Chapter XII: An Exciting Adventure (1)

Though Bertie looked cheerful enough as he walked with Uncle Clair and Eddie to the railway station on Monday morning, he could not help feeling very sorry at having to leave Brighton. The weather was so glorious, the sea all rippling and dancing in the morning sunshine, the streets so full of merry pleasure-seekers, that going back to the office in Mincing Lane was dull enough. They Were very sorry to lose him, too: there could be no mistake about that; ever since he had so promptly declined for them all Mr. Murray's invitation, they felt a sort of respectful admiration for him, though from very different reasons. Uncle Clair thought it was very sensible to return to town when his Uncle Gregory so clearly wished it; Eddie and Agnes thought it was quite splendid of him to have saved them from becoming more intimately acquainted with their cousins; while the latter, in their lofty, patronising way, considered Bertie was not such a bad sort of fellow, and they would be kinder to him when they got back home, but they certainly did not want to have to introduce him to their Eton friends, Lionel and Arthur Delamere, whom Mr. Murray had given them leave to invite. They would be sure to ask where Eddie and Bertie went to school, and so, of course, hear all about the office; besides, Eddie looked so proud and reserved, he would hardly prove an agreeable companion, nor was Mr. Clair regarded very favourably. Mr. Murray was more annoyed by the failure of his plan than any one else, and yet he felt in a way that Bertie was quite right, for his Uncle Gregory would not easily have forgiven him had he acted differently.

Mr. Gregory was not at the station when they arrived, but just as the train was starting he came up, and after one quick glance up and down the platform, entered a carriage without having recognised Uncle Clair or Eddie, and Bertie found himself in a compartment with several strange gentlemen, who each had a newspaper that he turned over eagerly, and Bertie could not help wishing that he too had something to read, though I think he would have preferred either Don Quixote or Robinson Crusoe. Then he fell to wondering what Eddie and Agnes were doing: whether they were on the beach reading or sketching, and thinking how nice it would be to meet them at the station on next Saturday afternoon, when they purposed returning home, have the cabs all engaged, and then go back with them to Fitzroy Square. After a time his head fell back into the corner, and from thinking, Bertie fell into a pleasant dream, from which he was aroused by a gentle touch. A gentleman was searching for a small bag, which had slipped behind Bertie.

"Sorry to trouble you; thanks," he said, when he had found it. Then leaning forward towards the gentleman opposite, he took out a packet of papers neatly tied up. "It's very provoking," he said. "I came down here on Saturday to get the governor's signature, and could not find trace or tidings of him. He left an hour before I arrived, and if I don't find him somewhere in town to-day, it will be a serious loss to our firm."

"You can afford it," the gentleman said, smiling.

"Yes; but our manager will be none the less angry about it. However, I can't help it;" and then they talked about the money market and other matters, till Bertie fell asleep again, and did not awake till they reached London Bridge. There Mr. Gregory saw him, and gave him a seat in his hansom, and the last thing Bertie saw as he left the platform was the gentleman with his little black bag in his hand, hurrying along as if for his life.

Bertie was very busy that morning: there were a great many letters to be addressed and notices copied out; his uncle seemed hasty and impatient, spoke harshly, and once or twice said he believed Bertie had left his brains in Brighton. Then the office was very stuffy and gloomy, for though the day was bright enough outside, very little sunshine found its way through the dusty ground glass windows of the office in Mincing Lane. Never in his life had Bertie so longed for luncheon-time; his head ached, and more than once a great lump seemed to grow suddenly in his throat as he thought of his past holidays; but the City at luncheon-time is not the best possible place for dreaming or moping, and before he had gone a hundred yards from the office door he came into violent collision with a gentleman running down the steps of another office, who, without pausing even to apologise, sprang into a cab that was waiting, without observing that he had dropped a small leather bag he held in his hand. Bertie, whose hat had been knocked off in the encounter, stooped to pick it up, picked up the bag at the same time, and glanced at the hansom fast disappearing amongst the crowd of others. It was no use to shout, much less to run, but having begun to learn to think, he acted with a good deal of decision. Hailing another cab that chanced to be near, he bade the driver follow the one that had just started, as the gentleman had dropped something, and the cabby, who had witnessed the whole transaction, nodded and drove on; but a few minutes had been lost; the first vehicle was a private one, with a good horse, Bertie's was a worn-out old creature, that ought not to have been in harness at all, so that it was just as much as the driver could do to keep it in sight. In the City, owing to several blocks, they almost lost it; and when they got into more fashionable regions amongst the less-frequented streets and quiet squares of the West End, matters were still worse, but at length, turning suddenly round a corner, they saw the identical cab standing before a large, gloomy-looking house, and its occupant speaking hurriedly to another gentleman on the steps. Bertie sprang out and ran up, flushed, breathless, and excited.

"If you please, sir, you dropped this in Mincing Lane," he said, "and I followed you as quickly as ever I could."

One of the gentlemen uttered a little cry of dismay, and almost staggered against the railing for support. In his hurry and confusion, his eagerness to deliver a pressing message, and get the documents back to the City, he had not discovered their loss at all. The other gentleman caught the boy by the arm, and then uttered an exclamation of still greater astonishment. "Oh! Bertie Rivers, I see. So you found my clerk's bag?"

"Yes, sir," Bertie replied, very much surprised to discover in the same moment that one speaker was Mr. Murray, the other the gentleman who had come up in the train with him that morning, the bag the very one that had excited his curiosity on two previous occasions, and caused him to be disturbed from his pleasant dream.

"How did you know the person it belonged to? Why did you come here with it?" Mr. Murray asked, after a keen, searching glance at Bertie's face. He was a shrewd, suspicious old gentleman, who had been deceived many times in his life, much imposed upon, and therefore very cautious of whom he trusted. Still, Bertie Rivers' face was truthful and frank enough to satisfy anybody as he replied that he did not know in the least to whom the bag belonged; "but I was going to my luncheon, sir, and I ran against this gentleman; my hat got knocked off, and when I stooped to pick it up I saw the bag. I felt sure the gentleman dropped it, and I called; but he had driven off, so I just hailed another hansom, and told the driver to follow the one just started. He said, 'I saw it all,' and drove as quick as he could, and--that's all, sir."

"No, no, there's something more; you must tell me all about it presently," and Mr. Murray pushed Bertie before him into a magnificent library. "You sit there for ten minutes, while I see to this business," and he turned to the clerk, who had followed him. "Give me the papers, and while I sign them thank that lad. He has done you a good turn to-day."

The clerk thanked Bertie cordially, and at length Mr. Murray stood up, thrust the papers into the bag, and with a curious glance, which seemed to say plainly, "I'll see you later on about this," dismissed the man by a wave of his hand, then he turned to Bertie, and caught him glancing at the clock with much uneasiness.

"Now then, boy, you have done me a very great service to-day; what can I do for you in return?"

Bertie flushed, hung his head, and then looked up resolutely. "If you would be so kind as to pay the cabman," he stammered. "I forgot when I engaged him that I had spent nearly all my pocket-money, and it takes three days to get any from the savings' bank, and I--I couldn't ask Uncle Gregory."

"Of course not; besides, the cab came here on _my_ business: it's _my_ duty to pay him, else I would not do it. Here, run out and give him this," and Mr. Murray handed him a sovereign; "then come back to me."

"Please, sir, will you excuse me?" Bertie said earnestly. "I am so afraid to be late."

"It can't be helped this time, Bertie. You must have something to eat, and I'm going into the City presently, and will call and explain matters to your uncle; but you must go in first and tell your own story, because I don't want to deprive you of his praise when he hears what a shrewd, honest boy you've been. Come on, and have luncheon with me, and tell me why you said you preferred returning to the office to going for a week's cruise in my yacht. I am really very anxious, Bertie Rivers, to know what good reason you could have had for that very strange decision of yours. Were you afraid of offending your Uncle Gregory?"

(_To be continued._)

ALL ABOUT SNAILS.

German country children have a quaint little rhyme to ask the snail to put out his horns. Translated, its meaning is like this:--

"Snail, snail, your four horns show,
Show me the four, and don't say 'No,'
Or I shall pitch you into the ditch,
And the crows that come to the ditch to sup,
Will gobble you up, gobble you up!"

In some parts of the south of England the children invite the snail out still less politely. They chant over and over:--

"Snail, snail, come out of your hole,
Or else I'll beat you as black as a coal!"

This sounds very cruel, but they can't mean it, can they? Near Exeter the country children have a more fanciful rhyme:--

"Snail, snail, shove out your horns,
Father and mother are dead,
Brother and sister are in the back-yard,
Begging for barley-bread."

The snail's parents and relations are meant, not their own. This reminds us of what the little brown Italian children say in Naples; they sing to the snail to look out and show his horns, as the snail-mamma is laughing at him because she has now a better little snail at home. In some parts of the south of Ireland there is a prettier rhyme than any of these, and it asks him to come out to see a great visitor:--

"Shell-a-muddy, shell-a-muddy,
Put out your horns,
For the king's daughter is coming to town,
In a red petticoat and a green gown!"

The children who sing these rhymes think that if only they sing them often enough, the horns will be put out at last. They have picked up the snail, and he has tucked himself into his shell. After awhile, when his first fright has worn off, perhaps he puts out his head just to see where he is, or to look if the big live thing that startled him has gone away.

The four snails in the picture have come out for a walk by the light of the moon; they like to go out on fine dry nights, because when the weather is dry they have been all day hidden in some corner of a lane or garden. On wet days in summer weather they go out at all hours, always carrying their little shell-houses on their backs, and ready at a moment's notice to tuck themselves in, horns and all. One notices the two long horns most, but they have another pair of very small ones as well. In winter they sleep all the time in some crevice of an old garden wall, or in a little hole in the ground covered with moss and leaves.

We often hear of "fattening-up" geese and turkeys, but how funny it sounds to talk of fattening up a snail. The Romans, long, long ago, kept snails in special gardens and fattened them on meal and boiled wine, and ate them at their feasts. There are still snail-gardens in many places on the Continent, but they are not fed on boiled wine now. In England, as late as James the First's time, they were made into a favourite dish with sauce and spices. The Italian peasants think large brown snails a great treat; and the gipsies in many places make dinners and suppers of the common little "shell-a-muddies." A larger kind are sold still at Covent Garden Market, London, to be taken as a cure by people who are ill.

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

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

"Apple fritters to-day," said Margaret.

"Yes, apple fritters to-day," replied Mary. "Won't it be delightful, miss?"

"Let me see," said Mrs. Herbert, coming into the room at the moment, "we are going to make something special to-day. Whatever is it?"

"Apple fritters!" said both the children in one breath.

"Oh yes, to be sure! It is apple fritters. You would not like to broil a mutton chop instead, would you, Margaret?"

"Certainly not, mother!"

"Then we must take broiling for our next lesson. It will be all the better, for I see cook has put the apples and the materials for the batter ready for us. So let us set to work."

"But, mother, what do you think?" said Margaret, as she came up to the table and looked round, "cook has made the batter for us; and we wanted to make it ourselves. Is it not a pity?"

"Cook has partly made it, dear, because I told her to do so. Batter is best when mixed some time before it is wanted. The whites of eggs, however, are not put in until a few minutes before the batter is used; so that part of making the batter has been left for you."

"It does not signify very much," said Mary; "we learnt how to make batter when we made pancakes."

"This batter is not made in the same way, though, as pancake-batter," said Mrs. Herbert. "This is frying-batter, and it is mixed differently. I will tell you how to mix it, and you must try to remember."

"We will write it down," said Margaret. "I have written down all the recipes you have given us, so far, in a copy-book, and I am going to keep them as long as I live."

"A very good plan. Listen then. Put a quarter of a pound of flour, with a pinch of salt, into a bowl, pour in two table-spoonfuls of salad-oil, stir a little of the flour with this, and add a gill (which is a quarter of a pint, you know) of tepid water. Beat the batter till it is quite smooth and no lumps remain. Thus much cook has done for us."

"Tepid water is water that is not hot enough to burn, is it not, ma'am?" said Mary, inquiringly.

"That is not at all a safe rule to lay down. I should say, tepid water is made by mixing two parts of cold with one part boiling water."

"Shall I strain off and beat the whites of the eggs, mother?" said Margaret; "I can do that, you know."

"Yes, dear. You will need the whites of two eggs, and they must be beaten till very stiff. When they are ready you mix them lightly into the batter. Meantime Mary can peel the apples. Peel the skin off very thinly, Mary, and stamp out the core with the little instrument called the apple-corer. You see, it does the business very quickly. If we had no apple-corer, we should either have to scoop out the core with the point of a knife, when we should be in danger of cutting our fingers, or we should have to take it from the slices separately. These apples must be cut in slices across the core, you understand, before we can make the fritters."

"How thick must the slices be, please, ma'am?" said Mary.

"Not thick at all. They must be as thin as you can cut them to keep them whole. You will do very well if you can cut them all evenly, thin as a shilling. Do you see that we wish to cook the apple inside, as well as the batter outside it, and the thinner it is the more quickly it will cook?"

Very busily Mary worked, but Margaret had beaten her egg-whites, and stirred them in, long before she had finished.

"May I help Mary, mother?" then said Margaret, who did not enjoy waiting.

"Yes, dear; you can prepare one apple, if you like. Before doing so, however, put the fat on the fire. It was strained into a fresh saucepan to be ready for us. It will take a little time to boil; but we must use it the moment it boils. Remember that every minute, I might say every second, that fat remains on the fire after it boils, and without being used, it is spoiling."

"You will have to be quick, mother, if you are going to use the fat as soon as it boils;" said Margaret after a minute or two. "It is boiling already; see, it is bubbling all over. What shall I do? Shall I take it off the fire?"

"It does not boil yet, dear; wait till it boils."

"But, mother, look. It is bubbling fast. Oh, no, it is not; it is quieting down. How very strange! and I had not lifted it from the fire."

"This is exactly what I wanted you to find out. Water, when it boils, bubbles and spirts; fat is still when it boils. If you watch this fat, it will become quite still."

"How shall we know, then, when it boils?"

"By watching it carefully. When you see a thin blue fume rising from it, it is hot enough. That is the sign. If you do not look closely it may escape your notice, for it is only a thin fume you want, not a thick smoke. If we were to let the fat remain till it smoked it would be spoilt."

"Oh dear, how careful we have to be!" said Margaret.

"The slices of apple are quite ready, ma'am," said Mary.

"And the batter is quite ready," said Margaret.

"I see too, that cook has put a dish with kitchen paper on it for us to put the fritters on as they are fried. And there is the fume. Do you see it, children?"

"No, I see nothing," said Margaret.

"And I see nothing," said Mary.

"Look closely. Hold this piece of black paper behind, that will help you. Be quick, we must not let the fat burn."

"Oh yes, I think I see something," said Margaret, who seemed rather bewildered. "But I thought----"

"Think and work together, dear; we have no time to lose. Take a slice of apple on a skewer, dip it in the batter, and when it is completely covered, lift it up and drop it in the fat. Now do the same to another, and another. You can fry two or three at once if only you are careful that the fritters do not touch. As the batter blows out and forms fritters, turn them over that they may be equally coloured on both sides. They must be very pale brown, or rather fawn-coloured; on no account let them get very brown."

"How shall we get them out?" said Margaret.

"Lift them by the skewer, and put them straight away on the paper to drain. You should put everything on kitchen paper after frying before you dish it; do not let things lie one on top of another, or they will be spoilt."

"There, all the first ones are out," said Mary. "Shall we put some more slices of apple in?"

"Wait a moment. You see there are two or three little specks of batter which have got away all by themselves in the fat. We must take them out at once with the skimmer, or they will burn and spoil the colour of our fat. Also we must let the fat get hot again, watching for the fume between each relay, because the cold batter and the cold apple will make our fat a little cool. It will heat in a moment or two, but we must have it properly hot, or the fritters will be greasy."

"I should have thought they would have been greasy with being put into such a quantity of fat," said Margaret.

"No fear of that, if only the fat is hot enough. If the fat is not hot, they will be most unpleasant; but if the fat is hot the heat will cook the outside so quickly that the grease cannot get in, while that which is on the surface will dry instantly."

"How quickly the fritters are cooked!" said Mary. "I never saw anything like it."

"I thing frying fritters is even more interesting than frying pancakes," said Margaret.

"How pretty the fritters look, and how crisp they feel when we take them out!" said Mary.

"They will not remain crisp very long, though, not more than five minutes," said Mrs. Herbert. "We must send them in to grandmamma as quickly as possible, if we wish her to have them in perfection. That is why we make so much haste in frying, for fritters have lost their excellence when they have lost their crispness."

"I suppose when we have dried them on the kitchen paper we had better dish them and put them in the oven to keep hot, ma'am."

"No, put them in the screen; they will keep crisper than in the oven. We shall not need to put them anywhere for more than a minute, however, for they are just done. Dish them in a circle, sift a little white sugar on, and they are ready."

"I have enjoyed making apple fritters very much," said Margaret.

"That is well. The best of it is that when you have learnt to make apple fritters you can make fritters of any kind of fruit, for all the fruit fritters are made in the same way. Some fruits are dipped in sugar before being put in the batter, and it needs practice to keep the batter over them. Sometimes fruit is soaked in syrup. Then it must be dried before being dipped in the batter."

"I suppose it would not do to fry meat in batter, would it?" said Mary.

"Certainly it would. You can try it, if you like, one day."

"I should like, very much."

"Very well. Never do anything of this sort unless I am with you though, dear, for fear you should burn yourself. Hot water is very hot, and a little spilt on your hand would pain you very much, but hot fat would pain you much more, and when it is used, a little carelessness might end in a serious accident. Therefore I think small cooks like you ought not to practise frying unless an older person is present to see that everything is safe."

Cook passed through the kitchen as this was said, and the remark evidently met with her approval.

(_To be continued._)

WHAT THE MAGIC WORDS MEANT.

A FAIRY STORY.

"It wasn't here last night? and how did it get here? and who nailed it up? and what does it mean?" said Lilla.

"I didn't nail it up," answered a Magpie, who hopped about from morning till night in Lilla's garden, and never left off chattering.

"Of course not," returned Lilla; "I did not suppose that you did. But I should like to understand the meaning of it."

And she gazed up at a great white board that had been fastened to the garden wall. There were several words upon the board, and Lilla softly repeated them.

"Air, all, and, and, earth, go, if, know, me, of, sea, so, through, will, you, you."

"What nonsense! No sense in it at all," said Lilla; "yet they are arranged alphabetically, air, all, two _and's_, and two _you's_ to finish with."

"Oh, don't begin to calculate the words, or do it quicker," said the Magpie impatiently. "Four fours sixteen. There are just sixteen of them: that is multiplication."

"But not four of each sort," replied Lilla; "only one of most of them. I wish I knew the exact meaning of it all. The only bit of sense I can make out is 'Through will you,' but then there are two _you's_."

"That is one _you_ for you, and one _you_ for me," answered the Magpie. "What you have got to do is to put all the words into a box, and shake them well up, and we'll go through together."

"Oh!--where?--why--?" exclaimed Lilla, as her foot struck against a silver box with the lid open; and on the ground lay a heap of cards with the words she had read printed upon them. She looked up at the board. There were no longer any words there, so of course they had fallen down.

"Pick them up, and put them in,
And you will then the game begin,"

said the Magpie, who thought he was wonderfully clever as he said this to Lilla.

"Is it like making words from letters?" asked Lilla.

"Not at all. There you have to think and find out. Here you have nothing to do but to shake, and when you have shaken long enough, the result will come."

"How shall I know how many times to shake?"

"You won't know," returned the Magpie; "no one will know but the box itself, and the box can tell to a quarter of a shake the right time. Now--through!"

"Through what?"

"Through the board, of course," replied the Magpie. "What else is it meant for?"

"But the thick wall is behind the board, and then the houses! This is not country; it is the town."

"Pooh!" said the Magpie. "Have I learned human speech for nothing? Now----"

And he flew at the board, giving it a gentle peck; and as he did so the board split in two, and the crack widened, until it made an opening large enough for Lilla, with the Magpie on her shoulder, to pass through.

II.

Where?

Ah! that cannot be told until one has heard about the little boy who lived far away in a country that Lilla had never heard of, for she knew nothing about geography. She only knew about the town in which she lived, and that there was a long street in it, and a great cathedral, where she heard music issuing forth as she stood outside it; but she had never been inside, nor had she ever been in any of the grand toy-shops in the street. She had stood gazing in at the windows, and wishing for the dolls, and the dolls'-houses, and the boxes of lambs, and the work-baskets with silver thimbles in them; but there was no one to give her any of these fine things. She lived with an old woman, who was always scolding her, and who was especially angry if she tore her frock or soiled her paletot.

Now, with Rollo, the little boy, it was quite different; he had a mother who was very kind to him, and gave him as many playthings as he wanted. He had also a good old grandfather and a little sister who used to pull his long curls and kiss his rosy cheeks. And Rollo was very happy.

But one day these three died, and Rollo was left alone. Of course Rollo sat down and cried very bitterly: there was nothing else for him to do, as he was but a small boy then. He cried for a long time, and then the sun looked in upon him, and pitied him, and also dried the tears upon his cheeks. Then the sea rolled up on to the shore, and sang "Lullaby, lullaby," so sweetly, that Rollo fell fast asleep. And when he was asleep, the Wind came, and took him in his arms, and carried him away over the hills and valleys, and the great shining lakes and rivers, away, away.

And when Rollo awoke from his sleep, he found himself in a beautiful country, where fruit was ever to be found upon the trees, and the flowers were always in bloom. The sun, the wind, the earth, and the sea had said, "He shall be our child."

So Rollo was well taken care of, and nothing harmed him.

And it was in this very same beautiful country to which Rollo had been carried by the Wind that Lilla suddenly found herself when she stepped through the board with the Magpie on her shoulder.

III.

"It isn't the town, you see," said the Magpie; "there's not a house near, and there's nothing but country, country everywhere."

"Oh, it's lovely!" said Lilla, clasping her hands; and then suddenly remembering the silver box, she said--

"Shall I shake it?"

The Magpie nodded, and repeated these words--

"Ay, shake away; ay, shake away;
You p'r'aps must shake for many a day,
Before the end comes to our play.
But shake away, 'twill make us gay,
And help to cheer us on our way."

"The box?" exclaimed Lilla.

"No, what's in it. It's a magic spell, and when you can spell it out the spell will be accomplished." As "accomplished" was a long word for the Magpie to say, he said it twice or thrice, whilst Lilla kept shaking the box, for she was very impatient to know what the end would be.

The Magpie fluttered his wings, and put his head on one side, muttering--

"Not yet, not yet."

IV.

There came a burst of low sweet music, as if the south wind were murmuring through the strings of many Aeolian harps. And chiming in with the music came the far-off roar of the ocean. Then a flood of sunshine fell over the earth, and the roses burst into bloom, so did the eglantine, that had been hiding away till the sun gave the signal.

"Rollo passes by," said the Magpie.

"Rollo?"

"The child beloved by earth and sea and wind," said the Magpie. "Give the box a shake, and look up."

Lilla did as she was desired.

"I only see a purple cloud," she said. "Does Rollo come from the clouds?"

"Rollo lives here, so do not fear,
The Multiphobus his course can steer,"

answered the Magpie, looking straight at Lilla.

"Multi----" and here Lilla stopped. She had never heard the word before.

"The Multiphobus," said the Magpie; and he spelt it over for her.

"Yes, the Multiphobus. What is a Multiphobus?"

"A creature that can do many things. He can live on the earth or in the sea or in the air. He can run, swim, or fly, just as Rollo wishes. Rollo is riding on the Multiphobus now. If you look up into the air you will see him."

Lilla looked up, and perceived that what she had taken for a great purple cloud sailing through the sky was in reality an extraordinary animal, partly like a panther, partly like a hippopotamus, partly like a bat and an eagle, for it had wings, claws, and feathers. And seated on its breast, with one arm round its neck, and nestling close to it, was a boy with a deerskin bound round him, and a crown of gay feathers on his head.

Though the Multiphobus had an ugly face, yet he was evidently amiable, and he and Rollo appeared to be talking together.

The Magpie nodded approvingly, but Lilla felt a little alarmed at so enormous and nondescript an animal; and she trembled so much that the box shook, and the words rattled violently inside.

"They want to get out," she said; "shall I open the lid?"

"Certainly not," replied the Magpie; "they will come out of themselves when it is time. Stand still, and watch the Multiphobus descending."

It was easy to say "stand still," but not so easy for Lilla to do so; she shook and shivered, and could only keep herself steady by supporting herself against the trunk of a tall pine-tree.

Suddenly the Multiphobus ceased to work his wings, but he stretched them out to their full extent, and then dropped quietly to the ground. When he touched the earth, his wings fell off, and he looked like an ordinary quadruped.

"He has only to say 'Wings,' and they come to him at once," explained the Magpie.

But Lilla scarcely heard him; she was in a greater fright than ever. Not only did the Multiphobus look more huge, but at that moment a sharp-nosed Wolf appeared in sight, and Lilla's box rattled so loudly that she was afraid he would hear it, and look round at her.

She could not keep it still.

"No matter, no matter,
If it does make a clatter,"

said the Magpie.

"Will the Wolf hurt Rollo?" asked Lilla.

But the Magpie only whistled.

V.

And the Wolf, who walked slowly along, drew nearer and nearer to Rollo. And Rollo, having taken off his feather crown, advanced to meet him.

"What tidings, friend Wolf?" said Rollo; "what have you come to tell us?"

"There are strangers in the land," answered the Wolf, "and I come to warn you."

The Multiphobus sprang up with a growl, and Lilla almost shrieked, while the box rattled and rattled till it nearly jumped out of her hand.

"It will go, it will go!" said she.

"Hold it fast!" whispered the Magpie; "hold it fast!

"'On it will depend
What may be the end.
Come with me to the tree,
And then we shall see.'"

"To the tree where Rollo and the Multiphobus are standing?" asked Lilla.

"Where else?" asked the Magpie.

Lilla became nervous, and spoke in disjointed sentences.

"Oh no, no, no! I cannot go. I quake, I shake; I will not take a single step. The box will break. Oh, how I quake!"

But the Magpie perched on her shoulder again, saying, "Do not be foolish. Rollo will not let them hurt us;" and he gave Lilla a gentle peck, which made her start forward, and when once she had made a move she found that she could not stop herself: her feet carried her along until she paused in front of Rollo.

And as she paused the lid of the box flew open, and the words jumped out, and arranged themselves on the ground in the following order.

"Earth, air, and sea
All know of me,
And so will you
If you go through."

"Why, it's quite easy to read!" exclaimed Lilla in surprise. "I wonder I never thought of it all this time."

"And it's just as I told you: four four's sixteen, four in each line and four lines. However you count it, you will find it all fours," said the Magpie.

"And it's about me," said Rollo, "for earth, air, and sea all know of me; and brought me here and gave me the Multiphobus. And it's about you also, for you have come through the board to come and see me. The Multiphobus was talking about it when we were flying through the air."

"Was he?" said Lilla; "and he wasn't angry?"

"Angry! No, he is very glad for me to have a playfellow, for I am rather lonely sometimes. And now we can play in the woods all day, and gather strawberries and cherries and plums; and there's a little stove in one of the caves, and I dare say you can make cakes?"

"Of course I can," answered Lilla, "and tea and coffee."

"Ah! that will be nice. And I will be king and you shall be queen, and we will have a merry time, and the Multiphobus will carry us wherever we want to go."

"I am afraid of him," returned Lilla.

"Oh, you need not be. I am quite sure you'll give a paw to Lilla; won't you, Multiphobus?"

"I will give two," said the Multiphobus, standing on his hind legs and stretching out his fore paws to Lilla.

She shook them, and felt at ease with him at once.

The Magpie fluttered about.

"I am not going home by myself," said he. "I shall stay here if Lilla does."

"That you shall," replied Rollo; "we will all live in this beautiful land together."

Ah! what a beautiful land it was! The two children wandered through it hand in hand, and revelled in all its glories--now underneath the stately forest trees, or breaking through the tangled brushwood all radiant with green and gold, and crimson leaves and lovely flowers, or now sitting on the river-bank listening to the stories the river told them of the lands through which it had passed; whilst the Wind sang so many wonderful songs that Lilla begged to hear them over again.

And after the Wind had lulled them to sleep among the soft clover and wild thyme, the moon and stars peeped out and sent them beautiful dreams, whilst two nightingales sat among the roses and sang "Lullaby, lullaby" as sweetly as the southern wind.

So that whether waking or sleeping the children were happy.

Sometimes Lilla would say--

"Ah! if it had not been for the words on the board, I should still have been living with the cross old woman in the town with the long street and the cathedral. And she would have gone on scolding me for ever and ever; and whatever should I have done, I wonder."

"You may thank me," said the Magpie, "for having brought you away; that's very certain."

"You may thank me also," said the Multiphobus, "and I am sure you ought to do so, for it was I who nailed up the board with the magic words upon the garden wall."

And of course, as I need not tell you, Lilla did thank them.

JULIA GODDARD.

A YOUNG ROMAN'S SACRIFICE.

A TRUE STORY.

Once upon a time, many hundred years ago, when Rome was mistress of the world, and the Romans were braver and stronger than any one else, there lived a boy of thirteen whose name is still remembered. Lucius Valerius was fond of his lessons, but most of all did he love poetry; so, although he was only thirteen years old, he made up his mind that he would try to win the gold medal and ivory lyre which were given every five years to the boy who should write the best poem.

Lucius not only tried, but he succeeded, and one day, before all the school and a number of visitors, the prizes were presented to him. Now besides the medal and lyre which every one who gained them valued very much, there was something else which they thought far grander. A statue of the prize-winner was placed in the school and crowned with laurel.

You may imagine how the boy's heart beat with joy as he saw the judge step forward to crown his statue, but just at that moment Lucius caught sight of a young man who had also tried for the prize, and who looked most downcast and miserable.

Lucius sprang forward, seized the laurel crown, and put it on the head of the poor fellow who had been unsuccessful.

"You are more deserving of it than I am," he said; "I obtained it more on account of my youth than my merit, and rather as an encouragement than as a reward."

Then the people set up a great shout of joy, for they knew that a noble heart was worth more than all the poems in the world, and they gave a new name to Lucius Valerius in memory of that day.

So Lucius was always called Pudens, which means Modest, and you may be sure he valued his new title as much as he deserved it, for "Kind hearts are more than coronets."

E. M. W.

THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN IN OCTOBER.

The Flower Garden will now be fast losing its beauty, and the cold winds and frosty nights will be everywhere heralding the coming of winter, when, more through force of circumstances than choice, our Gardening proclivities become considerably abated. Throughout the present month, however, the remaining floral vestiges of summer are often numerous, but especially so when the weather of early autumnal months happens to be of a mild and congenial nature. By this season the greater number of plants will have performed those functions, and have passed through the various stages, which each and every year exacts. In the case of plants known as annuals, an entire life is projected and perfected within the short space of a few months. Various trees and shrubs will now be assuming the rich autumnal tints, and the leaves rapidly drop at the approach of winter, and vital energy is being stored up until the following spring, when new leaves are produced.

* * * * *

The month of October is, notwithstanding its lack of floral ornaments, one in which the amount of work to be done is by no means inconsiderable, and the pretty little girl, with her hoe and water-can, drawn on p. 241, evidently thinks as much. We must plant now in order to secure a spring display of flowers, and for this purpose nothing can be more satisfactory than bulbous subjects, such as hyacinths, tulips, crocuses, and narcissuses. The hyacinth thrives best in a compost of light loam, leaf-mould, and sand; plenty of the latter may be included in order to secure perfect drainage, which is a very important item in the culture of bulbous plants generally. Perhaps no other spring flowering bulb looks so well when grown in neat patches as the hyacinth; the bulbs should not be less than six inches apart, and at least two and a half inches beneath the surface. They should be purchased in the autumn, selecting firm heavy roots; and "first come, first served" must be borne in mind, as by buying early in the season the best may be secured, and finer spikes of bloom will follow as a natural consequence.

* * * * *

Tulips have been for many years great favourites with gardeners, both amateur and professional. About two hundred years ago the mania for these plants amounted almost to a national calamity in Holland, and scores of acres are now entirely devoted to their culture. For our own part, we scarcely consider the tulip as in any way justifying the praise which is lavished upon it even in the present day, because its beauty is, to say the least, ephemeral, whilst its showiness is far from being either chaste or delicate. It will be, however desirable to have six or even a dozen bulbs, which only cost about a penny apiece. They can be planted any time during the present month, from two to three inches below the surface, in a compost of loam, leaf-mould, sand, and well-rotted manure. When purchasing, see that every bulb is perfectly solid, and select as many different sorts as possible, thereby securing a variety, which is very desirable in a garden of limited extent. In cold northern situations tulip-beds should always be covered over with a little straw or litter during very frosty weather.

* * * * *

Few Spring flowers are more welcome or appear so very early in the year as crocuses. No matter how cold, foggy, or dirty the weather may chance to be in this most erratic climate, the regiments of yellow, golden, blue, flaked, white, and versi-coloured crocus flowers will never fail to put in an appearance. The common sorts thrive almost anywhere, and in almost any ordinary garden soil. They should be planted during the present month, about two inches under the surface. As the roots only cost about threepence per dozen hardly any spot ought to be bare of flowers from the middle of January to early in March. A universally-grown plant, even earlier than the crocus, is the well-known snowdrop. This also, like the crocus, can be grown almost anywhere, and may remain in one spot undisturbed for years; both are most effective when grown in clumps. The French name of _Perceneige_, or Pierce-snow, is singularly applicable to the snowdrop. Place the tiny roots from one to two inches deep, and grow the single-flowered form only.

* * * * *

The narcissus or daffodil is another of the many spring-flowering plants which are invariably greeted with enthusiasm. The varieties are endless, but the greater number are almost unexcelled for growing in such situations as the tops and sides of hedges, banks, &c. They can scarcely be grown too extensively. Of the various sorts, and exclusive of the ordinary double form, few are more beautiful or more desirable than that known as the Poet's Narcissus (_N. poeticus_). The pure white of the segments and the delicate bright scarlet centre are best when the plant is grown sheltered from strong winds. Another favourite narcissus of ours, and which we can confidently recommend to our readers, is that known as "Orange Phoenix;" it is a singularly beautiful plant, and produces large double and well-formed flowers; it thrives best in a light sandy soil. Several colours may be secured by purchasing a dozen roots of mixed sorts, costing from two to three shillings per dozen. They may be planted any time throughout October and up to the middle of November.

* * * * *

The Kitchen Garden of our young folk will need but very little looking after during the present and next two months; but in stating this we must not be understood to imply that it should be wholly neglected. On the contrary, it must be kept quite free from weeds of all sorts; and everything should be in perfect order. To this end paths should be swept and weeded every week, when the state of the weather will admit of this being done. The Kitchen Garden is much too frequently seen in a disreputable state, even in pretentious places, and where flower-gardening _is_ done very well. But well-executed work in one department by no means justifies slovenliness in another. Vacant spaces of ground will need digging, but this operation should, if possible, be left to a labourer, who, for the sake of a small remuneration, would probably be very glad to do it after his ordinary working hours. Even an enthusiast cannot but consider digging as the most laborious of all gardening work, and will take especial care to shirk it whenever possible. In fact, real garden drudgery of all kinds is better done by a labourer, no matter how simple and easy such work may superficially appear to our young folk. Good work, as we all know, can only be done by an accustomed hand.

THE DISCONTENTED BOAT.

A boat came back from a journey. It had been to a far-off land. All the sailors jumped ashore, only too glad to run about again, but they tied up the boat to a long arm of rock, and left it there while they were gone.

The tide was very low and the sky was dull; there was just enough water to lap against the sides of the boat, and make it rock up and down. The boat fretted like a petulant child, and pulled at the rope as a dog pulls against its chain, but it could not get away, for all that.

"How dull it is here!" cried the little white boat; "they have all gone on shore and are merry. They don't consider my feelings, left here for the day all alone. And oh, what an ugly place this is!" and it looked right and left.

The sky was grey, the tide was very low; the boat was lashed to a long piece of rock that ran out like an arm into the sea. At each side of the rock a mass of seaweed clung--limp and brown.

"Of all the ugly things I ever saw," exclaimed the boat, "that seaweed is the worst. Think of the places I have been anchored in before--of the lovely tropical flowers that grew at the water's edge."

"You do not know who we are," cried the seaweeds; "we are young fairy sisters, who dance every night. This beach is the floor of our ball-room, and we dance, and are decked with jewels. We dance and are gay in the evening; in the daytime we lie still and rest."

"I do not believe you," said the boat; "you are ugly, and brown, and old. And this place is the dullest I have seen all my life."

So the boat sulked, and was unhappy all day. But when the evening arrived the sailors came down to the shore, and undid the boat, and rowed away.

And the boat looked back, and it was sunset, and a change had passed over the place. The sky was pink and golden, the waves were bathed in light; the sea was as transparent as a sapphire, and you looked through the sapphire roof and saw a golden floor.

Sure enough that was the floor of the dancing-room, and the tide had crept up the sides of the rock, and all the little seaweeds looked yellow and golden, and danced up and down in the arms of the waves.

The boat looked over its shoulder, and saw them: it would willingly have gone back to the scene and danced up and down with the rest, but it never saw them again, for it was bound to a far-off land, never to return.

LUCIE COBBE.

HARRY'S RABBIT.

Harry Pearson was rather a good sort of boy, but he had one very bad habit. He was the greatest stone-thrower in all Tolhurst Village.

It was Harry who had broken the draper's window and the glass of Squire Stopford's greenhouse. He had not been found out; but he knew well enough who had done the mischief, so when one afternoon, as he was running home from school, he saw a man putting up a great placard announcing that stone-throwers would be prosecuted, he felt very much frightened.

He was just slinking home when out came his father, the Squire's gardener.

Harry thought that his father had found out about the stone-throwing, and hung down his head.

But, instead of scolding him as, he had expected, his father said, as if he were pleased--

"Harry, Master Edgar is better to-day, and he wants you to come in now and wheel his chair for him."

Harry's face brightened at once; for there were few things he liked better than to be allowed to go into the Squire's beautiful garden when Master Edgar, the Squire's only son, was well enough to come out in his wheeled-chair.

Edgar Stopford was about the same age as Harry; but he had never been strong, and for more than a year he had been lame.

"All right, father!" exclaimed Harry gleefully. "Is he in the garden?"

And without waiting for an answer he ran in and found Edgar Stopford waiting for him.

"Harry," said Edgar, "I want you to take me in the chair round to the stable, for I want to see the young rabbits. How old are they now, Harry? I've been so ill that I can't quite remember."

"Seven weeks old to-day," said Harry. "I want to see them again very much, Master Edgar. They're such beauties; I can't help thinking of them every day."

"You haven't any rabbits, have you?" asked Edgar.

"No," said Harry. "Don't I wish I had!"

"Mine are prize rabbits, you know," said Edgar, "The old tortoise-shell one took the prize both this year and last year at the County show. Oh! And what do you think? A boy I know has been over here ever so many times trying to get that young lop-eared tortoise-shell doe! You remember which one, don't you?"

"Oh yes! oh yes! That was the one I liked best of all! It had such good broad ears!" cried Harry with enthusiasm. "You didn't let him have it though, did you, Master Edgar?"

"Oh no? He offered me a pair of his best Antwerp pigeons for her. And I wanted the pigeons; but I wouldn't let him have that young doe!" exclaimed Edgar, with a smile on his white face.