The rain is nothing. We can amuse ourselves just as well in the house. Can't we 토토사이트 go over to Aunt Betty's, and play with Estelle, Miss Leigh?'

Georgie gave a bound of delight towards the door, and even Miss Leigh smiled, and got up quickly.

'A capital idea!' she said, rolling up her work. 'Go and put on your macintoshes, and we will run over as quickly as we can. We shall not get wet enough to hurt us.'

Alan, however, was not pleased. He wanted to change the water of his aquarium, and required Marjorie to help him. They had already put fresh water into two compartments, but the third was to have some of the rain, which they were collecting especially for the purpose. The small frogs, sticklebacks, and mud-lampreys were already enjoying themselves, and Alan was determined that the tadpoles and newts should be as happy. The newts were specially disliked by Georgie, and now, to make matters worse, Alan placed two of them on the floor. He intended to make them run races, regardless of the effect of their wet bodies on the carpet.

'They don't do any harm,' he asserted, when Miss Leigh objected; 'not a bit of it. Water never hurts anything.'

'It is very unpleasant to have them on the floor, to say the least,' returned the governess. 'And you know Georgie does not like them.'

'Then he needn't, the baby,' retorted Alan, with a withering glance at his brother.

'I don't mind frogs half so much,' explained Georgie, with a look of disgust at the newts struggling in Alan's grasp.

'What a little silly you are,' said Alan, placing the creatures on the ground, and a tiny red worm in front of them. 'What's the matter with you? Are you afraid they will bite?'

'It's those dreadful legs! And the nasty way they eat.'

'Come, we must go,' said Miss Leigh, with some irritation. 'Come along, Georgie. Marjorie, just see that you and he are well wrapped up, and have goloshes on. The paths will be like rivers.'

But Alan, who had moved to allow the governess to leave the room, objected strongly to Marjorie going with her.

'She's got to stay and help me change the water,' he declared.

Miss Leigh had grown impatient, however; and she insisted on Marjorie accompanying her and Georgie, and swept her out of the schoolroom with them, leaving Alan to overcome his wrath as best he could.

(Continued on page 63.)

Some time ago a soldier at Winchester Barracks went before his colonel for punishment. He was the worst man in the regiment, in spite of his continual imprisonment in the guard-room.

The colonel, who was tired of sentencing the man, said to the sergeant: 'Here he is again. Guard-room, disgrace, solitary confinement—in fact, everything has been tried; but all to no purpose.'

'There is one thing you have not tried,' said the sergeant, 'and that is "forgiveness."'

The colonel had never thought of that, and when the soldier was brought in he asked him what he had to say to the charge.

'Nothing, sir,' was the reply, 'only I am sorry for what I have done!'

Turning a kind and pitiful look on the man, who expected nothing else than that his punishment would be increased with the repetition of his offence, the colonel addressed him, saying: 'Well, we have tried everything with you, and now we are resolved to—forgive you!'

The soldier was struck dumb with amazement, and left the room without a word. The new plan, however, was too much for him; it broke his hardened heart, and he became one of the best soldiers in her Majesty's service.[Pg 51]

2.—Library Puzzle.
British authors may be classed in various ways: some are philosophers, like (a secure fastening, and a vowel) and (a breakfast eatable). Some, again, are poets, like (painful results of a devouring element) and (expressive sounds, and true value). There are essayists like (hardened metal, and a vowel) and (young and tender meat); and others, like (a kind of swallow), who are of less amiable character. These stand side by side with writers of novels, like (some one north of the Tweed, and an upright and crosspiece); or of stories, plays, and verses, like (a precious metal, and a hard worker).

C. J. B.

3.—Buried Cities—English and Foreign.
1. Go to the King's Court and plead there for deliverance.

2. The verdict was 'Not proven.' I ceased to hope for a conviction.

3. The house is good, and the garden very large.

4. Did the voyage tire you? Not an atom; I landed as fresh as when I embarked.

5. Hangings of a rich amber lined the apartment.

6. I acknowledge no superior, be he pope, king, or emperor.

7. Remember, gentlemen of the jury, the advanced age of the prisoner.

C. J. B.

[Answers on page 75.]

Answer to Puzzle on Page 15.
I raised the curtain and looked out. The mail-train was about to start. 'Alicia,' I cried, trial and toil lie before me. Rail not, lady, at my shabby coat; a nation's eyes follow me. In this curt Latin letter my instructions are written; armed with it I am a happy man.


OST Anglo-Indians, after living many years in India, return to their native country with the idea that the music of Hindostan consists of the noisy twanging of stringed instruments, jangling of ankle bells, and banging of drums. Very few have troubled themselves to consider the important part played by music in the lives of the various nations occupying the vast territories between the Himalayas and Cape Comorin.

Foreigners are treated by the natives to noisy performances because they are thought to be lovers of harsh sounds, possibly owing to the prominence of brass instruments in our military bands, the only European music with which[Pg 52] they are familiar. Moreover, we must take into account that the scales and chords, which make the harmonies so pleasant to Western ears, sound just as discordant to Eastern nations as their musical combinations do to ourselves.

The "Bin."
The Vedas, or sacred books of the Brahmins, give very strict directions about the music of the various religious festivals. It is ordered to consist almost always of soft, mild melodies, dying dreamily away, accompanied by the gentle tinkling of cymbals. The Vedic chant, sung by the priests, was written some three thousand years ago, and has still a wonderful effect on the minds of educated Hindus.

In very early times the art of music was reduced to an elaborate system, and the study of it seems to have been general until the first Mohammedan invasion in the eleventh century. From this time the whole country was a scene of war between rival princes, and amid fighting and bloodshed for many centuries the peaceful arts had little chance of flourishing.

The "Kimmori."
Aurungzebe, the last great Mogul emperor, put an end to the Court music, which had probably reached a very low level in his day. It was his custom to assure his people of his safety by showing himself daily to them at a certain window, and some musicians, thinking to arouse his sympathy, brought beneath this window a funeral bier, and set up a doleful wailing. Distracted by the noise, the emperor appeared and demanded what it all meant? 'Melody is dead,' was the dejected reply, 'and we are taking it to the graveyard.' 'Very good,' answered the annoyed ruler; 'make the grave so deep that neither voice nor echo may ever again be heard.' And so Court ceremonials were deprived of music for the future.

The 'bin,' or 'vina,' may be regarded as the national instrument of India. Legend says that it was invented by Nareda, the son of Brahma. In painting and sculpture Nareda is usually represented as playing on this instrument. One of the old Pâli books, written about the time of our Lord's birth, gives a description of the 'vina,' and the carving of the most ancient instruments differs little from that of those made at the present time.

The 'bin' is made of wood, and has seven strings, two of steel, the rest of silver, and these are plucked by the two first fingers of the performer, who wears little metal shields made for the purpose. It is tuned by pegs, and has two gourds suspended below, each usually measuring about fourteen inches across. These, being of irregular shape and gaily coloured, give a very picturesque look to the instrument.

Another favourite instrument is the 'kimmori.' This also derives its sounding powers from gourds, of which three are usually slung from the tube forming the body. It is said by the natives to have been invented by one of the singers of the 'Brahma Loka,' or heaven of the Brahmins. The 'kimmori' is made of a pipe of bamboo or blackwood, with frets or screws, which should be fashioned of the scales of the pangolin, or scaly ant-eater, though more often they are made of bone or metal. It has only two strings, one touching the frets, the other carried above them. The tail-piece is always carved like the breast of a kite, and the instrument is frequently found sculptured on ancient temples and shrines, especially in Mysore, in the south of Hindustan.

In the Old Testament, mention is made of a musical instrument called kimor, which was probably the same as the kimmori, both being of great antiquity, and most likely of Aryan construction.

Helena Heath.[Pg 53]

"Mag raised her shrill note of warning."
A True Story.
Mag was seldom at rest: from morning till night she hopped about, in her smart black-and-white coat—her bright eyes shining, her head a little on one side, and her chatter constantly to be heard.

Those bright, bead-like eyes of hers saw everything that was to be seen; but, of all the creatures that met her view, Mag admired the pheasants most. She thought there never were such fine and noble birds, and she could not tire of looking at them, and noticing how the rich greens and blues and browns of their soft plumage shone in the autumn sunshine.[Pg 54]

She proved her interest once in a remarkable way. The pheasants—several of them—were pecking amongst the bracken, and Mag, perched on an oak bough overhead, was looking round, as was her custom, when her glance fell upon a fox, lurking treacherously amongst the long grass, evidently making ready to spring upon the stately birds.

What was to be done? To cry out would be to draw Master Reynard's attention away from the pheasants to herself; but Mag did not hesitate for a moment. At the risk of her own life she raised her shrill note of warning, and the pheasants, roused to the danger, scuttled away, just in time.

The disappointed fox tried hard to get at the magpie, but her strong wings stood her in good stead, and she, too, managed to reach a place of safety.

Two moles once dwelt together in a hole at the foot of an enormous mountain. They had long lived a quiet life, and now wished to make a noise in the world, so they caused a report to be spread about among the animals that they intended moving the mountain on a certain day. The beasts thought it a wonderful thing that two little moles should move a great mountain, and they never stopped to ask if it was possible or not.

On the day appointed, they came together with one accord to see this extraordinary feat of strength. Not only animals came, but men too, who had provided themselves with sacks, bags, and wheelbarrows to carry away the gold and silver and other precious metals which they fancied were inside the mountain. After waiting some time, the moles came out, and said: 'Dear sirs, the sight of so many of you here to-day does our hearts good. We have lived a very quiet life hitherto, and now desire to make a name in the world. We will, therefore, perform the wonderful task of moving the mountain as we promised; but before it can be accomplished, we shall require you all to bring a large waggon and place the mountain on the top of it ready for starting. Until you have done this, we shall not be able to move the mountain.'

Then the moles retired to their hole to watch the effects of their speech. The animals saw at once that they had been deceived, and they tried to tear down the place, but could not, for the wily moles lived too far under the ground to meet with any hurt.

Moral: Do not be taken in by the vain promises of those who only wish to make a name for themselves.

(From H. Berkeley Score's Original Fables.)

When I was a child about seven years of age, my friends one holiday filled my pockets with half-pence. I went directly to a shop where toys were sold for children, and being charmed with the sound of a whistle that I saw on my way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered him all my money for it. I then came home, and went whistling over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain which I had made, told me that I had given four times as much for it as it was worth. This put me in mind of what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money, and they laughed at me so much for my folly that I cried with vexation. My reflections on the subject gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.

This little event, however, was afterwards of great use to me, the impression continuing on my mind, so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, 'Do not give too much for the whistle,' and so I saved my money.

From 'Benjamin Franklin's Life.'


LITTLE Bee, one sunny day,
Through garden beds sped on its way;
It went from flower to flower.
As on its busy way it flew,
It entered blossoms white and blue,
And lingered by the bower.

Each lovely blossom with its cup,
Something of sweetness yielded up,
Something of what was good.
There was no flower that I could see
But gave up something to the bee—
Each one did what it could.

As on through life I go each day,
And here and there pursue my way,
Like to that busy bee.
Oh, may I gather what is good,
And find for heart and mind sweet food,
Enriched by all I see!
True Tales of the Year 1806.
On a cold winter's afternoon, in the year 1806, the little crowd that had been attending a sale of furniture at the chief auctioneer's in Wolverhampton was slowly melting away, for the few lots still left to be sold mostly consisted of worn-out saucepans, broken towel-rails, and some shabby chairs, and such-like worthless articles.

Very poor people, however, cannot be too fastidious, and a few buyers still remained who were glad to bid for such things, and amongst these people was a respectable-looking widow, in threadbare mourning, with a boy of about thirteen years old by her side.

'Lot 213!' said the auctioneer, with a yawn; for the excitement of the sale was over, and he did not waste professional jokes except on well-to-do hearers. 'Rosewood armchair, upholstered in best wool damask! Now, then, what offers?'

His assistant meanwhile had hoisted on to the table the very shabbiest chair that had ever occupied so prominent a position! No doubt it might once have been a good piece of furniture, but now the rosewood was so encrusted with dirt that it required much scrutiny to say what the wood really was; and, as for the 'best wool damask,' that must have existed only in the auctioneer's imagination, for the chair looked as if it were upholstered in a ragged, colourless canvas, with the stuffing sticking through in numberless places.

Some of the little audience laughed and jeered as the chair was placed before them, and one man said, derisively, that 'it wasn't worth breaking up for firewood.'

The little widow's eyes, however, brightened, and she whispered to the boy, 'That's the chair I told you of. I saw it yesterday. I could clean it up, and make it comfortable for your grandfather. I can't bear to see him sitting on that hard chair of his, with his rheumatism and all. But I'm afraid it will go for more than I have.' And she clutched the leather bag, with its solitary half-crown, more firmly in her hand.

'It's a big chair,' said the boy; 'but it's all to pieces, mother.'

'I could settle it, if only I get it,' said the widow, anxiously, still looking at the chair.

'Now! What offers?' repeated the auctioneer, looking impatiently round. 'Come, make a bid! A good rosewood chair, upholstered in damask.'

There was silence. No one seemed to want such a wretched piece of furniture, except the widow, who longed for it so earnestly that the power of speech seemed to go from her.

'George,' she gasped, as she pulled her boy's sleeve, 'say you'll give a shilling. I can't make him hear me.'

'A shilling!' shouted out the boy, and the auctioneer turned in his direction at once.

'A shilling for a rosewood chair, upholstered in best damask!' he said, in a voice of scorn. 'And this in the respectable city of Wolverhampton!'

The spectators laughed, but no one bid any further sum, so the auctioneer, who wanted to get home to his supper, banged his hammer on the table, and to her surprise and delight the widow found that the chair was hers.

With her boy's help she got the chair home, and cheered her invalid father by telling him 'his old bones should ache no longer. She would have him in an easy-chair by the following day.'

She was up at daybreak, and immediately after their frugal breakfast she dragged the chair into the yard, and began ripping up the fusty old lining.

'Let me do that, mother. I can rip finely,' said George, taking the knife out of her hand, for there is a certain joy in tearing and cutting that appeals to a boy.

'Very well,' said his mother, 'then I will get a pail of warm water, and we will scrub the rosewood, and get all this black dirt off it; and when that's done I'll begin the upholstering. I'm going to cover[Pg 55] it with my old red cloak. It will be fine and soft for your grandfather, and I don't wear colours now, so that I can spare the cloak. But, first of all, I will put Grandfather in the window-seat, so that he can see all we are doing. It will amuse him; his life is dull enough, poor dear old man.'

She went indoors, and George continued the ripping, enjoying the clouds of dust he raised in the process.

The little woman had just settled her father comfortably on the wooden settle, where he could look out of the window and see all that went on in the yard, when they were startled by a cry from George.

'Mother! Mother! Oh, come!'

'He has cut himself!' said the poor woman, turning deadly pale, as she flew out into the yard.

But George was unhurt, though he looked dazed and half stupefied.

'Look here, Mother,' he said, pointing down to the ground, 'this chair was full of gold pieces. No wonder it was so heavy to drag home!'

'Gold pieces! Oh, no!' she said, shaking her head. 'You must have made a mistake, my boy.'

'Look at them!' said George, stooping down and picking up a handful of guineas from the mass of dust and dirt and horsehair that was strewn on the floor of the yard. 'They're guineas right enough; they came pouring out like water when I got to the middle of the chair.'

'They look like guineas,' said the poor woman, trembling with anxiety. 'Oh, George, if they should be, and if they are rightfully ours, then Father could get to Bath and be cured, and you could be apprenticed to a cabinet-maker, like your poor father before you.'

'They are guineas,' said George, stoutly. 'Let's show them to Grandfather—he will know; and if they are—and I know they are'—he repeated, 'some of the money must be spent on you, Mother; I won't have it all go to apprentice me. If that ever comes off, you must have a new gown and cloak to sign my articles in,' and George got up from the dirty ground and gave his mother a hearty hug.

Grandfather gave his verdict: the guineas were real, and had the effigy of George I. stamped on them, and there were just a hundred of them, all told.

Of course, the news of the widow's lucky find was soon known, and the auctioneer claimed the money, but the clergyman of the parish supported the widow's claim, and though the auctioneer went to law about it, he lost his case and had to pay the costs.

Later on in the year a happy family party went to a solicitor's office to sign George's indentures.

Grandfather was there, erect and well, for the Bath waters had done wonders for him. His widowed daughter hung on his arm in a fine new dress and cloak, and George, looking very important at the thought of being apprenticed to the first cabinet-maker in Wolverhampton, had everything on new from top to toe, and all this was the outcome of the purchase (for a shilling) of 'the old rosewood armchair.'

S. C.[Pg 56]

"'Mother, this chair was full of gold pieces!'"
[Pg 57]

"Set to the hardest and most menial work." "Set to the hardest and most menial work."
[Pg 58]

II.—The Constant Prince.

NE summer's day, nearly five hundred years ago, a queen lay dying in the royal city of Lisbon. She was an English princess, daughter of our own John of Gaunt, bearing the loved name of her grandmother, good Queen Philippa, and she had been a helpful wife to her husband, King Joao of Portugal, and a wise and tender mother to the five lads who stood in bitter sorrow round her death-bed. Even now, as her life ebbed away, she roused herself to speak to them brave words of cheer and counsel, and, calling them close to her, gave to each a sword, bidding them, with her failing breath, to draw the blades only in the cause of truth and right, and in defence of the widow and the orphan.

A good cause it was in which the young princes went forth but a few weeks later. They had one and all refused to receive knighthood for some bloodless achievement at a tournament, and had begged to be allowed to win their spurs by an expedition against the Moorish pirates, who, from their strongholds on the African coast, swept the Mediterranean Sea, and carried off numberless prisoners into cruel bondage. It was in the cause of many a widow and orphan, whose bread-winner toiled in some Moorish seaport, or below the decks of a pirate galley, that the Portuguese princes drew their mother's last gifts on African soil.

So well did they acquit themselves that, after one day of desperate fighting, the city of Ceuta, one of the most valuable of the pirate strongholds, fell into the hands of the three elder lads. Enrique, the third brother, who was not only a gallant fighter, but so skilful a general that our own Henry V. offered him a command in his army, so distinguished himself that his father would have knighted him first, had he not refused to be preferred before his elders.