Chapter XX (1)

True to his appointment, Jack met Lord Lynwood on the lawn next morning, and together they walked to the Bridge House in silence. Though Jack was anxious to see Dick once more, he had to brace himself for what he knew would be a trial to both. In one sense, the worst was over. In the knowledge that Dick was alive, and had forgiven him, he had gained what nothing could take away--peace of mind. But, on the other hand, he could not but feel sorrow and self-reproach for the grief and loss he had brought upon Dick's parents. He realised that they also had much to forgive. It seemed, indeed, almost worse to face them than to look at patient, suffering Dick. He had been so ready to pardon; would they be as willing? Jack knew instinctively how his question would be answered when he saw Peet coming towards them across the drawbridge.

'We wish to speak to you, Peet,' said Lord Lynwood, quietly.

'I know what ye want to say, my Lord,' returned Peet, gloomily, and taking care not to glance towards Jack. 'My Lady had me up this morning and told me.'

'In injuring your son I have injured you, Mr. Peet,' said Jack, coming forward, and speaking in an earnest voice. 'I do not know how to ask your forgiveness; but, if your son could express himself, he would tell you how deeply my sin has been repented, and what years of misery it has brought on my mother and me. Unhappily, I cannot undo the deed; neither can I give you back the lost years---- '

'You can do nothing, and I want nothing, thank you,' replied Peet, without looking up.

'Your son has forgiven all he has suffered,' began the Earl.

'Beg pardon, my Lord,' returned Peet, drawing himself up; 'but I'm making no complaint. I have not said a word for or against him. If my son likes to forgive him, he can do as he chooses--his acts are no rule for my wife nor me.'

'So you have spoken to your wife?' said the Earl, in a tone of regret, as Jack moved away.

'I know my Lady was against it, but my wife has been a good wife to me, and I never keep things from her.'

'And what did you wife say?'

'Well, my Lord,' replied Peet, with a little less confidence in his tone, yet with the stubborn look still in his face, 'she was upset, of course, and cried a bit, as women mostly do. But when Dick, who has not spoke for this many a year, looks up, and says he, "Mother, don't bear malice--for my sake forgive him;" why, she gave in at once. I am sure that it was from sheer astonishment at Dick's speaking so clear. She didn't think of forgiving no more than myself. Mothers are like that--mighty queer sometimes just when you least expect it.'

'Peet,' said Lord Lynwood, signing to Jack to leave them, 'I think your wife is quite right. She is acting the nobler part. You have suffered terribly; we are fully aware of that, and we have felt for you and done all we could for you. Surely you would not wish to give Lady Coke pain by refusing the very first request she asks you? Think how nearly we lost her last summer, and remember it is owing to the great care and kindness of Jack Wright and his mother that she is spared the grief of having lost the child entrusted to her keeping. You know this responsibility is what weighed most on her mind, and Jack has brought her great comfort by restoring the child. He is broken-hearted for the injury he has done you and your family, and he begs your forgiveness. Why is it impossible for you to give it? If not for your own sake, or because it is the right thing to do, then because there is one who has asked you who has been the best of friends to you through all your troubles.'

Peet looked down, red and surly. It was a hard fight for one of his stubborn character to acknowledge he was in the wrong, or to listen to arguments to which his better nature responded. Seeing that he did not reply, Lord Lynwood left him without further efforts to convince him. Peet gazed after him with lowering brow; then turned and went to his work.

Estelle was up early that morning, and after a delighted survey of all her surroundings and treasures, rushed to her aunt just as the gong sounded. Would Auntie beg a whole holiday for her cousins--just for once? How could Aunt Betty refuse this first request? It did not require much coaxing to make her promise to go directly after breakfast to Begbie Hall with Estelle and her father. She even declared she would fearlessly invade the premises sacred to Miss Leigh and learning.

Little suspecting the delight in store for him, Georgie had come down in a bad temper that morning, and he was venting it on his lesson books, and on Miss Leigh.

'What is the matter with you, Georgie?' asked the long-suffering governess at last. 'Did you get out of bed the wrong side? Nothing seems to be right this morning.'

'I always get out of bed the same side every day,' replied Georgie, firmly, placing his books in a heap as near the edge of the table as he could. 'It's not the bed; it's Alan.'

'What has Alan done?'

But Georgie's answer was drowned in the crash of his books which scattered in every direction, some of them without their covers.

'Now, Georgie!' cried Miss Leigh, exasperated.

'I believe you did it on purpose!' exclaimed Alan, who was anxious to finish his work, and found the noise disturbing.

Marjorie was about to pour oil upon the troubled waters by picking the books up when the door of the schoolroom was burst open and Estelle was among them! Miss Leigh and the three children could scarcely believe it was the 'real live' Estelle they saw, and a great gasp of amazement sounded through the room. But when they perceived Aunt Betty herself standing at the door, and behind her their father, mother, and uncle, all smiling at them, there was a general cry of delight.

Everybody spoke, but nobody listened. They all danced and raced round Estelle till the uproar became so great that their elders, including Miss Leigh, fled. Then Estelle, as soon as she could persuade them to listen, told them how Jack had saved her and brought her home; how Mrs. Wright, her dear Goody, had nursed her through her bad illness; in what a comfortable, pretty cave-house she had lived, and how even the biggest storm that ever blew, and they had had many such storms, could not shake its walls. Then there were the Treasure Caves, and Estelle made their faces quite pale as she related her adventures in them, and how Jack had saved her from drowning. She told them of the dream also, and how she could not remember their names, and how suddenly it all came back to her. This led to a stampede in search of the hero, Jack, who, after much racing about in all directions, was found at the door of the ruined summer-house. Lord Lynwood and Colonel De Bohun were with him, and it was evident that they were talking of how the accident happened. The children insisted on shaking hands with the Giant of the Treasure Caves, as Marjorie called him, and on thanking him for bringing back their dear Estelle.

'Why, you are a _real_ giant!' cried Georgie, much impressed by Jack's height. 'I never saw a giant before.'

They all laughed, but Georgie was right, for Jack was a good deal taller than Lord Lynwood, who was six feet three inches, and yet looked dwarfed by the sailor. They all admired him so much that they would not leave him.

(_Concluded on page 382._)

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

13.--LITTLE CHARADES--TRIADS.

A.--1. Bereft of father and mother.
2. The period of time during which a person or
thing exists, or has existed.
A home for those who have no other.
B.--1. A collection of printed sheets.
2. A small creeping animal without feet.
A devourer of that which is written,
C.--1. The edge, or brink, of a fountain or river.
2. A hardened mass of earthy matter.
A mineral substance.
D.--1. A rodent of the genus lepus.
2. A hollow sounding body of metal.
A flower of the campanula kind.
E.--1. An emblem of innocence.
2. An extremity.
A peculiar joint.
F.--1. An uncertain quantity.
2. The organized material of an animal.
A person unknown, or uncertain.

[_Answers on page 395._]

C. J. B.

* * * * *

ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 322.

12.--T og A
H or N
E hu D
S oo T
P us H
I sl E
D ea F
E vi L
R el Y

A HORSE'S REVENGE.

Founded on Fact.

A certain King of Syria had a horse of which he was very fond, and which in turn was devoted to its master. The King used to ride this horse out to battle, but at last was defeated and killed in the fight. His enemy, rejoicing in his victory, seized the King's horse and mounted it. The horse seemed to know what had happened, and who was on his back, for he began to show the greatest fury. After trying for some time to throw his new rider off, he suddenly dashed off up a steep cliff; and when he reached the top, he leapt wildly down the sheer precipice, with the man still on his back. The rider had no time to save himself, and both he and the horse were dashed to pieces. Thus the King was avenged by the faithful steed to which he had been so kind.

ANSWER TO 'AN EASTERN PUZZLE' ON PAGE 355.

The old dervish divided the seventeen camels into the desired proportions by adding one of his own to the number, thus making it eighteen. The eldest brother then took his half--nine; the second his third--six; the third his ninth--two, making seventeen in all, and giving back the one camel over to its owner, the wise dervish.

PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.

XII.--ONE OF NATURE'S FAILURES.

We have now come to the last chapter of our series, and herein I propose to bring to your notice some curious facts which 'point a moral and adorn a tale' that should not be lost sight of.

Strange though it be, there are many creatures, among what we sometimes call the 'lower order of creation,' which give promise of great things during the earlier period of their lives, but later degenerate out of all recognition.

Let us take one or two of the more remarkable instances. Many of you, when at the seaside, must have found, clinging to rocks and shells, peculiar, tough, leathery and somewhat bottle-shaped bodies, popularly known as 'sea-squirts,' from their habit of squirting out water when touched. But how many of you have any idea that these same 'squirts' really belong to the great division of vertebrates or backboned animals? Yet such is the case, though not even scientific men were aware of this until the facts which I am about to relate were discovered.

But before I proceed, I might add that while some of these sea-squirts lead solitary lives, fast anchored to the rock or sea-weed, others form colonies, while yet others, and more distantly related forms, are transparent and swim, sometimes in countless millions, at the surface of the sea, covering an area of several miles. Some of the stationary forms make coats for themselves of sand, others build them houses to live in. While most are dull-coloured, some are, on the contrary, very brilliant. Their range in size is no less varied, some being almost microscopic, while others attain a length of as much as four feet.

But though so different in their adult stages, they all begin life as vertebrated or backboned animals, though in some this stage is more perfect than in others.

As you will see in the illustration (figs. 1 and 2) of one of these youngsters, the resemblance to the tadpole of the frog is most striking, and in some of the points wherein the sea-squirt differs from the tadpole, it represents a yet earlier structural stage which frogs have long since passed through, and no longer repeat in the course of their growth. Take the case of the eye, for example; this in the young sea-squirt lies embedded in the brain, and is only dimly able to perceive light received through the transparent head; but the eye of all the backboned animals is really an outgrowth of the brain which has forced its way to the surface; here we see it in its primitive or original condition. The mouth in the young sea-squirt, again, opens on the top of the head instead of in the front, which is here modified to form a sucker. But the gills, by which this little creature breathes, expel the water by which they are bathed through a single hole at the side of the head, as in the frog tadpole; while in the possession of a brain, a spinal cord, and a soft backbone, both sea-squirt and tadpole agree.

Thus, then, the captor of one of these baby sea-squirts though he knew nothing of the peculiar after-history of the creature, would yet be sure that he had here a very young or 'larval' stage of one of the backboned animals. But he would be surprised indeed, as he watched the career of this little creature, to find it grow daily more sluggish, and at last fix itself by the sucker at the front of its head, and there remain as if in 'the sulks.' From this time onwards the change for the worse grows rapidly. This creature, as if indifferent to the great possibilities before it, or caring nothing for the good name of its race, speedily degenerates. As it will use none of the good gifts of Nature, one by one she takes them away--eye and brain are the first to go; then the tail begins to grow less and less (you can see the last remnants of a tail in fig. 3), and finally there is neither head nor tail, power of sight, nor power of motion; all that remains is an irregular-looking leathery lump, which scarcely seems to be alive (fig. 4). It feeds by drawing water through a hole at its upper end into a great throat pierced by gill-slits (shown in fig. 5, which represents a sea-squirt with the outside wall cut away); the water passes out through the slits into a big chamber. From this chamber the water escapes by another hole (marked 'discharge' in fig. 5) to the outer world again; meanwhile, the food, consisting of microscopic animals, has been caught by a moving rope of slime running along the back of the throat, and so into the stomach. But what a fall! Think of it--a career full of promise, the equal of that of vertebrate animals, ending in an ignominious surrender of its birthright, and a drop to the level of the humble oyster!

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

THE LITTLE OLD WOMAN.

It was a bitter evening in mid-winter, the fire burned cheerily on the hearth, the great logs crackling and flaring up the wide chimney of a comfortable cottage home in one of the wildest parts of the Inverness-shire highlands. It was a shepherd's hut, and, as the storm continued the owner of the cottage rose and looked out of the window over the desolate expanse of moorland.

'Is it snowing still?' asked his wife, from her snug corner by the fire.

'Thick and fast,' replied he. 'Heaven help any poor creature on the moor to-night. Many a one has been frozen to death hereabouts before now.'

Presently, however, it ceased snowing, and, through a rift in the clouds, a star appeared, while at the same moment a whining and scratching noise was heard at the door. The shepherd opened it and whistled to his dog, but, inviting as the ruddy glow must have been to her doggish heart, 'Lassie' would not enter. Standing just on the threshold she whined once more, looking up in her master's face with dumb entreaty, then running off a few steps and looking back as though inviting him to follow.

The shepherd watched her curiously. 'All the sheep are in their folds,' he said, 'and Lassie knows that as well as I do, but something is amiss with the creature to-night. What is it, Lassie?'

But the intelligent creature only whined again and moved still further away from the door.

'Give me my plaid, good wife,' said the shepherd, now fully persuaded that serious work lay before him. 'Give me my plaid, and warm your blankets, and you may as well brew a kettle of tea. Some one is lost in the snow, and Lassie knows it.'

As soon as the dog saw that her master was really following, she sprang forward with a joyous bark, then, settling down into a swinging trot, she led the way straight across the loneliest part of the bleak moor. It was a walk both difficult and dangerous, but the experienced shepherd followed steadily after his guide until, having come to a certain spot by no means differing in appearance from the rest of the dismal landscape, she suddenly stopped and began to dig wildly in the snow with her paws. The shepherd stooped down and pushed aside the dog, who was now quite contented to stand aside and watch, while her master took the case in hand. Very soon he extricated from the snow what seemed to be a mere bundle of clothing, but which, on closer inspection, proved to be the rigid form of a little old woman, poorly clad and quite insensible. It was only the work of a few minutes for the stalwart shepherd to lift her into his arms as gently and tenderly as though she had been an infant, and to carry her away to his warm and sheltered cottage, where his kindly wife had everything in readiness for the succour of the half-frozen old woman.

But long hours passed ere complete consciousness returned, and the poor wayfarer was able to tell her simple story. She was an Englishwoman from Liverpool--a widow with one only son, the dearest and best of sons. He was a soldier stationed at Fort George, but he had been ordered out to India, and she had felt that she could not let him go without once more looking on the dear face. Accordingly she had gathered together all her available means and had reached Glasgow by train. But in that city her difficulties began, her money was all spent, but the mother's love still burned brightly in her heart. She resolved to proceed on foot, and had actually accomplished her design so far, when, being overtaken by the sudden snowstorm, and having wandered from the road, she would certainly have perished but for the sagacity of the shepherd's dog.

How great was the delight of the poor old woman we may easily imagine, when she was told that she was actually within three miles of Fort George, and when the shepherd promised to go there in the morning and beg leave for her son to visit her at the cottage. But, alas! when morning dawned it became very evident that her strength had been too severely taxed; she was quite prostrate, and only half conscious of her surroundings. In these circumstances her kind host lost no time in starting on his humane errand, and, in the afternoon, mother and son met once more, but for the last time. The old woman had barely strength to whisper his name, but the look in her eyes was enough to show that she had her heart's desire, and that she could die in peace. A few days afterwards the little old woman was quietly laid to rest in the churchyard of the Highland village, and the good son was on his way to the Far East, carrying with him the memory of a mother's love.

THE SENSIBLE HARE.

A Fable.

Once upon a time, the beasts in a certain wood built a theatre in which plays were to be performed by the cleverest of the animals, for the amusement and instruction of the rest. Nearly all the animals took an interest in the scheme, and promised to support it, except the hare. When asked by Reynard the Fox, who had been appointed manager, why he did not favour the idea, the hare replied: 'There is quite enough amusement in my own family, and is it likely that I am going to leave them all in the evening to find what is already provided for me at home?' The fox for once in his life was taken at a disadvantage, and did not know what to say.

There are plenty of pleasures at home if we know how to look for them.

CLOUD PICTURES.

Among the grass I love to lie,
And watch the fleecy clouds pass by:
For many pictures there I see,
So clear although so far from me.

Sometimes across the blue there floats
A stately fleet of white-sailed boats;
On shining mountains' rugged crests
The grey-winged cloud-birds seek their nests.

And o'er the sunset's radiant bar,
Lone fairy lands most surely are,
With ruby isles in lakes of gold,
Where towers in crimson light unfold.

The black clouds gather from afar,
As mighty armies march to war,
And when they meet in thunder-crash,
I see their spears of lightning flash.

For ever changing, to and fro,
Blown by the careless wind they go;
No wonder the cloud pictures there
Are always fresh, and always fair.

A HASTY JUDGMENT.

'What is the new step-mother like?' asked Walter Howard. He was cycling from the station with his friend, Jack Trehane, having just arrived to spend a few days of the summer holidays.

'No good,' was the short but expressive answer.

'I remember you thought her rather a good sort before your father married her,' Walter remarked.

'You never know what people are really like until you live in the same house with them,' said Jack, gloomily.

'Hard lines, when you had such decent holidays with your father alone. How is it she is not nice to you now, when she used to be so jolly?'

'Oh, she isn't exactly nasty,' Jack explained, 'only I do so hate her mean, saving little ways.'

Walter's face fell. It would be a nuisance if he had to waste some of his precious holidays in a place where there was not even enough 'grub!'

However, the food proved to be excellent, so Walter felt that it must be in some other way that the stinginess would be evident.

'It is such a lovely day,' said Mrs. Trehane the next morning at breakfast. 'What do you say to an expedition to Pengwithen Cove?'

The boys were delighted with the idea and ran off to get ready, so that they did not see Mrs. Trehane set to work busily to cut sandwiches.

'What is that hamper thing you are carrying?' asked Jack of his father as they were starting.

'Our lunch, Jack; and, knowing who packed it, I can promise we shall not do badly.'

'But you always used to give us lunch at the hotel, Father,' Jack said.

'Ah, but we have learnt a trick worth two of that, have we not, my dear?' and Mr. Trehane smiled at his wife.

'It is so much jollier to have our lunch close to the sea,' she said, 'instead of in a stuffy room.'

'And who is going to carry that horrid, great basket, I should like to know?' muttered Jack, as he rode on ahead with Walter. 'That is one of the mean dodges I told you about. She thinks it will save the expense of a lunch at the hotel.'

The white-crested waves were rolling in over the blue waters of the bay as the Trehanes and Walter followed the cliff path towards the Cove for which they were bound. Jack loitered behind the others, for it was his turn to carry the lunch. Presently a cry from him made them look round, and what should they see but the precious picnic-basket rolling down the sloping turf which edged the cliff! As they watched, it went over with a loud report of bursting lemonade bottles, and the contents were dashed into fragments on the rocks beneath.

'How could you be so careless, Jack?' his father said in tones of vexation; but as he never dreamed it was anything but an accident, he did not say much.

They were obliged to return to the hotel for a meal, and Walter shrewdly suspected this was the result Jack had worked for.

However, the lunch was not a success. A crowd of excursionists had swept nearly everything in the shape of food before them, and left very little for any one who came after.

'Oh, dear,' sighed Mrs. Trehane, 'when I think of the nice ham sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, the lovely meat patties and raspberry puffs, which are now floating away to sea, I do feel sad!'

'What an idiot you have been!' whispered Walter to Jack, and the latter was inclined to believe his friend spoke truly.

When Mr. Trehane pulled out some money in order to pay the bill, his wife gave another sigh.

'This is worse than the cold mutton, is it not?' he asked, laughing.

Then she laughed too and held up a warning finger.

'Hush!' she whispered, 'you must not let out my secret.'

'I think we must share it with Jack,' said Mr. Trehane. 'It will make him more careful in future when we trust him with our luncheon-basket.'

He had noticed his son's scornful look when the settlement of the bill was mentioned, and had partly guessed what was in his mind.

'I wanted it to be a surprise,' Mrs. Trehane said; 'but now you have revealed half the secret, perhaps it is as well to confess the whole.'

'Well, Jack,' his father said, 'you know you have been bothering me for a new watch, but I told you I could not manage such a piece of extravagance now, and you would have to wait another year.'

'My old one is no more use than a turnip,' Jack broke in.

'All the more pity that part of the new one went over the cliff with the lunch,' remarked his father.

'What do you mean?' asked Jack in bewilderment.

Mr. Trehane looked at his wife.

'It was your plan; you had better explain it,' he said.

'You see, Jack,' she began, 'it seemed rather hard you should not have a new watch when you wanted one so badly, so I told Father I was quite sure I could save money in many little ways without robbing us of any real comforts. One of my plans was to take a luncheon-basket when we had picnics or expeditions, and to have a first-rate meal of delicious home-made dainties instead of a second-rate lunch for which we should have to pay more. Now, Jack, do you approve of my little scheme?'

Jack was almost speechless with shame and confusion, and the twinkle in Walter's eye made him even hotter.

'I think you are awfully good,' he stammered, 'but I don't deserve that watch, and I shan't have it now I was such a silly donkey as to throw the basket over the cliff.'

'Oh, yes, you will, Jack,' said his step-mother, though she did look a little astonished at the confession that it was a deliberate act instead of an accident. 'There will be plenty of money saved by the end of the holidays, if you will be careful not to lose any more baskets.'

Jack never forgot this lesson, and the beautiful new watch he carried back to school with him was a constant reminder that hasty judgments too often prove unjust.

A GENTLE DONKEY.

I.

'Do sit down, Master Harry, and allow me to put your shoes on!'

'Well, try like this, Mary. I will pretend to be a stork, and stand on one leg.'

'Really, you are a tiresome boy to-night,' said poor Mary with a sigh of despair, 'and you know that Nannie is waiting for me to get Baby's bath ready. Poor Master Harry,' she continued after a pause, during which that young gentleman had been trying, unsuccessfully, to balance himself on one leg, 'I don't believe I shall have time now to tell you that interesting secret.'

'Interesting secret, Mary?' asked the boy in an eager voice. 'Oh, Mary, I will be quite good if you will tell it to me.'

Harry loved a secret. So many of the nice things in his life had been sprung upon him in this form that the very word 'secret' was to his youthful mind a promise of coming happiness.

'Let me guess,' he pleaded in answer to her nod, and for at least two minutes, during which time Mary put on and buttoned the shoes, there was silence.

'Is it about my birthday?'

'Yes,' said Mary, taking advantage of the unusual peace to give a few additional touches to her young master's smart sailor suit. This over, she drew his curly head down and whispered in a deep, slow voice, that sent a shiver through Harry's little body, 'As to-morrow is your birthday, your father and mother are going to give you a present that has four legs! Now run away downstairs; for I heard the motor going round to the stables, and your father must be home again!'

At this moment Harry's quick ears heard a footstep upon the stairs--a footstep that he loved with all his heart--and with a cry of delight he disappeared through the nursery doorway, and down the broad staircase.

'Well, old man! What do you mean by not coming to meet me?' and the father picked up his little son and kissed him affectionately.

'I never heard you come, Father. Did you remember to "toot, toot" on the motor?'

'No, I didn't. That little imp, Paddy, rushed out at the hall door, barking at the motor, and I was so busy wondering what he would look like squashed quite flat that I forgot all about toot, toot. But run and ask Nannie to put on your coat, for I am going to take you out to the stables. Remember to ask very politely,' he called after the receding figure in a warning voice.

'Please put on my coat, Nannie,' gasped Harry, bursting into the nursery like a whirlwind; and as she buttoned it across his wriggling little body, he put his arms round her neck and whispered, 'I expect I am going to see the present with the four legs! Oh, I wonder if it will be a wheelbarrow!'

A few minutes later Major Raeburn, with his son on his back, was standing outside the stables, calling, 'Simmons, Simmons!'

'Yes, sir,' answered a smart young groom, who hurried out of the stables at the sound of his master's voice.

'Here we are, Simmons. I have brought Master Harry to see his new present. What do you think of it?'

But at this moment a pair of restless feet kicked vigorously against the Major's sides to remind him that the future owner of the mysterious present was impatient; so bending his head he stepped into the stable.

For a second there was silence, while the child peered into corners.

'Well, old man,' said his father, 'see nothing?'

'No,' he murmured in a disappointed voice; but just at that moment, a pair of long ears appeared. 'Father,' he gasped, 'I see a donkey! Is that my present?'

'Yes, that is your present from Father and Mother, and as to-morrow is your birthday you must take Mary a drive on the Common. There is a jolly little governess car, also, that will just hold Nannie and Mary and you and Baby, but it is too late to go to the coach-house to-night. Looks a nice little animal, doesn't he, Simmons? I should think that Mary could drive him all right. She says that she always drove a donkey in her last situation!'

'Oh, yes, sir, she will be all right. He is a pretty donkey, and not a scrap of vice about him, I should say.'

'And what are you going to say to Father for giving you such a nice present?' said Major Raeburn as he retraced his steps.

'Oh, thank you very much, Father,' murmured the boy, laying his golden head against his father's, and clasping him tightly round the neck with his strong little arms; 'and now be a kicking horse back to the house.'

Later on Mother had a full description of the donkey's appearance, followed by an exhibition of how Harry would ride him. This he demonstrated by means of a drawing-room chair and the hearth-brush: and if there were moments when Mother had fears for the fate of her chair, neither by word nor look did she show it, though when Mary's voice from the door was heard saying, 'It's your bed-time, Master Harry,' the expression on her face was distinctly one of relief.

(_Continued on page 390._)

FINDING FAULT WITH NATURE.

A certain lady was in the habit of spending her leisure time in making flowers and fruits of wax and other material. In time she became very clever at the work, but her friends always found fault with everything that she made. One day she passed round a large apple, and said that she thought she had been very successful this time. Her friends, as usual, were not pleased with it. One found fault with the shape, another with the colour, and every one had something to say against it. After the apple had been passed round, and had come into her hands again, she ate it without saying anything. Her friends had been finding fault with a real apple.

MADE BEAUTIFUL.

I saw a little beam of light
Strike on a coloured glass;
And lo! it showed more fair and bright
As it away did pass.
It caught the radiance and the glow
Of that illumined scene,
And did more fair and lovely show
Than it before had been.

I saw a little thought of love
Enter a childish heart,
That heart to kindness it did move,
And filled up every part;
And when I saw that thought again,
Oh, it was sweet indeed,
For it was changed to glory then,
And showed in kindly deed.

THE BRAVE COUNTESS.

A German lady, belonging to a house which had formerly been renowned for its heroism, and which had even given an emperor to the German empire, once got the better of the terrible Duke of Alva. When Charles V. of Spain, in the year 1547, came through Thuringia upon a march to Franconia and Suabia, this lady, the Dowager Countess Katharina of Schwarzburg, got a letter of protection from him, to the effect that none of her subjects should suffer any harm from the Spanish troops. On the other hand, she bound herself to provide bread and other provisions for fair payment, and to send them to the Saal bridge for the Spanish troops, which were to pass over it.

Although there was a great need for haste, the Germans adopted the precaution of taking down the bridge and erecting it at a greater distance from the town, which, being so near, might have led their rough guests into temptation. At the same time, the inhabitants of the villages which lay on the soldiers' march were allowed to shelter their most valued possessions in the castle.

In the meantime the Spanish general approached, accompanied by Duke Henry of Brunswick and his two sons, and, sending a messenger in advance, they invited themselves to breakfast with the Countess of Schwarzburg. Such a request, under such circumstances, could not very well be refused. They would be given what the house contained, they might come and be as considerate as possible, was the reply. At the same time it was not forgotten to mention the letter of protection, and the Spanish general was asked to bear it strictly in mind.

A friendly reception and a well-spread table awaited the Duke of Alva at the castle. He was obliged to confess that the Thuringian ladies knew how to keep a good kitchen and to maintain the honour of the house. Yet scarcely had they sat down, when a servant called the Countess out of the hall. She was informed that the Spanish soldiers not far off had used force and had driven away the peasants' cows.

Katharina was a mother to her people, and what befell the poorest of her subjects concerned herself. Irritated to the uttermost by this breach of faith, yet keeping her presence of mind, she commanded all her servants to arm themselves in swiftness and silence, and to bar the castle gates. She herself went back to the table at which the visitors were still sitting. Here she complained in the most touching way of what had been reported to her and of the manner in which the Emperor's word had been kept. They replied to her with laughter that it was only a custom of war, and that on a marching through of soldiers such little accidents were not to be prevented.

'We will see about it,' she answered in anger; 'my poor subjects must have their own returned to them, or'--raising her voice--'_Princes for oxen!_'

With this clear declaration she left the room, which in a few moments was filled with armed men, who, sword in hand, planted themselves behind the chairs of the princes, and with much respectfulness served the breakfast.

At the entrance of this warlike troop the Duke of Alva changed colour; cut off from the army by a superior number of sturdy men, it only remained for him to be patient and to make the best terms he could with the offended lady. Henry of Brunswick recovered himself the first, and broke out into ringing laughter. He took the wise course of turning the whole occurrence into a jest, and highly praised the Countess for the care and the resolute courage she had shown. He asked the Germans to keep calm, and took upon himself to persuade the Duke of Alva to do everything that was reasonable. He did persuade the Duke of Alva so effectively, that upon the spot he sent an order to the army to deliver up without delay the stolen cattle to their owners. As soon as the Countess was certain that restitution had been made, she thanked her guests, who then very courteously took their leave.

The Duke of Alva had met his match in the brave Countess, and had been forced by her to keep to the letter of protection given her by the King; but he ought to have had sufficient chivalry to have not required such a lesson about keeping his King's promise.

Many _Chatterbox_ readers, as they grow older, will probably read in their histories of the terrible Duke of Alva, and will perceive more fully what a brave woman this Countess must have been. Without doubt it was through such incidents as these that Countess Katharina von Schwarzburg came by her name of 'The Heroic.'

THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.

XII.--MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS OF NATIVE AMERICAN TRIBES.

The Indians of America, especially those of North America, show a much higher mental development than is common in savage nations.

This is shown in many tribes by a communal system of government, loyalty to their Sachems, or chiefs, their skill in embroidering leather articles with dyed quills and grasses, and not least in their production of stringed musical instruments. Instruments of concussion and percussion, like drums and cymbals, and also wind instruments of shell or horn, and rude forms of bagpipes, are inventions of most savage races; but the production of even the most elementary form of stringed instrument is a distinct advance, showing an understanding, however faint, of the use of vibration in developing and strengthening an original note.

The Apache Indians have a small fiddle with one string, and the Yakutata of Alaska have also a form of violin. The Nachee Indians of the Mississippi regions have a sacred instrument of great antiquity. It is of wood, about five feet high by one foot wide, and is held between the feet, resting alongside the chin of the performer. The strings are made of the sinews of a large buffalo, and it is played by a bow, held by two men, one at each end. Probably we might be inclined to think it more noisy than musical, but happily in music, as in most other things, tastes differ.

In Central Africa an instrument is made of the shell of the armadillo, or of the turtle, having strings stretched across it. It is suggestive of the primitive lyres of antiquity, in which a tortoise-shell was used as a sounding-board.

Among nearly all Indian tribes, conjurors or 'medicine-men' are held in high repute, and some weird instruments of theirs are met with. The drum in the illustration (fig. 1), with the queer animal on its head, is a conjuror's drum in use among the Sioux and the Dakotas on religious occasions. It has two heads, gaily coloured with vermilion, and is adorned with one of more figures of animals or birds, probably the family 'totem,' or crest. These drums are quite small, only measuring ten inches across by three deep, they are carried by a handle and are supposed to act as talismans.

The peculiar rattle (fig. 2), showing a face made of raw hide, and profusely ornamented with feathers, is also used by medicine-men, who prepare the instrument secretly with mysterious rites. In length it is about twenty inches.

The long narrow box attached to a pole (fig. 3) is also used by the Sioux and the Dakotas. It is usually decorated with feathers, sometimes very long. The construction is primitive, consisting merely of grain put into a box and shaken with more or less violence.

HELENA HEATH.

THE LEOPARD'S LOOKING-GLASS.

An old leopard came out of his den, and wandered for miles through the forest. As his lithe, spotted body glided amongst the tropical undergrowth, other creatures slunk out of his path, and he found nothing on which to prey. Hunger and restlessness drove the animal on, however, till a new and strange object made him pause to see what it was that stood in his way. The queer thing, made of wood, like the trees, had something bright within it; something that was never seen on the trunk of any tree.

The leopard drew nearer, and found himself, for the first time in his life, face to face with a looking-glass. He looked in, and saw what seemed to him the eyes of another leopard gazing into his own. Curiosity, alarm, and anger, by turns, possessed him. What did the strange beast mean by gazing at him so? He raised his heavy paw, and gave a crushing blow upon the glass.

Down fell the trap--for trap it was--and the sharp spikes, heavily weighted, did their work. But though the trap was a terrible one, the leopard had in his life done greater harm than he suffered, and the forest was well rid of such a dangerous and cruel animal.

SPIDER RUNNERS.

If I had to undergo one of those transformations we read about in fairy tales, and were to be turned into a spider, I should very much wish to be one of the wandering spiders, and not a web-maker. Both in houses and out of doors, things go badly with spiders' webs and their occupiers; they are constantly disturbed, and if they get away alive, their work has to be done over again. But a spider that does not make a web is usually suffered to go on his way undisturbed; sometimes, indeed, the hunting spiders are scarcely recognised as spiders, and pass for some other kind of insect.

The hunting spiders, however, do resemble the spinners. They are mostly, perhaps, rather more slim in the body, and are furnished with eight legs, sharp jaws and a poison fang, being able also to spin threads, should they need to do so. Our British hunters are nearly all small. Some of them do not run after their prey; they lurk beside a little pebble, or in the folds of a leaf or flower.

The running spider, called the tarantula, is not very common in Europe, though it is found in some parts of Italy; it is sometimes known to bite people, and an old but false belief held that the poison forced them to keep on dancing till quite worn out. Not long ago, some persons allowed themselves to be bitten by it, but the only effect was painful swelling. In tropical countries, however, this spider grows to a great size, and can cause great pain by its bite. The tarantula is of the wolf-spider family, whose habit is to chase their prey, not lie in ambush.

We have many British wolf-spiders: one for instance--he has no English name--is _Lycosa amentata_. This is a species that is found in numbers about heaps of stones by the wayside, or upon chalky banks. When alarmed, these spiders seem to vanish like magic. They also do a good deal of hunting upon low-growing, large-leaved plants. It is amusing to watch one standing on the edge of a leaf, whence it makes a dash at some flying insect that alights. Frequently it misses, but, when successful, it carries off the prey, bigger perhaps than itself, to a safe retreat. During autumn, the female spider bears about with her the egg-bag of yellow or whitish silk, in which the little spiders are hatched. They are much paler than the old spiders, and remain with their mother till they have attained to some size. They manage to live through the winter, and are fully grown in May. Amongst the wolf-spiders generally, we find a difference between the movements of the males and females. If hard pressed, the females escape by a succession of short runs, but the males can manage to jump from leaf to leaf with much agility.

Several of the hunting spiders are equal to flying, or at least manage to be wafted along by the breeze, when they want to take a trip. The silk these throw out is occasionally called 'gossamer;' it is slight, and not unlike the true gossamer, made by web-spinners of various sorts, which we usually notice in autumn, covering bushes and grassy spaces. The family to which the airy spiders belong is notable, because it contains those species which have a likeness to crabs in form, having short broad bodies, feeble front legs, and long, powerful hind legs. They run easily forwards, backwards, or sideways, and are mostly pale, with dark markings. Generally, such spiders follow their prey, since they are good runners, but a few have the habit of living in ambush, ready to spring upon insects that come near.

Very common in gardens are the _Saltici_. Most people have seen one species in particular, which is grey, the back and legs being barred with white. This spider leaps upon its prey, and you may notice that it always has a thread attached to some object. Probably it is a precaution against slipping, in case the jump is a failure.

Some small, black, very agile spiders, which are found about our rooms, and also out-of-doors, are evidently hunters; people call them money-spiders, for it is supposed to be lucky should one of them crawl over you, or come towards you. There is a spider popularly known as daddy-long-legs, though this name is shared by other insects; it has a narrow body, and long pale legs, with dark knee-joints. It is often noticed roving about, for some reason or other; yet the species is a web-maker; its web is usually in a dark corner.

A GIFT TO SIR THOMAS MORE.

Sir Thomas More, Lord Chancellor, and one of England's worthiest sons, was one of the most upright of judges, at a time when so much could not be said of every one. It is recorded of him, that on one occasion a person who wished to move him to take a favourable view of her cause, sent him a present of a pair of gloves, in which forty pieces of gold were wrapped up. Sir Thomas accepted the gloves, but returned the gold, saying that he did not like his gloves to have any lining.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Concluded from page 371._)

The children did not notice that Estelle had slipped away. She had caught a glimpse of Peet at his work, looking gloomier and more surly than ever.

'Peet,' she said, running up to him with a sunny smile and a hand held out, 'how are you? Dick is looking better, I think, and Mrs. Peet was as nice and as well as ever. She gave me such a welcome yesterday, and said she was so glad to see me. It is lovely to see you all again.'

'Welcome back, Miss,' returned Peet, taking the little hand shyly. 'I am not one to talk, but I am right glad to set eyes on you.'

'Thank you, Peet. But there is one thing that I do not feel happy about, and that is dear Aunt Betty. How different she seems--not half so strong as she used to be!'

'No, Miss, she is not. She has been ill with losing you. We did miss you sore, Miss.'

'It's nice of you to say so. But is it not wonderful that Jack should have picked me up when I fell into the sea? It was high tide, you know, and I was swept out so far I should have been drowned but for him. He took me home, and both he and his mother were so good to me.'

She told him the story which she had already related once that morning, dwelling especially on Jack's gallant rescue.

'Oh, Peet, he is such a good fellow,' she went on, 'so kind to every one, and so good to his mother! As to _her_, she is just the best mother possible. Peet, do you know Jack--have you spoken to him?'

She was anxious to know if Jack had had his interview; from Peet's manner she feared he had not, or that something was wrong.

'Why should I speak to him?' asked the gardener, in his most forbidding tones.

'Because Dick has,' she ventured, scarcely knowing how to say more in Peet's surly mood.

'Dick and I are two different persons, Miss.'

'Yes,' said Estelle, softly, 'Dick is a--is very near Heaven, Aunt Betty says. Peet, I think it is worse for the man who has done the wrong.'

'Do you, Miss? Well, _I_ can't see it. It's not my way of thinking, anyhow.'

'It would be,' said Estelle, taking her courage in both hands, 'if you believed in forgiveness at all. Auntie told us what a hard time you had with Dick's illness,' continued Estelle, as Peet's face had not relented, 'but you are all right now. Jack has had a hard time too, because he was so dreadfully sorry for the wrong he had done. But it is not all right with him, and he says it never will be, because he cannot undo the harm.'

'No, he can't,' replied Peet, grimly.

'Well,' said Estelle, with a sigh, 'I am glad he has Dick's forgiveness, and that Dick called him his friend. Jack felt that more than anything. He said it was like coals of fire on his head.'

Seeing Peet made no attempt to reply, but continued his work as if the subject were ended, Estelle sighed again, and went slowly back to join the others, who were crossing the lawn with Jack, on their way to the Bridge House, where he was to say good-bye to Dick.

'Oh, Jack,' cried Georgie, 'Estelle says you sing so beautifully! Will you sing to Dick? He loves music, and some day I shall buy him a barrel-organ to play to him always.'

Jack shook his head. 'He won't care to hear me, Master George.'

But Georgie was so sure Dick would care, that he ran on ahead of the party to ask him. As the rest came up, Mrs. Peet was at the door to receive them. She looked into Jack's face and held out her hand.

'For his sake!' she said, motioning with her head towards her son. 'I can't go against his wishes.'