Chatterbox, 1905.

V >> Various >> Chatterbox, 1905.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54

'You've had a very narrow escape,' Charlie said to the man whom he had
rescued. 'Now take my advice, both of you, and don't you ever again set
foot on a coper. If you want tobacco, go to a mission ship.'

Charlie got on the seat as he finished speaking, and as the little boat
was lifted on a big wave he sprang upwards, grasped the _Lily's_ gunwale
and climbed aboard, leaving the men to whom he had denounced copers to
wonder why he was on one. Loud blasts from their trawler's siren
instantly drove all thoughts of Charlie's action from their minds, and
rowing hard they worked their way back to their ship, where they
received a lecture from the skipper which they did not forget that
voyage.

(_Continued on page 253._)

ALL PRIME MINISTERS.

Many years ago there was a clever and kind doctor at a Paris hospital
where the patients were of the poorest class. The skill of this doctor
somehow reached the ears of the then Premier of France, who, being about
to undergo a very serious operation, sent for this doctor to perform it.

'You must not expect, doctor,' said the Prime Minister to the surgeon as
he entered the room to arrange for the operation, 'to treat me in the
same rough manner as if I were one of your poor wretches at the
hospital.'

'Sir,' answered the doctor with dignity, 'every one of those poor
wretches, as you are pleased to call them, is a Prime Minister in my
eyes.'

X.

[Illustration: "'I saw it first--'tis mine--let go!'"]

DON'T BEGIN.

Two little dogs, one summer's day,
Who tired of play had grown,
Discovered lying in their way
A most attractive bone.

'I saw it first--'tis mine--let go!'
The one in anger cried;
'I shan't, how dare you say 'tis so,'
The other one replied.

And so no doubt they wrangled on,
Although I cannot tell
Where those two little dogs have gone,
Or how the fight befell.

But quarrels, as we know, take two,
And some one must give in,
So far the wisest thing to do
Is simply--don't begin.

C. D. B.

[Illustration: A Scene in Clissold Park.]

THE PARKS OF LONDON.--II.

In the days of Queen Bess the pretty village of Stoke Newington was a
pleasant object for a country walk of about three miles from the City
boundary of London. The village lay amid dense woods whence came its
name--Stoe being the Saxon word for wood, and Stoke Newington meaning
the new town in the wood. Its derivation shows what an old place it is,
and we may picture to ourselves how, ages ago, the dwellers within the
City walls would joyfully leave London, on holidays, by the Moor Gate,
and wend their way northward to the shady trees and grassy banks of the
roadway known as the 'Green Lanes'--names which, like Stoke Newington,
still survive. Along that road the royal chariot of Queen Elizabeth
might occasionally be met coming from the Tower; for at Stoke Newington,
in a mansion beside the church, dwelt some of the Dudley family, whom
she delighted to honour.

A story is told how, when her Majesty was the persecuted Princess
Elizabeth, living under the stern rule of her sister, Queen Mary, she
paid a stolen visit to London to see how Court matters were progressing.
The Dudleys befriended her, and went so far as to hide her in a brick
tower in the Park, communicating with their home by a secret passage. To
judge by what history tells of Queen Mary, these devoted friends ran no
slight risk, and Queen Elizabeth, in later years, did her best to repay
their kindness. We read that, on one visit after her accession, she took
a jewel of great value from her dress and presented it to the daughter
of the house, Lady Anne Dudley. One avenue off the Park is still known
as Queen Elizabeth's Walk, and tradition says she was fond of pacing up
and down there with the master of the house.

The next time we hear much of Stoke Newington Park, it was in the hands
of Mr. Jonathan Hoare, one of the founders of the great banking house of
that name; and, later still, it was rented from the Ecclesiastical
Commissioners by one of the Crawshay family, then known as 'the iron
princes' of Wales. His lease set forth that he was to pay the sum of one
hundred and nine pounds a year rent, with one good, fat turkey, the
latter probably appearing at the annual dinner of his landlords. For
this consideration he was allowed to call house and land after his own
name, but was forbidden to cut down timber. Mr. Crawshay's tenancy
closed romantically with the incident which won the place its present
title.

He had two fair daughters, whom no doubt he wished to see married to
rich and noble husbands. Great, therefore, was his anger when he found
that one of them had given her affections to the curate of the parish,
Mr. Clissold by name. Mr. Clissold was forthwith forbidden to set foot
within Crawshay Farm again. To ensure this, the walls of the place were
made higher, and the hard-hearted parent expressed his firm resolve of
shooting any messenger who tried to carry letters secretly. How long
this state of affairs lasted does not appear, but it was ended by the
death of Mr. Crawshay. Then the curate and his hardly-won bride became
tenants of the mansion, and changed its name to Clissold Park or Place.

As Clissold Park it was bought from the Ecclesiastical Commissioners for
ninety-six thousand pounds, and formally opened by Lord Rosebery in
1889.

Perhaps the greatest charm of this particular park lies in its evident
old age--trees, turf, and the disused mansion all bear witness that it
is no newly planted recreation ground, but a noble relic of the days of
old, with a stately dignity all its own.

A number of deer enclosed in the middle of the park prove that these
pretty creatures are not always shy. A family of kittens could not be
less afraid of the admiring crowd which watches them. At the same time
the deer were presented to the park, a number of guinea-pigs were also
introduced, and they still flourish in their cosy enclosure, giving
endless delight to the children of the neighbourhood.

The beauty of the park is greatly increased by the waters of the New
River, which wind in and out of the grounds as well as round them,
although the charm of the stream is somewhat spoilt by a close iron
fencing, walling in the water on both sides. This, however, appears to
be a necessity, to protect the numerous fish from the keenness of
would-be fishermen.

Bridges cross the river in many places, and two lakes of some size,
studded with wooded islets, afford homes for swans, ducks, and other
water-fowl. Near the mansion there is a bandstand, and all about the
grounds there are seats and rustic shelters for the elders, whilst the
young folk and children are making merry with games.

In the spring and autumn a very favourite place for basking in the sun
is the terrace before the old house, in part of which refreshments are
provided. Some of the views in the park are exceedingly pretty,
especially in the direction of the deer park, looking towards the
mansion, where the old parish church stands out against the trees,
whilst the fine open tower of a new church, with a graceful spire, rises
above the green foliage.

Stoke Newington has been the home of various celebrated men: John
Howard, the philanthropist, who did so much to alleviate the horrors of
prison-life; Defoe, whom we all love for the sake of _Robinson Crusoe_;
Dr. Watts, author of many of our best-known hymns, among the number.

It is pleasant to know that the leafy walk of the Green Lanes is still
an attractive one for Londoners, although the mossy banks of former days
have long been lined with handsome houses, and though a wide expanse of
densely populated town lies between Clissold Park and the street still
known as London Wall, whence the Moor Gate, with all its companion
portals, have long vanished.

HE SET THE EXAMPLE.

A gentleman was once entertaining his friends at a grand dinner. He was
a sad boaster, and was often guilty of describing deeds that he had done
when an officer in the army, which those who knew him well felt sure
were greatly exaggerated. He was in the midst of some such anecdote when
the butler brought him word that a man wished to see him.

'Tell him I am engaged with my friends, and can see no one,' said the
gentleman, pompously.

The butler retired, but soon came back to say the man was most urgent in
wishing to speak to the gentleman, and said he had been in his regiment
at a famous battle, where he owed his life to the officer.

'Show him in! show him in!' said the host, much gratified. 'This good
fellow says I saved his life at X----,' he added, turning to his guests
as the old soldier came in. 'How was it?' he went on, 'for I am sure I
forget; in the heat of battle one does brave things almost
unconsciously.'

'It was like this, your Honour,' said the soldier: 'I owed my life to
you, for I certainly should never have thought of running away if you
had not set me the example!'

A PEEP AT NORTHERN ITALY.

It is comparatively easy now to run over to Switzerland, and through the
lovely scenery of the St. Gothard Pass, to the plains of sunny Italy;
but this land of light and song is very little known to English boys and
girls.

Of all the lovely lakes that reflect the deep blue of the summer skies,
none is more beautiful than Lake Lugano, although Como is larger and
Maggiore has a charm of its own. The town of Lugano stands at one end of
the lake. It is pretty and bright, with many things to interest and
amuse; but it is in the villages dotted along the south side of the lake
that the real life of the people is to be seen.

These villages are surrounded by vineyards. The grapes are gathered in
October, when the whole scene is very animated and gay. Every one--men,
women, children, even the ox-waggons of the country--is pressed into the
service, and the vineyards resound with songs and laughter. From these
grapes a red wine is made. It is the ambition of every peasant to own a
small vineyard and a boat.

On the other side of the lake rises a range of hills covered almost to
the water's edge with deep green woods. In some places cliffs rise
between wood and water, and in these cliffs are many small natural
caves. These have been enlarged and enclosed with doors, so as to form
wine vaults, and in them is stored much of the wine made in the
district.

On Sunday afternoons in summer the lake is alive with boats, each
holding a happy family party of father, mother, and children, and laden
with cakes made from _polenta_, and other dainties. They are all bound
for the caves, where a series of merry picnic parties is soon in
progress.

The provisions are taken from the boats, the wine vault is opened with a
key, for all are kept carefully locked, and then the feast begins. Soon
the air is filled with song and laughter. The whole afternoon is spent
in this way, and only in the cool of the evening do the merry revellers
return to their simple homes across the lake.

The boats look very pretty. They are rather wide and shallow, and in the
middle a white canvas covering is stretched from side to side, supported
on bent canes, to make a shelter from the heat of the sun. The boatman
in the dress of the country stands at the end, and drives the boat
through the water with rapid strokes from his single oar.

The streets are narrow and crooked, and the houses are built very
irregularly. There is no pavement, and the dust is amazing. The
brown-faced, bare-legged children, with large solemn-looking brown eyes,
tumble about in it, munching ripe red tomatoes with their hunches of
brown bread. In the grass by the road-side funny little green lizards
run in and out, hurrying away at your approach as fast as their legs
will carry them.

It is very strange to see even the smallest cottages fitted with
electric light, but this is the case in one village, Marroggia. A clever
German has set up some works close by, and drives the machinery by power
derived from a beautiful waterfall near the village.

From Marroggia a young Italian went to London some years ago to seek his
fortune. He succeeded so well that he soon became rich. Returning to his
native village, he built there a beautiful villa, with gardens and lawns
sloping down to the lake. When it was finished he gave a feast to all
the villagers. Thousands of fairy lamps and Chinese lanterns were sent
for from London to illuminate the gardens, and turn them for the
occasion into fairyland. The peasants had never before seen anything
like it. They danced, they sang, and ate the good things provided for
them. They would willingly have lingered there all night, and it was
only when the last lamp flickered and went out that they returned home
to dream of what they had enjoyed.

At one end of the lake stands Monte Generoso. The top is reached by a
mountain railway, which zig-zags its way up through the woods. It feels
very strange as the engine goes up panting and puffing, turning a sharp
corner at every few yards; but the view from the summit is very fine,
and the journey down still more exciting than the ascent.

At the other end of the lake is a famous china and earthenware
manufactory. You can reach it by steamboat, but it is much better fun to
go in a small boat, where you can lie under the awning and watch the
boatman, in his white shirt-sleeves and coloured velvet waistcoat,
steering his boat like the gondoliers of Venice.

The china manufactory is old-fashioned, but very interesting. The
potter's wheel is still used there, and it is wonderful to see the ease
and quickness with which a lump of clay is made into a cup, a saucer, a
vase, or any other article you may ask for. After it is taken off the
wheel, it is dipped into liquid glaze, then ornamented with some design
transferred from coloured paper, and finally fired in the furnace.

Most people who visit the Italian lakes go on to Milan, a very
important, busy town. On the way you pass through large tracts of
country covered with maize and rice fields. The maize grows to an
enormous height, and the rice is watered artificially by tiny streams,
which may be seen trickling through the fields in all directions.

ELAINE CARRUTHERS.

[Illustration: A Peep at Northern Italy.]

[Illustration: "The sailor-pupil climbed into the car."]

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

VII.--BALLOONS AT THE SIEGE OF PARIS IN 1870.

Towards the close of the war between France and Germany, in 1870, the
German troops lay so closely round the walls and fortifications of Paris
that all communication with the outside world was cut off. No letters
could be sent to friends, and no letters from friends could be received,
for, once outside the walls of the town, they would surely fall into the
hands of the enemy. But the post office was anxious to continue doing
its duty, and the Government felt bound to find some means for sending
out and receiving official dispatches. The only way to accomplish this
was by the use of balloons. Paris had always been very busy with
balloons, but, when inquiries were made, it was found that there were
not more than six in all the city, and these were far too old and worn
out to use. Balloons must, therefore, be made, said the authorities, and
two gentlemen, named Godard and Yon, were requested to begin the work at
once. As railway stations were not wanted for trains in Paris at that
particular time, the two largest were chosen in which to build balloons.
Henceforth their 'trains' would journey silently through the sky instead
of noisily over the iron roads.

Needles and cotton and calico were all carried in large quantities to
the Gare du Nord and the Gare d'Orleans (as the two stations are
called), and in less than four months sixty balloons were built and
dispatched.

Some people in Paris, however, were so anxious to try the experiment
that they could not wait for the new balloons, but used an old one,
called the 'Neptune,' and M. Durnof, a daring aeronaut, made a flying
dash in it out of Paris. Those who witnessed his adventure say that the
old Neptune bounded almost straight up into the air, and fell beyond the
enemy's camp in much the same manner. It was as though a large cannon
ball had been fired (only very slowly) from the streets of Paris.

The successful path of the Neptune was soon followed. M. Gambetta, the
great statesman, stepped into the car of the 'Armand Barbes' on the
morning of October 7th, and, after many narrow escapes from the enemy's
guns, landed safely among friends. Three days later a pretty
grey-feathered pigeon settled in Paris, bringing in one of its quills
the story of his journey.

But among the many wonderful ascents made in that terrible time, none is
more interesting than that of M. Janssen, a great astronomer, who went
to Algeria to see an eclipse of the sun. Certain learned societies in
France, very anxious that the progress of science should not be delayed
by this unhappy war, were delighted to find him willing to undertake
the dangerous journey. England offered to obtain a safe-conduct for him
through the Prussian camp, but the astronomer said: 'No, thank you. I do
not wish to be under any obligation to the enemy.'

So, packing his telescope and other instruments with very great care, he
carried them to the Gare d'Orleans on the morning of the 2nd December
(three weeks before the eclipse would take place), and, settling himself
in the car of his white balloon, the 'Volta,' gave orders for the anchor
to be weighed. At that time in the morning it was quite dark, and, ere
daylight was an hour old, he and his companion (a young sailor) had come
to earth again by the mouth of the Loire. They had travelled nearly
three hundred miles in a little more than three hours. A swifter journey
has hardly ever been made. It is disappointing to learn that, after such
a daring exploit, M. Janssen reached his destination only to find dense
clouds covering the Algerian sky at the moment the eclipse took place.

The frequency with which balloons left Paris soon made it necessary to
increase the number of aeronauts, for those who departed were, of
course, unable to return. As the professional men became fewer, it was
found that the best to take their places were sailors. But, that they
might first have lessons in the art, a car was suspended from the roof
of the factory, and into this the sailor-pupil climbed. He soon learned
how to cry out, 'Let go all!' Then, after throwing out the ballast,
pulling the valve-rope, and dropping the anchor, he was ready, with more
courage than discretion, to call himself an aeronaut. And into the air
he went, with bags of letters and cages of pigeons, and, on the whole,
succeeded very well as a postman in the clouds.

The mention of pigeons leads us to another story of ingenuity, though it
has not much to do with balloons.

After the question of how to dispatch letters had been solved, the next
that arose was, how to receive replies. The balloons that _left_ the
city had got nearly all Europe to settle in, but it was hopeless to try
to steer them back to so small a spot as the city itself. But a carrier
pigeon would have no such difficulty in returning. Means must be found,
however, to make it possible for each bird to carry many letters. M.
Dagron, a clever photographer, discovered this means. He showed how he
could photograph a letter and reduce it in size till the writing became
unreadable, even under an ordinary magnifying glass. This could be done
on films so thin that a roll of twenty of them could be inserted in one
quill, each film representing a large number of letters. Having proved
to the authorities the success of his invention, M. Dagron departed in a
balloon, to explain to the various towns in France how letters must be
sent to Paris.

Every day after that the welcome sounds of flapping wings was heard in
the beleaguered city. The letters that they brought were placed between
two sheets of glass and enlarged. Then, by means of a magic lantern,
they were reflected on to a large screen, while post-office clerks,
sitting at a table opposite, copied them down on to separate sheets,
and dispatched them to their different addresses in the city. Nearly one
hundred thousand letters were sent to Paris in this way during the four
months of the siege, and the hostile army outside its walls was
powerless to intercept them.

JOHN LEA.

WILLIE'S SUM.

Willie laid his pencil down,
And put his books away,
And with a sad and peevish frown
He hurried out to play.
But as he ran, the blackbird's song
From poplars in the lane,
Rang out: 'You know that sum was wrong,
And should be done again.'

Yet Willie heeded not the sound;
Pretended not to hear,
Till trees, and hills and all around
Kept singing in his ear:
'It's no use, Willie! Trust us, do!
You can't enjoy the fun
Until the task that's set for you
Is well and justly done.'

Then in a sad and sorry state
He homeward turned amain:
Took up his pencil and his slate
And worked the sum again.
_This_ time the answer wasn't wrong,
And as to play he went,
His conscience sang an altered song
Which made his heart content.

GENEROSITY.

A father of a family wished to settle his property between his three
sons. He therefore made three equal parts of his chief possessions and
gave one part to each son. There remained over a diamond ring of great
value, which he reserved for the son who should perform the noblest and
most generous action within the space of three months. The sons
separated, and at the appointed time presented themselves before him.

The eldest son said, 'Father, during my absence I had in my power all
the riches and fortune of a person who entrusted them to me without any
security of any kind; he asked me for them, and I returned them to him
with the greatest honesty.'

'You have done, my son,' replied the father, 'only what was your duty,
and I should die of shame if you were capable of doing otherwise, for
honesty is a duty; what you did was just, but not generous.'

It was now the second son's turn, and he spoke thus: 'I was on the banks
of a lake, when, seeing a child fall in, I threw myself in, and with
great danger to myself drew him out. I did it in the presence of some
countrymen, who will testify to the truth of it.'

'Well and good,' replied the father, 'but there is only humanity in that
action.'

At last came the turn of the third son, who spoke thus: 'I found my
mortal enemy, who had strayed during the night, and was sleeping on the
edge of a precipice in such a manner that the least false movement on
waking would have thrown him over. His life was in my hands; I was
careful to wake him with precaution, and drew him out of danger.'

'Ah, my son!' exclaimed the father, overjoyed, embracing him, 'without
doubt you deserve the ring.'

ANIMAL MAKESHIFTS.

True Anecdotes.

II.--TIME WITHOUT A CLOCK.

'The stork in the heavens knoweth her appointed times,' says the Bible,
and the turtle-dove, the crane, and the swallow to this day 'observe the
time of their coming.' What a wonderful law is theirs! They need not
learn it, for it is born in them. Migratory birds know not only the need
for their journeys, but the fixed times for them. It has been thought
that the rules of their airy road have been handed down from generation
to generation, but this is not always true. Nothing is positively known,
except that the travellers are in search of food or quiet nesting-places,
when they move from land to land.

As the time draws near for birds of passage to travel, they seem to know
it by an inward restlessness; they long to be away--they know that delay
is dangerous, and, so strong is the longing to be gone, that migratory
birds kept back by accident or wilful cruelty, often die of the desire
to go. The young cuckoo never survives an attempt to detain him. A poor,
wild goose, with a lame wing, was seen bravely setting out on foot to do
his journey of hundreds of miles over sea and land, when he saw his
brethren depart for another clime.

One of nature's grandest sights is the yearly flight southwards of wild
swans from Norway to the great lakes in Turkey. The birds fly at the
rate of about one hundred miles an hour, in vast flocks, shaped like the
letter V, the sharp end foremost, as an arrow passes through the air. At
the point flies the leader or captain, the strongest and wisest of the
band, and ahead of the main army he sends a skirmishing swan to keep a
sharp look-out. This swan's business it is to see if the coast is clear.
From time to time he comes rushing back with some warning note. Then
there is a great cackling, a pause, and a council. After holding this
noisy parliament, the army resumes its course, or changes it, according
to the news brought. When the swans reach the lake, they do not swoop
down till the captain has made a careful search around, poking among the
reeds, flapping over the surface, and even taking a sip of the water, to
make sure that nothing has happened to make the lake dangerous for swans
since the last time he was there. All being well, he signals to the
band, who descend with a rush, and soon cover the water with their
graceful forms.