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a “. IHustrations

ah

FANNY Moopy,

AND

iS

Z (Darchioness
= Waterford.

eic.











Messrs. RAPHAEL TUCK & SONS CO., Ltd.

Young Folks’ “‘Literary”’ Prize Competition.



COMPETITION No. 2.

“SUNNY TALES FOR SNOWY DAYS.”

90 Prizes will be awarded for the best original Prose Stories on the subject of
the last coloured illustration in this book. The Story to contain not less than 300
words and not more than 700 words. E

LIMITED TO GHILDREN UNDER 14 YEARS OF AGE.
LIST OF PRIZES.

TRADE MARK.

First Prize ... Bh see a nen vee $50.00
Second Prize A a Wes ae ate 25.00
Third Prize Me an at 15.00
Three Prizes of $10. 00 each Be a Hae 30.00
Fourteen Prizes of $5.00 each ... es an 70.00
Seventy Prizes of $3.00 each ue 5 210.00

Making 90 Prizes of the value of $400.00 in connection with this Book.

0-0-0 OOOH OOOO 0 0d LOO D0 OO OETA O OE OE EOE OHO EE OE EO EE )0.0.0:97-9-3.9-0-0-¢

COMPETITION No. 2. ;
ComPeETiTor’s Coupon. Available for One Story.

SSN G eA S) OK On sehen yee east:

To Messrs. RAPHAEL TUCK & SONS CO., LTD.,
368, Broapway, New York.
GENTLEMEN,—
In accordance with the published Rules, I append entry, as per particulars
below, in your Young Folks’ Literary Prize Competition. The Story is entirely my own
composition, and I am not disqualified from competing under any of your Rules.

Signed—
Competitor's Name in full

Address

Age last Birthday (prior to October 2nd, 1893)

Countersigned by ae
Guardian, ov Teacher

Name and Address of last School
(if any).

Number of words in Story

This Coupon must be firmly pasted on back of the Story to be sent in for Competition,
See Rujes on other side,



Eee Sh (Oe eOOesS

COMPRISED IN MESSRS. RAPHAEL TUCK AND SONS’

Young Folks “Literary” Prize Competition.



Competition 1 -TOLD BY THE SUNBEAMS AND ME. 88 pp., 16 coloured illustra-
tions, boards. Price $2. 102 Prizes to the value of $500 for the best
short stories on the subject of the last coloured picture in this book,
facing page 86. First Prize, $50.00. Limited to young folks under
15 years of age.

Competition 2—SUNNY TALES FOR SNOWY DAYS. 80 pp., 9 coloured illustrations,
boards. Price $1.50. 90 Prizes to the value of $400 for the best
short stories on the subject of the last coloured picture in this book,
facing page 78. First Prize, $50.00. Limited to young folks under
14 years of age.

Competition 3—ALL BUT ONE. TOLD BY THE FLOWERS. 6g pp., 7 coloured
illustrations, boards. Price $1. 84 Prizes to-the value of $350 for
‘the best short stories on the subject of the. last picture in this book,
facing page 62. First Prize, $40.00. Limited to young folks under
13 years of age.

Competition 4—PEEPS INTO PICTURELAND. 24 pp., 16 coloured illustrations,
boards. Price 75c. 84 Prizes to the value of $250 for the best short
stories on the subject of the picture entitled ‘‘ Underneath the Apple
Tree.” First Prize, $30. Limited to young folks under 12 years of age.





RULES FOR COMPETITION No. 2.

eeeccececccccece csxKoung folks only ofcthe agecek ap years aad under.are, permitted,to, take, part.in, this, . .

Competition.

2.—To avoid complications, October 1st, 1893, has been fixed upon as the reckoning for the
last birthday, that is to say, Competitors in this Competition, No. 2, must not have reached their
fifteenth birthday before October 2nd, 1893.

3.—All Stories sent in must be the work of the Competitor alone, must be written legibly
and on one side of the paper only, and must bear a Competitor’s Coupon, which is to be carefully
pasted on the back of the last page of the Story.

4.—Each book eligible for this Competition has one Competitor’s Coupon attached to it,
which must be duly filled in, and Competitors desirous of sending in more than one entry for
Competition, must purchase as many books as they desire to make entries.

5.—Coupons may only be used in connection with the Competition in the book, the title of
which is printed on such Coupon.

6.—In no case is the book itself to be sent in with the Story for Competition, nor are the
blank pages at the end of the book to be cut out, these being intended to contain the duplicate of
the Competitor’s Story written upon them, for preservation in the book.

7-—Copies should be kept of all Stories sent in, as they cannot under any circumstances be
returned.

8.—No more than three entries in any one of the various Competitions can be accepted
from one Competitor, who cannot gain more than two prizes in any one Competition. This rule
does not prevent Competitors from taking part in as many of the four Competitions as they are
eligible for, and Prize Winners in one Competition are not debarred from gaining prizes in any
of the others.

. All Stories for this Competition must be sent in, post free, between January roth and
February 28th, 1894, addressed to Messrs. RapHAEL Tuck & Sons, 368, Broadway, New York,
having the words “ Prize Competition ” written on top left hand corner of envelope or label. :

10.—All queries in reference to this Prize Competition to be similarly addressed, accompanied
by stamped addressed envelope for reply.

11.—The copyright of the Stories gaining the first three prizes in each division will become
the property of Messrs. RaPHAEL Tuck & Sons, who reserve to themselves the right to purchase
the copyright of any other Stories sent in, for a sum equal in value to the third prize in that
particular division, within one month from the Distribution of Prizes.



N.B.—The Prizes in all Competitions will be awarded by the Fudges in the course of April, 1894, and forwarded to
the respective Prize Winners shortly after. A bound pamphlet, containing a complete list of the names and addresses of
all Prize Winners in all the Competitions, will be published at the same time. This pamphlet will also contain all the
Stories, Poems, and Selections that have gained the First, Second and Third Prizes in the various ‘' Literary”
Competitions. The pamphlet will be sent post freeeto every Competitor who encloses ten cents. festage stamps for that
purpose at the time of sending in the Manuscript.



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SNOWY DAYS










Tlelen ‘Marion Bu rnside.
[Nes uit,
Edward Carrett,

G@ others.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY
The Marehtoness of Waterford.
Fanny Moody.
Helen Jackson,
John Lawson,

Sc Ge
Edited by Edric Vredenburg

RAPHAEL TUCK: & ONS
London - Paris: & - New-York

TRADE MARK.

No. 902.













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£2



All about the Stories.

os ORRID winter!” cried Effie, as turning away from the
window, she went and sat at her grandmother’s feet, on
a little stool before the log fire.

“Dear, dear,” replied Granny, running her fingers through
her granddaughter’s golden curls. -‘ Dear, dear! why I thought I
heard my darling singing in the sun this morning, and laughing
down the village street.”

‘Yes, Granny, dear, but the sun goes to bed so early in the
winter, and I have nothing to do, sitting here before the fire, but
make shadows onthe walls. And I have grown tired of making
shadows.” Granny smiled and began to plait the pretty ringlets,
and murmured something about ‘‘shadows on the walls of life.”

“What did you say, Granny dear?” inquired Effie.

“T was thinking, my sweet, how cruel the winter is to some,
how many poor little girls and boys have no fire to sit before, no one
to love them ”> «Oh, Granny, not really!” broke in the child.

“Yes, really, my pet, have no beds to go to, early or late, and
have but little to eat; and I was thinking how very much more
fortunate is one little girl that I know.”

Effie did not say much more that evening, but the first thing
she remembered in the morning was her grandmother’s words. .

“ Now I wonder what I could do for others,” said the little girl,





looking out of the window after breathing on the glass to melt the
frost. ‘‘ How lovely every thing looks in the sunlight!”

Just then a robin flew on to the sill, and putting his head on
one side, began to blink his sharp black eyes. ‘‘I wonder .if he
wants to say something? I wonder if he is hungry?” said Effie.

The robin bobbed his head, and the little girl feeling sure that
she had guessed rightly ran downstairs, took some crumbs from the
bread-pan, and threw them into the garden. Down came the
robin, and a dozen other robins, to say nothing of sparrows and
many sorts of small birds, and a very good breakfast they had—such
a good breakfast, in fact, that they did not leave off till dinner-time.
The next day Effie took a bag of -bread-crumbs out with her
and strewed them in her path as she walked across the snow-covered
' fields, and wherever she went the birds followed. Effie then went
to a tiny cottage where a little friend of hers was lying ill in bed
and told him stories until it was time for her to go home.

That evening Granny, plaiting the golden hair, said that a
certain robin had told her about a little girl who had done such a
lot of good that day, and that the robin had whispered a lovely story
into grandma’s ear for her to tell her granddaughter in the evening ;
and this grandma did. And every day for eight days, until the little
boy was able to get up, the same robin whispered a story to Effie’s
grandmother, and Effie re-told the stories to her friend.

Now, Mr. Raphael Tuck and his sons came to hear of Effie,
Granny, the Robin, and the stories, and they thought them such
pretty stories that they made up their minds that other boys and
girls should have the benefit of them. So they put them into a
book, with a lot of lovely pictures, and here they are. Then Mr.
Raphael Tuck and his sons thought to themselves, why should not
the boys and girls write as good stories as a Robin can tell? And
why not amuse themselves on dark days and wet days; or, as a
matter of fact, on any other day, by writing stories for one another.

Mr. Raphael Tuck and his sons have indeed thought this such
a good idea that they will give handsome prizes to the boys and
girls who send them in the best stories, so all that you have to do
now is to read the rules in this book, write as pretty a tale as you
can, send it in, and get a prize—if you deserve one.

Edric Vredenburg.







te Tug
it y ip — Q
A os Rx |.
YL .

Alec’s Christmas Eve.

ILE school-room tea party, at Fairholme Manor, was not so

WC guiet and well-behaved in the holiday time, as when it only
consisted of Elsie, Kathleen and Vera Huntley, presided

over by their governess, Miss Vhtwick. Elsie was fifteen, and was
considered old enough (in the holidays) to pour out the tea, and
take charge of the younger members of the family, much to their
delight, for she was quite young and lively enough herself to take
part in all the fun and freedom introduced into the meal by the boys
home from school. Willie came next to Elsie, a merry boy of
nearly fourteen ; then Charlie, twelve; Kathleen and Vera, pretty,
fair-haired little girls of ten and seven. Besides these brothers and
sisters, a cousin Alec, a handsome, bright-faced boy, a little older



8 ALECS CHRISTMAS EVE.

at than Willie, was spending his holidays with
them, as his parents and two small sisters
Kerem naylnGianmloonm\liccmENit=
wick’s hair would have stood on














end had she seen the table-cloth
tea-stained, tumbled and covered
with cake crumbs and pellets of
bread, which Willie and Alec
found intense delight in shooting
into the fluffy hair of Kitty and
Vera, while these young persons,
forgetful of her admonitions, hung
over the fire, burning their
cheeks, to toast muffins and
slices of bread, and the lavish
spreading of butter and jam,
and the marvellous amount

of cake that disappeared !
‘Skating does make



a fellow awfully hungry,”

observed Alec, after his

ara seventh piece of buttered
toast; “and you always have such jolly muffins and things here.”

“The Christmas tree has come,” remarked Vera. “Such a

big one, taller than father! and I saw a great package in the hall

with Cremer’s name on it. I expect it will be dressed up for

r)

=>
This

J 24 dy

A Dw 1230 fo 9

5A. F<

to-morrow evening.

“We are going to have snapdragon in the hall, after tea
to-morrow, and mother said all the downstairs people were coming
to join, as soon as father and those other fellows come in from

oe)

shooting,” said Charlie eagerly. ‘ They are going to put out all
the lights, and only have the snapdragon fire.”

‘“ Boo—oo-o, Vera, I hope you'll hold my hand, I shall be sc
dreadfully frightened,” said Willie.

“Silly boy, I shan’t,” said Vera bravely, though her big blue



ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVEL. 9

eyes had opened rather wide at the idea, and she secretly made up
her mind to keep close to ‘ father.”

‘* Does anyone want any more tea?” enquired Elsie. ‘‘ Because
if not, we will have the table cleared, and go on with our decorating.”
Everyone was satisfied. ‘ At last!” observed Elsie, and they were
soon all busy wreathing the holly round the pictures, and preparing
garlands of evergreen to festoon round the hall, which was to be
the scene of the festivities the next day—Christmas Eve.

‘We're going to have a big dinner-party on Boxing-Day, for
all the village children, and the old people, and we shall all help to
wait on them, it is great
fun, and then they have
their Christmas tree,’ said
Elsie.

“You don’t mean to
say that you and auntie
made all those frocks and
things we were numbering
last night ?”’ enquired Alcc.

“Nearly all, we did
our part in the school-
room, while Miss Tiitwick
read to us in the evenings,




and some of mother’s
friends helped her, even Vera
made some pinafores, and
Kathleen knitted’ some socks and
Te ceni sn.

‘How jolly of you!’ said Alec warmly.
“Girls can do a lot more than boys, certainly.”
‘Boys come in useful sometimes,” answered Elsie, smiling.

“ Tying prickly bits of holly, for instance,” said Willie, sucking
his fingers ruefully. ‘ Here, Vera, Pll do that bit for you, or you
won't have any of your little fingers left to pick out the plums from

the fire to-morrow evening.”



10 ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVE.

ree a Sulihierccm theme lltocus wmctied
. Kathleen, ‘‘and it will take a year to




get all these crumbs out
of my hair, you horrid
boys.”

They all went off to
make themselves tidy to
go downstairs into the
large square hall, where
Colonel and Mrs. Huntley
and their guests were all
ready to devote them-
selves to the children,
and enter into the plans
for passing a real merry
Christmas. Thewnext
morning both boys and
girls were delighted to
see the frost glittering on
the boughs of the trees, and sprinkling
the hedges with diamonds, and the paths covered with a crisp white
carpet.

‘A perfectly ripping day for skating,” announced the boys.

‘*T vote we go down to the pond by the common,” said Willie ;
‘it’s ever so much bigger than ours in the park, and the girls can
come as we are at home, I should think.”

Permission was granted, and they soon all started, well wrapped
up in warm coats and furs, with their skates in their hands, and were
soon skimming about over the ice, where they met several friends.
The time passed all too quickly as they chased each other across the
pond, and dodged in and out amongst the crowd, thoroughly en-
joying themselves and picking up wonderful appetites for dinner.

‘The days were so short, and the sky was rather inclined to cloud
over with that pinky haze that foretold snow, that Mrs. Huntley
persuaded the girls and Charlie to remain on the pond in the park



ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVE. II

after their dinner, but Willie and Alec had made some arrangement
with the vicar’s boys, so went back to the pond by the common.

“ Don’t be late, boys,” said Mrs. Huntley.

‘“‘ All right, mother, we will be home to tea for certain,” said
Willie.

They had to pass through part of a wood on their way, and Willie
remarked that in the summer time they often went there for picnics.

‘Only farther on, of course, it is almost a forest, and so jolly
and shady on a hot day. Next holidays we'll have fun there. You
are sure to be with us again.”

‘“T hope so, unless my people are back in England; but that
isn’t likely. Mother said she would stay out two years if she could,
and then bring home Molly and Cicely,” said Alec rather sadly, as
he thought of his father and mother and little sisters.

But sad thoughts soon passed away in the excitement of the
“ outside edge” and cutting figures on the ice, and the daylight was
fast fading as the two boys took off their skates and turned home-
wards. Half-way through the wood Alec stopped, saying:

“Hark! Don’t you hear something like a child’s voice ?”

Willie stopped. ‘Yes; and there it is, little Red Riding Hood
herself,” he cried, pointing to a small figure coming towards them.
It was a little girl, not more than four or five years old, dressed in a
neat dark blue frock,:and a scarlet cloak and hood. Her pretty
rosy face was framed with thick dark curls, and er large brown
eyes brightened at the sight of the boys.

“Tallo, Red Riding Hood! Where are you going with that
basket ?’? asked Alec cheerily.

“T ain’t Red Riding Hood, and won't be!” answered the
young person with great determination.

“You can’t help yourself,” said Willie, laughing. ‘‘ You must
be, with that hood on.”

‘No, I won’t. Red Riding Hood was eated by a wolf, and I
shan’t,” said the child, stamping her little foot. “ Please will ’oo
take me home?” she added coaxingly, putting her tiny hand in
Alec's:



12 ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVE.

‘‘ Where do you live?” asked Alec, rather embarrassed by this
request.

“T’se Daisy Bright, ganpa’s little girl, and I live dere,”
answered the child.

‘“ Why, Farmer Bright lives right over the other side of the
wood,” said Willie. ‘* How is it you are here all by yourself, little
Daisy?”

‘‘T com’d to see granny, and I couldn’t find her,” said Daisy,
looking much inclined to cry.

‘Well, we can’t take her home now, it would take us nearly an
hour to go there; she had better come along with us, and we'll see
if someone can’t be sent with her,” said Willie.

But Daisy refused to turn back.

‘«T want to do home,” she sobbed, and tears trickled down her
rosy cheeks, and melted Alec’s soft heart (she was just the size of
his pet sister Cicely !).

‘© Look here, Willie,” he said, ‘‘ Ill take her home, and soon
run back before you’ve finished tea, or gone downstairs, at least.
Only mind and leave me some muffins, for I shall be as hungry as a
wolf when I come in.”

Willie, at first, did not like to agree to this, but Alec persuaded
him that his mother might be anxious if neither of them went home,
so he went off, not feeling quite comfortable at leaving his cousin,
but consoling himself with the thought that Alec was taller, and
could go much faster, and would no doubt be able to get home
before it was quite dark.

Daisy trotted along quite happily beside Alec, who held her
hand so kindly, and led her so carefully over the smoothest part
of the way. But she soon got tired, and Alec had to carry her,
and found she was considerably heavier than he had imagined. It
was fast getting dark, and a few flakes of snow began to fall which
rather alarmed him. Faster and thicker they came, and soon it
was snowing hard, and Alec stood bewildered, unable to find his
way through the blinding white veil. He sheltered Daisy as well
as he could with his ulster, and struggled bravely on a little while



ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVE. | 13

longer. But, feeling hopeless of finding the right path and trusting
the shower would pass over, he at last took shelter in a hollow tree.
Perhaps his uncle would send to look for him with a lantern, he
thought, for it was now quite dark. He shouted every now and
then in the hope of some one passing, and stamped his feet to keep
them warm, and covered Daisy with his coat; she, poor little thing, was
so tired and sleepy Alec could not keep her awake; and as he had
heard people ought not to go to sleep in the snow, this added to
his distress.

He put his arms round her and kept her as warm as he could,
while he wondered if they would have to pass the night there! He
thought of the bright fire in the school-room, and the merry party





I4 ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVE.

. lat
in the hall, and felt rather

sorry for himself, especially
/ eas i as he was hungry as well as
is fo i _” tired.

Plagne “Only if I had left
: her she would have died.
in this snowstorm,
so after all, it is a








good thing I stayed,
and it is only rather
a bore for me, and I
shall get over that
soon enough. Fancy
if it had been little
Cicely, and some
selfish brute of a
fellow had left her
to manage for her-
self—but no one
would ever do such a
thing.”

co: He could not see his.
watch to find out the time, and
it seemed to him as if hours
passed, while the snow fell thick and fast.

‘‘Lucky we found this tree,” he thought, and he was getting
very sleepy himself, when he was startled by something panting
close by. What animal could it be. A minute after he heard a
voice. ‘Hi, where is she? Good dog, good Bess, find her, seek for
her,” and a light flashed through the darkness. Alec sprang up.

“Hallo, who’s there?” he cried, and a dog bounded up
against him barking joyfully, and woke up the child, gambolling
round her and licking her face and hands. A second later a man
appeared with a lantern in his hand.

‘‘Here she be, maister, and a young gen’leman too!”’

© Malet Gh

hye



ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVE. 15

Another stouter man came hastily forward with a lantern too,
saying, as he threw the light on their faces:

‘‘God be praised! Here is my little lass safe and sound.
Good Bess, you have led us right, and I have to thank you, young
master, I see, for taking charge of my little ’un.”

Alec explained how he had met with Daisy, and was shaken
hands with warmly, and made to drink some hot stuff that brought
the tears-to his eyes and took away his breath, but sent a glow through
his numbed limbs and cheered him.

“© We are not far from home now, and the good old dog brought
us pretty straight when she once got scent of our little lost lamb,”
said the farmer, as he raised the child in his arms. ‘‘ We'll soon
have you dry and warm, sir. You must be well-nigh famished.”

“Ts it very late? I must try to get home,” said poor Alec,
wondering if his uncle would be much annoyed with him for giving
them anxiety.

‘We'll have the chaise out while you get some food, sir, and

you'll soon be home; it’s not seven o’clock yet.”

Alec felt relieved to hear this,
and was soon seated before a sub-
stantial meal in the kitchen at the
farm, in front of a glorious
fire, his feet in warm






slippers belonging to Mrs.
Bright, and receiving the
thanks and praises of the
grandparents. All the
same, he was very anxious
to get back to Fairholme,
and the good farmer
ordered the trap to be
got ready as quickly as ff
possible. al —
Alec was charmed with

the beautiful collie who had ea
Mabapfaylor “



16 ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVE.

found them, and when her three fine little pups were brought in
for him to see, and he was invited to choose one for his own, he ,
was quite enchanted, and only hoped his uncle would allow him to
have it, and would keep it for him at the Manor.

To his great satisfaction he found, on reaching home, that the
school-room party had not yet been summoned to the hall, so his
absence had not distressed anyone but themselves, and he begged
them not to say anything about it to his aunt and uncle. Elsie was
quite sure he might have the dog, and promised to take charge of
him while Alec was at school.

All the same, Farmer Bright did not let the story go untold,
and when Mrs. Huntley heard it, she kissed him, with tears in her
eyes, Saying :

‘You good, kind boy, you are just like your own dear father.”

And Alec felt that this was the highest praise he could have had.

Florence Scannell.








































abe think you are unkind, Muriel,” said Ethel
sulkily. ‘There, I have taken such trouble to
work that book-marker .for auntie’s birthday,
and now I shan’t finish in time just because
you won’t go to the village with me!”

Muriel looked distressed. ‘‘ But, Ethy,”
she said, ‘‘you know we mustn’t go without
mother’s leave !”’

‘‘ But she isn’t here to ask!” cried Ethel. ‘It wouldn’t be our
fault not to have leave. But it is just like you. You will never do
anything for anybody unless you want it yourself. It is just selfish-
ness, and I don’t believe you love me a bit!”

Muriel did not say anything. She knew Ethel would be ‘sorry
for her cross and unjust words presently, as she always was.

‘* Aren’t you coming in to learn your lessons now?” she said

half timidly, after a little ; for though more than a year older than
Ethy, she was often a little frightened by her more determined sister.

‘J shall come in presently,” said Ethel shortly. ‘ You needn’t
wait forme. I can learn my lessons in half the time you can.”

It was quite true, and Muriel did not dispute it, for she knew
she was not so clever as Ethel. So she went in, leaving her
sister in the garden, where they had been playing with their hoops,



18 CUPBOARD LOVE.

running up and down the broad
gravel terrace, which was always
dry and pleasant when the lanes
were rough with frost or deep with

















mud.

‘‘Tt is a shame,” said Ethel
to herself, turning down to the
shrubbery. ‘I am_ sure
mother would let us go
if she were at home—
or Jane might go with
us, aS nurse is away.
But we are not such
babies but what we
could go as far as that
by ourselves. I am sure
I could go alone; it is only
two miles!”

Just then Ethel noticed that
the little gate opening out of the
garden into the side lane stood
ajar. A sudden thought struck her. Why shouldn’t she run down
by herself and get the silk? She knew the way perfectly, and she
could be back before she was missed. It was all very well for
Muriel to say that she could get the silk next morning, and finish
her book-marker in plenty of time for the evening post. You never
knew how long letters would be? She had twopence in her pocket,
and her garden hat and jacket were quite tidy. She even had her
warm gloves on, for it was too cold to be out, though only in the
garden, without them.

The temptation was too great! Ethel pushed her hoop and
stick behind a shrub, and driving away Prince, the fox terrier, who
was following her, she slipped through the gate and set off running
up the lane as fast as she could, determined to get to the village in
no time. But she had hardly reached the main road when some-



CUPBOARD LOVE. 1g

thing came scrimmaging along behind her, and there was Prince,
jumping up and down and barking with joy at the idea of a walk.
He had managed to scratch the door wide enough open to wriggle
out and follow her.

‘Oh! Prince, you naughty tiresome dog!” she exclaimed. “Oh!
go home at once. You are bad and disobedient—and selfish too.
It is just as Jane says—you only care for yourself or what you can
get—just cupboard love! Go home directly!”

But Prince did not seem to consider himself bound to obey his
young mistress, but went careering along, interviewing every dog
he met, and they were unusually numerous, or so it seemed to Ethel.
Indeed, the road, which was quiet enough generally, was quite
thronged this afternoon, and by people who all knew Ethel, and who
all looked rather surprised to see her out alone. Dr. Carter passed
in his gig, and Mrs. Johnson, the rector’s wife, almost drew up her
pony carriage as if to speak to her, only Ethel hurried on, turning
her head away after she had bestowed what she meant to be a
dignified bow on the lady. Then Prince had a squabble with a little
Skye terrier, and Ethel
was obliged to go and
extricate him, so that
by the time she reached
the village she was
feeling quite hot, and
vexed, and tired.

But the worst
blow came when she
reached the fancy shop,
for as she asked for the
silk, Mrs. Brown, the
shopwoman, cried out:

‘“Oh, Miss! I am
so sorry! Your mam-
ma has been in for it,
and I hadn’t got the





oO CUPBOARD LOVE.

shade. The parcel I expected hasn’t come in; but your mamma
was going on to Driffield, she said, and she would try there. But
you are not alone, are you, Miss ?”’

Ethel mumbled some rather unintelligible answer, and ran out
of the shop. At the same time, to her further dismay, she heard the
church clock strike a quarter-past three, and. she knew she must
have been gone more than three-quarters of an hour.

‘‘T know,” she thought to herself; ‘I will go across the fields
back. It is ever so much nearer than the road, and it won’t be
muddy to-day, everything is so hard frozen. Then, too, I shan’t meet
anybody who wants to ask questions. But—but I wish I hadn’t
come. I never thought mother would remember about the silk!”

Poor Ethel. She had not gone far across the fields before she
wished more than ever she hadn’t come; for, though the path was
not muddy, it was so slippery that instead of saving time she had to
walk so slowly that it would have been quicker to go round by the |
road. Moreover, she remem-
bered that these same fields

skirted along by some
woods full of game, and

that her father always
was careful to call
Prince to heel when
they went across
them. Whereas
now, there
was that
unfeeling
dog tear-
ing round
and round
them like a
mad thing, yapping
and barking, and
paying not the least














CUPBOARD LOVE. 21

heed to Ethel’s repeated calls.
At last, just as she mounted
on to the third style, which
was always a very awk-
ward one, and now more

so than ever from being
coated with hoar-frost,

she saw Prince, as she
thought, disappearing
into the thick of the
hedge.

“Prince se mnce! ”
she shrieked—and then
—she never quite knew
how—she missed her footing,
and tumbled all of a heap on to the frozen ground. For a moment
she did not know where she was. A general display of fireworks
seemed to be taking place, and then it was quite dark for a minute.
When it got light again, she was conscious of a pain in ‘her head;
and when she tried to move, of a very much bigger pain in her
foot and ankle—in fact, so big a pain that she was quite unable to
stand up, but fell back with a cry of anguish every time she tried to
do so. She also became aware that it was dreadfully cold, and
that her arms and legs were growing quite numb, when all of a
sudden she. felt, with a sort of sob of joy, a little warm tongue licking
her face, and there was Prince, looking extremely surprised to find
his little mistress lying on the ground.

‘‘Oh! Prince, Prince,” sobbed Ethel. ‘‘ What shallI do? I
shall lie here and die, for nobody comes this way after dark!
What shall I do!” |

Prince wagged his tail. He did not seem to have any answer
ready.

‘Oh! Prince, go home,” said Ethel. ‘Go homc—go home—
and tell them where I am!”

Prince looked puzzled a minute longer. Then a light seemed












22 CUPBOARD LOVE.

to break in upon him, for he trotted off a little way, then he
stopped and looked round, as if asking if that was right!

‘Yes, yes,” cried Ethel, ‘‘ good doggie, go home, go home”
and to her immense joy Prince seemed really to understand, and
trotted off along the footpath.

Meantime at home Ethel had been missed at last. When
Muriel went in she went first to her practising; but when her
three-quarter’s of an hour were over she ran upstairs expecting to
find Ethel in the schoolroom. To her great surprise she was not
there! Muriel ran down again, and looked in all the sitting-rooms
—but no—no Ethel! She went into the kitchen, but neither Eliza
nor Jane had seen her. Then Muriel put on her hood, and ran
down the garden, where at last she caught sight of Ethel’s hoop and
stick, and also of the half open gate. Then the terrible truth
flashed upon her.

‘“Oh, how naughty!’’ she gasped. ‘She must have gone
alone.”’

She came back into the house, looking quite pale and frightened,
and there met Jane in the hall, her sewing in her hand.

‘“‘ Have you found her, Miss?” she said.

“No,” said Muriel; ‘‘but oh! Jane, I am afraid she has gone
down to the village to get the silk for the marker. She wanted to
go; and here is her hoop, and the garden gate is open.”’

Jane looked much disturbed. ‘I think I had better go and
look after her, Miss,’”’ she said. ‘‘ Mistress will be so vexed at her
being out alone; and besides, it is beginning to get dusk.”

“Oh! let me go with you,” cried. Muriel; ‘I shall be so’
miserable till we find her.”

After some demur,. Jane consented, and the two started off,
hoping every moment to see Ethel’s little figure coming through the
grey wintry twilight; but they reached the village without meeting
her, though they soon learnt from Mrs. Brown that she had really
been there. |

‘« She must have gone home by the fields,” said Muriel.

‘Oh no, never!” exclaimed Jane. ‘Why she knows mistress










OWE.

Rb IL

SNE

fo

pelo.

1D
D

te







CUPBOARD LOVE. 23



scarce ever likes you to go over those lonely fields even with nurse.
Oh! no, Miss, she would never be so naughty as that!”

‘But where can she be?” answered Muriel, who was crying a
little now. ‘‘ Do just let us go to the end of the path, Jane.”

Jane turned off rather reluctantly ; but just as they reached the
first stile, suddenly a dog rushed up to them with a bark of joy.

‘It is Prince!”’ screamed Muriel. ‘‘ Prince has been with her.
Oh! come, Jane, come,” and off the little girl set running as fast as
she could, followed by Jane, till they nearly tumbled over Ethel
lying half frozen on the grass.

Jane whipped off her own warm shawl in a moment and wrapped
it round Ethel. Then she ran off for help to the nearest cottage ;
but both the man and his wife were out at work, and all she could
do was to borrow from the children an old wooden arm-chair. Into
this Ethel was packed, and then Jane and Muriel lifted her up
between them, though Jane bore the lion’s share of the weight, and



24 CUPBOARD LOVE.

carried her slowly along, in what Ethel felt, through all her pain,
to be an ignominious and Guy-Fawkes like manner. It really was a
solemn and melancholy little procession wending along the darkening
and now-deserted high road, Prince going first with a sedate and
low-spirited air, as if he quite understood the seriousness of the
occasion, and then sitting down and waiting patiently whenever Jane
and Muriel had to pause and rest a little. Of course, just because
they would have been glad of a neighbour’s help, they met no one;
and by the time they reached home both Jane’s and Muriel’s arms
felt like dropping off, and Ethel was crying with the dreadful pain in
her leg.

Poor Ethel. She paid rather heavily for her impatience and
disobedience, for her ankle was badly sprained, and she had to lie
up a long time on the sofa. But I think she learnt a useful lesson,
for she certainly was better tempered afterwards, and not so apt
to think everybody selfish when they would not do exactly as she
pleased. And she and Prince became the firmest friends. Some-
times she begged to be allowed to give the doggies, Prince and

Spot, their dinner, and though
Prince was often the more
eager and impatient of the
two, I fancy he usually
got the best bit, because,
_as Ethel said, she knew
his love was not all cup-
board love, for hadn’t
he tried to comfort
her in her trouble, and
been so clever as to
go and find Jane and
Muriel, and tell them
where she was that
dreadful afternoon.






M. A. Hoyer.





Ltaddie.

HEIR names are Dandy and Laddie,
You love them dearly, you say—
But Laddie’s the one who follows
And guards you the live-long day.
Do I love doggies ? you ask me
With eyes that so fain would trace
Some sign of a fellow-feeling
On uncle’s weather-bronzed face.
Why, how can I choose but love them,
So faithful, loving, and true ;
Little maid, shall I tell the story
Of one brave dog that I knew ?



26 LADDIE.

. Make room on the bench beside me,
There, lay your wee hand in mine,
And listen; Azs name was ‘‘ Laddie,”’
That dog whom I knew lang syne.
Ah, Sweet! I had ne’er been whiling
This hour with you away,
Save for my faithful collie, :
And the deed that he did one day.
Afar were the famed Huzzars, dear,
In African jungles then ;
And Laddie, brave heart, was with us,
The pet of my stalwart men.
You'll have heard of the Zulu war, dear,
You'll have read in your books, I ween,
How we fought Cetewayo the cruel,
For England, and England’s queen.
And perhaps you'll have heard the uncle,
Who to-day is holding your hand,
Was one of the little



army
Who went to that fateful
land ?
I was but just made a
captain,
And I and my com-
aay
Were camped at a lonely
outpost,
With nothing to do or
to see; ;
And the country all about
us,

With its mealies and
plains of sand,



LADDIE. 27

Wearied the eye with its sameness,
And time hung heavy on hand.
We were growing tired of waiting,
And oft we were sorely tried ;
We heard of skirmish and battle,
Where many a good man died—
’Twas before you were born, my darling—
And ere the campaign was done,



A Royal mother was mourning
The loss of her only son.
For just at the time 1 speak of,
We had heard, to our shame and pain,
The news that our gallant comrade,
The Imperial Prince, was slain.
But cheerily rang the reveille,
And blithe was the big drum’s beat,



28

LADDIE.

And Laddie, the pet of the regiment,
Barked gaily despite the heat,
As over the low horizon
' Each morning the red sun rose,
Because we were always hoping
To march ere the day should close.
You see we were tired of camping
Out there in the blazing sun,
Hearing of battle and struggle,
Where others had glory won,
Whilst we ourselves were inactive ;
For hard is the soldier’s fate,
Who, whilst his comrades are doing,
Is forced to stand still and wait.
At last came the longed-for message—
Ah, blithe was the camp that night!
And we marched in the early morning,
While dew on the grass hung bright.

All day we trudged in the sunshine—

(My child, you’ll not understand,
Who have known but an English summer,
The heat of a tropic land)—
Until in the purple gloaming
We came to a river side,
And my weary company halted
On the banks of its placid tide.
‘We would cross the ford when the day broke,’
I said. And a silence fell
On the camp, which was only broken
By the tramp of the sentinel.
Laddie was tired and footsore,
And sighed with supreme content,
As he stretched himself on his blanket
At the door of my tiny tent,



LADDIE. 29




Where I sat and thought
of my dear ones
Far off, in the old
homeland,
While the moon rose over the river
And the forest, so dark and grand.
That self-same moon would be lighting
The room where the children lay



30

LADDIE.

Asleep in our pretty cottage
O’erlooking the English bay,
I thought, as I watched it rising,
Till under its full soft light
The giant trees of the forest
Were crested with silver white.
And then I looked at the river
That rippled so gently by—
Quiet, and cool, and tempting,
Out there ’neath the starry sky.
You see I was hot and restless,
So I crept down the woody steep
For a plunge in the deep clear water
Before I turned in to sleep :
Then I thought I would find the crossing
(I can swim like a fish, you know),
And I struck through the shining ripples,
To a place where the bank was low.
But long before I could reach it,
The sentinel raised an alarm,
And I felt at the self-same moment
A stinging pain in my arm.
’Twas a Zulu lance that had struck me,
And I caught the familiar gleam
Of short sharp spears-in the thicket
On the further side of the stream.
Ere they fell like hail on the water,
. And I heard a fierce wild shout,

As the Zulus leapt from the ambush,

are rom which they had watched, no doubt,

“Our little camp by the river— .

And lit by the peaceful moon,

. Would have crossed the ford, and attacked us

That beautiful night in June.





lle ieee 9p er eet

eat

Pee





Neekin, “MAC das

















LADDIE. 31

I knew that my arm was broken,
But struggled and strove in vain
To reach the sheltering thicket,
And then I was hit again ;
I shouted, but dimly remembered
The sentinel could not swim,
Then I felt a grasp on my shoulder,
And river and sky grew dim.
"Twas long ere I came to my senses,
And found myself on my bed,
With an arm and a shoulder bandaged,
And a painful wound in my head.
They told me ’twas Laddie who saved me—
That in spite of the rain of spears
He had drawn me out of the waters,
And then they hinted their fears
That the dog himself was in danger,
A spear had entered his side,
And ’twas thought he couldn’t get over
A hurt so deep, and so wide.
In spite of my wounds and weakness,
In spite of all they could say,
I rose from my bed, and hurried
To the spot where my brave dog lay.
He opened his eyes when I called him,
And lovingly licked my hand,
As he lay on the bed of rushes
They had spread on the arid sand.
Did Laddie get well? you ask, dear,
Aye, dry those sorrowful eyes,
We both got better together,
To the doctor’s joy and surprise.
And I heard how our brave advance guard
Came up with the Zulu force,



32 LADDIE.



And after a short
sharp skirmish
Hadj beat them
—butithat’s of
course—
Andwhen|Cetewayo
was taken,
And the brunt of the fighting
o’er,
We both came home to the cottage
That stands on the English shore.
Ah ! loth were my faithful comrades,
With Laddie (brave dog) to part—



LADDIE. 33

For faithful, loving, and gentle,
I ween is a soldier’s heart.
But the doggie grew old and ailing,
Unfit o’er the seas to roam,
So when I went out to Burmah,
I had to leave him at home.
I heard of his death soon after,
He pined when I went away,
Till, stretched on his old camp blanket,
He quietly died one day.
His grave is under the cedar
That stands on the dear home lawn,
Where choirs of thrushes and blackbirds,
Sing sweetly at dew-steeped dawn.
You'll love your Laddie the better,
You say while your blue eyes shine,
For'the sake of the brave old namesake,
' Who saved Uncle Jem, lang syne.
Well, that’s as it should be darling,
No friend more loving and true,
"If you treat him kindly, and wisely,
' Than a collie can be to you!

Helen Marion Burnside.



Ella’s Adventure.

E was a dear dog,
and Ella was
tremendously

fond of him. She-had
him when he was quite
a puppy, and when she —
was getting well from
the measles she spent
hours and hours in
teaching him all sorts
of tricks. She taught
him! “to. bes, and to
dance, and to die for
tHeam@tleen += samcdeaiie
learned, besides, to do
several useful things,
such as shutting the
door, and ringing the bell, and fetching Ella’s father’s slippers when
he came home tired. And the child would have been happy enough
with her dog, but for her nurses. I say nurses, for they were
always changing. Still, everything went on fairly well till that
awful, awful day when the new nurse boxed Ella’s ears. It
happened in the Square Gardens.

Ella’s winter coat was new, and white and woolly, and Spot



certainly was very muddy indeed, so perhaps there was some excuse
for nurse’s being vexed when she came into the garden, where Ella



ELLA’S ADVENTURE. 35

had been sent with her hoop, and found the child hugging the dog
in her arms. — Still, she need not have shaken Ella, and boxed her
ears as she did, for having your ears boxed only makes you angry,
and being shaken gives you a headache. Ella was very angry
indeed. She had never been slapped or shaken before, and she felt
for one moment as if she would like to kill nurse—to shoot her with
a pistol, like the bandits did in the story books; or to smite her
head off with one stroke of the good broadsword, like the pirates
used to do to their prisoners.

While she was feeling all this she stood quite still, and nurse
thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t. She had dropped
Spot in her astonishment at being slapped and shaken, and he had
crept under the garden seat. Now Ella caught him up and ran,
leaving her muff and hoop and doll on the seat.

“Naughty little cat,” said the nurse to herself, angrily. ‘I’m
sure I don’t know who’d be a nurse if they could help it. Children
always expected to be like a new pin, and you can’t turn your back
a minute but they’re down on their faces in the mud, and then it’s
all your fault. I’m sick of it all, sol am.” And she picked up the
muff and the doll, and the hoop and stick, and slowly carried them
indoors. The front door was open, as indeed she had left it when
she came out, and she went straight up the soft-carpeted stairs to
the nursery. Such a pretty room—all blue and white chintz and
pretty pictures, and a soft rosy paper on the walls. Planning the
furniture of that room had been almost the last thing Mrs. Chesney
had been able to do before the docters ordered her to take that long
voyage, which was to save her, and which did not, could not! That
was two years ago now. Since her mother’s death, Ella’s father—
who was a Member of Parliament, and had to spend most of his time
at Westminster—had engaged nurse after nurse for her, but Ella did
not get on well with any of them. She wanted her mother, and no
- one else, and often she was only unhappy when her nurse thought
she was naughty. This particular nurse had been specially annoy-
ing to Ella, for she had invented a new way of punishing—that was,
to send Ella to bed for naughtiness just at the time when Mr.



36 ELLA’S ADVENTURE.

Chesney was expected home to dinner.
So that now, Ella had not seen her father
for three days.

Nurse flung open the door, and
bounced into the nursery.

‘* Well, Miss Ella,” she was beginning
—when she stopped short—for Ella was
not there. In half a minute nurse knew
that she was not: in the night nursery. In
two minutes she knew that Ella was not
-in the house. Now, if this stupid young
woman had told her fellow servants, and
gone to the police station, there ‘might
soon have been some news of Ella; but
nurse was afraid to do this, for she began
to feel that if Ella was lost, people—her
master especially—would say that it was
her fault. So she hurried out without
saying a word to anyone, and ran, like
a mad nurse, up and down and in and
out, among the many streets about Eccles-
ton oquane, hopine to ind the: «child
looking in the shop windows. But she
could see no trace of Ella. And this was not wonderful, for Ella
had run away.



If you ran away from your nurse, whom would you run to?
Your mother, of course. But poor Ella had no mother, so she
ran straight to her father, who was, as usual, busy with the nation’s
affairs at Westminster.

She ran some distance in quite the wrong direction, and then
stopped to take breath. She was in a street where she had never
been before—it was narrower, and darker, and dirtier than any she
had ever seen. Ella’s heart began to beat very quickly. She
looked for some one of whom she could enquire the way, but there
were not many people about.



ELLA’S ADVENTURE. 37

There was an old woman sitting on a doorstep, and Ella went
up to her timidly.

‘‘ Please,” she said, *‘can you tell me the way to the House
of Parliament ?”

‘“Eh! what,” said the old woman.

‘‘The House of Parliament,” repeated Ella.

‘‘What’ll you give me if I take you ?” said the old woman.

‘T don’t know—anything you like.”

Shen comemalone,”
hand, my dear.” .And Ella gave her hand, and they turned at
once into a still narrower street.

said the old woman, “give me your

‘“T must just go in and get my best shawl, you don’t mind
that, dear, do you?” said the old woman.

ja Olivo. cee scucleeel lila
politely; and they went
through an open door, and
turned up a dirty staircase.

‘““Come in, dear,’ the














old woman said, opening the
door at the top with a big
iron key. And Ella stepped
timidly in. The next minute
the door was shut and bolted,
and the old woman _ threw
herself down on a_ broken
chair with a grunt of
satisfaction.

“Take them all
off,’ she said, ‘the
nice fur coat, and hat,
and the pretty boots.
Here — give me the
dog —I’]ll_ hold him
while you undress.”
And she caught Spot





38 : ELLA’S ADVENTURE.

so carelessly that he turned and bit her. She threw the dog roughly
into the corner with ugly words, twisted a dirty rag round her
bleeding hand, and turned to Ella.

‘‘Come, come,” she cried; ‘‘ you said you’d give me anything.
-I liked. Take off those smart things. Yes, yes—the, blue frock
and the smart petticoat, and all. And the stockings.”

With fingers that trembled very much, poor Ella undid the
buttons of her soft white coat, unbuttoned her boots, and presently
stood shivering in her under-petticoat and bare feet.

‘“Now,” said the old woman, ‘I don’t want you—I want your
clothes. I'll give you some to wear. Here—put these on.”

The old woman threw her a shabby old. skirt and shawl, which
she took from a heap of dirty rags in the corner. It was: the corner
where Spot lay growling, and when the old woman came near he
tried ‘to bite her again; but she kicked i, and he. down
trembling like, his little mistress. a

“ Now,” said the old woman, ‘“‘ come with me; and if you saya
word. to a soul while you’re ae me, I’ll come down the CLS
some dark night and eat you.”

The old woman knew well enough that she couldn’t do this,
but she wanted to frighten Ella, and certainly succeeded.

‘Come, pick up your horrid dog, and take my hand,” she added,
and poor Ella obeyed. It was some comfort to feel Spot lovingly —
snuggle down into her arms. Then the old greeny-black shawl was |
pulled over her head, and she was led into the street. It was dark
under the shawl, and Ella could not see where they were going.
They walked and walked, and rey Ella was pushed on to a
doorstep.

Sit there,” said the old woman, “till you've counted a
hundred, and then you may go home—if you can.” And she hurried
Of eee

Ella counted the hundred very slowly and conscientiously—she
was very much frightened indeed—and at the end slowly drew ‘the
shawl down off her head, and looked about her.

She made up her mind that she would not ask anyone eise the













Av UNWiuNe PUPIL.







ELLA’S ADVENTURE. 39

way to the Ilouses of Parliament, but wait till she saw a policeman.
But policemen are unfortunately rather shy of that low street where
Ella was left.

Now, Ella might have got away all right if the wicked old
woman, on her way back, had not met a young man oe as wicked
as herself. To him she said:

“ There’s a child a-setting on a step in Spray’s Rents. Says
her father’s a swell. Might be worth your while.”

‘‘Humph!” said the young man. ‘‘ Reward, eh? How’s she
dressed ? You took that bit 0’ business on, I bet.”

The old woman winked and went ey, ~ “You'll know her by
her dawg,”’ she said.

The young man didn’t ask Ella if she’d come with him. He
simply took her by the shoulder, and said:

‘Now you come along 0’ me, an’ no nonsense; an’ if you’re good
p’r’aps you'll see your pa agen, and if you don’t you won't.”

Ella’s reply was curious. She was thoroughly frightened—
thoroughly miserable. Though she was in London, she le as far
from home as though she had been in
the Great Desert, and she’d been all
day without food. She looked up at
the man, and said simply:

“Tm very hungry. Will you give
me some dinner ?”’

The man laughed—a short dry
laugh. He was a gipsy, and a thief,
but he was not all bad, and Ella’s
confidence touched him.

Vest lb willkv he cards iyou ll
promise me not to say a word to let |
anyone know you’re not my little gell.”

Ella promised.

‘““You shan’t come to no harm,”’
he said, much more kindly, and held
out his hand. She took it, and some-





40 ELLA’S ADVENTURE.

how was not nearly so frightened as she had been with the old
woman. They walked along side by side, and presently came to
a little shop where sausages and onions were frying publicly in the
window, and the smell of stewed eels and fried fish was strong as
they entered. The young man ordered stewed eels, and Elia ate
ravenously, for it was now late in the afternoon.

While she was eating, Spot sat by her on the greasy wooden
bench, and presently jumped down and begged for a share. Ella
put a piece of bread on his nose, and said “ Trust,” and he held it
there till she cried “Paid for.” Then he tossed it up and caught it
in his mouth.

‘Well done!” said the young man. ‘ Has the dawg any more
tricks ?” ;

‘Oh, lots!” cried Ella, and proceeded to put Spot through his
tricks, which were certainly as clever and as varied as those of any
performing dog who ever carried round the hat.

Ella was so busy showing off her pet’s accomplishments, that
she did not notice how all the men who were eating there had one
by one left their food and crowded round. When Spot ended his
performance by lying down and
dying for the queen, quite a round
of applause, clapped hands, and
‘“Brayvos”’ arose all round her.

The young man picked up a
saucer from the table, and wiped it
on his sleeve. ‘Here! take this
round, Wie aide | Auchowerot half-
pence fell into it. The young man
put the pence in his pocket, and he
and Ella went out together.

‘““And now,” said Ella, ‘will
you take me home. You said I
should see my father if I was good,
and I have been, haven’t I? And
kept my promise.”





ELLA’S ADVENTURE. 41



They had reached the street corner, and the young man paused
irresolute.

‘Took here,” he said at last ; ‘I won’t deceive you. I was going
to keep you along of me till your father offered a reward; but you’re
a nice little gell, that you are—and you aren't afraid of me. I'll let
you go home—but [ll tell you what. I’m a-goin’ to keep the dog.”

And nothing Ella could say would alter his mind.

“You go to the corner and ask the policeman,” he said. ‘I’m
off with the dawg. He’s worth a pound a week to me in my
profession. Here, little ’un, give us a kiss—I ain’t done you no
harm. You'll get another dawg easy, and I can’t; and I’ll promise
faithful to be good to him.”





42 ELLA’S ADVENTURE.

And he kissed her cheek and walked quickly away.

How Ella got home she hardly knew; but it seemed to her as
though years had gone by between her running away from home and
the happy moment when the policeman led her up the steps in
Eccleston Square, and she was clasped in her father’s arms.

‘Oh, Ella, how could you,” was all he said.

No more nurses came. A kind pretty young lady came instead
as governess. And when some years later Mr. Chesney married
this kind and pretty young lady, the new Mrs. Chesney did her best
to be a mother to Ella, who loved her dearly. Her great sorrow
for months after her adventure was that her naughtiness in running
away had lost her Spot.

But after six months a dirty, miserable dog sneaked up the white
steps of the house in the Square, dragging a broken cord. It was
Spot; and, oh, how Ella kissed and cried over him, muddy and
miserable as he was. As for Spot, no words will describe his delight.
I wish f could tell you all about his life with the gipsy—but that is
another story. I can only tell you that he learned one trick with him
which he has never forgotten. Poor Spot, who knows no better,
has been taught to: be a thief. That is a constant grief to Ella
and a constant reminder of her naughtiness in running away, and.
of her terrible adventure. .

E. Nesbit.





The Robe of a Hetoine.

T was a grand time
for Margaret and
me, when Uncle

Ronald came home from
India for good. Uncle
Ronald is our Mamma’s
only brother. Our own
Papa has been dead for
a long while. We can-
not remember him very
clearly. Mamma has
Often said, oor schil-
dren! what different times
you would have if he was
alive.” Yet we have
always been very happy:
You see we have each



other — and we have
Mamma. But she had only us—until Uncle Ronald came.

We were rather shy of Uncle Ronald at first. He looked so
dark and fierce, and spoke in such a quick, commanding way.

But we could not help liking him when we saw how happy
Mamma was to have him with her. And then we soon liked him for



44 THE ROBE OF A HEROINE.

his own sake too. It was as good asa fairy tale to hear him talk
about India. He used to roar with laughter at the patronising sort
of questions we asked



as if the natives were all poor ignorant
folk, who ought to be ready to fall down and worship Europeans.
He said India had got something to teach us, as well as something
to learn from us. He loved India, and her peoples. I don’t think
he would have returned to this country, but for mother’s sake.

He brought a man-servant with him, who wore a turban, and
was called Viren. But Uncle Ronald and Viren did not intend to
take up their abode in our pretty little house. My uncle bought a
tiny cottage not very far away, and executed all sorts of alterations
to make it suit some of the ideas and ways of life he had brought
from the East. The cottage was to be called the Bungalow ; it had
no upstairs rooms, and it had a verandah running all along the front.
Nobody was to stay there but Uncle Ronald and Viren. A woman
was hired to do a little cleaning every morning. Viren cooked and
did everything else.

My uncle had had a coffee estate on the Indian hills, and
had lived there with nobody else but the natives and his dogs.
He had brought home two fine fox terriers, Snap and Shot, who
were old and valued pets, and to replace the many other favourites
he had had to leave behind, he got two beautiful otter hounds.
Mamma said that “the Bungalow ” was a regular animals’ paradise.
They were free of every room, and were always in waiting attend-
ance on my uncle at his solitary meals (which I am obliged to
confess. he shared with them, which rather shocked Mamma).
But then my uncle had put down no carpets, only a few skins
and mats, and all the furniture was of a light ‘plain kind, with
very few ornaments of any sort. My uncle had brought home many
beautiful and costly curios and specimens of Indian work, but he
kept these in the great chests in which they travelled, until such
‘time as he could get one room fitted with glazed shelves, where
they could be set out as in a museum. He looked rather coldly
on the fashion of filling our living rooms with bits-of barbaric pomp
and luxury. He said that if we had Eastern ottomans we might



THE ROBE OF A HEROINE. 45

take to lolling; and we might as well at once have the Eastern
embroidered down-at-heel shoes and take to shuffling! He said
we laughed to hear how rich natives bought grand pianos which
they could not use, but it was not any more ridiculous than to
see festoons of fans hanging up in houses where fires burned all
the year round !

Margaret and I noticed that my uncle never talked about the
rajahs and the wealthy Hindoos, of whom we hear so much from
so many writers on India, who tell you all ina breath about their
magnificence and their cruelty, their wonderful politeness to their
foreign guests, and their arrogant tyranny over their own people.

Uncle Ronald rather spoke of the poor coolies and the
humblest labouring classes, how little they lived on, how hard
they worked, how fond they were of their little children, how
patiently they bore wrong, how thankful they were for kindness,
with what fortitude they bore pain, and how bravely they died.

We knew that he had many beautiful native dresses, and
quantities of rich em-
broidery among his
treasures, and he
always laughed at
the zest and curi-
osity with which
we looked for-
ward to seeing
these ‘ gauds,”
as he called
them. At last
we teased him
about them so-
much, that he
said fo us: “If
you come over
to the bungalow
to-morrow morn-





46 THE ROBE OF A. HEROINE.

ing, I will show you something far more precious than any of .these.
For I think even you frivolous girls would rather see the robe of a
heroine than a mere fine frock!”

‘““The robe of a heroine!” we echoed. ‘Had he ever told us
about her.”

“No,” he said, “he~ had never yet mentioned her. But
when we came he would not only show us her dress, but he would
tell us all her family history and the story of her heroism.”

After we went to bed that night, Margaret and I amused
ourselves with trying to guess what the heroine had done, and
what her robe would be like. Margaret said she felt sure she had
been a Begum, who had raised troops to help the English at the
time of the great Mutiny, and that her robe would ‘be of silk,
stiff with pearls and gems. But I thought she might have been
that Rajput woman,
who let her own child
be slain and then slew
herself, sooner than be-
tray the young prince
who had been trusted
to hers keepine. = and
if so, then her robe
might be but of simple
muslin, exquisitely em-
broidered.

Next morning, when
we arrived at the bunga-
low, we told our guesses
to Uncle Ronald, who
only shook his head, and
making a queer grimace,
opened one of his huge
trunks, and held up be-
fore our astonished eyes,
a piece of coarse sack-





THE ROBE OF A HEROINE. 47

ing, whose rude shaping revealed that it had once clothed a
human form !

‘Ts that the heroine’s robe!” cried Margaret, contemptuously.
‘QO, then, it must be what she wore in prison, or in exile.”

‘‘Tt is what she wore every day of her life at home!” said my
uncle, in that peculiarly even tone he always employs when he
wishes to mock at any of our follies. ‘‘ And it was well adapted for
her purposes, for my heroine, whose name was Perali, was the
daughter of Ramaswami, one of my coolies, and she lived in what
are called ‘the lines,’ long mud erections, the front wall lower
than the back one, and the whole roofed by sticks overlaid with
thatch. Her own particular home was only about six feet in depth,
by ten in width, and Ramaswami’s family was no smaller than
coolies’ families generally are. The floor of the house was
earthern, and there was no furniture to speak of—nothing to
correspond even to the humblest ‘ sticks’ of a British hovel.”

‘““ Why, they must be mere pigs !”’ said Margaret.

My uncle took no notice of the remark.

He went on: ‘“‘The father and the mother, and as many
of the children as were old enough, went into the fields to work at six
o'clock every morning. At mid-day they took a meal where they stood,
having carried it with them in a handkerchief, and then they went
on with work again till about five o’clock in the afternoon. Their
labour was seldom stopped, either for great heat or for pouring rain.
When they came home they had another meal, lounged about and
gossipped for a little while, and then went to sleep. Their only —
food was rice, with sometimes’the relish of a chili or a bit of dried
fish. The mother wore some silver bangles and nose rings and
earrings, and had no other possessions save a few earthenware pots,
or ‘chatties,’ which, according to Hindu custom, she broke and
renewed every year. ‘There was no school on that estate (it was
where I was superintendent when I was a very young man), and I
don’t suppose my heroine had any religious education beyond
hearing her parents sometimes drop a few words of quiet submission
to). the Maker ©



48 es EEE ROBE Ol ae Aa rinua Nie

“These people are so different from us, that it is really hard
to take any interest in them,” said Margaret pertly. ‘We have
nothing in common.” (I don’t blame Margaret for saying so, for it
was what I myself was thinking.)

‘“Haven’t you?” asked my uncle. (I should be sorry to
think so.) “T fear the superintendent who had managed the
estate before my time had thought as you do. For when there
was some special festivity going forward, or when, owing to
someone forgetting an order, that gentleman’s supply of beer
or brandy ran ‘short, he had been inthe ‘habit of despatching
Ramaswami, and“before he had» had time to take his evening
meal after his hard day’s work, to walk ten’ or twelve miles to a
neighbouring . village store, and come~back again all the long
distance with a heavy. burden of goods on-his back.”

‘‘T-should: think they hated him,” I said: ‘And before they
knew better they must have hated you, uncle, ‘thinking you would
- do the same.’ eh eo *

‘They are not qaek to hatred. or resentment, girls,” answered —
Uncle Ronald. ‘They must’surely feel -some deep peace and _
pleasure in their monotonous lives, which: looks so hard’'and bare to
us, for they seem to think that the pittance they earn’ by such |
unceasing toil entitles: the master who pays it to great reverence and
much love. -I remember once taking Ramaswami himself, and _
some other -coolies with me, on: a-.shooting expedition. I had my
own savoury food, . which ‘they: carried for me, and they took their
own rice,.and th ire own cooking: utensils, that they might be quite
independent of any low-caste or~other ‘unclean’ assistance. We
managed to lose ourselves. I soon got through my sandwiches,
and then the cookes would not touch their rice, but reserved it
wholly for my use—in case we were long in striking the right
track—cheerfully starving themselves to spare me from the risk of
hunger.”

‘““That was very nice of them,” Margaret admitted. “But
what do you mean by saying that they took care to be ‘ independent
of low-caste assistance?’ Surely such miserable creatures as





LIVELY ANTIC



LPATIONS.



THE ROBE OF A HEROINE. 49

those you have been telling us about must be very ‘low-caste’
indeed !”’

‘¢So much for your ignorance!” returned my uncle. ‘ Ramas-
wami and his wife both belonged to a high-caste. Of course there —
were some low-caste people among the coolies themselves, and
from these the others would keep apart, even at the greatest
inconvenience. Let me tell you that caste is not the unmitigated
evil some of your goody books make you think it is. You may
be sure that every old and wide-spread custom has some good at
the bottom of it! Caste does this at least—it gives a feeling of
respect, apart from money or mere pomp. There are millionaires
among the natives, in whose houses poor Ramaswami would neither
eat nor sit down, because no wealth could buy them out of their
low-caste. But on the other hand, caste may be always broken
that an act of mercy may be shown to a low-caste man. A noble
of the highest caste will pick up and tend an out-caste beggar,
and then go through a ceremonial by which he retains his own
caste. There may be something foolish in all this. There may
be a better way. Every nation’s customs are open to improvement
—even some of our own!”

‘‘ But you haven’t come to the heroine yet, uncle,”’ I ventured to
suggest.

‘‘Tam coming,” he said. ‘‘ I had seen little Perali often, and
I had spoken to her once or twice, by which I believe I had won
her heart. But I feel certain that what she did, she would have
done anyhow.

“You must know, that on the estate I am telling you about
we had to pulp the coffee berries by the aid of water-power. For
this purpose the proprietor had built a large embankment, whereby
to store water, for in the dry season the stream which turned the
water-wheel got’so low that its force was insufficient.

‘‘In the wet season, on the contrary, the tank formed by the
embankment used to fill so rapidly, that to prevent the weight of
water from bearing down the bank, we constructed a sort of trap-
door, or sluice, which not only allowed the superfluous water to escape,



50 THE ROBE OF A HEROINE.

but diverted its course. This precaution had been taken especially
in the interests of my bungalow and the store, which were situated
below the tank.

‘One day, when a number of coolies were working in the store,
and I was sitting in my bungalow, with my old Snap for company,
I saw with great horror that the tank had begun to overflow. I
divined at once that either the storekeeper had neglected to attend
to the trap-door, or that some unforeseen obstacle had blocked it up.
But I saw too late—too late it seemed even to save ourselves, for by
the time any of us could climb to the tank, the embankment would
have given way, and we should be overwhelmed by the mighty flood.
I could hear the coolies in the store—all unconscious—singing at
their work, and though I could not save them, I thought I would
spare them the horror of a sudden death. I went and shouted to
them of their danger ; and Snap went too, and barked, and cowered
beside me, as if he saw what was coming. Then he suddenly
darted from me, running madly up the hill. As I looked after him,
Margaret, I observed a girl just about your age, clambering through
the streaming water, towards the bulging, breaking embankment.
It was little Perali! who had been at play on the hillside, and had
seen what was wrong before I did. The water was already nearly
too much for her to combat easily, but she struggled on and reached
the trap-door, and steadying herself by the woodwork, pulled
frantically at the peg which secured the trap. Every moment
seemed an age to us, watching below, but at last the door flew open,
and with mighty force the flood rushed out into its proper channel.
And we were saved !

‘But Perali was drowned. In her supreme and successful
effort at loosening the peg, she overbalanced herself, fell into the
water, and was swept away—out of our sight—beyond our reach—
before her father’s eyes.

‘“We could not even find her body till next day; though men
went out with torches, and sought for her all night. We found her
at last, brought to rest beside a great mossy stone. The wooden -
peg was still clutched in her little brown hand.



THE ROBE OF A HEROINE. 51

‘They brought her
back.to the hut in the
lines. They wrapped her
in a winding sheet—I sent
down my finest damask
table cloth ; it pleased the
poor mother, and that was
the most I could do.
‘They placed her on a
simple bier made of
boughs and decorated
with banana leaves.
Then they blew blasts
on a conch—that shell
being the appropriate
trumpet for these
occasions, and to this
wild music the little
procession of neigh-
bours formed. We
wended our way toa
neighbouring _ field,
and there we buried the little maiden who had died for us all.
For a day or two the weeping mother carried out Perali’s accus-
tomed portion of food and laid it on the grave—the pathetic
superstition being that the dead is not yet so wholly separated from
earth, as to be able to go without some nourishment !

‘‘But as they had made the grave level with the earth, it was
soon lost to sight beneath the abounding vegetation. What could
I do to show my gratitude? I took her brother into my service, and
I begged to keep as a sacred relic the little garment in which she had
gone to die for us.”

‘“Was Perali the sister of Viren ?” I asked, in a subdued
voice. ‘‘ Yes,” said my uncle. “And let me tell you Viren would
‘act likewise on occasion.”










52 THE ROBE OF A HEROINE.

‘‘T don’t suppose Perali thought she would have to die when

she went up,” suggested Margaret, in a subdued voice.
_ “J don’t suppose she thought of herself at all,” said my uncle.
«She thought only of what ought to be done. That is the beauty of
it! I hope, Meg, you are no longer quite so sure that you have
nothing in common with such people !”’

We both stood with tearful, downcast eyes. Then Uncle Ronald
broke into a loud and hearty laugh. ‘‘ Well, girls!”’ said he, ‘ it
seems there are some people who can’t see anything to admire or
to value in anybody till he or she is killed. My story is quite true
up to the pulling out of the peg of the sluice. Then I put in the
pathos that ‘might have been.’ Perali is not dead. She not only
saved herself, but when she saw Snap she caught him up and came
back with him under her arm. Perali still lives in the ‘ lines’—
now the happy mother of half-a-dozen boys and girls.”’

And then we all went into the parlour, where the dogs were
watching my uncle’s table with interested eagerness—Snap seated
on his chair. ‘Now you all know!” said my uncle, addressing
his favourites, as he pushed them aside and took his seat, ‘‘you all
know why Snap is served first. He has shared my dangers—his.
life was saved along with mine, by our own heroine. He is the
oldest. He is the oldest friend. Here goes—Snap!”’

Snap justified his name.

Edward Garrett.







MUST begin my story by telling you that
Jessie, Roy, and I had been very ill, and
Dr. Thompson said, that we should never

get back our roses until we had been away to

the sea-side. That is how we happened to

be staying at Porthoe quite late in September,

when ee were no visitors, and the place was what Jane called
as ‘dull as ditchwater.” i

We liked it “dull,” so did old nurse who had charge of us.
She ‘‘couldn’t endure fuss and fashion,” she said. Jane liked
Porthoe better as soon as she found out that the barracks where her
brother Tom was stationed were quite near our cottage.

When we heard that Tom was in Porthoe we were almost as
pleased as Jane.

He was such a kind, good-natured fellow, that mother did not
mind how often he came to see us in London. Roy thought him
a great hero, and was never tired of looking at his medal, and
hearing Tom tell about his master the General, who had lost an
arm at the battle of Alma.

Jessie and I had our heroes too. Dave and Jerry, who went out
- nearly every evening in a fishing boat—the Sarah Fane. Dave was





54 OUR BRAVE HEROES.

an old man with white silvery hair, Jerry was
younger, and had some little children
who played ‘‘shops” in the Sarah Jane
with shell and seaweed. Jerry was very
fond of his little children, and used to
wave ‘‘ good-night”’ to them as the Sarah
Fane went out with the fishing fleet.
: <= But I shall tell you more about our
! & heroes by-and-bye.

One afternoon as we were
getting ready for a walk, Roy cried
in his funny, quick little way:

“Jane! I think I saw Tom
just now walking along the beach.
Oh do ask nurse if he may go
with us.”









\\

Nurse said ‘‘yes”’ directly
Jane asked her, although she never
would let him go out with us in
London. So as soon as we were
dressed we all scampered down the
' beach shouting, ‘‘Tom! Tom! have you got leave?”
Tom turned back to meet us. ‘‘ Good afternoon, young ladies,”
he said, giving us a real military salute.
‘“Tom, I say, have you got leave?” cried Roy, trying to get
possession of his smart little cane.

‘* Yes, sir.”’

‘Then you are coming fora walk with us. You will, won’t you,
sonar

‘* Yes, yes, children, of course he will,” said Jane. ‘* Which way

shall we go? We must make haste, I promised nurse we’d be back
by sun-down.”
“Tm going countrywards,”’ said Tom to Jane. oie

General has asked me to deliver this letter to the Countess at
Fontainbleau.”’



OUR BRAVE HEROES. 55

‘‘A Countess! Tom,” we exclaimed.

This was too much for Jessie, the inquisitive one of the family,
who snatched the letter out of Tom’s hands and read the address.

‘‘ So she is—a real Countess! and a French one too,” gasped
Jessie in astonishment. ‘‘ And do you know her, Tom?”

‘Weil, I’ve seen her,” said Tom, “ for she visits the General
sometimes. I’ve heard him say she came over here during the
French and German war, and has lived in England ever since with
her daughter Madomoselle ‘ Tornet.’”’ ;

‘« Mademoiselle Antoinette,’ you must mean Tom,” and then
Jessie and I made poor Tom say the name over and over again till
he could pronounce it correctly, and until Roy cried, ‘‘ Oh, bother!
you girls play with Jane, 1 want Tom; besides, we have enough of
that sort of thing at school.”

Fontainbleau was such a long way off, that poor Jane, who
was tired and cross, said she would never have come had she known
it. We were not a bit tired, and enjoyed the walk immensely.
Sometimes Tom made us march along like soldiers. Sometimes
we had a skirmish over the fields, and Tom pretended to take us
prisoners, and sometimes we took Tom prisoner, and made him
give up his medal and his cane, which was better fun than all,
because he was a real soldier, and
so big and strong.

At last we came to
some iron gates, and Tom
said kindly: ‘‘ Here we are
at last, Janie! you just rest
on this stone, while I go on
with the letter.”’

Jane tried to make us
rest too; but we were so full
of curiosity that instead of
sitting still we got up and aE ENN OO?
peeped through the gate, hoping NS Peel
we should see Tom’s Countess. -







56 : OUR BRAVE HEROES.

What a lovely place Fontainbleau was! Jessie said it seemed ©
as though the Countess had brought a bit of her own dear sunny
France away with her, for the garden was still full of red and white
roses, and sunflowers and hollyhocks, whilst our cottage garden

_ had scarcely a blossom of any kind left.

‘This must be Tom’s Countess,” we said, as an old lady, with
beautiful white hair, came forward to meet him; and then we
wondered if the young lady walking by her side, with the sweet
pretty face, was Mademoiselle Antoinette.

There must have been some very wonderful news in that letter,
for we saw that the Countess made the pretty young lady read it
over and over again, and each time she came to the end of it the
pretty. young lady laughed and kissed the Countess, first on one
cheek and then on the other. At last they remembered Tom was
waiting for an answer, and called him, and said something which of
course we could not hear, and Tom saluted and came away.

‘* Who was the pretty young lady?” we said, as we turned
away from the house.

‘‘ Madmoselle ‘ Tornet,’” replied Tom.

Fortunately Jessie was too full of curiosity to notice Tom’s
bad pronunciation. Instead of scolding him, she said coaxingly,
‘‘ And what was the letter about, Tom dear.”

‘‘Madomoselle Julie, the Countess’s grandchild,” said Tom;
‘“‘a dear little thing they say.” oe

‘What about her, Tom?”

‘“ Why, that she’s coming over to England to-night in the Lily
of France.”

‘‘But not alone, Tom, surely?” said Jane. -

‘Well, I did hear that she’s in charge of the Captain ; anyhow
the General and I are going to meet the ship when she arrives, and
take little Julie straight home to her grandmother.”

‘“And what did Mademoiselle say just as you were coming
away ?” said Jessie.

“Only that I was to tell the General they should neither of them
go to-bed until they had darling little Julie safe in their arms.”





“A





OUR BRAVE HEROES. 57

‘Was that all, Tom?”

‘Yes; but now we had better make haste home.”

The walk back was so delightful and Tom told us such splendid
stories that we soon forgot about the Countess and her little grand-
child. Even Jane could scarcely believe we were so near home till



she saw nurse seated on the sands with her back against the Sarah
Fane, and Dave and Jerry standing by talking to her.

I’ve told you a good bit about Roy’s friend Tom, but not much
about Dave and Jerry. I scarcely know which I liked best, for they
were both as good and as brave as could be. Perhaps it was because



58 OUR BRAVE HEROES.

we were so tired, but we all
thought old Dave was kinder
than ever that afternoon. He
let us sit in the Sarah Fane and
rest as long as we. liked, and
afterwards showed us
we-> the lifeboat, and just
as we were leaving
the boat-house he
puta life-belt around
Roy, who looked so
queer and small and
helpless in it that
we could not help
laughing. Only nurse
would not laugh but
cried:
lla take it off! It’s tempting Providence to put such a thing on a child.”
‘You unfasten it mum,” said Dave. “‘Come now, try, just for the
‘saying’ as you’ve done such a thing.”








“Not I,” said nurse, and she seemed so cross and snappy,
that Jane said we'd better go in as it was already past sun-down.

That night you may be sure we slept sounder than ever.

I know that as soon as I was tucked up in the bed, I told Jane
that nothing in the world would make me wake up until morning.
Yet something did wake everyone of us. Jane and nurse knew
what the noise was directly they heard it.

“Tt’s a gun from a distressed ship,” said nurse. ‘ Hark!
boom! boom!”

We all crowded round the little window of my room that
looked out upon the sea, and listened.

Mole lâ„¢ wale Toy, ligne here a, lot of anon running
towards the lifeboat house? Yes, and there’s Dave and Jerry
dressing themselves as they go along.”





OUR BRAVE HEROES. 59

‘Flow queer for a ship to be in distress on a moonlight night,”
said Jessie.

“Ah! but there’s a thick fog out at sea, Miss Jessie; I expect
the poor ship has struck on the rocks,” said Jane. ‘‘ Jerry told me
sailors dreaded a sea fog quite as much as a hurricane.”

Before Jane had finished speaking there came a faint little
cheer from the beach, and the lifeboat was on her way to the
wreck.

‘‘ And now we must go back to bed, lovies,” said nurse. As she
kissed us and tucked us up, she whispered, ‘‘ God will take care of
Dave and Jerry, and those poor shipwrecked people too, if we ask
Him.”

Soon after I fell asleep.

The next thing I remember was seeing a bright light in the
room. At first I thought I must be dreaming, but no, there was a
light, and it came from a fire that somebody had lit whilst I was
asleep, and what was stranger still, nurse and Jane were seated
before it.

Presently I heard Tom and Dave and Jerry talking in our little
kitchen. Tom said: ‘‘ The General can’t be long now. I shouldn’t
wonder if the Countess and Madomoselle came back with him ; they
won’t rest until they’ve seen little Julie. You're quite sure ’twas
the Lily of France that went down.” :

“Aye, that I am, as sure as I saw every one of the poor
creatures go down in her, except the little gel as Jerry and me
saved.”

Then I sat up in bed and noticed that nurse had something in
her arms wrapped in a blanket.

‘‘ Nurse,” 1 whispered, ‘‘ what is it.”

‘‘Hush! you'll wake Jessie, and we must keep the room as
quiet as possible till this poor little pet’s had her sleep out.”

“Was she in the wreck, nursie?”’

Nurse nodded her head.

‘‘ Did Dave and Jerry save her?”

Nurse nodded again.



60 OUR BRAVE HEROES.

Then Jane whispered she was going to make the men some
coffee. ;

‘‘T never thought those two fishermen would be in the cottage
to-night, nurse, did you?” she said.

‘No, indeed,” cried nurse; ‘‘and I never thought I should
take a life-belt off a little child—a horrid looking thing it is too!”

Then I peered about the room and saw something lying on the
top of the doll’s house. Yes, it was the life-belt, and exactly like
the one Dave had fastened round Roy that very afternoon.

‘Hark! I can hear something coming, nurse,”’ said Jane.

We all listened, and presently a carriage stopped at the door,
and the General’s voice cried: ‘‘God bless you! you brave noble
fellows, indeed we may be proud of her sailors to-night!
Countess, these are the men who saved your dear little Julie.”

‘““Ves, yes, but where is she? Ah, I thank the good God that
she is safe!”

““Come with me, Countess. Tom will show us the way.”

In another moment they were standing around nurse, and
peeping under the blanket.

‘Yes, yes, that is Julie,” cried Mademoiselle Antoinette.
“Phat is our petite.”

‘Don’t disturb the poor little thing,” said the General.
‘Nurse says she hasn’t a bruise or a scratch, and will be all right’ in
a day or two. Come Tom, my man, we must be getting back,” and
all but the Countess and Antoinette went out of the room again.

‘‘ Good-bye, good-bye my fine fellows,”’ I heard the General say
in his big hearty voice, and as if he were shaking hands with Dave
and Jerry.

‘We've done nowt but our duty,’ Dave said, ‘‘and it’s no
credit to a lifeboat-man nor to any of us when we does that, is it
General?”

‘No, no, you're right David, you’re right. Still I thank you.
with all my heart, and so will the Countess and her daughter when
they are more composed. Good-night! Good-night!”

Kk



OUR BRAVE HEROES. 61

We never, never thought we should stay a week at Fontainbleau
and chatter French to a real Countess, and play with sweet little
Julie in that delightful old garden, yet we did, and it was all through
our brave heroes Dave and Jerry. If they had not brought Julie
into the bungalow that night of the wreck, we should not have known
the little pet or made friends with her, for of course nurse kept her
until she was quite well, and then nothing would do but we should all
go to Fontainbleau together.

Whenever we played with Julie, or saw her trotting about the
garden with her little hand in the Countess’s, or picking roses for
Mademoiselle Antoinette, we thought of Dave and Jerry, and loved
them more and more for having saved Julie from the terrible wreck.

The last time we saw her, she was making a wreath of roses for
Dave’s birthday.

We did not stay for this, but Tom sent us a paper which
‘told all about it, and about a beautiful new fishing boat that the
Countess presented to Dave and Jerry as a reward for their bravery.

I don’t think I need tell you that it was christened the Fulie,
or how proud we were of our brave heroes.

L. Haskell.









The Desert Island.

e RANDPAPA!”
Grandpapa was doing “ quarter deck” up and down
the verandah by his own especial desire, with a pipe in
his mouth, and. seemed to give no heed to the eager boy by his
side. Grandpapa had a big moustache and a long grizzly beard.
‘““Grandpapa!” said Jack again coaxingly, as he slipped his
hand into his grandfather’s.
Grandpapa took his pipe from his mouth, and faced the little
boy. ‘* Well, youngster, and what do you want?”
‘‘ Have you finished my boat, grandpa ?”’
Oh, thatisitaisat! Well, come along with me, and you shall



THE DESERT ISLAND. 63

see your boat.” And he turned his steps to the drive which ran
round the house, crossed the mossy lawn, and opened a door which
led to the poultry-yard and disused stables. Here a crowd of
cocks and hens and quacking ducks greeted their approach, and
grandpapa stepped into an outhouse, and bringing thence a bag
of grain, scattered a plentiful supply among the noisy throng.
Then throwing open the stable-doors, he led Jack into his work-
shop. A number of boats of all sizes were here; some beautifully
finished off. He was an old ‘salt,’ and since he had given up his
yacht, he spent much of his leisure time in rigging up boats for the
“youngsters.” He took up a small boat and gave it to Jack,
saying: ‘‘ Here, child; you must get mother or sisters to make your
sails for you. By-the-bye, they all come to-day, don’t they? Ah,
you'll be leaving grandad to himself now.”

‘No, no, grandpapa ; we shall come swarming round you, and
you'll take us out on the water, and’
have no end of fun with us. They are
tobe here. sby, sfour so clock, @ome:.
grandpapa, now to the ‘Colony,’ and
see if everything is ready for them.
Aunt Margaret has a basket of jams
for me to carry there, and she is coming
with flowers and things.’

‘There! there! your aunt is calling *
you. Be off with you!” asa voice was
heard calling ‘‘ Jack! Jack!”

Jack ran to meet his aunt, who was
filling a basket with roses from the lawn.

‘*T have filled the basket for you to
carry to the ‘Colony,’”’ she said. ‘It
is in the hall, and you can amuse your-
self afterwards by the sea until I come.”

Delightful permission! Jack was
off breathlessly. First into the back
premises of the house for calico for his





64 THE DESERT ISLAND.

sails, a needle-book and thread from the parlour-maid—for Jack had
his plans—and then for a more sober walk, for he was heavily
weighted, up the long avenue of over-arching trees which lay between
the house and the lodge-gates. As he walked amid the flickering
shadows histhoughtswere full of pleasant anticipations of the holidays.
He had been sent to ‘‘ The Grove” a few weeks before, after an
illness, and had grown strong by the sea. His father and mother,
with some of the large home-party, were expected this afternoon, to
take possession of some apartments by the sea, commonly known as
the ‘‘ Colony.” Passing the lodge-gates, Jack crossed the road and
entered a somewhat grass-grown road bordered by a plantation of
firs, which led to several low-built ivy-covered houses. Leaving his
basket in the first house, he ascended, through a gate on his left
hand, to a higher level, and stood in the full glow of sunshine which
bathed the sea front. A verandah ran the whole length outside
the ‘‘ Colony ” windows, which opened on to the large tennis lawn
and sand-hills. The sea,
glittering like silver, lay
below, only separated by
_ sand-hills and beach.
This was the loveliest
part of the shore. Jack
quickly made his way to
a wooden shed
2m . upon the sand-
SE hill, where a lad of
about fourteen was
mending a net,
seated in an old
boat.

‘“‘Tam glad you
are here, Peter,”
he cried ; “I want
some sails for my
new boat, I’ve















THE DESERT ISLAND. 65

brought somecalicoand
needles and thread,”
and he emptied the
contents of his pockets
on to the sand—a
pocket knife, a coil of
string, calico. and
thread, shells and peb-
bles, and other accu-
mulations.

Peter’s face had
brightened up at the
approach of the child.
He would have
called the day
ill-spent which
did not call him
to serve one of
the Squire’s sons
or grandsons in
some fashion or other. His nimble fingers shaped the tiny sails
with a pen-knife, and they were soon hemmed and fitted into the
boat. This done, the boys found their way to a little bay where,
even at low tide, a creek might be found, and here the little
craft was launched, and gazed at admiringly.

“She's a regular beauty, sir,” said Peter; “ and now, what may
I do for you? Any donkeys wanted to-day by the young ladies and
gentlemen at the Manor House ?”

‘Not donkeys to-day, but Humphrey and I will want a boat
after tea. Do bring one for us, there’s a good Peter.”

‘‘ The tide will serve a little before seven o’clock,” answered
Peter, ‘‘and if father can spare me for an hour or so before I take the
donkeys home, I’ll bring a boat by then to your little pier.”

‘Thanks, we’ll blow the horn when we are coming, loud enough
to be heard all over Bunbridge.”







66 THE DESERT ISLAND.

CHA Rares Uk:

‘‘ Too-ra-too-ra-too-ra-too-rah!”’ rang the horn, heralding the
approach of the family party, and the boys and girls, eager for a full
view of the sea, crowded on to the sunny lawn of the ‘‘ Colony,” led
by Jack and Aunt Alice.

‘“« Hallo, old fellow, how you’ve grown !”’ cried one.

‘‘ And how brown you are, Jack,” cried another.

‘Where are the tennis racquets? I hope the cricket set has
not been left behind !”

‘‘ How’s grandpapa?”

‘‘What a delicious air! How peice delightful it is to be
here!

All talked at once, and the tumult of happiness was only eaeee
in upon by Aunt Alice begging all to make haste. and get ready: for
tea on the lawn at grandpapa’s, which invitation was too charming
to be neglected, and forthwith there was no small flutter through the
queer little rooms, and a cry for sponges and brushes, and a general
stampede from the ‘‘ Colony,” and a noisy procession through the
lovely avenue to ‘‘ The Grove.” Grandpapa stood on the lawn with
a smiling welcome in his eyes, and aunt was busy ane the cups
and saucers and tea-tables.

‘“Who’s this long-haired gypsy, and who’s this, oan ce s
this?” asked grandpapa, as the children swarmed around him.

“Tm Cara, and this is Vernon, and that is Harry.”

‘* And where is the boy who made that awful row with a horn?”
cried grandpapa, trying to look fierce.

‘‘ Here, sir!” and Humphrey stood smiling before him, horn in
hand. ‘ Shall I blow it again, sir, for tea ?”’

‘No, no,” said his mother, laughing. ‘‘ Sit by Jack and keep
him in order, or he will be in the pond in a minute.”

‘“‘T think he’ll not try that again,” said Aunt Alice; ‘‘ he has been
fished out of it twice, and did not like the taste of the mud. He has
gained experience, and we can trust him on the premises now. Tea



Sly =





So ee ee

Summer Honmays





THE DESERT ISLAND. 67

is ready, so do sit down soberly, dear children; I am sure you must
want your tea.”’

Who needed a second bidding! The children sat in merry
groups under the trees, and their elders discussed schools and
professions, as well as tea and bread and butter.

‘‘ Grandpapa,” said Jack, ‘‘ may I—— Oh, who do I belong to?
I mean, who’s to look after me now, you or mother ?”

‘Oh, I wash my hands of you,” said grandpapa.

‘Oh, then, mother, may we go on the water with Peter?”

‘‘ Who wants to go?” asked mother.

‘« J,” said Humphrey, starting up.

‘“And 11” said Cara.

‘“‘ Off with you then,” said grandpapa; ‘‘ and be steady.”

Peter was waiting for them with the boat, and they pushed off.
It was a lovely evening. Sea and sky were red with the sunset glow.

“What are we going to do to-morrow?” said Humphrey.

‘‘ Let us give grandpapa a surprise,” said Cara. ‘‘ Let us dress
up as we do sometimes at home, and sing before the window at ‘‘ The

Grove” while he is at breakfast. He won’t know usa bit. Humphrey,
you have your funny striped calico suit, and you can blacken your
face, and I will be an Italian girl playing my tambourine. And you,
Jack, what will you do?”

‘Oh, grandpa would know me anyhow, so I'll only come and
see the fun.”

‘“¢ And after that,” said Humphrey, ‘‘ we might spend the day on
the Desert Island, pitch a tent, and cook our own food.”

‘“‘ Splendid!” said Cara, clapping her hands.

And ‘“ Splendid!” cried Jack, too, as he drew his boat through
the water.

GAA ke Ie

Next morning two very remarkable figures appeared before the
breakfast-room window at ‘‘ The Grove.” One was that of a little girl
of about ten, attired in a scanty red skirt, a short black bodice, with



68 THE DESERT ISLAND.

a full white under-
bodice and _= sleeves.
Her long dark auburn
hair hung loosely down
her itaces amd: ashe
danced to the jingle of
her tambourine, while
she sang in an unknown
tonoue. | -Ehe: other
was that of a boy of



























perhaps a year older.
He was loosely attired
in a striped calico suit
and a stiff white collar.
His face and hands
were black. He sang
to the accompaniment
of a banjo, and sang
well too.

‘¢ Whoever
are these queer
Tol kcyeviacisanil:

erandpapa, as



he looked up from his letters at the unaccustomed sound of banjo:
and tambourine.

Aunt Alice rose from the breakfast table with a puzzled look,
which turned into one of great amusement. ‘Oh, the rogues!”
she said. ‘‘ Father, they are the children from the ‘ Colony,’ and
there’s Jack peeping round the corner of the house!”

Grandpapa was as much surprised as Cara could have desired.
“Well, you ave a guy!” he said to Humphrey, laughing. ‘‘ Wash
your black face, and come and have some breakfast.”

“Grandpa,” said Cara, as she and Humphrey were enjoying
their second breakfast, ‘‘we want to spend to-day on the Desert
Island.”



THE DESERT ISLAND 69

‘And where may that be ?”” asked grandpapa.

“I think you call it ‘No Man’s Land,’” answered Humphrey.

‘“And who’s to take you there?”

‘“We hope that you will, sir.”

‘Oh, indeed ; so I’m to dance attendance upon you. And at
what hour will you please to go?”

‘At your convenience, sir.”

‘““And auntie, dear,” cried Cara, ‘will you lend us a sheet and
poles for a tent ?”

‘“Things promise to be lively for us through these holidays,”
said auntie, smiling at grandpapa.

‘And are you going to starve on your Desert Island?” asked
grandpapa.”

£7 By no means,
hope to feast.”

‘Well, go home, you scamps, and make yourselves decent ;
and be here by eleven o’clock. I daresay your aunt will prepare
your feast for you, and I’ll take you to the Creek.”

‘Thank you, grandpapa; thank you, auntie. I have pleasant
aunticipations !”” and the merry boy was off.

On reaching ‘‘ The Grove,” and putting off their disguise, they
found that mother was out, and the elder girls were at tennis with
their brothers.

‘Please tell mother,” said Humphrey, ‘that grandpa will see

?

returned Humphrey. ‘On the contrary, we

TORUS

The children’s preparations were soon made. Humphrey took
his horn, Jack his boat, and Cara a book to read.

Grandpapa was ready for them, and the gardener carried the
basket of provisions to the boat, with the sheet, and poles, and rugs—
and they started. The island lay some distance up the Creek, and
was a favourite spot with the children. It was a long strip of
beach, terminating in a rocky mound. At high water only the
mound was visible. There were pretty woods on each side of the
Creek, full of wild flowers.

‘‘T shall come for you at four o’clock,” said grandpapa. ‘‘Not



70 THE DESERT ISLAND.

later, for the current is strong towards high water. Keep out of
mischief, or poor grandpapa will get into trouble. Humphrey,
you'll take care of the little one.”

‘‘ Yes, grandpapa ; won’t you dine with us?”

‘No, thank you; not while I’ve a table to put my legs under,”
and grandpapa pushed off.

CHAPTER ry:

Tue children had fine fun. They pitched their tent and unpacked
their basket. Auntie had packed it with a generous hand, and the
sea air inclined them to do justice to the sandwiches and cakes
provided for them. Then Jack launched his boat, Humphrey
spread rugs on the sand for Cara to sit upon, and threw himself on
the ground to rest. Cara began to read ‘‘ Hiawatha”’:

«* Should you ask me whence these stories ?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odour of the forest,

With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
With their frequent repetitions

And their wild reverberations ?”

The soft summer warmth, the lapping of the waters upon the
beach, and the voice of the reader lulled the listeners to sleep, and
Cara herself grew drowsy, and fell off into a light slumber.

They were roused by the fresh breeze which sprang up with the
incoming tide. Humphrey started up.

‘““* Minnehaha, Laughing Water!’” he cried. “ Cara! Jack!
The tide is coming up, we must furl our tent; grandpa will be here
directly.”

‘And the basket must be packed,” said Cara. ‘ How lazy we
have been.”

Humphrey looked uneasily at the advancing tide, and Jack
shivered. ‘I wish grandpa would come,” he said. ‘Blow your
horn, Humphrey; three blasts for danger.”

Three times the blast of the horn sounded over the Creek.



THE DESERT ISLAND. 71



‘“Oh, grandpapa won't forget us,” said Humphrey cheerily.
“Come, I'll wrap you and Cara in these rugs, and you shall sit on
the mound and watch for the boat.”

Still the tide crept on and on.

‘‘ Blow your horn again; three times again
trembling. ‘‘ Grandpa wouldn’t forget us, would he?”

‘No, no,” said pale little Jack; ‘grandpa wouldn’t forget

”

us.

1?

cried Cara,

No, grandpapa had not forgotten them; but he was un-
expectedly called away on business, and gave orders in a most
anxious and particular manner to the gardener to get Roberts, the
boatman, to fetch the children at once. There was a misunder-
standing somewhere—‘‘ Someone had blundered.” But grandpapa
was at that moment hastening as fast as years would permit towards
the ‘‘ Colony,” to see if all was well. And Peter heard those
“three blasts for danger,’ and thought of the children at the
Creek; and, fearing he knew not what, was hurrying to the same



72 THE DESERT ISLAND

spot, where he found Mrs. Moore and Aunt Alice pacing the lawn in
much anxiety, wondering at the prolonged absence of the children.

‘‘ Are the young gentlemen at the Creek, ma’am?” he asked.

‘“Yes; Roberts went to fetch them at half-past three.”

‘I saw Roberts in the village just now,” said Peter, looking
troubled.

‘Get a boat quickly, and go to the Creek!” said He Moore

Peter was gone in a moment.

‘Call for me at our jetty as you pass, Peter!’ Aunt Alice
called after him.

Peter flew over the sand-hills to the beach. He found Roberts
and his boat, and they pulled hard for the Creek, staying only a
moment to take Aunt Alice with them. The tide bore them
swiftly to the children. The water had nearly reached their feet.
Humphrey’s arms were thrown around his brother and sister.
Aunt Alice’s brown eyes were full as Peter placed Jack in her arms,
and Humphrey and Cara nestled silently to her side. Rowing back
against the current, which was swift and strong, their progress was
but slow. It seemed so especially to the anxious party, not yet in
sight, who were waiting on the pier—father, mother, grandpapa,
and children.

‘“May I blow my horn, auntie, to tell them we are near?”
asked Humphrey. And the cheery sound rang merrily over the
water, and was answered by a loud ‘“‘ Hallo!” from father and
grandfather.

And now the boat nears the pier.

“It was a good thing you had your horn with you, Master
Humphrey,” said Peter.

‘Tt was a good thing we had a Peter to hear the horn,” said

Jack drowsily. ‘‘ Dear Peter!”
Clara Thwaites.



My Dear Dolly.

- ID you ever see such a
D cosy darling of a doll?”
Kathleen exclaimed, as

she held up her new dolly.

“Tt is a sweet, bonnie pet,”
es) said. Nosie.37( and: how. daimtily,
=~ erandma has dressed it!”

= ‘‘T wish every day was a birth-
— day or a Christmas or something
as nice,’ continued I
“Tf all days were holidays, the
play days would soon lose their
charm,’’ her Mamma said.

Cousin Rosie had brought a box |
of paints for Kathleen, Laura gave
= ier a silver thimble, and what do

you think cousin [Freddie brought ?

Something in a box which he set on

the floor, saying: ‘I know you like
dollies better than anything else, so I’ve brought you a doll also.”

‘“‘Tt’s a Jack-in-the-box, I do believe,’ Kathleen said, almost
afraid to come near.

‘It’s better than that,” Freddie replied ; and opening the box
he took out a real Old Aunt Sally.

How the children shouted and laughed when he set it up and
began trying to throw rings on her stubby little pipe.

‘“What a commotion!” sister Evelyn said, coming in with




jit!

if

SO



74 MY DEAR DOLLY.

her sweet, smiling face. The
children all ran to greet her,
for she was seldom at home
now, being a nurse at the
Children’s Hospital in the
city.

‘“‘T’m so glad you’ve come
home in time for my party,”
Kathleen said. ‘‘ What do
ee a = ~ you think of my new dolly ?
It came all the way from Bonnie Scotland from grandma, with some
real oat-cakes for our tea.”

‘““T think it’s just lovely!” sister Evelyn said, bending down to
kiss her little sister. ‘It looks as neatand as bonnie as grandma
herself, and has such a sensible face; I’d like to take it with me to
the hospital.”

‘“T couldn’t spare it. Come and see my other birthday presents.”

‘Dolls are stupid things. I wonder girls think so much of
them,” Freddie declared. ‘ Come and play circus, cousin Evelyn”;
and the little boy climbed right up to her shoulder, where he perched
as jauntily as you please, and kissed his hand to the little girls
below in a charming manner. Evelyn swung him round with one
foot resting on her arm. Then she turned him over and over in her
strong hands just like an acrobat, and was going to pop him right
up the chimney when the tea bell rang, and they all went into the
dining-room.

After tea the little girls undressed the new dolly, and Kathleen
pretended to rock her to sleep, singing for lullaby—



Little birds at sunset seek their cosy nest,
Little baby slumbers on dear mother’s breast.
Mother sings so softly of a golden tree,
Baby sleeps so sweetly, cosy as can be.

‘“Hush, Freddie!’ she whispered, as the little boy would
persist in standing on his head or turning cart-wheels round the
room. “ You will waken my baby ; we must play very quietly now.”



Yee DARD OWE Tye 75

pelle ms a stony, cousin
Evelyn,” Rosie demanded.

Ss isO. tinea, my dear 1
came home to get a little rest, and
here you’ve kept me going just as
though you had oe
hired me out for
thie evemimne,::
Evelynsaid; but
slic was | too
good-natured to
resist long.

“* Oh, do tell

us a story—that







won’t tire you—
a story about
fairies, or about
nice little girls
with pretty dol-
lies,” IJSathleen
entreated, huge-
ing her treasure.

‘* What about
the walittle sours
withoutdollies?”’ »

“There shouldn’t be any little girls without dollies,” Rosie said
quickly. ‘‘ Every little girl has a dolly. I know lots of girls who
have heaps of dolls.”

‘‘T know one little girl who has not one dolly—who is very ill,
and has no kind mother to give her a good night kiss,” sister
Evelyn said.

‘Poor little girl,” Kathleen exclaimed. ‘‘ Where does she live?”

‘She is in the hospital, lying very ill with a broken leg. There
was a fire in the house where she lived last week, and poor little
Lucy jumped from a window and broke her leg.”



76 MY DEAR DOLLY.

‘Does she cry?” Rosie asked.

‘“Yes. She is an orphan, and has scarcely a friend in the
world. I sat with her all last night.”

‘Did you give her a sweetie kiss ?’’ Laura enquired.

“Yes; and she put her arms round my neck and said: ‘ You
are just like my dear Mamma.’”’

“And she has no dolly to sleep Wich her at night ?”

‘Nog, I wish-she had. It would soothe her, and perhaps make
her sleep. Now; little: bright. eyes, it’s-time you were all in bed.
I’m too tired to talk any more, so let me go and get a nice long
sleep so that I. may set off. early.in the morning back to the city.”
Now when Kathleen went to bed: with: her new dolly in her arms _
she fell a thinking-in this wise. ‘Suppose I were a poor little girl at
the hospital with a broken leg, and I’d no mother to come and give
me sweetie kisses at night, shouldn’t. I -feel very.sad? I think I
should, - And suppose I knew there were lots of little girls who had
dollies. and neyer cared whether I chad one-or not, shouldn’t I say
they were selfish little. eirls? 1 know I should. And it seems to me
I’m just:as. greedysand selfish as anybody if I keep all my toys to
"muse myself. T don’ t want to be’ ‘selfish, but I do want.to keep my
dolly. Mamma says ‘it isn’t real giving to give away things we don’t
‘care for. Ido care for my. dear. -dolly—she’ s such a good baby—
(giving her‘a squeeze). Shouldn’ t wonder little Lucy loves dollies
too. ’Sure she, does. eT believe: Pl. ‘send her my, dolly and some
flowers too, if 1 mamma will let me, just to cheer her up.”

The next* morning: when sister Evelyn. came downstairs she
heard a sweet little concert going on in the breakfast-room, and
stopped a moment at the door to listen. There was Kathleen in the
_ old armchair singing tq dolly.:.°She looked so pretty as she held the
dolly carefully in.one hand and in the other grasped a big bunch of
flowers which the gardener had just sent in. Punch lay at her feet,
and Polly was perched close beside her.

“Yes, dear dolly,” Kathleen was chanting, while the parrot
joined in with a low whistle or a chirp now and again. ‘‘ You are
very dear to me. I may never, never see you again, but I shall









MY DEAR DOLLY. 77

never forget you, and you'll think of me sometimes, won’t you,
darling?’’ Here a real tear fell on dolly’s bonnet, and Polly put up
her black beak for a kiss. ‘‘ Oh, Evelyn, is that you?” The little girl
jumped up when she saw her sister. ‘ Did you have a nice sleep ?”’

‘Yes, darling. I only woke up once when I thought I heard a
ward bell ring.”

‘* Were you thinking about poor little Lucy ?”

‘‘T was, dear; I hope I shall find her improving. Has dolly
been with you all night ? Did she sleep well?”

‘‘ Nicely, thank you. I was just saying ‘Good-bye to my dear
dolly.’”’

‘Where is she going? Are you tired of her already ?”

‘No, no, I want to send her to little Lucy if you will take her
with these pretty flowers.”

‘My dear Kathleen! What does Mamma say about that ?”

‘She says I
may do just as I
please. You'll tell
the little girl I’m
sending my dolly
to help to make
her better, and
give her a kiss for
me, won't you?”

Wall ace ale aaa
Why she’ll go to;.~
sleep like a top —
with dolly in her
arms, and, darling,
you shall notregret
this; ‘when my
ship comes in you
shall have another
dolly.”’

Sister Evelyn













78 MY DEAR DOLLY.

took her little sister’s lovitig’ gifts to the hospital. It would have
done you good to have seen how the poor. little. thing brightened up
when she took the doll in, her arms, and inhaled the sweet perfume
of the beautiful flowers. te What.a kind nursie you are to bring
me these lovely presents,” she. said to! ‘sister Evelyn...

‘“They®* are from my, own. Jittle -sister at home. She is just
about your age.” :

‘“T do love her for Keates so oe “When: I’m rich Ill give her
a duck of a dolly, and a big basketful of; flowers.”

Sister Evelyn laughed at this genérous promise. But do you
know it was really fulfilled sooner than anyone expected—for little
Lucy, the orphan,. was discovered by a rich . lady, to, be her own
niece, whom she had long wished to find, and when: Lucy got better ~
she went to live with her dear aunt, in a house almost as beautiful
as a fairy palace.

One day Kathleen was hee 7 ball with Punch. on the lawn,
when she saw a carriage come up.the drive. When it stopped at
$5 gi Ny ae eae Se the hall-door, a
a eee s : lady, and a. fair
.._ little girl gotout,
“ona Kathleen

a ~~~ was called in to
e- .* “receive. almost

‘prettily- dressed doll,
_andabasket of glorious
«roses, which “they had
brought for her, and
even better than these
kind gifts ‘was the love
that Lucy, gave her, for
they soon eon
great friends.
A. Hone.























| ye bs “Stay



















incre








a “. IHustrations

ah

FANNY Moopy,

AND

iS

Z (Darchioness
= Waterford.

eic.


Messrs. RAPHAEL TUCK & SONS CO., Ltd.

Young Folks’ “‘Literary”’ Prize Competition.



COMPETITION No. 2.

“SUNNY TALES FOR SNOWY DAYS.”

90 Prizes will be awarded for the best original Prose Stories on the subject of
the last coloured illustration in this book. The Story to contain not less than 300
words and not more than 700 words. E

LIMITED TO GHILDREN UNDER 14 YEARS OF AGE.
LIST OF PRIZES.

TRADE MARK.

First Prize ... Bh see a nen vee $50.00
Second Prize A a Wes ae ate 25.00
Third Prize Me an at 15.00
Three Prizes of $10. 00 each Be a Hae 30.00
Fourteen Prizes of $5.00 each ... es an 70.00
Seventy Prizes of $3.00 each ue 5 210.00

Making 90 Prizes of the value of $400.00 in connection with this Book.

0-0-0 OOOH OOOO 0 0d LOO D0 OO OETA O OE OE EOE OHO EE OE EO EE )0.0.0:97-9-3.9-0-0-¢

COMPETITION No. 2. ;
ComPeETiTor’s Coupon. Available for One Story.

SSN G eA S) OK On sehen yee east:

To Messrs. RAPHAEL TUCK & SONS CO., LTD.,
368, Broapway, New York.
GENTLEMEN,—
In accordance with the published Rules, I append entry, as per particulars
below, in your Young Folks’ Literary Prize Competition. The Story is entirely my own
composition, and I am not disqualified from competing under any of your Rules.

Signed—
Competitor's Name in full

Address

Age last Birthday (prior to October 2nd, 1893)

Countersigned by ae
Guardian, ov Teacher

Name and Address of last School
(if any).

Number of words in Story

This Coupon must be firmly pasted on back of the Story to be sent in for Competition,
See Rujes on other side,
Eee Sh (Oe eOOesS

COMPRISED IN MESSRS. RAPHAEL TUCK AND SONS’

Young Folks “Literary” Prize Competition.



Competition 1 -TOLD BY THE SUNBEAMS AND ME. 88 pp., 16 coloured illustra-
tions, boards. Price $2. 102 Prizes to the value of $500 for the best
short stories on the subject of the last coloured picture in this book,
facing page 86. First Prize, $50.00. Limited to young folks under
15 years of age.

Competition 2—SUNNY TALES FOR SNOWY DAYS. 80 pp., 9 coloured illustrations,
boards. Price $1.50. 90 Prizes to the value of $400 for the best
short stories on the subject of the last coloured picture in this book,
facing page 78. First Prize, $50.00. Limited to young folks under
14 years of age.

Competition 3—ALL BUT ONE. TOLD BY THE FLOWERS. 6g pp., 7 coloured
illustrations, boards. Price $1. 84 Prizes to-the value of $350 for
‘the best short stories on the subject of the. last picture in this book,
facing page 62. First Prize, $40.00. Limited to young folks under
13 years of age.

Competition 4—PEEPS INTO PICTURELAND. 24 pp., 16 coloured illustrations,
boards. Price 75c. 84 Prizes to the value of $250 for the best short
stories on the subject of the picture entitled ‘‘ Underneath the Apple
Tree.” First Prize, $30. Limited to young folks under 12 years of age.





RULES FOR COMPETITION No. 2.

eeeccececccccece csxKoung folks only ofcthe agecek ap years aad under.are, permitted,to, take, part.in, this, . .

Competition.

2.—To avoid complications, October 1st, 1893, has been fixed upon as the reckoning for the
last birthday, that is to say, Competitors in this Competition, No. 2, must not have reached their
fifteenth birthday before October 2nd, 1893.

3.—All Stories sent in must be the work of the Competitor alone, must be written legibly
and on one side of the paper only, and must bear a Competitor’s Coupon, which is to be carefully
pasted on the back of the last page of the Story.

4.—Each book eligible for this Competition has one Competitor’s Coupon attached to it,
which must be duly filled in, and Competitors desirous of sending in more than one entry for
Competition, must purchase as many books as they desire to make entries.

5.—Coupons may only be used in connection with the Competition in the book, the title of
which is printed on such Coupon.

6.—In no case is the book itself to be sent in with the Story for Competition, nor are the
blank pages at the end of the book to be cut out, these being intended to contain the duplicate of
the Competitor’s Story written upon them, for preservation in the book.

7-—Copies should be kept of all Stories sent in, as they cannot under any circumstances be
returned.

8.—No more than three entries in any one of the various Competitions can be accepted
from one Competitor, who cannot gain more than two prizes in any one Competition. This rule
does not prevent Competitors from taking part in as many of the four Competitions as they are
eligible for, and Prize Winners in one Competition are not debarred from gaining prizes in any
of the others.

. All Stories for this Competition must be sent in, post free, between January roth and
February 28th, 1894, addressed to Messrs. RapHAEL Tuck & Sons, 368, Broadway, New York,
having the words “ Prize Competition ” written on top left hand corner of envelope or label. :

10.—All queries in reference to this Prize Competition to be similarly addressed, accompanied
by stamped addressed envelope for reply.

11.—The copyright of the Stories gaining the first three prizes in each division will become
the property of Messrs. RaPHAEL Tuck & Sons, who reserve to themselves the right to purchase
the copyright of any other Stories sent in, for a sum equal in value to the third prize in that
particular division, within one month from the Distribution of Prizes.



N.B.—The Prizes in all Competitions will be awarded by the Fudges in the course of April, 1894, and forwarded to
the respective Prize Winners shortly after. A bound pamphlet, containing a complete list of the names and addresses of
all Prize Winners in all the Competitions, will be published at the same time. This pamphlet will also contain all the
Stories, Poems, and Selections that have gained the First, Second and Third Prizes in the various ‘' Literary”
Competitions. The pamphlet will be sent post freeeto every Competitor who encloses ten cents. festage stamps for that
purpose at the time of sending in the Manuscript.
Scaaay
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SNOWY DAYS




Tlelen ‘Marion Bu rnside.
[Nes uit,
Edward Carrett,

G@ others.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY
The Marehtoness of Waterford.
Fanny Moody.
Helen Jackson,
John Lawson,

Sc Ge
Edited by Edric Vredenburg

RAPHAEL TUCK: & ONS
London - Paris: & - New-York

TRADE MARK.

No. 902.







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£2



All about the Stories.

os ORRID winter!” cried Effie, as turning away from the
window, she went and sat at her grandmother’s feet, on
a little stool before the log fire.

“Dear, dear,” replied Granny, running her fingers through
her granddaughter’s golden curls. -‘ Dear, dear! why I thought I
heard my darling singing in the sun this morning, and laughing
down the village street.”

‘Yes, Granny, dear, but the sun goes to bed so early in the
winter, and I have nothing to do, sitting here before the fire, but
make shadows onthe walls. And I have grown tired of making
shadows.” Granny smiled and began to plait the pretty ringlets,
and murmured something about ‘‘shadows on the walls of life.”

“What did you say, Granny dear?” inquired Effie.

“T was thinking, my sweet, how cruel the winter is to some,
how many poor little girls and boys have no fire to sit before, no one
to love them ”> «Oh, Granny, not really!” broke in the child.

“Yes, really, my pet, have no beds to go to, early or late, and
have but little to eat; and I was thinking how very much more
fortunate is one little girl that I know.”

Effie did not say much more that evening, but the first thing
she remembered in the morning was her grandmother’s words. .

“ Now I wonder what I could do for others,” said the little girl,


looking out of the window after breathing on the glass to melt the
frost. ‘‘ How lovely every thing looks in the sunlight!”

Just then a robin flew on to the sill, and putting his head on
one side, began to blink his sharp black eyes. ‘‘I wonder .if he
wants to say something? I wonder if he is hungry?” said Effie.

The robin bobbed his head, and the little girl feeling sure that
she had guessed rightly ran downstairs, took some crumbs from the
bread-pan, and threw them into the garden. Down came the
robin, and a dozen other robins, to say nothing of sparrows and
many sorts of small birds, and a very good breakfast they had—such
a good breakfast, in fact, that they did not leave off till dinner-time.
The next day Effie took a bag of -bread-crumbs out with her
and strewed them in her path as she walked across the snow-covered
' fields, and wherever she went the birds followed. Effie then went
to a tiny cottage where a little friend of hers was lying ill in bed
and told him stories until it was time for her to go home.

That evening Granny, plaiting the golden hair, said that a
certain robin had told her about a little girl who had done such a
lot of good that day, and that the robin had whispered a lovely story
into grandma’s ear for her to tell her granddaughter in the evening ;
and this grandma did. And every day for eight days, until the little
boy was able to get up, the same robin whispered a story to Effie’s
grandmother, and Effie re-told the stories to her friend.

Now, Mr. Raphael Tuck and his sons came to hear of Effie,
Granny, the Robin, and the stories, and they thought them such
pretty stories that they made up their minds that other boys and
girls should have the benefit of them. So they put them into a
book, with a lot of lovely pictures, and here they are. Then Mr.
Raphael Tuck and his sons thought to themselves, why should not
the boys and girls write as good stories as a Robin can tell? And
why not amuse themselves on dark days and wet days; or, as a
matter of fact, on any other day, by writing stories for one another.

Mr. Raphael Tuck and his sons have indeed thought this such
a good idea that they will give handsome prizes to the boys and
girls who send them in the best stories, so all that you have to do
now is to read the rules in this book, write as pretty a tale as you
can, send it in, and get a prize—if you deserve one.

Edric Vredenburg.




te Tug
it y ip — Q
A os Rx |.
YL .

Alec’s Christmas Eve.

ILE school-room tea party, at Fairholme Manor, was not so

WC guiet and well-behaved in the holiday time, as when it only
consisted of Elsie, Kathleen and Vera Huntley, presided

over by their governess, Miss Vhtwick. Elsie was fifteen, and was
considered old enough (in the holidays) to pour out the tea, and
take charge of the younger members of the family, much to their
delight, for she was quite young and lively enough herself to take
part in all the fun and freedom introduced into the meal by the boys
home from school. Willie came next to Elsie, a merry boy of
nearly fourteen ; then Charlie, twelve; Kathleen and Vera, pretty,
fair-haired little girls of ten and seven. Besides these brothers and
sisters, a cousin Alec, a handsome, bright-faced boy, a little older
8 ALECS CHRISTMAS EVE.

at than Willie, was spending his holidays with
them, as his parents and two small sisters
Kerem naylnGianmloonm\liccmENit=
wick’s hair would have stood on














end had she seen the table-cloth
tea-stained, tumbled and covered
with cake crumbs and pellets of
bread, which Willie and Alec
found intense delight in shooting
into the fluffy hair of Kitty and
Vera, while these young persons,
forgetful of her admonitions, hung
over the fire, burning their
cheeks, to toast muffins and
slices of bread, and the lavish
spreading of butter and jam,
and the marvellous amount

of cake that disappeared !
‘Skating does make



a fellow awfully hungry,”

observed Alec, after his

ara seventh piece of buttered
toast; “and you always have such jolly muffins and things here.”

“The Christmas tree has come,” remarked Vera. “Such a

big one, taller than father! and I saw a great package in the hall

with Cremer’s name on it. I expect it will be dressed up for

r)

=>
This

J 24 dy

A Dw 1230 fo 9

5A. F<

to-morrow evening.

“We are going to have snapdragon in the hall, after tea
to-morrow, and mother said all the downstairs people were coming
to join, as soon as father and those other fellows come in from

oe)

shooting,” said Charlie eagerly. ‘ They are going to put out all
the lights, and only have the snapdragon fire.”

‘“ Boo—oo-o, Vera, I hope you'll hold my hand, I shall be sc
dreadfully frightened,” said Willie.

“Silly boy, I shan’t,” said Vera bravely, though her big blue
ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVEL. 9

eyes had opened rather wide at the idea, and she secretly made up
her mind to keep close to ‘ father.”

‘* Does anyone want any more tea?” enquired Elsie. ‘‘ Because
if not, we will have the table cleared, and go on with our decorating.”
Everyone was satisfied. ‘ At last!” observed Elsie, and they were
soon all busy wreathing the holly round the pictures, and preparing
garlands of evergreen to festoon round the hall, which was to be
the scene of the festivities the next day—Christmas Eve.

‘We're going to have a big dinner-party on Boxing-Day, for
all the village children, and the old people, and we shall all help to
wait on them, it is great
fun, and then they have
their Christmas tree,’ said
Elsie.

“You don’t mean to
say that you and auntie
made all those frocks and
things we were numbering
last night ?”’ enquired Alcc.

“Nearly all, we did
our part in the school-
room, while Miss Tiitwick
read to us in the evenings,




and some of mother’s
friends helped her, even Vera
made some pinafores, and
Kathleen knitted’ some socks and
Te ceni sn.

‘How jolly of you!’ said Alec warmly.
“Girls can do a lot more than boys, certainly.”
‘Boys come in useful sometimes,” answered Elsie, smiling.

“ Tying prickly bits of holly, for instance,” said Willie, sucking
his fingers ruefully. ‘ Here, Vera, Pll do that bit for you, or you
won't have any of your little fingers left to pick out the plums from

the fire to-morrow evening.”
10 ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVE.

ree a Sulihierccm theme lltocus wmctied
. Kathleen, ‘‘and it will take a year to




get all these crumbs out
of my hair, you horrid
boys.”

They all went off to
make themselves tidy to
go downstairs into the
large square hall, where
Colonel and Mrs. Huntley
and their guests were all
ready to devote them-
selves to the children,
and enter into the plans
for passing a real merry
Christmas. Thewnext
morning both boys and
girls were delighted to
see the frost glittering on
the boughs of the trees, and sprinkling
the hedges with diamonds, and the paths covered with a crisp white
carpet.

‘A perfectly ripping day for skating,” announced the boys.

‘*T vote we go down to the pond by the common,” said Willie ;
‘it’s ever so much bigger than ours in the park, and the girls can
come as we are at home, I should think.”

Permission was granted, and they soon all started, well wrapped
up in warm coats and furs, with their skates in their hands, and were
soon skimming about over the ice, where they met several friends.
The time passed all too quickly as they chased each other across the
pond, and dodged in and out amongst the crowd, thoroughly en-
joying themselves and picking up wonderful appetites for dinner.

‘The days were so short, and the sky was rather inclined to cloud
over with that pinky haze that foretold snow, that Mrs. Huntley
persuaded the girls and Charlie to remain on the pond in the park
ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVE. II

after their dinner, but Willie and Alec had made some arrangement
with the vicar’s boys, so went back to the pond by the common.

“ Don’t be late, boys,” said Mrs. Huntley.

‘“‘ All right, mother, we will be home to tea for certain,” said
Willie.

They had to pass through part of a wood on their way, and Willie
remarked that in the summer time they often went there for picnics.

‘Only farther on, of course, it is almost a forest, and so jolly
and shady on a hot day. Next holidays we'll have fun there. You
are sure to be with us again.”

‘“T hope so, unless my people are back in England; but that
isn’t likely. Mother said she would stay out two years if she could,
and then bring home Molly and Cicely,” said Alec rather sadly, as
he thought of his father and mother and little sisters.

But sad thoughts soon passed away in the excitement of the
“ outside edge” and cutting figures on the ice, and the daylight was
fast fading as the two boys took off their skates and turned home-
wards. Half-way through the wood Alec stopped, saying:

“Hark! Don’t you hear something like a child’s voice ?”

Willie stopped. ‘Yes; and there it is, little Red Riding Hood
herself,” he cried, pointing to a small figure coming towards them.
It was a little girl, not more than four or five years old, dressed in a
neat dark blue frock,:and a scarlet cloak and hood. Her pretty
rosy face was framed with thick dark curls, and er large brown
eyes brightened at the sight of the boys.

“Tallo, Red Riding Hood! Where are you going with that
basket ?’? asked Alec cheerily.

“T ain’t Red Riding Hood, and won't be!” answered the
young person with great determination.

“You can’t help yourself,” said Willie, laughing. ‘‘ You must
be, with that hood on.”

‘No, I won’t. Red Riding Hood was eated by a wolf, and I
shan’t,” said the child, stamping her little foot. “ Please will ’oo
take me home?” she added coaxingly, putting her tiny hand in
Alec's:
12 ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVE.

‘‘ Where do you live?” asked Alec, rather embarrassed by this
request.

“T’se Daisy Bright, ganpa’s little girl, and I live dere,”
answered the child.

‘“ Why, Farmer Bright lives right over the other side of the
wood,” said Willie. ‘* How is it you are here all by yourself, little
Daisy?”

‘‘T com’d to see granny, and I couldn’t find her,” said Daisy,
looking much inclined to cry.

‘Well, we can’t take her home now, it would take us nearly an
hour to go there; she had better come along with us, and we'll see
if someone can’t be sent with her,” said Willie.

But Daisy refused to turn back.

‘«T want to do home,” she sobbed, and tears trickled down her
rosy cheeks, and melted Alec’s soft heart (she was just the size of
his pet sister Cicely !).

‘© Look here, Willie,” he said, ‘‘ Ill take her home, and soon
run back before you’ve finished tea, or gone downstairs, at least.
Only mind and leave me some muffins, for I shall be as hungry as a
wolf when I come in.”

Willie, at first, did not like to agree to this, but Alec persuaded
him that his mother might be anxious if neither of them went home,
so he went off, not feeling quite comfortable at leaving his cousin,
but consoling himself with the thought that Alec was taller, and
could go much faster, and would no doubt be able to get home
before it was quite dark.

Daisy trotted along quite happily beside Alec, who held her
hand so kindly, and led her so carefully over the smoothest part
of the way. But she soon got tired, and Alec had to carry her,
and found she was considerably heavier than he had imagined. It
was fast getting dark, and a few flakes of snow began to fall which
rather alarmed him. Faster and thicker they came, and soon it
was snowing hard, and Alec stood bewildered, unable to find his
way through the blinding white veil. He sheltered Daisy as well
as he could with his ulster, and struggled bravely on a little while
ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVE. | 13

longer. But, feeling hopeless of finding the right path and trusting
the shower would pass over, he at last took shelter in a hollow tree.
Perhaps his uncle would send to look for him with a lantern, he
thought, for it was now quite dark. He shouted every now and
then in the hope of some one passing, and stamped his feet to keep
them warm, and covered Daisy with his coat; she, poor little thing, was
so tired and sleepy Alec could not keep her awake; and as he had
heard people ought not to go to sleep in the snow, this added to
his distress.

He put his arms round her and kept her as warm as he could,
while he wondered if they would have to pass the night there! He
thought of the bright fire in the school-room, and the merry party


I4 ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVE.

. lat
in the hall, and felt rather

sorry for himself, especially
/ eas i as he was hungry as well as
is fo i _” tired.

Plagne “Only if I had left
: her she would have died.
in this snowstorm,
so after all, it is a








good thing I stayed,
and it is only rather
a bore for me, and I
shall get over that
soon enough. Fancy
if it had been little
Cicely, and some
selfish brute of a
fellow had left her
to manage for her-
self—but no one
would ever do such a
thing.”

co: He could not see his.
watch to find out the time, and
it seemed to him as if hours
passed, while the snow fell thick and fast.

‘‘Lucky we found this tree,” he thought, and he was getting
very sleepy himself, when he was startled by something panting
close by. What animal could it be. A minute after he heard a
voice. ‘Hi, where is she? Good dog, good Bess, find her, seek for
her,” and a light flashed through the darkness. Alec sprang up.

“Hallo, who’s there?” he cried, and a dog bounded up
against him barking joyfully, and woke up the child, gambolling
round her and licking her face and hands. A second later a man
appeared with a lantern in his hand.

‘‘Here she be, maister, and a young gen’leman too!”’

© Malet Gh

hye
ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVE. 15

Another stouter man came hastily forward with a lantern too,
saying, as he threw the light on their faces:

‘‘God be praised! Here is my little lass safe and sound.
Good Bess, you have led us right, and I have to thank you, young
master, I see, for taking charge of my little ’un.”

Alec explained how he had met with Daisy, and was shaken
hands with warmly, and made to drink some hot stuff that brought
the tears-to his eyes and took away his breath, but sent a glow through
his numbed limbs and cheered him.

“© We are not far from home now, and the good old dog brought
us pretty straight when she once got scent of our little lost lamb,”
said the farmer, as he raised the child in his arms. ‘‘ We'll soon
have you dry and warm, sir. You must be well-nigh famished.”

“Ts it very late? I must try to get home,” said poor Alec,
wondering if his uncle would be much annoyed with him for giving
them anxiety.

‘We'll have the chaise out while you get some food, sir, and

you'll soon be home; it’s not seven o’clock yet.”

Alec felt relieved to hear this,
and was soon seated before a sub-
stantial meal in the kitchen at the
farm, in front of a glorious
fire, his feet in warm






slippers belonging to Mrs.
Bright, and receiving the
thanks and praises of the
grandparents. All the
same, he was very anxious
to get back to Fairholme,
and the good farmer
ordered the trap to be
got ready as quickly as ff
possible. al —
Alec was charmed with

the beautiful collie who had ea
Mabapfaylor “
16 ALEC’S CHRISTMAS EVE.

found them, and when her three fine little pups were brought in
for him to see, and he was invited to choose one for his own, he ,
was quite enchanted, and only hoped his uncle would allow him to
have it, and would keep it for him at the Manor.

To his great satisfaction he found, on reaching home, that the
school-room party had not yet been summoned to the hall, so his
absence had not distressed anyone but themselves, and he begged
them not to say anything about it to his aunt and uncle. Elsie was
quite sure he might have the dog, and promised to take charge of
him while Alec was at school.

All the same, Farmer Bright did not let the story go untold,
and when Mrs. Huntley heard it, she kissed him, with tears in her
eyes, Saying :

‘You good, kind boy, you are just like your own dear father.”

And Alec felt that this was the highest praise he could have had.

Florence Scannell.





































abe think you are unkind, Muriel,” said Ethel
sulkily. ‘There, I have taken such trouble to
work that book-marker .for auntie’s birthday,
and now I shan’t finish in time just because
you won’t go to the village with me!”

Muriel looked distressed. ‘‘ But, Ethy,”
she said, ‘‘you know we mustn’t go without
mother’s leave !”’

‘‘ But she isn’t here to ask!” cried Ethel. ‘It wouldn’t be our
fault not to have leave. But it is just like you. You will never do
anything for anybody unless you want it yourself. It is just selfish-
ness, and I don’t believe you love me a bit!”

Muriel did not say anything. She knew Ethel would be ‘sorry
for her cross and unjust words presently, as she always was.

‘* Aren’t you coming in to learn your lessons now?” she said

half timidly, after a little ; for though more than a year older than
Ethy, she was often a little frightened by her more determined sister.

‘J shall come in presently,” said Ethel shortly. ‘ You needn’t
wait forme. I can learn my lessons in half the time you can.”

It was quite true, and Muriel did not dispute it, for she knew
she was not so clever as Ethel. So she went in, leaving her
sister in the garden, where they had been playing with their hoops,
18 CUPBOARD LOVE.

running up and down the broad
gravel terrace, which was always
dry and pleasant when the lanes
were rough with frost or deep with

















mud.

‘‘Tt is a shame,” said Ethel
to herself, turning down to the
shrubbery. ‘I am_ sure
mother would let us go
if she were at home—
or Jane might go with
us, aS nurse is away.
But we are not such
babies but what we
could go as far as that
by ourselves. I am sure
I could go alone; it is only
two miles!”

Just then Ethel noticed that
the little gate opening out of the
garden into the side lane stood
ajar. A sudden thought struck her. Why shouldn’t she run down
by herself and get the silk? She knew the way perfectly, and she
could be back before she was missed. It was all very well for
Muriel to say that she could get the silk next morning, and finish
her book-marker in plenty of time for the evening post. You never
knew how long letters would be? She had twopence in her pocket,
and her garden hat and jacket were quite tidy. She even had her
warm gloves on, for it was too cold to be out, though only in the
garden, without them.

The temptation was too great! Ethel pushed her hoop and
stick behind a shrub, and driving away Prince, the fox terrier, who
was following her, she slipped through the gate and set off running
up the lane as fast as she could, determined to get to the village in
no time. But she had hardly reached the main road when some-
CUPBOARD LOVE. 1g

thing came scrimmaging along behind her, and there was Prince,
jumping up and down and barking with joy at the idea of a walk.
He had managed to scratch the door wide enough open to wriggle
out and follow her.

‘Oh! Prince, you naughty tiresome dog!” she exclaimed. “Oh!
go home at once. You are bad and disobedient—and selfish too.
It is just as Jane says—you only care for yourself or what you can
get—just cupboard love! Go home directly!”

But Prince did not seem to consider himself bound to obey his
young mistress, but went careering along, interviewing every dog
he met, and they were unusually numerous, or so it seemed to Ethel.
Indeed, the road, which was quiet enough generally, was quite
thronged this afternoon, and by people who all knew Ethel, and who
all looked rather surprised to see her out alone. Dr. Carter passed
in his gig, and Mrs. Johnson, the rector’s wife, almost drew up her
pony carriage as if to speak to her, only Ethel hurried on, turning
her head away after she had bestowed what she meant to be a
dignified bow on the lady. Then Prince had a squabble with a little
Skye terrier, and Ethel
was obliged to go and
extricate him, so that
by the time she reached
the village she was
feeling quite hot, and
vexed, and tired.

But the worst
blow came when she
reached the fancy shop,
for as she asked for the
silk, Mrs. Brown, the
shopwoman, cried out:

‘“Oh, Miss! I am
so sorry! Your mam-
ma has been in for it,
and I hadn’t got the


oO CUPBOARD LOVE.

shade. The parcel I expected hasn’t come in; but your mamma
was going on to Driffield, she said, and she would try there. But
you are not alone, are you, Miss ?”’

Ethel mumbled some rather unintelligible answer, and ran out
of the shop. At the same time, to her further dismay, she heard the
church clock strike a quarter-past three, and. she knew she must
have been gone more than three-quarters of an hour.

‘‘T know,” she thought to herself; ‘I will go across the fields
back. It is ever so much nearer than the road, and it won’t be
muddy to-day, everything is so hard frozen. Then, too, I shan’t meet
anybody who wants to ask questions. But—but I wish I hadn’t
come. I never thought mother would remember about the silk!”

Poor Ethel. She had not gone far across the fields before she
wished more than ever she hadn’t come; for, though the path was
not muddy, it was so slippery that instead of saving time she had to
walk so slowly that it would have been quicker to go round by the |
road. Moreover, she remem-
bered that these same fields

skirted along by some
woods full of game, and

that her father always
was careful to call
Prince to heel when
they went across
them. Whereas
now, there
was that
unfeeling
dog tear-
ing round
and round
them like a
mad thing, yapping
and barking, and
paying not the least











CUPBOARD LOVE. 21

heed to Ethel’s repeated calls.
At last, just as she mounted
on to the third style, which
was always a very awk-
ward one, and now more

so than ever from being
coated with hoar-frost,

she saw Prince, as she
thought, disappearing
into the thick of the
hedge.

“Prince se mnce! ”
she shrieked—and then
—she never quite knew
how—she missed her footing,
and tumbled all of a heap on to the frozen ground. For a moment
she did not know where she was. A general display of fireworks
seemed to be taking place, and then it was quite dark for a minute.
When it got light again, she was conscious of a pain in ‘her head;
and when she tried to move, of a very much bigger pain in her
foot and ankle—in fact, so big a pain that she was quite unable to
stand up, but fell back with a cry of anguish every time she tried to
do so. She also became aware that it was dreadfully cold, and
that her arms and legs were growing quite numb, when all of a
sudden she. felt, with a sort of sob of joy, a little warm tongue licking
her face, and there was Prince, looking extremely surprised to find
his little mistress lying on the ground.

‘‘Oh! Prince, Prince,” sobbed Ethel. ‘‘ What shallI do? I
shall lie here and die, for nobody comes this way after dark!
What shall I do!” |

Prince wagged his tail. He did not seem to have any answer
ready.

‘Oh! Prince, go home,” said Ethel. ‘Go homc—go home—
and tell them where I am!”

Prince looked puzzled a minute longer. Then a light seemed









22 CUPBOARD LOVE.

to break in upon him, for he trotted off a little way, then he
stopped and looked round, as if asking if that was right!

‘Yes, yes,” cried Ethel, ‘‘ good doggie, go home, go home”
and to her immense joy Prince seemed really to understand, and
trotted off along the footpath.

Meantime at home Ethel had been missed at last. When
Muriel went in she went first to her practising; but when her
three-quarter’s of an hour were over she ran upstairs expecting to
find Ethel in the schoolroom. To her great surprise she was not
there! Muriel ran down again, and looked in all the sitting-rooms
—but no—no Ethel! She went into the kitchen, but neither Eliza
nor Jane had seen her. Then Muriel put on her hood, and ran
down the garden, where at last she caught sight of Ethel’s hoop and
stick, and also of the half open gate. Then the terrible truth
flashed upon her.

‘“Oh, how naughty!’’ she gasped. ‘She must have gone
alone.”’

She came back into the house, looking quite pale and frightened,
and there met Jane in the hall, her sewing in her hand.

‘“‘ Have you found her, Miss?” she said.

“No,” said Muriel; ‘‘but oh! Jane, I am afraid she has gone
down to the village to get the silk for the marker. She wanted to
go; and here is her hoop, and the garden gate is open.”’

Jane looked much disturbed. ‘I think I had better go and
look after her, Miss,’”’ she said. ‘‘ Mistress will be so vexed at her
being out alone; and besides, it is beginning to get dusk.”

“Oh! let me go with you,” cried. Muriel; ‘I shall be so’
miserable till we find her.”

After some demur,. Jane consented, and the two started off,
hoping every moment to see Ethel’s little figure coming through the
grey wintry twilight; but they reached the village without meeting
her, though they soon learnt from Mrs. Brown that she had really
been there. |

‘« She must have gone home by the fields,” said Muriel.

‘Oh no, never!” exclaimed Jane. ‘Why she knows mistress







OWE.

Rb IL

SNE

fo

pelo.

1D
D

te




CUPBOARD LOVE. 23



scarce ever likes you to go over those lonely fields even with nurse.
Oh! no, Miss, she would never be so naughty as that!”

‘But where can she be?” answered Muriel, who was crying a
little now. ‘‘ Do just let us go to the end of the path, Jane.”

Jane turned off rather reluctantly ; but just as they reached the
first stile, suddenly a dog rushed up to them with a bark of joy.

‘It is Prince!”’ screamed Muriel. ‘‘ Prince has been with her.
Oh! come, Jane, come,” and off the little girl set running as fast as
she could, followed by Jane, till they nearly tumbled over Ethel
lying half frozen on the grass.

Jane whipped off her own warm shawl in a moment and wrapped
it round Ethel. Then she ran off for help to the nearest cottage ;
but both the man and his wife were out at work, and all she could
do was to borrow from the children an old wooden arm-chair. Into
this Ethel was packed, and then Jane and Muriel lifted her up
between them, though Jane bore the lion’s share of the weight, and
24 CUPBOARD LOVE.

carried her slowly along, in what Ethel felt, through all her pain,
to be an ignominious and Guy-Fawkes like manner. It really was a
solemn and melancholy little procession wending along the darkening
and now-deserted high road, Prince going first with a sedate and
low-spirited air, as if he quite understood the seriousness of the
occasion, and then sitting down and waiting patiently whenever Jane
and Muriel had to pause and rest a little. Of course, just because
they would have been glad of a neighbour’s help, they met no one;
and by the time they reached home both Jane’s and Muriel’s arms
felt like dropping off, and Ethel was crying with the dreadful pain in
her leg.

Poor Ethel. She paid rather heavily for her impatience and
disobedience, for her ankle was badly sprained, and she had to lie
up a long time on the sofa. But I think she learnt a useful lesson,
for she certainly was better tempered afterwards, and not so apt
to think everybody selfish when they would not do exactly as she
pleased. And she and Prince became the firmest friends. Some-
times she begged to be allowed to give the doggies, Prince and

Spot, their dinner, and though
Prince was often the more
eager and impatient of the
two, I fancy he usually
got the best bit, because,
_as Ethel said, she knew
his love was not all cup-
board love, for hadn’t
he tried to comfort
her in her trouble, and
been so clever as to
go and find Jane and
Muriel, and tell them
where she was that
dreadful afternoon.






M. A. Hoyer.


Ltaddie.

HEIR names are Dandy and Laddie,
You love them dearly, you say—
But Laddie’s the one who follows
And guards you the live-long day.
Do I love doggies ? you ask me
With eyes that so fain would trace
Some sign of a fellow-feeling
On uncle’s weather-bronzed face.
Why, how can I choose but love them,
So faithful, loving, and true ;
Little maid, shall I tell the story
Of one brave dog that I knew ?
26 LADDIE.

. Make room on the bench beside me,
There, lay your wee hand in mine,
And listen; Azs name was ‘‘ Laddie,”’
That dog whom I knew lang syne.
Ah, Sweet! I had ne’er been whiling
This hour with you away,
Save for my faithful collie, :
And the deed that he did one day.
Afar were the famed Huzzars, dear,
In African jungles then ;
And Laddie, brave heart, was with us,
The pet of my stalwart men.
You'll have heard of the Zulu war, dear,
You'll have read in your books, I ween,
How we fought Cetewayo the cruel,
For England, and England’s queen.
And perhaps you'll have heard the uncle,
Who to-day is holding your hand,
Was one of the little



army
Who went to that fateful
land ?
I was but just made a
captain,
And I and my com-
aay
Were camped at a lonely
outpost,
With nothing to do or
to see; ;
And the country all about
us,

With its mealies and
plains of sand,
LADDIE. 27

Wearied the eye with its sameness,
And time hung heavy on hand.
We were growing tired of waiting,
And oft we were sorely tried ;
We heard of skirmish and battle,
Where many a good man died—
’Twas before you were born, my darling—
And ere the campaign was done,



A Royal mother was mourning
The loss of her only son.
For just at the time 1 speak of,
We had heard, to our shame and pain,
The news that our gallant comrade,
The Imperial Prince, was slain.
But cheerily rang the reveille,
And blithe was the big drum’s beat,
28

LADDIE.

And Laddie, the pet of the regiment,
Barked gaily despite the heat,
As over the low horizon
' Each morning the red sun rose,
Because we were always hoping
To march ere the day should close.
You see we were tired of camping
Out there in the blazing sun,
Hearing of battle and struggle,
Where others had glory won,
Whilst we ourselves were inactive ;
For hard is the soldier’s fate,
Who, whilst his comrades are doing,
Is forced to stand still and wait.
At last came the longed-for message—
Ah, blithe was the camp that night!
And we marched in the early morning,
While dew on the grass hung bright.

All day we trudged in the sunshine—

(My child, you’ll not understand,
Who have known but an English summer,
The heat of a tropic land)—
Until in the purple gloaming
We came to a river side,
And my weary company halted
On the banks of its placid tide.
‘We would cross the ford when the day broke,’
I said. And a silence fell
On the camp, which was only broken
By the tramp of the sentinel.
Laddie was tired and footsore,
And sighed with supreme content,
As he stretched himself on his blanket
At the door of my tiny tent,
LADDIE. 29




Where I sat and thought
of my dear ones
Far off, in the old
homeland,
While the moon rose over the river
And the forest, so dark and grand.
That self-same moon would be lighting
The room where the children lay
30

LADDIE.

Asleep in our pretty cottage
O’erlooking the English bay,
I thought, as I watched it rising,
Till under its full soft light
The giant trees of the forest
Were crested with silver white.
And then I looked at the river
That rippled so gently by—
Quiet, and cool, and tempting,
Out there ’neath the starry sky.
You see I was hot and restless,
So I crept down the woody steep
For a plunge in the deep clear water
Before I turned in to sleep :
Then I thought I would find the crossing
(I can swim like a fish, you know),
And I struck through the shining ripples,
To a place where the bank was low.
But long before I could reach it,
The sentinel raised an alarm,
And I felt at the self-same moment
A stinging pain in my arm.
’Twas a Zulu lance that had struck me,
And I caught the familiar gleam
Of short sharp spears-in the thicket
On the further side of the stream.
Ere they fell like hail on the water,
. And I heard a fierce wild shout,

As the Zulus leapt from the ambush,

are rom which they had watched, no doubt,

“Our little camp by the river— .

And lit by the peaceful moon,

. Would have crossed the ford, and attacked us

That beautiful night in June.


lle ieee 9p er eet

eat

Pee





Neekin, “MAC das














LADDIE. 31

I knew that my arm was broken,
But struggled and strove in vain
To reach the sheltering thicket,
And then I was hit again ;
I shouted, but dimly remembered
The sentinel could not swim,
Then I felt a grasp on my shoulder,
And river and sky grew dim.
"Twas long ere I came to my senses,
And found myself on my bed,
With an arm and a shoulder bandaged,
And a painful wound in my head.
They told me ’twas Laddie who saved me—
That in spite of the rain of spears
He had drawn me out of the waters,
And then they hinted their fears
That the dog himself was in danger,
A spear had entered his side,
And ’twas thought he couldn’t get over
A hurt so deep, and so wide.
In spite of my wounds and weakness,
In spite of all they could say,
I rose from my bed, and hurried
To the spot where my brave dog lay.
He opened his eyes when I called him,
And lovingly licked my hand,
As he lay on the bed of rushes
They had spread on the arid sand.
Did Laddie get well? you ask, dear,
Aye, dry those sorrowful eyes,
We both got better together,
To the doctor’s joy and surprise.
And I heard how our brave advance guard
Came up with the Zulu force,
32 LADDIE.



And after a short
sharp skirmish
Hadj beat them
—butithat’s of
course—
Andwhen|Cetewayo
was taken,
And the brunt of the fighting
o’er,
We both came home to the cottage
That stands on the English shore.
Ah ! loth were my faithful comrades,
With Laddie (brave dog) to part—
LADDIE. 33

For faithful, loving, and gentle,
I ween is a soldier’s heart.
But the doggie grew old and ailing,
Unfit o’er the seas to roam,
So when I went out to Burmah,
I had to leave him at home.
I heard of his death soon after,
He pined when I went away,
Till, stretched on his old camp blanket,
He quietly died one day.
His grave is under the cedar
That stands on the dear home lawn,
Where choirs of thrushes and blackbirds,
Sing sweetly at dew-steeped dawn.
You'll love your Laddie the better,
You say while your blue eyes shine,
For'the sake of the brave old namesake,
' Who saved Uncle Jem, lang syne.
Well, that’s as it should be darling,
No friend more loving and true,
"If you treat him kindly, and wisely,
' Than a collie can be to you!

Helen Marion Burnside.
Ella’s Adventure.

E was a dear dog,
and Ella was
tremendously

fond of him. She-had
him when he was quite
a puppy, and when she —
was getting well from
the measles she spent
hours and hours in
teaching him all sorts
of tricks. She taught
him! “to. bes, and to
dance, and to die for
tHeam@tleen += samcdeaiie
learned, besides, to do
several useful things,
such as shutting the
door, and ringing the bell, and fetching Ella’s father’s slippers when
he came home tired. And the child would have been happy enough
with her dog, but for her nurses. I say nurses, for they were
always changing. Still, everything went on fairly well till that
awful, awful day when the new nurse boxed Ella’s ears. It
happened in the Square Gardens.

Ella’s winter coat was new, and white and woolly, and Spot



certainly was very muddy indeed, so perhaps there was some excuse
for nurse’s being vexed when she came into the garden, where Ella
ELLA’S ADVENTURE. 35

had been sent with her hoop, and found the child hugging the dog
in her arms. — Still, she need not have shaken Ella, and boxed her
ears as she did, for having your ears boxed only makes you angry,
and being shaken gives you a headache. Ella was very angry
indeed. She had never been slapped or shaken before, and she felt
for one moment as if she would like to kill nurse—to shoot her with
a pistol, like the bandits did in the story books; or to smite her
head off with one stroke of the good broadsword, like the pirates
used to do to their prisoners.

While she was feeling all this she stood quite still, and nurse
thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t. She had dropped
Spot in her astonishment at being slapped and shaken, and he had
crept under the garden seat. Now Ella caught him up and ran,
leaving her muff and hoop and doll on the seat.

“Naughty little cat,” said the nurse to herself, angrily. ‘I’m
sure I don’t know who’d be a nurse if they could help it. Children
always expected to be like a new pin, and you can’t turn your back
a minute but they’re down on their faces in the mud, and then it’s
all your fault. I’m sick of it all, sol am.” And she picked up the
muff and the doll, and the hoop and stick, and slowly carried them
indoors. The front door was open, as indeed she had left it when
she came out, and she went straight up the soft-carpeted stairs to
the nursery. Such a pretty room—all blue and white chintz and
pretty pictures, and a soft rosy paper on the walls. Planning the
furniture of that room had been almost the last thing Mrs. Chesney
had been able to do before the docters ordered her to take that long
voyage, which was to save her, and which did not, could not! That
was two years ago now. Since her mother’s death, Ella’s father—
who was a Member of Parliament, and had to spend most of his time
at Westminster—had engaged nurse after nurse for her, but Ella did
not get on well with any of them. She wanted her mother, and no
- one else, and often she was only unhappy when her nurse thought
she was naughty. This particular nurse had been specially annoy-
ing to Ella, for she had invented a new way of punishing—that was,
to send Ella to bed for naughtiness just at the time when Mr.
36 ELLA’S ADVENTURE.

Chesney was expected home to dinner.
So that now, Ella had not seen her father
for three days.

Nurse flung open the door, and
bounced into the nursery.

‘* Well, Miss Ella,” she was beginning
—when she stopped short—for Ella was
not there. In half a minute nurse knew
that she was not: in the night nursery. In
two minutes she knew that Ella was not
-in the house. Now, if this stupid young
woman had told her fellow servants, and
gone to the police station, there ‘might
soon have been some news of Ella; but
nurse was afraid to do this, for she began
to feel that if Ella was lost, people—her
master especially—would say that it was
her fault. So she hurried out without
saying a word to anyone, and ran, like
a mad nurse, up and down and in and
out, among the many streets about Eccles-
ton oquane, hopine to ind the: «child
looking in the shop windows. But she
could see no trace of Ella. And this was not wonderful, for Ella
had run away.



If you ran away from your nurse, whom would you run to?
Your mother, of course. But poor Ella had no mother, so she
ran straight to her father, who was, as usual, busy with the nation’s
affairs at Westminster.

She ran some distance in quite the wrong direction, and then
stopped to take breath. She was in a street where she had never
been before—it was narrower, and darker, and dirtier than any she
had ever seen. Ella’s heart began to beat very quickly. She
looked for some one of whom she could enquire the way, but there
were not many people about.
ELLA’S ADVENTURE. 37

There was an old woman sitting on a doorstep, and Ella went
up to her timidly.

‘‘ Please,” she said, *‘can you tell me the way to the House
of Parliament ?”

‘“Eh! what,” said the old woman.

‘‘The House of Parliament,” repeated Ella.

‘‘What’ll you give me if I take you ?” said the old woman.

‘T don’t know—anything you like.”

Shen comemalone,”
hand, my dear.” .And Ella gave her hand, and they turned at
once into a still narrower street.

said the old woman, “give me your

‘“T must just go in and get my best shawl, you don’t mind
that, dear, do you?” said the old woman.

ja Olivo. cee scucleeel lila
politely; and they went
through an open door, and
turned up a dirty staircase.

‘““Come in, dear,’ the














old woman said, opening the
door at the top with a big
iron key. And Ella stepped
timidly in. The next minute
the door was shut and bolted,
and the old woman _ threw
herself down on a_ broken
chair with a grunt of
satisfaction.

“Take them all
off,’ she said, ‘the
nice fur coat, and hat,
and the pretty boots.
Here — give me the
dog —I’]ll_ hold him
while you undress.”
And she caught Spot


38 : ELLA’S ADVENTURE.

so carelessly that he turned and bit her. She threw the dog roughly
into the corner with ugly words, twisted a dirty rag round her
bleeding hand, and turned to Ella.

‘‘Come, come,” she cried; ‘‘ you said you’d give me anything.
-I liked. Take off those smart things. Yes, yes—the, blue frock
and the smart petticoat, and all. And the stockings.”

With fingers that trembled very much, poor Ella undid the
buttons of her soft white coat, unbuttoned her boots, and presently
stood shivering in her under-petticoat and bare feet.

‘“Now,” said the old woman, ‘I don’t want you—I want your
clothes. I'll give you some to wear. Here—put these on.”

The old woman threw her a shabby old. skirt and shawl, which
she took from a heap of dirty rags in the corner. It was: the corner
where Spot lay growling, and when the old woman came near he
tried ‘to bite her again; but she kicked i, and he. down
trembling like, his little mistress. a

“ Now,” said the old woman, ‘“‘ come with me; and if you saya
word. to a soul while you’re ae me, I’ll come down the CLS
some dark night and eat you.”

The old woman knew well enough that she couldn’t do this,
but she wanted to frighten Ella, and certainly succeeded.

‘Come, pick up your horrid dog, and take my hand,” she added,
and poor Ella obeyed. It was some comfort to feel Spot lovingly —
snuggle down into her arms. Then the old greeny-black shawl was |
pulled over her head, and she was led into the street. It was dark
under the shawl, and Ella could not see where they were going.
They walked and walked, and rey Ella was pushed on to a
doorstep.

Sit there,” said the old woman, “till you've counted a
hundred, and then you may go home—if you can.” And she hurried
Of eee

Ella counted the hundred very slowly and conscientiously—she
was very much frightened indeed—and at the end slowly drew ‘the
shawl down off her head, and looked about her.

She made up her mind that she would not ask anyone eise the










Av UNWiuNe PUPIL.




ELLA’S ADVENTURE. 39

way to the Ilouses of Parliament, but wait till she saw a policeman.
But policemen are unfortunately rather shy of that low street where
Ella was left.

Now, Ella might have got away all right if the wicked old
woman, on her way back, had not met a young man oe as wicked
as herself. To him she said:

“ There’s a child a-setting on a step in Spray’s Rents. Says
her father’s a swell. Might be worth your while.”

‘‘Humph!” said the young man. ‘‘ Reward, eh? How’s she
dressed ? You took that bit 0’ business on, I bet.”

The old woman winked and went ey, ~ “You'll know her by
her dawg,”’ she said.

The young man didn’t ask Ella if she’d come with him. He
simply took her by the shoulder, and said:

‘Now you come along 0’ me, an’ no nonsense; an’ if you’re good
p’r’aps you'll see your pa agen, and if you don’t you won't.”

Ella’s reply was curious. She was thoroughly frightened—
thoroughly miserable. Though she was in London, she le as far
from home as though she had been in
the Great Desert, and she’d been all
day without food. She looked up at
the man, and said simply:

“Tm very hungry. Will you give
me some dinner ?”’

The man laughed—a short dry
laugh. He was a gipsy, and a thief,
but he was not all bad, and Ella’s
confidence touched him.

Vest lb willkv he cards iyou ll
promise me not to say a word to let |
anyone know you’re not my little gell.”

Ella promised.

‘““You shan’t come to no harm,”’
he said, much more kindly, and held
out his hand. She took it, and some-


40 ELLA’S ADVENTURE.

how was not nearly so frightened as she had been with the old
woman. They walked along side by side, and presently came to
a little shop where sausages and onions were frying publicly in the
window, and the smell of stewed eels and fried fish was strong as
they entered. The young man ordered stewed eels, and Elia ate
ravenously, for it was now late in the afternoon.

While she was eating, Spot sat by her on the greasy wooden
bench, and presently jumped down and begged for a share. Ella
put a piece of bread on his nose, and said “ Trust,” and he held it
there till she cried “Paid for.” Then he tossed it up and caught it
in his mouth.

‘Well done!” said the young man. ‘ Has the dawg any more
tricks ?” ;

‘Oh, lots!” cried Ella, and proceeded to put Spot through his
tricks, which were certainly as clever and as varied as those of any
performing dog who ever carried round the hat.

Ella was so busy showing off her pet’s accomplishments, that
she did not notice how all the men who were eating there had one
by one left their food and crowded round. When Spot ended his
performance by lying down and
dying for the queen, quite a round
of applause, clapped hands, and
‘“Brayvos”’ arose all round her.

The young man picked up a
saucer from the table, and wiped it
on his sleeve. ‘Here! take this
round, Wie aide | Auchowerot half-
pence fell into it. The young man
put the pence in his pocket, and he
and Ella went out together.

‘““And now,” said Ella, ‘will
you take me home. You said I
should see my father if I was good,
and I have been, haven’t I? And
kept my promise.”


ELLA’S ADVENTURE. 41



They had reached the street corner, and the young man paused
irresolute.

‘Took here,” he said at last ; ‘I won’t deceive you. I was going
to keep you along of me till your father offered a reward; but you’re
a nice little gell, that you are—and you aren't afraid of me. I'll let
you go home—but [ll tell you what. I’m a-goin’ to keep the dog.”

And nothing Ella could say would alter his mind.

“You go to the corner and ask the policeman,” he said. ‘I’m
off with the dawg. He’s worth a pound a week to me in my
profession. Here, little ’un, give us a kiss—I ain’t done you no
harm. You'll get another dawg easy, and I can’t; and I’ll promise
faithful to be good to him.”


42 ELLA’S ADVENTURE.

And he kissed her cheek and walked quickly away.

How Ella got home she hardly knew; but it seemed to her as
though years had gone by between her running away from home and
the happy moment when the policeman led her up the steps in
Eccleston Square, and she was clasped in her father’s arms.

‘Oh, Ella, how could you,” was all he said.

No more nurses came. A kind pretty young lady came instead
as governess. And when some years later Mr. Chesney married
this kind and pretty young lady, the new Mrs. Chesney did her best
to be a mother to Ella, who loved her dearly. Her great sorrow
for months after her adventure was that her naughtiness in running
away had lost her Spot.

But after six months a dirty, miserable dog sneaked up the white
steps of the house in the Square, dragging a broken cord. It was
Spot; and, oh, how Ella kissed and cried over him, muddy and
miserable as he was. As for Spot, no words will describe his delight.
I wish f could tell you all about his life with the gipsy—but that is
another story. I can only tell you that he learned one trick with him
which he has never forgotten. Poor Spot, who knows no better,
has been taught to: be a thief. That is a constant grief to Ella
and a constant reminder of her naughtiness in running away, and.
of her terrible adventure. .

E. Nesbit.


The Robe of a Hetoine.

T was a grand time
for Margaret and
me, when Uncle

Ronald came home from
India for good. Uncle
Ronald is our Mamma’s
only brother. Our own
Papa has been dead for
a long while. We can-
not remember him very
clearly. Mamma has
Often said, oor schil-
dren! what different times
you would have if he was
alive.” Yet we have
always been very happy:
You see we have each



other — and we have
Mamma. But she had only us—until Uncle Ronald came.

We were rather shy of Uncle Ronald at first. He looked so
dark and fierce, and spoke in such a quick, commanding way.

But we could not help liking him when we saw how happy
Mamma was to have him with her. And then we soon liked him for
44 THE ROBE OF A HEROINE.

his own sake too. It was as good asa fairy tale to hear him talk
about India. He used to roar with laughter at the patronising sort
of questions we asked



as if the natives were all poor ignorant
folk, who ought to be ready to fall down and worship Europeans.
He said India had got something to teach us, as well as something
to learn from us. He loved India, and her peoples. I don’t think
he would have returned to this country, but for mother’s sake.

He brought a man-servant with him, who wore a turban, and
was called Viren. But Uncle Ronald and Viren did not intend to
take up their abode in our pretty little house. My uncle bought a
tiny cottage not very far away, and executed all sorts of alterations
to make it suit some of the ideas and ways of life he had brought
from the East. The cottage was to be called the Bungalow ; it had
no upstairs rooms, and it had a verandah running all along the front.
Nobody was to stay there but Uncle Ronald and Viren. A woman
was hired to do a little cleaning every morning. Viren cooked and
did everything else.

My uncle had had a coffee estate on the Indian hills, and
had lived there with nobody else but the natives and his dogs.
He had brought home two fine fox terriers, Snap and Shot, who
were old and valued pets, and to replace the many other favourites
he had had to leave behind, he got two beautiful otter hounds.
Mamma said that “the Bungalow ” was a regular animals’ paradise.
They were free of every room, and were always in waiting attend-
ance on my uncle at his solitary meals (which I am obliged to
confess. he shared with them, which rather shocked Mamma).
But then my uncle had put down no carpets, only a few skins
and mats, and all the furniture was of a light ‘plain kind, with
very few ornaments of any sort. My uncle had brought home many
beautiful and costly curios and specimens of Indian work, but he
kept these in the great chests in which they travelled, until such
‘time as he could get one room fitted with glazed shelves, where
they could be set out as in a museum. He looked rather coldly
on the fashion of filling our living rooms with bits-of barbaric pomp
and luxury. He said that if we had Eastern ottomans we might
THE ROBE OF A HEROINE. 45

take to lolling; and we might as well at once have the Eastern
embroidered down-at-heel shoes and take to shuffling! He said
we laughed to hear how rich natives bought grand pianos which
they could not use, but it was not any more ridiculous than to
see festoons of fans hanging up in houses where fires burned all
the year round !

Margaret and I noticed that my uncle never talked about the
rajahs and the wealthy Hindoos, of whom we hear so much from
so many writers on India, who tell you all ina breath about their
magnificence and their cruelty, their wonderful politeness to their
foreign guests, and their arrogant tyranny over their own people.

Uncle Ronald rather spoke of the poor coolies and the
humblest labouring classes, how little they lived on, how hard
they worked, how fond they were of their little children, how
patiently they bore wrong, how thankful they were for kindness,
with what fortitude they bore pain, and how bravely they died.

We knew that he had many beautiful native dresses, and
quantities of rich em-
broidery among his
treasures, and he
always laughed at
the zest and curi-
osity with which
we looked for-
ward to seeing
these ‘ gauds,”
as he called
them. At last
we teased him
about them so-
much, that he
said fo us: “If
you come over
to the bungalow
to-morrow morn-


46 THE ROBE OF A. HEROINE.

ing, I will show you something far more precious than any of .these.
For I think even you frivolous girls would rather see the robe of a
heroine than a mere fine frock!”

‘““The robe of a heroine!” we echoed. ‘Had he ever told us
about her.”

“No,” he said, “he~ had never yet mentioned her. But
when we came he would not only show us her dress, but he would
tell us all her family history and the story of her heroism.”

After we went to bed that night, Margaret and I amused
ourselves with trying to guess what the heroine had done, and
what her robe would be like. Margaret said she felt sure she had
been a Begum, who had raised troops to help the English at the
time of the great Mutiny, and that her robe would ‘be of silk,
stiff with pearls and gems. But I thought she might have been
that Rajput woman,
who let her own child
be slain and then slew
herself, sooner than be-
tray the young prince
who had been trusted
to hers keepine. = and
if so, then her robe
might be but of simple
muslin, exquisitely em-
broidered.

Next morning, when
we arrived at the bunga-
low, we told our guesses
to Uncle Ronald, who
only shook his head, and
making a queer grimace,
opened one of his huge
trunks, and held up be-
fore our astonished eyes,
a piece of coarse sack-


THE ROBE OF A HEROINE. 47

ing, whose rude shaping revealed that it had once clothed a
human form !

‘Ts that the heroine’s robe!” cried Margaret, contemptuously.
‘QO, then, it must be what she wore in prison, or in exile.”

‘‘Tt is what she wore every day of her life at home!” said my
uncle, in that peculiarly even tone he always employs when he
wishes to mock at any of our follies. ‘‘ And it was well adapted for
her purposes, for my heroine, whose name was Perali, was the
daughter of Ramaswami, one of my coolies, and she lived in what
are called ‘the lines,’ long mud erections, the front wall lower
than the back one, and the whole roofed by sticks overlaid with
thatch. Her own particular home was only about six feet in depth,
by ten in width, and Ramaswami’s family was no smaller than
coolies’ families generally are. The floor of the house was
earthern, and there was no furniture to speak of—nothing to
correspond even to the humblest ‘ sticks’ of a British hovel.”

‘““ Why, they must be mere pigs !”’ said Margaret.

My uncle took no notice of the remark.

He went on: ‘“‘The father and the mother, and as many
of the children as were old enough, went into the fields to work at six
o'clock every morning. At mid-day they took a meal where they stood,
having carried it with them in a handkerchief, and then they went
on with work again till about five o’clock in the afternoon. Their
labour was seldom stopped, either for great heat or for pouring rain.
When they came home they had another meal, lounged about and
gossipped for a little while, and then went to sleep. Their only —
food was rice, with sometimes’the relish of a chili or a bit of dried
fish. The mother wore some silver bangles and nose rings and
earrings, and had no other possessions save a few earthenware pots,
or ‘chatties,’ which, according to Hindu custom, she broke and
renewed every year. ‘There was no school on that estate (it was
where I was superintendent when I was a very young man), and I
don’t suppose my heroine had any religious education beyond
hearing her parents sometimes drop a few words of quiet submission
to). the Maker ©
48 es EEE ROBE Ol ae Aa rinua Nie

“These people are so different from us, that it is really hard
to take any interest in them,” said Margaret pertly. ‘We have
nothing in common.” (I don’t blame Margaret for saying so, for it
was what I myself was thinking.)

‘“Haven’t you?” asked my uncle. (I should be sorry to
think so.) “T fear the superintendent who had managed the
estate before my time had thought as you do. For when there
was some special festivity going forward, or when, owing to
someone forgetting an order, that gentleman’s supply of beer
or brandy ran ‘short, he had been inthe ‘habit of despatching
Ramaswami, and“before he had» had time to take his evening
meal after his hard day’s work, to walk ten’ or twelve miles to a
neighbouring . village store, and come~back again all the long
distance with a heavy. burden of goods on-his back.”

‘‘T-should: think they hated him,” I said: ‘And before they
knew better they must have hated you, uncle, ‘thinking you would
- do the same.’ eh eo *

‘They are not qaek to hatred. or resentment, girls,” answered —
Uncle Ronald. ‘They must’surely feel -some deep peace and _
pleasure in their monotonous lives, which: looks so hard’'and bare to
us, for they seem to think that the pittance they earn’ by such |
unceasing toil entitles: the master who pays it to great reverence and
much love. -I remember once taking Ramaswami himself, and _
some other -coolies with me, on: a-.shooting expedition. I had my
own savoury food, . which ‘they: carried for me, and they took their
own rice,.and th ire own cooking: utensils, that they might be quite
independent of any low-caste or~other ‘unclean’ assistance. We
managed to lose ourselves. I soon got through my sandwiches,
and then the cookes would not touch their rice, but reserved it
wholly for my use—in case we were long in striking the right
track—cheerfully starving themselves to spare me from the risk of
hunger.”

‘““That was very nice of them,” Margaret admitted. “But
what do you mean by saying that they took care to be ‘ independent
of low-caste assistance?’ Surely such miserable creatures as


LIVELY ANTIC



LPATIONS.
THE ROBE OF A HEROINE. 49

those you have been telling us about must be very ‘low-caste’
indeed !”’

‘¢So much for your ignorance!” returned my uncle. ‘ Ramas-
wami and his wife both belonged to a high-caste. Of course there —
were some low-caste people among the coolies themselves, and
from these the others would keep apart, even at the greatest
inconvenience. Let me tell you that caste is not the unmitigated
evil some of your goody books make you think it is. You may
be sure that every old and wide-spread custom has some good at
the bottom of it! Caste does this at least—it gives a feeling of
respect, apart from money or mere pomp. There are millionaires
among the natives, in whose houses poor Ramaswami would neither
eat nor sit down, because no wealth could buy them out of their
low-caste. But on the other hand, caste may be always broken
that an act of mercy may be shown to a low-caste man. A noble
of the highest caste will pick up and tend an out-caste beggar,
and then go through a ceremonial by which he retains his own
caste. There may be something foolish in all this. There may
be a better way. Every nation’s customs are open to improvement
—even some of our own!”

‘‘ But you haven’t come to the heroine yet, uncle,”’ I ventured to
suggest.

‘‘Tam coming,” he said. ‘‘ I had seen little Perali often, and
I had spoken to her once or twice, by which I believe I had won
her heart. But I feel certain that what she did, she would have
done anyhow.

“You must know, that on the estate I am telling you about
we had to pulp the coffee berries by the aid of water-power. For
this purpose the proprietor had built a large embankment, whereby
to store water, for in the dry season the stream which turned the
water-wheel got’so low that its force was insufficient.

‘‘In the wet season, on the contrary, the tank formed by the
embankment used to fill so rapidly, that to prevent the weight of
water from bearing down the bank, we constructed a sort of trap-
door, or sluice, which not only allowed the superfluous water to escape,
50 THE ROBE OF A HEROINE.

but diverted its course. This precaution had been taken especially
in the interests of my bungalow and the store, which were situated
below the tank.

‘One day, when a number of coolies were working in the store,
and I was sitting in my bungalow, with my old Snap for company,
I saw with great horror that the tank had begun to overflow. I
divined at once that either the storekeeper had neglected to attend
to the trap-door, or that some unforeseen obstacle had blocked it up.
But I saw too late—too late it seemed even to save ourselves, for by
the time any of us could climb to the tank, the embankment would
have given way, and we should be overwhelmed by the mighty flood.
I could hear the coolies in the store—all unconscious—singing at
their work, and though I could not save them, I thought I would
spare them the horror of a sudden death. I went and shouted to
them of their danger ; and Snap went too, and barked, and cowered
beside me, as if he saw what was coming. Then he suddenly
darted from me, running madly up the hill. As I looked after him,
Margaret, I observed a girl just about your age, clambering through
the streaming water, towards the bulging, breaking embankment.
It was little Perali! who had been at play on the hillside, and had
seen what was wrong before I did. The water was already nearly
too much for her to combat easily, but she struggled on and reached
the trap-door, and steadying herself by the woodwork, pulled
frantically at the peg which secured the trap. Every moment
seemed an age to us, watching below, but at last the door flew open,
and with mighty force the flood rushed out into its proper channel.
And we were saved !

‘But Perali was drowned. In her supreme and successful
effort at loosening the peg, she overbalanced herself, fell into the
water, and was swept away—out of our sight—beyond our reach—
before her father’s eyes.

‘“We could not even find her body till next day; though men
went out with torches, and sought for her all night. We found her
at last, brought to rest beside a great mossy stone. The wooden -
peg was still clutched in her little brown hand.
THE ROBE OF A HEROINE. 51

‘They brought her
back.to the hut in the
lines. They wrapped her
in a winding sheet—I sent
down my finest damask
table cloth ; it pleased the
poor mother, and that was
the most I could do.
‘They placed her on a
simple bier made of
boughs and decorated
with banana leaves.
Then they blew blasts
on a conch—that shell
being the appropriate
trumpet for these
occasions, and to this
wild music the little
procession of neigh-
bours formed. We
wended our way toa
neighbouring _ field,
and there we buried the little maiden who had died for us all.
For a day or two the weeping mother carried out Perali’s accus-
tomed portion of food and laid it on the grave—the pathetic
superstition being that the dead is not yet so wholly separated from
earth, as to be able to go without some nourishment !

‘‘But as they had made the grave level with the earth, it was
soon lost to sight beneath the abounding vegetation. What could
I do to show my gratitude? I took her brother into my service, and
I begged to keep as a sacred relic the little garment in which she had
gone to die for us.”

‘“Was Perali the sister of Viren ?” I asked, in a subdued
voice. ‘‘ Yes,” said my uncle. “And let me tell you Viren would
‘act likewise on occasion.”







52 THE ROBE OF A HEROINE.

‘‘T don’t suppose Perali thought she would have to die when

she went up,” suggested Margaret, in a subdued voice.
_ “J don’t suppose she thought of herself at all,” said my uncle.
«She thought only of what ought to be done. That is the beauty of
it! I hope, Meg, you are no longer quite so sure that you have
nothing in common with such people !”’

We both stood with tearful, downcast eyes. Then Uncle Ronald
broke into a loud and hearty laugh. ‘‘ Well, girls!”’ said he, ‘ it
seems there are some people who can’t see anything to admire or
to value in anybody till he or she is killed. My story is quite true
up to the pulling out of the peg of the sluice. Then I put in the
pathos that ‘might have been.’ Perali is not dead. She not only
saved herself, but when she saw Snap she caught him up and came
back with him under her arm. Perali still lives in the ‘ lines’—
now the happy mother of half-a-dozen boys and girls.”’

And then we all went into the parlour, where the dogs were
watching my uncle’s table with interested eagerness—Snap seated
on his chair. ‘Now you all know!” said my uncle, addressing
his favourites, as he pushed them aside and took his seat, ‘‘you all
know why Snap is served first. He has shared my dangers—his.
life was saved along with mine, by our own heroine. He is the
oldest. He is the oldest friend. Here goes—Snap!”’

Snap justified his name.

Edward Garrett.




MUST begin my story by telling you that
Jessie, Roy, and I had been very ill, and
Dr. Thompson said, that we should never

get back our roses until we had been away to

the sea-side. That is how we happened to

be staying at Porthoe quite late in September,

when ee were no visitors, and the place was what Jane called
as ‘dull as ditchwater.” i

We liked it “dull,” so did old nurse who had charge of us.
She ‘‘couldn’t endure fuss and fashion,” she said. Jane liked
Porthoe better as soon as she found out that the barracks where her
brother Tom was stationed were quite near our cottage.

When we heard that Tom was in Porthoe we were almost as
pleased as Jane.

He was such a kind, good-natured fellow, that mother did not
mind how often he came to see us in London. Roy thought him
a great hero, and was never tired of looking at his medal, and
hearing Tom tell about his master the General, who had lost an
arm at the battle of Alma.

Jessie and I had our heroes too. Dave and Jerry, who went out
- nearly every evening in a fishing boat—the Sarah Fane. Dave was


54 OUR BRAVE HEROES.

an old man with white silvery hair, Jerry was
younger, and had some little children
who played ‘‘shops” in the Sarah Jane
with shell and seaweed. Jerry was very
fond of his little children, and used to
wave ‘‘ good-night”’ to them as the Sarah
Fane went out with the fishing fleet.
: <= But I shall tell you more about our
! & heroes by-and-bye.

One afternoon as we were
getting ready for a walk, Roy cried
in his funny, quick little way:

“Jane! I think I saw Tom
just now walking along the beach.
Oh do ask nurse if he may go
with us.”









\\

Nurse said ‘‘yes”’ directly
Jane asked her, although she never
would let him go out with us in
London. So as soon as we were
dressed we all scampered down the
' beach shouting, ‘‘Tom! Tom! have you got leave?”
Tom turned back to meet us. ‘‘ Good afternoon, young ladies,”
he said, giving us a real military salute.
‘“Tom, I say, have you got leave?” cried Roy, trying to get
possession of his smart little cane.

‘* Yes, sir.”’

‘Then you are coming fora walk with us. You will, won’t you,
sonar

‘* Yes, yes, children, of course he will,” said Jane. ‘* Which way

shall we go? We must make haste, I promised nurse we’d be back
by sun-down.”
“Tm going countrywards,”’ said Tom to Jane. oie

General has asked me to deliver this letter to the Countess at
Fontainbleau.”’
OUR BRAVE HEROES. 55

‘‘A Countess! Tom,” we exclaimed.

This was too much for Jessie, the inquisitive one of the family,
who snatched the letter out of Tom’s hands and read the address.

‘‘ So she is—a real Countess! and a French one too,” gasped
Jessie in astonishment. ‘‘ And do you know her, Tom?”

‘Weil, I’ve seen her,” said Tom, “ for she visits the General
sometimes. I’ve heard him say she came over here during the
French and German war, and has lived in England ever since with
her daughter Madomoselle ‘ Tornet.’”’ ;

‘« Mademoiselle Antoinette,’ you must mean Tom,” and then
Jessie and I made poor Tom say the name over and over again till
he could pronounce it correctly, and until Roy cried, ‘‘ Oh, bother!
you girls play with Jane, 1 want Tom; besides, we have enough of
that sort of thing at school.”

Fontainbleau was such a long way off, that poor Jane, who
was tired and cross, said she would never have come had she known
it. We were not a bit tired, and enjoyed the walk immensely.
Sometimes Tom made us march along like soldiers. Sometimes
we had a skirmish over the fields, and Tom pretended to take us
prisoners, and sometimes we took Tom prisoner, and made him
give up his medal and his cane, which was better fun than all,
because he was a real soldier, and
so big and strong.

At last we came to
some iron gates, and Tom
said kindly: ‘‘ Here we are
at last, Janie! you just rest
on this stone, while I go on
with the letter.”’

Jane tried to make us
rest too; but we were so full
of curiosity that instead of
sitting still we got up and aE ENN OO?
peeped through the gate, hoping NS Peel
we should see Tom’s Countess. -




56 : OUR BRAVE HEROES.

What a lovely place Fontainbleau was! Jessie said it seemed ©
as though the Countess had brought a bit of her own dear sunny
France away with her, for the garden was still full of red and white
roses, and sunflowers and hollyhocks, whilst our cottage garden

_ had scarcely a blossom of any kind left.

‘This must be Tom’s Countess,” we said, as an old lady, with
beautiful white hair, came forward to meet him; and then we
wondered if the young lady walking by her side, with the sweet
pretty face, was Mademoiselle Antoinette.

There must have been some very wonderful news in that letter,
for we saw that the Countess made the pretty young lady read it
over and over again, and each time she came to the end of it the
pretty. young lady laughed and kissed the Countess, first on one
cheek and then on the other. At last they remembered Tom was
waiting for an answer, and called him, and said something which of
course we could not hear, and Tom saluted and came away.

‘* Who was the pretty young lady?” we said, as we turned
away from the house.

‘‘ Madmoselle ‘ Tornet,’” replied Tom.

Fortunately Jessie was too full of curiosity to notice Tom’s
bad pronunciation. Instead of scolding him, she said coaxingly,
‘‘ And what was the letter about, Tom dear.”

‘‘Madomoselle Julie, the Countess’s grandchild,” said Tom;
‘“‘a dear little thing they say.” oe

‘What about her, Tom?”

‘“ Why, that she’s coming over to England to-night in the Lily
of France.”

‘‘But not alone, Tom, surely?” said Jane. -

‘Well, I did hear that she’s in charge of the Captain ; anyhow
the General and I are going to meet the ship when she arrives, and
take little Julie straight home to her grandmother.”

‘“And what did Mademoiselle say just as you were coming
away ?” said Jessie.

“Only that I was to tell the General they should neither of them
go to-bed until they had darling little Julie safe in their arms.”


“A


OUR BRAVE HEROES. 57

‘Was that all, Tom?”

‘Yes; but now we had better make haste home.”

The walk back was so delightful and Tom told us such splendid
stories that we soon forgot about the Countess and her little grand-
child. Even Jane could scarcely believe we were so near home till



she saw nurse seated on the sands with her back against the Sarah
Fane, and Dave and Jerry standing by talking to her.

I’ve told you a good bit about Roy’s friend Tom, but not much
about Dave and Jerry. I scarcely know which I liked best, for they
were both as good and as brave as could be. Perhaps it was because
58 OUR BRAVE HEROES.

we were so tired, but we all
thought old Dave was kinder
than ever that afternoon. He
let us sit in the Sarah Fane and
rest as long as we. liked, and
afterwards showed us
we-> the lifeboat, and just
as we were leaving
the boat-house he
puta life-belt around
Roy, who looked so
queer and small and
helpless in it that
we could not help
laughing. Only nurse
would not laugh but
cried:
lla take it off! It’s tempting Providence to put such a thing on a child.”
‘You unfasten it mum,” said Dave. “‘Come now, try, just for the
‘saying’ as you’ve done such a thing.”








“Not I,” said nurse, and she seemed so cross and snappy,
that Jane said we'd better go in as it was already past sun-down.

That night you may be sure we slept sounder than ever.

I know that as soon as I was tucked up in the bed, I told Jane
that nothing in the world would make me wake up until morning.
Yet something did wake everyone of us. Jane and nurse knew
what the noise was directly they heard it.

“Tt’s a gun from a distressed ship,” said nurse. ‘ Hark!
boom! boom!”

We all crowded round the little window of my room that
looked out upon the sea, and listened.

Mole lâ„¢ wale Toy, ligne here a, lot of anon running
towards the lifeboat house? Yes, and there’s Dave and Jerry
dressing themselves as they go along.”


OUR BRAVE HEROES. 59

‘Flow queer for a ship to be in distress on a moonlight night,”
said Jessie.

“Ah! but there’s a thick fog out at sea, Miss Jessie; I expect
the poor ship has struck on the rocks,” said Jane. ‘‘ Jerry told me
sailors dreaded a sea fog quite as much as a hurricane.”

Before Jane had finished speaking there came a faint little
cheer from the beach, and the lifeboat was on her way to the
wreck.

‘‘ And now we must go back to bed, lovies,” said nurse. As she
kissed us and tucked us up, she whispered, ‘‘ God will take care of
Dave and Jerry, and those poor shipwrecked people too, if we ask
Him.”

Soon after I fell asleep.

The next thing I remember was seeing a bright light in the
room. At first I thought I must be dreaming, but no, there was a
light, and it came from a fire that somebody had lit whilst I was
asleep, and what was stranger still, nurse and Jane were seated
before it.

Presently I heard Tom and Dave and Jerry talking in our little
kitchen. Tom said: ‘‘ The General can’t be long now. I shouldn’t
wonder if the Countess and Madomoselle came back with him ; they
won’t rest until they’ve seen little Julie. You're quite sure ’twas
the Lily of France that went down.” :

“Aye, that I am, as sure as I saw every one of the poor
creatures go down in her, except the little gel as Jerry and me
saved.”

Then I sat up in bed and noticed that nurse had something in
her arms wrapped in a blanket.

‘‘ Nurse,” 1 whispered, ‘‘ what is it.”

‘‘Hush! you'll wake Jessie, and we must keep the room as
quiet as possible till this poor little pet’s had her sleep out.”

“Was she in the wreck, nursie?”’

Nurse nodded her head.

‘‘ Did Dave and Jerry save her?”

Nurse nodded again.
60 OUR BRAVE HEROES.

Then Jane whispered she was going to make the men some
coffee. ;

‘‘T never thought those two fishermen would be in the cottage
to-night, nurse, did you?” she said.

‘No, indeed,” cried nurse; ‘‘and I never thought I should
take a life-belt off a little child—a horrid looking thing it is too!”

Then I peered about the room and saw something lying on the
top of the doll’s house. Yes, it was the life-belt, and exactly like
the one Dave had fastened round Roy that very afternoon.

‘Hark! I can hear something coming, nurse,”’ said Jane.

We all listened, and presently a carriage stopped at the door,
and the General’s voice cried: ‘‘God bless you! you brave noble
fellows, indeed we may be proud of her sailors to-night!
Countess, these are the men who saved your dear little Julie.”

‘““Ves, yes, but where is she? Ah, I thank the good God that
she is safe!”

““Come with me, Countess. Tom will show us the way.”

In another moment they were standing around nurse, and
peeping under the blanket.

‘Yes, yes, that is Julie,” cried Mademoiselle Antoinette.
“Phat is our petite.”

‘Don’t disturb the poor little thing,” said the General.
‘Nurse says she hasn’t a bruise or a scratch, and will be all right’ in
a day or two. Come Tom, my man, we must be getting back,” and
all but the Countess and Antoinette went out of the room again.

‘‘ Good-bye, good-bye my fine fellows,”’ I heard the General say
in his big hearty voice, and as if he were shaking hands with Dave
and Jerry.

‘We've done nowt but our duty,’ Dave said, ‘‘and it’s no
credit to a lifeboat-man nor to any of us when we does that, is it
General?”

‘No, no, you're right David, you’re right. Still I thank you.
with all my heart, and so will the Countess and her daughter when
they are more composed. Good-night! Good-night!”

Kk
OUR BRAVE HEROES. 61

We never, never thought we should stay a week at Fontainbleau
and chatter French to a real Countess, and play with sweet little
Julie in that delightful old garden, yet we did, and it was all through
our brave heroes Dave and Jerry. If they had not brought Julie
into the bungalow that night of the wreck, we should not have known
the little pet or made friends with her, for of course nurse kept her
until she was quite well, and then nothing would do but we should all
go to Fontainbleau together.

Whenever we played with Julie, or saw her trotting about the
garden with her little hand in the Countess’s, or picking roses for
Mademoiselle Antoinette, we thought of Dave and Jerry, and loved
them more and more for having saved Julie from the terrible wreck.

The last time we saw her, she was making a wreath of roses for
Dave’s birthday.

We did not stay for this, but Tom sent us a paper which
‘told all about it, and about a beautiful new fishing boat that the
Countess presented to Dave and Jerry as a reward for their bravery.

I don’t think I need tell you that it was christened the Fulie,
or how proud we were of our brave heroes.

L. Haskell.






The Desert Island.

e RANDPAPA!”
Grandpapa was doing “ quarter deck” up and down
the verandah by his own especial desire, with a pipe in
his mouth, and. seemed to give no heed to the eager boy by his
side. Grandpapa had a big moustache and a long grizzly beard.
‘““Grandpapa!” said Jack again coaxingly, as he slipped his
hand into his grandfather’s.
Grandpapa took his pipe from his mouth, and faced the little
boy. ‘* Well, youngster, and what do you want?”
‘‘ Have you finished my boat, grandpa ?”’
Oh, thatisitaisat! Well, come along with me, and you shall
THE DESERT ISLAND. 63

see your boat.” And he turned his steps to the drive which ran
round the house, crossed the mossy lawn, and opened a door which
led to the poultry-yard and disused stables. Here a crowd of
cocks and hens and quacking ducks greeted their approach, and
grandpapa stepped into an outhouse, and bringing thence a bag
of grain, scattered a plentiful supply among the noisy throng.
Then throwing open the stable-doors, he led Jack into his work-
shop. A number of boats of all sizes were here; some beautifully
finished off. He was an old ‘salt,’ and since he had given up his
yacht, he spent much of his leisure time in rigging up boats for the
“youngsters.” He took up a small boat and gave it to Jack,
saying: ‘‘ Here, child; you must get mother or sisters to make your
sails for you. By-the-bye, they all come to-day, don’t they? Ah,
you'll be leaving grandad to himself now.”

‘No, no, grandpapa ; we shall come swarming round you, and
you'll take us out on the water, and’
have no end of fun with us. They are
tobe here. sby, sfour so clock, @ome:.
grandpapa, now to the ‘Colony,’ and
see if everything is ready for them.
Aunt Margaret has a basket of jams
for me to carry there, and she is coming
with flowers and things.’

‘There! there! your aunt is calling *
you. Be off with you!” asa voice was
heard calling ‘‘ Jack! Jack!”

Jack ran to meet his aunt, who was
filling a basket with roses from the lawn.

‘*T have filled the basket for you to
carry to the ‘Colony,’”’ she said. ‘It
is in the hall, and you can amuse your-
self afterwards by the sea until I come.”

Delightful permission! Jack was
off breathlessly. First into the back
premises of the house for calico for his


64 THE DESERT ISLAND.

sails, a needle-book and thread from the parlour-maid—for Jack had
his plans—and then for a more sober walk, for he was heavily
weighted, up the long avenue of over-arching trees which lay between
the house and the lodge-gates. As he walked amid the flickering
shadows histhoughtswere full of pleasant anticipations of the holidays.
He had been sent to ‘‘ The Grove” a few weeks before, after an
illness, and had grown strong by the sea. His father and mother,
with some of the large home-party, were expected this afternoon, to
take possession of some apartments by the sea, commonly known as
the ‘‘ Colony.” Passing the lodge-gates, Jack crossed the road and
entered a somewhat grass-grown road bordered by a plantation of
firs, which led to several low-built ivy-covered houses. Leaving his
basket in the first house, he ascended, through a gate on his left
hand, to a higher level, and stood in the full glow of sunshine which
bathed the sea front. A verandah ran the whole length outside
the ‘‘ Colony ” windows, which opened on to the large tennis lawn
and sand-hills. The sea,
glittering like silver, lay
below, only separated by
_ sand-hills and beach.
This was the loveliest
part of the shore. Jack
quickly made his way to
a wooden shed
2m . upon the sand-
SE hill, where a lad of
about fourteen was
mending a net,
seated in an old
boat.

‘“‘Tam glad you
are here, Peter,”
he cried ; “I want
some sails for my
new boat, I’ve












THE DESERT ISLAND. 65

brought somecalicoand
needles and thread,”
and he emptied the
contents of his pockets
on to the sand—a
pocket knife, a coil of
string, calico. and
thread, shells and peb-
bles, and other accu-
mulations.

Peter’s face had
brightened up at the
approach of the child.
He would have
called the day
ill-spent which
did not call him
to serve one of
the Squire’s sons
or grandsons in
some fashion or other. His nimble fingers shaped the tiny sails
with a pen-knife, and they were soon hemmed and fitted into the
boat. This done, the boys found their way to a little bay where,
even at low tide, a creek might be found, and here the little
craft was launched, and gazed at admiringly.

“She's a regular beauty, sir,” said Peter; “ and now, what may
I do for you? Any donkeys wanted to-day by the young ladies and
gentlemen at the Manor House ?”

‘Not donkeys to-day, but Humphrey and I will want a boat
after tea. Do bring one for us, there’s a good Peter.”

‘‘ The tide will serve a little before seven o’clock,” answered
Peter, ‘‘and if father can spare me for an hour or so before I take the
donkeys home, I’ll bring a boat by then to your little pier.”

‘Thanks, we’ll blow the horn when we are coming, loud enough
to be heard all over Bunbridge.”




66 THE DESERT ISLAND.

CHA Rares Uk:

‘‘ Too-ra-too-ra-too-ra-too-rah!”’ rang the horn, heralding the
approach of the family party, and the boys and girls, eager for a full
view of the sea, crowded on to the sunny lawn of the ‘‘ Colony,” led
by Jack and Aunt Alice.

‘“« Hallo, old fellow, how you’ve grown !”’ cried one.

‘‘ And how brown you are, Jack,” cried another.

‘Where are the tennis racquets? I hope the cricket set has
not been left behind !”

‘‘ How’s grandpapa?”

‘‘What a delicious air! How peice delightful it is to be
here!

All talked at once, and the tumult of happiness was only eaeee
in upon by Aunt Alice begging all to make haste. and get ready: for
tea on the lawn at grandpapa’s, which invitation was too charming
to be neglected, and forthwith there was no small flutter through the
queer little rooms, and a cry for sponges and brushes, and a general
stampede from the ‘‘ Colony,” and a noisy procession through the
lovely avenue to ‘‘ The Grove.” Grandpapa stood on the lawn with
a smiling welcome in his eyes, and aunt was busy ane the cups
and saucers and tea-tables.

‘“Who’s this long-haired gypsy, and who’s this, oan ce s
this?” asked grandpapa, as the children swarmed around him.

“Tm Cara, and this is Vernon, and that is Harry.”

‘* And where is the boy who made that awful row with a horn?”
cried grandpapa, trying to look fierce.

‘‘ Here, sir!” and Humphrey stood smiling before him, horn in
hand. ‘ Shall I blow it again, sir, for tea ?”’

‘No, no,” said his mother, laughing. ‘‘ Sit by Jack and keep
him in order, or he will be in the pond in a minute.”

‘“‘T think he’ll not try that again,” said Aunt Alice; ‘‘ he has been
fished out of it twice, and did not like the taste of the mud. He has
gained experience, and we can trust him on the premises now. Tea
Sly =





So ee ee

Summer Honmays


THE DESERT ISLAND. 67

is ready, so do sit down soberly, dear children; I am sure you must
want your tea.”’

Who needed a second bidding! The children sat in merry
groups under the trees, and their elders discussed schools and
professions, as well as tea and bread and butter.

‘‘ Grandpapa,” said Jack, ‘‘ may I—— Oh, who do I belong to?
I mean, who’s to look after me now, you or mother ?”

‘Oh, I wash my hands of you,” said grandpapa.

‘Oh, then, mother, may we go on the water with Peter?”

‘‘ Who wants to go?” asked mother.

‘« J,” said Humphrey, starting up.

‘“And 11” said Cara.

‘“‘ Off with you then,” said grandpapa; ‘‘ and be steady.”

Peter was waiting for them with the boat, and they pushed off.
It was a lovely evening. Sea and sky were red with the sunset glow.

“What are we going to do to-morrow?” said Humphrey.

‘‘ Let us give grandpapa a surprise,” said Cara. ‘‘ Let us dress
up as we do sometimes at home, and sing before the window at ‘‘ The

Grove” while he is at breakfast. He won’t know usa bit. Humphrey,
you have your funny striped calico suit, and you can blacken your
face, and I will be an Italian girl playing my tambourine. And you,
Jack, what will you do?”

‘Oh, grandpa would know me anyhow, so I'll only come and
see the fun.”

‘“¢ And after that,” said Humphrey, ‘‘ we might spend the day on
the Desert Island, pitch a tent, and cook our own food.”

‘“‘ Splendid!” said Cara, clapping her hands.

And ‘“ Splendid!” cried Jack, too, as he drew his boat through
the water.

GAA ke Ie

Next morning two very remarkable figures appeared before the
breakfast-room window at ‘‘ The Grove.” One was that of a little girl
of about ten, attired in a scanty red skirt, a short black bodice, with
68 THE DESERT ISLAND.

a full white under-
bodice and _= sleeves.
Her long dark auburn
hair hung loosely down
her itaces amd: ashe
danced to the jingle of
her tambourine, while
she sang in an unknown
tonoue. | -Ehe: other
was that of a boy of



























perhaps a year older.
He was loosely attired
in a striped calico suit
and a stiff white collar.
His face and hands
were black. He sang
to the accompaniment
of a banjo, and sang
well too.

‘¢ Whoever
are these queer
Tol kcyeviacisanil:

erandpapa, as



he looked up from his letters at the unaccustomed sound of banjo:
and tambourine.

Aunt Alice rose from the breakfast table with a puzzled look,
which turned into one of great amusement. ‘Oh, the rogues!”
she said. ‘‘ Father, they are the children from the ‘ Colony,’ and
there’s Jack peeping round the corner of the house!”

Grandpapa was as much surprised as Cara could have desired.
“Well, you ave a guy!” he said to Humphrey, laughing. ‘‘ Wash
your black face, and come and have some breakfast.”

“Grandpa,” said Cara, as she and Humphrey were enjoying
their second breakfast, ‘‘we want to spend to-day on the Desert
Island.”
THE DESERT ISLAND 69

‘And where may that be ?”” asked grandpapa.

“I think you call it ‘No Man’s Land,’” answered Humphrey.

‘“And who’s to take you there?”

‘“We hope that you will, sir.”

‘Oh, indeed ; so I’m to dance attendance upon you. And at
what hour will you please to go?”

‘At your convenience, sir.”

‘““And auntie, dear,” cried Cara, ‘will you lend us a sheet and
poles for a tent ?”

‘“Things promise to be lively for us through these holidays,”
said auntie, smiling at grandpapa.

‘And are you going to starve on your Desert Island?” asked
grandpapa.”

£7 By no means,
hope to feast.”

‘Well, go home, you scamps, and make yourselves decent ;
and be here by eleven o’clock. I daresay your aunt will prepare
your feast for you, and I’ll take you to the Creek.”

‘Thank you, grandpapa; thank you, auntie. I have pleasant
aunticipations !”” and the merry boy was off.

On reaching ‘‘ The Grove,” and putting off their disguise, they
found that mother was out, and the elder girls were at tennis with
their brothers.

‘Please tell mother,” said Humphrey, ‘that grandpa will see

?

returned Humphrey. ‘On the contrary, we

TORUS

The children’s preparations were soon made. Humphrey took
his horn, Jack his boat, and Cara a book to read.

Grandpapa was ready for them, and the gardener carried the
basket of provisions to the boat, with the sheet, and poles, and rugs—
and they started. The island lay some distance up the Creek, and
was a favourite spot with the children. It was a long strip of
beach, terminating in a rocky mound. At high water only the
mound was visible. There were pretty woods on each side of the
Creek, full of wild flowers.

‘‘T shall come for you at four o’clock,” said grandpapa. ‘‘Not
70 THE DESERT ISLAND.

later, for the current is strong towards high water. Keep out of
mischief, or poor grandpapa will get into trouble. Humphrey,
you'll take care of the little one.”

‘‘ Yes, grandpapa ; won’t you dine with us?”

‘No, thank you; not while I’ve a table to put my legs under,”
and grandpapa pushed off.

CHAPTER ry:

Tue children had fine fun. They pitched their tent and unpacked
their basket. Auntie had packed it with a generous hand, and the
sea air inclined them to do justice to the sandwiches and cakes
provided for them. Then Jack launched his boat, Humphrey
spread rugs on the sand for Cara to sit upon, and threw himself on
the ground to rest. Cara began to read ‘‘ Hiawatha”’:

«* Should you ask me whence these stories ?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odour of the forest,

With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
With their frequent repetitions

And their wild reverberations ?”

The soft summer warmth, the lapping of the waters upon the
beach, and the voice of the reader lulled the listeners to sleep, and
Cara herself grew drowsy, and fell off into a light slumber.

They were roused by the fresh breeze which sprang up with the
incoming tide. Humphrey started up.

‘““* Minnehaha, Laughing Water!’” he cried. “ Cara! Jack!
The tide is coming up, we must furl our tent; grandpa will be here
directly.”

‘And the basket must be packed,” said Cara. ‘ How lazy we
have been.”

Humphrey looked uneasily at the advancing tide, and Jack
shivered. ‘I wish grandpa would come,” he said. ‘Blow your
horn, Humphrey; three blasts for danger.”

Three times the blast of the horn sounded over the Creek.
THE DESERT ISLAND. 71



‘“Oh, grandpapa won't forget us,” said Humphrey cheerily.
“Come, I'll wrap you and Cara in these rugs, and you shall sit on
the mound and watch for the boat.”

Still the tide crept on and on.

‘‘ Blow your horn again; three times again
trembling. ‘‘ Grandpa wouldn’t forget us, would he?”

‘No, no,” said pale little Jack; ‘grandpa wouldn’t forget

”

us.

1?

cried Cara,

No, grandpapa had not forgotten them; but he was un-
expectedly called away on business, and gave orders in a most
anxious and particular manner to the gardener to get Roberts, the
boatman, to fetch the children at once. There was a misunder-
standing somewhere—‘‘ Someone had blundered.” But grandpapa
was at that moment hastening as fast as years would permit towards
the ‘‘ Colony,” to see if all was well. And Peter heard those
“three blasts for danger,’ and thought of the children at the
Creek; and, fearing he knew not what, was hurrying to the same
72 THE DESERT ISLAND

spot, where he found Mrs. Moore and Aunt Alice pacing the lawn in
much anxiety, wondering at the prolonged absence of the children.

‘‘ Are the young gentlemen at the Creek, ma’am?” he asked.

‘“Yes; Roberts went to fetch them at half-past three.”

‘I saw Roberts in the village just now,” said Peter, looking
troubled.

‘Get a boat quickly, and go to the Creek!” said He Moore

Peter was gone in a moment.

‘Call for me at our jetty as you pass, Peter!’ Aunt Alice
called after him.

Peter flew over the sand-hills to the beach. He found Roberts
and his boat, and they pulled hard for the Creek, staying only a
moment to take Aunt Alice with them. The tide bore them
swiftly to the children. The water had nearly reached their feet.
Humphrey’s arms were thrown around his brother and sister.
Aunt Alice’s brown eyes were full as Peter placed Jack in her arms,
and Humphrey and Cara nestled silently to her side. Rowing back
against the current, which was swift and strong, their progress was
but slow. It seemed so especially to the anxious party, not yet in
sight, who were waiting on the pier—father, mother, grandpapa,
and children.

‘“May I blow my horn, auntie, to tell them we are near?”
asked Humphrey. And the cheery sound rang merrily over the
water, and was answered by a loud ‘“‘ Hallo!” from father and
grandfather.

And now the boat nears the pier.

“It was a good thing you had your horn with you, Master
Humphrey,” said Peter.

‘Tt was a good thing we had a Peter to hear the horn,” said

Jack drowsily. ‘‘ Dear Peter!”
Clara Thwaites.
My Dear Dolly.

- ID you ever see such a
D cosy darling of a doll?”
Kathleen exclaimed, as

she held up her new dolly.

“Tt is a sweet, bonnie pet,”
es) said. Nosie.37( and: how. daimtily,
=~ erandma has dressed it!”

= ‘‘T wish every day was a birth-
— day or a Christmas or something
as nice,’ continued I
“Tf all days were holidays, the
play days would soon lose their
charm,’’ her Mamma said.

Cousin Rosie had brought a box |
of paints for Kathleen, Laura gave
= ier a silver thimble, and what do

you think cousin [Freddie brought ?

Something in a box which he set on

the floor, saying: ‘I know you like
dollies better than anything else, so I’ve brought you a doll also.”

‘“‘Tt’s a Jack-in-the-box, I do believe,’ Kathleen said, almost
afraid to come near.

‘It’s better than that,” Freddie replied ; and opening the box
he took out a real Old Aunt Sally.

How the children shouted and laughed when he set it up and
began trying to throw rings on her stubby little pipe.

‘“What a commotion!” sister Evelyn said, coming in with




jit!

if

SO
74 MY DEAR DOLLY.

her sweet, smiling face. The
children all ran to greet her,
for she was seldom at home
now, being a nurse at the
Children’s Hospital in the
city.

‘“‘T’m so glad you’ve come
home in time for my party,”
Kathleen said. ‘‘ What do
ee a = ~ you think of my new dolly ?
It came all the way from Bonnie Scotland from grandma, with some
real oat-cakes for our tea.”

‘““T think it’s just lovely!” sister Evelyn said, bending down to
kiss her little sister. ‘It looks as neatand as bonnie as grandma
herself, and has such a sensible face; I’d like to take it with me to
the hospital.”

‘“T couldn’t spare it. Come and see my other birthday presents.”

‘Dolls are stupid things. I wonder girls think so much of
them,” Freddie declared. ‘ Come and play circus, cousin Evelyn”;
and the little boy climbed right up to her shoulder, where he perched
as jauntily as you please, and kissed his hand to the little girls
below in a charming manner. Evelyn swung him round with one
foot resting on her arm. Then she turned him over and over in her
strong hands just like an acrobat, and was going to pop him right
up the chimney when the tea bell rang, and they all went into the
dining-room.

After tea the little girls undressed the new dolly, and Kathleen
pretended to rock her to sleep, singing for lullaby—



Little birds at sunset seek their cosy nest,
Little baby slumbers on dear mother’s breast.
Mother sings so softly of a golden tree,
Baby sleeps so sweetly, cosy as can be.

‘“Hush, Freddie!’ she whispered, as the little boy would
persist in standing on his head or turning cart-wheels round the
room. “ You will waken my baby ; we must play very quietly now.”
Yee DARD OWE Tye 75

pelle ms a stony, cousin
Evelyn,” Rosie demanded.

Ss isO. tinea, my dear 1
came home to get a little rest, and
here you’ve kept me going just as
though you had oe
hired me out for
thie evemimne,::
Evelynsaid; but
slic was | too
good-natured to
resist long.

“* Oh, do tell

us a story—that







won’t tire you—
a story about
fairies, or about
nice little girls
with pretty dol-
lies,” IJSathleen
entreated, huge-
ing her treasure.

‘* What about
the walittle sours
withoutdollies?”’ »

“There shouldn’t be any little girls without dollies,” Rosie said
quickly. ‘‘ Every little girl has a dolly. I know lots of girls who
have heaps of dolls.”

‘‘T know one little girl who has not one dolly—who is very ill,
and has no kind mother to give her a good night kiss,” sister
Evelyn said.

‘Poor little girl,” Kathleen exclaimed. ‘‘ Where does she live?”

‘She is in the hospital, lying very ill with a broken leg. There
was a fire in the house where she lived last week, and poor little
Lucy jumped from a window and broke her leg.”
76 MY DEAR DOLLY.

‘Does she cry?” Rosie asked.

‘“Yes. She is an orphan, and has scarcely a friend in the
world. I sat with her all last night.”

‘Did you give her a sweetie kiss ?’’ Laura enquired.

“Yes; and she put her arms round my neck and said: ‘ You
are just like my dear Mamma.’”’

“And she has no dolly to sleep Wich her at night ?”

‘Nog, I wish-she had. It would soothe her, and perhaps make
her sleep. Now; little: bright. eyes, it’s-time you were all in bed.
I’m too tired to talk any more, so let me go and get a nice long
sleep so that I. may set off. early.in the morning back to the city.”
Now when Kathleen went to bed: with: her new dolly in her arms _
she fell a thinking-in this wise. ‘Suppose I were a poor little girl at
the hospital with a broken leg, and I’d no mother to come and give
me sweetie kisses at night, shouldn’t. I -feel very.sad? I think I
should, - And suppose I knew there were lots of little girls who had
dollies. and neyer cared whether I chad one-or not, shouldn’t I say
they were selfish little. eirls? 1 know I should. And it seems to me
I’m just:as. greedysand selfish as anybody if I keep all my toys to
"muse myself. T don’ t want to be’ ‘selfish, but I do want.to keep my
dolly. Mamma says ‘it isn’t real giving to give away things we don’t
‘care for. Ido care for my. dear. -dolly—she’ s such a good baby—
(giving her‘a squeeze). Shouldn’ t wonder little Lucy loves dollies
too. ’Sure she, does. eT believe: Pl. ‘send her my, dolly and some
flowers too, if 1 mamma will let me, just to cheer her up.”

The next* morning: when sister Evelyn. came downstairs she
heard a sweet little concert going on in the breakfast-room, and
stopped a moment at the door to listen. There was Kathleen in the
_ old armchair singing tq dolly.:.°She looked so pretty as she held the
dolly carefully in.one hand and in the other grasped a big bunch of
flowers which the gardener had just sent in. Punch lay at her feet,
and Polly was perched close beside her.

“Yes, dear dolly,” Kathleen was chanting, while the parrot
joined in with a low whistle or a chirp now and again. ‘‘ You are
very dear to me. I may never, never see you again, but I shall



MY DEAR DOLLY. 77

never forget you, and you'll think of me sometimes, won’t you,
darling?’’ Here a real tear fell on dolly’s bonnet, and Polly put up
her black beak for a kiss. ‘‘ Oh, Evelyn, is that you?” The little girl
jumped up when she saw her sister. ‘ Did you have a nice sleep ?”’

‘Yes, darling. I only woke up once when I thought I heard a
ward bell ring.”

‘* Were you thinking about poor little Lucy ?”

‘‘T was, dear; I hope I shall find her improving. Has dolly
been with you all night ? Did she sleep well?”

‘‘ Nicely, thank you. I was just saying ‘Good-bye to my dear
dolly.’”’

‘Where is she going? Are you tired of her already ?”

‘No, no, I want to send her to little Lucy if you will take her
with these pretty flowers.”

‘My dear Kathleen! What does Mamma say about that ?”

‘She says I
may do just as I
please. You'll tell
the little girl I’m
sending my dolly
to help to make
her better, and
give her a kiss for
me, won't you?”

Wall ace ale aaa
Why she’ll go to;.~
sleep like a top —
with dolly in her
arms, and, darling,
you shall notregret
this; ‘when my
ship comes in you
shall have another
dolly.”’

Sister Evelyn










78 MY DEAR DOLLY.

took her little sister’s lovitig’ gifts to the hospital. It would have
done you good to have seen how the poor. little. thing brightened up
when she took the doll in, her arms, and inhaled the sweet perfume
of the beautiful flowers. te What.a kind nursie you are to bring
me these lovely presents,” she. said to! ‘sister Evelyn...

‘“They®* are from my, own. Jittle -sister at home. She is just
about your age.” :

‘“T do love her for Keates so oe “When: I’m rich Ill give her
a duck of a dolly, and a big basketful of; flowers.”

Sister Evelyn laughed at this genérous promise. But do you
know it was really fulfilled sooner than anyone expected—for little
Lucy, the orphan,. was discovered by a rich . lady, to, be her own
niece, whom she had long wished to find, and when: Lucy got better ~
she went to live with her dear aunt, in a house almost as beautiful
as a fairy palace.

One day Kathleen was hee 7 ball with Punch. on the lawn,
when she saw a carriage come up.the drive. When it stopped at
$5 gi Ny ae eae Se the hall-door, a
a eee s : lady, and a. fair
.._ little girl gotout,
“ona Kathleen

a ~~~ was called in to
e- .* “receive. almost

‘prettily- dressed doll,
_andabasket of glorious
«roses, which “they had
brought for her, and
even better than these
kind gifts ‘was the love
that Lucy, gave her, for
they soon eon
great friends.
A. Hone.

















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