Chapter III (2)

Every one must have observed how many animals escape notice by the similarity of their colours to those of the ground upon which they lie, or of the foliage in which they hide. It is not easy to see rabbits, at dusk, as they sit quietly nibbling the grass upon their sandy warrens. It is difficult, at times, to distinguish a toad from a piece of broken bark or a dead leaf. Moths and butterflies frequently escape pursuit by hiding among twigs and flowers which resemble them in colour. And it is almost impossible to see a shrimp upon the sand of the sea-shore, or a little sandy-coloured fish at the bottom of a sea-side pool. We can hardly doubt that the colours of these animals serve them as a very useful protection. They are all naturally helpless creatures, and their safety depends almost entirely upon their escaping the notice of their enemies.

The examples just given are familiar to us all. But there are few better illustrations of this curious fact than that afforded by the Ptarmigan, a bird which is found in the northern parts of Europe and America, including the north of Scotland. It is a game bird, nearly related to the grouse, the partridge, and even to our domestic fowls, and it is protected, like the other game birds, by Acts of Parliament, which render those who shoot it, during certain months of the year, liable to a fine. The ptarmigan frequents wild, mountainous districts, and builds its nest upon the open hillsides, among the coarse grass and mossy rocks. The nest is a little cluster of twigs and grass, and in it the ptarmigan lays ten or a dozen reddish eggs spotted with brown, which are not easily distinguishable from the twigs and grass among which they lie. The summer plumage of the bird itself is a brown tortoiseshell, so similar in colour to the ground upon which it makes its nest that it is very difficult to see.

In winter-time, however, when the hillsides are covered with snow, the ptarmigan would be easily discovered, if it retained its summer dress. But, upon the approach of colder weather, the bird changes its plumage, and takes on a winter robe of pure white, which makes it just as difficult to detect amidst the snow, as it was in summer when it nested among the grass and stones. With the return of warmer weather it resumes its darker colour. The bird moults, in fact, twice and sometimes thrice in the year. It is impossible to tell the exact cause of these changes, but it is quite certain that they help to protect the bird from its enemies. The change from its winter plumage to its summer one is sometimes delayed for some little time after the winter snows have disappeared, and it has been noticed, in Norway and Sweden, that large numbers of ptarmigan are killed at this time, when their white feathers make them so conspicuous.

The enemies of the ptarmigan are the larger birds of prey, and animals of the weasel kind. One of the largest of the latter is the pine marten, which is still found in remote and uninhabited parts of our country. It is a fierce and active animal, ever on the look-out for game and eggs. It is, in fact, a great poacher, and for this reason it has been practically exterminated by gamekeepers, in all the districts where game is carefully preserved. In other countries the marten is hunted for its skin, the fur of which is scarcely less valuable than that of the sable. It is found in all the northern countries, especially in North America.

ANSON'S COOLNESS.

Commodore Anson, while his ship, the _Centurion_, was engaged in close combat with a Spanish man-of-war, was told by a sailor that the _Centurion_ was on fire near the powder magazine.

'Well,' said the Commodore quietly, 'go and help to put it out.'

H. S. B.

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

II.--DENISON'S HALL-MARK.

(_Concluded from page 37._)

My brain recovered its power after a moment or two, and I began to reflect, though, I own, my reflections were somewhat interfered with by the rough treatment to which I was being subjected; for the great brute in whose jaws I lay dragged me without ceremony over stones, roots, scrub, hard knife-like grass, and other obstacles. I felt my clothes tear here, there, and everywhere; I was being gradually torn and bumped into a jelly--still, I reflected, where was I being taken to, and why? Why not eaten at once?

The latter question was easily answered. The lion had had his dinner already, or her dinner--it might, of course, be a lioness--I had as yet had no opportunity of seeing the beast; if so, she might be the mother of a family of cubs, and if so again, I might be destined for their dinner, mamma having already dined.

This was a pleasant reflection! I might have to deal with half-a-dozen lions of various sizes, instead of only one large one. There was very little doubt that I was doomed, in any case; yet my brain had never worked more clearly than at this moment, and I employed it as I went bumping along, in trying to devise some means of escape, poor though the prospect might be. My gun was still in my hand, and determined that no amount of rough travelling should cause me to let it go. A moment might come when I should find an opportunity to turn it somehow in the direction of the lion, and I should keep my wits about me mainly to that end.

We had travelled, I suppose, about a quarter of a mile, and I wish I could convey to you fellows the extreme discomfort of it. Can you imagine it? One's head flopping and wobbling and knocking up against whatever happened to be in the way; one's legs following suit; one's body strained, twisted, scratched, bruised, pounded--really, though I see you fellows laughing at this very moment, and should like to kick you for it if I were not too comfortable to move, I would not wish even such ruffians as you two to suffer such torture.

Suddenly the beast laid me down--tired, perhaps, with dragging eleven stone over rough country. She stood over me for a minute as though listening, one paw on my right shoulder, which prevented me from using my arm, which might otherwise have been employed to advantage during this interval.

Then suddenly she lifted up her voice--it _was_ a lioness, I now saw, not a male lion--and set the air vibrating with a series of roars so loud that they might surely, I thought, be heard at Buluwayo, if not at Capetown. Never in my life had the drums of my ears been so ill-treated. For half a minute without a pause she thundered thus.

Well, she ended. The roars became less loud--less frequent--they thinned down into half-moaning noises something like the end of a donkey's bray, and lastly they stopped altogether, or rather faded into growling or purring sounds. Then she released my shoulder and stood a yard or two from me, gazing into the distance--you know how lions at the Zoo look when the whisper has gone round that it is feeding-time, and every lion and tiger begins to stare into the far-away, over the heads of the spectators.

A few moments passed during which I slowly drew my rifle towards me until I had it close to my side; and now--following one another--came two terrible shocks.

The first was the discovery that my rifle was bent at the grip and that the barrel was damaged in places. It was out of the question to dream of attempting to fire a bullet through it: there was no clear passage for the missile: the rifle would burst in my hands if I attempted it.

The second shock was of a different nature. Hearing a scuffle and the sound of snarlings and whinings, I glanced upwards, and beheld a pretty, though a very alarming spectacle. Four lion cubs, about the size of dogs, came frisking and bounding out of the long grass, evidently in obedience to their mother's summons. At the same moment I became aware of a more awful presence. A full-grown male lion, a magnificent beast, was standing watching me, his tail twitching, his nostrils moving, his legs setting themselves as though for a spring. I had not heard him arrive, I did not know from what direction he had appeared; I simply knew that he was there, and I may tell you that the sight of him gave me a shock, though I had had my fill of terrors already.

I could think of no way out of the horrible position; I was in despair. In my agony I reverted to instinct, I did what a child would have done--I yelled for all I was worth. I called upon Thomson, who was a couple of miles away, at least, and who could not, of course, hear me in any case; I called upon Thomson for the love of all he held precious to come and help me.

Instantly the four cubs disappeared in the long grass, The lioness also bounded away; only the mighty lion remained. He gazed at me and roared, but did not venture to approach. 'I don't quite like the look of you,' he seemed to say; 'I believe that's a fire-stick in your hand; I'll see if I can't frighten you into fits by roaring.'

Then he had his innings at roaring, and I give you my word that if his wife's lungs were pretty good, his own absolutely left them far behind. So terrific was the noise that my whole being seemed paralysed, and I believe I eventually fainted, for, remembering nothing of the events which led up to it, I awoke to find myself the plaything of four lion-cubs.

The little rascals were positively--I wish you fellows wouldn't grin, for I assure you this is a true story!--they were positively playing with me as though I were a big mouse. If only one had been in the mood to be amused, their antics would have seemed really funny. The little beggars would stalk me, crouching and approaching for all the world like a kitten about to make a pounce upon a cork, or some other plaything; then they would make a sudden rush, stand on their hind legs for an instant, touching me hurriedly with their paws, and scamper home to their mother, or behind some rock or tuft of grass, from which they would presently emerge to creep towards me once more; and so the whole play would begin again.

They never once hurt me or scratched me, or did me the slightest injury. I concluded that the father had already fed the little brutes, and that I was to be respited for an hour or two, perhaps half a day. This was satisfactory in a fashion, but just imagine the suspense!

Her majesty the lioness, however, was not pleased, it appears, with the behaviour of her children. She roared once or twice.

'You are meant to eat it,' she seemed to say, 'you foolish little things, not play with it. Here, come along and taste, it's good food. Stick your little teeth into it--look here.'

She approached me and rolled me over once or twice as a cat might play with a mouse. 'Look for a soft place and then bite,' she continued. 'I'll show you the way.'

'No you don't!' thought I, desperate now and careless of consequences. I fumbled for my skinning-knife, and made a dig at her majesty, but only succeeded in scratching her about the shoulder. She gave a roar of alarm, however, and bounded away into cover. The four cubs disappeared instantly.

From somewhere in the long grass, where she hid unseen with her cubs, the lioness now began to growl or moan, complaining, I had no doubt, that I had bitten her and that it was obviously the duty of her lord and master to see that such a venomous creature as myself was rendered harmless before her precious darlings came near it again.

'Go in and finish him off,' she said. 'He might hurt one of them. He has bitten me.'

Apparently her complaint told. His majesty began to grow restless. He stood up. He had lain down at full length to watch the children play, but now he rose up and began to work himself into a rage. His tail lashed his sides, and his jaws moved incessantly; he showed his teeth and growled savagely and roared. I knew enough about lions to be aware that as long as his tail worked from side to side I was safe; once it began to move vertically up and down, the moment had arrived when he would charge. I rose to my knees, then to my feet, and watched him. He gathered his feet as though to spring; he roared; his eyes flashed green fire; his tail ceased to work laterally; it rose straight up over his back and fell again. He was moving; he would charge. I screamed, turned to fly--and fainted.

When I recovered, Thomson was kneeling at my side, explaining that he had heard a lion roaring, and wondered whether I was in trouble. He had started out in search of me, and presently, uncertain where to look for me, providentially heard my first scream. He had hastened in the direction of my call for help, and, as it seemed, arrived just in time.

'Have they gone?' I gasped. 'Where are the lions?'

'How many were there?' he laughed. 'There's one, anyway!'

It was his majesty, dead as a stone. What became of his royal consort and her cubs I know not; we may meet them one of these days.

THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.

III.--MORE CURIOUS MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS OF INDIA.

The Taus, or Peacock, also called Esrar or Mohur, according to the language of the tribe which uses it, is met with chiefly in Upper India, and is a favourite instrument of the Nautch musicians.

It is always made in the form of a peacock, supporting on its back a long, narrow stringed instrument. The body and neck of the bird is usually carved and coloured, and is further adorned with natural plumage, sometimes neck feathers being used, sometimes those of the tail, and often both. There is a very fine specimen of the Taus in the British Museum, in the gallery where boats, weapons, and curious articles of native arts and crafts are exhibited.

The Nautch people are found all over India, and are a striking instance of the survival of native customs in the East, and although Europeans see little more of them than an occasional party of singers and dancers, great numbers of the profession exist.

In native national life the Nautch play a large part, and legend has a great deal to say about them. In their way these performers have a strong religious element, and dancers, whether Hindoo or Mohommedan, never begin their performances without touching forehead and eyes with the strings of bells hung round their ankles, and saying a short prayer.

Tying on the bells for the first time is quite a solemn function, as it implies adopting for ever the career of a Nautch dancer, from which no withdrawal is possible.

A popular Hindoo story called 'Chandra's Vengeance,' tells of a youth who, hearing from a long distance the music of the Nautch, is irresistibly drawn towards it. After twelve days' journey he approaches the camp of the mysterious people, and there a beautiful girl dances up to him and throws a garland of flowers around him. At once a spell is woven, which is completed by a charmed drink, with the result that he forgets friends, family and country, and enters for ever into the Nautch community. Another legend tells of a Rajah, who was so enchanted with the weird music of the wandering people, that he followed it from country to country, forgetful of wife, child, and kingdom, his whole interest being taken up in beating the drum at performances. In time his baby boy grew into manhood, and set himself to seek his father, and restore him to his throne. After endless journeyings and adventures he at last found his royal parent, ragged but picturesque, taking part in a Nautch festival, and after much difficulty persuaded him to return home. There the wisest physicians exerted their skill to restore his memory of his former position, and their efforts being successful, he re-ascended the throne of his ancestors, and reigned many years, his wanderings with the Nautch people fading from his mind entirely.

The same kind of little bells which are hung round the ankles of the Nautch dancers are used for more practical purposes by Indian post-runners, who tie them in strings to the end of poles; thus the bells, being kept in constant motion, announce the coming of the news carrier. At the same time they serve to scare away wild beasts when the runner is passing through lonely forests or jungles where danger lurks in the quivering grasses.

In ancient days the Aztecs and Teztucans of Central America were wont to hang clusters of similar tiny bells outside temples and towers, which, as they were swayed by the wind, kept up a musical sound. One of these, found in Mexico, may be seen in the British Museum; it bears the name of Yotl. The actual bells, which are nearly round, are very similar to the Schellen, or horsebells, used in Northern Europe when driving sledges over the silent snow.

The Pungi or Jinagooi is used by jugglers and snake-charmers all over India. A bottle-shaped gourd is the chief feature in its construction and forms the centre and mouthpiece. Two pipes of cane are cut to form reeds and inserted into the large end of the gourd; one, pierced with finger-holes, takes the melody; it is accompanied by the other, which always sounds the key-note, and produces a curious droning sound not unlike that of the bagpipes.

HELENA HEATH.

A HUMOROUS PUNISHMENT.

In Stow's _History of London_, the following singular extract is given:--

'Nicholas Wilford, an alderman, having neglected to have his cloak, which he ought to use in the procession, lined with fur, it is adjudged by the Court of Aldermen that the Lord Mayor and Aldermen shall all breakfast with him. This penalty is awarded as a punishment for his meanness.'

THE MOON-SHIP.

O ship of the moon, good-bye, good-bye!
Where, where do you sail away,
Through miles and miles of stormy sky,
By cloudland cape and bay?
O ship of the moon, beware, beware,
Of many and many a danger there!

See! white foam breaks along the reef!
The angry tempests blow;
The cloud-waves beat the cloudland cliff
Like gusts of drifting snow.
O ship of the moon, beware, beware,
There's many a danger lurking there!

She's near the rocks! She's sinking now!
The light is growing dim.
Wild billows leap her silver prow
On the horizon's rim.
And louder still the tempest blows;
The shadows darker fall;
Into the cloud-world depths she goes--
Mast, rudder, sails and all,
Wrecked in the ocean of the sky:
Ship of the moon, good-bye! good-bye!

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 63._)

As soon as Georgie was disposed of, the other children set off racing each other about, up and down the old disused part of the house, the empty passages echoing to the sound of their fun and laughter.

'Alan,' said Marjorie, when, breathless and somewhat tired, the three explorers had reached a small turret room into which was shining a ray of sunshine from a rift in the clouds--'I wonder if you would laugh if I told you something.'

Estelle had climbed on a chair and was leaning out of the narrow window, with a longing for the fresh, sweet air outside; Alan was tapping all the panelling to see if any discoveries were lying in wait for him.

'Why should I laugh?' he returned, in a preoccupied voice.

'Please don't, then. I really and truly saw some men creeping round the tower!'

'No!' cried Alan, startled into interest at once.

'Yes, I did. You know there is no reason for anybody to go there. It's never used, and the shrubs are only trimmed once a year, because Auntie doesn't like people about there often.'

'You didn't see who it was?'

'No; I only saw their backs. They were stooping, as if to hide themselves.'

'Did they wear dark, long cloaks?' asked Estelle, suddenly, turning round from the window.

'Yes, with dark caps.'

'Then I have just seen them go under the tower, with a bag and a basket.'

Alan looked from one to the other in silence. Should he speak? Did he dare to trust them? It seemed time to act, but what was he to do without more knowledge than he possessed at present? Was it not possible to gain it--now, even? The men were below somewhere, doing something. They had probably taken advantage of the rain, and the consequent absence of the family and gardeners from the grounds. No one would dream of being out on such a day, and the prospect from the windows was too uninviting to fear many watchers. Alan felt sure this was the way the men had reasoned; and it was clearly his policy to keep them in ignorance of their nearness to the party of children, and yet to manage somehow to watch their movements. If only the girls could help him! He thought he could depend on Marjorie. But Estelle was quite different--nervous and imaginative. Alan knew this, but he could not ask her to leave him and Marjorie to track these men; nor could he propose to her to come with them--the danger of betrayal was too great. Of course, she might keep quiet; but then, again, she might not.

'I tell you what,' he said at length, looking at the two girls, who were watching him anxiously, 'you two had better stay here, and I will go down and have a look round. If I don't come back soon--say in five or ten minutes--don't wait for me, but go down and amuse yourselves. I will be back as soon as I can.'

'Let me go with you,' said Marjorie, earnestly. 'Two are better than one, and you know you can trust me.'

He had expected this, but before he could reply, Estelle broke in with, 'And can't you trust me, too, Alan?'

'The fact is,' he answered, somewhat in doubt how to act, 'I don't know what we shall see; or what will happen if we are seen. It is most important we should not betray ourselves; and in order to manage this, we must keep very, very quiet. Whatever happens, there must be no noise, not even a whisper. Suppose you were frightened, what would you do, Estelle? Don't you think you had better go to the schoolroom, and wait for us? Marjorie can go with you if you like, but, as she says, two are better than one.'

Tears came into Estelle's eyes, but she said, with a good deal of resolution in her gentle voice, 'If you wish, I will go to Aunt Betty. Georgie is with her. I don't want to be in your way. But though I'm not as brave as Marjorie, I can keep quiet, and I--I think you could trust me not to scream or make a noise. If I feel inclined to, I will creep away.'

'All right,' replied Alan. He was fond of his little cousin, and could not bear to see her distressed. 'Come along, then; only remember this, there must be no talking, no moving about, and you must do what I tell you directly without any questions. Will you both promise?'

This little matter settled, the three children set off on their way clown the narrow spiral staircase, at the bottom of which Alan, who led the way, stopped in order to assist the girls over some rotten boards. The whole passage required careful walking, to avoid dangerous holes, and thin, dry-rotting boards.

The lower they went the darker it grew, and the more cautiously they had to tread, till at last they came to such a gloomy region that seeing their footsteps became impossible. Yet they dared not light a match. They must almost have reached the cellars when Alan felt he had come against a door, and whispered to the others to stop. Feeling about with his fingers he encountered a latch, and in another moment the light was shining in on them through a slit-like groove in the thick walls. The stairs still went down, down, much to their disappointment, but no thought of giving up occurred to any of them. They followed each other noiselessly, Estelle the last of the three, when suddenly, just as they had reached a sort of circular stone hall, they heard the grating sound of a door being forced open on rusty hinges. In an instant Alan had drawn the girls back into the shadow of the winding stairs, where they could all remain without betraying their presence. Estelle, being the farthest back, could see nothing, for which she was duly thankful; but Marjorie and Alan sat as still as mice, their eyes on the opening door.

Two men were seen to enter, and, after closing the door, they proceeded to light a lantern. They evidently felt quite safe here, for they did not even lower their voices. A bag of tools was laid on the floor, and now came the moment of danger. Uncertain which of the doors round the stone hall was the one they wanted, they began a tour of inspection, turning the brilliant light of the lantern on each as they came to it. Alan saw that they must pass the foot of the staircase, and that they would certainly bring the lantern to bear on it. This would reveal Marjorie and himself sitting there. With a touch, he drew Marjorie's attention to the danger, and, in an instant, Estelle was made aware of the necessity of going higher up in order that the others might slip out of sight. It was an anxious moment, however, for what if the men took it into their heads to mount the stairs?

Alan listened with strained ears, but, as far as he could make out, they were intent on finding some mark which indicated the door they were in search of. He was comforting himself with this when he saw, by the sudden light on the wall, that the lantern was turned on the stairs.

'Sure it _is_ down here?' said a gruff voice in a surly tone, 'It's no use our going on a wild-goose chase. We are below ground here, and it's not unlikely the door is above-stairs, more on a level with the house.'

'We have not been round them all down here yet,' came the reply in the voice of Thomas. 'I don't know the door any better than you, but we can look till we find it.'

'And if it isn't down here, why we will just go up. I suppose there's no danger of folks coming down the stairs and spying on us?'

'Bless you, it isn't every one has the courage to come here at all. It is haunted, they say; but I don't believe in that sort of ghosts. Come along, and let's finish the hall first.'

With that they moved away, and the stairs were again in deep shadow. Alan indicated to Marjorie that she was to stay where she was. He himself resumed his old seat lower down, whence he could view all that took place.

Slowly and cautiously the men continued their investigations, but apparently with no success. The doors were all precisely alike, all of solid oak, and heavily studded with great nails. The locks looked as if they would take hours--perhaps days--to pick, and to attempt to open them in any other way appeared to be hopeless. After some angry discussion, it was at length determined to mount the stairs and try to find the door they wanted. Alan was on his feet at once, ready to dart out of sight as soon as needful, when suddenly there was a hideous baying and barking at the door by which the men had entered, and almost before the children were aware of what had happened, the two men were flying up the stairs in the hope of avoiding pursuit. The dogs had been let loose, and were on the track of the invaders.

In a panic Alan fled up the stairs, the two girls before him, only just so far ahead as to keep out of sight, aided happily by the darkness, for the lantern had been put out.

How long they could keep ahead had yet to be seen.

(_Continued on page_ 74.)

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 71._)