Various
Little Folks
JEMMY'S AND MY ADVENTURE
By the Author of "Claimed at Last" &c
Jemmy was five, I seven—two quaint little people we must have looked, as we trotted out through the lengthening shadows from the old Manor Farmhouse, where we had been sojourning with our grandmother and Uncle John, all the summer-time. Now August was fast glowing itself away towards September, and all was rich, ripe grain, happy toiling and mirth, in the far-stretching fields. Out from the old flower-wreathed porch we both of us trudged, and away on an expedition of our own.
"We mustn't be idle—the bees are not idle, are they?" piped Jemmy, turning to watch the bees working in the flower-beds. And I responded—
"No, nor are we idle if we try to be busy."
"And seeing other folk work is like working ourselves, isn't it?" reasoned Jemmy.
"And picking flowers for grandmamma is real work," was my complacent rejoinder, pressing the wooden basket I carried closer to my side, and thinking myself a very industrious little woman.
Away on the downs, all beautiful colours were chasing each other among the sunbeams, and the trees waved overhead, as if they liked to fan all the busy toilers on the earth. And by the old beech-tree, at the cross-roads, we met Uncle John.
"Well," was his greeting; "where do you two midges think you're off to?"
"I'm going to look after the harvest folk," quoth Jemmy, with a swagger.
"And I'm going to gather flowers for grandmamma—and we're not midges, uncle," said I, with a girl's protest.
"Ah! what are you, then, little fluffy hair?" was his smiling reply, putting back my yellow curls from my forehead with his finger.
"Two busy people that don't like to be idle."
"Ah! well, go on, you make-believes; mind and be home by sundown, and don't lose yourselves." Thus he admonished us; then he went his way, and we ours.
"Sundown is a long time, isn't it, Nell?" remarked Jemmy; "and we're not such sillies as to lose ourselves."
"No; uncle doesn't know how wise we are," I answered; and then we travelled on all through the rich, ripe harvest-glory of cornfields.
But the harvest folk seemed very far off; the silent fields lay basking in the sunshine, with the lengthening shadows stretching athwart them, some with the golden grain cut and ready for carting, some still standing awaiting the sickle. But no happy toilers were to be seen. Yes, we alighted upon one, a lad sitting manufacturing a whistle-pipe, and watching some sheep wandering in a field, where the wheat had been reaped and gleaned.
"Where are the harvest folk?" questioned Jemmy, with dignity.
"Harvest folk, young sir! That's a wide question, 'cause them's everywhere," replied the lad, with a grin.
"I don't see them," was the reply.
"I'm a harvest folk, and so is them—them's havin' their harvest," saying which the boy jerked his thumb in the direction of the sheep.
"They're not folk, they are sheep," dissented Jemmy, with scorn.
"Well, follow your noses, youngsters;' and you'll find some harvest folk, if ye go far enough."
"He's a great rude boy, Nell, come away," quoth Jemmy to me, taking my hand, and boy-like leading me on. And as we went we met a mite of a boy of about Jemmy's age, with a small bundle of corn on his shoulder, like a miniature man.
"Are you come from the harvest people?" asked Jemmy.
"Yes," was the child's reply.
"And where are they?"
"I don't know; ever so far away. I'm carrying home mother's corn." With that the little man trudged on his way, and we went flitting here and there, I picking corn-flowers, and Jemmy looking for fat toads and shrews. And all the while our shadows standing by our sides warned us of what would befall us ere long.
"I think," said I, presently, "that I'll sit down here by these sheaves awhile;" but ere we had bent our tired little limbs, out flew a beautiful bird from their midst, all blue and gold, and many other tints intermingling to our imaginative eyes, viewing it in the sunlight.
"Oh, Nell, what a beauty!" cried Jemmy, and hand in hand we drew near to admire it, as it poised itself in mid air over our heads. To our childish fancy it was a stranger bird, a wanderer from some foreign clime.
"Oh, if I could sketch it!" I sighed.
"Oh, if I could catch it!" cried more matter-of-fact Jemmy; and then, as the bird flew away, we followed it as if we were charmed, spell-bound.
Away and away, across the fields, up the steep hill-side, our backs to the sun, our faces—ah, me! that pretty bird led us far astray; and now we were in the copse, on the sloping hill-side. Thus our bird had wiled us on; we heard it sing to us, as in merry laughter, as we wandered here and there seeking it in the shady tangle, but we never found it, nor caught a glimpse of it; we saw it wing its way thither, and that was all. When we emerged upon the open downs again, the sun had set, the cornfields below looked dim and gloomy, as if something were lost, dead, and over the wild waste of downs, shadows were creeping and crawling. And oh, how our little legs ached! We were fain to sit down and rest awhile. What was worse, we had turned and twisted, and gone hither and thither, till we did not know in what direction lay our home. We rose and turned to right and left, east, west, north, and south, but those dark, deepening shadows seemed to be creeping after us, and monsters came crawling and stealing up the hill-side, and went we knew not whither. Then a mist gathered over, not deep and blinding, but just enough to make everything look unreal and terrible to us small, lonely creatures.
"Oh, Jemmy, what is that?" cried I, as a great, dark something loomed near us.
"Oh, I don't know," said he, in a frightened whisper; but he threw his arm about me, his boy-nature strong within him.
Then the wind swept cold and bleak, bringing with it a low growl—at least so it sounded to our poor frightened senses, and we fairly clung to each other.
"That's wolves!" moaned Jemmy, while that great threatening something at our side seemed to fade away, others stealing up and taking its place.
"Wolves don't live in England," said I.
"They did when little William was a boy," returned Jemmy, and I, as I remembered the tragic story of the little woodman and his dog Cæsar, felt that we too, for aught we knew, were to pass through a time of terror, as did he.
In an instant the incidents of that story rose before me like living pictures. The death of little William's father, his cruel brothers banding together, and taking him three days' journey into the forest, just to be free of him, to let him die of hunger or what not, shutting up his only friend, his trusty dog Cæsar, at home. Their stealing away on the third night while he slept, his awakening, his long, weary waiting for their return during the day, his terror at nightfall. Then I saw him praying, as the weird sounds of the wood made his little heart quake. Then followed the unmistakable howl of the wolves, his flight hither and thither, his climbing a tree to be safe from the hideous animals, and his seeing a light while there. Next, I saw him rushing toward it, a wolf on his track, the glare of fiery eyes behind him, the pat of feet, the panting breath; the river which barred his progress, and stayed his flying, stumbling, uncertain feet; the leaping of the animal on his back, which proved to be his dear little dog Cæsar, broke loose from home, and come to find him; Cæsar's fight with a wolf which followed, and, oh, joy! his coming upon his grandmother's cottage, to home and safety. Tears rushed to my eyes as it all rose before me.
"Let us hide away in the copse," said I, for I fancied that growling, wailing sound came sweeping up to us from over the downs.
"I think if we could get out on the other side, that would be our way home," said I to my wee brother, as we groped and threaded our way.
But the other side of the copse was like this side, a tangle, a mystery; we were like two birds caught in a net. We sat down and cried bitterly.
And now there was a stirring among the bushes, and that howling, moaning, fearful sound seemed now upon us, now afar, till it lost itself in space. Crash, crash, crash, came something through the brambles and bushes, and, as by instinct, we leaped to our feet and ran. None but a child knows a child's terror: so weak, so puny, so unaccustomed to rely on itself for protection, for a means to escape from danger and peril. Hand in hand, we rushed forward like the wandering babes in the wood; now we fell, tripped up by a root of a tree; now that moan swept over us, that terrible moan more like a roar, and we were on our feet, scudding on as before.
On, on, still on—glancing over my shoulder, what did I espy but two fiery eyes gleaming through the darkness, as did poor hapless William, and the rush of some eager animal bent on prey, which would not be driven back, came distinct and clear. I did not tell Jemmy what my startled eyes beheld, but hurried him on, on—whither?
Now came the pant, pant of the creature's breath, and now—as in the story of little William—there stretched before us a stream of water. What could we do?
I glanced behind me as we halted by the river in front, into which we had well-nigh rushed.
Ah! those burning eyes were upon us, so to speak, the creature's breath fanned my cheek. Now his paws were on my shoulders to tear me down. I shrieked as to some unknown hand to save me, and Jemmy belaboured him with a stick he caught up in desperation. But the beast did not bite me, only whined out his joy, and licked my face. It was Ben, Uncle John's old dog Ben; and oh, joy! there was Uncle John himself bearing down upon us, like some giant in the gloom.
"Well, you youngsters, what have you to say for yourselves to Ben and me?" so he questioned, as we clung tightly to him, each holding a hand.
"Uncle," said I, after I had kissed the dear old dog, and Jemmy had caressed him, "uncle, did you hear anything growling all about? We did, and thought 'twas wolves, same as little William heard."
"No, Nell, I heard no sound of wolves—how could I when there are no wolves to hear? That was the wind you heard, little one," was the reply.
"And we saw great monsters that crawled, and crept, and frightened us ever so much," I told him, with a quaver in my voice.
"That was the mist wreathing and curling, which your frightened little hearts made monsters of. But come, you've not answered my question—what have you to say to Mr. Ben and me for leading us this long dance?"
"It was a bird's fault, uncle," said I, true to my sex in making my excuse, "a dear, lovely bird, which flew away in here, and we followed it, and so—and so we forgot and were lost."
"Ah! children," said Uncle John, as he led us home, one on either side of him, I wearing uncle's pocket-handkerchief on my head, knotted into something like a turban, Ben trotting on before—"Ah, children, little feet shouldn't wander far from home; little heads shouldn't think themselves overwise; and little things like pretty birds shouldn't make small people forget their uncle's command to be home before sundown. Now, if you will only just get home by moondown, 'twill do very well."
MORNINGS AT THE ZOO
VII.—ABOUT THE BATS
Perhaps none of the inmates of the Zoological Gardens, London, cause such serious disappointment as the Bats. Indeed, it may fairly be questioned whether one half of the visitors are aware that the Gardens contain specimens of these really interesting animals. The fact is, the creatures do not obtrude themselves upon any person's notice, and those who do not know their whereabouts, but want to see them, might spend a day in vainly looking for them, unless they invoked the aid of one of the keepers. Yet the bats are often enough discovered quite by accident where they are least expected. Their cages will be found in the monkey-house, screened from the light by a blind. Raise the blind and you will observe them hanging by their hind feet, with their wings wrapped round them like a cloak. They are no doubt asleep, but the raising of the screen may rouse some of them, who will turn their wee sharp noses and bright eyes towards the inquisitive stranger, and utter a little "cheeping" cry of complaint at having their repose disturbed. Night being the season of their activity, the bats do not favourably impress the casual visitor. After the Gardens have closed, however, they get more lively, though the smallness of their domicile prevents them from flying. They crawl about their cages and fight for the titbits of food. Tame bats may be trained to display some amount of fondness for their keeper. If set free they will creep about his person and get on to his shoulder and lick his face like a dog.
Until the time of the illustrious Linnæus the bats had been more or less a puzzle both to scientific folk and to common people. The general notion was that they were a kind of bird with wings of skin, while the German name for the creature, Fledermaus, or fluttering mouse, points to another opinion that they were neither bird nor beast, but a mixture of both. Other delusions remained in force up to a recent period. "Blind as a bat," is an old saying so much the reverse of fact, that it is not easy to explain how it ever obtained currency among people who had seen the animal. So far from being afflicted with blindness, they are, says Mr. Dallas, "furnished with very efficient eyes, although, in most cases, these are little bead-like organs, very unlike the eyes usually seen in animals whose activity is nocturnal."
Nevertheless bats are not dependent upon their eyesight for a means of getting about in the dark. They are able to fly with great speed and accuracy, to avoid obstacles, and to enter small holes without making the least mistake. Experiments have shown that this singular power of direction is due to a remarkable development of the sense of touch especially to be found in their great expanse of wing. Further, these animals possess large ears and curious nostrils, some of which are leaf-like formations of the most extraordinary description. These skin growths are all supposed to have reference to the skill with which the creatures wing their way in the darkest caves.
As regards diet their wants are simple. Most bats feed on insects which they catch on the wing; some of them eat fruit; and a few enjoy a bad name because they suck the blood of other animals. Of these last are the so-called vampire bats, respecting which it used to be said that they fanned their victim with their wings while they sucked its life's blood. Though it is quite true that horses and cattle in South America are attacked by some bats, this hideous tale is altogether fabulous.
In considering the habits of these queer beings we shall confine ourselves to the fruit-eaters, to which the bats in the Zoo belong. In their native haunts the flying foxes, as they are called, are terribly destructive creatures. In Ceylon they hang upon some trees in such numbers that the branches often give way beneath their weight. While hovering round the trees stripping them of their fruit, the beating of their broad wings creates quite a hum. In the forenoon they take a "constitutional," just for a little exercise, and to air and dry their fur after the dews of the early morning. Then they return to the shadiest nook they can find till nightfall. Sometimes an attempt is made by its fellows to plunder a bat before it can manage to retire to a safe and snug retreat where it may enjoy its dinner in peace and quiet. Then fighting takes place, during which they tear one another with their hooks, screaming angrily the while. At last the would-be victim contrives to escape by flight to a distant spot, where in hot haste it devours its fruit. When the flying foxes drink, they lap by hanging head downwards from a branch over the water. Some of the Indian fruit bats, according to Mr. Francis Day, "often pass the night partaking of the toddy from the chatties in the cocoa-nut trees, which results either in their returning home in the early morning in a state of extreme and riotous intoxication, or in being found the next day at the foot of the trees sleeping off the effects of their midnight drinking." These "chatties," I may explain, are bowls containing various liquors belonging to natives, which are placed in the trees to keep them cool.
The margined fruit bat—so called from the white border that surrounds its ears—works great mischief in the plantations upon which it feeds. They will fly as many as thirty or forty miles and back the same night in search of food. It is a greedy animal, individuals kept in captivity seeming to be always eating. The fruit bats are found in Asia, Africa, and Australia.
Many readers have doubtless seen bats in the course of their evening walks, and it may, therefore, be worth while to remind them that British bats—the long-eared and the barbastelle bats, for example,—feed upon insects. The blood-suckers, again, do not appear to belong to any other country but South America. All the fruit-eaters are, comparatively speaking, big bats. In size they range from the Great Kalong, the largest of all bats, which measures fourteen inches long, and has a wing expansion of upwards of four feet, to the dwarf long-tongued fruit bat, which is only from two and a half to three inches in length, with an expanse of wing of from eight to ten inches. The conditions of existence in the Zoo at present entirely prevent the captive bats from ever having an opportunity of doing justice to themselves. Perhaps at some date, more or less distant, they may be accommodated with a cage roomy enough to enable them to use their wings freely, and otherwise to display their powers.
James A. Manson.
A GAME OF CRICKET IN ELFLAND
A FAIRY STORY
It was a large gander, and it seemed to be a fierce gander, for it hissed loudly when Felix waved a switch before it, and pointed his finger at it crying, "Bohoo, bohoo, you goosey gander."
It was not very polite, and the gander seemed to grow more and more angry, and yet it would not leave Felix. At length Felix still pointing at the gander, said—
"Goosey, goosey, gander,
Whither shall we wander,
Up the hill, or through the vale,
Or in the pinewoods yonder."
And to his great surprise the gander drew in his head, and replied promptly—
"Pinewoods."
And a goose in the distance cried out—
"Make haste then."
Felix dropped the switch, put his hands in his pockets, and stared at both the birds.
"Come," said the gander, spreading out his wings; "get on my back, and
Away we'll sail
Down the river in the vale,
Away to the pinewoods, away, away."
Splash, splash, such a spluttering in the water, and Felix, holding on by the gander's neck, shivered as the water touched him, for it was very cold; which much surprised him, as the day was hot, and the sun was shining.
How large the gander had grown! he had seemed a large gander before, but now he seemed quite monstrous. And the river grew wider, and the trees appeared to reach the sky, and the flags and bulrushes were like young palm-trees, and the flowers shot up to a great size. There was one clump of lilies of the valley much taller than Felix, and quite overshadowing a girl in a large cap with a blue ribbon in it, who seemed to be gathering some flowers growing in the water.
As Felix approached the bank the lily bells swayed to and fro with a melodious sound as if bells of the purest silver were ringing.
"Welcoming us to Elfland," observed the gander.
"Isn't it the Pinewood?" asked Felix.
"It's all the same," answered the gander.
"Who is the little girl? She is coming to speak to us."
"Little girl, indeed," returned the gander contemptuously; "it's the Pine Queen; she has been asking you to come for weeks, but you took no notice of her. She sent messages by the swallows and the blackbirds, and the butterflies, and the grasshopper, but you did not heed them."
"I never heard them," said Felix, somewhat bewildered.
"Of course not; boys never do; they are always thinking of toys and games, and tarts and plum-cake, and the birds and butterflies speak to them in vain."
"I don't understand," said Felix.
"Of course not, but now," said the gander, suddenly rising in the water and flapping his wings; "having done my duty in bringing you here, I leave you to take care of yourself."
So saying he tossed Felix off his back to the bank, at the feet of the Pine Queen.
As Felix looked at the Pine Queen he noticed that she was dressed in silk and satin, and that her cap had turned into a crown of diamonds, and that she had diamond buckles on her shoes, and that she seemed very glittering and dazzling altogether.
She looked at Felix, and then said—
"Two little maidens winding wool all day,
If you want to see them please to walk this way."
"I don't care about seeing them," said Felix, who thought this a very odd way of beginning a conversation; nevertheless he followed the Pine Queen along the path through the trees.
It was very pleasant, the great straight pines with their tufted branches, and the sun sending slanting rays of gold through them; whilst the wild strawberries shone like heaps of rubies at his feet. Wonderful birds and butterflies were darting hither and thither amongst the loveliest flowers. And on a grassy nook not far from a waterfall he perceived some white marble steps on which two little girls sat. The one was holding a great skein of wool, and the other was winding it. There was a great heap of wool of all colours on the ground.
"We wind, we wind till we've wound enough
Of wool a hundred balls to stuff."
sang the little maidens.
"What for?" asked Felix.
"For cricket-balls we work away,
With which pine-cricket players play."
sang the maidens.
"But cricket-balls should be hard," said Felix.
"Not in Elfland," answered the Pine Queen, smiling; "it's a different game altogether; we hit 'soft' instead of 'hard,' and our bats are brushes, and we make no scores."
"It must be a queer game," said Felix.
"We think it a much better game than yours," answered the Queen, "pads are never wanted; and there are no wickets, and no one is ever caught out."
"How funny!" exclaimed Felix; "I should not care to play at such a game."
The Queen made no answer, and they walked on until they met a girl with a pail of water, who curtseyed respectfully.
"She's going to wash the cricket-ground," explained the Pine Queen.
"Oh!" said Felix, which was all that he could say, for the fact was everything seemed so very strange to him.
"Scour the ground, mop it, and dry it with care,
Sprinkle it over with Eau-de-Cologne.
Roses in flower-pots put round here and there,
And the roses must all be full-blown."
The eyes of Felix grew rounder and rounder, as the Pine Queen gave these directions, and he rubbed them to be quite certain that he was awake.
"We roll and mow the grass," he half whispered.
"We scour, and mop, and dry, and polish," murmured the Queen.
"We play with bats," Felix went on.
"We play with brushes," continued the Queen; "and here is one of our players in full costume."
Felix glanced round, but he only saw a boy who looked like a street sweeper, with a hand-brush in one hand and a broom in the other. He had on a sailor's hat, and he touched the brim of it with the broom-handle, as a salutation to the Queen.
"Queer, queerer, queerest!" thought Felix.
"Are you a good brusher?" asked the boy, suddenly; "can you brush the balls well?"
Felix stared at him.
"Oh!" said the boy; "I thought you would be sure to be a good cricketer."
"So I am," returned Felix; "I am a good batter. I've got a prize bat."
The boy burst out laughing, so did some magpies and squirrels. So did the streamlet that was running along so fast. Even the little fishes popped up their heads and laughed—
"Haha! haha! hoho! hoho!"
There was such a noise that Felix had to ask several times before he got an answer.
"What are they laughing at?"
"At you," answered the boy.
"It's very rude of them," said Felix, taking up a stone to throw at the magpies, which were chattering.
"Don't, don't," said the stone. "I don't want to hurt any one."
Felix, in his surprise, dropped the stone, and it fell to the ground, saying—
"Thank you! thank you!"
"Queer, queerer, queerest!" said Felix to himself. But the Pine Queen knew what he was saying, for she said—
"Wait till you have seen the practice." Felix rubbed his eyes again, for though the sun was shining, there was certainly snow upon the ground, and the two little players, who stood with brush and ball in their hands, were clad in warm coats and gloves and winter boots, which Felix thought must prevent their running well. The girl had a scarlet feather in her felt hat, and the boy a long blue tassel hanging from his velvet cap. The girl was raising her brush to ward off the ball that the boy was about to throw.
"Isn't it pretty?" said the Pine Queen—
"Throw, throw, hit, hit!
No danger, not a bit."
But Felix was thinking about "Scour, mop, and dry it," as he looked at the snow-covered patch of land.
"Ah!" continued the Pine Queen, divining his thoughts, "snow is soft, so that if the players fall it does not hurt them. But there is no snow to be seen when the regular game begins."
And the Queen waved a rose that she held in her hand, and in a moment the scene was changed, and Felix saw before him a smooth piece of lawn that looked like shining velvet. The flower-pots with full-blown roses were there, so was the girl with the pail and the player with the long broom, looking quite hot, as if they had been at work for hours.
"A good morning's work," observed the Queen. "See how neat it is."
Felix grew more and more perplexed. How could they scour and sweep under the snow? And how did the flower-pots get there, and the players; for the ground was all covered with the pine-wood cricket-players, dressed in the gayest and airiest of costumes. Half had brushes and half had balls. And the balls were flying here and there, and if the players hit them so that they rose in the air, they burst, and butterflies of the loveliest colours issued forth; whilst if the balls fell to the ground, frogs innumerable hopped out of them, and making their way to the banks of the river, sat there singing in a most delightful manner.
Yet, sweet as it was, the music seemed to confuse him as much as the game, which grew every moment more and more intricate; the players, brandishing their brushes, flew round, and the balls flashed about, and at last all that Felix could see was a mass of dazzling rainbow colours whirling past him.
All at once he heard a loud hissing, and he saw the large gander waddling up from the river; and beside him was the little girl with the large cap with the blue bow in it, and she held out her hand, saying—
"Good-bye, Felix. Come and see us again."
"That I will," replied Felix.
But he never did.
For from that day he never saw the gander again; nor could he ever find the way to the pine-forest, though he fancied he had remembered it quite well; nor did he ever see the game of brush-cricket played again.
Sometimes he even doubted whether he had been to Pineland, and had seen the wonderful game.
"But yet," said he, "if I had not seen it, how should I know anything about the forest and the Pine Queen? and how should I know how brush-cricket is played?"
And how should he?
Julia Goddard.