Chapter IX: A Happy Encounter (1)

Brighton in the first days of August is hot and dusty, noisy, and crowded with people; excursionists pour in by thousands, German bands and organs seem to spring up under one's feet at every step. The sun blazes in the windows of the houses on the Marine Parade all day, and the fine, dry, chalky dust from the Downs is apt to be irritating to delicate throats; but for all that, Brighton in August is delightful, at least to children. Then they may pass an almost amphibious existence without danger of catching cold. Foremost in every mischief, bravest in every danger, most fortunate in every escapade, was Bertie. No one could look at his sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, hear his merry laughter, watch him skip, jump, and dance along the beach, without saying, "There, at least, is one happy boy," and feeling glad that there was so much capacity for pure enjoyment in the world. He dragged Eddie and Agnes with him hither and thither, till by sheer force of energy and example he forced them to share his happiness, and brought the roses to their cheeks too; he would have dragged Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair about in the same way, only they drew the line at taking off shoes and paddling in the water, and begged to be allowed to sit still on the beach and watch them. However, one day, very much to his astonishment, he met his Aunt Gregory and his cousins walking on the Parade, and Bertie nothing doubted but they would be glad to join his many expeditions in search of fun; but the boys had many other acquaintances in Brighton, and felt half ashamed to acknowledge a relative who was only a junior clerk, and refused very distinctly to go down on the beach, and be friendly with Eddie and Agnes. Indeed, as soon as Mrs. Gregory understood that Mr. and Mrs. Clair were also by the sea-side, she became very chilling to Bertie, and asked when he was going back to his office.

"Next Monday, aunt; but the others will stay for another fortnight," Bertie answered brightly, without the least shade of discontent on his face.

"And why must you return before the others, my lad?" a gentleman said, advancing a step, and looking at Bertie steadily. "If I don't mistake, I have met you before somewhere. Where was it?"

"You have seen him at our house, perhaps, Mr. Murray," Dick Gregory said carelessly; he had been walking with the gentleman, and discussing a trip in Mr. Murray's yacht, and did not want to be interrupted; indeed, he was far from being pleased at meeting Bertie. "You know, he's in papa's office in the City," he added, seeing the gentleman still looked puzzled.

"No, cousin; I think Mr. Murray saw me at Riversdale," Bertie said, a little shyly, for a pair of keen dark eyes were fixed on his face. "He used to come and see papa often; but I think he would remember Eddie better than me: he saw him oftener."

"Oh dear me! yes, of course; why, I remember you quite well," he said. "You are Herbert, the dreadful little boy who snow-balled me one day, and Eddie drew caricatures of me. Dear me! Mrs. Gregory, how strange you never mentioned the Rivers' being here. This boy's father is one of my oldest and dearest friends. I shall be delighted to meet him."

For a moment there was an awkward silence; Mrs. Gregory looked red and confused, her two sons turned round and studied the sea, then Bertie looked up suddenly. "Papa is not here, sir: he--he is dead," he said steadily, but in an earnest voice. "I am in Uncle Gregory's office; Eddie is learning to be an artist with Uncle Clair. Poor papa lost his money, and we're going to try and get rich, to buy back Riversdale."

"Buy back Riversdale!" Mr. Murray cried. "You don't mean----" then glancing at Mrs. Gregory's confused expression, and the sudden gravity that had replaced the mirth in Bertie's eyes, he stopped, and puckered up his forehead in the strangest way.

"Is this boy, Herbert Rivers, staying with you?" he asked presently, turning to Mrs. Gregory.

"No, indeed; I did not even know he was here. I fancied he was at the office, as usual."

"Oh! then how did you come to be here, child? Are you alone?" Mr. Murray asked.

"I am with Uncle and Aunt Clair. Last Saturday Uncle Gregory said I might have a week's holiday and spend it with my brother, so I just ran straight off to Fitzroy Square, and found them all in the hall just starting for Brighton. Oh, it has been so splendid!"

"So you must go back to town to your office next Monday?" the gentleman said, after a moment's frowning. "Well, well, we shall see; this is Thursday. Where does your Uncle Clair live?"

Bertie told him the address: it was within a stone's throw; and as Mr. Murray noted down the number, and glanced at the house so as to remember it, he saw that the balcony was strikingly decorated with some of the children's trophies. Long trailing sprays of damp dark-brown seaweed hung over the railings; there was quite a large heap of sea-stones, and a few shells piled up in one corner. Bertie's schooner was firmly anchored to a crimson bucket in another; there was a camp-stool before an easel standing in the open window, and a low chair with cushions outside. Altogether, the aspect of the rooms occupied by Uncle Clair pleased Mr. Murray.

As they walked along the parade Mr. Murray was unusually silent; the boys watched him, and saw by the expression of his face that he was thinking deeply. But it was not till he met their father at the aquarium that Mr. Murray said a single word about Bertie Rivers. Then both gentlemen stood in a quiet corner, and talked so long and so earnestly that both Mrs. Gregory and the boys became impatient, and not a little curious. What could they possibly have to say about the little junior clerk? and yet they were sure he was the subject of their conversation.

Mrs. Gregory looked more anxious than curious. Mr. Murray was a very old friend of the Rivers' family, and though absence from England for several years caused him to be quite ignorant of the calamities that had overtaken the master of Riversdale, the death of his brother Frank, and the loss of his fortune, he was still deeply interested in the family, and heard with regret of the almost friendless condition of Mr. Rivers' sons.

"I wish you had told me all this sooner," he said at length. "We might have done something better for that fine lad."

"He will do very well," Mr. Gregory replied, a little coldly. "You should be the last person in the world to object to business."

"I don't object, only the boy is too young--a mere child. Why did not you send him to school with your boys, for a few years at least?"

"I do not think that would be any true kindness. It would only make him dissatisfied with his future position, perhaps. Bertie is doing very well."

Mr. Murray said no more, but all the remainder of the afternoon he thought a great deal of his old friend Mr. Rivers and his boys, and the more he reflected the less pleased he felt at Mr. Gregory's treatment of Bertie, and the undisguised contempt Dick and Harry expressed for their cousin. He resolved to call the very next morning on Mr. Clair, and have a talk with him about the lads, for Mr. Murray had a very strong reason for being interested in their future. It was he who had persuaded their father to invest money in the speculation that ended so disastrously, but he had no idea that Mr. Rivers became such an extensive shareholder; he forgot that a simple country gentleman, without either knowledge or experience, could not be as prudent and far-seeing as a man all his life acquainted with business. Mr. Murray had been a loser in the mines himself, but to a comparatively slight extent, and as he was an exceedingly rich man, he only regarded the matter as one of the casual losses incurred in business. But his old friend's losses troubled him deeply, and he resolved to do everything in his power to repair the effects of his well-meant, but unfortunate, advice.

Mr. Murray was an old bachelor, very rich, and some people said very eccentric, though, in truth, his eccentricity was only indiscriminate generosity. He was very fond of children, boys especially; he often spoke of adopting some promising lad to inherit a portion of his great fortune, and continue the grand old firm in the City that had flourished for over a hundred years as Murray and Co. For many reasons Mr. Gregory hoped that one of his boys would be chosen, and lately everything had seemed like it; therefore, the sudden interest Mr. Murray seemed to take in Bertie caused Mr. and Mrs. Gregory some uneasiness, especially as the gentleman said at dinner that evening that the yachting excursion would have to be put off for some days, as he wished to make the acquaintance of his old friend's sons, and learn a little more of their history, and meant to call at their address the next morning.

(_To be continued._)

AN APPLE SONG.

The Autumn sunshine falls so warm,
So warm in the orchard green,
A golden tent is the apple-tree;
And under the leafy screen
Sits Rex, in the curve of a mossy bough,
As high as he can go,
Dropping the apples red and brown
To his Cousin Prue below.

Sweet Prue, knee-deep in the cool green grass,
Spreads wide her pinafore,
The ripe fruit falls in a golden rain,
By two, by three, by four;
With watchful eye and ready hand
She lets no apple fall--
As fast as Rex can throw them down
She catches one and all.

The blackbird on the topmost bough
Is singing loud and clear,
The children shouting at their task
It does him good to hear.
He watches them with his bead-black eyes,
And blither still he sings;
But clearer than dear blackbird's note
The children's laughter rings.

MORNINGS AT THE ZOO.

VIII.--IN THE FISH-HOUSE.

Of the Fish-house at the London Zoological Gardens it must be said that its contents are decidedly "mixed," for it is the home not only of a few specimens of the finny tribe, but also of some wading and diving birds, of a very curious amphibian, of a few shrimps, and of several of the beautiful flower-like sea-anemones. The collection, however, loses nothing in point of interest because of its varied character, and will repay a good deal more study than it seems to receive from visitors.

Some of the fishes are as common as the schoolboy's familiar friend, the minnow. Others, like the cat-fish and sea-horse, are rare--in England, at any rate. Then there are kinds known to every lover of angling, such as the perch and pike. Seldom has a popular name been so aptly bestowed as in the case of the pretty little sea-horses. In the upper half of their wee bodies they have all the equine look and bearing, but in the lower half there is a great falling-off in the likeness, excepting that both animals have tails. But the tail of the sea-horse is a most useful appendage. The tiny creature can twine it round marine weeds and vegetables, and by this means drifts along with the current into far distant seas and strange climes. To this cause the occasional discovery of foreigners upon British coasts has been ascribed. With regard to the name of the cat-fish, one must not be quite so particular. There is, on a cursory glance, enough of the appearance of pussy about the head of this curious animal to explain how the title came to be applied to it. It strikes one as being rather a morose and surly creature, an impression that is fully borne out when one learns that it will fight desperately when captured.

Though the flounders can scarcely be considered as other than common fishes, they always are worth watching. Tom Noddy was all head and no body, but they may be regarded as being nearly all body with very little head, and the two bright black eyes, which look as if they were "stuck on," give them a rather comical aspect. You will find them inquisitive, too. Put your finger in front of their tank, and they will all flock to see what it is. On the contrary, other fishes, such as the pike and carp, will remain stolid and indifferent to any movement you may make, and some, like the timorous trout--for which Isaak Walton loved to angle above any fish,--will be so dreadfully upset at the appearance of your digit that they will dart off in every direction.

Little folk may be expected to feel special interest in the pikes, those "fresh-water wolves" and "tyrants of the rivers," as they have been styled in consequence of their ferocity. They thrive well despite their savage gluttony, and attain to a green old age. One was captured in a pond in Sweden, in 1449, with a ring round its neck, which bore an inscription which showed that it had been placed in the pond more than two hundred years before. However that may be, there is no doubt that the pike is a long liver. It is so destructive, that it will clear a pond of all the fishes, not hesitating to attack those even that are nearly as big as itself. There is a case on record of a pike fastening on the lips of a mule, which had been taken to drink in the pond. They have been known to bite at swans and geese, and altogether Jack Pike is a most voracious creature. It may be assumed also that it is unsociable, for it generally swims about by itself, and not in shoals or in companies like other fishes.

Among other inmates of this house which call for mention are carp, gobies, dace, roach, bullhead, gurnard, mullet, basse, and conger-eels. They lead a monotonous sort of life, swimming to and fro in their tanks, in a wearisome way. But their graceful movements and curious colours are worth notice. The conger-eels are comparatively small specimens. Those in the deep sea sometimes attain a gigantic size. They are able to use their tail as a hand, and have been known by means of it to seize the gunwale of the boat in which they were imprisoned and jump into the sea.

One of the quaintest and most interesting inmates of the house, however, is not a fish but an amphibian. There are two groups of amphibians, one called _tailless_--to which frogs and toads belong--and the other _tailed_, of which the newt and the axolotl are members. The Zoological Society are fortunate enough to possess specimens of both the black and white axolotl. This creature, which is a native of Mexico, has a strange life-history not unlike that of the frog. It has a sort of tadpole stage of existence, in which it is furnished with a collar of gills and lives in the water. After a while it loses its gills, and its tail and legs grow much less fish-like. There is a kind of lizard look about its permanent form. In the first period of its history it is styled _axolotl_; in the final period it becomes known as _amblystome_. They say its flesh is esteemed a delicacy in Mexico.

Visitors seem to regard the anemones--the "most brilliant of living flower gardens," as Charles Kingsley called them--as useful in the way of ornament, and pass their tanks without paying further heed to them. This is not the case with respect to the diving birds, which are beyond all question the centre of attraction in the fish-house. The birds comprise a darter, a cormorant, a guillemot, and a penguin. The first-named is seldom seen in this country. It is a largish bird with webbed feet, long thin neck, and spear-like bill. When swimming in the water with its body entirely submerged, it looks not unlike a snake forging along. Hence it is also known as the snake-neck. The cormorant and darter, though here classed for convenience' sake among the divers, really belong to the pelican family. The guillemot is a diving bird found in the Northern seas, while the penguin may be looked upon as representing the divers of the Southern Ocean. The penguin is a most awkward bird ashore, but in its native element its movements are elegant and rapid. When the keeper has placed some food in the water-tank, the darter is fetched from its cage. The bird takes a swim round, then spots its prey and goes for it with unerring aim. Rising to the surface it throws the fish in the air, catches it in its beak, and bolts it with business-like despatch. It then goes fishing again, and after its wants have been supplied it returns to its house. The other three birds are allowed to dine together. There is no squabbling amongst them. Enough fishes are thrown in to keep them occupied for a few minutes. The speed with which the guillemot cuts the water is truly amazing. Once more one has an opportunity of noticing the clumsiness of the penguin when it tries to leave the water. At either end of the tank a platform with transverse bars is let down for the convenience of the birds, but the silly penguin, instead of going to the end of the platform and gradually working its way upward, sometimes endeavours to climb up the side, its frantic struggles to do so being ludicrous. It does not appear to possess sufficient sense to find its way out in the easiest manner, for Mr Keeper has to assist it with a long iron pole with a hook at the end, by means of which he pushes the bird along to the foot of the platform. The feeding of the birds is a very instructive performance. Unless some such occasion were afforded us of seeing these essentially aquatic birds in the water, one could not have the slightest idea of the power and grace of their movements.

And in leaving the fish-house let me say that this educational value, so to speak, of the Zoological Gardens undoubtedly forms one of their strongest claims upon public support.

JAMES A. MANSON.

WHAT CAME OF A FOXGLOVE.

A FAIRY STORY.

Behind, before, in the branches of the trees, amongst the blades of grass, creeping under the mushrooms, swinging on the foxgloves, and clinging to the ragged-robin, were the fairies.

Blanche and Belinda did not see them, because of the bright golden sunshine, which hides the fairies from mortal sight; but the fairies saw the two girls walking arm in arm through the wood.

Blanche stooped to gather a splendid crimson foxglove, which she shook gently, saying,

"The bells shall ring
For the fairy king;
Ding, dong, bell!
Ding, dong, bell!"

But, alas! as she shook it, no fewer than seven little fairy pages fell to the ground. They were not much hurt, but they were very indignant at being knocked about in that manner; also the feathers in their caps were much ruffled.

They sprang to their feet feeling very angry, especially as the other fairies were laughing.

"We are the Queen's pages,
And very great our rage is!"

they shouted.

And then, as they looked more carefully at one another and saw how tossed and tumbled were their pretty suits of embroidered white velvet, they burst out crying, saying--

"We are not fit to be seen
By her Majesty the Queen;
Our clothes are all blue and green,
Who will wash and make them clean?"

"I will," said the Fairy Queen; "I saw it all, and I am very angry.

My pages shall not be
Treated so shamefully!"

And her face grew as red as a peony.

But Blanche and Belinda knew nothing of all this; they had not any idea that the fairies were in the wood.

Blanche had just thrown down the foxglove, for suddenly there issued out of every flower clusters of bees, that buzzed and hummed and made a dense cloud around the two little sisters until they could not see one another.

II.

And then--

Why, suddenly all the bees disappeared as quickly as they had come, and all was sunshine and brightness again; and Belinda was not stung, though she looked at her arms and hands, and felt her forehead and cheeks and neck, expecting to be covered with great smarting lumps. Instead of which, she had never been freer from pain; and the world around had never looked so beautiful as it did to-day, with so many butterflies of divers colours, and great green dragon-flies, that she wondered where they all came from. The wood-path, too, grew more lovely, and patches of blue sky appeared through the branches of the trees.

All at once she cried out--

"Blanche! Blanche!"

For Blanche was nowhere to be seen; and though she hunted in and out among the trees and bushes, she could not find her. No one answered, except the echoes repeating, "Blanche! Blanche! where are you?"

And then Belinda sat down, and she began to cry.

III.

Belinda cried for half an hour without stopping, and her eyes were swollen up, and her cheeks wet with tears. Some one was standing by her, and a voice was saying--

"Why are you crying, little girl, I pray,
On such a pleasant sunny summer day?
I'm a little packman, with my funny pack.
Such a weight! oh, such a weight! to carry on my back.
What will you buy, maiden? what will you buy?
Half a dozen handkerchiefs, to wipe your cheeks quite dry?"

Belinda looked up, and in her surprise left off crying. Before her stood a small boy with a bundle of wheat over his shoulder. He looked tired and melancholy, and not by any means as jovial as might have been expected from his words.

"Handkerchiefs!" said Belinda, disdainfully. "Why, you've nothing but a wisp of straw over your shoulder, and it can't be any weight."

"Try it," said the boy, throwing it down upon the ground.

But Belinda took no notice of it.

"And you're not a packman, only a little boy," she said, angrily; "how can you tell such stories?"

The melancholy-looking boy answered--

"Perhaps I'm a king in disguise,
Although of a very small size;
If you were a little more wise,
You might find in my pack a great prize.

However, I'll leave it for you, and the first young gentleman you meet with will, perhaps, pick it up and carry it home for you; for you will soon find you are not able to lift it yourself."

And so saying the boy turned away, and Belinda was again alone.

"Not lift a few ears of corn," she said, giving a slight kick to the heap at her feet.

But as her foot touched it it was no longer a bundle of wheat, but a sack tied close at the mouth, and it expanded until it was as large as Belinda herself. Added to which there appeared to be something alive in it, for it moved from side to side as though some creature were struggling inside.

"Oh! perhaps it is Blanche!" exclaimed Belinda, "and the boy has brought her back. He said 'a great prize,' and a king in disguise. He may have been a fairy, who can tell?"

And she tried to open the sack, but to no purpose, for she only tore her fingers and made them bleed, and the blood dropped down on her frock and stained it, and she grew very hot.

There was a glassy pool close by, so she knelt down and bathed her hands and face; and as she rose up she caught sight of herself in the pool, and for a moment she scarcely knew herself, for she was dressed so grandly. She had on a pink satin gown and a white satin apron with cherry-coloured bows, and a gauze cap, and red shoes with gold buckles.

"I wonder wherever these clothes could come from?" she said aloud.

The sack gave a roll, and whatever might be within was evidently trying to get out. And again she called out--

"Blanche! Blanche!"

She tried to lift up the sack, for she thought if she could drag it along she might in time find some one who could open it.

But she found that the melancholy boy was right, she could not move it.

"And I am not likely to meet with any one in this part of the wood."

IV.

Some one was whistling in the distance.

Belinda listened.

Then she cried out, "Help! help!"

The footsteps came nearer, and a boy in a fine suit came along. As soon as he saw Belinda he made a low bow, and stood with his hat in his hand.

"This must be a gentleman," thought Belinda, "or he would not be so polite."

But she did not speak.

"Did you not cry out for help?" asked the youth.

"Yes," replied Belinda; "I have lost Blanche, and I want some one to find her, and to help me to carry this bag; for I can't lift it, and I believe there is a prize in it."

"Prize!" repeated the boy; "I should think there was! Why this bag is full of wonderful magic toys, and if you let them out they will search the world over until they find anything that you have lost. Where did you get them from?"

"A boy with a bundle of corn brought the sack. At least it wasn't a sack, but it turned into one--and----"

"It must have been Oberon himself, the King of the Fairies, you know, who brought the sack to you."

"Ah!" returned Belinda, "he did say something about a king in disguise, but I did not believe him."

"Perhaps if you had been more polite," answered the boy, "you would have found Blanche back by this time, for he knows all about her. The Queen has carried her away because she knocked her little pages about."

"Knocked her little pages about! you are as foolish as the other boy. But if you know so much, pray where has the Queen hidden her?"

"How should I know?" replied the boy.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Belinda, and she began to cry again.

"Do be wise," said the boy; "crying does no good."

"Wise, prize, size, disguise," murmured Belinda.

"What are you saying?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing!" said Belinda.

"That is not true," he answered; "you said some words; say them again."

And as Belinda repeated the words the boy lifted up the sack quite easily, and cut the string that fastened it, with his knife. And his clothes changed even as Belinda's had done. He wore now a sort of helmet with a plume of feathers in it, and a slashed dress; and he knelt down and opened the mouth of the sack. Ah! was not Belinda astonished, for out rushed the toys--such toys--all of them able to move about. One of them, a man on horseback, galloped away over a bridge, in the distance; another ran up the mountain with a donkey following after him. A woman and a little child next rushed down into the valley, so did a boy with a dog that did not look like a dog running behind him.

To all of these the youth said--

"Now be kind,
Find, find, find!"

Belinda gazed in astonishment, for never had she seen such toys before.

"Now," said the boy, as a white horse with a cart behind it emerged from a heap of carriages and toy soldiers, "jump in, and you and I will drive about the world till we find Blanche."

"But we can't possibly get in," returned Belinda; "it is too small for one, certainly for two."

"Do not be stupid," said the boy; "almost all mischief comes from stupidity; get in whilst I hold the horse."

How Belinda got into the little cart she did not know; but in it she was with the boy beside her, and he was driving as fast as he could go. And there was plenty of room for both.

The toy soldiers had mounted their horses and were riding behind them and at the side of them, for the boy had said--

"Mount quickly, guards."

And as they went along, Belinda presently heard the man on horseback and the woman and all the magic toys come clattering after them as hard as they could come.

"Ah!" observed the boy; "we are on the right path; the King has sent them after us."

"The King!"

"Yes; did you not see a toll-man on the bridge?"

"No," answered Belinda; but she whispered to herself, "a king in disguise; wise, prize, size."

"You are getting more sensible," said the boy, as he drove faster and faster till the white cart-horse seemed to turn into a race-horse, he went so swiftly.

"There will be an accident," said Belinda.

And so there was, for the cart-wheel flew off, and down went the cart, and Belinda and the boy were tumbled into a ditch, whence they scrambled out and rolled down a grassy slope, on and on and on, such a distance that Belinda felt quite giddy.

"This is the end of the drive," said the boy; "we need not trouble about the horse and cart. Follow me."

And Belinda followed him.

He pushed aside the red chestnut flowers and the sycamore branches, and as he did so all the birds seemed to wake up, and to sing a wonderfully beautiful song. There were nightingales singing, though it was day, and the larks were carolling as blithely as at early morn. As for the thrushes, their voices were so clear that Belinda was sure she could hear the words they were saying.

Of course it was poetry, only Belinda had never heard such beautiful poetry before.

And the waterfall was singing, so was the brook, but they sang a different song.

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Slumbering let the maiden lie,
Sweetest dreams shall float around her,
Magic blossoms shall surround her.
Fairy chains shall keep her still,
Fairy wand ward off all ill,
Gnat or fly shall not come nigh,
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Sleep, sweet maiden, fear no harm,
Potent is the fairy charm."

"Oh, boy! are they talking about Blanche?"

"Hush!" said he; "come quietly."

Belinda came softly, and looked where he pointed, and would have cried out--

"Blanche!"

But the boy put his hand over her mouth.

Nevertheless they had found Blanche.

Yes! there she was fast asleep on a crimson cushion with tall white lilies and bright poppies and splendid foxgloves nodding all round her and drowsily ringing their sweet bells; whilst a flood of fairy light fell over her. She looked very happy, as though she were having pleasant dreams.

"Kiss her," said the boy.

And Belinda stooped and kissed her.

And then Blanche opened wide her eyes, saying.

"Where have you been?" she asked; "I have had such a nice sleep. It all came from the foxglove."

Belinda looked round to thank the boy, but he had vanished.

So had the cushion and the lilies, and the poppies.

"Why it's the old woodpath again," murmured Belinda. "I know the place quite well. Size, wise, prize, disguise; disguise, prize, size, wise," she repeated; "yes, the young gentleman must have been a king in disguise."

Blanche looked surprised.

"Yes, that is just what I was dreaming of. I thought I had really quite lost you, and he brought you to me."

Perhaps the youth was Oberon; but if so, of course he never told them.

"But he must have been a great many Oberons," Belinda went on, musing; "the melancholy packboy, the toll-man, the young gentleman! Ah! it is of no use thinking about it, one only gets confused."

But if she had had ears to listen to fairy music, she would have heard this song:--

"Each little page
Hath lost his rage,
The punishment is o'er;
The sisters twain
Have met again,
To separate no more.
So 'tis decreed by Queen and King,
Who now the two together bring."

JULIA GODDARD.

DAISY AND DOLLY.

Beneath the poplars' leafy screen
The shade is cool and sweet,
Where Daisy sits like any queen--
The sunbeams kiss her feet,
Steal round the border of her dress,
And one white dimpled arm caress.

She holds her dainty parasol
Above her playmate's head,
Lest the hot sun should touch her doll,
And fade the lovely red
In dolly's rosy cheek that lies,
Or dim her beautiful blue eyes.

She weaves a pretty dream, I know,
All in the garden shady,
How dolly was, long, long ago,
A little fairy lady,
And held her court on a green, green knoll,
Ere she became a mortal doll.

She thinks her blue-eyed pet knows all
The solemn words she speaks,
And feels the kisses soft that fall
Upon her mouth and cheeks:
And often when I see the two
I wish I were the doll--don't you? R.

STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

_By_ EDWIN HODDER ("OLD MERRY").

III.--ROYAL FUNERALS IN THE ABBEY.

On the occasion of our last visit to the Abbey, I told you a little about the coronations that have taken place within its walls, and apart from the venerable fane itself, the principal object connected with that long chain of events was the antique royal chair, standing in the Chapel of Edward the Confessor. Returning to the same spot, we will now look around us, and we soon see that we are in the midst of a burying-place of English kings. Sebert and his Queen Ethelgoda have their monument beside the gate at the entrance to the chapels; but there is no authentic account of a funeral here before that of Edward the Confessor, whose ashes, after three removals, repose in the shrine close beside us.

It was on January 5th, 1066, just after the consecration of his beautiful new Abbey, that the soul of St. Edward passed away. Englishmen were filled with gloomy forebodings at the event. Crowds flocked to see the body as it lay in the palace, with an unearthly smile on its rosy cheeks, and with the long thin fingers interlaced across the bosom.

Then, attired in royal robes, and bedecked with crown, crucifix, and golden chain, they laid the remains before the High Altar of the Abbey. His wife Edith was afterwards laid beside him. After the Conquest, royal personages for a time were buried in Normandy, till "the good Queen Maud," the wife of Henry I. and niece of Edgar Atheling, was laid beside the Confessor. In rebuilding the Abbey, Henry III. provided a new shrine, to which the remains of the now canonised Edward were removed, and in which (except for a short time) they have since remained.

Behind the shrine the king placed some holy relics, including a tooth of St. Athanasius, and a stone said to show a footprint of our Lord. For fifty years Henry watched his new Abbey growing to completion, and determined it should be the burying-place of himself and the Plantagenet line. He was laid temporarily in the place from which the Confessor's bones had been taken. His son Edward I., returning from the Holy Land, brought home porphyry, slates, and precious marbles to build the tomb to which Henry's body was transferred about twenty years after his death. The Abbess of Fontevrault was then in London, and the late king's heart was delivered into her hands to be deposited in the foreign home of the Plantagenets.

Henceforward many royal personages were brought to be buried near the Confessor's shrine; but I shall only mention the more prominent. When Queen Eleanor died in 1291, the course of the funeral _cortége_ from Lincoln to London was marked by twelve memorial crosses, and the Abbots of Westminster were bound to have a hundred wax lights burning round her grave for ever on the anniversary of her death. In 1307, after having placed in the Confessor's Chapel the golden crown of the last Welsh Prince, Llewellyn, and the Stone of Fate from Scotland, Edward I. was himself brought here to lie beneath the rough monument, from which it was hoped that, in accordance with his dying wish, his bones might at some time be taken and carried through Scotland at the head of a conquering army.

In 1394, Richard II. buried here his beloved Queen Anne, the friend of the followers of Wickliffe. The palace of Sheen in which she died was destroyed by her sorrowing husband, and immense sums were spent on her funeral. For asking to go away before the ceremony was completed, the Earl of Arundel was struck on the head with a cane by the king, and brought to the ground with his blood flowing on to the Abbey pavement. The affair caused so much delay, that darkness came on before all was over. The tomb that covers her remains was intended by her husband for both, but whether Richard II. sleeps in the tomb that bears his name or not must remain a matter of doubt. Henry IV. brought a corpse from Pontefract to Langley, and Henry V. transferred it to this tomb; but few believed it to be really the body of the murdered king.

England had never seen a grander royal funeral than that of Henry V. He died at Vincennes, and with great pomp his body was brought by Paris to London. At every stage between Dover and London, and again at St. Paul's, and at the Abbey, funeral services were performed. The closing scenes were very impressive, as the funeral car, amidst a blaze of torches borne by hundreds of surpliced priests, and followed by his three favourite chargers, came up the nave to the altar steps. Room for the tomb was made by clearing away the holy relics behind the Confessor's shrine. Here was placed the magnificent piece of workmanship, which we now behold, a tomb below, and above a chantry, in which for a year thirty poor persons were to read the Psalter of the Virgin and special prayers for the repose of Henry's soul. At the back of the chantry hung the king's indented helmet (in all probability the one worn at Agincourt), his shield, and his saddle. In the arch beneath lies the headless effigy of Henry, the silver head having been carried off when Henry VIII. was robbing the churches.

Henry VI. was very fond of the Abbey. He chose a place for his tomb, and even paid the first instalment for its erection, in readiness for his own demise. But the civil wars hindered its completion; and I have already told you how Henry VII. meant to raise a special chapel for him and altered his mind.

We will pass on now into the Chapel of Henry VII., the grand mausoleum of a race of kings, who looked back (as Stanley points out) not to Saxon Edward, but to British Arthur, as their great ancestor. A gloomy porch conducts us into a blaze of splendour. Walls, ceilings, and arches are richly decorated; the "stone seems by the cunning labours of the chisel (says Washington Irving) to have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft as if by magic." Nobody seems to be quite sure who was the architect of this beautiful piece of workmanship. The king lavished vast sums of money on the costly edifice, and left plenty with the abbot for its completion after his death. And in the stalls monks were to sing masses for the repose of his soul, "while the world lasts."

In April, 1509, Henry died, and was placed beside his Queen, Elizabeth of York, in the great vault beneath the chapel floor. His mother, Margaret, Countess of Richmond, was brought here three months afterwards, of whom it was said, "Everyone that knew her loved her, and everything that she said or did became her." She endowed charities, founded colleges, ended the civil wars by marrying her son to Elizabeth of York, and protected Caxton in his early labours.

At the Reformation there was a carrying off of relics, a rifling of tombs, and a temporary disturbance of the Confessor's bones. But the royal tombs saved the Abbey from destruction, although Protector Somerset was on the point of pulling it down to build his new palace in the Strand. Edward VI. was buried here, and Anne of Cleves, and then, in 1558, came Queen Mary, the last English monarch interred with Roman Catholic solemnities. In the same tomb reposes her sister Elizabeth, at whose funeral the national mourning was intense. An old chronicler tells us that, as her coffin was borne through the streets crowded with spectators, "there was such a general sighing, groaning, and weeping, as the like hath not been seen or known in the memory of man; neither doth any history mention any people, time, or state, to make like lamentation for the death of their sovereign." The tomb was raised above the two sisters by James I. He also raised the monument to his mother, Mary Queen of Scots, in the south aisle, and had her body removed to it from Peterborough. Devout Scots visited this tomb, as the shrine of a saint, and many miracles were said to have taken place here.

In the north aisle of this chapel, beside two infant children of James I., are the remains of the murdered princes brought from the Tower. In the south aisle lies Henry Frederick, Prince of Wales, of whom such high hopes were entertained. Two thousand mourners swelled his funeral procession, but no monument marks his resting-place. Three years later the corpse of Arabella Stuart, the king's cousin, whom some would have put in his place, was brought up the Thames from the Tower at midnight, and placed without ceremony in the tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots. James I. came here in 1625 and was laid in the tomb of Henry VII.

Under the Commonwealth the royal monuments suffered no harm; their dilapidations date (as we have said) from Henry VIII's time. The mother, sister, and favourite daughter of Cromwell were buried here; the great Protector himself was interred in the august Chapel of Henry VII. amongst the royal dead. For two months the body lay in state at Somerset House in a room hung with black, and lit with innumerable black candles. Then there was a grand procession, a magnificent hearse, and the usual ceremonies of a royal funeral. On the 30th of January, 1661, Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw were dragged from their tombs to Tyburn, and there hanged and beheaded. Their bodies were buried beneath the gallows, and their heads set up over Westminster Hall.

Charles I. was to have been brought from Windsor to a grand tomb in the Abbey, but Charles II. applied the £70,000 voted for this purpose to other uses, and the matter dropped. This king's funeral was a hurried affair--it took place at night without pomp of any kind. To the same narrow vault was brought William III. Mary, after her death on December 28th, 1694, had been interred here--"one of the saddest days," says Macaulay, "that Westminster had ever seen." She was the first English sovereign who was followed to her grave by both Houses of Parliament, as in other cases Parliament had expired with the sovereign.

Eleven children of James II. and eighteen children of Queen Anne lie around the tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots. Queen Anne herself was brought in a coffin more enormous than that which inclosed the gigantic frame of her husband, Prince George, to the vault of her sister Mary. George II. and Queen Caroline repose in a black marble sarcophagus in the centre of the Chapel of Henry VII. And now Westminster Abbey ceased to be a burial-place of English kings and queens. George III. constructed a vault at Windsor for himself and his numerous family, and there his descendants have been interred.

THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN IN SEPTEMBER.

The month of September is one of even more fickle and changeable a nature than most others; it is, however, one of very great importance to those who are desirous of securing plenty of geranium and other cuttings, for the next summer's work; because, should the month by chance happen to be a dry one, it will be almost impossible to obtain very many in consequence of so little growth being made. If, on the other hand, plenty of rain fall during the latter part of August and throughout September growth will be made both rapidly and vigorously, whereby cuttings can be taken almost _ad infinitum_. When the weather is of a congenial nature, perhaps few months in the year are more enjoyable in one's garden than that of September.

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The present month is the best one in which to consider the various effects--good or bad--which have been secured by growing certain plants in juxta-position with others. All incongruities or extremes arising from misplaced judgment or uncertain taste should be at once noted in a pocket-book reserved exclusively for gardening notes, comments, &c. It is ever so much easier to determine the proper positions of various colours, and situations of certain plants, when they are at the perfection of their beauty, than it is to allot them to certain imaginary quarters on plans, however skilfully drawn up, in winter. Indeed, it may be stated without reservation, that the only satisfactory means of insuring an harmonious blending and contrast of colours is by comparing the relative position which one plant of a certain colour and habit should occupy to another and different plant, when growth is perfected.

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Most bedding plants can be induced to continue flowering for a considerable period longer, if deprived of their seed-vessels so soon as these are formed, than they would otherwise do; geraniums, more especially. Not only does it hasten their decay to allow seeds to ripen, but materially enfeebles the entire plant. It is wise to secure as much beauty as is possible just now from your gardens, as a single and unexpected frosty night will destroy almost everything; nothing is more ephemeral than floral beauty.

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As last month, the chief attractions in the garden will be dahlias and hollyhocks; fine displays of roses often delight us throughout the autumnal months, and the last rose of summer charms us quite as much as the first one of spring. Rose-cuttings may still be taken, and those inserted last month should by this time be well-rooted plants, if properly treated, and must at once undergo a process of being gradually hardened off to the open air. Growing rose-shoots, having plenty of buds, must be carefully tied in. As regards very strong-growing plants which will need keeping within bounds, the operation of cutting them back requires the very greatest care, and our readers should get a practical gardener, if possible, to point out those which need trimming, and those to be left alone. Most young people possessing a knife generally commence sundry manoeuvres on the first plant or tree within reach, and generally with very disastrous results. Trimming and pruning of all sorts should, therefore, be only done by practical hands, and then the life of the plant will be in pretty safe keeping.

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Dahlias will require plenty of attention until frost commences its havocs; shoots will need thinning, and the branches must be secured to stout stakes firmly placed in the earth; autumnal winds wreak great destruction among such branches as are insecurely made fast, and a number of handsome blooms are thus destroyed without coming to perfection. Insects are very fond of infesting dahlias, and their depredations must be guarded against. Hollyhocks, if entirely free from disease, will still be handsome objects, but their beauty will be somewhat on the wane; seeds may be saved from the best flowers, and should be sown at once in a pan of light sandy soil, and placed in a cold frame. Rooted layers of carnations of all sorts and of every section should now be planted out into a rich light soil, or, what is more preferable, two can be placed in a 5-inch or 6-inch pot, and wintered thus under glass. Asters of various kinds, such as Chinese and German, will now be in full beauty, and where large single flower-heads are a desideratum, only two or three must be allowed beyond the bud stage. Asters are among the prettiest of autumn flowers, and for children's gardens we would recommend what are known as "Dwarf Bouquet."

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The present month is the one during which all tender or half-hardy plants used in summer gardening are "housed," or removed to their winter quarters under glass. It is courting failure to allow such plants as chrysanthemums, auriculas, geraniums, and many others, to be exposed to the influence of cold, frosty nights, as when the "fell destroyer" commences to exert its power all plants touched by it rapidly decay. Gladioli will now be clothed in the full glory of their gaudy, but handsome dress; they are comparatively easy to manage in well-drained spots, and being such continuous bloomers, at least three or four or even half a dozen should be in every small garden. In winter they must be covered by about six inches of litter; but in cold and ill-drained soils it will be safer to take the roots up during October, keeping these in a dry situation until the following spring.

LEGENDS OF THE FLOWERS.

THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL.

When skies are bright and winter's o'er,
And leaves and flowers return once more,
A little blossom 'mongst the grass
Peeps at wayfarers as they pass.

'Mongst gayer buds of larger size
It modest opes its purple eyes;
And those who love the flowers know well
The little Scarlet Pimpernel.

It hath a story of its own,
That unto country-folk is known;
For Nature's hand hath given it strange
Perception of the weather's change.

If clear will be the day, and fair,
It opens wide its petals rare;
But if the clouds should threaten rain,
It shuts them up quite close again.

The shepherds love the little flower
That tells them of the changeful hour,
And many a one asks, "Tell me, pray,
What weather there will be to-day."

And so in time another name,
In honour of its rare gift, came;
And the wee blossom 'mongst the grass
Was called the "Shepherd's Weather-glass."

Our Music Page.

"Let's away to the Woods."

_In moderate time._

_Words and Music by_ CHARLES BASSETT.

VOICE.

1. The tints of the trees are mellowing down From their summer green to a russet brown, And many a harvest is over and past, For Autumn has chas'd away Summer at last.

2. The summer's warm glow has not died from the land, But is seen and felt upon ev'ry hand; From the orchard where apples hang ripe on the trees, To the thicket where nuts nod and dance in the breeze.

3. The birds sweetly sing as they soar in the sky, And the squirrels frisk in the branches high; And it makes me as happy and merry as they To roam in the woods on a bright autumn day.

Then away, let's away to the woods, Where the nuts and blackberries grow, Where the flow'rs at our feet send forth fragrance sweet--To the woods, to the woods let us go!... To the woods let us go!....

JOTTINGS AND PENCILLINGS, HERE, THERE AND EVERYWHERE]

Who were the Janizaries?

About 1330 the Sultan Orkhan formed a military force out of Christian prisoners who had been compelled to become Mohammedans, and to these was given the name of Janizaries, from two Turkish words meaning new troops. A few years later they were more regularly organised, and granted special privileges, their number being increased to 10,000. Though for a time their ranks continued to be recruited from Christian prisoners, the service began, at length, to attract young Turks. Their chief officer, called the _aga_, wielded almost unlimited power. They fought on foot and were noted for the impetuosity of their charge. In course of time they manifested a rebellious spirit, often being the cause of conspiracies, riots, atrocities, and assassinations of rulers, statesmen, and high officials, and ultimately they grew to be more formidable to the Sultan than even foreign foes. Attempts to disband them were unsuccessful till Sultan Mahmoud II. finding himself opposed by them in 1826, managed to excite against them the fanatical zeal of other portions of his troops. Deserted by their _aga_ and other officers, they were utterly crushed, their barracks were burned, and their force was declared, on June 17, 1826, to be for ever dissolved. It is estimated that 15,000 of them were executed and more than 20,000 banished. In this way this once famous body of men was extinguished.

A Canine Guide.