountains.

The instrument known as 'king,' from which Couci drew such delightful sounds, is of very ancient date, and is made of a stone called 'yu,' which is of many colours, and looks like marble, being probably a form of agate intermixed with iron. The wonderful clearness and purity of the tone are supposed to result from long exposure to the sun and air.

'Yu' is most valuable when of whey colour; then light blue, dark yellow, orange, dark red, and pale green follow in order of merit. In all the colours it is essential that the stones be free from streaks or flaws of any kind. One of the chief attractions of the 'king' is that it always retains its pitch, not being influenced by cold, heat, damp, or dryness.

In construction the 'king' consists of sixteen stones hung in two rows of eight in an ornamental frame. Nowadays these stones are cut in oblong shape of varying thickness, tuned by slicing narrow shavings off the back and ends; but in former days they were fashioned like fishes, animals, or other quaint devices. The art of making 'kings' was lost for many centuries, but about 32 B.C. a specimen was fished up from the bottom of a pond which served as a model, and now every temple of importance has its 'king,' just as every church with us has its organ of some kind or other.

A smaller instrument of the same kind is also used in religious ceremonies, the 'the king,' made of one large block of 'yu,' suspended from an upright. It is played like the real 'king,' by being struck with a special stick or plectrum, and the tone, though less varied than that of the larger instrument, is equally deep and full.

Another curious Chinese instrument is the 'ou,' which is made of wood, and fashioned like a crouching tiger. It is hollow, and along its back run metal teeth, which are played with a small stick or brush. The 'ou' stands on a hollow pedestal, also of wood, which serves as a sounding board and increases the tone.

HELENA HEATH.

ETHEL'S GOLDEN OFFERING.

'Granny,' said Ethel Day, one Sunday, 'there was a lady in our seat at church that I never saw before. She was not very grandly dressed, but she must have been as rich--as rich as the king.'

'Why do you think so, Ethel?' asked Granny, smiling at the child's eagerness.

'Because, when the plate was passed to her--for the collection, you know--she put in a piece of gold money--real gold, I am sure it was. Oh! I should like to be rich enough to give as much as that.'

Granny was silent for a minute or two; she seemed to be thinking of something pleasant. 'I know of a golden offering that my little Ethel could make, if she were willing,' she said presently.

'Tell me what it is then, Granny: I shall be sure to be willing,' cried Ethel.

'The money the lady gave,' went on Granny, 'was for the poor sick people in the hospital. Look out of the window, Ethel, and you will see another kind of gold--a kind not counted so precious, perhaps, but really quite as beautiful.'

Ethel looked out: she only saw the flowers in her own garden. Lovely autumn flowers they were, for Ethel's father was a gardener, and he often gave his little daughter choice roots, or cuttings, for her plot of ground. But Ethel was accustomed to the sight of her flowers: dear as they were to her, and yellow as gold though they might be, Granny surely did not mean to compare them with the lady's half-sovereign.

That was Granny's meaning, however. 'There is a sick woman in the village,' she told Ethel, 'who cannot go to the hospital. She is so ill that, although she may live many years, she can never be cured, and so they cannot take her in. Because her illness has lasted so long, people have almost forgotten to be kind to her. I have been thinking, Ethel, that if you could spare a bunch of your flowers for poor Mary Ansell, it would be a real golden offering.'

It was Ethel's turn to be quiet now; her flowers were her most cherished possessions, and to pick a good bunch for Mary Ansell would make her little garden look bare and shabby. Granny knew that; she knew that Ethel's flowers would, in their way, be quite as costly a gift as the lady's golden coin.

But she was not much surprised, on the following morning, to find the best and brightest of the blossoms gone, and when next she went to see Mary Ansell, the poor woman still had the flowers in a jug by her bedside.

'You cannot think how it cheered me up,' said the invalid. 'That dear little girl, with her bright face, and the posy in her hands, was like a sunbeam coming in. She did me as much good as a mint of money.'

'Ah!' thought Granny, who knew how much real self-sacrifice must have been in the gift, 'I felt sure that Ethel too could make a golden offering.'

C. J. BLAKE.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 11._)

'What will become of us if Thomas has gone away?' asked Estelle. 'Does the sea cover the beach very quickly? Will there be time for him to come back, or can we get away without him?'

'No, no,' cried Georgie, clinging to Marjorie; 'we can't go in the boat without Thomas! We shall all be drowned. Oh, I don't want to be---- '

'Shut up!' exclaimed Alan, impatiently. 'We are not drowned yet, and we are not going to be. You are frightening Estelle with your noise. It is all right, Estelle. Don't you be afraid. I can get the boat back all right with Marjorie's help if Thomas is not here in time. But there is no danger for an hour yet.'

'All the same, we had better find Thomas,' said Marjorie.

Neither she nor Alan had any serious belief in there being much mystery about Thomas's movements. They liked to imagine themselves in romantic positions, and were fond of weaving stories about any little event that attracted them. But the gardener's sudden disappearance, together with what Marjorie had seen in the cave, did seem strange.

'There's only one way of finding him,' remarked Alan, after he and Marjorie had stared at each other in silence for some moments. 'You see, he is nowhere in the cave. Now, what do you think has become of him?'

'Do you mean he has found a way up the cliff?' she asked, slowly, with what Alan called 'the pondering look' in her eyes. 'I wonder if he wanted to go into the woods when you saw him in the Wilderness, and if--if he has managed to get there now?'

'I never thought of that,' exclaimed Alan.

'If he has,' went on Marjorie, while Estelle and Georgie watched Alan anxiously, 'what do you mean by "only one way of finding him?"'

'Well,' returned Alan, hesitating as if his mind were not quite made up, 'we know of no path up, so there is nothing for it except to climb the cliff. I am sure I can do it, and who knows what I may find out?'

This proposal did not meet with favour from anybody. Marjorie declared it was impossible, and too dangerous to try--the cliff was far too steep. Alan and she could manage the boat quite well on a calm day. It would be less of a risk.

Estelle suggested they should go as far into the cave as possible--for Alan had told her that the end of it was above high-water mark--and remain there till the tide went down. It would certainly be very horrid, but it was better than going alone in the boat, or Alan trying to climb those terrible cliffs.

All her cousins laughed.

'It will be hours and hours before the tide is low again,' said Alan. 'Everybody would think we had come to grief, and there would be a pretty to-do. Aunt Betty would be wild, fancying you were lost. No, that will not do. It must be the cliff, and nothing but the cliff.'

Without waiting for further discussion, he went slowly along the beach, examining the great wall of rock. The other children followed, frightened into silence by his determined face and the dangers of the attempt. To Estelle there appeared to be no foothold possible in all that broad, dark surface; but Alan's keen eyes were not long in discovering a part which he might attack with some hope of success.

Pulling off his coat and tightening his belt, he took firm hold of the only projecting piece of rock he could find, and drew himself up to the first narrow ledge. There he paused to look back triumphantly, but such a row of anxious faces were staring up at him that he called out, impatiently, 'Now, do go and play. I am all right, and it is a jolly good thing to have a place to stand upon. Don't look at me all the time. You will make me nervous, and there will be an accident.'

But it was impossible for the other children to turn their eyes away as he crept up and up, hoisting himself by strength of arm in one place, seeking a foothold in another. Sometimes it appeared as if he were hanging literally by his fingers, and the lookers-on shuddered in terror lest he should fall. At other places he seemed to move along with more ease, and then they feared he would become careless.

It was well for Alan that his head was so steady, and that he did not attempt to glance down from the height he had already reached. Not for a moment would he dwell on the dangers of the ascent. Rather, he took a delight in matching himself against the stern rocks. With all his courage, however, it sometimes seemed to him as if his difficulties would never end. Three times he nearly as possible fell. The strength and fitness he had acquired in athletic sports and gymnasium at school stood him in good stead now.

Fortunately for him the ascent became far easier as soon as he got above high-water mark. The face of the precipice grew more and more uneven, offering greater support to his hands and feet, and by-and-by he was able to assist himself by the tufts of grass.

'He has reached the bushes!' cried Estelle, at last, with a cry of relief. 'He will be all right now, won't he?'

'Yes,' replied Marjorie, her voice still tremulous.

'And how's he coming down again?' asked Georgie, his fears by no means gone. 'And what are we to do if he doesn't come?'

Georgie and Estelle were gazing at Marjorie as if her words and her calm alone prevented them from breaking down. If she gave way to fear, what effect might it not have upon them? It was her duty to encourage and raise the spirits of the younger ones, and put aside her own misgivings. With an effort she forced herself to speak in cheerful tones.

'It is useless to think about it,' she said, 'and the best thing we can do is to amuse ourselves till it is time to go. Look, the boat ought to be pulled up higher. Let us see if we can manage it between us.'

Meantime Alan had reached the coastguard path which ran along the edge of the cliff. No one being in sight, he determined to take the narrow track which lay through a wooded hollow. It was part of the Moat House property, and he desired to see whether he and Marjorie had been correct in their guess that it was to this wood that Thomas had wished to come when he was seen in the Wilderness.

Scrambling over the queer stone stile, he descended the rugged pathway, where the thick brushwood and high trees shut out sky and sunlight. As he advanced the track became narrower and more mossy, while here and there the ground was broken by rocks. Now and again high mounds of earth, mossy and green, rose on either side, and the wood grew denser. He was uneasy, and half wished he had kept to the edge of the cliff, where the way was clear, for he seemed to have left the world behind him. There was something uncanny in the dead silence, and he quite startled when a rabbit jumped across his path into a hole. But the next moment, boy-like, he wished he had had the dogs with him that he might give chase.

(_Continued on page 30._)

FORGETFUL FANNY

'Now I will tie you to the garden gate, and pretend I have put my horse in the stable,' Fanny said to her little brother Dick, with whom she had been playing horses until she was hot and tired.

Her mother had gone to the market town, and would not be home until the evening, and so Fanny was left in charge of her brother.

Dick thought it was rather interesting to be tied up in a stable, and so he was quite happy when Fanny said that she wanted to run down the road to see her friend, Dora Barnes, for a few minutes.

At first Dick pretended to eat oats out of a manger; then he thought he would lie down and sleep. But that was dull, so he got up and pranced and kicked with impatience; and presently the time began to drag more and more slowly, and he wondered when Fanny would come back again.

'These knots are so tight, I cannot undo them, and I am so tired of playing at being a horse tied up in a stable,' he said sadly to himself.

After a time he gave up trying to pretend, but curled himself up and fell fast asleep. And still his sister did not come; but somebody else did.

In the meantime, Fanny had found her friend, and had heard the splendid news that a circus was just going to pass through the village.

This was enough to drive everything else out of Fanny's head. The two little girls started off to see the fun, and poor Dick was quite forgotten.

There were ladies riding in golden cars, and little piebald ponies, and an elephant, and all kinds of marvellous sights. Fanny and Dora followed the procession to the field in which the tent was to be put up, and it was growing late before they thought of setting out for home.

Then there suddenly came into Fanny's mind the remembrance of the little boy she had left fastened to the gate.

'I forgot all about him,' she said to Dora. 'I do hope he is all right.'

But when they reached the cottage, no Dick was to be seen!

'Perhaps he managed to untie the cords, and is in the house,' Dora suggested.

They hunted high and low, but no Dick was to be found, and Fanny burst into tears.

'Oh, Dora,' she cried, 'perhaps the circus people have been here and stolen him! You know they do steal little boys sometimes, and make them walk on tight-ropes. And they may be unkind to Dick. Oh! what shall I do?'

At this moment a man on horseback came down the lane, and there, riding in front of him, was Dick!

Fanny thought her worst fears were realised. The man must be a circus rider, and how could she hope to rescue her brother if the man chose to turn and gallop away!

She rushed to meet them. 'Oh, please, sir, don't carry Dick away!' she cried. 'He is so little, and he is too fat ever to learn to dance on a tight-rope!'

'Why, I am bringing him home,' the man said; 'and what have I to do with tight-ropes?'

Then Fanny recognised the gentleman as a friend of the Squire's, who was staying with him at the Hall.

'I beg your pardon, sir; I thought the circus people had stolen him,' she stammered.

'They have stolen a little girl's wits, I think,' said the gentleman, smiling. 'I found Dick all alone and very forlorn, so I took him for a ride, and am now bringing him back to see if there is any one here to take care of him. Are you the sister who was left in charge?'

'I forgot all about him,' Fanny confessed, blushing and hanging her head, 'and I was so frightened when I came home and did not find him here.'

'Well, look after your little brother better another time,' the gentleman said, as he lifted Dick down and rode away.

And forgetful Fanny remembered this lesson, and tried not to be so thoughtless again. M. H.

THE DISAPPOINTED HEN.

'Oh' what a terrible mistake!'
Cried Mrs. Brahma Hen;
'I'd set my heart on yellow chicks,
And these are black again!'

She ran at once to Dr. Goose,
'What can I do?' cried she.
'My charge for giving good advice
Is fifteen worms,' quoth he.

It was such hot work catching them,
It nearly made her faint:
And fifteen worms'-worth of advice
Was 'Buy some yellow paint!'

A. KATHERINE PARKES.

THE MULTIPLICATION TABLE.

A village schoolmaster in Germany one day did something at which the parents of one of his pupils foolishly took offence. On the following morning, the angry mother of the lad entered the schoolroom during lesson-time, and began to scold and rate the master. He knew what was coming, and, as she began, called out, in a tone of command, 'Children, the multiplication table!'

At once the whole school began to repeat the table in chorus. The woman stormed and raged, while the scholars only shouted the harder, and the master quietly laughed to himself. Speechless with anger and surprise, the woman at last went away, and the teacher was left master of the field of battle.

H. B. S.

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

I.--A SCRAMBLE WITH A BEAR.

(_Concluded from page 20._)

The hunting lodge proved a delightfully comfortable place, and old Michael was a splendid game-keeper. He seemed disappointed that my cousin had not come, for apparently he regarded Jack with great confidence. To me, however, he was very courteous and polite, and I think he did his best to hide his disappointment.

The bear was a big one, he said; he damaged as much corn as he ate, and since his inside was 'as large as a barn' (so Michael said), the unfortunate peasants were in great trouble with regard to their crops.

By this time I had learned enough Russian to keep up a simple conversation, in which of course grammar had no part whatever; I could make myself understood if my companion happened to be a person of sense, and this old Michael was. To my inquiry as to how the bear and I were to become acquainted, he replied that he had made all arrangements.

'There is flesh placed in an open space in the forest which he crosses sometimes,' Michael said; 'his tracks pass over it several times. When it is dusk I shall guide you to the place, and you shall climb a tree and pass the night in it; at early dawn he will come and eat, and then you will shoot.'

I liked the plan; it was something quite new--rather a chilly experience, perhaps, but one must put up with a little inconvenience in the pursuit of bears 'with insides like barns'! I would dress warmly.

I remembered Jack's request that I would be kind to his three lovely red setters, Duke, Monarch, and York, and during the rest of the day they were with me, noon, afternoon, and evening. They vied for my special favour; they could not make enough of me. 'It is so delightful to see an English face again,' they told me as plainly as if they could speak 'and we do like you so!' They ate most of my lunch; they walked out in the afternoon with me; they fought one another for my attention; they shared my dinner. We spent a short evening together; I grew dearer to them every moment, and when I said good-night to them, and they were locked up in Michael's stable, their howls were so loud that one might have supposed the greatest possible disaster had overtaken each one of them. I heard them howling and barking very miserably as I walked away with Michael into the forest, and for a mile their distressed voices were audible--really it was very flattering to me, I thought!

Arrived at the spot where Bruin's repast had been laid out, Michael pointed out to me the tree which he had selected as my ambush. It was indeed the only convenient one, standing as it did close to the place where the bear must stop to eat the supper arranged for him. So I climbed up into the branches, old Michael handing up my warm coat and rug, and settled myself as comfortably as possible in a place where a natural couch in the fork of the tree seemed to offer an inviting spot for slumber, while Michael bade me good-night and went off. I heard his footsteps for ten minutes as he tramped away into the darkness and silence of the forest; then these died away, and I was left alone with my thoughts and with the stillness and ghostliness of the night.

Things get a bit on one's nerves under these circumstances, and I felt very far from being sleepy. I started when a gust of wind caused some pine-tree to utter a groan; every rustle of twig upon twig sent the blood to my pulses--was the bear coming? Nevertheless, I did eventually fall asleep unawares, and it must have been early morning, about two o'clock, when I awoke with a start. A sound had roused me--what was it? I listened: undoubtedly the bear was here and busy over his meal; there was a gobbling and grunting, and the noise of greedy satisfaction. I was not nervous now; my sleep had done me good. If only I could see the brute, to point my rifle at him! I could just distinguish in the darkness a black mass which might be he, but it would be useless to risk a shot. So I waited with what patience I could muster, which was very little, and listened to the gobbling beneath me, and longed for daylight.

And as I sat and listened a new sound suddenly reached my ears--as I was a born Briton there were those wretches, Duke and Monarch and York, still crying for me in Michael's stables, maybe two miles away! How sounds do travel in the silence of night-time; probably a gust of wind from that direction had brought me this tale of their devotion to their new friend! Well, if so, they must be a terrible nuisance to the village, thought I, if this has been going on all night!

I continued to listen, and the yelping barks of the dogs came with marvellous distinctness to my ears, indeed, the sound seemed to grow more distinct. Was the wind rising? the tree-tops against the skyline seemed to be quiet enough. Surely the brutes--but no! they had been securely shut up in Michael's stable....

The bear appeared to be listening also; there was gobbling and a pause; more gobbling and another pause--oh! if he should grow nervous and bolt before I could get in a shot! A great change came over my feelings towards those dogs. I had thought them charming animals last night; now, as I listened to their yelping--it was growing more distinct, not a doubt of it!--I began to hate them bitterly. They were loose and were following my track through the forest! The splendid opportunity of scoring my first bear was trembling in the balance! The sounds came nearer and nearer. I tried to point my rifle at the dark opaque mass below me, but it was useless.

Then suddenly came a crisis. The bear had been gobbling less and listening more--did he mean to bolt? If he moved, I should risk a shot. Of a sudden there was a moan, a snarl, a shuffle; he had taken fright, he was off!

Wildly I raised my rifle, I tried to catch a glimpse of him--oh, for a ray of light! But for the life of me I could not distinguish even his big body; I could have wept for anger, for in another instant my opportunity would have gone.

Then came one of the few shocks, really bad ones, from which I have suffered during a fairly peaceful life; in one instant and without the slightest warning I became aware that the great brute was climbing my tree! My tongue was paralysed with horror, I could not even shout; I endeavoured to point my gun downwards, but the barrel caught against a bough; I gasped, attempting to shriek. I heard his panting breath close beneath me; then I felt that his claws had caught the end of my long fur coat, and all the pent-up horror I felt found vent at last in a shriek of anguish.

Apparently this caused Bruin quite as much terror as he had caused me, for he fell back to the ground like a stone, and since his claws were attached to my coat, I fell with him. For one horrible moment we rolled together on the ground--I remember the animal smell of the brute to this day--and then he was gone! and coming in his place three yelping, delighted dogs were jumping about on me. I'm afraid I called those setters names which they must have thought very rude; I kicked at them and abused them; gradually they realised that I was not quite the nice fellow they had thought me.

I learnt later that a furious neighbour of Michael's, annoyed by their night-long barking, had opened the stable-door and let them out. But the bear--alas! I never saw him again; he left the place in sore dudgeon--so that the peasants saved the remains left to put up with certain rude remarks from my cousin Jack. I believe he thought these remarks humorous, but I assure you they were not in the least funny.

STORIES FROM AFRICA.

I.--THE STORY OF A CRUSADER.

A very long time ago a wise man said that there was always something new to be found in Africa. The Africa he knew was only that fringe of the dark continent into which the Roman arms had penetrated, but in our days, as in his, there is a charm about the stories from that mysterious land of which we have even now so much to learn. There are the travellers' tales of men who went where no white foot had trodden before them, fighting tales of men who won honour at the sword's point, and tales, just as stirring, of those who carried only the message of peace. The names of Livingstone and Gordon, Mackenzie and Hannington, should be household words in every English home, and there are others less known of whom there are stories worth the hearing.

And our first tale is told by an old French baron, aged eighty years or more, ending his life peacefully on his fair estate in Champagne. No doubt he liked to look back to the stirring days of his youth, and I dare say the young folk who gathered round his hospitable hearth knew the Sire de Joinville for a good story-teller, who could beguile a winter evening with tales of that luckless Crusade in which he bore his part, and of his hero and leader, sovereign, saint, and soldier in one, Louis, the cross-bearing King of France; and, happily for us, before the stories died with the teller, the young Queen, Jeanne of Navarre, prevailed upon him to set down his recollections.

Five and fifty years is a long time to look back upon, but doubtless it seemed but a little while to Jean de Joinville since he gathered his vassals and kindred to follow King Louis to the East. He remembered the farewell banquet, when, standing at the head of his own table, perhaps for the last time, he bade his guests speak if they had any grudge or quarrel against him, and then courteously withdrew that they might say their minds more freely. And then, when they had no fault to find, he rode away at the head of his gallant company, not daring, he tells us, to turn his eyes lest his courage should fail him at the sight of his fair home and the thought of his two bonnie boys. It required courage indeed to set sail in those days, when the travellers knew so little of the lands whither they went, and our Crusader wondered how any man dared trust himself to the ocean with unforgiven sin upon his conscience, not knowing at night where the dawn of day might find him.

But after some delay from contrary winds, and a long wait at Cyprus, the French army landed in Egypt, where the first attack was to be made; King Louis leaped, fully armed, from his galley into the sea in his eagerness to reach the shore. The Saracens fled at first before the invading army, and the city of Damietta was taken almost without a blow. There the Queen, who had followed her husband, as our good Queen Eleanor did a few years later, was left with a sufficient garrison while the army moved onwards up the Nile.

But now the tide of war began to turn. If the valour and devotion of their leaders could have given victory to the Crusaders, they must have carried all before them, but De Joinville himself owned that King Louis was more of a dauntless soldier than a good general. The Saracens harassed the troops with their terrible Greek fire, which, De Joinville says, looked like a fiery flying dragon, and destroyed the wooden defences, to make which the Crusaders had broken up their boats. The King's brother, the Comte d'Artois, was killed in a desperate struggle when fording the Nile. Worst of all, sickness was abroad in the camp, killing more than the swords of the Saracens. Louis himself was stricken, but refused to be removed to more comfortable quarters, with the reply of a true king, 'God helping me, I will suffer with my people.' He mounted his horse for a last desperate attack, the good knight Geoffroi de Sergines riding at his bridle-rein, and, as the King told De Joinville afterwards, cutting down the Saracens who attacked him as a good servant brushes away the flies that annoy his master.

When the King could no longer keep his saddle, the brave Geoffroi carried him into a house inhabited by a good burgher-woman from Paris, and there laid him on the ground with his head on her knee, hardly expecting that he would live to see another sunrise. And here, dying as it seemed, Louis was taken by the Saracens, and his soldiers, on the false report of an order from their leader, laid down their arms.

(_Concluded on page 46._)

CHARLES KINGSLEY'S KINDNESS.

Charles Kingsley was a very kind-hearted, man, and could not bear to see anything in pain. One Sunday, as he was preaching his sermon in church, he stopped in the middle of it, stooped down, picked up something, and went into the vestry. He soon returned and went on with his sermon. After the service was over, some one asked him why he had stopped in the middle of his sermon. He answered that he had seen a butterfly lying on the floor, and he was afraid that he might tread upon it and kill it; so he picked it up and let it fly out of the vestry window.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 23._)

Alan was just beginning to wonder whether it was not foolish to go on any further inland into the valley--indeed, whether it was any use to hunt for Thomas any longer--when he caught the sound of muffled voices coming from behind a group of trees near which he happened to be passing. The soft moss had prevented his footsteps being heard, and, as he drew closer, he caught the gruff tones of Thomas's voice.

What was Thomas doing down there? To whom could he speaking? There must be something up when two men got away into a lonely wood in order to talk. His curiosity roused, Alan crept closer still to the trees, but the undergrowth prevented his seeing any distance. He was sure, however, that it was Thomas speaking, and he could now distinguish the words, in spite of the muffled tones.

'I don't seem to see how it is to be done,' muttered the gardener, sullenly. 'It's not easy, I tell you.'

'What's the matter, man?' came in a voice with a foreign accent, which Alan did not recognise. 'The thing is possible enough if you choose to do it, and I'm sure I am making it worth your while. It isn't every day as you will get such an offer. Come, don't you be a fool, and throw your chances away.'

'I'm not throwing anything away,' returned Thomas, sulkily. 'But the risk---- '

'Well, what if it is a bit risky? You are well paid for the job. Do it quietly, take them unawares, and the risk will be nothing. But if you are going to be afraid of your own shadow I'm off with my bargain. That's the long and the short of it.'

A rustle made Alan think the speaker was moving away.

'If you cut up rough you will be the loser a great deal more than I,' replied Thomas, coolly. 'This job isn't to my taste, and if I do it, it will be in my own way. I must wait till my chance comes. It shall be done--that is, if it can be done at all--you may depend on it. I'm not going to back out. Don't be afraid. The risk is bigger for me than for you, and I'm not going to be copped--no, not for anybody.'

'Do it in your own way, man. I lay down no laws. All I want is that you get it somehow. We can do nothing without that. Do you understand? It is worth hundreds. I have known £500 and £600 given for a new specimen. And this is the only one of its kind, as yet. Now that you know what we want, we had better separate. We must not be seen together.'

'I'll be getting back to the boat, then,' returned Thomas, in a more cheerful voice.

Peering through the bushes, and listening intently, Alan was nearly caught by the sudden movement of the men towards him. He had just time to slip behind a great pine when Thomas slouched into view. The sturdy figure of a Dutchman followed. Alan could not get a glimpse of his face; he swung away at too rapid a pace, and was lost among the trees.

With lips pressed together, and ears strained, Alan had heard every word. Now he remained motionless, wondering. What did it mean? What could the men want which was worth so much money--hundreds of pounds? Was it hundreds? Could it mean robbery--jewels, plate, money? Thomas, too! Was it possible that Thomas was about to help, and be paid for helping? Alan knew that his mother, Mrs. De Bohun, and his great-aunt, Lady Coke, both possessed very valuable jewels; and his cousin, Sir Leopold Coke, had left some priceless heirlooms in his mother's care at the Moat House. Perhaps Thomas had heard somebody speak of these treasures, and his greed had been excited. He required help in his enterprise, too; it must be of some difficulty, therefore he had spoken of it to his friend. Together they had planned how the burglary was to be carried out, and were only waiting till Thomas obtained all the information he needed.

Alan thought deeply on the subject, as he slowly followed Thomas. Supposing he decided to do anything, what should it be? First of all, he was not sure that robbery was what was intended. It was quite possible he was on the wrong tack altogether, and if this was the case, how foolish he would look with no evidence to bring forward except this strange offer of 'hundreds' to Thomas! How his father would laugh at him, and even Aunt Betty would smile incredulously! He might be asked uncomfortable questions, and have to tell about the climb up the face of the cliff. No harm had come of it, except frightening the girls, but his father might not regard the feat in that light.

No; on the whole he thought he had better keep his own counsel till something more definite turned up. He would have his weather-eye open, especially on Thomas, but otherwise let things take their usual course. He made up his mind he would not speak of what he had heard even to Marjorie. She might tell Estelle, and then it would be sure to leak out. Girls could never hold their tongues, especially when there were two of them. He had just come to this determination when, to his amazement, Thomas, on whose broad back his eyes had been steadily fixed, disappeared. Where? How? Was the whole thing only a dream? Thomas was certainly in front of him only a moment ago, and now he had suddenly gone with the rapidity of a flash of lightning.

* * * * *

It had required much self-control for Marjorie to put aside her anxiety so entirely as to calm the fears of the two younger ones, and devote herself to their amusement. But she was a girl of strong character, and perhaps nothing so proved it as her quiet and cheerful manner during that trying time of waiting.

She threw herself into the children's play, made fun of all their efforts to pull the boat up the beach, helped with the digging of a huge sand castle, and suggested a rampart of stones to fortify the deep moat round it. Georgie and Estelle were delighted with the windows and doors, the gardens with shells for flowers, the drawbridge, and the paved way through the ramparts. Georgie even proposed to find some sea-anemones to place among the shells as an additional ornament, and Marjorie was in the act of explaining that it would be cruel to pull the poor things off their rocks for such a purpose, when she was cut short by an exclamation from Estelle.

The little girl was toiling up the beach, her hands, holding up her overall laden with stones for the castle. It proved a heavy load for her to carry, and she looked hot and tired. It was purely a labour of love, for the castle was nearly complete, but the idea of keeping the sea out of it as long as possible had taken her fancy. About half-way she was forced to sit down and rest, and as she did so she caught sight of Thomas calmly smoking under the shadow of a great boulder.

(_Continued on page 38._)

HAYDN'S DRUM.

'What is to be done? Nothing could be more inconvenient. Easter-time, and so much new music to be played!'

Master Frank Haydn, Master of the Orchestra at the parish church of Hamburg, in Southern Germany, all but tore his brown wig in his despair, at hearing of the death of the man who played the kettle-drum in his orchestra.

'I know of no one to take his place at such short notice,' he went on, though there were only his wife and little nephew to hear him.

The nephew, Joseph Haydn by name, had only lately come into the choir-master's family. He was a child of six years old, but had already shown such wonderful musical genius, that his parents had decided to place him with his uncle, where he would have great opportunities for musical study.

The little fellow now looked up from an old music book, for he could read music perfectly, and said timidly, 'I think I could manage the kettle-drum, uncle, if you would just show me a little how it should be played.'

'You, Joseph?' said the choir-master in surprise, as he looked down at the serious little face. 'It is not a violin, you know; if it were you could manage well enough, but you know nothing of kettle-drums.'

'Let me try, Uncle!' pleaded Joseph. Before long he had his wish, and both were in the big room over the church porch where the practices always took place.

Joseph's little fingers seemed to hold the drum-sticks as if to the manner born, and after a short rehearsal of the music to be played on the festival, the old man felt an immense load lifted off his shoulders.

'Capital! capital!' he exclaimed. 'I shall not miss poor Schmidt now; your touch is crisper than his!'

Then the door of the room was locked, and uncle and nephew returned home.

Joseph, however, as Easter drew near, became very anxious, and longed for an opportunity for further practice on the drum. His fingers might not be skilful enough: he could be sure of the notes without practice, but could he handle the sticks properly? He dared not ask his uncle for leave to go into the choir-room, and he had no drum in the house. What could he do? Practise he must, or he would never feel sure of himself.

'I will make a drum!' said the little fellow; 'I have an idea.'

There was a round basket in the out-house. It was generally used for flour, but it happened to be nearly empty now, and Joseph seized on this, as it was the shape of a drum; over it he stretched a clean dishcloth, fastening it as tightly as possible with string.

'It makes a beautiful drum!' he said joyfully, as he beat it with two sticks, and carrying his 'drum' into the parlour, he placed it on a chair, propped the music up in front of him, and practised the fingering diligently and noiselessly for an hour or more, till he felt quite sure of himself.

Alas, for Joseph, however! He had been too absorbed in his drumming to notice the small quantity of flour which had been left in the basket. It was shaken out with each beat of the drum-sticks, and now lay thick on the velvet cover of the chair. Joseph got a whipping for his thoughtlessness, but that was nothing uncommon for children in the eighteenth century, and was soon forgotten.

Easter arrived, and the little fellow played his drum so well, that for many years after he played that instrument in the choir.

'Little Joseph' in after life became a famous musician, and wrote many oratorios, of which the 'Creation' and the 'Seasons' are the most famous. He visited England several times, and was often at the Court of George III. Every one in this country did their best to honour the great musician. He died in 1809 at Vienna, full of years and honours.

FOR HOME USE ONLY.

A Cambridge Professor once asked one of his friends to lend him a book which he wished to consult. The messenger returned with the following answer: 'I never allow my books to be taken out of my study, but if you like to come there you are welcome to read as long as you please.'

Some days after this, the friend applied to the Professor for the loan of his bellows. Remembering the refusal he had lately met with, he replied: 'I never allow my bellows to be taken out of my room, but if you choose to come there, you are welcome to blow with them as long as you like.'

THE FAIRY QUEEN'S GIFT.

The Queen of Fairies passed last night,
The greenwood dancing through;
I watched her from my window-pane,
The round moon saw her too.

Her light wings fluttered airily,
A casket she did hold,
And lo! she scattered strings of pearls,
And shining beads of gold.

At break of day I hurried down,
To gather them with care;
Yet nought I saw but buttercups
And daisies lying there.

So now, I think the buttercups
And daisies in the green
Are jewels from the treasure-store
Of the kind Fairy Queen.

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

By HAROLD ERICSON.

II.--DENISON'S HALL-MARK.

'Now look here, you fellows,' began Denison, whose turn it was to entertain the company at the camp-fire the next night, 'don't you go laughing at the story I'm going to tell you, and pretending that you don't believe it's true, for that would hurt my feelings, and I might burst into tears, and you wouldn't like to see a strong man weep!'

'Go on,' said Bobby, rudely, 'or perhaps one of us will give the strong man something to weep for!'

Denison eyed the speaker with contempt, but plunged into his tale at once. 'See this mark?' he said, turning up his sleeve and showing a scar upon his forearm, 'and this?' he indicated a mark on his neck; 'Well, you're going to hear how I came by these. Do you know what a Hall-mark is? A lion stamped on good metal; that's it, isn't it? Well, these are Hall-marks: the stamp of a lion; only Stationers' Hall didn't stamp them: the lion made his own mark on me. I've got more of them on my arms and legs.'

* * * * *

It was like this: I was antelope-shooting with a friend not so very far from the spot we are now in, though a bit farther north. My friend, Thomson by name, had been a trifle off colour, and just now was quite on the sick list, so that we had not moved camp for some time, and I spent my days in trying to get a specimen of water-buck for my collection of antelope heads.

One morning, to my joy and excitement, I came upon the spoor of a herd of them, I was alone and some miles from camp; our cleverest Kaffir hunter was on the sick list as well as Thomson, so that as a matter of fact I had been obliged to go alone--a kind of veldt influenza had got hold of the other two, and neither of them felt worth two penn'orth of toffee. I came in sight of my little water-buck family when I had scouted after them for about an hour; they were grazing peacefully in a plateau half a mile away, quite unsuspicious of my presence and evil intentions with regard to them. I was scouting against the wind, of course, and had hopes of getting my shot in--the first I had ever fired at this particular species. I made for a boulder which lay between myself and the herd, and creeping most cautiously and slowly (for I was really keen to succeed), I reached it without alarming the timid animals, which were now scarcely four hundred yards away. Very carefully I raised myself from the snake-like attitude in which I had made my advance, in order to risk a peep over the edge of the rock, for I must lay my exact plan of campaign, so that I might make sure of another couple of hundred yards, which distance gained, I was going to fire my shot.

I had risen from my crouching attitude, and was about half-way to the upright, when all of a sudden the world seemed to come to an end and break up into stars and giddy whirlings, accompanied by sharp pains in the back, flights through space, and terrific thunderous sounds in my very ears. I was conscious of turning a double or triple somersault, of alighting face-down on the long grass, of a heavy weight leaning upon my neck and spine, of pain, stiffness, semi-consciousness, of a continuous noise as though a motor-car lay and throbbed and whirred on the top of me. What had happened?'

I lay and wondered for a few minutes. Had there been a volcanic eruption? Were bits of it lying upon me and pinning me down? Would there be another upheaval in a moment; more steely-blue stars and another flight, and then--the end? If so, I wished it would come quickly and not leave me in suspense, and, oh! if only the horrible whirring noise at my ear would only stop for a minute. My head ached as though it would burst. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing but the stalks of yellow grass in which my face was buried.

Was I sufficiently alive--had I energy enough to move, to raise my aching head a little way in order to look around a bit? For a few minutes I could not summon sufficient strength to stir a finger; I felt paralysed and utterly bereft of the power to set my muscles working. Gradually, however, I began to feel a little better, the noise at my ear ceased and let peace in; a delightful calm followed, and with it consciousness gradually returned.

I raised my head a few inches; instantly something came in violent contact with the back of my skull, dealing me a stunning blow; at the same time a crash of thunder reverberated at my ear, and again I lay still, conscious only of the horrible whirring sound which had begun again and continued without ceasing. I think I entirely lost consciousness at this point, and lay, it might have been a few minutes, it might have been an hour, lost to every sense of fear, of wonder, of pain.

When I awoke, on regaining consciousness, I still lay upon my face, but my brain felt more capable of coping with the situation. I lay and reflected. Something had happened to me: was it a stroke of paralysis? I moved the muscles of my face: they were all right on both sides. I turned my head slightly first one way and then the other--no, I was not paralysed. I tried to raise myself, but found that some heavy weight upon the small of my back prevented me. That was odd. Could there have been an earthquake, and had some rock rolled over upon me--a most unlikely thing, yet what else could it be? I wriggled my back in order to discover, if I could, the nature of the incubus. Instantly there recommenced that abominable sound, close to my ear, which had so angered me before; now that my brain was once more in working order I was able to listen with understanding. The sound was the growling of some great beast; the weight upon my back could be nothing else than its paw which held me down; I was, in a word, at the mercy of a savage animal, doubtless a lion, for the weight of the paw proved that it could be no smaller beast. I had been knocked down from behind: stalked while I myself stalked the water-buck; I was in the position of a mouse which has been caught by a cat.

My brain remained wonderfully clear, though I expected that my reason would leave me in that moment of terror. It did not. On the contrary, I lay there and thought more keenly and quickly, I believe, than I had ever thought before. How long ago had the brute sprung upon me? Surely an hour, at least, must have passed since I fell, or was it that time passes very slowly in these terrible moments? I counted thirty slowly--well, that was half a minute; nothing happened.

'Why doesn't he eat me?' I wondered. 'There must be a reason for the delay. Is he waiting for his mate?' He certainly was waiting--while I lay and thought, another minute or two had passed.