Chapter III: An Unexpected Guest (1)

Three months passed away, and Agnes Rivers was feeling quite at home in her uncle's house. She had lost much of her nervous shyness, but except with Mrs. Mittens she was very quiet and reserved. She was a little afraid of her uncle, as were the whole family; a little in awe of Eddie too, who was still somewhat stately and grand in his manner; and she always had an uncomfortable sort of feeling that Bertie was kind to her just because she was little and weak, and his cousin.

But on the whole she was happy and contented. She ran about the park and gardens all the morning, did no lessons whatever, and amused herself sketching all the pretty bits of scenery, huge trees on the lawn, or Mrs. Mittens' dog and cat, called Punch and Judy, who lived the most useless, indolent, amiable life imaginable in the housekeeper's room. She could hit off likenesses, too, in quite a startling way, and Eddie said he would give her some lessons in painting if she wished. Agnes was enthusiastic in her thanks for what was, after all, but a trifling service, and while the lessons lasted Bertie was rather glum, as he had to ramble about alone, and amuse himself as best he could. But Eddie very soon grew tired of a pupil who after three lessons far excelled the teacher, and as a change, proposed teaching her German. Agnes consented, as she would have done to any plan or project of Eddie's. But that course of instruction also came to an untimely end; perhaps Agnes was a little dull, certainly Eddie was impatient. And then Bertie had his turn: he taught his cousin how to play chess, to spin tops, play cricket (theoretically), regretting every minute that she was not big and strong like Lillie Mayson, the doctor's daughter--the doctor who kept the grammar-school, not the one who came to see them when they were ill.

Once or twice Mrs. Mittens suggested to the master that some one should come and teach Miss Agnes, saying that the child was left too much alone during the day, as the boys went to school every morning. But Mr. Rivers shook his head impatiently. "Leave the child alone; let her eat and sleep and run wild till she's stronger. She ought not to be dull in Riversdale."

Nor was she. How could any one with a deep instinctive love of Nature be dull, or lonely, or sad with a beautiful park to wander in? who with an observant eye could walk through the shady lanes or ramble in the woods without seeing objects of interest and admiration at every step?

"How good of God to not only give us flowers, but eyes to see their beauty and hearts to love them," the child said solemnly one day. "What would the world be if there were not any flowers?"

Bertie, who chanced to overhear her soliloquy, remarked that he thought they could get on better without flowers than trees, vegetables, or even animals; "because, we cannot eat flowers, can we?"

"But if you had read a little about the subject, Bertie," Agnes replied, "you would learn that we could have neither trees nor vegetables nor fruit if we had not flowers first. But it's those dear little wild things that seem to grow here just to make us happy that I love best. I prefer painting flowers to anything."

"I don't; great artists never trouble about flowers," Eddie said, joining them. "When I grow up, I'll paint splendid figures and grand scenes, like the 'Raising of Lazarus,' or the 'Descent from the Cross': those are the kind of pictures great men love to paint and the world to look at."

"But Uncle Clair says people can't paint like the old masters now, and that no one would buy their pictures if they did," Agnes replied.

"I wish some of you would paint up this mask for me like a North American Indian," Bertie interrupted, pulling a hideous pasteboard face from his pocket. "Will you, Eddie? If I attempt to put on the war-paint, I shall make a mess of it." But Eddie indignantly refused to lend his talent to such base uses, and Agnes declared she would paint the face with pleasure, only she had not the least idea what an Indian was like. That was an unforeseen difficulty, but Bertie suggested their looking in the library for a book with pictures, and copying one.

As they approached the house, they were all surprised to see Dr. Bird's carriage at the door. "Some one must be ill, surely--I hope it's not papa," Eddie cried, hurrying on in advance, Bertie and Agnes following. "He seemed quite well this morning. Oh! there's Lawyer Hurst's gig--what can he want? Johnson," to a servant standing at the door, "whatever is the matter? Is papa ill?"

"It's nothing, my dears--that is, nothing to be frightened about," Mrs. Mittens said, as the boys, both startled-looking, rushed into the dining-room. "Your papa had a turn this morning, and I thought it as well to send for Doctor Bird."

"But why is Mr. Hurst here?" Eddie asked.

"I don't know, dearie. I think he just called by accident, or about some ordinary business."

"Has papa asked for us--for me?"

"No, Master Edward. Now, don't look so scared; there's nothing the matter, only, as I said, he got a turn. I think it was something in the paper, for when I went in with his beef-tea, he had it in his hand, and looked quite sad and white. I hoped he was not feeling bad, and he said 'No, no, Mittens. Put that down and leave me'; then when I was at the door, he called out, 'Mittens, set the house in order. I'm going on a journey; see to it without delay!' That's every word, Master Edward; but knowing as the master has not been anywhere for so long, and seeing him look pale and troubled like, I just took the liberty of sending a line to Doctor Bird, asking him to look in quite in a friendly way. He came at once, and he's with the master now. I left the room as you came in, and the doctor said, 'Your master is no worse--rather better, I think.' So _now_, my dears, will you sit down to dinner?"

Bertie's answer was practical compliance; Eddie stood for a few minutes at the window, wondering if it were the death of another estranged relative that had affected his father; then he, too, took his place, and ate his dinner in silence. Presently the doctor's carriage drove away, and both boys felt less anxious; but to Agnes there was something terrible in the unusual hush of the house: it seemed as if the servants moved about more noiselessly than at other times, and spoke in hushed whispers. Eddie went to the library, and Bertie went out immediately after dinner, and, left to herself, Agnes curled herself up in an easy chair in the dining-room with a book, and after reading for an hour, she fell asleep. It was dusk when she was roused by the sudden ringing of bells and the hurrying of feet across the passage leading to Mr. Rivers' apartments. For a few minutes she sat quite still, pale, frightened, scarcely daring to breathe; then she opened the door and peeped out timidly, but no one took the least notice of her. Mrs. Mittens crossed the hall hurriedly, looking very pale and anxious; there were strange voices too, somewhere. One, Agnes thought, seemed loud and angry. Then she hurried back to the dining-room and shut the door, pressing both her hands on her heart to stop its beating. Something dreadful was happening, she felt sure, but in that household she was quite alone and forgotten; no one thought of her at all.

The quiet, glorious autumn night closed in; still Agnes sat silent and solitary, hoping the best, fearing the worst. It was quite eleven o'clock when the dining-room door was opened softly, and a fair troubled face peered in. It was Bertie. He alone had thought of her, even in his own great sorrow--and Bertie was impulsive and passionate, and felt things deeply. He remembered the poor lonely little girl, and asked Prudence Briggs if his cousin had gone to bed. The girl started guiltily; she had seen nothing of Miss Agnes all the evening; so Bertie began a hunt over the house for her, and found her at last in the dining-room alone.

"Oh, Agnes! what shall we do? Poor papa!" he cried, bursting into tears; and she clung to him, weeping too, but trying to comfort him, and then brokenly he told her all that had happened. At five o'clock Mr. Rivers became suddenly worse. The doctor had stayed with him, and only sent home his carriage, and when he saw the change he sent for the boys at once. Eddie was in the library, Bertie was out in the grounds. "But it was all the same," the lad added, brokenly; "he was quite unconscious when Eddie reached the room. I was there half an hour after, but he never spoke, and now it's all over! Oh, Agnes! what shall we do? I can't believe papa is dead!"

"Telegraph for Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair," she replied, with the promptness of a person used to act in an emergency; and then Bertie, who had never thought of that, rushed off to the library to suggest it to his brother, who seemed quite dazed by the sudden calamity, while Mrs. Mittens entered the dining-room also in search of Agnes.

"It's all over, dearie; the master meant to go on a journey; instead, an unexpected guest came to him. I'm all dazed and scared like, and can hardly realise it yet; and would you believe it? four gentlemen came from London this evening to see your uncle, and not one of them would believe he was 'gone' till they saw him lying there so still and restful, and one of them now acts just as if he was master of this house, so I suppose he must be Master Edward's guardian. But I do wish there was some one here to manage things!"

"Send for Aunt Amy," Agnes suggested again; and the housekeeper seized the idea gladly.

"That I will, dearie, and for Mr. Gregory too, first thing to-morrow morning. Surely, child, you have an old head on young shoulders! Now come and help me to comfort the poor darling boys. Ah! Miss Agnes, you are all orphans together now; and I how things are going to end is more than I know!"

(_To be continued._)

About Some Famous Railway Trains.

SOME FAMOUS RAILWAY TRAINS AND THEIR STORY.

_By_ HENRY FRITH.

I.--THE "FLYING DUTCHMAN."

"Where to, sir?" said the cab-driver, touching his hat.

"Great Western, please, Paddington," we replied, and in a moment the trap of the hansom was shut, and we were bowling along Piccadilly.

A civil porter received us at Paddington Station, and took our luggage for Swindon. We are going no farther to-day, because we want to see the "Flying Dutchman," not only "flying," but at rest. So first we secure a seat and then walk down the platform. We have some minutes to spare; the clock points to 11.38; we must start at 11.45 by the Great Western express, the "Dutchman," as it is familiarly called, after that mysterious sailor who came and went with such alarming celerity.

Here we are then, the summer holidays before us; and perhaps many of the readers of LITTLE FOLKS will be travelling by the "Flying (railway) Dutchman," by the time these lines are before them. Come with me and look at our big "iron horse," which will pull us to Swindon at the average speed of fifty-three miles an hour, which means at times the fine rate of sixty miles an hour.

Our "Dutchman's" engine on this occasion is named "Crimea," and a fine fellow he is. This engine has eight wheels; two immense "driving wheels" eight feet high, more than twenty-four feet round, so each time that wheel revolves we travel (say) twenty-five feet, and when we are in full swing we shall go about _thirty yards a second!_ The 11.45 down train from Paddington, and the corresponding up train from Exeter, are the two "Flying Dutchmen." There are two other trains which run equally fast, up and down in the afternoon. These are the "Zulu" trains, for they were started as expresses at the time the Prince Imperial was killed in Zululand.

The great engine waits at the end of the platform, and as we are good little people--like the fairies--we will jump up on the foot-plate of the "Crimea" locomotive, and no one will notice us. Give me your hand--there. Now you are standing on the foot-plate; the engine-tender, full of water and topped with coal, is behind you, the great high boiler with the furnace is in front. That long handle which comes from the middle of the boiler on a level with your little head is the regulator, which when pulled out lets the steam into the cylinders, and it then moves the pistons and rods, and they move the big eight-feet wheels. Perhaps, when we reach Swindon workshops, we shall go underneath an engine and see the machinery.

"What is that other handle?" you say. That is "the lever." It is at the side next the engine-driver, you see, and he can pull it back so as to save his steam, and not use too much; he "expands" it and makes a little keep the train going after it has once got into its pace. There are the steam and water "gauges," to tell the "driver" and fireman when the steam is at proper pressure, and when the water is high enough in the boiler. The steam gauge is like a clock, or an Aneroid barometer, right before the driver. Those other handles near it are the whistle-handles. One whistle is small, and very shrill, to warn people on the line, and to tell people the train is coming. The other is a deep-toned booming whistle which tells of danger perhaps, and when blown means "Stop the train, there is obstruction in front."

"Crimea" is now ready. The engine-driver pulls open the regulator, and we glide back and are attached to the train. We have air-breaks worked on the engine, vacuum-breaks which can pull us up quickly, and when all the connections are made the "Flying Dutchman" is ready; he is harnessed to his eight coaches full of people--the solemn and sorry; the glad and the cheerful; and boys and girls, going on all sorts of errands.

"Right!" says the station-superintendent.

The clock over the platform is exactly 11.45 a.m. The fireman, who is looking on, says "Right, Tom," the guard whistles, then the driver touches the small whistle-handle in front; a shrill scream rouses the many sleeping echoes in the roof, where they had got to be out of the way perhaps, and the engine-driver opens the regulator valve--"Crimea" fizzes a little in front of the cylinders. Off we go!

"Puff-puff," slowly at first, in a solemn and majestic manner. We cannot expect such big wheels to hurry themselves. Under the bridge, puffing a little more quickly, then we rattle through Westbourne Park and by Wormwood Scrubs. Puff-puffing much more quickly now, but not quite so loudly, as the driver has pulled the lever back and the steam goes up with less force through the chimney: working quietly. Away, away, on our iron steed through Ealing and Hanwell--across the viaduct over the River Brent, which runs to Brentford--past the pretty church and the dull lunatic asylum, and so on to Slough, which is passed in twenty-three minutes after quitting Paddington. Then we reach Taplow, and have just fifty-five miles to do within the hour. "Crimea" rushes across the Thames below Maidenhead, with a parting roar, but we shall meet the river again soon, and run alongside it, by picturesque Pangbourne, Goring, and Moulsford.

Are we stopping? No, we are only just slackening for Reading. But we cannot wait. The "Flying Dutchman" has only done about thirty-six of his seventy-seven miles; he has been forty-two minutes already, and has got forty-five minutes left to reach Swindon. A long shriek, and Reading is behind us; then the river flashes out between the trees.

Hurrah! Hurrah! Didcot with its Banbury cakes and tumble-down station is passed. Hurrah for the "Flying Dutchman," running easily and smoothly, sixty miles an hour, well within himself. He is not tired, he does not pant or whistle, he goes calmly, swiftly along.... Here is Swindon--what o'clock is it? Look! Twelve minutes past one! "Crimea" is punctual to the minute. Well done, "Dutchman!"

Good-bye, "Crimea," we are going to see your friends in the shops; we are going to hear some anecdotes of your powers, and your friends' speedy runs or adventures. We are going to be introduced to "Lightning," "Inkerman," and the "Morning Star," the first engine made for the railway by George Stephenson.

At the works we are courteously received and conducted to the various shops devoted to the manufacture of the engines and carriages--the wheels, whistles, rails, cranks, and cylinders, and everything else connected with the rolling-stock, which brings in money to the shareholders, and proves that if "a rolling stone gathers no moss," rolling-stock does in plenty. Here we find young gentlemen who are pupils and apprentices at work learning mechanical engineering, and how to make the future "Flying Dutchmen" and "Zulus."

We see the old "nine feet" Bristol and Exeter engines, and are told how one once went off the line with the "Dutchman" long ago; but it was a trifling accident. Our "Dutchman," though he flies, is pretty safe; and runs free from accident. We see an engine whose boiler burst the other day, but fortunately hurt no one much. This engine looks very much ashamed of itself in the shed, and has had to submit to a severe operation to put it right again, which, perhaps, will be a lesson to it in future.

Then we go under the engines and see the machinery, which works so easily; and then we sit down, and ask the driver whether any adventures have happened with the "Flying Dutchman."

"Nothing particular; but I can tell you a story about the railway which will amuse you. It happened several years ago--but I won't tell you where exactly, sir."

"Let us hear the tale," we said.

"It was in my father's time, before I was a driver, that it happened. An aunt of mine--a youngish woman then--was travelling by the G. W. R. ('Great Way Round' they used to call us), when a young man entered the carriage, where she was sitting alone, and asked where the train stopped first. This was (say) at Paddington. My aunt said 'Reading' was the first station, and the train immediately started.

"'Excuse me, ma'am,' said the gentleman; 'but will you oblige me by cutting my hair a little.'

"My aunt thought the man was mad, but being alarmed by his manner, consented.

"Then the young man changed his coat, his collar, his waistcoat, and tie. He put on a pair of spectacles, and when my aunt dared to look at him he was for all the world like a clergyman--an elderly gentleman in spectacles!

"'Now,' said he; 'you must promise to be quiet, and never contradict me. If you do you will rue it.' So my aunt--she was young then--promised, and before they reached Reading the train was stopped. A guard and a constable came up, and looked into every carriage.

"'Have you the tickets, dear?' said the man to my aunt.

"'All right, sir,' said the guard. 'We don't want to disturb you at all. We are looking for some one else.'

"The train went on, but the 'old' clergyman, as he seemed, left the train at Reading. He had committed forgery, but by disguising himself, escaped. 'Clever rogue,' was he not?"

By the time we had heard this tale we were at Swindon Station again waiting for the "Zulu," for we are bound for Bath and Bristol. Here it comes just as the other train came, very punctually. We take a farewell of our friend, and as we pass the shops on our way, we jot down in our note-book what we have seen, and some of our pleasant experiences of the "Flying Dutchman."

Mornings at the Zoo.

MORNINGS AT THE ZOO.

VI.--THE STORK FAMILY.

Whatever they may be in their native countries, the Storks at the Zoological Gardens, London, are lone and melancholy birds. They seem to take their pleasure sadly--as was once said of the English folk--but they look so much like very wise and profound philosophers that perhaps they view life gravely because they have themselves realised in their own experience how serious a matter it is. In the Gardens they appear to lead a hermit's existence. They are treated with severe neglect by the bulk of the visitors, though possibly they consider the respect of an occasional distinguished Royal Academician of greater value than the homage of an indifferent multitude.

Yet in other lands than ours the Stork family is held in high honour. In many parts of the Continent they are encouraged to build their nests in chimneys, steeples, and trees near dwellings. Indeed, as an inducement to them to pitch their quarters on the houses, boxes are sometimes erected on the roofs, and happy is the household which thus secures the patronage of a stork. Some of the people among whom they sojourn during the warm summer days regard the presence of the bird as a kind of safeguard against fire. And as an illustration of their love for their young, a story is told of a stork which, rather than desert its helpless offspring during a conflagration in Delft, in Holland, remained heroically by their side and perished with them in the flames.

In Morocco and in Eastern countries also storks are looked upon as sacred birds. And with good reason, for they render very useful service both as scavengers and as slayers of snakes and other reptiles. In most of the towns a storks' hospital will be found. It consists of an enclosure to which are sent all birds that have been injured. They are kept in this infirmary--which is generally supported by voluntary contributions--until they have regained health and strength. To kill a stork is regarded as an offence. In Sweden also the stork is held as holy, there being a legend in that country to the effect that this bird flew around the cross of Christ, crying "Styrka!" "Styrka!" ("Strengthen!" "Strengthen!") But, as Dr. Brewer points out, this tradition clashes with fact, inasmuch as stork's have no voice. For the valuable offices which they perform in the removal of garbage they are, in some countries, protected by law. At one time the White Stork was a pretty common bird in England, where it helped the farmers by clearing the soil of noxious insects. It disappeared, however, partly because it was subjected to a good deal of persecution, but mainly because an improved method of agriculture took away its occupation.

In India the stork's cousin is called the Adjutant, and a very appropriate name it is. It is a familiar figure in most of the towns and villages where its scavenging is of the greatest use. But the adjutant is not endowed with so much wisdom as we should naturally expect such a serviceable bird to possess. The following notes about an adjutant's curious ways have been sent to the Editor of LITTLE FOLKS by a lady in Calcutta, and will be read with interest.

"When the rainy season comes in Calcutta, the adjutants are soon seen resting on one leg on the house-tops, kneeling in all kinds of funny places, or stalking very grandly through the wet grass. Sometimes in the dim lamp-light they look as they stand about on the edge of the flat roofs like stiff, badly-arranged ornaments, and sometimes ten or twelve settle on some tree, when it seems as if their heavy bodies must weigh it down.

"They do not often come in numbers into the gardens of houses or the outskirts of the town, but one was a very faithful visitor for a little while in the neighbourhood of a house which was not at all central. This house has a garden or compound, as Indians would say, which is connected by a gate with a large square containing a large tank. There are many of these tanks, in appearance like ponds or reservoirs at home, about Calcutta and the neighbourhood. The natives fetch water to drink from all, and in some they bathe and wash clothes. The tank now to be described is enclosed by a wall with gates to the main road and into the compounds of houses which come up to it. Round the tank is a broad gravel-walk, and on either side the walk grows long rank grass. Frogs abound in this grass, and crickets come out of holes in the ground, and make a terrible whistling at night. For some time no adjutants appeared in this tank square to feast on the rich supply of frogs; but at last one day an adjutant was seen walking down the grass. With self-important step and craning his long neck forward, he came slowly on, hurrying a little when some frightened frog foolishly made a hop out of his way. At last he reached a gate leading into one of the private compounds, and there he paused. What he saw inside no one can guess, as the grass is kept short; and except in one corner far, far away from the gate, there were not half the fine fat frogs that Mr. Adjutant might have found on his own side of the gate. Whatever he saw, certainly the bird longed to get through. He poked his head through the bars as far as he could on one side, took two steps to the other and tried that, back again to the first, and so on, till that foolish, foolish bird had walked twenty times to and fro. Then he went off in a huff, and stood on one leg near the tank till dark, when it is to be hoped he recovered his temper. About the same hour next day back came the adjutant to repeat his yesterday's performance, except that he walked slowly round the tank instead of standing on one leg when he found it a failure. Perhaps he was thinking the thing over. He did not think to much purpose, for day after day for more than a week back came the adjutant to walk like a soldier on duty up and down, up and down, poking his head through the bars each time. Sometimes he did it a score of times, sometimes only two or three. After ten days he disappeared. Where is he? Has he gone to find a blacksmith among the adjutants? or have his brother adjutants had him shut up till he has sense to know the best way for a bird with wings is, not to try to get through narrow bars, but to fly over the top?"

Unlike its white cousin, the Black Stork rather avoids the society of man, frequenting solitary places and building its nest on the very top of the very tallest trees. It is really, however, not an unamiable bird, as was proved by Colonel Montagu in the case of one which he managed to catch by means of a slight wound in the wing, and which lived with him for upwards of a year. It used to follow its feeder about, and displayed a most inoffensive disposition. With other birds it was on terms, of peace, and goodwill, never threatening them with its big, strong bill. An excellent angler, its skill in capture was seen to greatest advantage when it had to encounter an unusually slippery eel.

Canon Tristram observed black storks among the shallows of the Dead Sea, to which their prey was brought down by tributary streams. Surely no picture more suggestive of utter solitude could be imagined than this of the black storks, lovers of loneliness, fishing on the silent shores of the Dead Sea.

JAMES A. MANSON.

The Children's Own Garden.

THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN IN JULY.

July being generally the hottest month of the year, plenty of water is an important thing in connection with Gardening, and as we have previously recommended, apply it right and left, to shrubs, grass, trees, flowers, and walks. It is most important for the leaves and stems of plants to be perfectly free from dust and dirt, as this is one of the very first steps to securing a strong, healthy, and vigorous growth. A writer once described the pleasure in dry weather of attaching a hose to a main and sending a stream of water over and on to the tops of the young trees and shrubs as well worth £100 a year to any lover of Nature. A great drawback to town gardens, or gardens situated near crowded thoroughfares, is that the plants there grown are almost invariably smothered with dust: under such circumstances successful gardening becomes simply a matter of impossibility, as hardly any plants will thrive, or even live, under such conditions. A proper site is, therefore, a matter of primary importance.

* * * * *

There is, however, plenty of work, other than watering, to be done this month. Seed of a great number of plants should now be saved and carefully placed in dry cool places until the time arrives for sowing them. Cuttings of a multitude of perennials ought now to be secured and immediately planted: those of such important plants as chrysanthemums, pansies, snapdragons, stocks, and wallflowers, in particular; divisions of auriculas and polyanthuses may now be made. If a cold frame be available, utilise the same by keeping cuttings of the very hardy sorts in it until they have thoroughly rooted, and transfer them to the open border. Less hardy plants will need a protection of some sort through the winter, and few things are more suitable for such a purpose than a frost-proof frame, where air can be plentifully given every time the state of the weather admits.

* * * * *

Dahlias will be now coming into full glory, and as the first three or four flowers are usually worthless, cut them off before they fully expand. Hollyhocks may now be frequently supplied with liquid manure. Rose-trees will require looking after: give them plenty of rich food, and, when the "perpetual" flowering section has done blooming, cut back each shoot to about two or three buds from its base. Small pieces of grass will periodically need mowing, and this ought to be done with a proper mowing-machine, as a pair of shears invariably causes an irregular and jagged after-growth. All unsightly vegetation, such as dead leaves or flowers, dried up stems, &c., must be promptly removed; weeds ought not to be allowed to grow a second pair of leaves--much less to flower--before being exterminated. Trailing and climbing plants, especially roses, will need careful attention, and keeping within bounds: straggly or weakly shoots must be at once cut away.

* * * * *

The most important requirement just now in the kitchen-garden is water: during hot weather completely saturate the ground with it. July is not a very brisk month in the Children's Kitchen-garden; however, seeds of such useful salads as lettuce and radish may still be sown; and a few dwarf French beans can be put in if there is sufficient room. By sowing a small quantity of the early sorts of peas, it is just possible to obtain a fair crop, and particularly so if the autumn holds fine.

* * * * *

It may not be amiss to make a few remarks as regards gathering fruit, flowers, and vegetables, as this is a much more important matter than is usually thought. In gathering such salads as cress or mustard, and fruit of every sort, an absolute rule is to exercise the utmost care; and such "telltales" as broken branches, mutilated stems, and salads--cress, for example--entirely up-rooted, will at once proclaim a slovenly method of gardening. This, above all things, must be avoided. Skilful gardeners, whether amateur or professional, will sever a flower with so much care that its parent plant will scarcely be seen to shake whilst undergoing the operation. In gathering peas, most people tug and pull at these as if anxious to see how much strength the pods _can_ possibly bear. In this instance, as in others where the same carelessness is employed, the plants get severely disturbed, and a consequent short crop is put down to the score of bad seed. Neatness, order, and care are principles of great moment in Gardening.

A SUMMER HOUR.

A wide expanse of yellow sand,
A breeze so fresh and free,
Which, gently rippling, scarcely wakes
The calm and tranquil sea.

Beneath the clear and shining wave
Bright shells and sea-weeds lie,
Reflecting all the golden light
Of the sweet summer sky.

And many a crystal pool is there,
Where hermits lurk below,
And restless shrimps in coat of mail
Flash swiftly to and fro.

A noon-day hush is over all,
Unbroken by a sound;
Till ... sudden peals of baby mirth
Wake all the echoes round.

'Tis here the children love to come,
On the bright sand to lie,
Or in the gleaming water hold
Their mimic revelry.

Oh, happy hearts! those gladsome day
Upon the golden shore
Will linger on in memory still,
A joy for evermore.

D. B. MCKEAN.

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

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

"I should like my little pupils to learn to roast meat to-day," said Mrs. Herbert, as she entered the kitchen where the children were waiting for her.

"You will let it be beef, though, won't you?" said Margaret. "If we have to cook meat we might as well cook the best kind of meat there is."

"You consider beef the best kind of meat then, do you?" said Mrs. Herbert.

"Oh, yes! I should think every one does. Father says there is nothing like the roast beef of old England."

"English people generally like roast beef, I know," said Mrs. Herbert. "Indeed, they have been so accustomed to take pains with it, that now it is often said that English cooks roast well, if they do nothing else well."

"It seems to me that there is nothing to do in roasting meat," said Margaret. "The fire does all the work; we put the meat down to the fire, and in a little time we take it up, and it is done."

"But the right kind of fire for roasting is not always made up in any kitchen," said Mrs. Herbert. "The first thing which the cook who intends to roast has to see after is the fire; and she ought to make it ready quite an hour before she puts the meat down."

"Oh dear, what a trouble!" said Margaret.

"Please, ma'am, I know how to make up a fire for roasting," said Mary. "I have done it many a time for my aunt."

"Then tell us what you know about it," said Mrs. Herbert.

"The fire must be a good size, larger than the meat which is to be roasted before it. The cinders and dust must be cleared thoroughly away from the bottom of the range, the live hot coals must be pushed to the front, and the space at the back which is made empty must be filled up with knobbly pieces of coal packed closely together, though not so closely that the air cannot get through. The hearth must be swept up tidily, and the cinders, mixed with a little damped coal-dust, must be put at the back on the knobbly pieces of coal, and that is all."

"Very good indeed, Mary," said Mrs. Herbert, "you evidently know all about this part of the business."

"But I don't see the good," said Margaret. "Why do we not make up the fire when we are ready for it? It would last all the longer."

"Because we want to have the fire clear and bright, not dull and smoky. It must be kept bright all the time too, and it must not be allowed to get hollow in places. Can you tell us, Mary, what you are to do if the fire needs to be mended before the joint is finished?"

"The live coal must be drawn to the front, ma'am, gently, so as not to let any cinders go into the dripping-tin," said Mary. "But we ought not to let the fire need mending; we must watch it and keep putting cinders and pieces of coal on to keep it up."

"You see now, Margaret, how important it is to have the right kind of fire," said Mrs. Herbert. "Have you heard that red meat which is to be roasted should hang for a while before being cooked?"

"At any rate I have heard people say 'This meat is not tender; it has not been hung long enough.'"

"Just so. It is very important that red meats which are to be roasted should be left to hang till tender. When we have a cool airy larder, we can hang meat for ourselves, when there is no such larder the butcher will hang it for us. The time which the meat must hang depends upon the weather. In dry cold weather it may hang a long time--two or three weeks--but in hot weather it must be quickly cooked, or it will not keep. In frosty weather, too, it should be put in a warm kitchen for some hours before being roasted, or it will not be tender."

"What do you mean by red meats, ma'am?"

"I mean, Mary, meats red in colour when cut, such as beef, mutton, and game. What are called white meats, such as veal, lamb, and pork, will not keep, and they therefore have to be cooked when fresh. Can either of you tell me what is the first thing to be done when you are going to roast meat?"

The little girls thought for a minute, then Mary said, "When we were going to boil the leg of mutton we weighed it, that we might know how long we were to let it simmer."

"Quite right, Mary. So you must do with this piece of beef. Weigh it and then allow for roasting a quarter of an hour for every pound, and a quarter of an hour over. If the joint is thick and solid we allow twenty minutes to the pound. In fact, we should always have a little consultation with ourselves before we begin to roast, and say to ourselves, 'Is this meat solid and thick with little bone, or is it thin and small?'"

"How long must we give the sirloin of beef?"

"A quarter of an hour to the pound and a quarter of an hour over. Cook is now going to put down the dripping-tin and screen for us. I should like you to watch her and then try to remember what is necessary. Do you notice that she puts a large slice of dripping into the pan first thing?"

"What is that for?" said Margaret. "I thought the dripping dropped from the fat."

"So it will in a little time, but we want some hot fat to baste the meat with immediately. If we put a slice in the tin a few minutes before the meat is hung on the hook, the fat will melt and be ready for our purpose. Never wash the meat before roasting it. If you do, it will not brown properly, and the juices will be drawn out. Some cooks are very particular to wash meat, and they say that it is dirty not to do so, for we never know by whom meat has been handled. For my part I never feel uneasy about meat which has been bought of a good butcher. If I had any doubt on the subject I should wipe it well, but not wash it."

"The dripping is quite melted now, mother. Shall we hang the meat on the hook, and wind up the jack?" said Margaret.

"Yes, dear; wind the jack before you put the meat up. In hanging the meat recollect to put the thickest part downwards, because the heat of the fire will be greatest at the bottom. Be careful, too, to pass the hook through a secure place where there is little juice, for the flesh will give way with cooking, and if you do not provide for this your joint may fall into the pan. Do you recollect that when we were boiling meat we first plunged the meat into boiling water to harden the albumen on the outside so as to make a case to keep in the juices."

"We cannot do that now, though," said Mary.

"We can do something of the same sort. If we put the meat close to the fire and baste it with hot fat for a few minutes at the beginning we shall harden the outside. Then we may draw it back and roast it more slowly till done. Above all things, however, we must be careful to baste it well. Stand at one side of the fire, take the fat up carefully with the basting-spoon, and pour it over the lean part of the meat. The basting-spoon will not become too hot if you put it in a plate by the side, not in the tin. If you baste the meat well, it will not shrink or become dry and hard, it will be juicy and savoury, and it will be a good rich brown colour."

"How quickly the fat melts!" said Mary. "There is plenty of dripping in the pan now."

"We will pour a little of the dripping away shortly, for we want to have it a good colour," said Mrs. Herbert. "If we let it remain too long before the fire it will be burnt and discoloured."

Very patiently and for a long time the little girls basted the roasting joint, and at last they were rewarded by seeing it take a rich brown colour.

"In another quarter of an hour the beef will be roasted enough, ma'am," at length said Mary, looking at the clock.

"It smells as if it would taste all right, does it not?" said Margaret.

"Now we must prepare for the gravy. Cook has put the dish for the meat and the plates where they will get hot, for little girls cannot see after everything. In this small saucepan is a little stock made by stewing two or three bones and scraps (with no fat whatever), a sprig of parsley, a few rings of onion, which have been fried till brown, an inch of celery, and five or six peppercorns in water. I do not know whether you noticed that this stock has been stewing by the side of the fire ever since we came into the kitchen; I have skimmed it every now and then, and covered it closely again."

"I noticed it," said Margaret. "I thought it would turn out to be for something which we wanted."

"It is for gravy. You see it is a rich deep brown colour, gained from the browned onion. We must strain this gravy, put a little salt with it, let it boil, then unhook the joint, pour a couple of table-spoonfuls of this gravy into the dish, put the rest into a gravy tureen, and serve at once. There will be plenty of gravy altogether, if we use that which is in the tureen and the dish as well. Besides, our joint has been well basted, and is not dry, so gravy will run from the meat into the dish."

"Can't we make gravy from the dripping-tin?"

"We should have had to do so if there had been no stock," said Mrs. Herbert. "In that case we should pour out the fat from the tin very gently and carefully till we come to the brown sediment at the bottom. We should mix with the sediment a breakfast-cupful of boiling water, and scrape, with the spoon, any little brown dried specks of gravy there might be. When we had obtained as much gravy as possible we should strain it into a saucepan and keep it hot till the meat was quite ready."

"I am sure father will enjoy this roast beef," said Margaret.

"I hope and think he will," said Mrs. Herbert. "Beef roasted in this way before the fire is most excellent. It is, however, not nearly so common as it once was, for with the stoves and kitcheners now in use, it is easier to bake, or, as it is called, to roast meat in the oven. I therefore wanted you to understand the best way of roasting meat, and you shall next learn how to roast it in the oven."

(_To be continued._)

HOW PAULINA WON BACK PETER.

A FAIRY STORY.

"Bravo! bravo! bravo!"

It was a tiny voice that spoke, sweet and clear as a nightingale's; but it was not a nightingale. It was a large brown and scarlet butterfly, with a dash of purple in its wings.

The mannikins paused in their gambols, and one made a bow, whilst another skipped up the scarlet runner that had suddenly shot up out of the ground, and twined in and out in fantastic knots, and brought himself to a level with the butterfly.

"If you had but wings!" added the butterfly.

"Wings, ah yes! how we should like them!
Then we'd fly so high, so high,
Turning somersaults, and fluttering
Like----a graceful butterfly."

"Now," continued the mannikin, "as you are an emperor, I really think that you might order some wings for us. What do you say?"

"A Red Emperor," observed the butterfly; "but after all there's not much in it. It is, you see, all in the name. And I haven't really any power whatever to give wings or anything else. For you must know that I am under orders myself."

The mannikin looked at the Red Emperor in surprise.

"And you an Emperor?" said he. "Hasn't this scarlet runner sprung up so that we might run up it to speak to you?"

"That may or may not be," began the Emperor. "But----"

II.

"But what?"

No, the Red Emperor was not speaking now. Somehow the butterfly and the mannikins had got into the book that Paulina was reading to Peter.

Peter was sitting up in bed; he had also a book in his hand, and he threw it down and sprang out of bed, crying out--

"But what a splendid butterfly!"

"Oh, your sprained ankle, Peter!" cried Paulina.

But Peter was at the window, in fact, half out of it; and his left ankle, which was bound up with bandages, suddenly appeared to be quite as free from pain as his right ankle, which had nothing whatever the matter with it, and he leaned over the window-sill, murmuring--

"Dancing, prancing.
Flitting, glancing,
Now retreating, now advancing,
Wait, and I will come to you,
Through the window, through, through, through."

"Oh, Peter! how can you?" said Paulina.

But Peter was gone, and when Paulina looked out of the window, she could see neither him, nor the mannikins, nor the scarlet runner.

Of course she could not, for they were not there. Where had they gone? oh where? oh where?

III.

"Never mind, Paulina; it is a warm summer day."

Was it the great butterfly who spoke? No one else was near, and he was sunning himself among the elder blossoms.

"Ho, ho, ho! away they go,
High and low, swift and slow,
Over and over, heels over head,
Peter and all the mannikins red."

Paulina now listened breathlessly.

"That is to say, the mannikins have red jackets and caps, and they are rolling along so fast, with Peter in the midst of them, that you will find it quite impossible to overtake them."

"Are you speaking to me?" said Paulina.

"Of course I am. Can't you hear what I am saying? I am the Red Emperor."

"Then please, good Mr. Red Emperor, fly away, and tell Peter to come home again."

"I am an Emperor," replied the butterfly, "and I cannot be ordered by a little girl. You must get back Peter yourself."

"But I can't see Peter. Where is he?"

"He's out of sight, oh quite! oh quite!
And up in cloudland such a height!
He's in a state of much delight,
But you must get him home ere night."

"But I can't get to cloudland."

"Of course not, you're much too heavy."

Paulina began to cry.

"If you make such a dreadful noise I shall fly away. Otherwise I shall stay, and tell you what to do in order to get Peter back."

"I will do anything in the world," said Paulina; "whatever you tell me to do I will at once do."

"There is but one thing to do--you must become an artist."

"That is impossible," sobbed Paulina. "What shall I do? What shall I do?"

"Take off that prim little cap. Tie up your hair with black ribbon, and put on a blouse. Then you will be an artist."

"But I've never learned to draw."

"Pooh!" said the Red Emperor.

IV.

Paulina did not know where she was or how she came there, but she found herself before a wall on which hung a scroll with a face roughly sketched upon it. Paulina had a stick with a bit of chalk at the end of it in her hand, and she did not know whether she had drawn the face or not.

"Perhaps I did," said she. "I think it is a likeness of the moon."

"Pooh!" answered a voice.

Paulina knew that it was not the Red Emperor, for he had flown away. She looked round, but there was no one to be seen. Still the voice went on speaking--

"It's the sun but just begun;
When it's done there will be fun.
Mannikins in red and blue,
Will bring something good for you."

"Who are you? where are you?" asked Paulina. "And do you know anything of Peter? He went with the mannikins."

"Yes, up in the clouds with them. I saw him. The clouds were drifting hither and thither, and he could not keep steady upon them, so he tumbled down to the earth again."

"Oh dear! Oh dear! What a fall he must have had!"

Paulina heard a curious whistling, crackling laugh that seemed to go off in gusts: puff, puff! blow, blow, blow! phew, phew! And then it subsided into a gentle whistle.

"It's nothing to laugh at," said Paulina. "He'll catch cold, and he must be very much hurt."

"No he isn't; he has hurt some one else instead. I saw him standing over the boy that he had knocked down."

"He was always fighting," murmured Paulina.

"And he had on a full suit of blue clothes," said the voice, "and striped stockings and a white collar."

"Blue! That's his best suit. How did he get it?"

"I don't know everything," replied the Wind, for it was the Wind who was speaking to Paulina; "but

I boxed his ears, and ruffled his hair,
And left him standing astonished there."

"Oh!" ejaculated Paulina. "How can I get him home again?"

The Wind whistled for a short time, and then answered--

"By getting a palette, and brushes, and paint, and canvas, and becoming an artist. What is the use of wearing a blouse and long stockings, and having your hair tied with black ribbon, if you are not going to be an artist?"

V.

The Wind had gone away, the scroll with the sun's face drawn upon it had vanished, and Paulina was not where she had been a few moments before. She did not know where she was, and everything seemed to be going the wrong way; but she saw the Red Emperor resting upon a rosebush, so she felt that she was not without a friend.

"I've been waiting for hours," said the Red Emperor testily, "and so has the easel, also the paints and palette; and the canvas is stretched and the sketch made. You have nothing to do but to mount up to your seat, and fill in with colours. Shade away, beginning at the left corner, and make haste."

Paulina looked at the canvas, upon which was the outline of a figure reclining upon a rock. She was going to say she could not shade it, when the Red Emperor said sternly--

"No nonsense! Mount to the seat and paint as fast as you can, for if the painting is not finished before the stars come out, Peter will never come home again."