Chapter III: Part 3

This was all true enough, but Tom could not help thinking what a row would be kicked up in an American tavern, no matter how small and mean it might be, if the guests brought their own provisions, and cooked them in the tavern kitchen.

They stopped at other places, at one tea-house in particular, where there were plenty of waiters, plenty of guests, and a very great plenty of tea.

They were two days on the road, although the distance was only about thirty miles.

It is impossible to tell one half that these two boys did and saw in Yedo.

They saw all sorts of shops, with curious signs, tea-houses thronged with customers; people at work at various trades—in workshops that were entirely exposed to the view of passers-by, and almost everything arranged in a different way from what Tom thought was right and proper.

Here were a couple of blacksmiths with scarcely a stitch of clothes on, sitting down to their work, and one of them blowing the bellows with his heel.

Then they came upon a troupe of boy-jugglers directed by a man who sang horribly sounding words in a rasping voice, while he played upon a tambourine with two drum-sticks.

The boys’ heads were stuck into bags surmounted by hideous masks, and as they twisted themselves into all sorts of distorted positions, one of them standing on his hands on the stomach of another, who leaned backwards until his hands touched the ground, Tom thought they would certainly dislocate their spines.

He had turned many a handspring, and was quite expert on the horizontal bar at the gymnasium, but he never saw such body-twisting as this.

He would have watched these boys as long as they chose to perform, if Moriyama had not forced him away to look at other things.

They visited the parade ground, where they saw the soldiers drilling and practising with swords and muskets. The Japanese soldiers now use firearms, but they still carry one or two of their old-fashioned swords, and when they are in full costume they wear paper hats. Some of the fencing was very interesting to Tom. He had fenced a little at home, himself, but this vigorous work with swords was new to him.

The weather was quite warm during Tom’s visit to Yedo, and about the middle of the day the streets—especially the canals which take the place of streets, presented a very peculiar scene. Scarcely a soul was visible. Empty boats were fastened all along the shores, and all the houses, glistening in the hot sun, seemed as if they had been deserted. Not a sound was to be heard; and it was but very seldom that a moving thing was to be seen.

It was very much, as Tom said, like the enchanted city in the Arabian Nights, where all the inhabitants were changed into stone.

“But if you were to go poking about into some of those houses,” said Moriyama, “you’d soon find that these people are not changed into stone.”

Here and there the boys could see, between the screens that stood at the entrances of the houses, the people inside eating their dinners. The straw table-cloth—if there can be such a thing where there is no table—was always spread upon the floor, and the family sat around it eating rice. Sometimes they had meat or fish and vegetables, but Moriyama said their principal food was rice. And from the way they were eating it, they seemed to like it.

One night the boys went out on one of the many bridges in the city, and saw hundreds of small boats cruising about in all directions, with different colored lanterns hung about them; and besides these there were rafts from which fireworks were continually set off. The scene was charming, and Tom would have enjoyed it thoroughly had it not been for the music. This was so unearthly and hideous that poor Tom would have put his fingers in his ears had he not been afraid of offending the people around him.

But before he left Japan he became used to this music, and sometimes even fancied that he could make out some kind of a tune from the curious sounds of the _samsins_ and the _gottos_, which are Japanese guitars and harps.

One day the boys saw a very jolly sort of a game which Tom determined to introduce in his school when he returned to the United States.

A long cable was stretched over one of the bridges, and two parties were formed, with about a hundred men in each.

One of these parties went to one end of the bridge and the other to the opposite end, and then the men seized the rope, and each party endeavored to pull the other over the bridge.

They pulled and tugged and yelled, until one side, finding that it was losing ground, suddenly, at a signal, let go the rope and over backwards went every man on the other side, pell-mell in one great kicking heap. Sometimes, Moriyama said, the rope broke and then everybody went over backward.

When the game was finished, they all went off laughing to some of the nearest tea-houses, and had a jolly time together, friends and enemies, all in the same crowd.

Among the most interesting places visited was a Japanese school. This was the rarest school that Tom ever saw. The little shaven-headed boys and girls were all seated on the floor, and the master sat on the floor too. In front of him was an affair like a stunted music-stand, on which he put his book, and the old tyrant leaned forward and cracked the bad boys with his fan. Think of an American teacher whipping his scholars with a fan.

Some of the youngsters were bare-footed, and some wore stockings made something like mittens, with a separate place for the big toe. The books were full of such a curious mixture of what seemed to Tom like black blots and scratches that he thought the Japanese youngsters must be extraordinarily smart to be able to make any sense out of them.

When Tom heard that these characters were read from top to bottom of the page instead of across he expressed the opinion that the Japanese probably added up their letters as they stood in the columns so as to find out what the whole thing came to.

The more he learned about the language of Japan, its different dialects, and its two alphabets, the greater became his respect for those who obtained a Japanese education.

“It must take you all your lives to learn how to read and write,” said he to Moriyama.

“We believe,” said the Japanese boy, “that it takes all of a person’s life to learn anything.”

That this was a common opinion in Japan Tom soon found out for himself. Whatever the trade or profession in which a man was engaged, he seemed to have been at it all his life, and ten to one his father and his great-grandfather before him had followed the same business, and each one of the family had given so much time and attention to his business that he became almost perfect in it—as far as Japanese perfection went.

For instance Tom went to a wrestling match, where the wrestlers, great powerful fellows, all belonged to a tribe or guild that according to their account, had existed ever since the third year of the first Mikado, which in our chronology would be the year 658 B.C.

At any rate, they were men whose ancestors for hundreds of years had been wrestlers, and they themselves gave up all their time and thought to the attainment of perfection in their art.

Consequently they were splendid wrestlers.

Other gymnastic performers were equally proficient in different lines. Some of them had great long noses fitted to their faces, and on these noses they balanced themselves and each other, and did many other astonishing feats.

One man laid on his back supporting on one foot a fellow who stood on his nose, while, on the prostrate man’s nose, another man stood, balancing on _his_ nose an umbrella, while he kept five or six balls flying in the air, catching each one as it fell and tossing it up again, never allowing one of them to drop.

Each of these performers, no matter what else he was doing, held a fan in one hand, which was kept constantly in motion.

And in all the performances there was never a mishap or a mistake. Every man was absolutely perfect in his part.

When Tom went back to Yokohama he told his father that he had made up his mind that he was going to be absolutely perfect in some one thing. If the Japanese could succeed in this, he was sure he could.

He had not made up his mind what he would do, but it was to be something.

His father commended this resolution, and suggested arithmetic.

Tom did not feel altogether certain about arithmetic, but as soon as he could think of a good thing, he intended to commence the study of perfection.

When his father laughed a little at his enthusiasm Tom said that one great difficulty would be that he was afraid he could not find out what his father and grandfather had been perfect in. If he could do that, it would help him very much.

But we cannot mention all the curious things that Tom and Moriyama saw in Japan.

It would require a book to tell about the wonderful processions, such as that of the white elephant, which, by the way, Tom thought was a real animal, until he saw that its legs did not move, and that under each of its feet were two human legs belonging to the men who carried the huge stuffed creature—and the many other strange things that they saw in the streets and houses of Japan.

Suffice it to say, that since Tom came home—and it has been some years since his trip to Japan—he has earnestly endeavored to discover what particular thing it would be best for him to learn thoroughly and completely.

I am not sure that he has even yet made up his mind upon the subject, but he is convinced that if his experience among the Japanese had no better effect than to teach him that to know how to do something perfectly well, it is greatly to be desired, and well worth striving for—no matter how much time and toil it may require.

LUMINOUS INSECTS.

The fire-flies that flit about so merrily on our pleasant summer evenings, emit little sparkles of light, that seem like tiny stars, shining among the grass and trees. Sometimes the air is full of these twinkling lights, which are very pretty, though not sufficiently brilliant to help us to find our way on a dark night, or to bring into our houses to save the expense of candles or kerosene.

Occasionally we see, at night, in the grass by the roadside, or in a field, a very small trail of a bright-green light; and, on stooping down to examine into this singular appearance, we find on the ground an insignificant little ugly worm, to which Nature has given the power of producing a lovely colored light. These glow-worms are somewhat rare in this country, but are common in England, where our fire-fly is unknown. The glow-worms of tropical countries are as large as good-sized caterpillars, and give out a light of corresponding size.

Some of the beetles of tropical countries are much more radiant than the glow-worms. They have a bright ring around their bodies, which sheds such a light that it is said that the negroes use them for lamps. These negroes we are told by travelers make small round cages of thin wooden slats placed near each other, and closed at the top and bottom. In these they put several beetles, and thus light up their rooms free of cost.

But the most splendidly illuminated insect in the world is the great lantern fly. Its monstrous head is a blaze of light. When it flies through the air it is like a streamer of fire. When it alights upon a leaf, with its beautiful wings outstretched, and its head gleaming with star-like rays, that light up everything for some little distance, it is a gorgeous sight indeed.

But, although this insect is so bright-headed it is not so wise as some others whose heads are not brilliant at all. Perhaps this head is like some shops we have seen, where pretty much all the furniture is on the outside.

OWLS ON A FROLIC.

The owls are abroad on a mad carouse,
Waking the echoes far and wide;
They whirl in a crowd through the ruined church,
Or up to the belfry glide.

The little screech-owl makes a horrid din;
While the great white owl looks wise;
And the horned owl nods his head, and blinks;
As around the lamp he flies.

The lamp is a cup, half filled with oil,
That swings from a broken beam;
And, over the traveler sleeping below,
It throws but a dusky gleam.

The owls have no fear of the burning wick—
’Tis only a cotton loop—
They’re after the oil in the swinging cup,
And down on its brim they swoop.

The weary traveler, sound asleep,
Hears naught of the noise o’erhead,
A rickety chair as a bedstead serves,
His overcoat is his bed.

With the sweep of the wings the lamp upsets,
While the gurgling oil o’erflows
With a drip, and a rush, on the great owl’s tail,
A splash on the traveler’s nose.

He’s up in a trice, and, seizing a broom,
He arms himself for a fight.
But all is still in the ruined church;
For the owls are out—and his light.

COMMON AND UNCOMMON SPONGES.

They are all wonderful enough, no matter how common they may be. It takes thousands and thousands of minute creatures, to make a sponge, and these creatures are so little understood that about all we know of them is that they must belong to the very lowest order of animal life, and that they do build sponges. That is not much to know, but it is not long since the sponge was first known to be an animal production at all, and our scientific men may yet find out something more definite about these curious little architects. Perhaps they may have lately found out something, and I have not heard of it. This would be the least wonderful thing about sponges.

The ordinary form of the sponge is familiar to nearly everybody who has ever been washed, and this picture gives a good idea of a fine large one, as it is found growing at the bottom of the sea. I say growing, because it seems to be growing there, like a vegetable. But it does not grow, in the ordinary sense of the word, any more than a wasp’s nest grows.

But there are sponges with which we are not at all familiar, and which are curious, apart from the manner of their construction. Such a one is the sponge called the “Cup of Neptune.”

This is several feet high, and is formed like a great goblet. It would make a very good cup for Neptune, if he drank brandy or rum, for it would soak up all that he poured into it, and he could not get a drop, unless he squeezed his cup pretty hard—and even then the liquor might all run out of the bottom.

As a rule, civilized and well educated people are more easily surprised and astonished at uncommon and wonderful works of nature than uncivilized or ignorant people, for the latter do not know enough to be astonished. They see nothing strange in the development of a plant from its seed—nothing grand in a high mountain, nor anything very beautiful in a flower. They look at these things as a child looks at his hand. The hand is a very curiously constructed instrument, full of intricate mechanism, but the child does not know or think of that. It is not until he grows older and his mind is cultured that he appreciates the wonderful construction and the varied action of his hand.

So it is with savages. They do not comprehend that many strange works of nature are worthy of admiration, and they take it for granted that things are as they are because they ought to be, just as they think of their own bodies, if they think of them at all.

But this great goblet-like sponge is strange enough to astonish even a savage.

MAGHAR’S LEAP.

It chanced upon a time, a very great many years ago, while fairies and magicians still dwelt upon earth, that a youth and maiden—brother and sister—were walking in a forest, talking about their recent misfortunes, and laying plans for their future. The youth was clad in armor, according to the warlike fashion of those times. But he had under his arm a book, which was not in accordance with the fashion of those times. The maiden wore a dress of some coarse woolen stuff; and, in her hands she held a sheet of parchment, and a pen.

Suddenly there broke into their quiet talk the sound of clashing arms, and the mad plunging of horses. Sybil, the maiden, stopped terrified.

“Oh!” she cried, “it is the noise of battle! Too well I know those sounds. Let us go quickly back!”

“Let us go forward a little way,” said Maghar, the youth, “to yon opening in the woods. Or, stop here, if you fear, and I will go alone and look out.”

“No,” said Sybil, “if you go I will follow.”

Together they looked out upon the open plain. Two hostile armies had met unexpectedly, and a fierce conflict had commenced.

“Alas!” said Sybil, shuddering. “There are the savage infidels that laid waste our home!”

“Yes,” said Maghar, excitedly, “and here, on this side, are our countrymen, and neighbors! I must bear a hand in this fight!”

“And leave me alone!” cried Sybil. “I have only you left! Your single arm will not count for much in a battle!”

“It would be a shame to me,” said Maghar, “to sneak off, like a coward, and leave our friends and Christian soldiers, when their forces are few, and every warrior counts. Have I not my armor? I shall find shield and spear on the battle-field on some poor fellow who has already fallen in the fray. Do not fear, sister! Go back to Christern’s cottage. There you will be safe; and I will return in a few hours.”

So saying, he led Sybil back into the forest to the path leading to Christern’s cottage; gave the book into her hands; and, kissing her good-bye, he ran out of the woods as fast as the weight of his armor would allow.

But Sybil did not return to the cottage. She was too anxious about her brother; and, going to the entrance of the wood, she crouched among the trees, where she was hidden from view, and watched the progress of the fight. She was ready to fly if the tide of battle brought the armies too near. But they seemed to be gradually moving away from her. She soon singled out her brother. He had secured a spear and shield, and mounted a riderless horse. In a few minutes he was lost in the throng, and she saw him no more.

Her mind was filled with sad forebodings. This Infidel army had invaded the country, and laid it waste; had killed her parents, and overthrown, and utterly ruined the beautiful castle that had been her home. A few things had been saved by old Christern, a much loved servant of the family, and these constituted the property of Maghar and Sybil. Old Christern’s cottage, in the depths of the forest, was the refuge of the orphans. There they had lived for several weeks, and no way of retrieving their fortunes seemed open to them. Maghar was a fine scholar. His father had had him taught to read his own language and Latin, and to write a very beautiful hand. That was the extent of his knowledge; and it was a great deal at a time when very few of the richest people knew their letters.

And now, in their poverty, there seemed to be very little use for his learning. Nobody cared anything about it. He might copy manuscript for some learned man, and get a living this way, for printing and paper had not then been invented; and all books were written on parchment. But Maghar had a contempt for a _clerk_, as he called a copyist, and did not fancy this method of supporting his sister and himself. Nevertheless, the two were that day on their way to the abode of a great and learned man to see if he wished anything of this kind done; and if he would buy their only book—a Latin volume, written on parchment, and beautifully illuminated and bound in wooden covers.

Sybil went over these things in her mind as she watched the battle, trying, in vain, to distinguish the form of her brother. She soon saw to her dismay, that the Infidel forces had turned the flank of the Christian army, and that the ranks of the latter were broken, and they were retreating, closely followed by their enemies. She stood up now, and strained her eyes to watch them until they had all disappeared over the crest of a hill. Then she sadly returned to Christern’s cottage to tell the old man of this new and terrible misfortune.

Days passed away, and Maghar did not return. Christern learned that the Christian army was broken, and the soldiers scattered. Some had returned to their homes. The wounded were cared for among their friends. The dead were buried. But Maghar was with none of these. No one could tell anything about him, except that he had fought bravely.

Then Sybil determined to seek out the great and learned man to whom Maghar had intended to offer his services as copyist. She was somewhat afraid of him, for he was known to be a powerful magician. But he could, no doubt, tell her the fate of Maghar, and she would try to overcome her fears.

She took off the coarse peasant’s dress she had been wearing, and arrayed herself in her best robe of fine white cashmere, which was one of the things that Christern had managed to save. She loosened her beautiful hair, which fell nearly to her feet. This last she did to show the deep sorrow she was in. She also took with her the Latin volume, as a present, to propitiate the powerful magician.

The great man lived in the simplest manner in a rocky cavern. Sybil found him outside his dwelling, seated on a mossy stone, sorting some plants that lay in his lap. He did not look up as she approached, and she had a good opportunity to study his countenance, which was so sweet and gentle that her fear of him vanished; and she came forward quite boldly, greeted him, and presented her book.

But the magician waved the volume aside. “I know why you seek me, sister of Maghar,” he said, kindly.

“Oh, can you tell me aught of my brother?” cried Sybil.

“I know not where he is. The oracles would not enlighten me without your presence. Come into my dwelling, and we will consult them.”

So saying he conducted her into his cave through a low, dark passage way. Great was Sybil’s astonishment when she found herself in a vast room, with a lofty ceiling. Around the circular walls was a continuous row of lamps, kept constantly burning. Their light was reflected from myriads of stalactites that hung from the roof, glowing with all the colors of the rainbow, making the rough, rocky chamber as brilliant and gorgeous as a fairy palace. In the centre of the room stood a brazier, filled with burning coals, and near it, a large iron harp, with silver strings, and a sort of cupboard, made of iron. A few rough couches were scattered around. And this was all the furniture the room contained.

The magician invited Sybil to take a seat. He then proceeded to place on his head a crown, woven of vines of magical virtues. He took from the cupboard some singular-looking vessels, and mixed in them various powders and liquids. Then, pouring all their contents into a copper pot, he placed it on the coals, seated himself on a stone near it, drew his harp in front of him, and motioned to Sybil to stand before it. He looked so pleasantly upon her she did not feel afraid, but her heart beat fast, not knowing what fearful thing she might see.

She saw nothing whatever but the harp, and the old man; for, as soon as the clouds of fragrant white smoke that poured out from the brazier, had completely enveloped the two, the magician swept his fingers over his harp, and began to sing. Then Sybil forgot everything else, for his chant was of Maghar.

He sang of the great deeds Maghar had done in the battle, and how he had made himself famous. He was the last prisoner taken by the Infidels; and was now confined in a castle several leagues distant. The Infidel army was there encamped. They would like to slay Maghar outright, but were afraid of the vengeance of the Christian armies near them if they murdered a man held in such esteem. He was at present undisturbed, but the probability was that, after a time, they would decide to starve him to death, and give out word that he had died from sickness. His sister had thus a little time in which to work to save him.

Here the song ended, and the weeping girl begged the great magician to save her brother. This he said was not in his power. She must find a good fairy, and make it her friend. The small creature could get into the castle, see her brother, and, together, they could devise a way of escape. He might, perhaps, be able to help them then. He told her what roads to follow to reach the castle; and, assuring her that such a good girl would surely find a good fairy to assist her in her trouble, he dismissed her with his blessing.

That very day Christern and Sybil set out for the castle. They reached the place after three days’ journey. They told no one what their errand was in that part of the country; and there were so many homeless people in the land that their appearance excited no surprise. Christern soon found employment among the wood-cutters, and fitted up a deserted hut as a temporary dwelling.

But though they could, every day, look upon the walls of the castle in which Maghar was confined, they seemed no nearer to him than before. He was in the hands of the cruel infidels, and where were there any fairies? There were plenty in that part of the country, the wood-cutters said, which, at first, was encouraging. But, on inquiry, it turned out that not one of them had ever seen a fairy, or knew anybody who ever had seen one. Sybil was in despair as the days went by, and she blamed her friend, the magician, that he had given her no help, after all.

She often walked through the woods, near nightfall, to meet Christern. One evening, as the two were returning together to their hut, they saw a large wild boar approaching, followed by several young ones. As this creature is very savage when it has its young to defend, Christern and Sybil thought it wise to step aside among the trees, and leave the path to the boar and its interesting family. After these had passed they continued their way, but had not gone far when they saw a young boar lying in the path. Christern stooped over to examine it.

“It got in with that litter,” said he, “and did not belong to it, so the old boar has gored it badly. But it is not dead. I’ll take it home, make a sty for it, and, if it lives, I’ll fatten it, and kill it when it is fit for eating.”

The wounded animal lifted an appealing glance to Sybil. Its eyes wore an almost human expression of suffering, and a most beseeching plea for help. The girl’s heart was touched.

“It is not badly hurt,” she said. “Its flesh is torn, but if I wash its wounds, and bind them up, and find a nice place in the woods, where I can make it comfortable, and feed it, it will get well. It is a free, wild creature, and must not be shut up in a close sty. Think of my dear brother shut up when he wants to be free!”

Christern thought Sybil’s plan a foolish one, but this last argument silenced him. He had not a word to say in reply. So the girl washed off the blood from the boar’s wounds with her fine cambric handkerchief, which she then tore into strips to bind them up. She found, in a secluded place, a soft cushion of moss on which she laid him, and partly covered him with leaves to keep him warm. She then brought from the hut some of her own scanty supper, and gave it to the little boar.

After this she visited her patient two or three times a day, nursing and feeding him. But, on the afternoon of the fourth day, he had disappeared, and Sybil returned to the hut feeling quite lonely at the loss of the little creature that had been so glad to see her.

The next night, as Christern was returning late from his work, trudging slowly through the forest, with his lantern swinging in his hand, and his wallet slung over his back on the end of his walking stick, something brushed close by the old man’s ear with a buzzing of tiny wings.

“That dragon-fly is out late,” said the old man to himself.

Very soon the wings brushed by him again with a louder whizzing.

“It is a bat!” said the old man, shaking his head. “Shoo! shoo!” But the third time the whirring wings flew almost into his face.

“Good evening, old Christern!” said a tiny voice, such as might come from a humming-bird, if it could speak.

The startled old man stopped and flashed the light of his lantern around among the trees. And there, with wee wings outspread, was a fairy skimming through the air! Christern had never seen a fairy, but he knew this was one as soon as he saw him. And a jolly, rollicking fellow he was!

“You don’t know me, old fellow?” said the fairy.

Christern shook his head.

“Wanted to shut me up in a sty, and fatten me, eh? I wouldn’t be much of a mouthful now, would I? Don’t you wish you could get me?”

And the saucy fellow soared high up among the trees.

Christern nearly dropped his lantern in his astonishment. “You don’t ever mean to tell me that boars are fairies?” he said, at last.

“I mean to say nothing of the kind!” cried the fairy, indignantly. “Your horrid, beastly boars are no relations of ours, even! I’ll tell you how it was,” he said, coming nearer Christern, and speaking in a confidential tone. “Our fairies all have wings, and can fly, but there are other kinds without wings. Some of these are good, but some are bad, and they are full of spite against us because we are better off than they. I offended a tribe of these not long ago, and they had influence with a wicked old witch who changed me into a little boar. I was to remain in that shape for a week. She would have made the time longer, if she could. But they all thought I would be killed in that time. And so I should have been but for your Sybil. And there was another thing worse than death. If I was deprived of my liberty during that week, I could never again regain my natural shape. So, if you had put me in your sty, I would have been eaten up one of these days as a boar. From this awful fate your Sybil saved me. So I am doubly indebted to her, and I want to do something for her.”

“Oh, you are the good fairy, who is to save our Maghar!” cried the old man, joyfully.

Thereupon he related the whole sad story, and the fairy told him he would consult with his tribe that night; and, if he and Sybil would come to that spot on the following night he would let them know what could be done.

Sybil’s delight was unbounded. She now felt sure that her brother would be saved. But, nevertheless she accompanied Christern to the place of meeting, half fearing that the frisky fairy would play her some trick. But he was there, before them, and had dressed himself in his best suit of green in honor of the occasion.

As soon as they appeared he began chattering as fast as ever he could.

“We fairies have hit upon a splendid plan,” he said. “But there is no time to lose. Sybil, I have seen your brother, but he did not see me. I was at the castle this morning before cock-crow. I flew in through a loop-hole. Nobody saw me. It took me a long time to find out in what room your brother was kept, but, at last, I made it out. I intended to stay until I did. He is in a room, high up in the north tower. He has been pretty well, but now his jailers have begun the plan of starving him; and he will soon be too weak to save himself as we propose, which is the only way open to him. It requires steady nerves, and great courage. But do not weep, for we will save him, only it must be done speedily. Do you, Christern, be ready to go with me to the castle at break of day. Pretend you are a beggar. There are so many of these you will pass unsuspected. I will point out to you a small postern door at the back of the castle, stay about that; and I will hide near it. I could slip inside easily enough, and tell Maghar what to do, but he does not know me, and would not trust me. So you must get inside the castle some way and see him. And, not only that, but you must get out again. And this is our plan for doing this. We fairies have three magical cocks. At a signal from me these cocks will appear on the crest of the hill at the back of the castle, and will sing a song. This will so astonish the sentinels that they will be thrown off their guard. I will then slip in through a loop-hole, unlock the postern door, and let you in. We will tell Maghar how he can escape. Then the cocks will appear again, and while the attention of the guards is distracted, we will get out of the castle. Remember now to be here at daybreak.”

And the fairy disappeared, much to Sybil’s regret, who had a hundred questions to ask him about her brother’s appearance, and treatment. He had not even told her what his plan was for her brother’s escape. But he did not come back, and she was obliged to be satisfied with the information she had.

The programme was carried out in every particular. Christern acted his part of beggar so well that he managed to get near the postern door, unsuspected, with the fairy snugly tucked into a fold of his ragged dress. On arriving at the place the fairy concealed himself in some vines. At the appointed signal three magnificent cocks appeared abreast on the top of the hill.

The like of these cocks had never been seen in that country, and they immediately attracted the attention of everybody. But when they opened their mouths, and began to sing the words of a war song, the sentinels forgot everything, and deserted their posts to get as near the wonderful songsters as possible without alarming them.

Now was the time to slip into the castle easily. But the whole plan had liked to have miscarried through a circumstance unforeseen by the fairies who had contrived it. Christern was fully as much delighted and astonished with the magical cocks, as the sentinels; and was on the point of rushing off with the men, when the fairy, fortunately, perceived his intention, and, darting out of the postern door, which was open, he pulled Christern’s hair so vigorously that the old man was reminded of his duty, and felt heartily ashamed that he had, for a moment, forgotten his dear young master.

The fairy conducted Christern, at once, to Maghar’s room. He had found out where the key of the door was kept, and Christern unlocked it. Maghar was lying on a bed of straw in a corner of a stone cell. He looked sick with despair. He did not move when the door opened, but, as soon as he heard Christern’s voice, he sprang up instantly. His pale face flushed, his dulled eyes brightened, and, from that moment, he was filled again with life, hope, and vigor.

The method of escape planned by the fairies was a desperate one. This was the reason the fairy had taken care to disappear before Sybil could ask him what it was. He knew she would think it impossible. But the fairies had full faith in its success, if only Maghar would have the nerve and the courage to go through his part.

At certain hours sentinels went the rounds of the castle rooms to see that all was right. The fairy knew this, and had planned this visit just after the morning round. These sentinels had rather a monotonous life, and were glad enough sometimes, especially of an evening, to stop awhile and have a chat with a prisoner who could tell them as much as Maghar; consequently he was to take occasion at the next visit of the sentinels to invite conversation; to skilfully introduce the subject of horseback riding; to boast of his own powers in this line; and to declare that if he had a horse he knew of at his old home, he could make the leap from the top of the tower across the chasm, and land safely on the opposite side on the hill that he could see from his window. The sentinels would not credit this, but would talk of it in the court-yard, and, finally, it would reach the ears of the governor of the castle and his officers. Their curiosity would be aroused to see if he would really have the courage to make the attempt. As for the successful accomplishment of such a leap, they would consider it impossible. The young knight would be dashed to pieces at the foot of the tower. But it would be a good way to get rid of him. They could let it be known that he had perished through his own fool-hardiness. They would give him permission to make the leap, and ask where the horse was to be found. Maghar was to direct them to the cave of the magician, taking care not to let them know that he was anything more than a simple hermit. The magician would have a horse ready—one that he had endowed with such magical powers that it would make the leap with ease. And besides myriads of fairies would be hovering around, invisible to all eyes except Maghar’s, and these would help to keep up his courage. As for getting the horse up the castle stairs that was easily managed. Maghar had only to play an air on the flute, and the horse would follow him up stairs or down.

This was the plan of the fairies. Christern was appalled when he heard it. But Maghar embraced it at once. It was better, he told Christern, to be dashed to pieces at the bottom of the abyss than to suffer the slow torture of starvation.

The old man and the fairy, being in fear of discovery, made the interview as short as possible. They returned to the postern door, the fairy went outside through the loop-hole, gave his signal, and again the wonderful cocks appeared on the hill. This time they sang a merry song, and kept time to the music with their feet. Again the sentinels were charmed into deserting their posts, and Christern and the fairy got safely away.

Maghar had his talk with the guards, and, by the next afternoon, everybody in the castle, from the governor to the stable boys, had heard of his great boast about the leap. Everything turned out just as the fairy had said. The governor, and his officers, glad to have some sport, proposed to Maghar that he should make good his boast. They felt certain he would be killed, and in that way they would happily be rid of him. But they did not tell him this. He agreed to the proposition, without manifesting any eagerness, but stipulated that he should have food, and drink to strengthen him, and that his sword and armor should be restored to him. These requests were granted. It was no longer necessary to starve him as he was to be killed another way.

The good magician had the horse ready for the messengers. The animal knew exactly what was expected of him; and, when Maghar was led down by his guards to the yard to see the steed, it rubbed its head against his shoulders as if glad to see him, which action convinced the spectators that the two were old acquaintances, whereas they had never seen each other until that moment.

It was a powerfully-built horse, of a roan color, with bright, intelligent eyes, and a flowing mane, and tail of pure white. Everybody admired it, and the next day the battlements of the castle were crowded with people to witness the daring feat of horsemanship. The top of the northern tower was left clear for the horse and rider. The top of the southern tower was reserved for the governor, and his officers.

These remained below, at first, to witness the ascent of the stairs, which, in itself, was a remarkable thing for a horse to do. Maghar walked up the stairs playing an inspiriting air on the flute, and the horse followed him readily but slowly up the long and winding ascent, to the very top of the northern tower.

The great personages then took their places on the other tower, and Maghar got upon the back of the horse.

Up to this moment he had been perfectly cool and self-possessed; but now, as he looked across the yawning chasm, forty feet wide, at the wall of the precipice opposite, a spasm of fear came over him. He did not see the cloud of fairies about him. His hand trembled, and he held the bridle so unsteadily that the horse stumbled on the narrow battlement. The stones of the old tower were loose, and several large ones went down into the abyss with a thundering sound, frightful to hear. One of the hind feet of the horse slipped over the edge of the wall, turning Maghar a little in the saddle, so that he looked down into the awful abyss.

At this sight he made a superhuman exertion to right himself in the saddle, and, by this violent impetus he threw the horse over so much to the opposite side that it was able to regain its foothold on the tower. Perhaps, too, the fairies helped it a little. Maghar saw these friendly little people now, and the sight gave him new courage.

The horse stepped carefully to the unbroken side of the tower. Maghar saw that the horse was standing firmly; and, then without allowing a moment for reflection, he urged the noble beast to the leap.

It sprang frantically into the air; or so it seemed to the spectators. But really it was not frantic at all, but a steady, powerful impetus that carried it clear across the great chasm.

Horse and rider landed safely on the opposite bank! Enemies and infidels though they were, the spectators cheered and shouted in admiration of this wonderful feat of horsemanship!

Maghar dismounted for a few moments, taking care to put the cover of a thick copse between himself and any arrow shots that might be sent after him. He wished to compose his own nerves, for they had been terribly shaken. But he soon mounted again, and was off like the wind.

He was not pursued. The infidels knew it to be useless, for he had a level country before him, and they must toil over rough ground, and high hills to reach his starting-place. And perhaps, too, they thought he had shown such courage and skill that he deserved his freedom.

For they never knew anything about the magical powers of the horse; and, though the infidels were long ago driven out of the country, and the old castle is a heap of ruins, the story of the wonderful leap of the knight Maghar is still related in the neighborhood.

THE SEA-COW.

This is a queer name for a fish. But then you must admit, after a glance at its portrait, that it is a very queer fish. It is not shaped much like a cow, but it gives milk; and it gets the name of cow from that circumstance.

It not only gives milk to its young, but it is warm-blooded, while fishes are, you know, cold-blooded. It also breathes through lungs instead of gills like fish. In all these things it resembles the whale. The fact is that neither whales or sea-cows are really fishes, though they are generally considered as such, as they live in the water and swim about like fishes.

Sometimes a sea-cow is found that measures fifteen feet, but, usually, they are much smaller. Perhaps you may have heard of this creature by the name of manatee.

Its body is oblong; it has a flat tail, which is quite broad; its fins are something like arms, and its head is small, with the most comical face you ever saw. I am afraid you would be so impolite as to laugh in its face if ever you saw one.

It has rather a stupid expression, in which respect it differs from its cousins of the seal family. But it has ideas of its own, and very good ones; and it is very playful when in its native element.

It is easy to capture these poor beasts, for they always swim in crowds; and, if one is hurt with the harpoon, the others, instead of taking themselves out of danger, stay by their wounded comrade, and do everything in their power to assist him. They will try to pull out the weapon, or bite at the rope attached to it, and in this way hunters can often secure a whole troupe of manatees.

The sea-cow has a thick skin, and a layer of fat under it to keep it warm. The arm-like fins are terminated by curious appendages like fingers, except they are united by a sort of membrane, or skin. At the ends of these are nails, similar to finger nails. The resemblance of these fins to hands must be strongly marked, for it is from these it gets its name of manatee, from the Latin _manus_, a hand.

It is said by some that the female manatee carries her young in these arm-like fins, but this is not at all probable.

The sea-cow feeds upon plants, and is, therefore, generally found near the shores of rivers and lakes. It prefers a warm climate.

It is hunted for its oil, of which it yields a good supply of very excellent quality; and for its flesh, which is juicy and tender eating.

The female manatees are affectionate mothers. They take great care of their children, and keep them by them a long time, to train them in the way in which they should go.

TWO EXTREMES.

The ostrich is the largest bird known to exist in the world. Its body is rather small in proportion to the length of its neck and its legs. The latter are very large and strong. The wings and tail are short, and the feathers are extremely beautiful.

For these feathers they are hunted; but their speed is so great that it is impossible for the swiftest horse to overtake them. The European hunters shoot them, and the native Africans have various expedients for entrapping them. They can run from a hunter as fast as the fleet-footed antelope.

It is said, that, on being pursued, the birds become very much frightened, and hide their heads in the sand, thinking that no one can see them, because they themselves cannot see, and that many are run down and captured in this way. But this account has been contradicted by travelers, and it is not at all probable that so sprightly-looking a bird is so very stupid.

The wings of the ostrich are not intended for flight, but they assist it in running. The bird cannot fly at all. If it could there would be no use for such prodigious legs as it has.

But the ostrich can run! It is estimated that one of these giant birds at full speed, travels at the rate of thirty miles an hour, which is as fast as most locomotives go! But then the bird gets tired after awhile, and the locomotive does not. The ostrich, however, can travel a very long distance before it gives out from fatigue.

It is a magnificent-looking bird when it is traveling over its native sands at full speed, with its head proudly erect; its bright eyes gleaming, its wings outspread, and its feet twinkling over the sand so fast you can scarcely see them.

In a public garden in Paris there is a fine ostrich, which is very gentle, and good-natured. He allows himself to be harnessed to a carriage, in which little children ride about the grounds. He is not permitted to go very fast, as he would not keep in the road in that case; but a keeper walks by his side to regulate his gait; and one of the children acts as driver, holding the reins, which are passed around the lower part of the bird’s neck.

But, you may say, the ostrich is indeed very large, but it is not so very much like a bird, because it cannot fly.

The ostrich is certainly a bird; but, if you insist upon it that a bird must fly, we will take a look at the condor, and see how large he is.

He is intended for flight, you see, and has short legs, and long powerful wings. He is swifter on the wing than the ostrich on his feet, and will take a steady flight for miles without weariness. He has a large body to carry through the air, but, though large, it is light, and his wings are enormous.

A large full-grown condor, with its wings spread, measures from twelve to fourteen feet from tip to tip of the wings; and nine feet is the measure of very ordinary specimens.

It lives on the highest peaks of the Andes mountains in South America; and builds its nests on crags that are inaccessible to man. It cares nothing for snow and ice, nor for the great tempests of wind that sweep over these lofty summits. Among these cold, desolate rocks it makes its nest, and rears a hardy brood of young ones. When it wants food for its family, it perches upon a jutting rock, and sends its piercing glance far down into the cultivated valleys below. When it has singled out an object it comes down with a swift, grand swoop of its wings, and strikes its prey with unerring aim.

It has marvelously keen and long vision, and can see an object several miles distant with ease.

Seen thus upon the wing, the condor is a most majestic-looking bird; but when you get a near view of him you find he is nothing but a great vulture, and has all the disagreeable features and traits of a vulture; being a cruel, greedy, and dirty creature, that is glad to feed upon carrion; and having an ugly, hooded head, fierce eyes, and a savage beak. His wings are his beauties.

The condor is fond of carrion, but it also feeds upon living animals, or, I should say, kills animals, and feeds upon the fresh flesh. It is very strong with its beak and talons; and two of them will sometimes attack and kill a sheep, or even a cow.

Having seen such very large birds, let us turn to the other extreme, and find out what we have in the way of small feathered creatures.