Chapter IV (2)

It was a long way home, and sore hearts make more miles. Evie felt as if she really could not have walked a yard further, when at last they found themselves on their own door-step. A head was peeping out from behind the dining-room curtain—it was actually mamma's! What a funny thing for mamma to do! There was a queer feeling in the air as James most promptly opened the door—a sort of repressed excitement and expectancy.

"Mamma," said Evie, in a half-dazed way, "is—has?"

"Yes, yes, darling, it is. He—he's come home," and then not another word, but a fluffy ball, all quivering and dancing, seemed to leap into her arms, and, oh yes, it was her own naughty, repentant little doggie back again at last!

"I'll never, 'never,' NEVER do it again," he said to her—how, I don't know, but she understood, and that is all that matters.

He had been lost for ten days!

He crept up to me just as I wrote the last words. Fancy his finding out it was all about him! I'm afraid he is very conceited.

"Please be sure to say I'll 'never' do it again," he says—dear me, I'm getting nearly as clever as Evangeline about dog language—"I have really had a good lesson this time."

Neigh-bour's Fare.

(FOUNDED ON FACT.)

_BY C. M. YONGE._

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"HE—HE—HE—HEIGH! What are you doing at my hedge?"

"Heigh—high—hoity-toity! The hedge is as much mine as yours!"

"Yours, you scrubby, hairy, low-born thing, that wouldn't know how to eat a mouthful of corn if it was set before you? Ha! Ha!"

"I thank my stars that I'm not so fine and dainty as not to be able to do my work without being pampered upon corn! Heigh! heigh!"

"Work! To creep along with a cart-load of potatoes and cabbages, no faster than old Timothy can crawl. Do you call that work?"

"A pretty deal more work than trotting along with a baby-boy atop of you, or drawing a bit of a basket with a lady in it! I wouldn't be such a useless creature, not I," rushing off with a flourish of heels.

"Stay till you are asked;" and another career, with heels kicked up. For Pearl and Peggy were ponies! Each was turned out for the night into a paddock, and between them there was a low hedge, chiefly of snowberry bushes, but with a strong wire or two running the whole length, to make all secure.

Pearl belonged to the lady at the pretty house just above, with the projecting eaves, and the deep oriel windows, all covered with roses. She had a beautiful cosy stable, only it was so hot in the long days of summer that it was thought better to turn her out in the pleasant dewy field for the night, after her work was done—taking little master out for a ride in the morning, and drawing her mistress in the basket carriage in the afternoon. She was a slender, shining bay pony, with black mane and tail, and a very pretty head—indeed it was said that her great, great, great grandmother was an Arabian, so no wonder she gave herself airs, and she was washed and curry-combed every day by her own groom.

Peggy was rough, dark, and sturdy, with a short neck, a hog mane, and stout legs. Two days in the week she drew the cart to market along the dusty roads. On two others she took kindlings to the same town. On another she fetched clothes for the wash, and received another load of clean ones, and there was always something hard and heavy for her to do on the sixth day. Nobody groomed her; she had no place to sleep in, in all weathers but a shed in the corner of the field; she never got a feed of corn, far less lumps of sugar, and pieces of bread, but she was turned out when her work was over, to pick up her living in that little rough field as best she might, only now and then getting a little bran, or a few carrots.

It was Sunday, so neither had done any work, and they had the more time to look, and teaze each other with snorts and scornful laughter. Presently Peggy's master, hobbling up on his way to Church, held out his hand with a carrot in it, crying, "Coup, coup, old lass," and when she came up, petted her, and played with her forelock while she munched the carrot.

"As if I would stand still for such a dirty old man!" snorted Pearl.

"He's not dirty, you impudence," whinnied back Peggy, "he is groomed for Sunday!"

"Much you know about grooming that rough coat of yours," was the retort of satin-skinned Pearl, while the old man went on his way to Church.

The bells ceased to sound, and all was quiet. Presently a big gipsy-looking man in a fur cap, and a boy with a black shock head of hair looked over the hedge.

"Handsome pony that!" said the man, looking at Pearl.

Pearl liked praise, from whomsoever it came, so she pricked up her ears and whinnied.

"Wouldn't I like to be upon the back of her," said the boy.

"Too smart and spirited for you, my lad," said the man, "but she would fetch a pretty penny. That's the serviceable article! Here!" and he moved to Peggy's untidy old gate, and chirruped, but Peggy was more wary, and kept her distance.

The days were long just then; the sun rose very early, and even before he rose, the lark which had its nest in the corner of Peggy's field had waked, and was singing, singing away, far, far up in the sky.

Just as the first beams were touching the brown breast, a wary whistle, and "coup, coup" sounded in the corner of Peggy's field. She awoke, and turned an ear to listen. The sound came again, and there was the shaking of a sieve. Corn, the greatest delicacy a horse knows, had been very seldom tasted by Peggy, and, strange as the hour was for a breakfast, she was so much enticed as to lose all her suspicions, and trotted up in a moment. Her nose was scarcely among the oats before a halter was over her head, and she found herself being dragged off!

It was all done so quietly that Pearl had heard nothing but the first call, which made her prick up her delicate black ears, and bend up one fore-leg in preparation for rising. No doubt, then she thought, that hard-worked, beggarly old master of Peggy's wanted to set to work at this dreadful time in the morning. She would go to sleep again.

The call was sounding again in her own field. The sieve rattled, but Pearl was too well fed, and corn was too common a thing with her for her to care much about that. She thought it dangerous, and stood up, with her nostrils spread, and her eyes full of alarm. The man advanced upon her; she cantered away to the further end of her field. Then the boy ran after her, while, thoroughly alarmed, she galloped wildly about, neighing as loud as she could to call for help. Alas! nobody was up, nothing answered her but poor Peggy's frightened neighs! and though she led the man, the boy, and a girl, who now appeared, a pretty dance, at last she was penned up in a corner, and the great, hard, dirty hand had got hold of her mane, pulling it hard and spitefully, and abusing her fiercely for all the trouble she had given.

She tried to kick, but he held her fast, and a whip came down stinging on her satin sides whenever she struggled. Presently she found herself and Peggy tied side by side, by their halters, at the back of a very dirty old gipsy cart, with a tilt over it, ten times worse than the one that Peggy was used to draw, and filled with straw and ragged little children, whose shouts of glee were shocking to the ponies. They were, however, silenced at once by rough words from the father and mother. A poor lean horse was in the shafts, and the boy, running beside him, pulled his bridle, and gave him two or three blows, so that he moved on, dragging behind Pearl and Peggy—past the dear, beautiful stable where Pearl had her own comfortable stall, near the two fine tall carriage-horses, past the thatched cottage where old Timothy lived, past the neat garden where abode Pearl's groom! How they struggled and neighed, but all in vain—nobody would hear, or look-out, everyone was fast asleep, and on, on they went. The ponies pulled and dragged at their halters, and strove with all their might, but in vain—the ropes would not yield, and they only hurt themselves; while on, on they were forced to go, at that weary, slow pace, which fretted Pearl the most, and with nothing to eat.

Once, a mile or more from home, Peggy saw a man whom she knew, because he had dealings with her master, and she neighed, and strained at her halter, doing all she could to attract his attention, but he would not, or did not, take any notice, and on they went. Pearl did not like the movement, and kicked at Peggy, who returned it, but the man, seeing the commotion, turned back, and with rude words laid his whip across both of them.

Very, very weary were the two poor ponies, dragged on through stony lanes, as the sun became hotter and hotter, but at last the cart stopped under a hedge, on the border of a wide heath. The hungry and thirsty creatures tried to get their mouths to the grass, but the ropes were too short, and in her disappointment Peggy tried to bite at her companion.

"Oh!" whinnied out Pearl, "we had best be friends in this strange, terrible place—we who are old neighbours."

"Ha! ha! You aren't so proud now you are brought as low as I am," returned Peggy.

It was a rude answer; but Peggy was very tired and miserable, and though she was more used to rough it than was Pearl, she had less spirit to stand up against their distress.

However, their new master seemed to remember them. He and the boy led them down to a muddy pond under the hedge, and though Pearl in general would have scorned such water, she was glad enough to suck it up. Then an armful of hay was thrown down before each. It had perhaps been pulled out of a hay-rick, but that was not the ponies' business, and they gladly ate it up, and only wished there was more. Then the halters were drawn up tighter, and the cart set out again, but both were in better heart, and Peggy was good-humoured, and ready to believe, as Pearl did, that biting and kicking at one another was not the way to be less distressed, so they journeyed on in quite a friendly manner, and tried to flick off each other's flies with their tails. When at last the long day's journey was over, Pearl sadly missed the groom's hand washing her, and curry-combing her to make her comfortable, and Peggy not only forbore to laugh at her for being such a fine lady as to expect it, but really tried to do what she could for her by biting at a lump that a horse-fly had made in her neck.

They could both understand what human beings said, and when the rumbling of the cart was over, they listened anxiously to what the man, his wife, and eldest son were saying about them.

The woman wanted to take them to a great fair near at hand, and sell them early in the day. They squeezed closer together, and Pearl put her neck across Peggy's, as they felt how dreadful it would be to be parted from all that was left of home.

They were relieved to hear the man say that it could not be done safely; but then the woman answered that was nonsense—they had only to cut off the long hair of the rough pony, clip the mane and tail of the bay, and paint over the white star on her forehead.

Dreadful! the mane and tail that little master was so proud of! Poor Pearl gave a jerk to her halter, and determined to kick and bite her hardest before any such thing should be done to her. However, by the time the kettle was boiled, and the evening meal eaten, the man declared he must have his beer, and though his wife declared that without him to hold the horses she could not trim them, he would not listen, but started off for the public-house in the village, whose chimneys and their smoke could just be seen far down in the valley below.

The ponies were tied by ropes and allowed to graze, but the grass was very short, and there were a great many thistles, more fit for a donkey than a horse, as Pearl sighed when they pricked her delicate nose, and there was no water, except that a fine drizzling rain came on. Tinker, the old horse in the shafts, who was turned loose, did not cheer them. He told them he led a wretched life, beaten, starved, and tired, and his only hope was to have Peggy put on to help him with his loads. Pearl would at home have been safely housed in her own stable, here she could only creep as near the shelter of the cart as she could, and shiver. And good-natured Peggy, who was used to such things, and had much longer hair, came and squeezed up against her to keep her warmer; but still it was a wretched time, and the poor ponies felt damp, and limp, and tired when the cart set off again in the morning, and the halters were too short to allow of their even hanging down their poor disconsolate heads.

They went down the hill, over a rough chalk road, stumbling along, but they stopped at the public-house for beer for the people in the cart, and a little hay and water for the horses.

Just as they were enjoying clean water, a rough-looking man sauntered up, "I say, mate," said he, "there be notices up everywhere about a couple of ponies, and I heard tell as the bobbies were on the look-out for them at the Fair."

Those words did Pearl and Peggy more good than even the water.

There followed a few more words, and then the whole family were bundled back into the cart, and Tinker was forced to drag them all up the same steep hill.

There they halted, and the boy was sent on the further road to spy out what he could. Presently, he came running back as hard as he could. "Two policemen out in front of their station," he declared.

"There's nothing else for it," said the man.

"All your fault for going off and not helping me with them," said the woman.

However that might be, the halters were taken off their necks, there was a hard parting smack, and behold, Pearl and Peggy were free! They could hardly believe it, but the man and boy stamped and whooped at them, and off they went, putting down their heads and prancing with heels in the air for joy, and only wishing for a moment that poor Tinker was with them.

When they came to the end of the down, they stood still and consulted how to get home. Peggy snuffed about, but it was beyond where she had ever been before, or Pearl either, but there was a feeling in them for the right way, and they cantered along side by side as merrily as could be.

Presently Pearl said, "I've been in this corner with my mistress! I remember the white post that made me shy! This way!" How they tossed their heads and trotted on.

"Soh!" there was a call Pearl knew well.

It was her own kind groom in the trap with the superintendent of police.

What rejoicing there was; Pearl's little master kissed her when she came home, and old Timothy did almost as much by Peggy.

And whenever the two ponies were turned out in their two fields, they used to get to the fence between and rub their noses together, and they whinnied kind greetings to one another whenever they met. Their adventures had quite cured them of their two kinds of pride.

The Giant Fishers of Hertzenberg.

_BY MRS. A. M. GOODHART._

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IN the good old days in Germany, when wild beasts and giants still ravaged the country, and the fairies danced by moonlight on the banks of the shining rivers, and the kindly little earthmen crept into the farmhouse kitchens and tidied the hearths and re-laid the rushes in return for the brimming bowls of milk, which the tired peasants, however weary, never forgot to set out for the tiny people at night, a pretty village, the village of Hertzenberg, lay nestled under the shadow of a mighty hill, a hill so mighty and venerable, that time had wrapped its rugged sides in a mantle of rustling pines, and crowned its lofty head with a garland of perpetual snow.

Nowhere could you have found a more secluded spot, for it lay between this great hill and a broad and noble river, which flowed tumultuously down to the unknown sea.

Now the Hertzenbergers were a happy people, young and old they knew no cares, and the children, the sweet, rosy, blue-eyed children, played without check or fear the whole year through, knowing that at the worst, nothing more terrible would happen to them than to be hauled before the village elders to receive a few strokes of the rod in pickle, that celebrated rod which was kept in state (chained to the village pump) for the punishment of any of the Hertzenberg youngsters, whose overflowing spirits might lead them into mischief.

The village was a pretty place; in the centre of its tiny green stood the farrier's shop and smithy, not to mention the aforesaid pump, where the old folk gathered together morning, noon, and night to discuss the news of the place, while scattered around in groups of twos and threes, the cosy red-roofed cottages beyond, looked for all the world like merry children playing at bo-peep with one another.

One house alone stood by itself, turning its back with an air of dignified grandeur upon the rest of the cosy little cottages, and facing the pine-clad hill; this was the abode of the village school-mistress, a quaint old dame in a high-crowned hat and scarlet cloak, whom the children of Hertzenberg either loved or feared according to their own behaviour, for it was not altogether a pleasant thing to find oneself in the old lady's black books, with the rod in pickle, so clearly to be seen through the little lattice window! What they learnt from this old dame I hardly know, I fancy they spent most of their time in teazing her black cat, Cæsar, or in gazing out of the open door at the great hill opposite, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the golden eagles swooping in rapid circles over the stony crags.

Now the hill itself belonged to all the villagers, but no one was allowed to build upon it, or even to lop one branch off the smallest of its countless pines; imagine, therefore, the surprise, indignation, and consternation of everybody when, one fine morning, a gang of strange workmen, clad in an outrageous fashion, and jabbering an unknown tongue, were discovered at work on the side of the hill, directly overlooking the village. How they came there no one knew, but what they were doing, alas, was only too clear! They were felling as quickly as possible the beautiful straight-limbed trees, which had been the pride of the Hertzenbergers for generation after generation; cutting, hacking, slashing, too, with reckless cruelty, clearing the ground as if by magic.

The Hertzenbergers at first could not believe their eyes; then, as another, and another, and another tree fell with a mighty crash that echoed through the wood, they suddenly rose up as one man to defend their beloved property. Hastily forming into a procession, headed by the blacksmith in his leathern apron, they marched towards the hill with the intention of driving off the impudent workmen, who had dared to trespass upon their domain. But, alas, this was easier said than done, for when they got up to them, the workmen turned out to be huge and powerful monkeys, who upon the first show of fight, rushed so fiercely upon the villagers that the latter, scared out of their wits, were glad to retreat as fast as their legs would carry them.

After this discovery, the strange workmen were left alone, and every day saw them busy at work, dressed in their uncouth garb, with their tails tucked cleverly out of sight, and their caps drawn down so carefully over their brown wizen faces that, at a little distance, it would have been impossible to detect them from ordinary workmen, except by their size and extreme quickness of movement.

Even when night fell, they never ceased their restless activity, but lit great watch-fires, by whose lurid flames they toiled unceasingly, throwing off, under cover of the darkness, the workmen's habiliments, which had been so effectual a disguise; wild, uncouth creatures they were, and as they leapt and capered about in the glare and shadow of the flames, clad only in the hairy skins, and long powerful tails with which mother Nature had adorned them, their strange ungainly figures struck fresh terror and astonishment into the hearts of the villagers. Ere long a deeper thrill of excitement ran through the village as the leader of the troupe, a fierce and powerful baboon, was seen to advance towards the stone quarry, closely followed by the whole band of monkeys.

Too soon, alas, the air was ringing with the blows of hammers and chisels, as stone after stone was cut out from the rock, and dragged with much gesticulating and quarrelling to the spot where the monkeys had already dug out the foundations of what was afterwards to be so widely known and dreaded as the stronghold of the Giant Fishers of Hertzenberg.

All too rapidly the work progressed under the indignant eyes of the poor helpless Hertzenbergers, and soon there arose against the clear blue sky, a grim forbidding tower of solid stone.

This tower, which seemed to frown down upon, and menace the whole village, was not long left empty, but was soon taken possession of by a family of giants, for whom, indeed, it had been purposely built.

The poor villagers, once so happy and free of care, now trembled in their shoes for dread of what might happen next; they knew that their new neighbours meant them no good, and they could not hide their fears from their children, who were even more alarmed than they were, for it was not long before a rumour ran like wild-fire through the place, a rumour so dreadful, that it curdled the blood of every little boy and girl who heard it, and was conscious of possessing a plump, tender body, and a sleek rosy face! Dreadful as it was, the report could be put into four tiny words:

"BOY AND GIRL PIE!!!"

Yes, that was the long and short of it, "boy and girl pie!" And a terrible thing it was to the poor little Hertzenbergers, who knew that they were only too likely to find their way into the giants' gigantic pie dishes!

For many weeks the villagers were afraid to venture out of doors except in the dark; the dame's school was shut up, and the poor children played dismally inside their own houses, being forbidden by their mothers so much as to put their curly locks or even the tip of their tiny snub noses out of the windows, for fear that the giants might catch sight of them. One poor widow, who had only two children left to comfort her—a sturdy, high-spirited boy, named Kaspar, and a delicate little daughter called Gretchen, went so far as to bolt and bar the wooden shutters of all her casements which looked towards the giants' tower, but after a while, when it was found that the giants never attempted to come out of their stronghold, the panic grew less, and, as is often the case, public confidence began to revive at the very moment when the peril was at its highest, for it was about this time that the giants hit upon that strange mode of attack which won for them the nickname of "The Giant Fishers of Hertzenberg!"

Out of the castle windows came first of all showers of gaily-coloured sweetmeats, just to attract the children's attention; then, when these had all been picked up and eaten, without any harm happening to anybody, public opinion veered round, and began to vote the giants "rather good fellows after all!" But there was more behind, as you shall hear, for the showers of sweets ceased all too soon, and then the giants began to amuse themselves by casting down fishing lines into the village, baited with all the most tempting things that you could possibly imagine.

The lines were hung so cleverly over the green that the children could not come out of school, or cross over to the pump for a pail of water without finding gingerbreads and sweetmeats, and toys of every kind dangling in the air in front of them, or lying, as if by chance, on the ground beneath their feet. Of course they were strictly forbidden by their parents to touch any of these things, and at first fear made them obedient, but one of the first to grow reckless was Kaspar, the poor widow's son.

He was a high-spirited lad, full of pluck and self-confidence, and being tempted, beyond endurance, one day, by a box of tin soldiers, which pursued him everywhere, he determined at last to throw caution to the winds, and to make one desperate effort to snatch them off the line. Alas, poor Kaspar, no sooner did he thus resolve, and seize hold of the coveted box with his eager hands, than the giant, who was fishing out of the castle above, by a clever twist of the line, jerked the cord tightly round and round his wrists, and having thus secured his prey, began pulling his struggling victim slowly, but surely, towards the tower.

Kaspar struggled, and kicked, and fought in vain, he grew red with rage, then white with fear, and screamed so loudly that the whole village rushed out to see what was the matter; but alas, by this time the poor fellow was already dangling in mid-air, about half way up the castle wall! While down below, like one distracted, stood his weeping mother, wringing her hands, and crying aloud so that all could hear her, "Oh my poor Kaspar, my brave bonny boy . . . he will be made into mincemeat, and baked in the oven!"

Having made sure of his fish, however, the giant fisher seemed in no hurry to pull him right up into the castle, and when twilight fell, and the sorrowing villagers went sadly back into their cottages and left him to his fate, Kaspar was still dangling below the giants' larder window. How long he hung there he never knew! Of course, he gave himself up for lost, but when it had grown quite dark, and he was almost dead from fright and cold, he heard a gruff, but not unkindly, voice above him, bidding him not to be afraid! He could not see who was speaking to him, but it was no other than the old giant's wife, who had determined to try and save the boy, whilst her husband and sons were taking their forty winks after supper.

Presently, Kaspar felt something touch his shoulder; it was an old clasp knife, and with one hand, which he had managed to free in his struggles, he set to work to sever the rope, and after a tough struggle cut it right through, and before he knew where he was, had dropped like a stone to the ground, and remembered nothing more for some time.

Luckily, however, the ground was soft, and as he was only half stunned, he no sooner began to recover his senses, than fear lent wings to his feet, and he set off as fast as his legs could carry him in the direction of his mother's cottage, where such a welcome-home awaited him, as no words of mine can describe.

The next morning, a great stir arose in the castle, when Grimbo, the old giant, discovered that his prisoner had escaped. His wife did not let out her share in the matter, and when the rope was hauled up and found to be severed in such an uneven way, both the giant and his sons jumped to the conclusion, as they examined the jagged and frayed ends, that they owed the loss of their prisoner to some flaw in the cord, which had caused it to break of itself. "I'll kill and stew that cheating rope-maker, I will," cried the father giant in a rage, "as sure as my name is Grimbo! A nice trick he has been serving us, to sell us rope that will not stand the weight of a little shrimp like that! I'll teach him that he can't cheat honest giants for nothing! If he is too tough to roast or boil, he needn't think to escape for all that, I'll eat him with pleasure in a stew, if it is only to serve him out for playing us such a shabby, mean trick!!!"

All the while Grimbo was uttering these threats, he was working himself up into a towering passion, an amusement that he was very fond of indulging in. In one respect, he was a very peculiar giant, for he was provided with two heads, either of which he screwed on in turn as the fancy took him. One of these heads had a good-natured face, the other was dark and scowling, but I am sorry to say that it was this one he was the most often seen wearing. When things had gone wrong, or the wind was in the east, he always began the day by screwing on the ill-natured face, but on this particular morning, he awoke in such good spirits at the prospect of dining off a plump tender youngster, that he had screwed on the good-tempered face, and had left the ill-tempered one grumbling away to itself in the drawer, where it was locked up for safety when not on duty.

Now, however, he felt so savage that he unscrewed the smiling unoffending head with a vicious jerk, and threw it to the other end of the room, while he sent his terrified wife upstairs to fetch the other one. As soon as that was screwed on, he was stalking across country, grumbling, growling, and muttering to himself that he would pay the rope-maker out for his insolence, and the rope-maker's wife seeing him coming, ran at once to warn her husband and to hide her children, for she had some very tempting chubby little creatures, just about the size that the giant liked for patties!!

The rope-maker came out of his house to meet the giant with a sickly smile and trembling limbs. Too well he knew that he "had" been cheating old Grimbo lately, and a guilty conscience added to a glance he had caught of the scowling ogre, made a terrible coward of him now. "Will my noble lord Grimbo deign to honour my poor yard with his royal presence?" he enquired in a terror-stricken voice, hardly daring to raise his eyes from the ground.

The giant answered by a terrific roar, which so terrified the guilty rope-maker, that he fairly turned tail and fled, whilst gasping out some trembling excuse about "preparing the yard for his highness's reception."

The rope-yard was a walled-in space, entered by a massive gateway high enough to permit even of Grimbo's passing through by slightly lowering his head. The rope-maker, who was a quick-witted man, as well as a cheat, had always foreseen that an evil day might come when the giant's anger would be turned against him, and had taken his precautions accordingly. Not content to trust to an ordinary rope, he had secretly woven a long length of hempen cords, intermingled with strands of the toughest steel wire, and in this manner had produced a rope of such extraordinary strength, that twenty giants would have found it hard work to break it. This rope, which was provided with a slip-knot and a noose, hung always in a secret place behind the stone parapet overhanging the archway, ready for any emergency.

That emergency was now come, and as the angry giant rushed headlong through the archway, ducking his head and charging like an infuriated bull, the rope-maker's eldest boy, who had received instructions from his father before being stationed in readiness on the parapet overhead, dropped the noose in front of him, and lassoed him cleverly round the neck!!

Then ensued a sharp, fierce struggle between the entrapped Grimbo, and the whole family of the rope-maker, who began tugging away with their united force at the straining rope, as if all their lives depended upon it, which, indeed, they did, and ere long Grimbo's struggles became fainter, and his strength began to fail, then the whole family gathered themselves together for one mighty effort. Tug—tug—tug, and their old enemy lay dead at their feet, outwitted and slain by the crafty rope-maker.

Terrible as was the nature of his death, I am afraid poor Grimbo was not very much lamented even in his own castle; while the Hertzenbergers were so delighted to have got rid of their hated old enemy, that they quite forgot that he had left behind two strong and lusty sons to carry on his evil ways.

They were not, however, allowed to remain very long in forgetfulness, for the fishing soon began to be carried on with greater vigour than ever. The two young giants, Ruffo and Kuffo, were also more artful than their father, and baited their lines with far more tempting baits than he had ever done.

Kaspar they tried to inveigle in every possible way, dangling perfect armouries of swords, guns, and pistols before the distracted boy's eyes; and, in fact, no one could complain of being forgotten, for they hung out toys for the little ones, rattles for the babies, brooms and dust-pans for the mothers, pipes and drinking cups for the fathers, and even a bag of gold for the old miser in the hollow!

Meanwhile, Kaspar had many a narrow escape of his life as, with ever-growing boldness and dexterity, he attempted, and often succeeded, in wrenching off and making away with several of the most coveted prizes. And before long something exceedingly like quarrelling began to take place between the two giant brothers, for Kaspar's example was successfully followed by so many of the other bold spirits in Hertzenberg that Ruffo and Kuffo angrily accused each other of bad fishing. The castle larder was often empty—very empty indeed—and the giants were almost starved (which did not improve their tempers), while the poor people in the village were in a still worse position, for they lived in a regular condition of siege, not daring to venture outside their houses until after nightfall, when the darkness gave them a certain sense of security.

Truly they were in a pitiable plight, for beside their constant dread that the giants would hit upon some new method of fishing which would catch them in spite of themselves, they foresaw only too clearly that want, cold, and starvation must soon stare them in the face.

It was doubtless a great relief, after being shut up in the house all day, to slip out in the darkness for a word with a neighbour, or to fetch a pail of water from the village pump; but it was quite impossible to gather in the crops or to prepare the ground for the next year's sowing, or even to get in a fresh supply of wood for charcoal, which was all that they had to depend upon in the way of fuel.

At length Kaspar, who was always full of bold projects, called together a secret meeting after dark, in the village schoolroom, to which all the men and boys were invited. When all were assembled, he extracted from each in turn a solemn promise of secrecy, after which he unfolded his plan, which was neither more nor less than to dig out an underground passage from the school-house to the giants' castle, beginning under the floor on which they were standing, and working steadily away underground, like moles, until they were near enough to spring a mine beneath the tower, and to blow up their relentless enemies.

So, under Kaspar's directions, they at once fell to work to drag up the tiled floor, and then commenced to dig out the tunnel. The work once begun was never allowed to stop; night and day it was taken up by different bands of workers, the women bringing them food under cover of the darkness.

Meanwhile, the little school-house presented outside a singularly deserted and unused appearance. The shutters were closely barred by day as well as night, and not a living creature was seen to go in or out.

But Kaspar's heart burned within him with pride as he saw the work (in which he was ever foremost) progressing at a rate which far exceeded his most hopeful calculations.

It was known, moreover, that the giants had but lately stored away a large quantity of gunpowder in the dungeons beneath their tower, and if the workers could but dig their way through the lower foundations, Kaspar knew that it would only require a lighted fuse, a brave heart and steady hand, to do all the rest.

At last the anxious miners came tap, tap, against something hard and firm. It was the stone floor of the castle dungeon. When this fact became known Kaspar could only restrain his men from shouting aloud by the threat of shooting the first one, old or young, who opened his mouth, a threat which they all felt, in the desperate anxiety of the moment, he was quite capable of carrying out.

So in grim silence the work proceeded, and it was not until the middle of the night, when he knew that Ruffo and Kuffo would be lying senseless in a heavy sleep, that Kaspar ventured himself, and with the greatest care, to remove two of the large paving stones, which formed the floor of the dungeon. Oh, how his brave heart beat as he clambered through, and found himself in that gloomy place where so many of his fellow villagers had languished in tears until the giants thought fit to eat them. He soon retired, however, cautiously replacing the stones, but leaving them loose, the night being already too far advanced to venture to return with the fuse. Before leaving, however, he was careful to take note of the exact situation of the barrels of gunpowder, and to have everything in readiness for his next great attempt.

All the following day Kaspar was in such a state of feverish excitement that he did not know what to do with himself; but when midnight came, and every glimmer of light had died out of the castle windows, he prepared, with a wildly beating heart, to set out upon his perilous expedition. On the way, however, it shot through his mind for the first time that his good friend, the old giant's wife, would probably be asleep in the castle, and he racked his brains to devise some plan by which he could enable her to escape the fate prepared for her cruel sons. Before, however, he could think of anything, he ran by accident into the arms of the village barber, who was taking advantage of the pitchy darkness to draw some water from the pump; now the barber was a gossip, as barbers generally are, and Kaspar's first thought when he recognized his voice was how to get rid of him at once, but before he could even attempt to do so, the barber had him by the arm, and in a loud whisper exclaimed, "Hast thou heard, friend Kaspar, the last news from up yonder?" pointing thumb over shoulder to the castle behind. "Didst say no? Know, then, that the giant's wife was seen only this afternoon by thy humble servant escaping for her life across the mountains, with her apron to her eyes and weeping as though her heart would break. She had no one with her but a lame, black dog, and a little maiden with long, golden curls, who seemed to be clinging to her dress for protection. Ruffo and Kuffo were throwing darts and stones at her from the window, and shouting after her with such cruel threats and taunts, that, 'as I am a MAN!' I would dearly have liked to box their huge ears!!!"

As he gave utterance to this bold speech, the barber (who, by the way, was as great a coward as ever breathed), thrust out his chest and shook his fist at the tower with an air of the greatest audacity; but Kaspar paid little heed to his grand speeches, he had learnt all that he wanted to know and was only too eager to get away.

"Forgive me, most worshipful master," he said, "but I must not linger longer," and before the barber could reply Kaspar had shaken himself loose and was out of sight.

Now that he was sure of Madame Grimbo's safety, a great load was taken off the lad's mind, and he had no further scruple about blowing up the tower. Calling together one or two faithful friends, upon whose courage and fidelity he could rely, he led the way through the underground tunnel with rapid and noiseless steps. The little party pressed closely upon his heels, for where a "hero" leads "few" will refuse to follow.

* * * * * *

The men and women in the village, though they did not know all Kaspar's plans, had put two and two together until they felt certain that the critical moment could not be far-off; and, too excited to sleep or even to go to bed, stood listening at their open windows, straining their ears for the slightest sound, and holding their breath with such painful intensity that they could hear their own hearts beating.

Suddenly a terrific roar, like the sound of a hundred thousand cannons, burst upon their ears, and a cloud of smoke and flame flashed high up into the air. All eyes were turned towards the castle, which in another second swayed over on one side and fell into a crumbling heap of ruins!

Kaspar's work was done, and at this sight the villagers could not restrain their delight, but shouted until every throat grew hoarse with cries of gratitude for their brave deliverer.

The next moment a rush was made to the school-house door, and as Kaspar stepped out from the underground passage, safe and sound, but black and grimy with gunpowder, he was seized and almost pulled to pieces by the mad and shouting crowd.

"Steady, friends; steady!" cried poor Kaspar, as he was lifted, with friendly roughness, on to the shoulders of two strapping young millers and carried out into the open air.

But the Hertzenbergers were too excited to listen; all they could think of at the moment was that Ruffo and Kuffo were dead and could never torment them any more, and that Kaspar was the hero to whom they owed their deliverance.

So, paying no heed to his entreaties to be set down, they carried Kaspar round and round the village in a kind of triumphant procession, singing as they did so an impromptu song composed in his honour, which ran as follows:—

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Hoch, hoch, hoch!
Ruffo and Kuffo are dead,
Low lies each tyrant's head.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
By Kaspar's hand so "boldy" slain,
No need to fear them ever again.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Never again. No never again.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Then cheer our Kaspar's glorious name,
And shout to his undying fame,
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
HOCH, HOCH, HOCH!!!

Then the enthusiasm grew to boiling point. Women and children rushed out to kiss Kaspar's hands, sobbing, and blessing him as their deliverer; and tiny sleeping babies were lifted from their cradles and held up in trembling arms to see the hero of the hour.

The next day the whole of Hertzenberg proceeded in a body to inspect the smoking ruins, and loud and vehement were the expressions of gratitude which broke out on all sides when the remains of the two wicked brothers were discovered in fragments, tightly wedged under a pile of the heaviest stones.

As for the giant's wife, I have never been able to find out exactly what became of her, but some old legends say that Kaspar sought her out after many years and became like a son to her in her old age, when his own dear mother was dead, and also that he married the golden-haired child whose life she had saved with her own when she fled in terror from the castle, which golden-haired child—after that she had grown into a beautiful lady, and had been espoused by Kaspar for love's dear sake, and without any portion or dowry—was found to be the long-lost daughter and heiress of a wealthy Baron, through whose good favour Kaspar not only inherited a large and ample fortune, but was received with honour into the most noble and illustrious Order of Knighthood, and was known henceforth throughout the land as "Sir Kaspar of the Fearless Heart, the Sworn Enemy of Tyrants, the Defender of the Helpless, and the Ever-ready Champion of the Injured or Oppressed."

Hughie's Mistake.

_BY THE REV. H. C. ADAMS,_

AUTHOR OF "CHERRY STONES," "SCHOOL-BOY HONOUR," &c.

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NO one could ever be angry with Hughie, though more than one person sometimes tried hard to be so. He was for ever losing things which he ought to have taken care of, insomuch that he went in the family by the name of "Hue and Cry," by reason of the continual searches after missing articles of which he was the cause. He hardly ever gave a message correctly, and often omitted to give it at all, thereby grievously putting the household out of gear. Sometimes, when orders had been given to hasten dinner, because some unexpected engagement had been made to be kept early in the evening, it was found, when the dinner hour arrived, that the cook had only just put the joint down to roast, and the family had to make the best meal they could off cold meat and bread and cheese. Sometimes, when it was arranged to go out for a sail, or a long drive, and Hughie had been sent to say that dinner must be put off till eight, it was found, when that hour arrived, that the fish had been boiled to rags, and the meat roasted to a cinder, and such of the family as were addicted to good cheer, were considerably exercised in temper.

But, as has been said, no one could be angry with Hughie. Those who attempted it, soon desisted. There was grandpapa—he was given to be peppery, and Aunt Maria was querulous, and under great provocation they would begin scolding the little boy. On such occasions Hughie would stand quite quiet, looking with his large round eyes at his assailant, wondering apparently whether grandpapa would explode like some firework, or pitying Aunt Maria for the frame of mind into which she had worked herself, until further persistence in wrath became impossible, and Hughie trotted off to resume the employment or play in which he had been engaged, with undisturbed serenity.

One day, Grandmamma Haffenden—Hughie had two grandmamma's, and three aunts, as well as a great aunt, as the reader will learn—but one day Mrs. Haffenden was very ill with neuralgia in the eyes. Neuralgia anywhere is not pleasant; and the eyes are not a desirable place in which to have it. She could not bear any noise, or much company. Rose and Violet were allowed to go into her room for two or three minutes, morning and evening. Grandpapa did the same, though perhaps he stayed a little longer. Even Aunt Maria was only tolerated for an hour or two at most. The only person grandmamma wanted to see was Hughie. She asked for him two or three times a day; and when he was brought in, with his curly hair, and his hazel eyes, and his little bright face, looking like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and he was seated on the bed, and ran on with his baby prattle, grandmamma declared it did her more good than all Dr. Murray's medicine, and that Hughie was the best doctor she ever had. To be sure the dear little fellow was the only child of Admiral Haffenden's only son, who had been killed in the naval attack on Sebastopol, and his mother had survived her husband only a few months; and so Hughie belonged especially to his grandparents, and his omnipotence in the family was not very much to be wondered at.

The reader has been told that Hughie had two grandmothers. Grandmamma No. 2, Mrs. Salter, was a widow. She also lived, with an only daughter, in Wadborough; but they were not as well off as the Haffendens, and had to put up with a small house on the London Road. The Admiral "had not been cordial," as Mrs. Salter expressed it, about his son's marriage, and she fancied that the Haffendens looked down upon her family, and to her mind "the Salters were as good as the Haffendens any day." Probably, the real offence was that the Haffendens had more money than the Salters, and everyone knows that is an offence which it is very hard to forgive. To do the Admiral justice, it was only at the outset, before he and his family knew anything of Audrey Salter, that he or they made any objection to Charlie's choice, and after the marriage nothing could be kinder than they had all been.

After Audrey's death, when Julia came home from school, the Haffenden girls had tried to treat her like a sister, and had only desisted when they found that "Miss Salter," as she chose to be called, wouldn't have it. The Miss Haffendens were handsomer, better dressed, greater favourites in society than Julia. When they met at flower shows, and garden parties, and subscription balls, the Haffenden girls had galore of partners, and Julia sometimes "sat out;" and if the Haffendens offered to introduce partners Julia fancied she was being patronised, and declined, whereupon the Haffendens felt repelled, and were disposed to be huffy. Everyone knows how this peculiarly obnoxious plant is apt to grow and choke all good feeling. By Christmas, 18—, there was a decided coolness between the families, fast developing into an acknowledged quarrel.

It was the day after Christmas Day, when it was resolved in solemn conclave that a juvenile party and a carpet dance afterwards should be given by the Haffendens on Twelfth Day.

"You see, grandpapa," Rose Haffenden had urged, "Hughie has so many little friends, and such numbers of people have invited him, that we are bound to make some return; and then, we have been asked to ever so many balls and dances, and have never asked any of our friends in return. I really think we are bound to do it."

"Very well, my dear," Admiral Haffenden had answered with a groan, "what must be, must. Only if we are to ask all our friends, let us be careful not to leave any out. We haven't had Julia Salter here for a long time; be sure she is asked."

"We may ask her," remarked Rose, "but she won't come."

"Not come! Why not?" asked grandpapa.

"That I can't tell," answered Rose, "but she won't."

"My dear," said Aunt Maria, "you don't think what you are doing. To leave her out on an occasion like this, when everyone we know is asked, is almost the same thing as declining her acquaintance."

"And besides that," added Mrs. Haffenden, "your grandfather always writes to her on that day, if I am not mistaken. Is not that so, Christian?"

"Yes," answered the Admiral. "On the morning of the sixth of January I get the stock dividend, half of which belongs to Hughie and half to her, and I always send her a ten pound note in the afternoon."

"Just so," said Miss Haffenden. "Think of grandpapa's writing to her on that day and making no mention of the Christmas party at his house! It would look like an intentional affront."

"Well then, you had better send her the invitation," said Violet, "only I agree with Rose, she won't accept it."