Chatterbox, 1905.

V >> Various >> Chatterbox, 1905.

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The driver, alone in the van, was entirely unaware of his loss until,
rising from the heap of stones, I shouted to him to stop, and, picking
up the nosebag, ran after the van. Pulling up his horse, he leaned down
to take the bag, and then asked where I was going.

'To Hazleton,' I answered, as usual.

'That is about seventeen miles,' he said.

'The worst of it is,' I continued, 'my dog has cut his foot and can't
walk.'

'Like a lift, doggie?' asked the fat driver.

'We should most awfully!' I exclaimed, eagerly.

'Well, now, listen to me,' was the answer. 'My round doesn't take me as
far as Hazleton, but I am going to Watcombe, and that's ten miles short.
We shall not get there much afore evening, because you see I have to
travel a good bit out of the main road, and stop at ever so many places
on the way.'

At any rate, the proffered lift would take me within ten miles of
Colebrook Park, whereas without such help I did not see how I was to get
even so far unless I carried Patch in my arms. Besides, the drive was
tempting in itself, the only drawback being that my remaining capital of
one and fourpence would have to bear an extra strain, and, in case of
more bad weather, it would probably be exhausted before I reached my
destination. However, in a very few moments Patch and I were seated on
the top of a wooden box full of lemonade bottles, the fat driver whipped
up his horse, and we sped gaily along the country road.

CHAPTER XIII.

As I sat on the box of lemonade bottles, with a hand on Patch lest he
should show a desire to jump down from the van, I noticed that he was
sniffing curiously at the back of the driver's coat; and presently the
driver in his turn began to look with equal interest at the terrier.

'He seems to know you,' I remarked.

'Come to that,' was the answer, 'I seem to know him. Looks to me most
uncommon like Mr. Westrop's dog, he does.'

'Who is Mr. Westrop?' I inquired, holding Patch more tightly.

For a few minutes, without answering (for the fat driver was slow of
speech and spoke in a deep voice which seemed to come from the direction
of his boots), he divided his attention between the horse and the dog,
and then fixed his small eyes on my face.

'The question is,' he said slowly, 'where did you get him?'

'You see, I found him,' I replied.

'Mr. Westrop's been in a bad way about his dog,' continued the driver.
'A very bad way. What do you think about it, Sam, old chap?'

The terrier, to my sorrow, showed what he thought about it by wagging
his stumpy tail and whining with satisfaction, so that it would have
been ridiculous to attempt to persuade myself that he failed to
recognise the name of 'Sam.'

'I know most people betwixt here and Barton,' said the driver, laying
his whip gently across the horse. 'Come to that, so I ought.'

'Do you live at Barton?' I asked, thinking of Mr. Turton and Augustus,
and their wasted drive to that town.

'Just this side,' was the answer. 'That's where our factory is--half a
mile this side of Barton. And every day of every week, for fifteen years
or more, I've driven round the country with this van.'

'Are you going back to-night?' I inquired.

'Why, of course,' he exclaimed. 'Back by the straight road, after I've
done my round.'

We had already left the wider road, and as the driver spoke he pulled up
the horse at the door of a small rustic inn. Fastening his reins to a
hook on his seat, he slowly dismounted, took a box of bottles from the
van, carried it into the inn, returning after a short interval with the
same box filled by a similar number of empty bottles. Then he climbed up
to his seat again, unhooked the reins, and cried 'Gee-up' to the horse,
which at once started at a smart trot along the lane.

'Now about this dog,' he began. 'Mr. Westrop used to live at the Beacon
on Ramleigh Forest--I can remember before the house was built. He moved
out last Friday to a house near Barton, and sure enough he has lost his
terrier. Where did you find him? That's what I should like to know.'

'I don't know whether the house was called the Beacon,' I answered,
'because I didn't see any name. Patch had got locked in the
drawing-room.'

'Well, now!' cried the driver, 'who would have thought the dog was fool
enough for that! Locked in the drawing-room, were you, Sam, old chap?
And how did you get him out?'

When at some length I explained how I had been caught in the storm, and
sought shelter in the empty house, and slept in the kitchen, and had
been frightened by the ghostly noises in the middle of the night, the
driver leaned forward and laughed so uproariously that I felt afraid
lest he should fall from his seat on to the horse: and as soon as his
merriment permitted him to speak, he turned to me with his great red
face redder than ever.

'Well,' he cried, 'you are a nice young man for a small party, you are!
A nice young burglar, to be sure! Going and breaking into people's
houses, cool as you please, and stealing their dogs. Howsoever,' he
added, 'Mr. Westrop will be no end glad when I take Sam back to him
to-night.'

I clasped Patch more closely.

'You're--you are not going to take him back?' I said.

'Why, what do you think?' he demanded. 'You wouldn't go and keep a dog
that didn't belong to you!'

I am afraid I might have been tempted to keep Patch or Sam, whichever he
ought to be named, on any terms, if circumstances had permitted; and
useful as the lift on my way had appeared, I began to regret that I had
ever seen the driver or his van. But before I had time to reply we were
pulling up in front of another inn, where another box of mineral waters
was carried in, and a box of empty bottles was brought out.

'Not but what,' the driver continued, 'I am sorry to take the dog from
you, because he is just the sort you could soon grow fond of--aren't
you, Sam? But right is right,' said the driver, looking straight in
front of him, as he laid the whip on his horse.

During the next two hours we stopped at numerous inns, and I might have
been able to enjoy the drive through the country lanes, and the remarks
which the driver exchanged with almost every one we met, if it had not
been for the necessity of restoring Patch to his rightful owner. It was
impossible to pretend that the driver had not right on his side, but the
fact remained that the terrier's companionship had become very valuable,
and I would have borne a great deal rather than give him up. On the
other hand, I began to persuade myself that it would have been perhaps
difficult to keep him in London, especially if I succeeded in obtaining
work as quickly as I hoped, when necessarily I should be occupied most
of the day.

When we stopped at a more important inn at one o'clock, the driver took
from beneath his seat two plates, one covering the other, and tied up in
a clean napkin. Without a moment's hesitation, he offered to share his
meal with me, and there appeared to be quite enough rabbit-pie for two.
After dinner, as we drove on again, he became more talkative, and asked
a good many questions about myself, with the result that he soon
learned where I was going after I left Hazleton, and how much money I
had in my pockets, though I did not mention the gold locket.

'Now where did you think of sleeping to-night?' he asked, and I told him
that I intended to wait to see what might turn up in the way of shelter.
'You see,' he continued, 'I always like fair play. Fair play is a jewel.
It was you who found the dog, though you had no business to have been on
the spot, so to speak. But Mr. Westrop is pretty sure to give me a tip
for bringing Sam back, and I don't see why you should not have your
share.'

'Oh, that is all right,' I answered.

'Of course it is, because I am going to make it all right,' he said. 'I
told you I would set you down at Watcombe, ten miles from Hazleton; but
half a mile short of that my sister-in-law lets lodgings. I will speak
to her, and arrange that you shall have some supper and a bed and
breakfast, and then I think we can cry quits, eh--what do you say?'

I said that it was very kind of him, and he proved as good as his
promise. The house was not particularly tempting-looking, but, at all
events, it was far better than no place to sleep in. I climbed down from
the van, followed by Patch, from whom I was so soon to part, and
accompanied the driver into a kind of kitchen, where a tall, stout woman
in a cotton dress was busily employed as we entered. She glanced at me
once or twice while the driver carried on a whispered conversation and
handed her some money. Then she went out at a back door and returned
with a piece of rope.

'This is the only bit I can find,' she said.

'That's enough,' answered the driver, and, going down on his knees, he
whistled to Patch, who went obediently, and stood wagging his tail while
a loop was fastened round his neck. I followed when the driver led him
out at the door, lifting him into the van, and tying the end of the rope
to the rail behind his own seat. Standing on an empty box, Patch looked
down at me and whimpered, so that I climbed on to one of the wheels to
pat his coat and hold his muzzle as a last good-bye. The driver mounted
to his seat and unhooked the reins.

'Down you jump!' he cried. 'So long! be good!' and, whipping up his
horse, he drove away, while Patch began to run about on the top of the
box, and strained at the rope as if he were as sorry to leave me behind
as I was to let him go.

(_Continued on page 117._)

THE REASON WHY.

Louis XIV., King of France, was very fond of playing at chess. One day
he was having a game with one of his courtiers, and during the game made
a false move, to which his adversary respectfully called his attention.
The King, who did not easily suffer contradiction, did not wish to
acknowledge that he was wrong, and appealed to the noblemen who
surrounded the table, but none of them made any reply. Just then the
Duke de Grammont came into the room, and immediately the King saw him he
appealed to him, and wished to explain to him the subject of the
dispute, but the Duke hardly allowed him to finish.

[Illustration: "'Your Majesty is certainly wrong.'"]

'Your Majesty is certainly wrong,' he said, with a firmness of tone
which astonished the King, and caused him to frown.

'How do you know that I am wrong, Monsieur le Duc?' replied the King;
'you have not even given me time to explain to you what the question
was.'

'I know undoubtedly,' replied the Duke of Grammont, 'for all these
gentlemen, whom your Majesty was consulting at the moment I arrived,
only replied by their silence. They would every one have hastened to
take your part if your Majesty had been right.'

The King was struck with the sense of this argument, and admitted that
he had made a mistake.

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

III.--HOW BUTTERFLIES, FLIES, AND SNAILS FEED.

(_Concluded from page 78._)

When the method of feeding employed by the Snail is compared with that
of the Butterfly or the common Fly, a very striking difference in the
construction of the mouth-parts will be noticed. The common snail (fig.
D), for example, feeds by the constant licking, or rather rasping,
motion of a very wonderful tongue--a tongue which, stretched out,
appears to be longer than the whole body! Yet only a small portion of
this curious organ is in use at one time.

[Illustration: Fig. D.--Common Snail.]

[Illustration: Fig. E.--Section of Snail's Head (much magnified).]

This tongue (fig. F) consists of a long flat ribbon, or 'radula,' as it
is called, the surface of which is beset by a series of minute teeth,
set in rows across the ribbon. The number of these teeth varies greatly
in the different species of Mollusca--the group to which the snail
belongs. In some there may be as few as sixteen; in others, in some
relatives of our garden snail, for example, there may be as many as
forty thousand! The working portion of this ribbon is fixed to a sort of
tough cushion, which, by means of muscles, can be drawn forward and
protruded from the mouth, where it is worked backwards and forwards with
a licking or rasping action that effectually scrapes away, in a fine
pulp, the edge of the cabbage leaf on which the creature is feeding. The
teeth serve, in fact, the same purpose as the horny spines on the tongue
of the lion, or, on a small scale, of the cat. You all must have noticed
how rough a cat's tongue is when, in a burst of affection, pussy insists
on licking your hand. If she went on licking long enough she would wear
away the skin. As the snail's teeth wear away in front they are replaced
from the reserve store which is kept in a sort of pocket, which lies
behind the 'cushion' in the drawing of a section of a snail's head (fig.
E). It is here that new teeth are being constantly formed, and pushed
forward to supply those lost.

[Illustration: Fig. F.--Snail's Tongue (much magnified).]

In this drawing, by the way, you will notice a long arrow (A-B): this
marks the passage which the food takes from the mouth to the gullet, and
thence to the stomach. The head of the arrow points towards the snail's
interior.

In many mollusca, the teeth, instead of resembling one another
throughout the series, are of different kinds, very large and very small
teeth alternating one with another in endless variety.

The horny jaws, to which reference has been made, are generally not
conspicuous; but in the Cuttle-fish and Octopuses they are of huge size,
and have been aptly compared to the beak of a parrot. But we must return
to this subject again on another occasion, for it is one of quite
unusual interest.

AN OLD-FASHIONED GRACE.

This little 'grace before meat' was written two hundred and fifty years
ago by Robert Herrick, a Devonshire clergyman who became a famous poet.
'Paddocks' is an old name for 'frogs,' and 'benison' means blessing;
'heaving up' means 'lifting up in prayer.'

Here a little child I stand,
Heaving up my either hand;
Cold as paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to Thee,
For a benison to fall
On our meat and on us all.--Amen.

CURIOUS NAMES IN LONDON CITY.

Time and progress have swept away many of the old streets, lanes, and
alleys for which London City was remarkable. Most of them had names with
a meaning, though it is sometimes difficult to find this out now. One
reason is that, as the years went on, names often got altered in very
odd ways. There were few of what might be called 'fancy' names, such as
are now often given to new streets or roads. Frequently a name arose
from the business of the people who lived in the street, or perhaps it
kept in remembrance some notable person who had a house there.
Occasionally it happened that a lane or alley had several names, and it
is not easy to tell which is the oldest. The citizens sometimes gave two
or three streets the same name.

When it could be done, old names have been kept, or not much altered,
though the street is changed. Old-time Londoners would stare at Cannon
Street of nowadays, so different from the Candle-wick or Candlewright
Street of the past, where lived dealers in tapers and candles. It is
said that Paternoster Row got its name from the fact that stationers and
writers had shops there, who sold, among other things, copies of the
Lord's Prayer. It had an Amen Corner, and Creed Lane is also near.
Afterwards mercers and lacemen invited customers to shops in the Row,
and finally it became famous for books and magazines.

Chancery Lane and Fetter Lane still keep the old names they had when
their appearance was not that of streets or business thoroughfares, but
quiet lanes between Holborn and Fleet Street, dotted with private
houses. Fetter Lane had nothing to do with fetters or prisoners; it was
so called because 'fewters,' or idle persons, were often found lurking
amongst the back gardens. One of the short turnings out of this lane had
the odd name of Three Leg Alley; nobody seems to know why. It is
supposed that Gracechurch Street is a reminder of a church in the
locality, St. Benet's, Grasschurch, thus called because near the church
was a herb-market, where wild or garden plants were sold. Occasionally
the name is found in books written by chance as Gracious Street. At
first the Gresham Street of our day was called Cateaton Street, but an
old writer about London states that this was also shortened to 'Catte.'
There was a surname Catte or Katt, which might have belonged to a person
who built houses along the street. Hog Lane, Spitalfields, we are told,
was visited now and then by the porkers that were allowed to range in
the fields and obtain what food they could. Doubtless they strolled up
the lane on the chance of getting fragments from the kitchens of
citizens. Was Duck Lane, Smithfield, damp enough to be attractive to
ducks? It may once have been, but later it was known as Duke Street.

Many places in the city were named from eatables or other articles that
were sold in them. This was the case with Pudding Lane and Pie Corner;
Milk Street, too, is supposed to have been a milk market, but Honey Lane
was not a depot for honey, nor remarkable for its sweetness. The
historian Stow says that it was both narrow and dark, needing much
sweeping to keep it clean. The Poultry was a market for fowls, and
Scalding Alley, close by, had houses in which people scalded poultry and
prepared them for sale. An old name given to Grocers' Alley was
Coney-slope Alley, for it had a market where coneys or rabbits could be
bought. In Rood Lane formerly stood the Church of St. Margaret Pattens,
beside which the women offered pattens to by-passers. These wooden
elevators for the feet were much in demand at the time when London
streets were often deep in mud, and the fields splashy or sticky with
clay. But they did not sell bucklers in Bucklersbury; so far as we know,
it was called after a citizen named Buckle, to whom the manor belonged.
Grub Street did not have at all a pretty name, though some say it was
first Grape Street; then it was altered to Milton Street in honour of
our great poet. Little Britain or Britagne Street had a residence
belonging to the Dukes of Brittany, and Barbican was notable for its
Roman tower, around which were large gardens.

EARNING AN HONEST PENNY.

'I wish we could scrape enough money together to buy poor old Father a
pair of slippers for his birthday,' said Jack; 'his old ones are all in
holes, and I know he can't afford a new pair--he has had so many
expenses since Mother's illness.'

Geoffrey looked up from his home-lessons and sighed deeply. '_My_
money-box is quite empty,' he remarked, 'and Nellie and Hilda have not a
farthing in the world.'

'That is true enough,' laughed Nellie. 'But, oh, Jack,' turning to her
eldest brother, 'if only we could do _something_ for Father, I should be
so glad! He seems so worried lately, and I am sure it's because he can't
get Mother all the nice things she ought to have now that she is getting
better.'

'Couldn't I take out a broom and sweep a crossing?' asked Geoffrey;
'that would bring in a little, and I would not mind what I did, if it
helped.'

'You must find your crossing first,' returned Jack. 'The roads are as
dry as a bone at present, so _that_ won't work, little stupid!'

'Little stupid' sighed again. 'If only I knew how to earn an honest
penny!' he murmured.

'Or twopence,' said Hilda. 'I think twopence would be a little better.'

'I would rather it was half-a-crown,' put in Nellie.

There was silence for a moment; then Jack said slowly: 'I wonder what
became of Uncle Harry after he went out to Australia. Father never
writes to him; he doesn't know where he is now, and we have moved so
many times that I expect Uncle does not know where _we_ are either. I
dare say if he knew we were so badly off he would help us.'

'It's no good talking about Uncle Harry,' said Geoff; 'the question is,
Can _we_ help Father?'

'Look here,' cried Jack, suddenly; 'supposing, instead of saying "_Can_
we," we say "We _must_." Supposing,' he added, 'we all make up our minds
to earn a shilling each as best we can, so that we may have four
shillings to buy Father some slippers?'

'Capital!' exclaimed Nell; 'but _how_ are we to earn it?'

'Oh, we must each hit upon a plan for ourselves,' returned Jack; 'I vote
we draw lots for the first victim to-night, and we will allow each
victim two days to earn the shilling in, and then will draw for the
next.'

Of course, they all began to puzzle their young brains about plans; but
Jack cut some slips of paper into different lengths, and, placing them
between his thumb and first finger, while he clasped his other fingers
tightly over the ends inside his hand, he bade them each take one, and
whoever drew the longest was to earn the first shilling.

Well, they all drew, and Jack took the slip which was left; but Nellie
got the longest, and she retired to the window, and stared out for
inspiration.

'I know what I shall do,' she announced, at last; 'I'll cut my twelve
chrysanthemums out of my garden, take them down to town, and sell them
in the street for a penny each.'

'Nellie!' cried Jack; 'you mustn't think of doing such a thing! Father
would not like it, and I am sure _we_ should not. You are not half
strong enough to go out into the streets.'

But Nell was firm. 'It's the only thing I can think of, Jack,' she
replied, 'and I _will_ do it. We must earn some money somehow, and no
one will recognise me if I put on my old frock, and a shawl over my
head. We can't help being poor, Jack, and it is an _honest_ way of
earning a shilling.'

Jack, however, looked a little worried. He admired Nellie's pluck, but
he did not like the thought of her going out into the streets alone.
Nevertheless, after some discussion, it was decided that she should have
her way, on condition that Jack went with her to see that she was quite
safe. It was agreed that the matter should be kept dark, and that if
Mother asked where Jack and Nellie had gone next evening, the others
were to say it was a secret.

So, after tea the following day, the two children stole out. Mother was
resting in her own room, and Geoffrey and Hilda were at their lessons,
though it must be confessed they found it hard to give their whole
attention to them.

It was a good mile and a half down to the town, but Nellie trudged
bravely on with her treasured chrysanthemums (she alone knew what it
cost her to cut them), and Jack walked a little behind, for his sister
said that flower-girls never had any one to escort them, and he must not
let any one see he belonged to her.

When they arrived in town, Nellie took up her station at a busy corner,
and timidly offered her flowers for sale, while her brother stood in a
doorway not far off, pretending to read a book by the light of a street
lamp, but in reality he was watching to see that she came to no harm.

One honest penny was earned--two; then Nell grew bolder, and ran after
a man whom she thought a likely customer. But he pushed her roughly on
one side, and she fell upon the pavement. Jack could have kicked that
man, but he was out of sight in an instant, so the boy went and helped
Nellie to rise instead. Gathering up her flowers, he entreated her to
return home, and not to trouble any more. But the little girl bravely
held out, assured him she was not hurt, and in the end persuaded him to
go back to his doorway.

Ten minutes passed away without any more flowers being sold, then Nellie
held out the best of all to a kind-looking gentleman who was passing
slowly by.

He stopped, looked at the child somewhat curiously, and then said, 'No,
little lass, I do not want any flowers; but I wonder if you can tell me
where Greenfield Road is, eh?'

Nellie started, for that was the name of the road where she lived.
However, she simply directed him, and was turning away to seek for
another customer when he slipped a bright half-crown into her hand. The
child was so astonished that for the moment she could say nothing, and
when she recollected herself the gentleman had gone, and Jack was by her
side, asking what had happened.

'Well,' he said, when she had told him, 'no more selling flowers
to-night, Nell, so you can just come home at once, for you have done
your part and more,' and he would not hear of her staying there any
longer.

Together the two started for home, feeling very happy indeed; but
scarcely had they got inside the door when Geoffrey literally rushed at
them.

'Oh, Jack! Nellie!' he cried, 'you can't think what a splendid thing has
happened! Who do you think turned up ten minutes ago? Uncle Harry; yes,
_Uncle Harry!_ He has been hunting for us for days. Oh, it seems too
good to be true! He's in the dining-room now, with Father, and----'

'Oh, is he?' said a voice from behind, and who should appear on the
scene but the kind gentleman who had given Nell half-a-crown! 'Why!' he
exclaimed, suddenly, 'what's this I see? Well, if it isn't----Why, what
does it all mean?' he asked, turning round to Father, who had followed
him out, and was looking equally puzzled.