Chatterbox, 1905.

V >> Various >> Chatterbox, 1905.

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'Let us go to luncheon,' he exclaimed the next moment, and I stepped
forward to open the door for Mrs. Westlake. In the dining-room I saw
Jacintha, who at once met me with her hand outstretched.

'You gave me quite a shock in Dick's clothes,' she cried.

'I am most awfully obliged to you,' I said, turning to Mrs. Westlake.
'I--I don't know what to say.'

The butler stood with his back slightly bowed, ready to remove a
dish-cover; Jacintha shook back her hair, and looked tearful; Mrs.
Westlake stared at the plates at her end of the table, and her husband
put a pair of hands on my shoulders and pushed me towards my chair,
facing Jacintha.

'That's all right,' he cried. 'Sit down and have a good luncheon. We
will talk by-and-by.'

(_Continued on page 181._)

THE FEAST OF CHERRIES.

Readers of _Chatterbox_ will remember a story which told how a child
saved a German town; here is another tale of a siege in which children
played an important part.

One morning, during the siege of Hamburg, a weary merchant was slowly
returning to his house. With other business men, he had been aiding in
the defence of the walls. So severe had been the fighting that he had
not taken off his clothes for a week.

He reflected bitterly that all his labour was in vain, for by the
following day famine would have compelled a surrender. Passing through
his garden, he found himself admiring his cherry-trees, which were
loaded with fruit. The mere sight was refreshing, and a thought occurred
to the merchant. He was aware that the enemy were suffering from thirst.
How glad they would be of that juicy fruit! Could he not by its means
purchase safety for his city?

There was no time to lose, and he speedily made up his mind. He
collected three hundred small children belonging to the city, had them
all dressed in white, and loaded them with cherry-branches from his
orchard. Then the gates were opened, and they were sent forth in the
direction of the enemy.

When the commander of the besieging force saw the white-robed procession
passing through the gates he suspected some trick, and prepared for
battle; but when the children came nearer, and he saw how pale and thin
they were from want of food, tears filled his eyes, for he thought of
his own little ones at home.

As the thirsty--and, in some cases, wounded--soldiers received the juicy
fruit from the children's hands, a cheer arose from the camp. Love and
pity had conquered. The little ones returned accompanied by waggons of
food for the famished citizens, and an honourable treaty of peace was
signed the next day.

For many years, the anniversary of the day on which this deed was done
was kept as a holiday, its name being 'The Feast of Cherries.' The
streets were thronged with children, each one carrying a cherry-branch.
Then they ate the cherries themselves, in honour of their brave little
forerunners, the saviours of their city of Hamburg.

[Illustration: "He loaded the children with cherry branches."]

[Illustration: "One pig went squealing down the road."]

TOO CLEVER.

Jim Brown stood at the farmer's door--
'I want a job,' he said.
'Well, lad, have you done aught before?'
But Jim just shook his head;
An idler boy he'd always been
Than any in the village seen.

'Well, tell me now, what can you do?'
'Oh, anything,' said Jim.
'Oh, anything!' said Farmer Grey;
Then looking hard at him--
'Well, drive these pigs to neighbour Pratt--
'Tis time they went, they're prime and fat.'

Jim drove the pigs from out the yard,
But, ere they'd gone a mile,
One pig went squealing down the road,
And one towards a stile;
And while Jim pondered what to do,
The naughty pig just wriggled through.

Just then the farmer chanced to pass;
'Hullo!' said he, 'what's wrong?'
And when he saw Jim's downcast face,
He laughed both loud and long.
'My lad,' said he, with knowing wink,
'You're not as clever as you think.'

C. D. BOGLE.

TORN TO RAGS.

The curious and interesting 'little ways' of Ferdinand de Lesseps, the
designer of the Suez Canal, gained for him the favour of many prominent
Egyptian officials, when he was in Egypt, and he was often able to get
over a difficulty and do a kind act by unusual means. Among his duties
was the inspection of a large number of convicts in the Egyptian
galleys. Some of these were political prisoners--rather more than four
hundred unfortunate Syrians, who had been brought from Syria by Ibrahim
Pasha, son of Mehemet Ali, the famous Viceroy.

The Syrian prisoners begged the French count to help them to freedom. De
Lesseps had no real power to do this, but he had a kind heart, and did
his best to procure the release of the prisoners.

When, however, he mentioned the subject to Mehemet Ali, the Viceroy
shook his head.

'These men,' said he, 'are my son's captives, and in such a matter I
could no more handle him than I could handle the lightning.'

De Lesseps would not be put off. Mehemet, impressed by his persistence,
and wishing to stand well with the French, at last told De Lesseps that
he would manage to get five prisoners released quietly every week, until
all were free.

He kept his word, and this piecemeal business of freeing the prisoners
began. But very soon De Lesseps' house was besieged by the relatives and
friends of the Syrians still imprisoned, all begging him to use his
influence to get their own special friends included in the next batch to
be set free.

The anxious folk thronged round the Frenchman, and in their eagerness
plucked at his sleeve and tore it. He resolved to turn this fact to
account with the Viceroy. He had an old suit of clothes torn into
actual tatters, and wore it upon his next occasion of seeing Mehemet.

Mehemet was naturally greatly astonished at his friend's strange
appearance.

'What on earth has happened to you?' said the Viceroy.

'In arranging that five of those prisoners should be freed each week,'
replied De Lesseps, 'you have made me the prey of the relatives of those
who yet remain in the galleys. The number of the Syrians was four
hundred and twelve; therefore your Highness can easily reckon up and
tell how long I must go in rags.'

The Viceroy was highly amused with the serious and pitiful look which De
Lesseps put on as he said these words. After indulging in a hearty
laugh, he gave orders for the immediate release of the remaining
prisoners. Thus, by his ready wit, De Lesseps persuaded the Viceroy into
an action which he would never have done if asked plainly at first.

E. D.

WHITE NEGROES.

Have you ever heard of a white negro? Perhaps you will laugh at me for
asking the question, but there really are such people in the world, and
travellers and missionaries have met with them. I do not mean to say
that there are whole tribes of white negroes in some far-off countries,
which are not often visited by travellers, but that, scattered among all
or nearly all the black races, there are individuals who are white.
These persons are like the rest of the tribe in size and shape; they
have the same features, and the same kind of hair; but their complexion
is white, their hair is either quite white or straw-coloured, and their
eyes are lighter in shade than those of their companions.

Dr. Livingstone met with several of these white natives in some parts of
Africa, while in other parts he never saw any. One of these strange
people was a young boy, a very fine, intelligent fellow, of whom his
mother was very fond. His features were exactly like those of his
parents, who were both black. His woolly hair was yellow, and the pupils
of his eyes were pink. His father looked upon him with horror, very much
as an English father might be expected to look upon a black child, and
he treated him always as an outcast. The great traveller knew others,
both men and women, who were quite white. Their skins were always very
sensitive, and the heat of the sun blistered them very much. One of the
white women, perhaps through a sort of shame for her colour, was most
anxious for Dr. Livingstone to make her black, which was more than he
could do.

A missionary who had spent many years in Fiji had met with five Fijians
who were white. Three of these were grown-up persons, and one was quite
a little baby, being only two or three weeks old. This baby's skin was
much whiter than that of an English baby, although both its parents were
young and healthy, and as black as any Fijian could be. The grown-up
persons were as white as, if not whiter than, a weather-beaten
Englishman, and their hair was flaxen. Their skin was very smooth, and
looked like a kind of horn, and it was cracked and blistered with the
heat of the sun, like the skin of the white negroes whom Livingstone
saw. The white Fijians had pale blue or sandy-coloured eyes, which could
not bear the heat of the sun, and the poor men went about with their
eyes half closed. Similar men with white skins and white hair are found
among the other black races which inhabit the islands of the South Sea.

Among the red men of North America there are a few who have no colour in
their skins, and there are a great many who have light-coloured hair. In
one tribe a traveller found a great many men and women who had had grey
or white hair all their lives. He thought this was a very strange thing,
but had he known as much about other countries, he would have been aware
that this peculiarity is found among the dark races in nearly every part
of the world. White men are found not only in the countries already
named, but also in India, where they are looked upon with some amount of
dislike by their fellow-countrymen. In some parts of Africa, on the
other hand, these white men are regarded as magicians, and held in
honour by the rest of the tribe.

Strange to say, not only are there negroes who are white, but there are
some who are patched or spotted black and white all over. I have a
picture of such a negro before me as I write. He is a native of Loango,
on the west coast of Africa. From head to foot he is spotted in black
and white patches like a piebald horse, though in all other respects he
seems a large, well-made, healthy man. I have also before me the picture
of a spotted negro boy; who was exhibited as a curiosity in one of the
London fairs nearly a hundred years ago.

When a negro is white or piebald, it is because he has been born without
the black colouring matter which other negroes have in their skin. He
suffers from a defect, and deserves to be pitied. The black colour of a
negro's skin enables him to bear the heat of a fierce sun, and, as we
have seen, the negro whose skin is white suffers much pain and
inconvenience. A similar colouring matter in the eyes helps to shield
them from the bright glare of the sunlight, and the poor man whose eyes
are without this protection is compelled to go about with half-closed
eyes.

A BOY'S HEROISM.

A True Anecdote.

A couple of boys were once climbing about some disused scaffolding in a
lonely place, when a beam on which they were standing gave way under
their feet. Both fell, the elder a little before the younger. But just
in time the elder managed to clutch another beam and hold fast to it. By
a providential coincidence, his brother, catching wildly at anything
within his reach, seized his legs, and the two hung suspended thus, with
all the weight on the elder boy's arms. Before long, the strain became
too great, and he called out to the other that they were lost, for he
could hold on no longer. No one was near, and there was little hope that
their cries would attract attention.

'Could you save yourself if I let go?' asked the younger.

'I think so.'

'Then good-bye, and Heaven bless you,' said the little boy.

With these words he let go, and was dashed to pieces upon the ground
beneath. His brother, thus released from the additional weight, was able
to pull himself up to a place of safety.

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

V.--HOW INSECTS FLY.

The wings of insects are like those of bats and birds only in the work
they do. In another respect they are quite different organs. The wings
of the bird and the bat, for instance, are formed from the front pair of
limbs, but the wings of insects are formed on a very different plan from
the walking limbs, of which there are never less than three pairs. The
bat and the bird have only one pair of wings, the insects have two,
though in many cases the hinder or second pair have been reduced to the
merest stumps, or vestiges, as they are called. In other words, they are
all that is left of a once useful pair.

The butterfly has two pairs of wings; the fly is a good example of an
insect which has but one pair. The stumps or vestiges of the second pair
can only be found after careful search. But these vestiges--which are
known as the 'balancers'--have a new use, and probably act as organs of
hearing as well as to guide the flight. The butterfly uses both pairs of
wings in flight, the beetle only the hinder pair, the pair that in the
fly are only 'vestiges.' The front pair of wings in the beetle form hard
horny cases or shields for the protection of the hinder wings, which lie
beneath them when not in use.

The wings of insects are often brilliantly coloured, and this colour may
be caused in two very different ways. Generally the colours of the wings
are due to the way the surface of the wing is made, for this surface
reflects light. But the colour of the wing of the butterfly is to be
traced to a quite different cause. If the fingers be rubbed over the
surface of a butterfly's wing, they will be found to be covered with a
fine coloured dust, whilst the wing itself will become quite transparent
(as in fig. 1). If this dust be looked at under the microscope, it will
be seen that it is made up of a number of tiny scales, most beautifully
shaped (as in fig. 2). Each scale is fixed to the surface of the wing by
a tiny stalk and in a regular order.

From the shape of the wings in the butterfly or moth we can tell more or
less how the insect flies. Long and narrow wings give a swift and rapid
flight, broad round wings a slow and leisured flight.

The wings of insects are moved by only a few muscles, but with wonderful
rapidity. It has been calculated that the common fly makes with its
wings three hundred strokes per second, the bee one hundred and ninety.
The dragon-fly and the common cabbage-white butterfly of our gardens,
however, have a much slower beat of their wings, the former twenty-eight
strokes per second, the latter only nine. The machinery by which they
move is like that of an oar.

[Illustration:

1. Butterfly's Wing (magnified).
2. Scales from Butterfly's Wing (greatly magnified).
3. Earwig (magnified): one wing folded, the other open.
4. Foot of Fly (greatly magnified).]

Insects' wings are folded in various ways. Those of the butterfly, when
at rest, are raised up over the back, so that the upper surfaces of the
right and left wings come together. In the moth the hinder wings pass
under the fore-wings, which are held flat over the back. But the beetle
and the earwig hide their hind-wings beneath a hard case not used in
flight. The size of the hind-wings, however, is so great that before
they can be covered by the horny case, they have to be folded up, and
this is done in a really wonderful manner, especially by the common
earwig.

Most people probably think of the earwig as flightless; but, nevertheless,
beneath a tiny pair of horny wing-cases, a very wonderful pair of
transparent wings is cunningly tucked away. The marvellous way in which
they are folded up after use we cannot describe in detail here. In each
wing there is a hinge shaped somewhat like a half-moon, in the middle of
the stiff front edge (fig. 3, in the wing extended on the left). When
the hinge is bent, the outer half of the wing folds over towards the
tail, and the tip points forward. The further inward folding of the
hinge of this rod next appears to divide the wing into two, the second
portion passing under the first, and thus bringing the wing down to half
its original size. By this time the mechanical or automatic folding
process stops, and the rest of the folding up has to be done by the aid
of the pincers at the end of the body. Finally the packing up is
complete, and the two hard outer cases, like a couple of tarpaulins, are
drawn over the delicate wings to protect them.

On the right side of the body, in fig. 3, the wing has been folded up,
and is covered by the wing-case.

The folding of the beetle's wing is also done by means of a hinge, but
the packing up is less close, as the outer covering cases are larger.

* * * * *

Most insects walk as well as fly, and their walking is not less
wonderful than their flight. Fig. 4 represents the foot of a fly. It
will be seen, under a strong microscope, to have a pair of large claws
and a pair of leaf-like plates, one on each side. The claws and the
plates have different uses. The plates are used when the fly is walking,
say, up a window-pane or along a ceiling. They are moved so as to lie
flat on the surface which the fly is crossing, and when they are laid
flat a number of tiny hairs are pushed out from them, from the tips of
which a sticky liquid oozes, so that the fly is practically glued to the
surface on which it is crawling. The claws are used to cling on to
uneven surfaces, on which they can get a good grip. In the next article
we shall say more about the way in which insects walk.

W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.

[Illustration: "There stood Captain Knowlton."]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 175._)

During the meal Mr. Westlake talked about cricket, asking whether I
played, and I explained that there had not been enough of us at
Castlemore to make a proper eleven. He inquired further about Mr. Turton
and Mr. Windlesham, and gradually led the conversation round to the days
when I used to live in Acacia Road with Aunt Marion. I told him that she
had married Major Ruston, and gone to India, but that I did not know her
address nor Major Ruston's regiment.

'We can soon find that out,' he said, and sent the butler for the _Army
List_. When he had looked in this, he raised his eyes to my face again,
mentioning the number of the regiment, and explaining that it was at
present at Madras.

Then he turned to the book again. 'I don't find Captain Knowlton--didn't
you say that was the name?' he asked.

'Yes,' I answered, 'but he left the service when he came home from
India, four or five years ago. He came into a lot of money, you see.'

'And Captain Knowlton was your guardian?' he asked, fixing his eyeglass.

'Not exactly an ordinary guardian,' I explained. 'My father was a
soldier too, and Captain Knowlton said he saved his life, and that was
why he looked after me.'

After I had told him all about Mr. Parsons, he rose and went to the room
where I had first seen him, calling me to follow. I shut the door when
Mrs. Westlake had entered, and Mr. Westlake stood lighting a cigar.

'Upon my word,' he said, in his slightly drawling voice, 'there seems to
be only one thing that is possible to be done with you for the present,
Everard.'

'What is that?' I asked, with considerable misgiving.

'Naturally,' he continued, 'I shall write to Major Ruston and explain
the exact circumstances in which Mrs. Westlake found you, and I have no
doubt that when he hears what I shall tell him, he will make some sort
of arrangement for your future.'

'But it will take a long time to get an answer.'

'No doubt, but you seem to be placed in a very awkward position. As far
as I can understand, Captain Knowlton had every intention of looking
after you if he had lived----'

'Oh, yes!' I cried, 'because he told me I was to go to Sandhurst.'

'But, you see,' he said, 'he did not make a will. Is that right?'

'Yes,' I answered. 'Mr. Turton found out the address of his solicitor,
and told me there was no will.'

'So that, except your aunt in India,' he continued, 'there appears to be
no one upon whom you have the least claim. Yet, Mr. Turton----'

'I don't want to go back to Mr. Turton,' I cried, taking a step towards
him.

He took his cigar from his lips, and stood gazing for a few seconds at
the ash, which he then knocked off into the fender.

'That is all very well,' he said. 'I suppose no boy who ran away from
school ever felt any strong desire to return. But I understand that you
admit that Mr. Turton tried to find you--that, in fact, he would have
found you if Jacintha had acted as she ought to have done.'

'I don't want to get Jacintha into a row,' I exclaimed, and the
slightest of smiles lighted his face.

'I am certain you don't,' he answered, 'and you need not trouble
yourself on that score. But as Mr. Turton tried to find you, it is
pretty clear that he wished to take you back with him. Now, if he
wished to take you back, he could not have had any strong objection to
keeping you. You don't complain that he treated you brutally?'

'No,' I said, 'I never saw him give any fellow a licking; but,
still----'

'Anyhow,' Mr. Westlake continued, 'I have decided to write to Major
Ruston, and tell him all the circumstances, offering to do anything on
your behalf which he wishes; then I shall take a train to Castlemore the
first thing to-morrow morning and have a chat with Mr. Turton.'

'I wish you wouldn't,' I exclaimed.

'That is what I feel compelled to do,' he said, 'and what I hope will
happen is this. I hope that Mr. Turton will take you back and promise me
to treat you well until there's time to get an answer from Madras. If
that answer is unfavourable, though it is not in the least likely to be,
I shall see Mr. Turton again. In any case, we must have no more
wanderings. There has been enough of that. Supposing that Major Ruston
cannot do anything, and Mr. Turton declines to keep you, we must make
the best of a bad job. No doubt I can find you employment in a firm with
which I am connected, and you ought to have sense enough to see that
this is the very best thing to be done in the circumstances.'

'Couldn't you find me work at once, and not tell Mr. Turton?' I
suggested eagerly, while Mrs. Westlake fixed her eyes on his face. But
he slowly shook his head.

'Understand,' he said, 'I don't intend to lose sight of you again. At
the worst, you will have to work for your living; but, in the meantime,'
he added, 'I am going to put you on your honour. You must give me your
word not to attempt to leave the house alone until my return.'

Of course I gave my word, but I felt that my last hope had gone. All
that I had done, all that I had passed through, had been to no purpose.
I might as well--far better--have stayed at Castlemore, since there
seemed little doubt that I should be taken back to Ascot House
to-morrow. I could imagine Augustus's triumphant snigger, and all the
humiliation of the return.

'I should not be surprised,' said Jacintha, later in the afternoon, 'if
Mr. Turton refused to take you back, and if he does,' she exclaimed,
'Father is going to see whether Mr. Windlesham will have you until he
hears from Major Ruston.'

'I should not mind that,' I answered. 'I shall not mind anything if I
don't go back to Mr. Turton's.'

I went to bed early that night, and slept perfectly until one of the
maids knocked at my door the next morning. But when--as soon as we had
finished breakfast--Mr. Westlake was driven away from the door in a
hansom, I felt that my own departure might be only a matter of a few
hours. During the morning Mrs. Westlake took me out for a drive with
Jacintha, but try as I might it was impossible to show them a cheerful
face, and while I understood that Mr. Westlake was doing what he
considered the best for me, it seemed difficult not to regard him as an
enemy. That afternoon I sat in the dining-room, unable to attempt to
make my escape because of the promise which I had given Mr. Westlake,
yet feeling that there were few things I would not endure rather than
eat humble pie and go back to Mr. Turton.

Four o'clock had struck, and Mr. Westlake might arrive at almost any
moment with the news of my fate.

'Do you think,' suggested Jacintha, 'that Father will bring Mr. Turton
with him?'

'I should not be a scrap surprised,' I answered, dismally. 'Then I shall
sleep at Ascot House to-night.'

'Mind you write,' she exclaimed, 'and tell me everything that horrid
Augustus says, and all about things.'

A little later, as the clock struck half-past four, Mrs. Westlake
entered the room.

'I think Mr. Westlake must have missed the train which he expected to
catch,' she said. 'The next will not bring him home until about
half-past six.'

'We were wondering whether Father would bring Mr. Turton with him!'
cried Jacintha.

Mrs. Westlake came to my side, resting a hand on my shoulder. 'You
know,' she said, gently, 'that at the very worst you will only stay at
Castlemore until we hear from Mrs. Ruston.'