Chatterbox, 1905.

V >> Various >> Chatterbox, 1905.

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Perhaps some such attempt might have succeeded, but unfortunately a
potent factor in my case was the terror with which in some way Mr.
Parsons still succeeded in inspiring me. I have found myself since those
days in positions of some peril, but never have I known such fear as of
that old, smug-looking man. This dread had an almost paralysing effect,
nor could I fail to forget the terrible penalty I should certainly have
to pay if my bid for liberty were not to succeed. So that Mr. Parsons
held me in a grip tighter than that of his hand on my arm; for after all
I was scarcely more than fifteen years of age at the time, and it was no
disgrace to be afraid.

As we hastened away from the neighbourhood of the tobacconist's shop, my
fear was that Parsons might suspect that I was dissembling. He could
scarcely believe I was sufficiently stupid not to have had my eyes
opened by this time, and if I appeared to treat the affair as a matter
of course his watchfulness might be redoubled.

His deliberate purpose was, indeed, to pollute my mind, to show me that
my easiest course was to fall in with his wishes, and now as we hastened
along the streets, I determined to try to lead him to believe that his
efforts were already beginning to prove successful.

'I believe that other money was bad, too,' I said.

'Oh, you do, do you, Jacky?' he answered.

'Yes,' I cried, 'and you make it downstairs at your house.'

'Jacky, my lad, you haven't forgotten the story I told you about the boy
who was too clever?'

'Still,' I replied, 'one needn't be a fool although one needn't be what
you call _too_ clever.'

'True for you, my lad,' said Mr. Parsons.

'Only,' I continued, playing my part with as much skill as I possessed,
and more than I could have believed myself capable of a few days ago, 'I
don't want to get locked up.'

'No, no,' he answered, 'I don't want you to get locked up either, Jacky.
I should miss you, you know, very much. But you act sensibly, and you
will be all right. What's more, I will show you how to make your fortune
before we have done.'

'I should like to make a fortune,' I said, with perfect truth. But,
still, as we walked home by a round-about way, without attempting any
further business that morning, I could not quite make up my mind whether
I had succeeded in hoodwinking my companion or not.

(_Continued on page 162._)

[Illustration: "'Be off, or I will have you locked up!'"]

[Illustration: "I took to my heels at once."]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 159._)

At least Mr. Parsons could not fail to be aware that I now understood
something of the truth about his occupation, while I had certainly done
my utmost to make him believe that I regarded it without any deep
dislike.

Had I succeeded or not? On the answer to that question my prospects of
escape to a great degree depended. When we reached the house, his manner
undergoing no change, I went to bed more hopefully than usual. During
the morning we had walked round a large block of buildings forming one
shop, with three doors in Oxford Street and two in another street
behind. Now, if I could induce Mr. Parsons to let me enter by one of the
front doors, it would be easy enough to pass through and make an escape
from the rear, for he had never yet accompanied me into a shop.

During the next few days, however, we did not go near Oxford Street; the
first day was wet, so that Mr. Parsons stayed at home, and when the
weather changed, we took a train to Uxbridge, where I succeeded in
exchanging five half-crowns--not without many self-reproaches.

The next day being Sunday, none of us left the house, and I think this
was the most miserable time of all that I spent beneath Mr. Parsons'
roof. I missed the Sunday service, and felt very lonely and helpless. At
last, pretending to be overcome by drowsiness, I asked permission to go
to bed at seven o'clock.

Whether or not it was due to the brightness of the morning, I awoke with
a sense of unaccustomed exhilaration, and something seemed to assure me
that I should find my longed-for opportunity to escape before night.

CHAPTER XIX.

As to what was to happen if I escaped, I had very little idea. Once let
me get away from my present surroundings, and nothing else seemed to
matter; things could not easily become worse. But, as a matter of fact,
I had thought once or twice that I would run the risk of trying to
discover Rogers, Captain Knowlton's servant, who had certainly not
accompanied him on board the _Seagull_. I knew that Captain Knowlton had
given up his rooms before he left England, but still I might succeed in
finding some one who could tell me where Rogers lived, and I felt
certain the man would help me if possible. Hitherto I had determined to
avoid the Albany, thinking that Mr. Turton would take care to anticipate
me, and perhaps make arrangements for my capture, for, in spite of all I
had passed through, I shrank as much as ever from the idea of returning
to Castlemore, and Augustus and the other fellows at Ascot House. Still,
I had in my pocket only the bad half-crown which Mr. Parsons had given
me in the train, and it seemed wiser to take the risk of being
intercepted, and to make my way to Captain Knowlton's old quarters. But
at present I stood no chance of making my way anywhere alone, and the
first thing I had to do was to get clear of Mr. Parsons and the
Loveridges.

'A lovely morning, Jacky,' Mr. Parsons remarked on Monday, as he took my
arm and led me away from the house. 'Makes me feel quite young again.'

'Which way are we going?' I asked.

'Ah, now, which way?'

'I like Oxford Street best,' I answered.

'Do you, my lad?' he cried, amiably. 'Then suppose we try Oxford
Street?'

There were a great many people in the street, and it was about eleven
o'clock in the morning when I found we were drawing near the shop which
I had planned to enter by one door and to leave by another.

'Couldn't we buy something there?' I asked.

'Where, my lad?'

'There,' I said, pointing to the chief entrance.

'That is too dear for the likes of us, Jacky.'

'Oh,' I cried, 'but I know what I could buy.'

'What?' he demanded, and I began to wonder whether I had betrayed too
much eagerness.

'An evening necktie,' I replied. 'They only cost about fourpence.'

'Jacky,' said Mr. Parsons, and I felt his grasp on my arm tighten,
'Jacky, that is the sort of shop a lad like you might easily get lost
in. He might even make a mistake in the door, Jacky. No, we won't go in
there, but I will tell you where we will go.'

'Where?' I asked, quaking with fear.

'We will go home, my lad, and I will give you such a nice little lesson
as you will never forget as long as you live.'

So we turned back the way we had come, walking towards the Marble Arch,
and I knew that if once I entered that hateful house, I should pay a
terrible penalty for the attempt which had been so easily seen through.

For the next few minutes I was utterly hopeless and helpless. But I
murmured a few incoherent words of prayer, and my head grew clearer. As
the danger drew nearer with every step I took, my courage began to
return, and I determined to make a bid for freedom. Mr. Parsons' threat
in a way defeated his own end. Hitherto the fear in which I held him had
served to cow me, to make me afraid to make a dash for liberty; but this
morning the very danger seemed to encourage boldness, and as we went on
our way with his strong fingers gripping my arm just above the wrist,
yet in such a manner that he appeared to be holding me affectionately, I
cudgelled my brains to devise some method of circumventing him.

At last, as we were close to Duke Street, Oxford Street, a bold plan
flashed across my mind. Whatever was done, it should be attempted while
there were some people about, to whom, in the last resort, I might
denounce Mr. Parsons; and yet I did not wish my actual deed to have a
spectator, since any one who saw me treat such a benevolent-looking old
gentleman as I fully intended to treat Mr. Parsons must think I was a
young rascal.

He hesitated a moment at the corner, and then turned to his right down
Duke Street, and I fancied that he looked forward with some enjoyment to
the threatened 'little lesson.' A short distance ahead stood a
policeman at a street corner, and, as we approached, I looked up into
Mr. Parsons' face and summoned all my courage--it was certainly the
courage of despair.

'If you don't let me go,' I said, 'I will tell that policeman who you
are as we pass.'

In an instant he had swung me round to retrace his steps, but, doubling
my free fist, I drew back my arm and hit him with all my strength just
about the belt. The effect was instantaneous. Releasing me at once, he
was completely doubled up, standing in the middle of the pavement
outside a grocer's shop, his hands pressed against his body, gasping for
breath. Fortunately no one had seen the blow struck, though Mr. Parsons
was soon surrounded by a gaping, sympathetic group. I took to my heels
at once, almost running against the policeman, and turned to my right,
in the direction opposite to that of Mr. Parsons' dwelling-place. Soon,
however, I ceased to run, feeling fairly certain that I should not see
him again--that day, at least. And as I walked--still towards the
City--I tried to take stock of my situation.

Besides the clothes I stood in, I possessed only a bad half-crown, and
although I had, under compulsion, changed similar coins for Parsons, I
had no intention of defrauding anybody on my own account. Taking the
coin from my pocket, I stooped and dropped it down a grating. Now that I
had nothing, I determined to risk a visit to the Albany, which I
reached--always on the look-out for Mr. Parsons--at a little past two
o'clock. Nothing, however, but disappointment awaited me here. I saw a
man who appeared to be a kind of porter, and he told me that Captain
Knowlton had given up the rooms on leaving London--a fact which I knew
perfectly well already. But he had no notion where I could find Rogers,
so that I walked away in a somewhat dejected mood.

Nevertheless I was able to rejoice at the successful escape from
something much worse than I had yet endured, and having once triumphed
over Parsons, I no longer feared him as I used to do. Even if I met him
in the street, I believed I could prevent him from taking me back to his
house, and the more pressing difficulty was how to obtain food and
shelter, and, subsequently, work.

Becoming hungry as the afternoon wore on, I went into St. James's Park,
and, taking off my jacket and waistcoat, did not put the waistcoat on
again, but carried it under my arm to a small pawnbroker's shop near
Victoria Station, where I obtained eightpence in exchange. For my tall
hat I received a shilling, and then, passing a very cheap shop, I bought
a grey cloth cap for threepence three-farthings, so that on the whole I
gained about one and fourpence by the deal.

Knowing that I must husband my resources, I bought a penny saveloy and a
chunk of bread at an eating-house, and then wandered about the streets
until nearly nightfall, wondering where I should sleep. The first night
was, however, by no means uncomfortable, for, passing a large
stable-yard, I saw it contained several empty omnibuses, and, waiting
until nobody was looking, I made a rush into one of these; I lay down
at full length on the seat, and slept until a stable-man woke me at
half-past five the next morning.

But over the next few days I intend to pass rapidly, for indeed they
were too full of wretchedness to be dwelt upon. From early morning until
late at night I wandered about the streets or in the parks, where also I
slept. I took every care of my scanty stock of money, but at last it
came to an end. Once I held a horse for twopence, once I carried a heavy
portmanteau from Charing Cross to Tottenham Court Road for a penny, and
once a lady took pity on my condition and gave me threepence. Then I
parted with my jacket, and lived on the proceeds for three days while
walking about with nothing above my shirt.

(_Continued on page 173._)

GOOD-BYE TO THE LAST FIRE.

Good-bye, old fire! We won't forget
Your pleasant warmth and glow,
When evening shades were dark as jet,
And outside lay the snow.
But now, you see, we're right in May,
It's spring, without a doubt,
And so, good fire, I grieve to say
It's time that you were out.

The little leaves are springing green,
The skies above are blue;
The primrose everywhere is seen,
The almond's blooming too.
Of course, you don't expect to stay
When flowers are round about,
And so, good fire, again I say
It's time that you were out.

But when, once more, November chill
Its cloak of mist has spread,
And o'er the lonely winter hill
The sun goes soon to bed,
We'll call you back with joyous shout,
And, as the shades descend,
We'll draw the blinds to shut them out
And greet you as a friend.

JOHN LEA.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

IV.--THE STORY OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

On the 2nd of April, 1805, was born, amid very humble surroundings, a
little Danish boy named Hans Christian Andersen, who, in later years,
became the most popular tale-writer that perhaps the world has ever
known. Andersen's Fairy Tales, though written in a past century, and for
another generation, are just as popular to-day as they ever were, and it
seems as if all children (and grown-up people who have kept their
child-like hearts) could never tire of these delightful stories. We can
all read, and re-read, the 'Ugly Duckling,' or the 'Eleven Wild Swans;'
we can sympathise with the love of the faithful 'Tin Soldier;' and who
can resist laughing at all the outrageous performances of 'Little Claus
and Big Claus?' Truly, Andersen had the key to unlock all hearts!

[Illustration: Hans Christian Andersen.
Born April 2, 1805. Died August 4, 1875.]

Now for the story of the writer's life.

The father of Hans Andersen was only a poor shoe-maker, but he loved
reading and poetry, and seems to have taught his little boy a similar
love. The shoe-maker amused himself by making a toy theatre for his
little Hans, and showed him how to work the puppets, and make them act
little plays. This was a winter amusement. In the long summer days he
would often take the child to the woods--and here, in the great birch
forests, the two would spend the hours, hardly saying a word to each
other, but each dreaming his own dreams as they sauntered along the
shady paths.

But these happy childish days soon came to an end: the kind father died,
and Hans had to go to a charity school, where he learnt little beyond
reading and writing.

Money was now very scarce in his home, and both Hans and his mother were
often hard put to it for a meal.

One day they went out into the fields to glean corn, and were chased off
the ground by a cruel bailiff, who ran after them with a heavy whip. The
bailiff, with his long legs, soon overtook the little eight-year-old
Hans, and was about to bring his whip down on the child's shoulders,
when Hans turned round, and looking full at the angry man, exclaimed:
'How dare you strike me when you know God can see you?'

The bailiff was so taken aback at this rebuke from the mouth of a child
that he dropped his whip, and, fumbling in his pocket, produced some
money, which he offered to Hans to make up for his unkindness.

A year or two later a widow wanted some one to read aloud to her, and
Hans got the place. The widow's husband had been a poet, and, as Hans
read out his poems, the boy's ambition was fired.

'I too will be a poet!' he cried, and, on returning home, he at once set
to work and wrote--a tragedy!

The news of this performance spread amongst the neighbours (very likely
the mother boasted of it, as mothers will), and all wished to hear it;
so they came together in one of the larger cottages, and Hans read his
wonderful tragedy to the company, and felt bitterly hurt when the
greater part of them laughed heartily at the play.

Meanwhile the mother was growing poorer and poorer, and Hans had to
leave school, and to try and earn his bread.

[Illustration: "'How dare you strike me when you know God can see
you?'"]

He went to a large factory, and here the workmen, finding Hans had a
good voice and knew many ballads, would get him to sing to them, and to
act scenes for their amusement from the great Danish writer, Holberg,
whilst another of the boys employed in the factory was told off to do
Hans' work for him.

After a time, however, the men tired of Hans and his songs, and he had
to take his place amongst the other boys, who, being jealous of the
notice that had been taken of Hans, led him a sorry life. At last he
could bear their persecution no more, and left the factory--never to
return to it.

The next few months he spent quietly at home, reading eagerly any book
he could get hold of, and specially delighting in a copy of Shakespeare.
The old toy theatre was had out once more, and the puppets were put
through the scenes of the _Merchant of Venice_ and _King Lear_.

After a short time it was decided that Hans was to be apprenticed to a
tailor. Hans, however, had other ambitions than to sit cross-legged on a
board; he had read much lately of famous men, and he now said to his
mother, 'I want to be famous, too!'

He had his plans all made, and had, he said, plenty of money to carry
them out, for he had lately earned the immense sum (as it seemed to him)
of thirty shillings, by singing and reciting at the houses of rich
people. With this capital he begged his mother to let him go to
Copenhagen and try his fortune.

She consented unwillingly at last, and the fourteen-year-old boy set off
to make his own way in the world.

He reached Copenhagen--the city which now proudly claims him for her
own--late one September afternoon, and at once went to the theatre and
begged for employment, telling the manager he had a good voice and loved
acting.

'You are too thin for the stage,' said the manager, shortly.

'Let me have a salary of a hundred dollars, sir, and I will soon grow
fat,' quickly answered the boy.

'We only take people of education here,' said the manager, and poor Hans
had to go away with a heavy heart.

Could he only have foreseen that in a few years' time his own plays
would be acted at that very theatre, and a throng of eager citizens
would be applauding the words of the now friendless boy!

But this was all in the future. At present misery and starvation stared
him in the face.

At last, after he had met with endless failures, a rich Copenhagen
merchant saw there was genius in the boy, and, finding that he lacked
education, sent him to school to learn Latin and mathematics.

It was, of course, very galling to Hans, now a tall lad of seventeen, to
have to sit on a bench with little boys of nine and ten, and be jeered
at by both master and scholars for his backwardness. But Hans
persevered, and at last he passed all his examinations, and was granted
a travelling scholarship.

Meanwhile he had published his first book, which was at once successful;
the promise of his boyhood began to be fulfilled, for he wrote the fairy
tales by which he became famous, not only in his own country, but all
over Europe.

He travelled in Italy, France, Germany, and Spain, and in 1847 he came
to England, where, to his great delight, he found his stories better
known than even in his own country. He was a welcome guest at many of
our great houses, and, on a second visit to England some few years
later, he stayed with Charles Dickens at Gad's Hill.

Andersen never married; he lived in Copenhagen when not on his travels,
and here he loved to gather round him children of all ages and all
ranks, whom he would delight with some of his wonderful tales.

On his seventieth birthday he was fairly overwhelmed with letters and
presents of kindly greetings from all parts of the globe, and these
tokens of love and goodwill much pleased the old man.

The end came a few months later, and on August 4th, 1875, Hans Christian
Andersen died, regretted by all who had come in contact with him, and
most of all by the band of children whom he had so loved to gather round
him.

HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.

II.--THE DEERSLAYER.[2]

Hurry Harry, Deerslayer, Judith, and Hetty are the four principal
characters in Cooper's famous book, which has delighted many thousands
of readers.

Hurry Harry, as he was nicknamed, his real name being Harry March, had a
dashing, reckless, off-hand manner, and a restlessness that kept him
constantly moving about from place to place. He was six feet four in
height, well proportioned, with a good-humoured, handsome face.
Deerslayer was a very different man from Hurry Harry, both, in
appearance and character. He, too, was tall, being six feet high, but
with a comparatively light and slender frame. His face was not handsome,
but his expression invited confidence, for it had a look of truth and
sincerity.

Hurry was twenty-eight years of age and Deerslayer several years
younger. Their dress was composed of deer-skins, and they were armed
with rifles, powder-horns, and hunting-knives. The two men were guided
by very different principles, those of Hurry Harry being entirely
selfish, while Deerslayer sought, backwoodsman though he was, to live up
to what he called 'white-man's nature.'

Judith and Hetty were supposed to be the daughters of a man known as
'Floating Tom,' otherwise Thomas Hutter, a man who had been a noted
pirate in his younger days, but in his later years had settled down--as
he hoped, beyond the reach of the King's cruisers--to enjoy his plunder.

At the time at which the story is laid Britain and France were at war,
fighting in Canada, and it is said that neither side had refrained from
offering payment for scalps. Whatever excuse there may have been for
tribes of Indians taking the scalps of their enemies, there can have
been none for Christian white men, and so Deerslayer held, but not so
Hurry Harry and Thomas Hutter, both of whom, as we shall notice,
suffered for their cruel practices.

If Hurry and Deerslayer were unlike in appearance, character, and
principle, so, too, were Judith and Hetty. Judith was very handsome,
quick-witted, fond of admiration and fine clothes, while Hetty was not
beautiful to look at. Hetty was possessed of a weak mind, and cared
little for the admiration of others, although she was of an affectionate
nature. Her principles were good, and she ever sought to follow the good
she knew, her constant companion being her Bible, for which she had the
deepest reverence, while the good counsels of her mother, whose body
rested beneath the waters of the lake beside which the family dwelt,
were put in daily practice by the devoted child.

Two other characters of the story deserve more than a passing word. One
was Chingachgook the hunter, the other 'Hist,' a lovable maiden, both of
whom were great friends of Deerslayer; they were Delaware Indians by
nationality.

(_Concluded on page 171._)

FOOTNOTE:

[2] _The Deerslayer_, by J. Fenimore Cooper. There are several cheap
editions published which can be easily obtained.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

8.--RHYMED METAGRAM.

1. Now thin and plain, now rich and sweet,
But nearly always good to eat.

2. A pigment painters use when they
The lovely blushing rose portray.

3. A garden tool we sometimes need
When smoothing soil and sowing seed.

4. Our true regard for any friend;
The purpose, final cause, or end.

5. To seize, to choose, to get, to hold,
Sometimes to catch, as we catch cold.

6. Active, alive, to cease from sleep;
A noisy Irish feast to keep.

C. J. B.

[_Answers on page 195._]

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 130.

6.--1. Cat. 2. Yes. 3. Will. 4. Pony. 5. Dry.
Rat. Yet. Pill. Pond. Day.
Rag. Pet. Pile. Bond. Way.
Hag. Pot. Pine. Band. Pay.
Hog. Not. Pint. Bard. Pat.
Dog. No. Pent. Bare. Pet.
Went. Care. Wet.
Won't. Cart.

7.--_Never despair._

1. Paris.
2. Pear.
3. Rasp.
4. Veer.
5. Rip.
6. Near.
7. Nerves.
8. Spain.
9. Span.
10. Drip.

THE TWO PUPILS.

A Hindu Fable.

An old philosopher who had two pupils one day gave each a sum of money,
and told them to purchase something with it, which should fill the room
where they did their studies. One pupil went out into the market and
bought a large quantity of hay and straw, and the next morning he
invited his master to see his room, which he had almost filled with the
results of his purchase.

'Ah! very good, very good!' exclaimed the philosopher; and now turning
to the other pupil, he said, 'Well, friend, and what have you bought?'

'A small lamp and some oil, which will fill the room with light in the
dark evening hours. This will enable us to continue our studies by night
as well as by day, if we should so wish,' replied the pupil.