This is a very old proverb, and a very true one. Sometimes we forget it, though, and say "I can't," before we have really tried at all. Now I should like to tell you the true story of two little Irish sweeps who had the will to learn to read, and found the way, although it was a very difficult one.
Some years ago a few kind people made up their minds to try to get hold of all the chimney-sweeps in Dublin and give them an education.
One day a little fellow came who was asked if he knew his letters.
"Oh, yes," he answered.
"Can you spell?"
"Oh, yes."
"Can you read?"
"Oh, yes."
"What books did you learn from?"
"Please, sir, I never had a book."
"Then who was your schoolmaster?"
"I never went to school at all."
The gentleman stared, for it seemed very strange that a boy should be able to read and spell, and yet never had a master.
"Then however did you learn?" he asked.
The little boy smiled, and linked his arm in that of a sweep somewhat older than himself.
"Please, sir, Jim taught me the letters over the shop doors, as we went to our work, but now I know all the words by heart, and if you'd kindly let us have some books to read and teach us to do sums and writing, we'd be very thankful."
Can't you fancy what good pupils those two boys became, and how they delighted in reading in books instead of making their necks ache by peering up at the shops?
E. M. W.
M
iles
and miles away in the country,
where not even a train ever came,
lived a family of children, of whom
the eldest was a big lad of eighteen,
the youngest a little thing of five.
They led a peaceful, happy life
among the fields and lanes and wild flowers, yet,
like many others, they took but little heed of the
beauties around, and some of them at least spent
a great deal of time in sighing for things they had
not got.
Jennie, the eldest girl, had a great deal to do with that. She had a habit of fancying every one more fortunate and happier than herself. She was always wishing for some impossible thing. If by any chance one of her wishes were gratified, she was always disappointed, and began to want something else.
The children had often heard and read about a wonderful place called London. Jennie, who was a very kind sister, was always talking to them about it, and the wonderful stories she told them made them long to see this enchanted city. That, indeed, was one of Jennie's unfulfilled longings. She had read a great deal, and imagined a great deal more, till she set all the children longing too.
Their big brother Donald heard Phyllis and Effie talking together one day, and he burst in upon them with a laugh, and told them that all the houses were palaces and the streets paved with gold, that marble fountains played in them, and that golden carriages drawn by milk-white steeds rolled incessantly along; that trains rushed in every direction, and that if you just stepped inside one it would take you anywhere, like a flash of lightning; that there was a church so high that you could not see the roof, and a needle so big that twenty men could not lift it. Then Donald went away laughing, and the children held their breath with wonder, and agreed that they should never be happy till they had seen this fairyland.
Not very long after their mother came down to breakfast with red eyes, and their father looked grave. They knew something was the matter, and sat waiting in sorrowful dread.
"Children," said their mother, with a shaky voice, "you will have to leave this beautiful, peaceful home. You must say 'good-bye' to all your pets, for soon, very soon, we must leave them all. You must be good children and not fret; but oh! it is very sad. Father is obliged to go and live in London."
How strange! A ray of sunshine seemed to have passed round the table, changing apprehension into eager excitement. Phyllis clapped her hands. "London, mamma? Oh, how lovely!"
Their mother sighed, and said, "Well, darlings, I am glad you take it so well; but I am afraid it will be a long time before you feel as happy as we are in this dear old home."
At last came the morning when they were to start. They were wild with delight, and thought it splendid fun at first. But when the train with a shrill scream flew into a dark tunnel, several hearts beat very wildly, and several little faces would have looked white enough, could they have been seen.
At last several heads began to ache, and a good many legs seemed to want stretching; but the several hearts could not for worlds have owned that they were not enjoying themselves immensely.
And when the enchanted city was reached, it was dark, and they saw nothing but a confused medley of lights and figures, and walls with big letters all over them.
Then they were jolted through some noisy, busy street, and were at length deposited safely in the house where they were to lodge until their new home was ready.
There was so much noise outside while they were at tea, that Phyllis and Effie wondered what could be the matter, until they saw that their father and mother did not seem to be in the least alarmed at it.
When they went to bed, it was a long time before they could go to sleep. But being very tired, they did manage it, though they dreamed very queer things about a great many people, and horses and carts tumbling on the top of each other, with a noise like thunder.
The next morning, when they were having breakfast in a dark little parlour, their father said to their mother, "You and I must go and look about to day;" and to Donald he said, "You may take your two sisters for a walk on the Embankment, and show them the river, and the Temple, and Cleopatra's Needle, but be very careful of crossings, and ask a policeman when you don't know the way. Phyllis and Effie must stay at home, and amuse themselves with their dollies till our return."
At this Phyllis felt greatly injured, but she said nothing, for she knew she must obey.
Their mother went and fetched them some toys and books, and before she went out charged Martha, their little attendant, to do her best to amuse them; but Phyllis was not in a mood to be amused.
"Martha," she said, "it's horrid in here! Let's go in the garden."
"Lor, miss! there isn't such a thing."
Then Phyllis went and looked out of the window, but the air was so thick that she could see nothing but a few chimney-pots, and people moving like shadows in the street below.
Phyllis soon grew tired of the window. She wondered very much what Donald and her sisters were seeing, and how far off London was.
"Martha," she said presently, "we must go for a walk; of course we must. We always do at home."
"Oh, dear dear!" cried Martha, with something like a sniff, "I wouldn't do it for worlds. I'd lose my way for certain, and be run over in this dirty, foggy place."
"Why, you've only got to be careful of the crossings, and ask a policeman the way," Phyllis replied, crossly; "and it is so dull here."
The morning dragged on. At last Martha went downstairs to the kitchen to see about something, but when it was seen about she could not refrain from having a gossip with the landlady's servant, never dreaming that the children could get into mischief; but they did.
Directly she had gone, Phyllis thought she would take just a peep out of doors. The enchanted city, with its streets of gold and untold marvels, could not be far off. She would try to get just one glimpse.
In a moment she had fetched their hats and jackets, popped them on, and was leading her little sister downstairs. It happened that the outer door was open, so they slipped into the street unobserved.
Phyllis ran quickly along, and soon came to a turning. Just at this moment a gleam of sunshine shone out, dispersing the murky haze.
"Ah!" thought Phyllis, "this is the right way. I know we shall see some of the beautiful sights presently."
So she dragged Effie along as quickly as she could. Sometimes people bumped against them, and frightened them very much; but Phyllis soon saw they meant no harm, so she kept on.
Presently they turned into a broad street, where there were, oh! such numbers of people, walking so fast, and the road was full of carriages and horses and waggons, and the noise was just deafening.
Phyllis pulled Effie into a doorway, and thought she would wait till the people had passed, but she waited and waited, and still they kept on coming backwards and forwards, just for all the world like a number of busy ants swarming about an ant-hill. There was no end to them. They hustled and jostled, and ran and pushed, and talked till Phyllis was utterly bewildered, and said to herself she had better go back again.
But where was the turning? It had gone. She could not see it. She peered out of her retreat.
The street, the people, everything was hidden, except just close at hand. They were enveloped in a thick, dark, steamy cloud, which covered all, except the noise. Phyllis ran first this way, then that, trying in vain to find the turning. Effie grew frightened, and began to cry, which attracted the notice of a policeman. Phyllis remembered what her father had said to Donald, so she asked, "Please will you show us the way home?"
"Where do you live?" he asked.
"I don't know the name," Phyllis faltered; "it's in a street full of houses, joined on to each other all in a row, and no garden."
"Well, that isn't much help," he replied, kindly; "where might you be going to?"
"We were trying to find London," Phyllis said.
"Trying to find it; this is London."
"Oh, no!" Phyllis cried, eagerly; "I mean the golden streets, and the fountains, and the palaces, and the trains, and the church you can't see the roof of, and the needle twenty men can't lift, and the golden carriages, and——"
The man burst into such a laugh that Phyllis stopped short, and stared at him angrily.
"My big brothers and sisters have gone to look at it. They are doing it now," Phyllis added.
The policeman paused a moment, and then he said, "Well, look here. That needle ain't so far off; I'll just take you to see it, and you may see your brothers and sisters too. Call out directly if you do."
So he took them each by a hand, and trotted them along through the fog. It was an alarming journey, although the policeman was kind, and Phyllis felt sure there was no other way of getting home.
When he took them across those dreadful streets, Effie in one arm, Phyllis hanging on to his other hand, Phyllis shut her eyes in terror.
But presently they got away from this confusion into a broad paved place, with trees to be seen here and there. That was much nicer. Their kind companion told Phyllis to look out for her friends.
"There's the needle," he said, all of a sudden. Phyllis looked up, and saw a great stone column before them.
"But it's a needle I mean," Phyllis exclaimed, uncomprehendingly, "something you work with. That isn't a needle."
"Well, I don't know whether a giant ever worked with it," the policeman said, with a comical smile; "anyhow, that's what they call the needle. It's come a long way to England, and belonged to a lady called Mrs. Cleopatra. What she did with it isn't exactly known; but I reckon she didn't make her gowns with it."
Phyllis looked at it with a very great feeling of disappointment. She didn't think it looked nice at all.
"Them other things you talked of, too," said the policeman, "there's most everything to be found in London; but not quite that neither. The church comes the nighest——"
Phyllis uttered a cry of joy, and darted away: opposite her stood Donald, Jennie, and Grace.
"Phyllis, you naughty, naughty child! what is the matter? and Effie too! Why, what does it mean?" Jennie cried.
"They were pretty nigh to being lost, miss," the policeman said, gravely. "'Tis a good thing you happened to come this way."
Donald thanked the man very heartily, and took charge of the children. He had not the heart to scold them yet.
Phyllis walked home with a heart full of tumult. Directly she was safely indoors she burst out crying, and said, "I do not like London: it is a horrid, dreadful, ugly place, and no beautiful things at all; and, oh, I do want to go home!"
"Be quiet, little stupid!" Jennie said, shortly, giving her a push and a shake.
"It's horrible," persisted Phyllis. "We can't live here. We must go home."
Jennie threw herself down on a chair by the bedside, and began to cry too. "It isn't half as bad for you, Phyllis, as it is for me," she cried, crossly; "and we can't go back. We must live in one of these pokey, dingy houses for ever and ever. If only I'd known what it was like!"
By-and-by their mother came home, and was amazed to see the change that had come over the children. Still, she was able to console them a little by telling them that London would look very different when the fog was gone, and that they would have by-and-by a nice quiet house, with a little garden; but their old home was out of the question. That was gone for ever. They must learn to be cheerful and content.
What a hard lesson it was at first! but dear me, after a while the children grew quite happy, although they never found the enchanted city.
But they found something better, after a short time, and that was a kind, bright, happy, cheerful home, and that is what can make any spot in the world beautiful, while without it, even an enchanted city would be but drear and lonely. No wonder Phyllis and Jennie felt miserable during those first days in London. Their parents were feeling it much more keenly, though they said nothing.
Dear children, can you see what I mean by this little story? If you have a good, kind home, try to be very happy in it, for the time may come when you would give everything you possessed to be back in it—"Home, Sweet Home."
T
he
sun was fast sinking in the
west; and the shades of night
were spreading a deep gloom
overall, as a poor, lone traveller,
foot-sore and weary, looked
around him for some place
of rest. His face wore its
saddest expression, for his
heart was nearly bursting with grief;
and, as he rolled along a big stone
for his pillow, and laid his weary
head upon it, it was watered with his
tears. But only the fair moon and the
twinkling stars seemed to see his grief;
and, as he thought of his loneliness, he heaved
a deep sigh, and wept afresh.
Far behind him, in the lovely and peaceful Beersheba, he had left the home of his youth, the mother whom he loved so dearly, the old sheep that he had so fondly tended, and the little pet lambs that had nestled in his bosom and gambolled by his side. There was his aged father, too, who lay stretched on his death-bed, and whom he might never hope to see again. And still fresh in his memory were all the old familiar scenes to which he might never again return: the soft green pastures, where, morning and evening, he had rested with his sheep, the great rock behind which he had led them to hide them from the noonday heat, and the quiet waters to which he had taken them that they might slake their thirst.
From one loved spot to another his thoughts would wander; and he shivered, as from cold, while he thought of the land all unknown to him to which he was journeying, of the strange faces that he would have to meet, and the strange voices that would fall upon his ear.
But saddest of all came the remembrance of the cause that had led to his banishment, the deep sin that he had committed, the cruel deceit that he had practised upon his father, the great wrong that he had inflicted upon his brother, the grief of the dying Isaac, the wrath of Esau, and the consequent necessary parting with all he held dear.
If he could only undo the past; if he could only be as he was a short time ago, clear of this guilt, how thankful he would be! But there it was, staring him in the face, and he could not blot out the memory of it. He fancied himself again getting a kid from amongst his flock; giving it to his mother to dress, so that his father would not know it from venison; stooping down, while she put on the back of his neck small pieces of the kid's skin, that it might feel, to the blind Isaac, like the hairy skin of his brother Esau; carrying in the smoking-hot dish; telling, one after another, gross falsehoods, in reply to the questions put by his puzzled father; repeating oft his assurances that he was indeed Isaac's very son Esau; and bowing his head to receive the blessing intended for his elder brother. Once more, in imagination, he was hurrying out of his father's apartment; and the loud and bitter cry of his wronged brother was ringing through the tent, never to die away or be forgotten. He saw again his brother white with rage, and heard him take the solemn oath, that, as soon as the mourning for his father was over, he would be avenged. He heard his frightened mother plead with Isaac, that he might be sent away to her brother in Padan Aram. He heard his father's consent, and saw his mother packing up the few things that he needed, and sending him away with her blessing and with floods of tears. He remembered how, when he had turned round to take a last look at his home; she was still standing in the door of the tent, watching, as far as she could see him, the son of her love, and wiping her streaming eyes.
And now he was lying on the bare ground, with only a cold, hard stone for his pillow: all that he loved left far behind; an unknown future before him; and wild beasts prowling about in the distance, in hungry search of prey. How heavily on his conscience lay his deep sin! And how the pure, bright moon and the peaceful stars seemed to be reproaching him!
He thought upon his father's God, and his grandfather's trusting obedience, that had gained for him the title of the friend of the great Ruler of the universe. And, as he contrasted with Abraham's faith his own wicked conduct, he felt miserably unworthy to bear his name. Gladly would he have closed his eyes in repose, and thankfully would he have forgotten, for a time at least, his heavy sorrows; but—
flies from the guilty conscience; and there was no rest for Jacob.
Oh! Why had he so easily and so weakly yielded to that strong temptation to obtain by fraud the coveted blessing? Why had he not, like Abraham, patiently waited for the fulfilment of the sure promise made on his behalf? Why had he not waited till God Himself had brought it about—that the elder should serve the younger—instead of faithlessly and sinfully hurrying it on himself, and bringing down upon himself and his home all this misery?
There was no book of sweet Psalms to comfort him and assure him of forgiveness; but, as he turned uneasily on his hard bed, and looked up to the quiet heavens, something of their peace stole into his heart. He thought of the great God who dwells above; of the kindness which He had shown to Abraham and Isaac; of the gentle, loving way in which He had drawn near to them; and of the gracious promises which He had made to them.
And he felt sure that such a God must be merciful and compassionate to a poor erring wanderer like himself; and that, enthroned in glory as He was, He would listen to his cry, as He had listened to the outcast Ishmael's before him; and forgive. He would tell Him how sorry he was for what he had done, and ask Him to take away the load that was weighing him down.
So the restless young man arose; and, kneeling upon the bare ground, and raising his beseeching eyes to the star-lit heavens, he poured out to Him who reigns above them the tale of his griefs, and asked Him, in mercy, to forgive the sins that he had committed against Him.
And there, as he knelt, his prayer was heard; the weight of guilt was lifted from his oppressed spirit; and he breathed more freely than he had done since he committed that dark sin. He could not now go back to his old home. Early on the morrow he must go forward on his long journey, and endure all that he had brought upon himself; but his mind was at ease; his heart was at rest. The God of his fathers had heard him, and with His forgiveness and blessing he could be happy.
So he lay down again, not to toss uneasily about as before, but to sleep the sleep of those who are at peace with Heaven.
And the pitying Father above, who, as the Bible assures us, does not deal with us after our sins, nor reward us according to our iniquities, not only put away Jacob's transgression, but drew near to the poor, erring, but repentant wanderer, lying out there in the lone desert, to comfort him.
A peaceful smile now rested on the face of the sleeper, reflecting the deep happiness which filled his breast; and soon over his countenance was spread an expression of joy that it had never worn before.
He saw in his sleep a great ladder of light, the one end of which rested on the earth, while the other reached right up to heaven. Beautiful, bright-winged angels, with faces shining like the sun, were going up and coming down it. And the Lord of Glory Himself, to whom he had just prayed, stood above it. No words of anger or stern rebuke were on His lips. No ominous frown darkened His face. Only a look of tenderness and love lighted it up; and the pardoned Jacob, unworthy as he knew himself to be, did not shrink from looking up to Him, who in His gracious compassion had deigned to appear to him.
"I am the Lord God of Abraham thy father, and the God of Isaac," He said; "and I am with thee, and will keep thee in all places whither thou goest."
Oh, how glad and thankful Jacob was thus to be assured that, though he had so sinned, yet God had not left him, but was still with him! How deeply thankful he was that he would not now have to go on his journey alone, as he had feared, but that the God of his fathers would go with him, to take care of him, wherever he went! His bosom swelled with joy, and his face grew still brighter; for this was the happiest moment in all his life.
There, lying on that cold stone, he felt nothing but joy. With the good and Holy One so near, with His peace and gladness in his heart, he could smile at all outward miseries.
But the gracious and gentle voice did not cease yet. "I will not leave thee," it went on to say, "until I have done that which I have spoken to thee of. The land whereon thou liest, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed. And thy seed shall be as the dust of the earth; and thou shalt spread abroad to the west, and to the east, and to the north, and to the south; and in thee, and in thy seed, shall all the families of the earth be blessed."
So he, who was all alone, was to become the father of innumerable people; and the one who had deserved only cursing was not only to be blessed himself, but to be made a blessing to all the earth!
The vision passed away, and Jacob awoke, astounded at God's goodness and mercy. For he knew that the dream was no idle thing, but that it told of present and future realities. And as he meditated on it his joy increased. He took the big, hard stone, that had afforded him so sweet a resting-place, and setting it up for a pillar, in grateful remembrance of his happy dream, poured oil on the top of it. The sweet perfume of the precious oil filled all the air, and rose up like an offering of glad thanksgiving, well-pleasing to Him who looked down upon it.
"Surely God is in this place, and I knew it not," Jacob said. For he could never have imagined, as, with tearful eyes, he first lay down on that lone spot, that God would have revealed Himself there; and this was the first great lesson of love and mercy that he had ever spelled over. "I knew it not; but now I know, and will go on my way with gladness, fearing nothing."
So sacred had the spot become to him, that he called it Bethel, the House of God. And he vowed a vow, that if God would indeed be with him, as He had promised, and prosper him, and bring him back again to his father's house, then he would serve Him faithfully all his life, and would give Him a tenth of all that was bestowed upon him.
He went on his journey no longer lonely and sad; for the God of his fathers was with him; and His presence brightened up the dreary wilderness, and made the solitary place glad.
In the new land to which he went Jacob had much to endure; but the vision of the bright ladder that he had seen in his dream rose up again and again to comfort him; and his heart grew stronger and braver as he thought of the abiding presence of God.
Years afterwards, when he came back to the land of Canaan, he visited the spot where, on that memorable night, he had lain down in such sorrow, and risen up in such joy. He had then rosy children, and numerous possessions. And as he thought of all the unmerited goodness and mercy which had followed him in the strange land, and of the faithfulness which had brought him back, he built another altar, and praised God anew.
But, though Jacob was so comforted by his dream, it is scarcely likely that he could see, as we can, the full meaning of it; for the vision of the bright ladder was intended to comfort God's people in all ages, and to grow brighter and brighter as it came to be understood.
So, we, who know how the glorious ladder is Jesus Christ, through whom all blessings come down from heaven to us, and through whom, also, we may mount up to the very throne of "our Father," in the highest heavens; we, too, will raise up our altar of thanksgiving, and go on our way, rejoicing in the God of Bethel, who is still with His people, and who, from the top of the ladder, holds sweet communion with them, cheering them on their way, till He brings them into the goodly land.
H. D.
49. Who were the first to apply to Jesus the title of King of the Jews?
50. Where is wisdom set forth as better than strength or the weapons of war?
51. Which of the four Evangelists has preserved to us an account of our Lord's being sent by Pilate to Herod for trial?
52. Who tells us in the Old Testament that death and life are in the power of the tongue?
53. Which of the New Testament writers speaks of the tongue as "a little member," and tells us that the one who keeps it in order is a perfect man?
54. Which of the Epistles tells us that he who is a friend of the world is an enemy of God?
55. Where in the Book of the Revelation do we see the redeemed and glorified saints ascribing praise to Jesus, as having made them kings and priests unto God?
56. Where are we told that to be guarded in our speech saves us from trouble?
57. On what occasion is Saul of Tarsus first called Paul?
58. Where, after the Ark of the Covenant was removed to the new Tabernacle at Jerusalem, did the original brazen altar remain?
59. Of what colour was the lace to be upon which was placed the golden plate worn on the forehead of the High Priest?
60. Show that the last cry of Jesus on the Cross was one of triumph.
37. The woman who had touched His garment (St. Matt. ix. 22; St. Mark v. 34; St. Luke viii. 48).
38. In Rev. xxi. 8, 27, xxii. 15.
39. Isaiah (Isaiah lxi. 6).
40. In Rev. v. 6, 9, 12, xiii. 8.
41. Prov. xx. 11.
42. In Prov. xxix. 25.
43. Herod Antipas (St. Luke xiii. 31, 32).
44. The ants, the conies, the locusts, and the spider (Prov. xxx. 24, 28).
45. In Deut. xxi. 6-8; Ps. xxvi. 6.
46. Solomon (Eccles. ix. 8); St. James (James i. 27).
47. Nebuchadnezzar (Dan. ii. 47).
48. In Ps. cxii. 4.
It is said that the Mahdi, of whom so much has been printed in the papers for months past, has been the means of increasing the price of gum arabic. This material, which is obtained from the Soudan, is largely used in the making of sweet-meats, while the Government envelope factory in the United States uses one ton every week. Owing to the war in the Soudan, the supply, amounting to ten millions of pounds yearly, has been stopped for more than a twelvemonth. The price has been gradually rising, and it will be not a little odd if we have to blame the Mahdi, among other things, for dear jujubes.
The old Romans were before all things a military people. Consequently, they took care to confer rewards upon soldiers for bravery and other forms of service, so as to preserve proper spirit among the men. One of these rewards of valour was called the Vallary Crown, and was bestowed upon the soldier who was the first to mount the enemy's rampart (vallum). It consisted of a circle of gold, with palisades attached to it. One can imagine with what zeal an attack would be made, and how hotly the foremost place would be struggled for, so that the crown might be won.
While a diver was engaged off the coast near Gibraltar in the search for the whereabouts of a recent wreck, he discovered at the bottom from eighty to one hundred large guns, mostly 24- and 32-pounders, and two big anchors. As no appliance for raising them was at hand, they were not brought up, and their nationality has not been ascertained. It is supposed that they belonged to a line-of-battle —-—File: 159.png—-\micmac999\Clog\Joe Cooper\raindrop\Oopsadoodle\—-—- ship, which sank in the Peninsular war, possibly after the battle of Trafalgar.
John Pounds, a poor shoemaker of Portsmouth, was the originator of this well-known method of educating city arabs and other very poor children. For twenty years before his death in 1839, he used to collect around him the ragged children of the district in which he lived, and teach them while he worked at his cobbling. He taught them for nothing, and his class was well attended. His success at length attracted general notice, and systematic effort was in due course made for the establishment of such schools in other towns and cities throughout the kingdom.
In different parts of the globe are found various sorts of trees that yield a thick oil or resin, that, like tallow, is used for making candles, and hence the trees are popularly styled tallow trees. The substance is commonly extracted by making a cut in the bark, from which the oily matter exudes. In other cases the seeds are boiled, from which a fine white tallow is obtained. The candles and soap so made are beautifully white.
One day a boy picked up a young sparrow, which he brought home. His father put it in a big cage, and in course of time it became thoroughly domesticated. It used to fly about the garden and perch upon the heads and hands of the family. After a while it would venture upon an oak and carry on a very voluble conversation with its fellows who also patronised the tree. It soon grew as impudent and pugnacious and ravenous as most sparrows. It was always hungry and talkative. Though it had the freedom of the neighbourhood, it came down daily before sunset and roosted on a perch in its cage, the door of which was left open for its convenience. It was let out the first thing in the morning, but returned about six times a day for food, usually taking care to attend all the family meals, and often breakfasting with the master of the house, with whom it struck up a firm friendship. Sometimes it brought home a friend or two, but as they lacked its faith they invariably remained outside while it feasted indoors. It generally watched the boy's father as he left home every morning, chirping "good-bye" from a gutter-pipe. Its appetite continued healthy and its taste accommodating. Latterly it started a home of its own, but did not give up its old friends, looking in upon the household almost as often as ever.
This term—in allusion to their poor and mean attire—was applied, during the earlier stages of the great French Revolution, by the Court party to those democrats of Paris who were foremost in urging the demand for reform. The epithet given in scorn was accepted with pleasure by the people, and it soon came in their eyes to indicate a patriot, and some even affected a ruder mode of dress as if to show they gloried in the title. However, after the lapse of a very few years, the name fell into disuse, as it had been connected with so many scenes of bloodshed and revolting cruelty.
There is a hot region on the Persian Gulf where little or no rain falls. At Babrin, though the dry shore has no fresh water, the people obtain a supply from springs which burst forth copiously from the bottom of the sea. The fresh water is got by diving. The diver winds a large goatskin bag round his left arm, his hand grasping the bag's mouth. He next takes a heavy stone to which a stout line is fastened, and then plunges in. As soon as he reaches the bottom, he opens the bag over the strong jet of fresh water, ascends with the upward current, shutting the bag the while, and is helped on board. The stone having been pulled up and the driver refreshed, he plunges in again. These submarine springs are believed to take their source in the hills of Osman, some 500 or 600 miles distant.
It is very well known that jackdaws are accomplished thieves, and their evil fame in this respect has been humorously pictured in the story of "The Jackdaw of Rheims," in the "Ingoldsby Legends." It seems, however, that other birds besides jackdaws may be occasional robbers, and may cause much mischief. Not long ago, a gentleman on going to his letter-box discovered that a letter containing a cheque for £10 had been tampered with, and that the cheque was missing. He immediately came to the conclusion that human thieves had been at work, and gave information to the police at the nearest station. On his return home, however, he examined his letter-box more closely, and then found several tomtits in it; and on further search, he discovered the missing cheque lying twenty-six yards away on the turnpike road, whither it was evident it had been carried by a tomtit, since it bore abundant marks of the bird's beak.
The house in Ecclefechan, in Dumfriesshire, where Carlyle was born, and which was purchased by a niece, has been restored and has had some interesting relics placed in it. It will no doubt be the scene of many pilgrimages. In carrying out the alterations, the old doors and the like have been scrupulously preserved. The room where the young Carlyle lived contains the philosopher's easy-chair, a mahogany table well stained with ink, an old-fashioned bookcase consisting of a series of shelves supported by pillars at the side and hung upon the wall, besides appropriate photographs and other articles.
Several years ago a gentleman was presented with a black-and-tan terrier. One evening he went to St. John's Wood, London, to fetch it to his own home, some five miles on the south of the Thames. For the greater part of the way the dog and his new owner travelled (in the dark of course) outside an omnibus. The terrier was confined for a week and then set at liberty. Next day it disappeared, and it was afterwards learnt that it arrived at its old home—ragged and starved—six or seven days after effecting its escape. As the dog had been taken on a vehicle right across London, over the river, and in the dark, to a strange district nine miles from its home, its finding its way back to St. John's Wood must be regarded as a remarkable instance of canine intelligence.
Some interesting anecdotes have been preserved about Apelles, who flourished during the latter half of the fourth century before Christ, and who was considered to be the most famous painter of the ancient world. Alexander the Great once visited his studio, and exhibited so much ignorance of art that Apelles desired him to be silent, as the boys who were grinding his colours were laughing at him. He painted an ideal portrait of this celebrated king, of which Alexander said, "There are only two Alexanders—the invincible son of Philip, and the inimitable Alexander of Apelles." The painter's disposition was so generous that he purchased a picture of an artist whose talents were not recognised as they deserved, and spread a report that he would sell it again as one of his own. His industry was such that he never allowed a day to pass without painting one line—a habit which has become proverbial in the Latin phrase, nulla dies sine linea ("No day without a line"). Apelles was not above criticism. When his paintings were exposed to the public view, it is said that he used to conceal himself near them so that he might hear the comments of onlookers. A cobbler finding fault with the shoe of one of his figures, Apelles at once corrected it. But next day when the cobbler ventured to criticise the legs, the painter came forth from his hiding-place and recommended the cobbler to stick to the shoes—advice which in the words of the Latin version of the story also has been adopted as a proverb, Ne sutor ultra crepidam ("Let not the shoemaker overstep his last").
Badger-baiting was a brutal sport at one time in vogue in this country as a kind of "attraction" in public-houses of the lowest class. The animal was kept in a tub or barrel and was attacked by dogs. Yielding at last to superior numbers, it was dragged or drawn out. The badger was then set free and permitted to return to its tub until it recovered from the effects of the struggle, after which it was again baited. It had to submit to this barbarous treatment several times a day. The verb "to badger," now often applied to persons, was originally used in direct reference to this cruel practice.
Not many months since some boys were sitting on the banks of the River Devon, near Tillicoultry (Scotland), when one of them, aged ten, waded into the stream in search of an article. He had hardly entered the water when he walked into a deep pool, in which he was whirled about quite helplessly, like a cork. Fortunately, a lad named James Henderson happened to be passing at the time, and observing the imminent peril of the poor boy, plunged into the river at the risk of his life, and brought him to the bank, where, after treatment, he recovered. The painful screams of the boy created great excitement in the neighbourhood, and there seems no doubt that but for the gallant rescue here recorded he would have been drowned. It would be a great advantage if the teaching of boys and girls how to swim were made a necessary part of their education.
From time immemorial elephants have been employed in war in the East and in Africa, though the Indian kind is more familiar to us in this respect. At first they were equipped with a huge tower, in which fighting-men were carried—a practice of which we are reminded in the sign of the "Elephant and Castle" still in vogue in some inns—and were even trained to use swords with their trunks. In the present day, however, the creatures are found more useful in assisting the transport of artillery in hilly or marshy districts. The "castle" has been replaced by a howdah, from which the soldiers use the modern weapons of war. Military service may, therefore, be regarded as being a good deal easier than it once was—so far, at least, as elephants are concerned.