Chatterbox, 1905.

V >> Various >> Chatterbox, 1905.

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A very touching story of the devotion of deer to their fawns comes from
America. While two men were riding along a creek in California, they
saw, some distance ahead, a doe and her fawn drinking from the river.
The bank was very steep, and the river deep at that point. When the deer
saw the hunters they were startled, and in trying to turn, the little
one lost its balance and fell into the creek. The water was running very
swiftly, and of course the fawn was carried down-stream. At this the
poor mother seemed to lose all fear of the men, and ran wildly along the
bank, trying to reach her little one with her head, but in vain. She
next ran forward for a short distance, plunged in, steadied herself by
planting her feet firmly among some rocks, and waited. Presently the
fawn was washed against her, and, as it was being swept by, caught hold
of its mother, stretching out its forelegs and clasping her neck, much
as a little child uses his arms in clinging to his nurse. The doe then
carefully stepped ashore with her precious burden. She lay down beside
the baby deer, and, although the hunters were not thirty yards away, she
licked and fondled the little thing till it rose to run, when she too
sprang up, and the pair trotted off unharmed to the woods.

[Illustration: "He saw her curl her neck round the egg like a big
finger."]

Many birds use their wings as arms and hands when flight will not serve
their turn. A partridge was seen to hustle and drive her little troop of
chicks into the shelter of a rabbit-hole with her wings, out of the way
of a hawk whose shadow had fallen on the grass at their side. Here she
kept them prisoners till all was safe.

[Illustration: "The fawn caught hold of its mother, clasping her neck."]

The lesson to be drawn from such stories is that even wild, untaught
creatures do not use their limbs in a senseless way as parts of a
machine, without thinking, but are able to turn them to a variety of
uses in times of difficulty. We shall, of course, find that tame animals
such as the horse, dog, and cat act more wisely in such ways than their
wild relations. The dog, for instance, turns his rough idea of using his
mouth for carrying food or young ones, to fetching and carrying for his
own benefit or his master's. A handsome brown spaniel lately noticed
that his mistress, in carrying a bowl of water, upset some of the
contents on the floor. Off dashed Master Jack, intent on 'making himself
generally useful,' and quickly returned with the house flannel from the
kitchen. This he laid beside the pool, with an intelligent, uplifted
look which said, 'There! wipe it up.' Did not this sensible fellow's
mouth become a splendid makeshift hand, and his glance an excellent
speech?

EDITH CARRINGTON.

THE PITCHER-PLANT.

The leaves and flowers of plants often grow into very strange shapes.
The flowers of various kinds of orchids are very remarkable for the
peculiar forms which they take. Some of them have a great resemblance to
bees, flies, or butterflies, and this resemblance is at times so great
that we wonder whether it is only an accidental likeness, or whether it
serves some useful purpose. One of the oddest shapes which any plant
takes, however, is that of the leaves of the pitcher-plant; and in this
case naturalists, who have studied the plant carefully, are able to show
us that the strange shape of the leaf really serves a purpose.

The pitcher-plants are most abundant in the islands of Borneo, Java, and
Sumatra, and in the Malay Peninsula. Though not so plentiful elsewhere,
they are also found in Ceylon, Madagascar, the Moluccas, and one or two
other places. The plant is a kind of creeping or climbing shrub which
runs along the ground, or climbs up other shrubs and short trees. It
seems to thrive best upon the mountaintops, and the summits of the
mountains of Borneo are often gaily decked with it.

There are thirty or forty different kinds of pitcher-plants, varying in
size a great deal. But the strange thing about all of them is that the
ends of their leaves are shaped like pitchers, or perhaps it would
describe them better if we said they were like jugs with lids. It is
from this peculiarity that the plant takes its name. The leaf is the
shape of any ordinary leaf until it reaches its point, where it is drawn
out into a long stalk or tendril, at the end of which is the jug or
pitcher, which, you must remember, is formed out of the leaf itself.
Each plant has its own shape of jug, and the jugs vary in size a good
deal. Some are long and slender; others are broad and shallow. Some are
tiny jugs only an inch deep, while others are perhaps twenty inches
deep. Their colour is green, but the mouth of the jug and the under side
of the lid, which is always open, are spotted with red or purple,
somewhat like a flower.

Not only do these strange leaves look like jugs, but they are also used
as jugs. Each of them contains a little supply of water, varying with
the size of the jug from a few drops in the smallest, to as much as two
quarts in the largest of them. Thirsty travellers have sometimes
quenched their thirst from these natural jugs, when no other water was
to be found. Though the water itself is palatable, it is a little warm,
and it is always full of insects.

If any one were to watch one of these jugs of the pitcher-plant for some
time attentively, he would soon find that it served as a trap for flies
and insects. One by one the little creatures alight upon the outside of
the jug, and creep into the open mouth, and few or none of them ever
return. They slip into the water at the bottom of the jug and are
drowned.

If we examine a jug carefully, in order to learn why the insects enter
it, and how it is that they cannot get out again, we shall be surprised
at the clever way in which the trap is made. The mouth of the jug has a
thick ring round it, which makes it firm, and keeps it always open. The
lid stands over this mouth, and seems to be always raised a good deal,
so that insects and flies may enter freely; but it covers the mouth in
such a way as to prevent anything from falling accidentally into the jug
from above. The underside of the lid and the mouth of the jug are often
gaily coloured, so as to attract insects, as brightly-coloured flowers
do. Some of the jugs even make a little honey, which, forming just
inside the mouth, attracts insects by its scent. Within the jug, just
below the mouth, there is a row of stiff hooks, which have their points
turned inwards towards the bottom of the jug. Below the spikes the sides
of the jug are so smooth and slippery that few insects could stand on
them.

It is easy to see how the trap works. Insects are attracted to the
pitcher by the bright colours of the lid or the scent of the honey. They
creep into the mouth, and crawl between the hooks, whose sharp points
are set the other way, and they step upon the smooth and slippery inside
of the jug. In another instant they have slipped into the water at the
bottom of the jug. Do what they will, they cannot climb up the slippery
sides of the pitcher, or pass the row of sharp hooks, whose points are
turned against them. They are caught.

Now all this is very strange and wonderful, and it makes us wish to know
why Providence has given the plant this clever machinery. We cannot help
asking ourselves why the pitcher-plant entraps these insects. I am
afraid that you would hardly be able to answer this question for
yourself, however carefully you might watch a pitcher-plant. Indeed, it
is only a few years since clever men, making careful experiments, were
able to find out the real truth. The fluid at the bottom of the pitcher
_digests_ those insects, and the pitcher-plant feeds upon them. Just as
the juices of our stomach dissolve meat, so that it may pass into the
blood and nourish us, so the fluid in the jug of the pitcher-plant
dissolves the flesh of the insects which fall into it, and makes that
flesh fit to nourish the plant. This strange plant lives, in part at
least, upon flesh; and all the clever mechanism of its jug is used
simply to get a meal.

ONE AND ONE MAKE TWO.

As through the busy world you go,
Remember this is true,
That though one seems a little thing,
Yet one and one make two.

The task one could not do alone,
Is done with help from you,
For though you are a little one,
Yet one and one make two.

The thread that's rolled the reel around,
That baby's hands can break,
When with it other threads are bound,
The strongest rope doth make.

The rope thrown by some helping hand,
And drawn the waters through,
May bring a drowning man to land:--
So one and one make two.

The minutes grow into the hours,
The hours into the day,
The days to weeks, to months, to years,
And thus time flies away.

And deeds of good by children done,
Though small they seem to you,
May grow into a mighty sum,
For one and one make two.

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

VI.--THE GIANT AND ITS ADVENTURES.

Two hundred needlewomen were busy for a month making the 'Giant's' coat.
It contained twenty thousand yards of white silk, of double thickness,
at six shillings a yard, and when finished measured ninety yards round
and sixty yards in height. When it was filled it held 6098 cubic yards
of gas. M. Nadar, its master, introduced it to the people of Paris in
the hope that the money they would pay to see it would enable him to
carry out his experiments with flying machines. On October 4th, 1863,
the Giant was ready to make its first voyage in the clouds, and nearly
five hundred thousand people assembled to see it start.

It was like a cottage made of wicker-work, and mounted on small wheels.
In two of the four walls there was a door with two small windows each
side of it, and inside there was a little world of wonders. The
'cottage' was only fifteen feet long, twelve wide, and eight high; but
it was divided up so carefully by thin partitions that there was room
for a small printing-office, a photographic department, a
refreshment-room, a compartment for the captain's bed and passengers'
luggage, and another at the opposite end, with three beds in it. Outside
all this, but inside the walls of wicker-work, was an inflated rubber
lining, so as to prevent it from sinking if, by any mischance, the
'Giant' should fall into the sea. Thus, according to circumstances, the
building could be either the car of a balloon, a ship at sea, or a
caravan being drawn by horses upon the wheels already mentioned along a
country road. From the inside a narrow stairway led on to the roof, or
deck.

When all was ready, M. Nadar, leaning from the deck, gave the word. The
ropes were let go, and the Giant rose solemnly towards the sky. Fifteen
voyagers waved their hats and handkerchiefs over the bulwarks, returning
the greetings of the crowd till carried beyond sight and hearing.

Though the launch was a success, the poor Giant had been served very
badly by some careless persons, all unknown to those on board. The
pilot, a clever aeronaut, named Godard, was a little surprised that very
soon after leaving the ground he had to begin throwing out ballast, to
stop them from sinking. This went on for some hours, and when darkness
had fallen, and all the world had disappeared, it became clear that the
balloon must descend. They had attained a height of many thousand feet.
It was nearly nine o'clock, and supper on deck was over, when Godard,
finding that the descent was becoming too rapid, called out, 'Hold to
the ropes!'

Every passenger seized some portion of the ropes, so that the shock of
contact with the earth might be somewhat lessened. Down came the Giant,
a great deal more swiftly than it had risen; and the last bags of
ballast were emptied over the side with little effect. The blow was
tremendous, and the wonder is that the passengers escaped with their
lives. An inquiry was held, and the Giant itself was proved blameless.
The valves for allowing the escape of gas had never been properly
closed! Thus, from the very moment when they left Paris, the gas was
pouring out at the top; and it was only through the enormous quantity
used that they succeeded in rising at all.

A fortnight later M. Nadar was ready to sail again. This time the Giant
had nine passengers, who were destined to make an eventful voyage.
Anchor was weighed in the evening, and very soon, at a great height, all
eyes were turned to watch the beautiful sunset. As the shadows of night
gathered round them, however, more than one traveller looked anxiously
at the gigantic ball above. Supposing anything should go wrong with it!
It looked such a tremendous distance down to the earth.

When day dawned again at last, after a night during which no one had
closed his eyes, they found themselves hanging over the fens of Holland,
many miles from Paris. Fearing that the wind might carry them out to
sea, they agreed to descend. But, on reaching the lower air, the huge
balloon was caught in what proved to be almost a hurricane. It drove
them towards the ground at a long angle, until, like a falling kite, the
Giant struck the earth head foremost, dragging the car behind it at a
terrible speed. The travellers hung on for dear life. Again and again
the car struck, and rebounded thirty or forty feet into the air. With
the first blow the valve-rope was jerked beyond reach, so that it became
impossible to let the gas escape.

Mile after mile they tore through the country, crashing into trees, and
scattering herds of cattle right and left. All the anchor-ropes, dropped
one after the other, had been snapped like thread, the last catching in
the roof of a cottage, and tearing it open before giving way. Then, to
the horror of the passengers, a railway-train appeared a short distance
ahead, spinning along at great speed. A collision seemed inevitable; but
with one united effort they shouted to the driver. He heard them, and
reversed his engine, and the next moment they whirled by, dragging
telegraph wires and poles after them. And now a hero came to their
rescue. Jules Godard, the pilot's brother, after many fruitless
attempts, climbed into the network and secured the valve-rope. The gas
was now slowly discharged, and before the bag was empty the passengers
had either jumped or been jolted from the car, bruised and shaken, but
happily without loss of life.

After making such a wonderful name for itself, the Giant took a short
sea voyage on board a real ship, and crossed the Channel to England,
and, blown out with harmless air, hung under the great glass dome of the
Crystal Palace for visitors to admire. After this it made only one or
two more journeys to the clouds, and ended its career as a poor captive
balloon in the gardens of Cremorne.

[Illustration: "The driver heard them, and reversed his engine."]

[Illustration: "One of the fishermen prevented him from sneezing
again."]

AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.

(_Continued from page 219._)

Much to his relief, Charlie found that the galley fire had not gone out.

'I kept it going, cook,' a grimy young trimmer declared. 'It would have
gone out long ago if I hadn't looked after it. And I've filled the
kettle for you. Got a bit of grub to give me?'

Charlie took out a chunk of bread, dabbed a spoonful of marmalade on top
of it, and gave it to the lad.

'Any time you want anything done, I'll do it,' the trimmer declared, and
departed.

As there was nothing to detain Charlie in the galley he went forward to
assist in hauling. The skipper was on the bridge; the mate was working
the donkey-engine, which was fast drawing in the long wire ropes
attached to the net, and the deck hands stood at the starboard-side
gunwale, watching for the net to appear. An electric light was hung up
at the bridge, so that the men could see to do the work they had in
hand. For a moment or two Charlie stood at the foot of the bridge,
waiting for the skipper or the mate to tell him what to do.

'Stand here,' Ping Wang said, quietly, but loud enough for him to hear.

Charlie nodded his head and took up his position about three feet away
from the Chinaman. Soon the net appeared above water, and the men,
bending over the gunwale, grasped it with their hands, and, tugging all
together, pulled it slowly but surely upwards.

'Where are the fish?' Charlie asked, surprised at seeing none in the
part of the net at which they had been tugging.

'For'ard,' Ping Wang answered, and as he spoke the donkey-engine started
panting and puffing, and the part of the net to which the Chinaman had
pointed was now raised high above the gunwale. It resembled a huge
cooking-net which had been lifted out of a gigantic pan. It was crowded
with fish, and as it was pulled in and suspended over the pound made on
the deck, the very small fish, mostly dead, fell through. Others, with
wide-opened mouths, were caught in the meshes. A fisherman now stepped
under the dripping net, untied it at the bottom, and sprang quickly
aside as the catch of fish fell with a thud into the pound.

'What a mixture!' Charlie exclaimed as he gazed at the fish jumping,
wriggling, and sliding about in the pound. 'What are they?'

'Cod, plaice, haddock, and turbot,' Ping Wang replied, but he only named
a few of them. The catch included also ling, sole, whiting, dab, gurnet,
oysters, crabs, whelks, cat-fish, star-fish, and a large amount of ocean
scrapings.

Charlie stood watching the struggling mass, deeply interested, but Ping
Wang whispered to him, 'Come away, or you'll have the skipper at you. We
are going to shoot now.'

Charlie bestirred himself at once, and assisted in shooting the gear.
When that had been done without a hitch, the work of sorting, cleaning,
and packing the fish was begun. Three men stepped into the pound,
trampling on the fish until they had made a clear space for their feet.

'Give a hand there, cook!' the skipper shouted, and Charlie stepped into
the pound. He had not the heart to tread on the still living fish as the
others were doing, and in his anxiety to avoid hurting them, he slipped
and fell against the gunwale, his sou'-wester falling overboard. The
other men stopped work at once, and looked at him in a by no means
friendly way. The skipper abused him loudly and fiercely.

'It was my own sou'-wester,' Charlie declared, unable to understand why
the skipper should be so excited over the loss.

'Then why don't you jump overboard and save it? We will fish you up next
time we haul.'

The men laughed heartily at this grim joke.

'Take the skipper's advice, mate,' one of them said. 'I want some new
boots badly.'

'It is thought a bad omen if a fisherman's sou'-wester is blown
overboard,' Ping Wang explained in a whisper, whereupon Charlie laughed
loudly at the superstitious idea.

'Stop that row,' the skipper shouted, 'and start cleaning the fish.'

Charlie took out his clasp-knife, and seized a plaice.

'Don't cut that,' Ping Wang warned him. 'Put the plaice in the box just
as they are.'

Charlie hesitated, for the fish was not yet dead, and he did not like
the idea of packing it away while it was alive.

'Here, stow it away,' a fisherman growled, and snatching it out of his
hand flopped it in the box and smacked a dead fish on top of it.

The plaice were the only ones which had not to be cut open. As each fish
was cleaned it was tossed into another pound, and when the whole of the
catch, with the exception of the plaice, oysters, whelks, and the
useless fish, were in this, the hose was turned on to the silvery mass.

When the fish had been thoroughly cleansed with water, they were packed
away in boxes, which were at once stowed away in the hold between layers
of ice.

Charlie was not required to assist in the work in the hold, and
therefore he hurried to the bucket, on which was painted 'All hands,'
and indulged in a wash. He was fortunate in being first, for fresh water
is not plentiful on a trawler, and one bucketful has to suffice for the
whole crew.

From the bucket, Charlie went to the galley and made the tea. Every one,
from the skipper to the ship's boy, had a mugful; some had two. The
North Sea fishermen are inveterate tea-drinkers.

Having drunk their tea, the men threw off their oilies and turned in
again with all their clothes on.

'It isn't worth while undressing,' Ping Wang said to Charlie. 'In about
three hours' time we shall have to turn out again. If you don't undress
you will have a little longer time to sleep.'

Charlie did not undress, and consequently he was ready to start work at
once when the time came. He put on a peaked cap in place of his lost
sou'-wester.

'Don't forget the tea, cook,' one of them said to Charlie as he climbed
up on deck. 'Let's have it before we start hauling.'

Thanks to the trimmer the kettle was boiling, and Charlie was therefore
able to bring the men mugs of hot tea in less than five minutes from
turning out.

'Cook is one of the right sort, after all,' one of the fishermen
declared as he returned his empty mug to Charlie, and the others
assented by nods and grunts. But before long Charlie was again in hot
water. As he was assisting to haul in the net he sneezed loudly. In a
moment one of the fishermen placed his big, dirty hand over his mouth
and effectually prevented him from sneezing on the net again.

The skipper, looking down from the bridge, broke into loud abuse.

'What harm is there in sneezing?' Charlie answered, angrily.

'None of your back answers, or I'll clap you in irons.'

'If you do, you'll have to pay for it dearly when we get back to
Grimsby. I insist upon knowing what harm I have done.'

'It is thought very unlucky to sneeze on a trawl,' the mate explained
quietly, anxious to save Charlie from any further bullying. 'It is
supposed to bring bad luck to the trawler. Now, grab hold of the net.'

Charlie again tugged at the net, and, when the catch was emptied into
the pound, it was found that it was an exceedingly small one.

'That comes of having you aboard!' the skipper declared, pointing at
Charlie.

'I don't see how my sneezing could have affected this catch,' Charlie
answered, 'considering that it was almost on board when I sneezed.'

'But how about your sou'-wester last night? That was what ruined this
catch, and your sneezing will spoil the next one.'

Charlie laughed openly at this prediction, but it was rather unfortunate
for him that, when the next haul was made, it was found that the catch
was still smaller than the previous one.

'I told you so!' the skipper declared, white with rage.

'It is a coincidence,' Charlie replied, calmly. 'If I sneeze on the net
now you will probably have a fine catch next time.'

'No back answers. Don't you try to teach me anything. Get away to the
galley at once, and be careful what you do.'

Charlie returned to the galley, hardly knowing whether to be angry or
amused. It was very galling to have to submit to the abuse of an
ignorant, blustering fellow like the skipper, but, at the same time, he
could not take the man's superstition seriously.

'I would not have believed, unless I had seen the skipper, that it was
possible for there to be such a superstitious Briton living at the end
of the nineteenth century,' Charlie said to the mate, about half an hour
later.

'Oh, there are many like him in the North Sea,' the mate answered, 'and
all the arguing in the world won't convince them of their foolishness.
After a time you will not find his ignorance and superstition amusing.
However, what I want to say to you is this: the men in the foc's'le
declare that the grub isn't well cooked, and that you haven't given them
plum duff yet. You must let them have it to-morrow.'

'I will,' Charlie declared, as if plum duff were the easiest thing in
the world to make.

When the mate left him, Charlie took out the bow-legged cook's written
instructions to see what ingredients were necessary. His idea was to
make and boil the pudding that evening, so that, if it turned out a
failure, he would have time to make another one. If it proved to be a
success, he would be able to warm it up on the following morning. But,
just as he began to read the recipe, he noticed that the fire had burnt
low and needed instant attention. In his anxiety to prevent it from
going out, he put down the flimsy little book and began shovelling coals
on the fire. While he was doing that a gust of wind swept through the
galley, and carried the recipe-book out through the porthole and into
the sea.

Charlie, gazing out at it, saw it float for a moment or two, and then
lost sight of it.

'Well,' he muttered, ruefully, 'I don't know how I am going to make plum
duff now!'

(_Continued on page 238._)

THE TRUMPET AND THE DRUM.

Said the Trumpet to the Drum:
'Less noise, good fellow! come!
For nobody can hear
My voice, when you are near.'

'Boom! boom!' the Drum replied,
'The fault is on _your_ side;
You blow with such a sound
That _my_ poor voice is drowned.'