Chapter III: Lady Lollypop

The barber was honoured with a perfumed bath ere he retired to rest, which caused him to sleep soundly until daylight began to peep through the windows of his chamber. His slumbers would have been prolonged had it not been for a feeling of sudden pain across the bridge of his nose. He awoke hastily, and beheld the form of a very ancient dame standing by his bedside. That puppet, known as the spouse of Mr. Punch, was the only creature that our hero could liken her to, as she bent her thin profile over him and held up her skinny hand in token of silence and attention. Fixing her keen eyes upon Tom, she chanted, rather than spoke, the following incantation:—

“Draw a circle round the beast
When he sleeps in peaceful rest;
If strong thy arm and keen thy blade
So thy task is easy made.
Shave the monster, head and toe,
Round him fold this robe of snow;
Then lead him forth towards the Throne.
Fe-fi-fum, my charm is done.”

Ere the last words were well out of her mouth the old dame vanished like a puff of smoke—when or how Tom Brock had no idea whatever. He rubbed his eyes, and was under the impression that the whole thing was an illusion, until his glance rested upon a square white wrapper lying at the foot of the bed. He sprang up immediately, and found a soft cloak large enough to robe a giant. There was no fancy about that, at any rate. He dressed himself hastily, at the same time attempting to repeat the utterances of his strange visitor:—

“‘Draw a circle round the beast
When he sleeps in peaceful rest.’

Very good,” he muttered quickly; “there may be a charm in these words that I cannot conceive. I have a very dangerous task before me, and I’ll try it. Luckily this is just the time of day to catch Mr. Gorilla asleep. What’s the next line?—

“‘If strong thy arm and keen thy blade
So thy task is easy made.’

Humph! I can answer for the razors. They’re sharp enough to cut the throat of my ugly customer, if he tries any of his tricks. Then:—

“‘Shave the monster, head and toe,
Round him fold this robe of snow.’

“All right so far. After which I’m to lead him into the reception-hall before Prince Picnic. Just so. Now to set about it.”

The barber prepared his razors and lather, and taking the white robe on his arm he went out along the broad corridor towards the garden. Within a small grass plot encircled by tall trees Tom discovered the Gorilla fast asleep. With noiseless footsteps our hero formed a wide ring round the sleeping monster with his fingers, and then stepped within the charmed circle and approached his subject. Strange to relate, the Gorilla never stirred—not even when Tom, with the taste of a genuine artist, began operations upon his capacious chin. Nature seemed hushed while the barber performed his business. Above, below, and around a deep stillness reigned, save for the scraping, grating sound of Tom Brock’s blade.

Meanwhile Prince Picnic held a grand council of state in the magnificent reception-hall of his palace. Previously an edict had gone forth which summoned the rank, beauty, and fashion of the land to witness the marriage of Lady Lollypop and Gorilla. And here they were assembled for the imposing event, which should unite the Beauty and the Beast.

Ah, me! Who shall attempt to describe the splendour of that gathering? The Ruler of Twilight was seated on a throne of pure gold, which had been oxidized to every shade of colour, and wrought in the most beautiful mosaic imaginable. At her father’s side reclined the Bi-ba-be-bi, receiving the homage of the young nobles and the long-bearded functionaries of state. The walls and ceiling of the throne chamber were entirely covered with wide sheets of burnished gold to reflect as mirrors. On each side of the dais there extended rank upon rank of high-born dames and courtiers robed in stuffs of silk and gold, embroidered with flowers so as to present the most perfect imitations of nature.

Soothingly soft, sweetly, lovingly soft, were the dulcet tones of the choir of fairy musicians, hidden from view—now ebbing, now flowing in tender gushes of melody. Down the sides of the lofty pillared hall a bright band of dancing fays, each as lovely as a child’s dream, advanced and retired, crossed and interlaced in a whirling maze of shifting light, which defeated the eye in following their quick and graceful evolutions. Amongst that fair galaxy of beauty, Bi-ba-be-bi stood out peerless in her loveliness. Round the soft cushions on which she reclined were gathered her four handmaids, See-Saw, Hide and Seek, Marjory Daw, and Down-Dilly.

Behind the throne stood Ride-a-cock-horse, the prime minister, Gaboon, the jester, and the high officials of the kingdom. At a sign from Baron Thimble the music ceased and the dancers dispersed. Then Prince Picnic rose, and said briefly,—

“People of Twilight, I have called you together to witness the marriage of our daughter, the Lady Lollypop. I am aware that this Court had decided that our dear and lamented nephew Prince Pippin should have been her husband; but the gallant youth perished three years ago on those self-same Leap Frog Mountains where I and my retinue were captured by Gorilla. The chief of Gorilla-land is now here to claim the bond I gave him for our release.”

A deep hush had fallen o’er the vast crowd as the Prince paused.

“Prince Pippin was a handsome youth and a gallant gentleman,” whispered See-Saw.

“True, and our lady loved him well,” replied Down-Dilly.

The daughter of Prince Picnic heard the whispering, and sighed audibly.

“Ay, but the young Prince is dead. Hush!”

“Dames and nobles,” continued His Highness mournfully, “we have given our sacred word that this monster shall marry Bi-ba-be-bi. Therefore we cannot depart from that pledge in the smallest particular. What, ho there! Let the bridegroom come forth and claim his bride.”

As the Ruler of Twilight uttered the words, every eye was directed towards the great folding doors at the farther end of the audience chamber, which were instantly drawn apart, and Tom Brock entered, leading the tall figure of his patient, muffled from head to feet in the white cloak.

Poor Lady Lollypop uttered a stifled shriek of fear as her gaze fell upon the muffled form of her intended lord and master.

The barber advanced with his companion to the foot of the throne, and there halted for a moment, then retired behind the throng of courtiers, leaving the closely covered monster standing alone.

“Art thou still resolved to have the Pearl of Twilight for thy wife?” asked Ride-a-cock-horse in a loud voice.

The mantled figure trembled visibly, but held his peace.

“Let the chief of Gorilla-land show himself, if he is not afraid,” cried Gaboon, advancing from out of the ring of nobles by which he was surrounded. Swifter than the electrical fire athwart a thunder-cloud the folding mantle vanished from that form, and revealed—not the hateful beast, but a tall, handsome young man, robed in a superb hunting costume of the country. The gaze of Bi-ba-be-bi had no sooner rested upon him than she sprang from the midst of her ladies with a glad cry of recognition, and cast herself upon his bosom. “Prince Pippin! Cousin! My own dear love, you are not dead!”

Dead, not at all. Twilight is a region of enchantment, dear readers. Dame Trot, the witch of the Leap Frog Ranges, had fallen across the young Prince while hunting in the mountains, and had changed him into a Gorilla. Such he had remained and had taken his uncle prisoner. When the news, however, of the marriage between Lady Lollypop and the supposed monster reached the old magician she relented of her wickedness by appearing at the bedside of the barber and speaking the words which annulled the charm.

There was great rejoicing at the court of Prince Picnic over the event; but the gladness and the display were increased a hundredfold when the cousins were married.

Tom Brock, loaded with substantial presents, returned home to his wife and family, and brought a piece of the wedding-cake for the former, which quite dissipated any lurking jealousy there might have been in her mind respecting his absence.

The little corner shop knows our friend the barber no more. His residence is now in the aristocratic suburb of Toorak—a magnificent mansion known as “Faydell,” and for which he may thank Bi-ba-be-bi and her royal husband Prince Pippin.

TIM.

The sinking sun cast a soft amber-tinted radiance over the little township of Wentworth, New South Wales, as a little boy, weary and footsore with travel, knocked at a farmer’s door about two miles beyond the settlement.

A kind, motherly woman who answered the knock stared with astonishment at the juvenile tramp, who blurted out in a faint voice, “If you please, ma’am, will you give me a drink of water? I’m so hungry, I really don’t know where I shall sleep to-night.”

The good lady laughed heartily at the little fellow’s quaint request. She took him into the house, and led him into a back room, where a great fat man was seated at tea.

“Who is this, wife?” said he in a surly tone, looking at our hero.

“Only a poor boy begging some food, Mark; that’s all,” answered his wife meekly.

“I didn’t beg, ma’am, please,” said the boy quickly.

“Oh, you didn’t beg?” rejoined the farmer in the same gruff voice. “Git down on that stool now.”

“I came a very long way, sir, and I——” began the boy.

“Silence! Wife, take his bundle; pull off his old shoes; let him be washed; then give him his tea.” The voice lost nothing of its coarse disagreeable ring as it gave the curt order, but the man’s eyes looked kindly at the little wanderer. “What is your name?” still gruffly.

“Tim, sir, please.”

“Tim what? Hav’n’t you another name?”

“No, sir. Nuggety Joe never called me anything else than Tim.”

“And who is Nuggety Joe?” asked the farmer.

The boy played nervously with the edge of his tattered jacket for a moment, and then replied in a voice broken and unsteady with emotion, “Please, sir, father and Joe were mates on the diggings at Forbes. When the great dam broke and flooded the creek, and drowned father, mother, and little sister Jessie, Joe took care of me, and was a father to me—he was—until he took the fever, and died, and then I——” The child’s quavering voice gave way to a fit of bitter wailing.

“Stop that!” cried the farmer, putting his handkerchief to his nose, and making that organ sound like a French horn—“stop it at once. I’ll have no snivelling here.”

But poor Tim sobbed on; and notwithstanding all the womanly sympathy of the farmer’s wife, she could not stay the torrent. Not yet in his “teens,” the brave lad walked over two hundred miles, suffering hunger and pain with the courage of a Spartan; but he had no courage to put back the tears that swelled upwards at the remembrance of that rude, unlettered, dead digger, who had loved him, and had taken him to his bosom for Christ’s sake, and who had now gone to receive his reward.

All things have an end, so the fountain of Tim’s eyes became dry again ere the tea was over. Before the lad was sent to bed, the farmer said, “Look here, boy, I think I can give you something to do on my farm. Mind, I’ll set you a task the first thing in the morning; if you perform it to my satisfaction, and you likewise prove yourself an honest, trustworthy youngster, why, you shall never want a home or a friend while Mark Wilson lives. Now, wife, put him to bed.”

The good dame led Tim to a small attic bedroom, which contained, amongst other things, a beautiful parrot in a stout wire cage.

“Cockie” had evidently been enjoying a nap, for he shook himself at sight of the intruders, and sent forth from his bill a volley of strange sounds, in true imitation of a person just aroused from slumber. Mrs. Wilson kissed our hero and retired, but she had hardly closed the door before the bird began to flap his wings and crow like a rooster.

“A funny parrot,” muttered Tim. “I wonder if it can talk?”

“Of course it can,” answered Cockie, eyeing him through the bars of the cage. The lad rubbed his eyes, and stared at the bird in the cage for fully three minutes without speaking a word, so great was his consternation. “Don’t stare, Tim; it’s very rude to stare,” continued the bird gravely. “People in this colony have a bad habit of staring you out of countenance, I am sorry to say.”

“Why, you can talk like a man,” cried the boy in his astonishment.

“Certainly; much better than some men, I trust. Pray come here and scratch me, Tim,” cried the parrot coaxingly.

Little Tim obeyed very cautiously, and in fear and trembling.

“That is delightful,” said Cockie.

“It’s wonderful,” muttered poor Tim.

“What is wonderful, sir? Can’t parrots talk?”

“Some of them can, but not like you.”

“Oh! but I’m not a parrot, I’m a fairy.”

“A fairy?” cried the boy, agape with wonder. “Are you really?”

“Truly I am. One of the Lake George fairies. Xanthine, our Queen, turned me into a parrot, five years ago, through her foolish jealousy, and here I’ve been caged up ever since with this great beak upon my face, which quite disfigures me.”

“What a shame! Can’t you get back again to your friend at Lake George?” cried the boy.

“Yes, for Queen Xanthine is dead, and I can now return in safety, if you will help me,” replied the bird.

“Me! how can I help you?” answered little Tim.

“I will tell you” rejoined the elfin. “You must know, boy, that every one of us could help each other if we would. The rich can help the poor, and the poor the wealthy; yea, even the smallest can render assistance to the strong and powerful, as was the case with the lion and the mouse. Now, I can prove how I can render you a service. Judge. Didn’t the master say he would set you a task in the morning?”

“He did,” replied Tim in wonder.

“Very well. The task is to milk a bad-tempered, touchy old cow called ‘Peggy.’ The beast, who is a splendid milker, is the torment and plague of the farmer’s life. She has kicked him until he is afraid to approach her, and every one, man, woman, and boy, who attempts to milk Peggy is sure to be upset. It has proved useless to tie her by the leg and the tail—the wicked rogue would find a way of defeating her enemies before the milking was ended.”

“Are you sure that I shall have to try to milk Peggy in the morning?” inquired Tim.

“Quite certain,” replied the elfin.

“Then I—I think I had better go away now, at once, before the morning, don’t you?” said the lad ruefully.

“No, I don’t, because I can tell you how to overcome the antics of this refractory cow.”

“How?”

“I will tell you upon one condition,” replied the fairy parrot, rubbing its beak reflectively.

“What condition?” asked Tim.

“That you set me free as soon as you have completed your task to-morrow.”

“It’s a bargain,” replied little Tim readily. “I can easily get the farmer another parrot—a real bird, you know—and then there will be no harm done.”

“Very good. Now listen. On the gable of this house there grows a creeper with a pale blue flower. In the morning, when they call you, go and gather a small wreath of this plant, and when the wicked cow is bailed up ready for milking, place the vine around her horns, and you may take the word of an Australian fairy that Peggy will stand as quiet as a mouse until you have drained her teats as dry as a corn cob.”

“Lor! how simple!” replied Tim.

“All knowledge is simple, boy, when you once acquire it. You’ll not forget my instructions?”

“No, I thank you. I shall remember.”

“Kiss Cockie, then, say your prayers like a good boy, and go to bed. Good-night.”

Tim wished to ask the fairy bird a hundred questions, but after it had said good-night it would not utter another word, so the boy went to bed and fell asleep.

The sun was up before him in the morning. Yet Tim managed to get down into the garden and cut a slender tendril from the creeper, which he formed into a small hoop, just as the farmer’s voice was heard calling him.

Twenty cows had to be milked every morning at the farm, and Tim heard a great deal of shouting and bellowing, and clanking of milk-cans, which proceeded from a yard at hand, enclosed with a high fence and into which the cattle had been driven.

The farmer led our hero into the enclosure, and pointing to where the ill-tempered short-horn stood, with her head in the bail, said briefly, “Sit down and milk that cow.”

The boy went up to Peggy, who gave a loud bellow at sight of him. He placed the vine around her horns, then sat down to his task. Mark Wilson stood ready to pick the boy up in case the cow knocked him over; but the beast never moved until the boy had drawn every drop of milk from her teats. The good farmer was filled with amazement, and cried out, “Twenty-five boys and ten men have all tried to milk Peggy, and not one of them has succeeded but you. Therefore, from this moment, I will adopt you as my son, Tim, and you shall marry my little girl Amy, by-and-by, and I will leave you the farm as a wedding present.” And the farmer kept his word.

When Tim went upstairs to set the parrot free, he found the bird transformed into a beautiful wee lady, whom he politely lifted out of the cage. She thanked him, and made him a graceful curtsey as she vanished out of the window.

THREE SPARROWS.

Toby Grumbleton worked with his uncle down in one of the deepest mines in Ballarat. If you had searched the whole district in that gold hunting region, you couldn’t have found a more selfish, lazy, and disobedient boy than Toby. In consequence of his surly and complaining disposition his companions had bestowed upon him the nickname of “Toby the Growler,” and he well deserved the title; for a greater snivelling, discontented youth never existed.

One day, while at work in the mine, Toby was ordered to gather together all the blunt tools and send them up to the surface to be sharpened. As usual, Toby began to grumble, whereupon his uncle gave him a good thrashing, and the “Growler” ran off into one of the usual drives or passages of the mine to indulge in a sulking fit. Of the many dark and wide caverns underground, none in the whole pit was so large and so gloomy and dismal as the one in which “Toby the Growler” had taken refuge, yet the boy had not been there long before he became aware of a strange yellow-coloured glow lighting up the drive. Looking up, he beheld a little old dwarf, with a lamp in his hand, standing over him. Such a plain, ugly-looking creature Toby had never seen before, though there are any number of queer-looking fellows at Ballarat. The intruder was small, not nearly so tall as Toby, but his head was a rasper, and appeared as if it had belonged to several ancient individuals in succession, the eyes very red, and omitting a fiery glow. He was attired in a suit of brown russet, with a long sugar-loaf hat, and a crutch staff.

“Get up, Toby the Growler, and follow me,” cried the dwarf in a brief tone, and looking at him with those horrid eyes. Toby felt inclined to disobey, but his heart sank within him at sight of the creature, and he therefore followed, grumbling as he went, and wondering where the ugly little humpback would lead him. Of one thing the boy was certain—that the end of the subterranean passage would effectually bar the progress of the unwelcome visitor; but the dim cave seemed to extend and open out before them as they proceeded, until it took the shape of a long railway tunnel, from which they at length emerged into the bright open sunlight, beaming down upon a landscape fairer than a child’s dream. The sudden transit from what appeared to be the bowels of a great high mountain to the noonday light almost blinded our friend Toby; but the dwarf touched him with his staff, and lo! the boy beheld a charming country teeming with life and beauty. Here were soft grassy spots, shaded by trees bending with ripe and golden-hued fruit; yonder a range of hills clothed with richest verdure, and at the feet of which a broad lake gleamed like a burnished shield. There were swans on the lake, and birds of bright plumage on the trees and in the air, and birds everywhere around.

“What place is this, sir?” cried Toby in amazement.

“This is the land of the three sparrows,” answered the dwarf with a smile. “Look there; that little white building is the home of ‘Test,’ the eldest of the three; yonder by the water is the palace of ‘Try,’ while on the hills over there you can see the castle of ‘Cure,’ the youngest.”

“Are they real sparrows, sir?” asked Toby.

“No, boy, only in form. They are Australian elves. Every twenty years the great body of elfins in this country transform three of their number into the shape of sparrows, to govern this land, and also for other purposes, of which you may judge for yourself.” Saying which, the dwarf caught the Growler in his arms, and in an instant they were standing by the white palace on the lake. All the windows and doors were wide open, so the dwarf entered with his companion and conducted him to a large room where Test sat perched on the back of an armchair. He seemed a well-feathered, plump old bird and wore spectacles.

“Ah, Grip, my trusty messenger,” he cried, “I see you have returned with the Growler; take him hence and test him in the usual way.”

“Very well, your Excellency,” and the dwarf bent low in obeisance and retired. He led Toby away into a large empty hall, and standing him up beside the door, said, “Toby, Toby, shut your eyes and see what Fate will send you.” The Growler closed his eyes, when the voice of the dwarf was again heard. “Toby, Toby, open your eyes and see what Fate has sent you.”

The boy opened his eyes and beheld the most magnificent apartment it is possible to conceive. Tables with marble tops, inlaid with gold, were loaded with choice fruits and lollies, and by some enchantment the boy’s ragged clothes were changed to a gorgeous suit of crimson velvet, bordered with pearls, and several servants stood at hand ready to do his bidding.

“Ah, this is as it should be!” cried the delighted Toby. “I shall never grumble again if I am to live like this. Here are guns to shoot with; dogs to hunt with; horses to ride, and plenty of fishing in the lake. Ah! I shall be thoroughly satisfied now.” And the Growler set about enjoying himself.

But alas! for human resolves. The fruit made Toby ill; one of the horses threw him and hurt his leg; he nearly shot himself with his gun; and was all but drowned in the lake while fishing; and so he began to complain worse than before. But the moment he did so, the splendid scene vanished from before him in the twinkling of an eye, and he discovered himself in the bare and empty room again, with only his dirty rags, and the dwarf standing grinning beside him.

“Come along with me, Toby the Growler,” cried the old fellow in a mocking tone; and before the boy could refuse he was borne away to the palace of Try. This old and venerable sparrow was deep in the pages of the Observer when Grip entered with Toby.

“Whom have we here?” he inquired, addressing the dwarf.

“Please, your Worship, this is a mortal who has been tested by your Worship’s brother, and has failed,” answered Grip.

“What is his special defect?”

“Grumbling, your Worship.”

“Humph! a common quality among mortals, more especially with farmers and boys. Try him without delay.”

With the quickness of a shifting scene in a magic-lantern Toby was transferred to a cottage in a lonely valley, occupied by an old lady and gentleman, who welcomed him as if he had been their own son, and procured for him all that he could desire. The whole day was one round of pleasure and enjoyment, and the boy expressed himself grateful and satisfied with his position. One simple act he had to perform in return for all this kindness, and that was to draw seven buckets of water from a well every morning, for the use of the cottage. Yet Toby the Growler, unmindful of past experience, began to grumble again, and once more he found himself by the lake with the dwarf at his elbow.

“For the last time, come with me, Toby the Growler,” he cried in a terrible voice, while his red flaming eyes shot out flashes like fire. The boy felt utterly powerless to resist, and swift as a streak of lightning he was carried to the gloomy abode of Cure, the youngest of the three sparrows. The castle was as dark as a dungeon, but the guide found his way within to the reception-hall, where Cure, in regal feathers, sat surrounded by a guard of crows bearing torches.

“Who is this?” inquired the youngest sparrow sternly.

“A grumbling boy, your Highness.”

“Let him be cured. Take him away.”

The words were scarcely spoken ere poor Toby found himself instantly transformed into a donkey with long ears. He was on a hard, hilly road, dragging a heavy dray after him loaded with firewood. At first the lad felt somewhat doubtful respecting the sudden transformation, but a smart thump across his buttock soon convinced him he was no longer an idle boy, but a beast of burden, with a cruel youth for his master, who beat and bruised him unmercifully with a thick stick. Oh! the long and weary hours he had to toil, while the miserable food he had to eat made him weep, and wet the winkers with his tears. He thought of his uncle and his home, and all the many kindnesses he had received, and had repaid with complaints and grumblings, and he vowed earnestly, and with true penitence, that if ever he got back again to the mine and to his kind relative, he would avoid complaining for the rest of his life.

With this firm resolve came another sudden shifting in the magic scene. So sudden was it that Toby rubbed his eyes, and found himself in that self-same narrow drive in the mine at Ballarat, with his uncle shaking him by the collar, and telling him that it was time to go to the surface.

Toby is a man now, and is married and has several children; and if one of these begins to grumble, he does not forget to remind them of the Three Sparrows.

KING DUNCE.

Only a careless, stupid boy perched on a high stool within the schoolroom, trying to learn his lesson, long after his companions had been dismissed to their several homes. Only the biggest dunce at Slate-em’s Academy, who wouldn’t try, like other boys, to master his tasks—not because he hadn’t the ability to do so, but because he wanted to be a King. Yes, dear readers, Noel Biffin, son of Jack Biffin, the tin-smith, wanted to be a King. Nothing less would satisfy him. No, not even the rank of Duke or Prince; so, instead of minding his lessons, young Biffin drew Kings on his slate and in his copy-book, and was therefore compelled to ride the wooden horse after school hours.

It was a very beautiful evening, with a grand sunset glow flooding Slate-em’s Academy, and wrapping the Dunce round and round as with an amber-coloured mantle, orange tinted. The old usher, nodding in his chair, was quite unconscious of the halo which played round and about his bald, venerable head, and made him appear for one brief moment like one of the Apostles. The good, patient old man was tired with the heat, and weary with the incessant chatter of the boys, and so he dozed in comfort, and saw not the wee, shapely creature who entered at the window and approached the boy as he stood upon the stool and bent the knee before him. Although small, the stranger was very handsome, and decked from head to heel in bright, glittering armour, with a crimson plume adorning his helmet.

“May it please your gracious Majesty,” he said, doffing his helmet, “my name is Popgun—Sir Guy Fawkes Popgun, Knight—one of your Majesty’s subjects from the realm of Shadowland.” The Dunce nearly fell from the stool in amazement at the strange words. He looked towards the still sleeping master, and from him to the armour-clad Knight at his feet, and replied in a low tone, “Hush! Don’t speak so loud. I haven’t learnt my lesson yet; if he wakens he’ll thrash me. Now, what do you want?”

“Pardon, your liege,” rejoined the Knight respectfully, “I am sent as ambassador from the good people of Shadowland to inform your Majesty that you have been unanimously elected monarch of our wide and spacious dominions, and I beg that it may please you to allow me to conduct you thither without delay.”

“A King! Am I really a King after all?” cried Biffin, jumping from the stool.

“Every inch a King, your Majesty,” replied Sir Guy Fawkes Popgun, replacing his headpiece. “Will your liege follow me?”

“Stop, where is Shadowland?” inquired the boy.

“On the borders of Fancy, where dwell my kindred, the Australian elves. Fairyland will have none but a mortal to reign over her. Come, your Majesty.” And with a dignified bearing the Elfin Knight strode past the slumbering usher, and led the newly-elected Majesty of Elfland out at the door, which opened at their approach. Beyond the school, out on the open play-ground, stood two fine-looking emus, splendidly caparisoned, and ready for a journey; and before young Biffin knew what he was about he and his companion were mounted thereon, and were speeding away across the country as swift as the wind. Small townships, hills and valleys, tracts of gloomy forests, and broad lakes appeared before them, and disappeared behind them again, before the boy could say “Jack Robinson.” Indeed, poor Biffin hadn’t breath to say anything, they proceeded so swiftly. At length they came to a large sandy desert on the confines of which rose a chain of lofty mountains. After crossing the desert these mountains looked so steep and high that further progress appeared at an end, but the Knight went to a cave close by and brought forth a pair of flying horses, which flew upward with them in a moment and landed them far away on the other side in safety—and this was Shadowland of the Elfins. What poet’s brain, teeming with strange wild fancies, could give expression to such a scene of loveliness as Noel the Dunce saw here? What travel-stained worshipper of Nature, traversing the girdle of the globe, ever feasted his eyes on a more glorious prospect? Not at Rome, filled as it is with monuments of man; nor at Athens, where Paul found the tablet inscribed, “To the Unknown God”; or on that Ionian Isle, where the inspired John wrote “The Revelation.” Beautiful and sacred are all three to view, but I have feasted my soul on scenes equally grand and sublime in this new land where the Universal Spirit of “Our Father” seemed to rest, and attract the uplifted eyes and the inmost thoughts of the Soul to the Invisible Presence.

The flying steeds alighted in a ravine shut in by walls of fantastic rocks, peaked and turreted like the gable of some old feudal castle. Here a mounted escort, composed of the potent and mighty of the empire, awaited their coming, and led the King upwards to a grassy platform, shaded by a patch of hoary trees, where a throne built of wild-flowers had been erected for his reception. The site commanded a fine view of the surrounding country, and the elected monarch beheld with satisfaction thousands and thousands of his subjects assembled on the plains below to do him homage, and whose cheers and shouts rang far and wide when he ascended the throne to read the proclamation.

From time to time, for generations past, the Elfin Kings had to read their own proclamations, but when young Biffin received the paper from the hands of the Prime Minister his heart sank within him. His progress at school had been so slow that he was unable to read print fluently. How, then, was he to master the contents of the closely-written parchment in his hand? At that moment he would have given all his toys at home, even to his crop-eared pony, to have been able to read writing; but he couldn’t read or spell, nor make anything better than a pot-hook.

“May it please your Majesty to read the proclamation to the people?” whispered Sir Guy Fawkes Popgun in the King’s ear.

“I—I cannot read,” replied his Majesty, trembling with shame and vexation.

“Cannot read!” repeated the courtiers, looking at each other. “Surely your Majesty is jesting.”

“Indeed, gentlemen, I’m afraid I’m a dunce,” replied Biffin sheepishly.

“A dunce, who cannot read, and yet has the silly presumption to be a King!” shouted the fairy populace in a mocking tone. “Hurrah for King Dunce! Long live King Dunce!”

And such is the uncertainty of popular favour in Elfland, that the vast assembly, who but a moment before had exhibited such hearty tokens of good-will, began to hoot and clamour in derision. They pulled the monarch from his throne, stripped him of his robes of state, and carried him to a rocky peak, where they doffed his crown and replaced it with a wreath of straw; while their shouts—“Long live King Dunce! Hurrah for King Dunce!”—once more rent the air.

In all his troubles at home, and his canings and disappointments with his lessons at school, our hero never felt so humbled and crestfallen in his life before. He would have given anything to be enabled to read and write well. And this wish would have been easily gratified, had he but paid a little attention to his books while at the Academy; but he hadn’t done so, and the result was his downfall from the proud position he had so long coveted.

What availed his regrets now, when he was led away a prisoner, and placed in a dark cave, guarded by seven monsters, whose bodies were covered with long feathers, and who had heads like monkeys? It availed nothing that they set him hard lessons day and night, beat him with rods, until he was bruised all over, and suffered such pain that he made his escape from the cave. But the monsters were after him across the country, over hill and dale, until he came to the top of the high mountain which overlooked the desert, and the monsters being close behind, there was nothing left for him in his last extremity but to leap for his life and liberty.

And Noel Biffin did leap; but instead of being dashed to pieces, the Dunce came down from his perch on the stool to the floor of the schoolroom, the noise of which roused the usher from his nap, who gave the stupid boy a dose of cane pie and sent him home.

“I DON’T KNOW.”

Our little hero lived in a very pretty cottage on the hills. He was fond of reading, and his parents, who could well afford it, indulged the boy to his heart’s content with interesting books.

By his schoolmates this lad was known by the nickname of “Careless Harry,” because he was so untidy and negligent in his habits. Out of all the expensive books that had been purchased for him there wasn’t one that had a decent cover. Indeed, some of them had their backs completely broken with ill-usage, while others hadn’t a back at all. Besides being careless and forgetful the boy had still another fault. If his mother asked him a question, the answer was sure to be, “I don’t know.”

“Where’s your hat, Harry?”

“I don’t know.”

“What have you done with your ball?”

“I don’t know.”

“Child, however did you tear your clothing in that frightful manner?”

“I am sure I don’t know.”

His room was littered with his books, toys, and playthings. There stood the rocking-horse with his tail pulled out. Here, flat on its back, lay his sister’s big doll, its poor face dreadfully disfigured by Harry’s mischievous fingers. His mother was very much displeased with him, and had sent him to bed, promising to take severe measures with him if she ever heard “I don’t know” from his lips again.

Harry was very frightened. He did not wish to vex his mother, or to act unkindly towards his sister, and so, resolving to be more careful in the future, he covered his head over with the bedclothes and fell fast asleep.

But Harry’s carelessness had raised the ire of others besides his mother and sister, and they were determined to punish him.

It is all very well to treat books, dolls, drums, rocking-horses, and other playthings as if they had no life in them, but careless boys may do that once too often. So it appeared in this case. Harry was no sooner asleep than these ill-fated creatures held a great discussion with reference to his cruelty.

“I’ll not stand this any longer,” cried Robinson Crusoe, stepping from the boy’s bookshelf. “I’m getting an old man, and I won’t be insulted by having my only covering torn from my back by this young rogue. There he is covered up quite snug, while I am standing here shivering in my shirt.”

“And I,” responded little Red Riding Hood, “would gladly see him punished. He has thrown so much soapy water over me I feel as if I’d been shipwrecked in the washing-tub.”

“And I,” echoed the Drum, “owe him a grudge, not so much for the hard thumps he has bestowed on my person, as for his disgraceful treatment of yonder fair lady, whose dear nose he has completely put out of joint. That lady doll is my relation. We were born in the same place, were sent out in the same ship to Australia, and have occupied the same shop, until purchased and brought here to be cuffed and ill-treated by this boy. Gentlemen, I mean to avenge the lady.”

Now the ice was broken, accusations came so fast and thick against the unlucky culprit that it was quite impossible to make them all out. Fishing rods, minus line or hook, bats without handles, balls and tops, which danced like mad around the bed—the hubbub became so great the wonder is the whole house was not roused by his accusers.

The noise, however, woke Harry, who sat bolt upright in bed, and gazed with a bewildered stare at the queer crowd surrounding him. He was too much alarmed to speak, but one glance showed him Robinson Crusoe, clad in nothing but his fly-leaves, standing at his bedside, with many others, who in the dim light he could not recognise.

“Place him on my back, friends, and I’ll gallop away to—‘I don’t know,’” cried out the tailless Rocking-horse in a terrible voice; and the words were no sooner uttered than poor Harry was quickly blindfolded, dragged from his bed, and placed astride the horse, who instantly galloped out into the cold night with him.

The pace at which the steed travelled was a caution. Harry had once accompanied his father to Gawler by rail, but the speed of the train was like travelling on a bullock dray in comparison to the flying pace of that beast without a tail. How he held on to its back is a positive wonder. All he saw was the clear starlit sky above his head, rocking and rolling about like the waves at the Semaphore on a windy day. His poor feet ached with the cold, for his only covering was his night-gown, and his legs felt as though they didn’t belong to him. At length, just as he was beginning to feel faint and giddy from exhaustion, the Rocking-horse stopped, and the bandage was removed from his eyes. Ah! what a sight he beheld. There was the Drum he had broken strutting about on legs like a human being, who came up to Harry with a haughty swagger, and said, “Boy, why did you break my head?”

And then a Hoop came, and demanded, “why he was thrown aside in the lumber-room?” and a black Jack-in-the-box, whose scanty locks had been wantonly torn from his scalp, came and reviled him; and, lastly, his late victim, the poor doll, made its appearance in a winding sheet, and began to reproach him for his cruelty.

The unfortunate boy seated himself on the ground and burst into tears, but the more he wept the more his tormentors jeered at him; and really the Drum and Robinson Crusoe seemed to incite the others to insult him; therefore was our poor Harry very miserable indeed. Growing tired of playing with him, or afraid of the cold wind, perhaps, his strange companions at last took their departure, and Harry was left alone.

Such companionship had been bad enough, but solitude was worse. He started up, and shouted with all his might, “Is there anybody about?” “I don’t know,” sighed the wind. “Which is the way home?” shouted Harry. “I don’t know,” chuckled the laughing jackass. “Where’s my mother?” screamed the boy. “I don’t know,” exclaimed a ’possum and a kangaroo together. Too frightened to speak any more, Harry groped his way along in the darkness. As day dawned he came to a very high hill, and here he saw his tormentors having some rare fun. The Doll had mounted the Rocking-horse, which was galloping round and round as they do in a circus. While the Drum beat time, old Robinson Crusoe was waltzing with the Lady of the Lake; and Jack the Giant-killer played leap-frog with Mother Hubbard, Red Riding Hood and Little Jack Horner. Their merriment grew more fast and furious every moment, but the instant they espied our hero it ceased, and a deep silence fell upon them all.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” cried a Pop-gun, breaking the silence, “you are aware we have refrained from doing injury to this cruel boy, through the mediation of the ‘Old Woman who lived in a Shoe.’ We left him in peace to make his way home, and instead of doing so he has wantonly broken in upon our secret revelry, and so has forfeited all claim to our clemency. What shall we do with him?”

“Pitch him headlong from the cliff,” replied the Drum in a deep voice.

“It shall be done,” responded a chorus of voices.

Poor Harry, who had not spoken hitherto, now found his voice. “No, no! Spare me, good gentlemen; spare me!” he cried.

They only mocked him for his pains. “Hearken to him pleading for mercy! Careless Harry! cruel Harry!” and amidst much noise and confusion the young mortal was carried to the apex of the steep, tall cliff, and pushed over into the yawning gulf below.

Poor Harry, half mad with terror, uttered a series of piercing shrieks as he felt himself falling—falling through the air—and called aloud for his mother to help him. Conceive his joy when he found himself in her arms, and heard her well-known voice reassuring him.

“You are safe, my boy, quite safe. What has frightened you?”

“Oh, mother! I have been taken away in the night.”

“Taken away! Where?”

“To—to—‘I don’t know.’”

The mother smiled to herself as she left the room, and “Careless Harry” went out to see if the rocking-horse and the others had returned home.

THE BANK CAT.

Because “Tent-Peg” on the Bogan isn’t on the map of Australia, it must not be inferred that the little township does not exist. Indeed, any old colonist who knows his way about will tell you that the place is in the sister colony, and consists of one public-house, a blacksmith’s shop, a store, a church (about the shape and size of a haystack), and a small branch bank.

The latter building presented nothing of the polish and artistic finish, or the magnificence of many of our metropolitan banks, but it was one of the most snug and cosy institutions in the whole country, within its walls. No doubt Toney Buck, the messenger, was of the same opinion, as he sat dozing before a warm coal fire, this severe winter night, with no other company than a large black cat, of the male gender, for his companion.

Toney Buck was an orphan, aged twelve years, or thereabouts, and acted in the dual rôle of servant to the manager and messenger to the bank. The boy slept on the premises, and the manager having gone to visit a neighbouring squatter, his servant had been ordered to sit up until he returned. There Toney sat in the manager’s armchair, bowing and nodding to the fire, as if it had been some great fetish to whom he was paying homage. Toney was a very practical lad. Nothing fanciful or dreamy ever bothered Toney. Had the boy been otherwise, I’m afraid he wouldn’t have had anything to do with the bank, because his employers were anything but poets or visionaries, as some of my borrowing friends can testify. However, be this as it may, every time our hero opened his heavy eyelids after each jerk forward, he encountered the round, black, winking orbs of Tabby fixed full upon his face, with a strange expression stamped thereon. Indeed, more than once Toney felt certain that the cat actually laughed at him, and when discovered in the act, instantly attempted to compose its features and wink at the fire in a knowing way. It is not a very easy task for a sleepy boy, who feels as if his eyelids were freighted with four-pound weights, to rouse himself and his waking faculties all in a moment, but Toney managed to sit bolt upright after a time and to stare at his companion. Toney fancied he could stare. So he could without a doubt; but the cat could and did stare harder than Toney. Its eyes never moved, in their fixed look, from his face, yet he could see their colour change from black to pale sea-green, and from green to grey, and then turn flaming red as the fire. Toney feeling uncomfortable, removed his chair farther back, muttering, “Oh, bother the cat!”

“Whirr. You’re another,” replied a voice instantly.

The messenger was in the act of sitting down again, but he gave a jump as if a snake had bitten him. He looked first at Tabby, and then at the fire bewildered, and said, “Who spoke?”

“I did,” replied the cat.

“Good gracious! Are you sure now?” inquired Toney, with the scales—or the weights, rather—fallen from his eyeballs.

“I did say ‘You’re another’; and so you are. If you bother me I’ll bother you!” replied Tabby, whisking his long tail.

“Oh, my! I never knew cats could talk, although I’ve heard their voices sometimes, of a night, to some tune.”

“None of your sneers, Toney,” interrupted Tabby quickly. “There are more wonderful things in Australia than a talking cat, and some noises to which our midnight concerts are as sweet music in comparison. Listen to me. The bank will be robbed this very night. There!”

“Talking cat—the bank robbed. I—I hope I’m awake,” cried Toney, tugging at his unkempt hair in astonishment.

“I hope you are, for there are those coming who will soon arouse you,” replied the cat, jumping on the back of a chair, and erecting his back in the form of a rainbow. “Hark! that noise is worse than our caterwauling. Hear them forcing in the door of the front office.”

As the cat spoke there came upon their ears first a low grating noise, then followed a sound as if the heavy door of the bank had been wrenched off its hinges. “Lord help us! It’s the bushrangers, and master’s away. Oh! what shall I do?” and the poor boy began to cry bitterly.

“Stop crying. Wait and see!” Tabby hadn’t time to say more, ere three men, with masks upon their faces, and armed with revolvers, rushed into the room.

“Hallo! only a boy here. Where’s the manager?” inquired one of the robbers, grasping Toney.

“He isn’t here, sir.”

“Come, none o’ that,” cried the man gruffly. “Tell us where he is, or I’ll shove you a-top of that fire.”

Toney looked at the fire, and then at the bushranger, and began to cry afresh.

“Where’s the manager?”

“Gone to Mr. Hilton’s, the station on the river.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, as certain as that you will be hanged.”

The man let go his hold of Toney instantly, and stared first at the cat and then at the messenger, as if he was puzzled as to which had answered him. He appeared to decide in favour of the boy, for he said hoarsely, “No cheek, my fine kiddie, or I’ll roast you like a chicken. Bring the keys of the safe, quick.”

“Master has them in his pocket, sir.”

The robber swore a frightful oath, then held converse with his companions in an undertone. After which they produced a cord, and having tied the lad hand and foot, left him in the room with the cat, locked the door on the outside, and proceeded to ransack the bank.

Poor Toney! What could he do against three armed men? The manager, his master, had been very good to him. He was father and mother and brother and sister all in one. What would he say when he returned and found the place robbed—the money gone? Hadn’t he entrusted all the gold, and notes, and papers—worth thousands and thousands of pounds—into his (Toney’s) custody, and here were villains breaking open these sacred coffers with hammer and crowbar in ruthless plunder! In his trouble, he almost wished the bushrangers would come in and roast him as they had promised to do. Even that would be preferable to facing his kind master.

“Toney. Hi, Toney!” The boy jumped. He had forgotten all about the cat.

“You were always kind to me, Toney, and I’m going to help you now.”

“How can a cat help anybody?” replied poor Toney.

“Ah! but I wasn’t always a cat, Toney.”

“Oh, bother; I suppose you mean when you were a little kitten,” muttered the boy.

“No, I don’t, Toney Buck. I never was a kitten. I mean when I was a happy fairy in Elfland, before I was changed into a cat for being cruel and selfish.”

“Snooks!” answered Toney sceptically.

“Who?”

“Snooks! It won’t do, you know. There ain’t no fairies, nor moonland, and such nonsense.”

“Supposing my shape were to change again, here under your very nose; would you believe what you saw?”

“Rather! but you can’t do it, puss.”

“Can’t I? You shall see,” replied Tabby. “Say: ‘Sevle naila rtsua’ very slowly. Now!”

“‘Sevle naila rtsua,’” cried the boy in a brisk tone; but he had no sooner uttered the words than the black cat vanished into thin air, and in its place he beheld a wee, thin, elderly gentleman dressed in hunting costume, seated astride the back of the chair, who bowed very politely and lifted his hat to the astonished messenger.

“Well I never!” cried Toney. “Who are you, pray?”

“‘Sevle naila rtsua!’” replied the little man, laughing.

“What is ‘Sevle naila rtsua’?” demanded the boy.

“Read the letters backwards and join the first two syllables together.”

“Ah! A-u-s-t-r-a-l-i-a-n—E-l-v-e-s—Australian Elves, eh?”

“That’s it, Toney; I’m proud to be one of them, my boy. Now I’ll show you how a cat can help you out of this scrape,” answered the wee man, with a smile only to be seen on the face of a fairy. “I’m going out at that broken pane in the window there, straight to Dick Holmes’ stable, take out the steeplechaser ‘Nightwind,’ ride as fast as he can go to the junction, return with half-a-dozen troopers by a short cut, and secure these ruffians red-handed with their booty.

“Hurrah!” cried Toney in his enthusiasm.

“Hush, boy. Not so loud,” said the elfin; “they may hear you. I must away on my errand quickly; yet mind, Toney, if you don’t see the bank cat here again, I’m always to be found on the banks of the Bogan. Keep good heart. Good-bye.”

With a hop, skip, and a jump the wee man was through the broken pane and astride the horse “Nightwind” before the boy could realise that he was alone.

Meanwhile the strong-room of the bank resounded with the heavy blows dealt by the robbers upon the solid doors of the iron safe, which for a long time withstood their utmost attempts to break it open. Poor Toney sat in fear and trembling, and counted the minutes as they fled by, listening to the noises without, and wondering if the little elfin man would really do what he promised. It seemed hardly possible that he could sit a horse at all, much less guide the crack steeplechaser “Nightwind” across country on a dark night. Nevertheless, the confident tone of the fairy before he jumped out at the window reassured him, and hope began to gather in Toney the messenger.

Alas! that hope was dispelled the next moment by a loud shout from the bushrangers, which proclaimed that the safe had yielded. Had the robbers been less intent upon the bags of gold and silver which met their gaze, it is probable they would have seen the half-dozen police-troopers who entered, carbine in hand, and surrounded them. When the ruffians did see them, however, it was too late to resist, and they were taken away out into the darkened night, some of them never to see the light of the sun again as free men.

At the trial of the bushrangers the police couldn’t swear who gave the information about the bank, and I believe it remains a mystery to this day.

GUMTREE HOLLOW.

Like “Ben Bolt’s” mill, Allan’s farm, situated by the River Torrens, had gone to decay and ruin. It was a flourishing place before the death of Peter Allan, but the farmer had been taken away, and his widow and her three children had to fight out the battle of life unaided. The property had been heavily mortgaged three years previously, and, what with unfavourable seasons and other misfortunes, the widow Allan had not been able to repay principal or interest of the money borrowed, and the creditors therefore gave the farmer’s wife notice to quit.

Fortunately, Mrs. Allan had a brother who had gone to some diggings in New South Wales, and had left in charge of his sister an old hut and a patch of land known as Gumtree Hollow. In the emergency the widow determined to occupy the place until she could find a more suitable home. The Hollow consisted of about two acres of crags and stones, without sufficient soil to grow a potato in, and was distant from the farm about five miles.

On a warm afternoon, three days after the widow had received notice to leave the homestead, little Charlie Allan, the eldest boy, aged twelve, started to the hut at Gumtree Hollow with his mother’s goods and chattels in the spring-cart. It had been arranged that after delivering his load the lad should return for his parent and his brother and sister. Charlie was intelligent and very kind-hearted. He had noticed his mother crying bitterly, and he had followed her into a back room where his father had died, and there putting his little arms about her neck he had tried to soothe her with many assurances that when he became a man he would work for her and buy the place back again.

Old Bob, the pony, didn’t like the road to the hut, but repeatedly turned to retrace his steps every half-mile or so of the journey. Nevertheless, Charlie managed to get him there at last.

In a ravine between a natural cutting of jagged crags stood the old building, overshadowed by a gigantic tree whose wide-open trunk, hollow as a bell, had often afforded shelter to straggling picnic parties. It was a grand, old, hoary gum, knobbed and gnarled with age, and whose spreading branches formed a canopy over the dilapidated hut. One long, fork-like branch projected farther over than the rest, on the extreme end of which something perched, swaying the bough to and fro with an easy motion. Charlie, thinking it was a parrot, took up a stone for a shot; but he dropped the stone again instantly, as a voice from the tree uttered a shrill peal of laughter.

The poor lad’s first thought was to take to his heels and run for it; but the voice called out in a kindly tone, “Hallo! Charlie ’avic, how are ye, Charlie Allan?”

The boy gazed upward in amazement, and beheld a wee, teeny, queer fellow, hardly six inches high, sitting astride the branch, and gazing down with a knowing look at him. The creature’s dress was green; from his shapely shoes to his brimless hat, swallow-tailed coat, breeches, stockings, all were the verdant green colour.

“Who are you?” questioned Charlie, recovering from his surprise.

“Shure I’m an Irishman,” cried the little fellow, at the same time springing to the ground. “A rale paddy, an’ I may tell you that there isn’t a fay or a gnome in South Australia that I can’t leap or swim wid; do’s thee hear that, ’avic?”

He was such a dwarfed miniature of a man, and appeared such an impudent swaggerer—with his chimney-pot hat on one side of his head, and his saucy turned-up nose—that Charlie felt inclined to pick him up and cuff him soundly.

“What is your name?” asked the boy, making a sudden dive at the creature.

“McKombo,” answered the sprite, dodging under Charlie’s legs. “My name is McKombo; but be aisy wid ye now, an’ don’t be after trying to take a mane advantage of me.”

“I’d scorn to do it,” said Charlie, unconsciously clenching his fists. “Who are you; what are you; and what do you want?”

“Be aisy, Charlie. Arrah’, don’t be botherin’ me wid too many questions,” said McKombo. “I’ve tould ye I’m an Irishman. Captain Brophy imported me to the colony in a hat-box twenty years ago.”

“Why, you’re a fairy,” suggested the lad, eyeing his strange companion askance.

“Of course I am,” replied McKombo, “and I may tell you I’ve been waiting all this blessed day to see you.”

“To see me?”

“Thrue for ye, Charlie. I am very well acquainted wid all the bother an’ trouble that’s going on at the farm, an’ I mane to help your mother clane out of it.”

Poor Charlie felt as if he could have hugged McKombo, but the sprite kept his distance and said quietly, “You haven’t such a thing as a spade and a pick among the things in the cart?”

Charlie had, though. Both the pick and the spade he had used many a time at the farm, and he produced them at once; but he looked doubtfully at McKombo as to what he was to do with them or how they could be the means of assisting his mother in her difficulties. It seemed very business-like, however, the way the sprite led Charlie to the hollow trunk of the great gum-tree, and commanded him to dig within a certain circle he at once marked out. The goblin’s promises of certain and speedy benefit gave the boy faith and energy to dig and delve away with might and main until there gaped a large hole within the trunk, which revealed some of the thick roots beneath, also the top of a square tin box, such as lawyers keep their deeds in. The moment McKombo caught sight of the box he began to caper about the sward in antic glee.

“Hurrah!” he cried, tossing up his hat. “There it is, me boy, safe an’ sound, as on the night I saw them murthering scoundrels place it there twenty years ago.”

Poor Charlie stared at the fairy, and wiped the perspiration from his heated face, but he could not comprehend what his companion meant. Acting under McKombo’s directions, young Allan made a lever and got the box out of its bed. It did not appear large, but it was very heavy—so heavy that the boy could hardly lift it; the thick coating of paint on it had preserved it from rusting and decay, and it was fastened with an iron padlock. With one blow of his spade Charlie broke open the lid, when—lo! he saw a heap of dark yellow sovereigns and several parcels of bank-notes within. The sight made him faint and giddy with surprise and delight, so that he could not utter a word.

“Look there, now. See that,” ejaculated the sprite, pointing to the treasure. “One evening, twenty years ago, three men brought that box here and hid it beneath the trunk of this old gum-tree; they went away, but never returned for it. In time a poor woodcutter built his hut beneath the great tree, and I watched him come and go to his daily toil, until he could toil no more and they carried him forth and buried him on the river-bank. Then came your Uncle George, my boy, who purchased the place for ten pounds; but had he known of the riches under his very nose, I’ll go bail he wouldn’t have gone away to dig for gold.”

“Why didn’t you tell Uncle George about this money?” asked Charlie.

“Bekase he would have spent it recklessly, honey, that’s why. Money ill-spent or misapplied is a great evil. Put the box on the cart wid the things, and return to your mother. Off wid ye, boy, at onst.”

“Won’t you come with me?” pleaded Charlie.

“I can’t, ’avic, I’m going to a christening at McFadden’s in the Glen. Away ye go. Good-bye.” Saying which, McKombo vanished from his sight.

Widow Allan was very much astonished when Charlie returned and told his story, but her surprise was still greater when she saw the box of hard cash. She counted the money, which amounted to over three thousand pounds sterling; after which she fastened the box again, and wrote a letter to the manager of a certain bank in Sydney, and to which most of the notes belonged.

In due course the bank sent a representative to Allan’s farm, who informed the widow that the bank had been robbed of over three thousand pounds one night in June twenty years ago, and which had never been recovered. The bank agent departed with the money, but he left the poor but honest widow a cheque for £500—a sum which not only paid off the liability upon her farm, but enabled her to put something by for a rainy day and for Charlie when he came of age.

WHISKERKISS.