Chatterbox, 1905.

V >> Various >> Chatterbox, 1905.

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North-east of the park, close to where the Marble Arch now stands, was a
plot of ground connected with more horrors than could be found elsewhere
in England. This was the site of the famous Tyburn Tree--London's
hanging-place in the days of old, when even a child might be hanged for
stealing a few pence. Many a procession of carts came from Newgate in
the City, laden with men, women, boys, and girls, followed by an excited
crowd eager to watch the execution. Round the gallows galleries were
erected and let out at high cost to fashionable folk--fine ladies and
gay gallants all ready for the show. Happily humanity has made progress
in the last century, and such dreadful sights have long been done away
with.

William III., like most of his Dutch relations, was a great gardener,
and cut quite a large slice out of Hyde Park to improve the gardens of
Kensington Palace, where he and Queen Mary made their home. At the same
time he made a great many improvements in the actual park, although for
the Serpentine we have to thank Queen Caroline, wife of George II.

Since then Hyde Park has always been the playground of the rank and
fashion of the United Kingdom, and nowhere else in England can such
numbers of magnificent carriages and horses be seen as here in the
season. The alleys bordering the drives are filled on summer afternoons
with thousands of well-dressed people--many perhaps admiring the
splendid clumps of rhododendrons, which form one of the sights of the
park in early summer. The rich, too, are not the only people who
appreciate this national playing-place. Thousands of poorly-clad women
bring their white-faced children from crowded courts and alleys to enjoy
the fresh air, and unlimited room in which to play.

Turn where we will, Hyde Park is, in our times, a scene of peaceful rest
both of body and mind for weary citizens. Yet matters far less suitable
to its beautiful surroundings have often disturbed its peace. In the
days of duelling, the north side beneath the trees was a favourite place
of meeting. Here on a Sunday in 1712, the first Duke of Hamilton, a
statesman who could ill be spared by his country, engaged Lord Mohun,
and both adversaries were carried dead from the field.

As we stand on the bridge, looking down and watching the quiet water,
with all its living things, and the rabbits in their corner, it seems
hard to believe that we are in the midst of a maze of human dwellings,
and that miles and miles of busy streets surround us. But pause and
listen awhile, and you will hear, above the music of the birds, the ring
of voices and echoes of children's laughter, above the dull hum of
well-hung carriages and pattering of horses' feet, a never-ending
roar--the sound of the greatest city the world has ever seen. All round
us, shut off only by a little space of grass and trees, lie its
pleasures and its miseries.

SERVED HER RIGHT.

Founded on Fact.

Not long ago there was a story told of a young girl whose kindness to an
old man brought her a great reward. She was in the crowd upon the
occasion of Queen Victoria's first Jubilee, and observed a rather
shabbily dressed old gentleman who appeared to be ill. Taking him by the
arm, she made a way for him through the dense throng of people, and got
him safely into a quiet street. There he explained to her that he had a
weak heart, and that he had foolishly ventured out sight-seeing, but the
excitement and the closeness had made him faint. He thanked the girl
warmly for her help, and asked for her name and address, which she gave
him.

A few years after this little adventure, the girl received a letter in a
big blue envelope. It was a communication from a lawyer, who informed
her that the gentleman whom she had so kindly helped on Jubilee Day had
died, and had left her by his will the greater part of his large
fortune.

There is another story rather like this, but about a different sort of
girl. A gentleman happened to read the above tale out of a newspaper as
he sat with his family at breakfast. His little daughter, as she
listened to her father, thought how nice it would be if _she_ could win
a fortune thus easily. So the next time she saw an old man shivering on
the brink of a crossing, she went up to him, and, with a sweet smile,
said in her politest tones: 'May I have the pleasure of assisting you?'

But the man chanced to be a cross-grained old fellow, and, thinking that
the girl was making fun of him, he brandished his stick at her,
whereupon, in a great fright, she ran away as fast as she could.

I think you will agree with me that the little girl quite deserved this
rebuff, because of the unworthiness of her motive.

E. DYKE.

THE FLOWER-GIRL.

'Fine window-plants! Who'll buy?' shouted the man with the flower-laden
donkey-cart; but it was Mary, his daughter, who did most of the selling.
She stood on the edge of the pavement, a plant in each hand, and smiled
at the passers-by, and few could resist the pretty picture she made.
They would stop and admire the flowers even if they could not afford to
buy, and Mary had smiles for all, though perhaps the brightest were kept
for those who made a purchase.

And yet the girl's heart was heavy, and tears lay very close behind the
smiles. Trade had not been very brisk of late, while illness in the home
had made the expenses heavy. Her favourite little brother was still
ailing, and seemed to make no progress. The doctor had said he needed
change of air and nourishing food; but how could the doctor's orders be
obeyed when money was so scarce?

The morning was getting on, and still the cart had not lost much of its
load. Smiles were more difficult to manage as the hope of being able to
take home something dainty for Dicky's supper grew less.

A lady with her little boy had just passed, but looks of admiration were
all they gave. In the distance an old gentleman appeared, and he was
even a more unlikely customer. He peered through his spectacles, and
seemed too much wrapped up in his own thoughts to spare attention for
anything else.

As he was passing the cart he slipped, and would have fallen had not
Mary put out her arm quickly to steady him. But, alas! in doing so the
flower-pot she was holding fell, and lay in fragments on the pavement,
with the delicate blooms of the azalea quite ruined.

'Thank you, my dear,' the gentleman said. 'It was kind of you to come to
an old man's help.' But he did not notice the broken flower-pot, and
passed on, while Mary gazed in dismay at what meant a loss they could so
ill afford.

'Run after him, my girl,' her father said. 'Tell him he must pay for
that flower. A fine thing to come damaging other folk's property, and to
slip off without a word!'

But at that moment a girl came hurrying along the pavement. 'Oh,' she
cried, 'I saw what happened. That is my grandfather, and he is nearly
blind. I must overtake him, and I am sure he will come back and repay
you.'

Mary watched anxiously, and when they arrived, the old man leaning on
the girl's arm, her spirits rose again.

'My grand-daughter says I always get into mischief when she leaves me
for a minute,' he said, smiling. Then he put his hand in his pocket and
took out a few coins. 'Will this make good the mischief I have done?' he
asked.

'Oh, sir, it is too much,' Mary said. 'The price of the flower was only
eighteen-pence.'

'But I must pay for my rudeness in running away without apologising, and
you can buy a ribbon for yourself with the extra money.'

'I shall get something a great deal more useful than that,' she said.

'You seem to be a sensible young woman for your age. I wonder what this
useful purchase will be?'

'Something to make my little Dicky strong,' Mary said softly.

'And who is Dicky?' asked the pretty grand-daughter; and she looked so
sympathetic that somehow the whole story came out, for Mary's heart was
full, and words came readily in response to this touch of kindness.

'I shall call and see him,' the girl promised, when she had inquired
where Mary lived. And so the misfortune of the broken flower-pot turned
out to be the best bit of good fortune Mary had ever enjoyed. Not only
did her new friend come laden with delicacies for the invalid, but she
interested herself in having him sent with some other children for a
month to the sea-side. And when Dicky returned, brown and rosy, and full
of life and spirits, Mary felt she could sell her flowers with a smiling
face again, and look forward to the future with a light heart.

M. H.

[Illustration: "'Who'll buy?'"]

[Illustration: "Just as Lord Massereene was leaving the prison, he was
arrested."]

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

V.--LORD MASSEREENE'S IMPRISONMENT.

'Truth is stranger than fiction,' says a very old proverb, which is
certainly illustrated by the following tale of an eccentric nobleman's
life.

Lord Massereene was born in 1742, and in due course sent to Cambridge
University, where, however, he learnt next to nothing except how to row
on the river, and this he did to perfection.

On coming of age, he started off to do the 'Grand Tour,' as it was
called--a leisurely visit to the various capital cities of European
countries. This was a custom much in vogue amongst the young men of the
wealthier classes a hundred years ago. Our young friend, however, went
no further than Paris, for that fascinating city was too much for the
foolish fellow, and he spent his money right and left, till he was
almost penniless. He then fell into the hands of an unscrupulous
adventurer, a native of Syria, who put before him a plausible tale of
how easy it would be to make a fortune by importing salt from Syria to
France. Lord Massereene, in the hope of regaining the money he had
wasted, invested all he could lay his hands on in this wild scheme, and
of course, as it was a fraud, lost every penny.

The next misfortune that happened to him was an arrest for debt, and he
made acquaintance with the inside of 'La Chatelet,' one of the largest
prisons in Paris. He could, however, have satisfied his creditors, and
been released from prison, had he been willing to allow his estates to
be charged with his debts; but this he persistently refused to do.

There was at that time a law in France permitting debtors who had
suffered twenty-five years' imprisonment to be allowed to go free, with
all their liabilities discharged, and this extraordinary young man
actually decided to do this, and to settle his debts by undergoing a
quarter of a century of prison life!

Beyond the inability to leave the prison, Lord Massereene seems to have
suffered at first but few privations, for cheerful society was not
denied him, and he managed to woo and wed the daughter of one of the
principal officials of the place.

A plan of escape was at length made, and as the young lady's father was
able and willing to help in the matter, it was very nearly successful.
But not quite! For, just as Lord Massereene was leaving the door of the
prison to enter the carriage which was in waiting for him, he was
arrested, and taken back to the prison. It appears that the Governor's
suspicions had been aroused by seeing a carriage and pair loitering
about the gate. As soon as he had caught the escaping prisoner, he
ordered him to be lodged in the dungeon, a gloomy cell, below the Seine,
on which Le Chatelet was built.

Lord Massereene now knew all the rigours of a French prison. He was left
to languish in damp and darkness, with no companions but the rats, and
only the coarsest food.

When at last the twenty-five years were ended, and his release came, he
was indeed a pitiful object: gaunt, yellow, with a long unkempt beard
reaching below his knees.

But his wife had remained constant to him, and together they set out for
England. On landing at Dover, Lord Massereene was the first to step on
shore, and falling on his knees, he exclaimed fervently,--

'God bless this land of freedom!'

* * * * *

He lived nearly twenty years in the enjoyment of the estate for which he
had suffered imprisonment for so long, and died in 1805.

THE SAGO-TREE.

Sago is made from the pith of a tree-trunk. This tree--the sago-tree--is
a kind of palm, like the date-tree and the cocoanut-tree. It is found in
the East Indian Islands, where it gives food to many thousands of
people, particularly in the large island of New Guinea, where a great
part of the population is almost entirely dependent upon it.

The sago-tree grows in swampy places, either by the sea or in little
hollows by the hill-sides. It is thicker than the cocoanut palm, but it
does not grow quite so tall, being about thirty feet high when full
grown, and perhaps twenty inches in diameter. What looks like the root
of the sago-tree is really a creeping underground stem, from which a
spike of flowers grows up when the tree is about ten or fifteen years
old. For some years, while the plant is young, the upright growing stem
is covered and completely hidden by very large spiny leaves. These are
rather like enormous feathers, of which the centre stems, or midribs,
corresponding to the quill of the feather, are from twelve to fifteen
feet long, and, in their widest part, as thick as a man's leg. They are
used like bamboo by the natives, for building houses, and also for
making the roofs and floors of houses that are built of other kinds of
wood.

The bases of the midribs widen out and wrap round the stem like a kind
of sheath, as almost all leaf-stalks do to some extent. But the sheaths
of the sago-tree are so large that, when they are broken off and
trimmed, they are like large baskets or troughs--wide in the middle,
where they have grasped the stem, and narrow at the ends, where they
have joined the tree or are rolled up to form the midrib of the leaf. It
is interesting to remember this, because the natives actually use the
sheaths as baskets and troughs.

The hollow stem of the growing sago-tree is not more than half an inch
in thickness, and it is filled with a light, pithy matter, from which
'sago' is made. This pithy matter varies in colour from a rusty tinge to
white, and is rather like the eatable part of a dry apple. Strings of
harder, woody fibre run through it like straight veins, and these are of
no use for making sago. The pith is best for use when the tree is full
grown and just about to flower, and it is then that the natives cut it
down.

The tree is cut close to the ground, and, as it lies on the soil, its
leaves are cut off, and a portion of the bark is shaved away from the
upper side of the trunk so as to lay the pith bare. A native takes a
club with a sharp stone in the end of it and beats the sago-pith with
it. By this means he breaks up the fibres and the pith into little
chips, taking care that they are kept within the trunk. From time to
time these chips are loaded into one of the sheaths of the midribs, and
carried away to be cleaned. The beater continues to break up the pith
until there is nothing left but the hollow tree-trunk.

The sago is separated from the fibres in the pith by the aid of water.
The natives take two sheaths of the sago-plant and make them into
water-troughs. They set them up upon little frames, one sheath a little
higher than the other, with one of its narrow ends projecting like a
spout over the lower sheath. A kind of net-like bark or skin, obtained
from the cocoanut tree, serves as a strainer or sieve, and is stretched
across the upper sheath or trough. They empty the broken pith into the
trough above the strainer, and pour water upon it. The soft part of the
pith is a kind of starch, which dissolves in the water, and so flows
through the sieve and down the spout into the lower trough, but the
fibres are held back by the sieve. In order to get all the sago-starch
out of the pith, the sago-maker kneads and squeezes the pith until
nothing but fibre remains. This is waste, and is thrown away. When the
sago-laden water falls into the lower trough it rests awhile, and the
sago sinks into the bottom of the sheath as a soft reddish sediment,
while the clear water rises to the top, and by and by trickles over the
end of the sheath. When this trough is nearly full the sago-starch is
taken out, made into rolls, and wrapped in the leaves of the tree.

The sago thus prepared is known as raw sago, and is used by the
islanders without being further refined. They boil it in water, and eat
it with fruits and salt, or they bake it into cakes in a little clay
oven. When these cakes have been well dried they will keep for years; a
man can make in a few days sufficient sago-cakes to last him a whole
year. It has been calculated that a single tree will produce about
eighteen hundred of these cakes.

The sago which we use for our puddings is made by refining the raw
sago. When our grandfathers and grandmothers were young, the best raw
sago used to be mixed with water and rubbed into small grains before it
was sent to Europe. At the present time the sago, after being moistened,
is passed through a sieve into a shallow iron pot, placed over a fire,
and in this way the round pearly sago which we use is produced. As this
sago is half-baked in this operation, it will keep for a very long time.

The Malays call the sago-tree the _rumbiya_ and its pith _sagu_ from
which word we get our name _sago_. We have here an instance of a Malay
word which is in daily use in the English language.

FAITH AND SIGHT.

A little story is told which helps to show the difference between faith
and sight.

The master of an infant school told a boy to move a stool in such a way
that he was not seen by the little ones himself. Then he taught them
this lesson.

'You cannot see any one moving the stool; is it not alive?'

'Oh, no, sir! it never was alive. Some one _must_ be moving it.'

'But you cannot see anybody; perhaps it moves itself.'

'No, sir; though we don't see anybody, that makes no difference. It
cannot move itself.'

Then he told them of the moon and stars, which, though we see no one
move them, certainly do move, and no one could do it but God, whom we do
not see.

'Yes!' they said; 'it must be God.'

'But then we cannot see Him.'

'Please, we must believe that it is He.'

'You do believe it, then?'

'Yes sir.'

'Then this is Faith.' He added: 'If you have little faith, what will you
do then?'

'I will shut myself up in a corner,' said one little mite, 'and pray for
more.'

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

VI.--HOW INSECTS WALK.

Grown-up insects seem to be very short of legs compared with many of
their distant relatives. Thus, while no member of the insect tribe--when
grown up--has more than six legs, the Centipede or the Millipede may, as
their names imply, possess a far greater number--as many, indeed, as two
hundred and forty-two! But there is one curious likeness between the
legs of the insects and those of their relatives--the number of pairs of
legs is always odd. The insect has three pairs; the centipede and
millipede have a very variable number, ranging from fifteen to one
hundred and twenty-one pairs!

We have seen how wonderful the foot of the fly is, with its two sticky
plates for smooth surfaces, and its two claws for rough ones. The
Honey-bee has very similar feet, but the two plates are joined to form
one! As in the fly, when climbing rough surfaces the flat plates are
raised up, and the claws used instead; but when a smooth or slippery
place has to be crossed, the claws are pulled backwards and the plates
are brought down.

The legs of insects vary much, according to the purpose for which they
are used. Thus, the Gnats, which spend the greater part of their time on
the wing, have long slender legs, suitable for breaking the shock of
alighting. Whilst in other insects the legs are used for all kinds of
work, such as seizing prey, carrying it, climbing, digging, and so on.
When this is the case the legs are provided with spines, or bristles.

In the Mole Cricket (fig. 1) the fore-legs are very strong, being short
and broad, and ending in a broad comb-like plate, which is used for
digging. They are very like the great digging paws of the mole.

The exact way in which insects walk is not easy to describe, and much
study has been given to this most puzzling subject. Many devices have
been adopted to make the insect draw a map of its course. In one
instance the legs of a slow-walking beetle were painted, and the insect
was then made to walk upon a clean sheet of paper; the track made by
each leg being distinguished by the use of a different colour.

From this and other experiments it appears that there are always three
legs in motion at the same time, or nearly so; meanwhile the remaining
three legs support the body. First (as in fig. 2) the left fore-leg
steps out, then the right middle-leg and the left hind-leg. Then the
movement is taken up by the legs of the opposite side of the body, and
so on.

If the movement of the legs in the six-legged insects is difficult to
find out, what shall we say when the centipede (fig. 3) and millipede
come to be examined? These, though not insects, are nearly related to
the insects, and since they are common in our gardens, must be referred
to here.

[Illustration: Fig. 1.--Mole Cricket (magnified).]

According to the lines of a humorous poem, the centipede was said to
have been--

'Happy till
One day a toad, in fun,
Said, "Pray which leg moves after which?"
This raised her doubts to such a pitch
She fell exhausted in the ditch,
Not knowing how to run.'

[Illustration: Fig. 2.--Beetle walking.]

The last pair of legs in the centipede and millipede are never used for
walking, and are generally much longer than the rest. In a South
American species they are provided with delicate nerves, and are used as
antennae or 'feelers,' so that the animal is armed with organs of touch
at each end of the body! In one kind of millipede, in the male the last
pair of legs has a sound-producing apparatus, consisting of a ridged
plate, which, by being rubbed against a set of tiny, bead-like bodies
set in the surface of the last shield covering the body, produces a
peculiar noise.

[Illustration: Fig. 3.--Centipede (magnified).]

Centipedes and millipedes generally shun the light, and hide under
stones and in crevices during the day. But there are some which love the
sunlight. These kinds are remarkable for the great length and
slenderness of the legs, which they part with readily when handled! Most
of these long-legged species are brightly coloured with black and yellow
stripes or spots. In their native haunts these creatures may be seen
darting about after their prey in the sun, heedless of the notice they
attract by reason of their pretty colours. Few birds or beasts would
think of eating them, for these creatures have a providential instinct
which tells them that the gaudily-coloured animals are generally very
nasty to the taste!

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

[Illustration]

THE MAN WITH THE GLASSES.

So common is short-sightedness nowadays that military officers, and
sometimes private soldiers, are allowed to wear spectacles. Formerly
this was not the case. Where, by special permission of the authorities,
exceptions had been made, the unfortunate wearers of glasses in the army
came in for the ridicule of their comrades.

At the time when the French were fighting the Algerian chief,
Abd-el-Kader, there was in a battalion of foot-chasseurs a spectacled
adjutant named Duterbre. His companions made great fun of him. A man
who wore glasses could not, in their opinion, be much of a hero. One day
Duterbre, engaged in a reconnoitring expedition, was slightly wounded,
and taken prisoner by the enemy. He was brought before the Arab chief.
The remainder of the French force had, in the meantime, taken refuge in
a walled enclosure close by.

'Go to your companions,' said Abd-el-Kader to Duterbre, 'and tell them
that their lives shall be spared if they will surrender. Yours, in that
case, shall be spared also. But if they refuse to surrender, I will
utterly exterminate them, and I will have you beheaded. And understand
this clearly: I send you to your people on one condition--that whether
or not they accept my terms, you are in any case to return to me. Do you
accept my conditions?'

'I do,' replied Duterbre.

Duterbre left the Arab camp, well aware that his only chance of life lay
in the surrender of his battalion. If the French soldiers resolved to
fight on, he was bound in honour to go back to death.

Duterbre returned to his companions. He had always been a man of few
words, and he said very little on this occasion. But what he said was to
the point. It was this: 'Chasseurs! If you do not surrender, the Arabs
are going to cut off my head. Now die rather than yield, every one of
you!'

Then the brave fellow turned his back, and went straight to the Arab
camp, with the message that the French refused to surrender.

The chief carried out his threat. The adjutant was beheaded, and his
head--spectacles and all--was carried round the camp upon a pole for
public exhibition. None could say that it was not the head of a brave
man.