Chapter VIII: Part 8

Then the gulls come circling about the scene, and the ducks that live at the fishermen's houses come waddling down to see about any little fishes that may be thrown away upon the sand; and men with tarpaulin coats and flannel shirts sit on old anchors and lean up against the boats, smoking short pipes while they talk about cod, and mackerel, and mainsails and booms; and, best of all, the delightful sea-breeze comes sweeping in, browning our cheeks, reddening our blood, and giving us such a splendid appetite that even the fishermen themselves could not throw us very far into the shade, at meal-times.

As for bathing in the sea, plunging into the surf, with the waves breaking over your head and the water dashing and sparkling all about you, I need not say much about that. I might as well try to describe the pleasure of eating a saucer of strawberries-and-cream, and you know I could not do it.

There are nations who never see the ocean, nor have anything to do with it. They have not even a name for it.

They are to be pitied for many things, but for nothing more than this.

THE SICK PIKE.

There is no reason why a pike should not be sick. Everything that has life is subject to illness, but it is very seldom that any fish has the good sense and the good fortune of the pike that I am going to tell you about.

This pike was a good-sized fellow, weighing about six pounds, and he belonged to the Earl of Stamford, who lived near Durham, England. His story was read by Dr. Warwick to the Literary and Philosophical Society of Liverpool. I am particular about these authorities because this story is a little out of the common run.

Dr. Warwick was walking by a lake, in the Earl's park, and the pike was lying in the water near the shore, probably asleep. At any rate, when it saw the doctor it made a sudden dart into deep water and dashed its head against a sunken post. This accident seemed to give the fish great pain, for it pitched and tossed about in the lake, and finally rushed up to the surface and threw itself right out of the water on to the bank.

The doctor now stooped to examine it, and to his surprise the fish remained perfectly quiet in his hands. He found that the skull was fractured and one eye was injured by the violence with which the fish had struck the post. With a silver tooth-pick (he had not his instruments with him) the doctor arranged the broken portion of the pike's skull, and when the operation was completed he placed the fish in the water. For a minute or two the Pike seemed satisfied, but then it jumped out of the water on to the bank again. The doctor put the fish back, but it jumped out again, and repeated this performance several times. It seemed to know (and how, I am sure I have not the least idea) that that man was a doctor, and it did not intend to leave him until it had been properly treated--just as if it was one of his best patients.

The doctor began to see that something more was expected of him, and so he called a game-keeper to him, and with his assistance he put a bandage around the pike's head.

When this surgical operation had been completed the pike was put back into the water, and this time it appeared perfectly satisfied, and swam away.

The next day, as Dr. Warwick was sitting by the lake, the pike, with, the bandage around its head, swam up and stuck its head out of the water, near the doctor's feet. The good physician took up the fish, examined the wound, and finding that it was getting on very well, replaced the bandage and put Mr. Pike into the lake again.

This was a very grateful pike. After the excellent surgical treatment it received from Dr. Warwick, it became very fond of him, and whenever he walked by the side of the lake it would swim along by him, and although it was quite shy and gloomy when other people came to the waterside, it was always glad to see the doctor, and would come when he whistled, and eat out of his hand.

I suppose in the whole ocean, and in all the rivers and lakes of the world, there are not more than two or three fish as sensible and grateful as this pike. In fact, it was very well for Dr. Warwick that there were no more such on the Earl of Stamford's estate. A large practice in the lake must soon have made a poor man of him, for I do not suppose that even that sensible pike would have paid a doctor's bill, if it had been presented to him.

TWO KINDS OF BLOSSOMS.

When the winter has entirely gone, and there is not the slightest vestige left of snow or ice; when the grass is beginning to be beautifully green, and the crocuses and jonquils are thrusting their pretty heads up out of the ground; when the sun is getting to be quite warm and the breezes very pleasant, then is the time for blossoms.

Then it is especially the time for apple-blossoms. Not that the peach and the pear and the cherry trees do not fill their branches with pink and white flowers, and make as lovely a spring opening as any apple-trees in the land. Oh no! It is only because there are so many apple-trees and so many apple-orchards, that the peaches and pears are a little overlooked in blossom-time.

A sweet place is the apple-orchard, when the grass is green, the trees are full of flowers, the air full of fragrance, and when every breeze brings down the most beautiful showers of flowery snow.

And how beautiful and delicate is every individual flower! We are so accustomed to looking at blossoms in the mass--at treesful and whole orchardsful--that we are not apt to think that those great heaps of pink and loveliness are composed of little flowers, each one perfect in itself.

And not only is each blossom formed of the most beautiful white petals, shaded with pink; not only does each one of them possess a most pleasant and delicate perfume, but every one of these little flowers--every one which comes to perfection, I mean--is but the precursor of an apple. This one may be a Golden Pippin; that one which looks just like it may be the forerunner of a Belle-flower; while the little green speck at the bottom of this one may turn into a Russet, with his sober coat.

The birds that are flying among the branches do not think much about the apples that are to come, I reckon, and neither do the early butterflies that flutter about, looking very much like falling blossoms themselves. And, for that matter, we ourselves need not think too much about the coming apple crop. We ought sometimes to think of and enjoy beauty for its own sake, without reference to what it may do in the future for our pockets and our stomachs.

There are other kinds of blossoms than apple-blossoms, or those of any tree whatever. There are little flowers which bloom as well or better in winter than in summer, and which are not, in fact, flowers at all.

These are ice-blossoms.

Perhaps you have never seen any of them, and I think it is very likely, for they can only be formed and perceived by the means of suitable instruments. And so here is a picture of some ice-blossoms.

These curious formations, some of which appear like stars, others like very simple blossoms, while others are very complex; and some of which take the form of fern-leaves, are caused to appear in the centre of a block of ice by means of concentrated rays of lights which are directed through the ice by means of mirrors and lenses. Sometimes they are observed by means of a magnifying-glass, and in other experiments their images are thrown upon a white screen.

We may consider these ice-flowers as very beautiful and very wonderful, but they are not a whit more so than our little blossoms of the apple-orchard.

The latter are more common, and have to produce apples, while the ice-flowers are uncommon, and of no possible use.

That is the difference between them.

ABOUT GLASS.

Glass is so common and so cheap that we never think of being grateful for it. But if we had lived a few centuries ago, when the richest people had only wooden shutters to their windows, which, of course, had to be closed whenever it was cold or stormy, making the house as dark as night, and had then been placed in a house lighted by glass windows, we would scarcely have found words to express our thankfulness. It would have been like taking a man out of a dreary prison and setting him in the bright world of God's blessed sunshine. After a time men made small windows of stones that were partly transparent; and then they used skins prepared something like parchment, and finally they used sashes similar to ours, but in them they put oiled paper. And when at last glass came into use, it was so costly that very few were able to buy it, and they had it taken out of the windows and stored carefully away when they went on a journey, as people now store away pictures and silver-plate.

Now, when a boy wants a clear, white glass vial for any purpose, he can buy it for five cents; and for a few pennies a little girl can buy a large box of colored beads that will make her a necklace to go several times around her neck, and bracelets besides. These her elder sister regards with contempt; but there was a time when queens were proud to wear such. The oldest article of glass manufacture in existence is a bead. It has an inscription on it, but the writing, instead of being in letters, is in tiny little pictures.

Here you see the bead, and the funny little pictures on it. The pictures mean this: "The good Queen Ramaka, the loved of Athor, protectress of Thebes." This Queen Ramaka was the wife of a king who reigned in Thebes more than three thousand years ago, which is certainly a very long time for a little glass bead to remain unbroken! The great city of Thebes, where it was made, has been in ruins for hundreds of years. No doubt this bead was part of a necklace that Queen Ramaka wore, and esteemed as highly as ladies now value their rubies. It was found in the ruins of Thebes by an Englishman.

It may be thought that this bead contradicts what has been said about there being a time when glass was unknown, and that time only a few centuries ago. But it is a singular fact that a nation will perfectly understand some art or manufacture that seems absolutely necessary to men's comfort and convenience, and yet this art in time will be completely lost, and things that were in common use will pass as completely out of existence as if they had never been, until, in after ages, some of them will be found among the ruins of cities and in old tombs. In this way we have found out that ancient nations knew how to make a great many things that enabled them to live as comfortably and luxuriously as we do now. But these things seem to have perished with the nations who used them, and for centuries people lived comfortlessly without them, until, in comparatively modern times, they have all been revived.

Glass-making is one of these arts. It was known in the early ages of the world's history. There are pictures that were painted on tombs two thousand years before Christ's birth which represent men blowing glass, pretty much as it is done now, while others are taking pots of it out of the furnaces in a melted state. But in those days it was probably costly, and not in common use; but the rich had glass until the first century after Christ, when it disappeared, and the art of making it was lost.

The city of Venice was founded in the fifth century, and here we find that glass-making had been revived. You will see by this picture of a Venetian bottle how well they succeeded in the manufacture of glass articles.

Venice soon became celebrated for this manufacture, and was for a long time the only place where glass was made. The manufacturers took great pains to keep their art a secret from other nations, and so did the government, because they were all growing rich from the money it brought into the city.

In almost any part of the world to which you may chance to go you will find Silica. You may not know it by that name, but it is that shining, flinty substance you see in sand and rock-crystal. It is found in a very great number of things besides these two, but these are the most common.

Lime is also found everywhere--in earth, in stones, in vegetables and bones, and hundreds of other substances.

Soda is a common article, and is very easily produced by artificial means. Potash, which has the same properties as soda, exists in all ashes.

Now silica, and lime, and soda, or potash, when melted together, form glass. So you see that the materials for making this substance which adds so much to our comfort and pleasure are freely given to all countries. And after Venice had set the example, other nations turned their attention to the study of glass-making, and soon found out this fact, in spite of the secrecy of the Venetians. After a time the Germans began to manufacture glass; and then the Bohemians. The latter invented engraving on glass, which art had also been known to the ancients, and then been lost. They also learned to color glass so brilliantly that Bohemian glass became more fashionable than Venetian, and has been highly thought of down to the present day.

On the next page we see an immense drinking-glass of German manufacture, but this one was made many years after glass-making was first started there.

This great goblet, which it takes several bottles of wine to fill, was passed around at the end of a feast, and every guest was expected to take a sip out of it. This was a very social way of drinking, but I think on the whole it is just as well that it has gone out of fashion.

The old Egyptians made glass bottles, and so did the early Romans, and used them just as we do for a very great variety of things. Their wine-bottles were of glass, sealed and labelled like ours. We might suppose that, having once had them, people would never be without glass bottles. But history tells a different story. There evidently came a time when glass bottles vanished from the face of the earth; for we read of wooden bottles and those of goat-skin and leather, but there is no mention of glass. And men were satisfied with these clumsy contrivances, because in process of time it had been forgotten that any other were ever made.

Hundreds of years rolled away, and then, behold! glass bottles appeared again. Now there is such a demand for them that one country alone--France--makes sixty thousand tons of bottles every year. To make bottle-glass, oxide of iron and alumina is added to the silica, lime, and soda. It seems scarcely possible that these few common substances melted over the fire and blown with the breath can be formed into a material as thin and gossamer, almost, as a spider's web, and made to assume such a graceful shape as this jug.

This is how glass bottles, vases, etc., are made. When the substances mentioned above are melted together properly, a man dips a long, hollow iron tube into a pot filled with the boiling liquid glass, and takes up a little on the end of it. This he passes quickly to another man, who dips it once more, and, having twirled the tube around so as to lengthen the glass ball at the end, gives it to a third man, who places this glass ball in an earthen mould, and blows into the other end of the tube, and soon the shapeless mass of glass becomes a bottle. But it is not quite finished, for the bottom has to be completed, and the neck to have the glass band put around it. The bottom is finished by pressing it with a cone-shaped instrument as soon as it comes out of the mould. A thick glass thread is wound around the neck. And, if a name is to be put on, fresh glass is added to the side, and stamped with a seal.

This is also the process of making the beautiful jug just mentioned, except that three workmen are engaged at the same time on the three parts--one blows the vase itself, another the foot, and the third the handle. They are then fastened together, and the top cut into the desired shape with shears, for glass can be easily cut when in a soft state.

You see how clearly and brightly, and yet with what softness, the windows of the room are reflected in that exquisite jug It was made only a few years ago.

I will now show you an old Venetian goblet, but you will have to handle it very carefully, or you will certainly break off one of the delicate leaves, or snap the stem of that curious flower.

Such glasses as these were certainly never intended for use. They were probably put upon the table as ornaments. The bowl is a white glass cup, with wavy lines of light blue. The spiral stem is red and white, and has projecting from it five leaves of yellow glass, separated in the middle by another leaf of a deep blue color. The large flower has six pale-blue petals.

And now we will look at some goblets intended for use. They are of modern manufacture, and are plain and simple, but have a beauty of their own. The right-hand one is of a very graceful shape, and the one in the middle is odd-looking, and ingeniously made with rollers, and all of them have a transparent clearness, and are almost as thin as the fragile soap-bubbles that children blow out of pipe-bowls. They do not look unlike these, and one can easily fancy that, like them, they will melt into air at a touch.

Because the ancients by some means discovered that the union of silica, lime, and soda made a perfectly transparent and hard substance it by no means follows that they knew how to make looking-glasses For this requires something behind the glass to throw back the image. But vanity is not of modern invention, and people having from the beginning of time had a desire to look at themselves, they were not slow in providing the means.

The first mirrors used were of polished metal, and for ages nobody knew of anything better. But there came a time when the idea entered the mind of man that "glass lined with a sheet of metal will give back the image presented to it," for these are the exact words of a writer who lived four centuries before Christ. And you may be sure that glass-makers took advantage of this suggestion, if they had not already found out the fact for themselves. So we know that the ancients did make glass mirrors. It is matter of history that looking-glasses were made in the first century of the Christian era, but whether quicksilver was poured upon the back, as it is now, or whether some other metal was used, we do not know.

But these mirrors disappeared with the bottles and other glass articles; and metal mirrors again became the fashion. For fourteen hundred years we hear nothing of looking-glasses, and then we find them in Venice, at the time that city had the monopoly of the glass trade. Metal mirrors were soon thrown aside, for the images in them were very imperfect compared with the others.

These Venetian glasses were all small, because at that time sheet glass was blown by the mouth of man, like bottles, vases, etc., and therefore it was impossible to make them large. Two hundred years afterward, a Frenchman discovered a method of making sheet glass by machinery, which is called _founding_, and by this process it can be made of any size.

But even after the comparatively cheap process of founding came into use, looking-glasses were very expensive, and happy was the rich family that possessed one. A French countess sold a farm to buy a mirror! Queens had theirs ornamented in the most costly manner. Here is a picture of one that belonged to a queen of France, the frame of which is entirely composed of precious stones.

I have told you how the Venetians kept glass-making a secret, and how, at last, the Germans learned it, and then the French, and their work came to be better liked than that of the Venetians. But these last still managed to keep the process of making mirrors a profound secret, and the French were determined to get at the mystery. Several young glass-makers went from France to Venice, and applied to all the looking-glass makers of Venice for situations as workmen, that they might learn the art. But all positively refused to receive them, and kept their doors and windows tightly closed while they were at work, that no one might see what they did. The young Frenchmen took advantage of this, and climbed up on the roofs, and cautiously made holes through which they could look; and thus they learned the carefully-kept secret, and went back to France and commenced the manufacture of glass mirrors. Twenty years after, a Frenchman invented founding glass, which gave France such a great advantage that the trade of Venice in looking-glasses was ruined.

You would be very much interested in watching this process of founding glass. This is the way it is done. As soon as the glass is melted to the proper consistency, the furnaces are opened, and the pots are lifted into the air by machinery, and passed along a beam to an immense table of cast iron. A signal is given, and the brilliant, transparent liquid glass falls out and spreads over the table. At a second signal a roller is passed by machinery over the red-hot glass, and twenty men stand ready with long shovels to push the sheet of glass into an oven, not very hot, where it can slowly cool. When taken out of the oven the glass is thick, and not perfectly smooth, and it has to be rubbed with sand, imbedded in plaster of Paris, smoothed with emery, and polished by rubbing it with a woollen cloth covered with red oxide of iron, all of which is done by machinery.

We know that cut glass is expensive, and the reason is that cutting it is a slow process. Four wheels have to be used in succession, iron, sandstone, wood, and cork. Sand is thrown upon these wheels in such a way that the glass is finely and delicately cut. But this is imitated in pressed glass, which is blown in a mould inside of which the design is cut. This is much cheaper than the cut glass.

A higher art than cutting is engraving on glass, by which the figures are brought out in relief. Distinguished artists are employed to draw the designs, and then skilful engravers follow the lines with their delicate tools. If you will examine carefully the engraving on this Bohemian goblet, you will see what a wonderful piece of workmanship it is.

It seems almost a pity that so much time and labor, skill and genius should be given to a thing so easily broken. And yet we have seen that a good many glass articles have been preserved for centuries. The engraving on the Bohemian goblet is ingenious, and curious, and faithful in detail, but the flowers on this modern French flagon are really more graceful and beautiful.

About four hundred years ago there was found in a marble coffin, in a tomb near Rome, a glass vase which is now famous throughout the world. There is good reason for supposing it to have been made one hundred and thirty-eight years before Christ, consequently it is now about two thousand years old. For many years this was in the Barberini palace in Rome, and was called the Barberini Vase. Then it was bought by the Duchess of Portland, of England, for nine thousand dollars, and since then has been known as the Portland Vase.

She loaned it to the British Museum, and everybody who went to London wanted to see this celebrated vase.

One day a crazy man got into the Museum, and with a smart blow of his cane laid in ruins the glass vase that had survived all the world's great convulsions and changes for two thousand years! This misfortune was supposed to be irreparable, but it has been repaired by an artist so cleverly that it is impossible to tell where it is joined together.

This vase is composed of two layers of glass, one over the other. The lower is of a deep blue color, and the upper an opaque white, so that the figures stand out in white on a deep blue background.

The picture on it represents the marriage of Peleus and Thetis. The woman seated, holding a serpent in her left hand, is Thetis, and the man to whom she is giving her right hand is Peleus. The god in front of Thetis is Neptune, and a Cupid hovers in the air above. On the reverse side are Thetis and Peleus, and a goddess, all seated. At the foot of the vase is a bust of Ganymede, and on each side of this in the picture are copies of the masks on the handles.

Now I have shown you a few of the beautiful things that have been made of glass, but there are very many other uses to which glass is applied that have not even been alluded to. Steam engines, that work like real ones, have been made of glass; palaces have been built of it; great telescopes, by which the wonders of the heavens have been revealed, owe their power to it; and, in fact, it would seem to us, to-day, as if we could as well do without our iron as without our glass.

CARL.

In the middle of a dark and gloomy forest lived Carl and Greta. Their father was a forester, who, when he was well, was accustomed to be away all day with his gun and dogs, leaving the two children with no one but old Nurse Heine; for their mother died when they were very little. Now Carl was twelve years old, and Greta nine. Carl was a fine-looking boy, but Nurse Heine said that he had a melancholy countenance. Greta, however, was a pretty, bright-faced, merry little girl. They were allowed to wander through a certain part of the forest, where their father thought there was no especial danger to fear.

In truth, Carl was not melancholy at all, but was just as happy in his way as Greta was in hers. In the summer, while she was pulling the wood flowers and weaving them into garlands, or playing with her dogs, or chasing squirrels, Carl would be seated on some root or stone with a large sheet of coarse card-board on his knee, on which he drew pictures with a piece of sharpened charcoal. He had sketched, in his rough way, every pretty mass of foliage, and every picturesque rock and waterfall within his range. And in the winter, when the icicles were hanging from the cliffs, and the snow wound white arms around the dark green cypress boughs, Carl still found beautiful pictures everywhere, and Greta plenty of play in building snow-houses and statues. And, moreover, Carl had lately discovered in the brooks some colored stones, which were soft enough to sharpen sufficiently to give a blue tint to his skies, and green to his trees; and thus he made pictures that Nurse Heine said were more wonderful than those in the chapel of the little village of Evergode.

I have said that the forest was dark and gloomy, because it was composed chiefly of pines and cypresses, but it never seemed so to the children. They knew how to read, but had no books that told them of any lands brighter and sunnier than their own. And then, too, beyond the belt of pines in which was their home, there was a long stretch of forest of oaks and beeches, and in this the birds liked to build their nests and sing; and there were such splendid vines, and lovely flowers! And, right through the pine forest, not more than half a mile from their cottage, there was a broad road. It is true, it was a very rough one, and but little used, but it represented the world to Carl and Greta. For it did sometimes happen that loaded wagons would jolt over it, or a rough soldier gallop along, and more rarely still, a gay cavalier would prance by the wondering children.

For there was a war in the land. And when, after a time, the armies came near enough to the forest for the children to hear occasionally the roll of the heavy guns, a strange thing happened.

One evening when they arrived at home, they found in their humble little cottage one of the gay-looking cavaliers they had sometimes seen on the forest road, and with him was a very beautiful lady. Old Nurse Heine was getting the spare room ready by beating up the great feather bed, and laying down on the floor the few strips of carpet they possessed. Their father was talking with the strangers, and he told them that Carl and Greta were his children; but they took no notice of them, for they were completely taken up with each other, for the gentleman, it appeared, was going away, and to leave the lady there. Carl greatly admired this cavalier, and had no doubt he was the noblest-looking man in the world, and studied him so closely that he would have known him among a thousand. Presently the forester led his children out of the cottage, and soon after the cavalier came out, and springing upon his horse, galloped away among the dark pines.

The strange lady was at the cottage several weeks, and the children soon learned to love her dearly. She was fond of rambling about with them, and was seldom to be found within the house when the weather was fair. She never went near the road, but preferred the oak wood, and sometimes when the children were amusing themselves she would sit for hours absorbed in deep thought or singing to herself in a sad and dreamy way.

At other times she would interest herself in the children, and tell them of things in the world outside the forest. She praised Carl's pictures, and showed him how to work in his colors so as to more effectively bring out the perspective, and tried to educate his taste, as far as she could, by describing the pictures of the great masters. She often said afterwards that she could never have lived through those dark days but for the comfort she found in the children.

Carl saw that she was sorrowful, and he understood that her sadness was not because of the plain fare and the way of living at the forester's cottage, which he knew must seem rough indeed to her, but because of some great grief. What this grief was he could not guess, for the children had been told nothing about the beautiful lady, except that her name was Lady Clarice. She never complained, but the boy's wistful eyes would follow her as she moved among the trees, and his heart would swell with pity; and how he would long to do something to prove to her how he loved her!

The forester told Carl that the cavalier was with the army. But he did not come to the cottage, and there was no way for the Lady Clarice to hear from him, and she shuddered at the sound of the great guns. And finally she fell sick. Nurse Heine did what she could for her, but the lady grew worse. She felt that she should die, and it almost broke Carl's heart to hear her moaning: "Oh! if I could but see him once more!" He knew she meant the noble cavalier, but how should he get word to him? The old forester was just then stiff with rheumatism, and could scarcely move from his chair.

"I will go myself!" said Carl to himself one day, "or she will die with grief!"

Without saying a word to anybody about the matter, for fear that he would not be allowed to go, he stole out of the house in the gray of the morning, while all were asleep, and, making his way to the open road, he turned in the direction from whence, at times, had come the sound of the cannon. As long as he was in the part of the road that he knew, he kept up a stout heart, but when he left that he began to grow frightened. The road was so lonely, and strange sounds seemed to come out of the forest that stretched away, so black and thick, on each side! He wondered if any fierce beasts were there, or if robbers were lurking behind the rocks. But he thought of the beautiful lady, his kind friend, sick and dying, and that thought was more powerful than his fear. At noon he rested for awhile, and ate a few dry biscuits he had put in his pockets.

It was near sunset when he saw that the trees stood less closely together, the road looked more travel-worn, and there came with the wind a confused and continuous noise. Then Carl was seized with terror. "I am now near the camp," he thought. "Suppose a battle is going on, and I am struck with a ball. I shall die, and father and little Greta will not know what became of me, and the beautiful lady will never know that I died in her service! Or if I meet a soldier, and he don't believe my story, maybe he'll run a bayonet through me!"

It was not too late then to turn back and flee swiftly up the forest road, and Carl paused.

But in a few moments he went on, animated by the noblest kind of courage--that which feels there is danger, but is determined to face it in the cause of duty, affection, and humanity.

At last he stepped out of the forest, and there, before him, was spread out the vast encampment of the army! There was not time to wonder at the sight before he was challenged by a sentinel. Carl had made up his mind what to say, and that he would not mention the lady. So he promptly replied that he wanted to see a noble lord who had a sick friend at a cottage in the forest.

As the boy could not tell the name or rank of the noble lord, the sentinel sent him to an officer, and to him Carl told the same story, but he described the man of whom he was in search so accurately that the officer sent him at once to the proper person. And Carl found that he was a very great personage indeed, and held a high command in the army. He did not recognize Carl, but as soon as the boy told his errand he became very much agitated.

"I will go at once," he said; "but I cannot leave you here, my brave boy! Can you ride?"

Now Carl knew how to sit on a horse, and how to hold the bridle, for he had ridden the wood-cutters' horses sometimes, so he answered that he thought he could ride. The Duke (for such was his title) ordered some refreshments set before the boy, and then went out to make his arrangements, choosing his gentlest horse for Carl.

In half an hour they were in the forest, speeding like the wind. Carl felt as if he was flying. The horse chose his own gait, and tried to keep up with the one that the Duke was riding; but finally, finding this impossible, he slackened his pace, greatly to Carl's relief. But the Duke was too anxious about his lady to accommodate himself to the slower speed of the boy, and soon swept out of sight around a bend in the road. His cloak and the long feathers of his hat streamed on the night wind for a moment longer. Then they vanished, and Carl was alone.

Carl was somewhat afraid of the horse, for he was not used to such a high-mettled steed; but, on the whole, he was glad he was mounted on it. For if the woods had seemed lonely in the daylight they were ten times more so in the night. And the noises seemed more fearful than before. And Carl thought if any furious beast or robber should dart upon him, he could make the horse carry him swiftly away. As it was he let the horse do as he pleased, and as Carl sat quietly and did not worry him in any way, he pleased to go along very smoothly, and rather slowly, so it was past midnight when they reached home.

Carl found that the Duke had been there a long time; that the lady was overjoyed to see him, and Nurse Heine said she began to grow better from that moment.

The next morning the Duke went away; but before he left he thanked Carl for the great service he had done him, and gave him a piece of gold. But Carl was better pleased when the lady called him into her room, and kissed him, and cried over him, and praised him for a kind, brave boy, and said he had saved her life.

And when she got well Carl noticed that she was brighter and happier than she had been before.

In a short time, however, she went away with the Duke, in a grand coach, with servants and outriders. And Carl and Greta watched them as they were whirled up the forest road, and then walked home through the pines with sad hearts.

Then the forester told his children that the Duke had married this lady secretly, against the king's command, and he had so many bitter and cruel enemies that he was afraid they would do her some evil while he was away in the war. She knew of the forester, because his wife had been a maid of her mother's, so she came to this lonely place for safety. But now the king was pleased, and it was all right.

The winter came and went. The war was over. And then Lady Clarice, whom the children never expected to see again, sent for them, and the forester, and Nurse Heine, to her castle. She provided for them all, and Greta grew up into a pretty and well-bred young lady.

Lady Clarice had not forgotten the brave act of the boy, and also remembered what he liked best in the world. So she had him taught to draw and paint, and in process of time he became a great artist, and all the world knew of his name and fame.

SCHOOL'S OUT!

What a welcome and joyful sound! In the winter, when the days are short, and the sun, near the end of the six school hours, sinks so low that the light in the room grows dim and gray, with what impatience, my dear child, do you wait for this signal! But it is in the long summer days that you find school most tiresome. The air in the room is hot and drowsy, and outside you can see there is a breeze blowing, for the trees are gently tossing their green boughs as if to twit you with having to work out sums in such glorious weather. And there come to your ears the pleasant sounds of the buzzing of insects and twittering of birds, and the brook splashing over the stones. Then the four walls of the school-room look very dreary, and the maps glare at you, and the black-boards frown darkly, and the benches seem very hard, and the ink-bespattered desks appear more grimy than ever.

This was the time when the heart of the Dominie would be touched with pity, and he would say in his bright way: "Now, children, I am going to read you something!"

Instantly the half-closed eyes would open, the drooping heads would be raised, the vacant faces would brighten, and the little cramped legs would be stretched out with a sigh of relief. And then the Dominie would read them something that was not only instructive, but very entertaining. Sometimes, instead of reading to them, he would set them to declaiming or reciting poetry, or they would choose sides and have a spelling match. They would get so interested that they would forget all about the birds and sunshine without. They did not even know that they were learning all this time.

For the Dominie had all sorts of pleasant ways of teaching his scholars. Not but what they had to work hard too, for nobody can accomplish anything worth having without putting a good deal of hard work in it.

You see the Dominie's portrait in the picture. The fringe of hair around his bald head was as white as snow; his black eyes were bright and merry; and he had a kindly face. His name was Morris Harvey, but everybody called him Dominie, and he liked that name best. All the village people respected and loved the old man; and every child in the village school that he taught, from the largest boy, whose legs were so long that he did not know what to do with them, down to Bessie Gay, who could scarcely reach up to the top of a desk, were very fond indeed of him.

But even under the Dominie's kindly rule, "School's out!" was always a welcome sound. What a noise there would be in the school-room for a minute; and then such a grand rush out into the open air! and such merry shouts! The Dominie would look after them with a smile. He wanted them to study, but he was glad that it was natural for them to love to play.

If little Charlie Lane had known this he would not have had such a cry the morning he went to school for the first time. He thought his mother very cruel to make him go, and, I am sorry to say, not only cried before he started, but all the way to the school-house. The Dominie took no notice of this, and Charlie soon found that school was not such a very dreadful place. And there was the nice playtime in the middle of the day. And, when school was out, the Dominie took him on his knee and gave him a big apple, and showed him a book full of bright pictures, and told him a story about every one of them.

You can see the little fellow on the Dominie's lap, looking earnestly at a picture in the book; and the old man is pleased that the child is pleased. The Dominie is sitting in his big chair, and his dinner-bag is hanging on the back of it. On the black-board over his head you see little Charlie's lesson for that day. It is on the right, and consists of the letters A, B, C, which the child has been staring at until he knows them perfectly in any book that is given to him. On the left, is a sum; and somebody has tried to draw an almanac sun on the lower part of the board. Across the top the Dominie has written a copy. You can read it plainly. It was a favorite saying of his; and a very good one too.

Have we not, all of us, a great deal to make us happy? What pleasure is it to you to go about with a cross or melancholy face? Try to think of something pleasant, and call up a smile. Put the ill-natured feelings out of your heart, and then the brightness will come to your face without further trouble. If you have a hard task to do, being cross won't help you along one bit. Go to work at it with a will, and you will be surprised to find how soon it will be done. Then, with a clear conscience and a glad heart, you can sit waiting for the welcome sound, "School's out!"

NEST-BUILDERS.

"Birds in their little nests agree," but they do not at all agree in their manner of building the said nests.

They have all sorts of ideas on this subject. Nearly every species of bird has a nest peculiar to itself, and the variety is astonishing. There are nests like cups, and nests like saucers; nests which are firmly fixed among the solid rocks, and nests which wave about on the ends of slender branches; nests which are perched on the very tops of the tallest trees, and nests which are hidden in the ground. There are great nests, which will hold a bushel or two of eggs, and little bits of things, into which you could scarcely put half a dozen peas.

In mentioning some of these nests, it will be needless for us to say much of those with which we are all familiar. In our rambles together we must try and see as many novelties as possible, for we may not always have the chance of wandering freely into any part of the world to which our fancy may lead us. I remember a little girl who used to come to our house when I was a boy, and who never cared for anything at table that was not something of a novelty to her. When offered potatoes, she would frankly say: "No, thank you; I can get them at home."

So we will not meddle with hens' nests, robins' nests, and all the nests, big and little, that we find about our homes, for they are the "potatoes" of a subject like this, but will try and find some nests that are a little out of the way, and curious.

But we must stop--just one moment--before we leave home, and look at a wren's nest.

The Wren, although a very common little bird with us, does not build a common nest. She makes it round, like a ball, or a woolly orange, with a little hole at one side for a door. Inside, it is just as soft and comfortable as anything can be. Being such a little bird herself, she could not cover and protect her young ones from cold and danger so well as the larger cat-birds and robins, and her nest is contrived so that there will not be much covering to do.

That beautiful bird, the Baltimore Oriole, which may be familiar to some of you, makes its nest somewhat on the plan of the wren, the similarity consisting in the fact that the structure is intended to shelter both parent and young. The oriole, which is a great deal larger than a wren, builds a much larger nest, forming it like a bag, with a hole in one end, and hangs it on the branch of a tree.

It is scarcely possible for any harm to come to the young orioles, when they are lying snugly at the bottom of the deep nest and their mother is sitting on a twig near by, ready to protect them at the hazard of her life.

But, for all the apparent security of this nest, so deep, so warm, so firmly secured to the twigs and branches, the little orioles are not entirely safe. Their mother may protect them from rain and cold; from winged enemies and creeping serpents, but she cannot defend them against the attacks of boys and men. An oriole's nest is such a curious structure, and the birds are known to be of such fine form and gorgeous plumage, that many boys cannot resist the temptation of climbing up after them and, if there are young ones within, of carrying the whole affair away in order to try and "raise" the young birds. Sometimes the nest is put in a cage, where the old bird can come and feed its young, and in other cases the captor undertakes to do the feeding himself. I have seen experiments of this kind tried, but never knew the slightest success to follow them, and the attempt, generally useless, is always cruel.

But we must positively get away from home and look at some nests to which few or none of us are accustomed.

There, for instance, is the nest of the Burrowing-Owl, a native of South America and the regions west of the Rocky Mountains. This little bird, much smaller than our common owls, likes to live in the ground. But not having been provided by nature with digging appendages, he cannot make a hole or burrow for himself, and so he takes up his abode in the underground holes made by the little prairie-dogs for their own homes. It is not at all certain that these owls should be called usurpers or thieves. They may, in some cases, get entire possession of the holes, but very often they live very sociably with the prairie-dogs, and may, for all we know, pay for their lodgings by bringing in grain and seeds, along with the worms and insects which they reserve for their own table. Any one who does not possess a habitation of his own, must occasionally expect to be thrown among strange companions, and this very often happens to the burrowing-owl. Travellers tell us that not only do the prairie-dogs and owls live together in these burrows, but that great rattlesnakes sometimes take up their residence therein--all three families seeming to live together in peace and unity. I think that it is probable, however, that the little dogs and owls are not at all pleased with the company of the snakes. A prairie-dog will not eat an owl, and without the dog is very young indeed, an owl will not eat him; but a great snake would just as soon swallow either of them as not, if he happened to be hungry, which fortunately is not often the case, for a good meal lasts a snake a long time. But the owls and the prairie-dogs have no way of ridding themselves of their unwelcome roommates, and, like human beings, they are obliged to patiently endure the ills they cannot banish. Perhaps, like human beings again, they become so accustomed to these ills that they forget how disagreeable they are.

There is a bird--and it is a Flamingo--which builds a nest which looks to me as if it must be very unpleasant to sit upon. And yet it suits the bird very well. In fact, on any other kind of a nest, the flamingo might not know what to do with its legs.

It would appear as if there had been a waste of material in making such a large high nest, when only two or three moderate-sized eggs are placed in the slight depression at the top; but, when we consider that the flamingo uses this tall affair as a seat, as well as a nest, we can easily understand that flamingoes, like most other birds, understand how to adapt their nests to their own convenience and peculiarities. Sitting astraddle on one of these tall nests, which look something like peach-baskets turned upside down, with her head stuck as far under her wing as she can get it, the flamingo dozes away, during the long sultry hours of day, as comfortably and happily as if she was a little wren snugly curled up inside of its cosey nest. It is not mere situation which makes us happy. Some people enjoy life in cottages, others in palaces, and some birds sit in a pile of hard sticks and think themselves quite as cosey as those which repose upon the softest down.

It is almost impossible to comprehend the different fancies of birds in regard to their nests. For instance, why should any bird want to sail about in its nest? Yet there is one--called the Little Grebe--which builds a water-tight nest, in which she lays her eggs, and, while she is hatching them, she paddles herself around on the water.