Chapter VI: A New Arrangement (1)

"Uncle Gregory, may I spend Christmas at Fitzroy Square?" Bertie said one morning before the holidays began; and Mr. Gregory looked at him curiously as he repeated his words.

"Spend Christmas at Fitzroy Square? why? Are you not comfortable at Gore House?"

"Yes, sir; but it's just a little too dull sometimes in the evenings," Bertie replied, very humbly.

"Hum! what do you do in the evenings?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Oh, nothing! Well, you may go to Fitzroy Square if you like, and stay till--let me see--stay till the second of January." Bertie's heart gave a great bound, and his eyes fairly sparkled. "I always give my boys a present at Christmas," and Mr. Gregory placed two sovereigns in Bertie's hand, and positively smiled at him. "I'm very pleased with you, my lad, and when you return we will have a new arrangement. You shall have Dalton's place in my office, to help with the correspondence, and I'll pay you a small salary. You can never begin being independent too soon--and there may be other alterations," Mr. Gregory continued, "but we will speak of them when you return. Tuesday, the second of January, mind, and don't be late. You may go at once if you like."

"Thank you, sir. Good-bye, uncle," Bertie said, with a radiant smile; and ten minutes after he was hurrying towards the Mansion House Station on his way back to Kensington, fairly hugging his two sovereigns. He was beginning to get rich already; never had he quite so much money of his own before, and as he hurried along, he began wondering what he should do with it. "I know," he said to himself, with a triumphant smile, as he leaned back in his corner: "I'll give Agnes ten shillings and Eddie ten, I'll keep ten for myself, and put ten in the savings' bank. Uncle Gregory says that the way to become rich is to save some of everything, no matter how little. Ten shillings won't do much towards getting back Riversdale, but it's a beginning. I hope Eddie has begun to save too." When he reached home, Bertie found his aunt and cousins just going out for a drive, and they all seemed a little surprised to see him.

"What's the matter? is anything wrong?" Mrs. Gregory asked, stopping him in the hall.

"No, aunt; only I've got leave to spend the holidays at Fitzroy Square. Good-bye, aunt; good-bye, cousins," he added hastily, for he did not want to lose a moment.

"Wait a moment, Bertie," Mrs. Gregory said, more kindly than she had ever spoken before; "John will drive you over in the dog-cart, and I must send your brother and cousin their Christmas gifts; and I hope you will enjoy yourself very much. Good-bye, my dear;" and Mrs. Gregory went into the dining-room to order a hamper of good things to be packed for Fitzroy Square, and then she selected from her enormous store of presents a workbox for Agnes, a capital volume for Eddie--though the book had been intended for her own Dick, but it would be easy to get another copy for him--and a knife for Bertie himself, that gladdened his heart for many a day. The truth is, that when Mrs. Gregory saw Bertie, her conscience smote her. She was not really unkind, but very thoughtless; and ever since her boys came from Eton she had entirely forgotten him. Had he been at home all day, he might perhaps have shared in their pleasures; as it was, he scarcely ever even saw them. When he returned from the City they were generally off to some place of entertainment, and arrived home barely in time for dinner; when that was over, they were off again, their mother never being tired of going about with her two handsome lads, while the equally handsome "office-boy" spent his evenings in the solitary school-room. Still, it should be said, she had not wilfully ignored and neglected Bertie, and when she saw how delighted he was to get away from Gore House, she felt naturally ashamed of herself, and resolved to be kinder to him when he came back, for he was really a very good, quiet boy, who never gave any trouble. Meantime she filled a hamper with dainties, packed up the presents, even sent her love to Uncle and Aunt Clair, and a very handsome card; and half-an-hour after Bertie was driving briskly through the park, looking proudly at the hamper and parcel, and wondering if there were so happy a boy in all London that bright, frosty day. Just as he turned into Fitzroy Square a sudden thought struck him: Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair had not invited him, did not even know he was coming, and the fact damped his spirits for a moment. But he laughed off the uneasy sensation. And before long he was flying up the steps; but ere he could reach the knocker, the door swung open, and he was in Aunt Amy's arms.

"My dear, how glad I am to see you, and so are all of us!" she said, kissing him tenderly. "This is indeed a pleasant surprise for us, Bertie!"

"I've come for ten days, auntie," he cried: "that is, if you will have me; but I never thought of asking you till I saw the house; but I may stay, may I not?"

"Stay! I should think so. Why, child, I'm delighted!" and Aunt Amy kissed Bertie again, and then bustled out to see after his things; but John had already deposited them in the hall. Bertie forgot nothing but his own personal belongings. "I am so sorry," he cried, "but I've forgotten my things and my dressing-case. I was so excited, I really did not know what was doing."

"I'll bring them over in the morning, Master Bertie," John said, good-naturedly, though he could not help wondering at his forgetting his wardrobe; but that was because he did not know Bertie, who never forgot his friends, or neglected a single living creature that he once undertook to care for.

"What a delightful surprise this will be for Eddie and Agnes!" Mrs. Clair said, when they were alone in the parlour. "They are out for a walk with Uncle Harry. It was only this morning they were saying what gay times you would have at Gore House now your cousins are at home, and that you would not think of us; but I knew better, Bertie."

"Why, Aunt Amy, I've scarcely ever spoken to my cousins: they're always out enjoying themselves; and I was longing to come here. Was it not good of Uncle Gregory to let me come, and give me such a long holiday? and look, auntie, two sovereigns for a Christmas present, and" (dragging in the hamper and parcel) "Aunt Gregory sent these--a workbox for Agnes, and a book for Eddie, and such a knife for me! And it was she told John to drive me over in the dog-cart. And, best news of all, when I go back to the office there's to be a new arrangement. I'm going into Uncle Gregory's private office and am to have a salary; think of that, Aunt Amy! I'm beginning to make my fortune already, and I dare say I'll be rich before very long, then Eddie and Agnes shall have Riversdale; but I think I'll be a merchant always, and perhaps be Lord Mayor of London some day, like Whittington, though instead of having a favourite cat I've only white mice!"

Aunt Amy laughed almost as heartily as Bertie. It was good to see the boy's happy, honest face, and hear his cheery voice. Whatever Bertie Rivers undertook to do he certainly did with all his heart, and that was the true secret of his happiness. While they were still enjoying the idea of Bertie being a Lord Mayor, the door opened, and Uncle Clair, Agnes, and Eddie entered the room, and it was hard to say whether they were more amazed or pleased to see Bertie established there.

(_To be continued._)

THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN IN AUGUST.

Beds and borders which have been very showy and pretty from the latter part of May to the end of July will now have reached their highest stage of perfection. Such plants as geraniums, calceolarias, lobelias, &c., make an exceedingly small amount of growth all through the summer, but so soon as the dewy nights and often wet days of August and September arrive, they start into growth with the greatest of rapidity. This state of things is, of course, almost an infallible sign that the irksome labour of watering can be dispensed with. At the same time, the plants must on no account be allowed to flag from want of water, and this matter needs very careful attention; it will be often found, even after what seems to be a heavy shower of rain, that the earth is perfectly dust-dry half an inch under the surface. This circumstance is a most misleading one, and a valuable plant is quickly lost through neglecting to take necessary precautions.

* * * * *

Whilst making the strong growth just mentioned, it will be very necessary to properly train the young shoots in such a manner as to ensure a neat and compact growth. All decaying vegetation, such as leaves, stems, &c., must be promptly removed, and that before they cause other leaves, &c., to become equally diseased. Nothing looks so excessively deplorable as to see what was at one time a neat bed of plants in a semi-rotten state. When a stem or leaf of a geranium becomes wholly or partly separated, it rapidly decays; hence the great importance of removing such before it becomes a mass of decomposition. It is the same with the fuchsia and many others. Hoeing and otherwise cleaning the surfaces of beds and borders must be carried out where practicable. Weeds and objectionable vegetation of all sorts should be removed to the rubbish-heap at the earliest possible moment, thereby securing a general tidy appearance to the place.

* * * * *

Almost every day will occasion some new operation to be carried out, and all plants having a naturally rambling habit, such as petunias and verbenas, must be strictly kept within bounds by being pegged down. This can be done by using what are known as "verbena-pins," and these can be purchased at a cheap rate from any local seedsman, or may be easily made by converting pieces of galvanised or any thin wire into sizes and shapes identical with small hair-pins. Each shoot must be carefully secured close to the earth with one of these. It must be remembered that the young shoots are very tender, and that the least clumsy handling will destroy them. Hollyhocks and dahlias, and, indeed, all tall-growing herbaceous plants, will require very careful looking after, in the matter of tying and training more especially. Dahlias and hollyhocks are really the supreme ornaments of the garden during the latter part of the summer and throughout the autumnal months. The latter-named, unfortunately, is extremely liable to the attacks of a virulent form of fungoid disease, which rapidly destroys it. We know of no real preventative, and the only plan we can recommend is to select strong young plants, which are in no degree affected with it, and on the very first appearance of the disease to destroy all those infested.

* * * * *

The rose--that "Queen of flowers"--will, in all probability, require attention; extra strong and gross-growing shoots may be cut back, and train all young growth with the view of securing not only a well-formed specimen, but also a robust growth. As a general rule, the training of roses must be left to a good practical gardener, but we strongly advise all our young friends to pay careful attention to what he does, and to the advice he gives, so that they may themselves at another time perform the necessary operations, with, of course, a considerable amount more pleasure. We may here remark that all young people must never be above taking hints and advice from gardeners, because the power to give such has been almost invariably acquired by long experience, and is given with the best of intentions. And, moreover, few things are more pleasing to a gardener than to see young folk taking a practical interest in his favourite pursuit.

* * * * *

Cuttings may now be made of a great number of plants, and cold frames or shady spots in the garden may be utilised for growing them. As a rule, the separation should be made a little way under the joint. A cutting has been truly defined as a part of a plant with growing appendages at either end, and a space between to keep them sufficiently apart, so that one part shall be in the soil to form roots, and the other in the air to form leaves and stem. They are usually obtained from the young wood, and strike most freely in sand. It is easy to determine whether a shoot be in a proper state for making a cutting: bend it carefully back, and if it breaks or snaps it is in a right condition, and if it bends without snapping it is then too hard. The most general "cut" is a slanting one, but we have invariably found a level one both easiest made and quickest rooted. Whichever is done, let it be done with a sharp knife, and let the cut be "clean," not jagged--this is an important consideration.

* * * * *

The kitchen-gardens of young folk will require but little attention during the month of August, although just the reverse is the case in large establishments. However, all the necessary weeding, raking, and hoeing should be done without fail. Seeds also may be now sown of cress, mustard, and radishes, but they must all be gathered when in a very young state. Seeds of the American Red-stone Turnip or other good sort can be sown in any odd piece of ordinary garden soil. Delicious little turnips will be produced in about five or six weeks very easily, if a small amount of care is given, the chief requirements being water when the weather is dry, thinning-out where they come up very close together, and keeping thoroughly clear of weeds--mere matters of detail, which require but little time to carry out, and which will ensure a very good crop of a most desirable vegetable.

JEMMY'S AND MY ADVENTURE.

_By the Author of "Claimed at Last" &c._

Jemmy was five, I seven--two quaint little people we must have looked, as we trotted out through the lengthening shadows from the old Manor Farmhouse, where we had been sojourning with our grandmother and Uncle John, all the summer-time. Now August was fast glowing itself away towards September, and all was rich, ripe grain, happy toiling and mirth, in the far-stretching fields. Out from the old flower-wreathed porch we both of us trudged, and away on an expedition of our own.

"We mustn't be idle--the bees are not idle, are they?" piped Jemmy, turning to watch the bees working in the flower-beds. And I responded--

"No, nor are we idle if we try to be busy."

"And seeing other folk work is like working ourselves, isn't it?" reasoned Jemmy.

"And picking flowers for grandmamma is real work," was my complacent rejoinder, pressing the wooden basket I carried closer to my side, and thinking myself a very industrious little woman.

Away on the downs, all beautiful colours were chasing each other among the sunbeams, and the trees waved overhead, as if they liked to fan all the busy toilers on the earth. And by the old beech-tree, at the cross-roads, we met Uncle John.

"Well," was his greeting; "where do you two midges think you're off to?"

"I'm going to look after the harvest folk," quoth Jemmy, with a swagger.

"And I'm going to gather flowers for grandmamma--and we're not midges, uncle," said I, with a girl's protest.

"Ah! what are you, then, little fluffy hair?" was his smiling reply, putting back my yellow curls from my forehead with his finger.

"Two busy people that don't like to be idle."

"Ah! well, go on, you make-believes; mind and be home by sundown, and don't lose yourselves." Thus he admonished us; then he went his way, and we ours.

"Sundown is a long time, isn't it, Nell?" remarked Jemmy; "and we're not such sillies as to lose ourselves."

"No; uncle doesn't know how wise we are," I answered; and then we travelled on all through the rich, ripe harvest-glory of cornfields.

But the harvest folk seemed very far off; the silent fields lay basking in the sunshine, with the lengthening shadows stretching athwart them, some with the golden grain cut and ready for carting, some still standing awaiting the sickle. But no happy toilers were to be seen. Yes, we alighted upon one, a lad sitting manufacturing a whistle-pipe, and watching some sheep wandering in a field, where the wheat had been reaped and gleaned.

"Where are the harvest folk?" questioned Jemmy, with dignity.

"Harvest folk, young sir! That's a wide question, 'cause them's everywhere," replied the lad, with a grin.

"I don't see them," was the reply.

"I'm a harvest folk, and so is them--them's havin' their harvest," saying which the boy jerked his thumb in the direction of the sheep.

"They're not folk, they are sheep," dissented Jemmy, with scorn.

"Well, follow your noses, youngsters;' and you'll find some harvest folk, if ye go far enough."

"He's a great rude boy, Nell, come away," quoth Jemmy to me, taking my hand, and boy-like leading me on. And as we went we met a mite of a boy of about Jemmy's age, with a small bundle of corn on his shoulder, like a miniature man.

"Are you come from the harvest people?" asked Jemmy.

"Yes," was the child's reply.

"And where are they?"

"I don't know; ever so far away. I'm carrying home mother's corn." With that the little man trudged on his way, and we went flitting here and there, I picking corn-flowers, and Jemmy looking for fat toads and shrews. And all the while our shadows standing by our sides warned us of what would befall us ere long.

"I think," said I, presently, "that I'll sit down here by these sheaves awhile;" but ere we had bent our tired little limbs, out flew a beautiful bird from their midst, all blue and gold, and many other tints intermingling to our imaginative eyes, viewing it in the sunlight.

"Oh, Nell, what a beauty!" cried Jemmy, and hand in hand we drew near to admire it, as it poised itself in mid air over our heads. To our childish fancy it was a stranger bird, a wanderer from some foreign clime.

"Oh, if I could sketch it!" I sighed.

"Oh, if I could catch it!" cried more matter-of-fact Jemmy; and then, as the bird flew away, we followed it as if we were charmed, spell-bound.

Away and away, across the fields, up the steep hill-side, our backs to the sun, our faces--ah, me! that pretty bird led us far astray; and now we were in the copse, on the sloping hill-side. Thus our bird had wiled us on; we heard it sing to us, as in merry laughter, as we wandered here and there seeking it in the shady tangle, but we never found it, nor caught a glimpse of it; we saw it wing its way thither, and that was all. When we emerged upon the open downs again, the sun had set, the cornfields below looked dim and gloomy, as if something were lost, dead, and over the wild waste of downs, shadows were creeping and crawling. And oh, how our little legs ached! We were fain to sit down and rest awhile. What was worse, we had turned and twisted, and gone hither and thither, till we did not know in what direction lay our home. We rose and turned to right and left, east, west, north, and south, but those dark, deepening shadows seemed to be creeping after us, and monsters came crawling and stealing up the hill-side, and went we knew not whither. Then a mist gathered over, not deep and blinding, but just enough to make everything look unreal and terrible to us small, lonely creatures.

"Oh, Jemmy, what is that?" cried I, as a great, dark something loomed near us.

"Oh, I don't know," said he, in a frightened whisper; but he threw his arm about me, his boy-nature strong within him.

Then the wind swept cold and bleak, bringing with it a low growl--at least so it sounded to our poor frightened senses, and we fairly clung to each other.

"That's wolves!" moaned Jemmy, while that great threatening something at our side seemed to fade away, others stealing up and taking its place.

"_JEMMY'S AND MY ADVENTURE_" (_p. 102_).]

"Wolves don't live in England," said I.

"They did when little William was a boy," returned Jemmy, and I, as I remembered the tragic story of the little woodman and his dog Caesar, felt that we too, for aught we knew, were to pass through a time of terror, as did he.

In an instant the incidents of that story rose before me like living pictures. The death of little William's father, his cruel brothers banding together, and taking him three days' journey into the forest, just to be free of him, to let him die of hunger or what not, shutting up his only friend, his trusty dog Caesar, at home. Their stealing away on the third night while he slept, his awakening, his long, weary waiting for their return during the day, his terror at nightfall. Then I saw him praying, as the weird sounds of the wood made his little heart quake. Then followed the unmistakable howl of the wolves, his flight hither and thither, his climbing a tree to be safe from the hideous animals, and his seeing a light while there. Next, I saw him rushing toward it, a wolf on his track, the glare of fiery eyes behind him, the pat of feet, the panting breath; the river which barred his progress, and stayed his flying, stumbling, uncertain feet; the leaping of the animal on his back, which proved to be his dear little dog Caesar, broke loose from home, and come to find him; Caesar's fight with a wolf which followed, and, oh, joy! his coming upon his grandmother's cottage, to home and safety. Tears rushed to my eyes as it all rose before me.

"Let us hide away in the copse," said I, for I fancied that growling, wailing sound came sweeping up to us from over the downs.

"I think if we could get out on the other side, that would be our way home," said I to my wee brother, as we groped and threaded our way.

But the other side of the copse was like this side, a tangle, a mystery; we were like two birds caught in a net. We sat down and cried bitterly.

And now there was a stirring among the bushes, and that howling, moaning, fearful sound seemed now upon us, now afar, till it lost itself in space. Crash, crash, crash, came something through the brambles and bushes, and, as by instinct, we leaped to our feet and ran. None but a child knows a child's terror: so weak, so puny, so unaccustomed to rely on itself for protection, for a means to escape from danger and peril. Hand in hand, we rushed forward like the wandering babes in the wood; now we fell, tripped up by a root of a tree; now that moan swept over us, that terrible moan more like a roar, and we were on our feet, scudding on as before.

On, on, still on--glancing over my shoulder, what did I espy but two fiery eyes gleaming through the darkness, as did poor hapless William, and the rush of some eager animal bent on prey, which would not be driven back, came distinct and clear. I did not tell Jemmy what my startled eyes beheld, but hurried him on, on--whither?

Now came the pant, pant of the creature's breath, and now--as in the story of little William--there stretched before us a stream of water. What could we do?

I glanced behind me as we halted by the river in front, into which we had well-nigh rushed.

Ah! those burning eyes were upon us, so to speak, the creature's breath fanned my cheek. Now his paws were on my shoulders to tear me down. I shrieked as to some unknown hand to save me, and Jemmy belaboured him with a stick he caught up in desperation. But the beast did not bite me, only whined out his joy, and licked my face. It was Ben, Uncle John's old dog Ben; and oh, joy! there was Uncle John himself bearing down upon us, like some giant in the gloom.

"Well, you youngsters, what have you to say for yourselves to Ben and me?" so he questioned, as we clung tightly to him, each holding a hand.

"Uncle," said I, after I had kissed the dear old dog, and Jemmy had caressed him, "uncle, did you hear anything growling all about? We did, and thought 'twas wolves, same as little William heard."

"No, Nell, I heard no sound of wolves--how could I when there are no wolves to hear? That was the wind you heard, little one," was the reply.

"And we saw great monsters that crawled, and crept, and frightened us ever so much," I told him, with a quaver in my voice.

"That was the mist wreathing and curling, which your frightened little hearts made monsters of. But come, you've not answered my question--what have you to say to Mr. Ben and me for leading us this long dance?"

"It was a bird's fault, uncle," said I, true to my sex in making my excuse, "a dear, lovely bird, which flew away in here, and we followed it, and so--and so we forgot and were lost."

"Ah! children," said Uncle John, as he led us home, one on either side of him, I wearing uncle's pocket-handkerchief on my head, knotted into something like a turban, Ben trotting on before--"Ah, children, little feet shouldn't wander far from home; little heads shouldn't think themselves overwise; and little things like pretty birds shouldn't make small people forget their uncle's command to be home before sundown. Now, if you will only just get home by moondown, 'twill do very well."

MORNINGS AT THE ZOO.

VII.--ABOUT THE BATS.

Perhaps none of the inmates of the Zoological Gardens, London, cause such serious disappointment as the Bats. Indeed, it may fairly be questioned whether one half of the visitors are aware that the Gardens contain specimens of these really interesting animals. The fact is, the creatures do not obtrude themselves upon any person's notice, and those who do not know their whereabouts, but want to see them, might spend a day in vainly looking for them, unless they invoked the aid of one of the keepers. Yet the bats are often enough discovered quite by accident where they are least expected. Their cages will be found in the monkey-house, screened from the light by a blind. Raise the blind and you will observe them hanging by their hind feet, with their wings wrapped round them like a cloak. They are no doubt asleep, but the raising of the screen may rouse some of them, who will turn their wee sharp noses and bright eyes towards the inquisitive stranger, and utter a little "cheeping" cry of complaint at having their repose disturbed. Night being the season of their activity, the bats do not favourably impress the casual visitor. After the Gardens have closed, however, they get more lively, though the smallness of their domicile prevents them from flying. They crawl about their cages and fight for the titbits of food. Tame bats may be trained to display some amount of fondness for their keeper. If set free they will creep about his person and get on to his shoulder and lick his face like a dog.

Until the time of the illustrious Linnaeus the bats had been more or less a puzzle both to scientific folk and to common people. The general notion was that they were a kind of bird with wings of skin, while the German name for the creature, _Fledermaus_, or fluttering mouse, points to another opinion that they were neither bird nor beast, but a mixture of both. Other delusions remained in force up to a recent period. "Blind as a bat," is an old saying so much the reverse of fact, that it is not easy to explain how it ever obtained currency among people who had seen the animal. So far from being afflicted with blindness, they are, says Mr. Dallas, "furnished with very efficient eyes, although, in most cases, these are little bead-like organs, very unlike the eyes usually seen in animals whose activity is nocturnal."

Nevertheless bats are not dependent upon their eyesight for a means of getting about in the dark. They are able to fly with great speed and accuracy, to avoid obstacles, and to enter small holes without making the least mistake. Experiments have shown that this singular power of direction is due to a remarkable development of the sense of touch especially to be found in their great expanse of wing. Further, these animals possess large ears and curious nostrils, some of which are leaf-like formations of the most extraordinary description. These skin growths are all supposed to have reference to the skill with which the creatures wing their way in the darkest caves.

As regards diet their wants are simple. Most bats feed on insects which they catch on the wing; some of them eat fruit; and a few enjoy a bad name because they suck the blood of other animals. Of these last are the so-called vampire bats, respecting which it used to be said that they fanned their victim with their wings while they sucked its life's blood. Though it is quite true that horses and cattle in South America are attacked by some bats, this hideous tale is altogether fabulous.

In considering the habits of these queer beings we shall confine ourselves to the fruit-eaters, to which the bats in the Zoo belong. In their native haunts the flying foxes, as they are called, are terribly destructive creatures. In Ceylon they hang upon some trees in such numbers that the branches often give way beneath their weight. While hovering round the trees stripping them of their fruit, the beating of their broad wings creates quite a hum. In the forenoon they take a "constitutional," just for a little exercise, and to air and dry their fur after the dews of the early morning. Then they return to the shadiest nook they can find till nightfall. Sometimes an attempt is made by its fellows to plunder a bat before it can manage to retire to a safe and snug retreat where it may enjoy its dinner in peace and quiet. Then fighting takes place, during which they tear one another with their hooks, screaming angrily the while. At last the would-be victim contrives to escape by flight to a distant spot, where in hot haste it devours its fruit. When the flying foxes drink, they lap by hanging head downwards from a branch over the water. Some of the Indian fruit bats, according to Mr. Francis Day, "often pass the night partaking of the toddy from the chatties in the cocoa-nut trees, which results either in their returning home in the early morning in a state of extreme and riotous intoxication, or in being found the next day at the foot of the trees sleeping off the effects of their midnight drinking." These "chatties," I may explain, are bowls containing various liquors belonging to natives, which are placed in the trees to keep them cool.

The margined fruit bat--so called from the white border that surrounds its ears--works great mischief in the plantations upon which it feeds. They will fly as many as thirty or forty miles and back the same night in search of food. It is a greedy animal, individuals kept in captivity seeming to be always eating. The fruit bats are found in Asia, Africa, and Australia.

Many readers have doubtless seen bats in the course of their evening walks, and it may, therefore, be worth while to remind them that British bats--the long-eared and the barbastelle bats, for example,--feed upon insects. The blood-suckers, again, do not appear to belong to any other country but South America. All the fruit-eaters are, comparatively speaking, big bats. In size they range from the Great Kalong, the largest of all bats, which measures fourteen inches long, and has a wing expansion of upwards of four feet, to the dwarf long-tongued fruit bat, which is only from two and a half to three inches in length, with an expanse of wing of from eight to ten inches. The conditions of existence in the Zoo at present entirely prevent the captive bats from ever having an opportunity of doing justice to themselves. Perhaps at some date, more or less distant, they may be accommodated with a cage roomy enough to enable them to use their wings freely, and otherwise to display their powers.

JAMES A. MANSON.

A GAME OF CRICKET IN ELFLAND.

A FAIRY STORY.

It was a large gander, and it seemed to be a fierce gander, for it hissed loudly when Felix waved a switch before it, and pointed his finger at it crying, "Bohoo, bohoo, you goosey gander."

It was not very polite, and the gander seemed to grow more and more angry, and yet it would not leave Felix. At length Felix still pointing at the gander, said--

"Goosey, goosey, gander,
Whither shall we wander,
Up the hill, or through the vale,
Or in the pinewoods yonder."

And to his great surprise the gander drew in his head, and replied promptly--

"Pinewoods."

And a goose in the distance cried out--

"Make haste then."

Felix dropped the switch, put his hands in his pockets, and stared at both the birds.

"Come," said the gander, spreading out his wings; "get on my back, and

Away we'll sail
Down the river in the vale,
Away to the pinewoods, away, away."

Splash, splash, such a spluttering in the water, and Felix, holding on by the gander's neck, shivered as the water touched him, for it was very cold; which much surprised him, as the day was hot, and the sun was shining.

How large the gander had grown! he had seemed a large gander before, but now he seemed quite monstrous. And the river grew wider, and the trees appeared to reach the sky, and the flags and bulrushes were like young palm-trees, and the flowers shot up to a great size. There was one clump of lilies of the valley much taller than Felix, and quite overshadowing a girl in a large cap with a blue ribbon in it, who seemed to be gathering some flowers growing in the water.

As Felix approached the bank the lily bells swayed to and fro with a melodious sound as if bells of the purest silver were ringing.

"Welcoming us to Elfland," observed the gander.

"Isn't it the Pinewood?" asked Felix.

"It's all the same," answered the gander.

"Who is the little girl? She is coming to speak to us."

"Little girl, indeed," returned the gander contemptuously; "it's the Pine Queen; she has been asking you to come for weeks, but you took no notice of her. She sent messages by the swallows and the blackbirds, and the butterflies, and the grasshopper, but you did not heed them."

"I never heard them," said Felix, somewhat bewildered.

"Of course not; boys never do; they are always thinking of toys and games, and tarts and plum-cake, and the birds and butterflies speak to them in vain."

"I don't understand," said Felix.

"Of course not, but now," said the gander, suddenly rising in the water and flapping his wings; "having done my duty in bringing you here, I leave you to take care of yourself."

So saying he tossed Felix off his back to the bank, at the feet of the Pine Queen.

As Felix looked at the Pine Queen he noticed that she was dressed in silk and satin, and that her cap had turned into a crown of diamonds, and that she had diamond buckles on her shoes, and that she seemed very glittering and dazzling altogether.

She looked at Felix, and then said--

"Two little maidens winding wool all day,
If you want to see them please to walk this way."

"I don't care about seeing them," said Felix, who thought this a very odd way of beginning a conversation; nevertheless he followed the Pine Queen along the path through the trees.

It was very pleasant, the great straight pines with their tufted branches, and the sun sending slanting rays of gold through them; whilst the wild strawberries shone like heaps of rubies at his feet. Wonderful birds and butterflies were darting hither and thither amongst the loveliest flowers. And on a grassy nook not far from a waterfall he perceived some white marble steps on which two little girls sat. The one was holding a great skein of wool, and the other was winding it. There was a great heap of wool of all colours on the ground.

"We wind, we wind till we've wound enough
Of wool a hundred balls to stuff."

sang the little maidens.

"What for?" asked Felix.

"For cricket-balls we work away,
With which pine-cricket players play."

sang the maidens.

"But cricket-balls should be hard," said Felix.

"Not in Elfland," answered the Pine Queen, smiling; "it's a different game altogether; we hit 'soft' instead of 'hard,' and our bats are brushes, and we make no scores."

"It must be a queer game," said Felix.

"_We_ think it a much better game than yours," answered the Queen, "pads are never wanted; and there are no wickets, and no one is ever caught out."

"How funny!" exclaimed Felix; "I should not care to play at such a game."

The Queen made no answer, and they walked on until they met a girl with a pail of water, who curtseyed respectfully.

"She's going to wash the cricket-ground," explained the Pine Queen.

"Oh!" said Felix, which was all that he could say, for the fact was everything seemed so very strange to him.

"Scour the ground, mop it, and dry it with care,
Sprinkle it over with Eau-de-Cologne.
Roses in flower-pots put round here and there,
And the roses must all be full-blown."

The eyes of Felix grew rounder and rounder, as the Pine Queen gave these directions, and he rubbed them to be quite certain that he was awake.

"_We_ roll and mow the grass," he half whispered.

"_We_ scour, and mop, and dry, and polish," murmured the Queen.

"_We_ play with bats," Felix went on.

"_We_ play with brushes," continued the Queen; "and here is one of our players in full costume."

Felix glanced round, but he only saw a boy who looked like a street sweeper, with a hand-brush in one hand and a broom in the other. He had on a sailor's hat, and he touched the brim of it with the broom-handle, as a salutation to the Queen.

"Queer, queerer, queerest!" thought Felix.

"Are you a good brusher?" asked the boy, suddenly; "can you brush the balls well?"

Felix stared at him.

"Oh!" said the boy; "I thought you would be sure to be a good cricketer."

"So I am," returned Felix; "I am a good batter. I've got a prize bat."

The boy burst out laughing, so did some magpies and squirrels. So did the streamlet that was running along so fast. Even the little fishes popped up their heads and laughed--

"Haha! haha! hoho! hoho!"

There was such a noise that Felix had to ask several times before he got an answer.

"What are they laughing at?"

"At you," answered the boy.

"It's very rude of them," said Felix, taking up a stone to throw at the magpies, which were chattering.

"Don't, don't," said the stone. "I don't want to hurt any one."

Felix, in his surprise, dropped the stone, and it fell to the ground, saying--

"Thank you! thank you!"

"Queer, queerer, queerest!" said Felix to himself. But the Pine Queen knew what he was saying, for she said--

"Wait till you have seen the practice." Felix rubbed his eyes again, for though the sun was shining, there was certainly snow upon the ground, and the two little players, who stood with brush and ball in their hands, were clad in warm coats and gloves and winter boots, which Felix thought must prevent their running well. The girl had a scarlet feather in her felt hat, and the boy a long blue tassel hanging from his velvet cap. The girl was raising her brush to ward off the ball that the boy was about to throw.

"Isn't it pretty?" said the Pine Queen--

"Throw, throw, hit, hit!
No danger, not a bit."

But Felix was thinking about "Scour, mop, and dry it," as he looked at the snow-covered patch of land.

"Ah!" continued the Pine Queen, divining his thoughts, "snow is soft, so that if the players fall it does not hurt them. But there is no snow to be seen when the regular game begins."

And the Queen waved a rose that she held in her hand, and in a moment the scene was changed, and Felix saw before him a smooth piece of lawn that looked like shining velvet. The flower-pots with full-blown roses were there, so was the girl with the pail and the player with the long broom, looking quite hot, as if they had been at work for hours.

"A good morning's work," observed the Queen. "See how neat it is."

Felix grew more and more perplexed. How could they scour and sweep under the snow? And how did the flower-pots get there, and the players; for the ground was all covered with the pine-wood cricket-players, dressed in the gayest and airiest of costumes. Half had brushes and half had balls. And the balls were flying here and there, and if the players hit them so that they rose in the air, they burst, and butterflies of the loveliest colours issued forth; whilst if the balls fell to the ground, frogs innumerable hopped out of them, and making their way to the banks of the river, sat there singing in a most delightful manner.

Yet, sweet as it was, the music seemed to confuse him as much as the game, which grew every moment more and more intricate; the players, brandishing their brushes, flew round, and the balls flashed about, and at last all that Felix could see was a mass of dazzling rainbow colours whirling past him.

All at once he heard a loud hissing, and he saw the large gander waddling up from the river; and beside him was the little girl with the large cap with the blue bow in it, and she held out her hand, saying--

"Good-bye, Felix. Come and see us again."

"That I will," replied Felix.

But he never did.

For from that day he never saw the gander again; nor could he ever find the way to the pine-forest, though he fancied he had remembered it quite well; nor did he ever see the game of brush-cricket played again.

Sometimes he even doubted whether he had been to Pineland, and had seen the wonderful game.

"But yet," said he, "if I had not seen it, how should I know anything about the forest and the Pine Queen? and how should I know how brush-cricket is played?"

And how should he?

JULIA GODDARD.

HARVEST DAYS.

Over the cornfield fell the sunlight,
And turned all the stubble to gold,
And 'neath the pale cloud-shades of evening
Deep crimson and purple unrolled.

The gleaners were busily gleaning
The yellow corn scattered around;
The waggons, all heavily laden,
Were tracing with furrows the ground.

The farmer stood lazily viewing
The harvesting in of his wheat,
His daughters were standing beside him,
His faithful dog lay at his feet.

There came by a shy little gleaner,
Flaxen-headed, with eyes bright and blue,
And the farmer smiled down, "Little maiden,
Come here--here's a gleaning for you."

He pulled from the waggon an armful
Of corn; and the gleaner's eyes gleamed:
She dimpled, she flushed, and she curtsied,
Such a great golden treasure it seemed.

"Ay, sowing, and reaping, and harvest,"
The farmer soft spake as she passed,
And he thought of earth's sowing and reaping,
And the harvest that must come at last.

LITTLE MARGARET'S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.--VIII.

_By_ PHILLIS BROWNE, _Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls can Do," &c._

When Margaret and Mary entered the kitchen on the day on which the children were to learn how to bake meat, they found Mrs. Herbert already there. As usual, everything was laid ready for them. The meat was on a dish, the tins and various utensils were clean and bright, and there was a clear bright fire, while a general feeling of warmth and comfort pervaded everything, which was very agreeable, as it was a cold day.

"You have cleared out the flues properly and cleaned the oven for us, I hope, cook," said Mrs. Herbert.

"Oh yes, ma'am; it is all as it should be," replied cook, with a satisfied look as she watched Mrs. Herbert open the oven door, glance quickly in all the corners, put her hand inside for a moment to test the heat, then draw it out, and shut the oven door once more.

"That is well," said Mrs. Herbert. "Now remember, children, when you are going to bake meat, the first thing you have to look after is the condition of the oven. If the soot has not been swept away from the back and round about, your oven will not heat satisfactorily, no matter how much coal you pile on the fire; and if the shelves are dirty, that is, if a little syrup from the last pie which was baked in it, or splashes of fat from the last joint, are left to burn on the shelves, the meat will taste unpleasantly, and very likely be indigestible also."

"But we cannot prevent syrup boiling over," said Margaret.

"Perhaps not; but you can scrape off what was spilt before it has time to burn on the shelves, and you can clean out thoroughly, and wash the shelves with weak vinegar and water, to make them fresh and sweet. We very often hear people say they do not like baked meat, because it tastes of the oven."

"Yes, I have often heard them say so," said Margaret.

"Ah! This remark would not be made so frequently as it is if cooks were careful to keep the oven _perfectly_ clean. Cleanliness is most important in all cookery, and never more so than with regard to an oven."

"What is that little iron slide which you pushed in when you opened the oven, mother?" said Margaret.

"It is a ventilator, and is intended to let fresh air into the oven, and to allow the smell of the roasting meat and the fumes which rise from it to escape. I shut it because we are just going to put in the meat, and I wish it to remain shut for about ten minutes, so as to make the oven very hot till the outside is cooked."

"I know what that is for," said Mary, hurriedly: "to harden the outside, and make a case to keep in the juice."

"Quite right, Mary," said Mrs. Herbert, smiling. "In ten minutes, however, we will push the slide out again, and that will admit the fresh air, slightly cool the oven, and allow the fumes to escape. Always recollect, however, that the oven must be hot. We need a good hot oven for roasting meat."

"Cook has put two dripping-tins here," said Margaret. "We do not want two tins."

"Yes, we do. To use two tins is another way of preventing the taste of the oven which is so objectionable. Usually I should use what is called a hot-water tin for baking meat. That is a tin made for the purpose, with a place inside for holding hot water. I shall not do so to-day, however, because I want to show you how to manage when there is no hot-water tin. See, I lay two or three thick sticks in the larger of the two tins, and put the smaller tin inside the other. Then I fill the bottom tin with hot water. I put this small stand in the uppermost tin, and place the meat on this, and then I put the whole affair into the oven."

"But what is the good of it all?" said Margaret.

"This is the good: when the meat has been a little while in the oven, the fat will melt, and will fall into the dripping-tin."

"I know that," said Margaret.

"Well, then, if we were to let the meat lie in the tin, don't you think it would get soaked in fat? Of course it would, and that wouldn't be agreeable."

"And the hot water: what is that for?"

"If we were to leave a tin containing melted dripping in a hot oven it would get brown, burnt, smoky, and disagreeable?"

"But what has the water to do with the fat burning?" persisted Margaret.

"I will try to explain, if you on your part will try to understand something which is difficult to understand. First of all, what is boiling water?"

"It is water which is so hot that it bubbles all over, and steam rises from it."

"Quite so. If we were using a thermometer, and were to put it into water which was bubbling all over, we should find that the silvery line, or mercury, in the thermometer rose until it came to 212 deg.. We might put a hotter fire under the water, but under ordinary circumstances we should never get the mercury higher than 212 deg.. Under extraordinary circumstances, I confess we could get it higher. For instance, if we were at the bottom of a mine, boiling-point would be two degrees higher, and if we were to put some salt in the water, boiling-point would be four degrees higher."

The little girls listened very attentively while Mrs. Herbert was speaking. When she paused, they looked very solemn, and said nothing.

"Fat, on the other hand, can be made very much hotter: more than three times as hot as boiling water. When heat is first applied to fat, it bubbles, but as it gets hotter it becomes still. As it gets hotter and hotter, it remains still, but it turns dark, and smokes, and smells burnt. This is what would happen to our fat in the tin if we were to let it come in contact with the heat of the oven shelf; but you can see that when water, which never rises beyond 212 deg., is under it, it cannot burn in this way."

"I see that perfectly," said Margaret, joyfully. "I like to be told difficult things when once I understand them. But, mother, will not the water boil away?"

"Yes; we must watch it, and as it does so, we must add fresh boiling water. It would never do to add cold water, because that would make the fat too cool, and would lessen the heat of the oven also."

"We should have to open the door, though, to see how the water was getting on," said Mary. "Would not that be a pity?"

"It would have to be done in any case to baste the meat," said Mrs. Herbert. "Remember, we can no more dispense with basting in baking meat than we can in roasting it before the fire. If we try to do so, our meat will be spoilt. We must baste every quarter of an hour, and to do this we must lift the meat right out of the oven, and shut the door as soon as possible. If we were to baste the meat while it was in the oven, the latter would become cool, and we wish to keep the heat up the whole time. We should be careful also to shut the oven door gently. If we slam it, we shall force some of the hot air out of it."

"I never saw anything like it," said Margaret. "In cookery there are so many little things to remember."

"That is the case with whatever we learn, my dear little girl, if we try to learn thoroughly. And there is still another point to remember: when we take the meat out of the oven to baste it, we must notice whether it is browner in one part than another, and if it is, we must turn the tin, so that the side which is less cooked may take its turn in going to the hottest part of the oven. You know that one part of the oven is always hotter than another. In the same way, you should turn the meat over once or twice, that it may be equally cooked."