Part 9

IV

They cast their lines into the brook, And watch'd with careful eyes In case some finny feeder might Be taken by surprise, And tempted be to have a bite, Not being overwise!

V

For hours they sat, but sport had none, Yet ceas'd not watch to keep; Then little Bell remark'd I think They must be all asleep! Their hopes at last began to sink, The eldest wish'd to weep!

VI

Still on they sat most patiently, Scarce murm'ring at their fate, When all at once cried little Bell, "Stupidity I hate! I see the reason very well, We quite forgot the bait!"

VII

Too true! the dough lay there untouch'd Among the grass and mould; And now 'twas time they home should go, As chimes distinctly told; Moreover rain came on, and so They only caught a cold!

E. Oxenford.

A WALK IN COLOMBO.

Colombo, as most of my readers will remember, is in Ceylon, that beautiful island lying to the south of India.

You would think the people very funny, seeing them for the first time. The man in the picture, who is walking with the little English girl, is a Hindu, and probably you have often seen pictures like him. Nearly all the servants and laborers in Colombo are Hindus from Madras, but the natives of the island are called Cingalese, and are very different in every way.

The men wear their hair in a big knob at the back like a woman, and on the top of that is fastened a comb, shaped like a half-circle, with the ends pointed to the face. The whole costume is a mixture of native and English fashions. The usual hat is a little round felt one, such as you may see any day on boys at home, and which you have perhaps yourself. The next garment is also what you might expect to see on a man; that is, a cloth coat, or rather shooting-jacket; but after that comes a long flowing skirt, which you certainly would not see on any man or boy at home. The Cingalese men bestow a good deal of attention on this skirt. Poorer people have it made in white or blue calico, but others use very handsome India stuffs, which must have cost a lot of money.

The heat in Colombo is very great, and the roads are very dusty. No wonder the people often feel hot and tired, and are very glad to lie down and take a little sleep when they can. They also cool themselves by standing in some pools near the town. The cattle do the same, and you can just see the heads of the buffaloes and of the men above the level of the water. They stand that way for an hour or two, perfectly still; but the little children who go in keep jumping about and splashing each other.

You may see in this picture the fruit shops in the native quarter of the town, and bunches of bananas or plantains hanging up. Other shops sell grain, which the people chiefly live upon. It is nothing unusual to see the grain merchant lying fast asleep on the top of his store of rice or other grain. Outside many houses stands a wooden bedstead, and the old people lie there asleep a great part of the day. The Cingalese are said to be very kind to old people, which is a very good trait in their character. I wish they were a little kinder to their animals, but they never seem to think that poor bullocks have any feeling at all. The carts in Colombo are drawn by bullocks, and they have a very hard time of it. The rope used as reins is passed through a hole bored through their nostrils, and a heavy beam of wood rests on their backs. Worse still, they are branded all over, not only with the owner's initials, but with all sorts of fanciful ornamental figures; the cruel people who do this never caring what the unfortunate animals suffer while it is being done. The houses are often painted outside with animals and birds in the brightest colors; and some of these wall pictures are so absurd that strangers always stop to look and laugh at them.

"Ho! 'Hamed! dear 'Hamed, you will let me ride Prince Albert Victor, won't you?"

The speaker was a little, brown, black-eyed boy, with dark tangled locks under his old red fez, and clad in a dirty white cotton garment, who was coaxing a tall Egyptian lad in a very irresistible way. Children coax much the same all the world over, to get their way, be they white or black or brown. In this case little Hassan got his. And what was it he wanted?

'Hamed, an Egyptian donkey-boy, was leaving home early in the morning as usual, leaving his dim, dirty quarters in the native part of Cairo for the European part of the city. And with him, as usual, was going Prince Albert Victor.

Prince Albert Victor was only a donkey, a very nice, strong, well-fed Egyptian donkey, but nothing more, in spite of his grand name. But all the Cairo donkeys which stand about the streets for hire have very grand names given to them by their owners to attract the European tourists. For instance, some boy will call his donkey by an American name—such as Washington, or Yankee-doodle—that the American travellers may fancy him. Another, with a view to a Frenchman or an Englishman, will christen his animal President Carnot or Lord Salisbury. 'Hamed had called his Prince Albert Victor; for he found a royal name very popular, not only with English travellers, but with the red-coated British soldiers who pervade the streets of Cairo.

Now, little Hassan wanted, as usual, to ride Albert Victor down from his home to his habitual waiting-place in front of one of the big hotels. It was such a delight to him to thrust his bare brown feet into the stirrup-leathers (his legs were too short to reach the stirrups), and, clutching Albert Victor's bridle, and sitting very erect, to fancy himself very grand indeed as they slowly passed down the dim alleys of their native town.

It was a glorious day, such a blue sky, such a bright sun, so different from winter in our dull, foggy England, that little Elfreda felt very happy as she looked out of the hotel window on such new and strange sights.

"It seems like stories out of the Bible, mother," she cried, gazing at the Eastern dresses, the queer-looking figures, the donkeys, and the camels. For Elfreda and her mother had only lately come to Cairo for the winter, for the mother's health, and everything was still wonderful to her.

"Where shall we go to-day?" she added. "To the mosques, or through the bazaars, or out a long way into the country by the river? Quick, mother; let me call some donkey-boys, and let's be off."

"There's that little tiny boy just ridden up, he who comes every morning with the big one! I must have his donkey again!"

And Elfreda clapped her hands, and cried, "'Hamed!"

There were fifty 'Hameds, donkey-boys (it is a very common name). But though several came up, they all knew that it was our friend who was called.

"See," said little Hassan (he had jumped off Albert Victor and stood behind him), "there is the same 'zit'" (English lady) "clapping again, she who hired you yesterday and the day before; and with her the little 'zit' with the long hair. Hurry, 'Hamed! I'm sure she means you!"

Hassan was right. In a few minutes Elfreda was mounted on Albert Victor, and was patting his gray neck and long ears.

"He's such a nice donkey, mother; heaps nicer than the dull, tired donkeys I ride when we go to the seaside! He's got some go about him! Why, he can canter almost as nicely as my pony at home, and 'Hamed has to run to keep up with him! I should just like to take him back to England for a pet!"

"I wonder what little Hassan would say," remarked her mother. "He would miss his daily ride on Albert Victor, and I don't think he would be very happy in England in that costume. The village boys would jeer at him!"

"Well, perhaps the pony is the best to ride at home, and Albert Victor here," considered Elfreda; "for certainly it is very crowded and noisy for any one not used to it," she added.

For they were now in the native town, on their way to the shops, there to bargain for Oriental curiosities. It was a ceaseless delight to Elfreda. She bought slippers for her uncle, a fan for her little sister at home, and queer pots to decorate the schoolroom. Elfreda would have lingered longer, but it was now time to return to lunch at the hotel.

THE ECHO BOY.

A little girl once went home to her mother and said, "Mother, while sister and I were out in the garden, there was some boy mocking us. I was calling out 'Ho!' and the boy said, 'Ho!' So I said to him, 'Who are you?' and he answered, 'Who are you?' I said, 'Why don't you show yourself?' He said, 'Show yourself!' And I ran into the woods, but I could not find him; and I came back and said, 'If you don't come out I will throw a stone at you!' And he said, 'I will throw a stone at you!'"

So her mother said, "Ah! Nellie, if you had said, 'I love you,' he would have said, 'I love you.' If you had said, 'Your voice is sweet,' he would have said, 'Your voice is sweet.' Whatever you said to him, he would have said back to you. When you grow and get to be a woman, whatever you say to others, they will, by and by, say back to you." And her mother took her to that old text in the Scripture, "With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again."

BE JUST BEFORE YOU ARE GENEROUS.

"Come, Kathie! It is time to go home!"

It was Mother who called: she had been sitting for the last hour under the shade of the old pier, whilst little Kathie ran hither and thither on the beach, sometimes paddling a little, sometimes building sand castles.

"Come, Kathie!" Mother called again; "it is late; come here and I will put on your shoes and socks."

Still Kathie did not move, but sat staring at the sea, but with a look in her eyes which told plainly enough that her thoughts were far away. She was as a rule a good, obedient child, but to-day she seemed almost as if she was afraid to come. Mother got up from her seat, and went towards the little one.

"Did you not hear me, Kathie?" she began; then in an altered voice, "But, my child, where is your hat? Put it on at once, the sun is so hot."

Kathie hung her head, then the tears gathered in her eyes, and at last rolled quickly down her cheeks. "I haven't got a hat," she sobbed. "I gave it away. Are you vexed, Mother?"

Mother was puzzled. She sat down by Kathie and took her on her lap. "Don't cry," she said gently, "but tell me to whom you gave it."

"It was to a poor woman," said Kathie; "she asked me for it for her little girl, and so I took it off and gave it to her, but afterwards—"

"Afterwards you remembered that you should have asked Mother first," said Mother gravely.

"Yes," said Kathie. "But, Mother, the woman was poor; we ought to give to the poor, ought we not?"

"Yes, Kathie, but we must only give that which is our very own. Now, the hat was not yours to give away; I bought it for you, to shade you from the hot sun."

"Oh, Mother!" interrupted Kathie, "then I can never give to the poor, for little children have nothing of their own." Kathie's lip trembled, and she was very near crying at this thought.

"I will tell you what is your own to give," said Mother consolingly, "that is your time. All children have a great deal of time to do as they like in, and I can show you how you can use that time for the poor."

"Oh, mother! how? I can't sew nearly well enough to make anything for them."

"No, I don't mean sewing. I will give you an old pillow-case, and you must fill it with very little bits of torn, not cut, paper, and when it is full I will cover it for you with a case of pretty print, and then it will make a soft pillow for old Mrs. Timms, or any one else you like to give it to. It will take both time and patience to tear the paper; and when it is finished it will be your own work, and you may give it away."

"Yes, I see," said Kathie. "That will be my own work. I shall like that."

"As you grow older you will have money and other things which you can give away, but even then you will find that your best gifts will be those you have spent time and love over; those two things are the possession of the poorest of us, and yet they are worth more than gold and silver. Now, Kathie, we must go and buy you a new hat, for you cannot walk home in this heat without one; and another time when you give away anything you must remember to be just before you are generous."

Kathie thought Mother very kind not to be vexed about the hat; but Mother remembered what a little girl Kathie was, and she hardly expected her to be able to refuse, when a bold, sturdy woman asked for the hat off her head.

TRAVELLERS' TALES.

They say there is a country where the snow never falls, And sliding is a game they never knew: They never saw a lake Paved with ice that wouldn't break. I would rather stay in England, wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the sun never sets. But goes on shining all night through. And you needn't go to bed, For there's always light oerhead. That's a country I should like, wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where they all talk French. I can't imagine what they ever do! For who for all their chatter, Can understand such patter? I should answer "speak in English" wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the clergymen are black And the language sounds like "choke-a-cockatoo." And the niggers sit in rows With hardly any clothes I should like to go and look, wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the women cannot walk, And everything is made of bam-boo And the people's eyes are wee, They live on rice and tea. I should like to go and see them, wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the elephants are wild, And never even heard of our Zoo. And through the woods they roam Like gentlemen at home. I should like to go and peep, wouldn't you?

F. W. HOME

THE PRIZE OF HONOR.

"I wonder if I could trust you children to go out alone this morning," said Mrs. Ferrars. "I don't want to deprive nurse of her holiday, and I must see Cousin Lily: she is not so well to-day."

"Oh! yes, mother," cried Dolly and Ralph together. "May we go on the ice?"

"Well, it is just because I said you might, that I feel a little anxious," said Mrs. Ferrars, stroking Dolly's fair hair. "My Dolly sometimes forgets mother's wishes for her own; still, as it is the last day at home, I feel inclined to trust you."

"Of course, mother," said Ralph confidently, "I'll take care of Dolly; all the boys will be there, and heaps of people we know."

"You won't skate beyond the point?" said mother; "never mind if the others do or not; remember you are both on your honor."

Full of delight, the children bounded off, skates in hand, and soon arrived at the gay scene by the frozen lake. The ice was already crowded with skaters, big and little, and Ralph and Dolly espied two or three of their friends as busy as themselves fastening on skates.

The band played, the sun shone, and merry voices and laughter echoed through the frosty air.

"Let's have races!" cried Frank, one of Ralph's schoolfellows. "You take your sister, I'll take mine."

They all four flew across the ice, backwards and forwards again and again, Frank and his sister winning at every turn.

"Now change partners," said Frank, pairing off with Dolly, "perhaps that will be fairer."

"I'm rather tired of going over the same road," said Dolly presently, as she and Frank stood resting, while the other two ran a short race by themselves. "It looks so lovely out there. A broad sheet of ice without any one on it, and all the trees at the foot of the terrace bending over the lake. See, Frank, icicles are hanging from every twig; wouldn't you like to go close to them?"

"Perhaps it isn't safe," replied Frank. "No one seems to venture so far; I shouldn't wonder if the ice were thin."

"But our weight would be nothing on such a great space," urged Dolly. "I don't mean far off, only just beyond the point."

Mother's words came back to her, but mother did not know. She was not there to see how beautiful it all was, and of course Dolly did not mean to run into danger.

They began skating near the point. Again Dolly turned towards the terrace.

"Oh, Frank! I must," she said. "I see a long icicle like a sword with a hilt; it's on a low branch—you can reach it for me." She sped away, and Frank followed. In a moment they were side by side, and close to the coveted icicle. As Frank raised himself to grasp it, he saw a thin stream of water welling up from beneath the ice on to the bank. He seized Dolly's hand. "Back, back!" he cried wildly. "The ice is giving, we shall go in." Away they fled. The ice creaked, but their weight was light, and once more the point was gained in safety.

"Dolly," said Ralph, hurrying up to his sister, "have you forgotten what mother said?"

"No," replied Dolly, trying to laugh, though really ready to cry after the fright she had undergone; "but mother isn't here to see the icicles. I wanted one for her, and—"

"We are on our honor," said Ralph, "and I trusted you too, when you went off with Frank."

Dolly's tears began to fall. "I won't tell tales of you," said Ralph. "Perhaps I am partly to blame, I ought not to have left you. Come and skate with me, now."

"I don't want to. I'll go home," said Dolly.

Mother did not come back to lunch. She sent round a note to say she was staying with Lily; and by and by when she returned, her heart was so full of sorrow for the suffering child that she forgot to ask about the morning's pleasure. If Dolly was silent, mother thought it was from sympathy with herself.

The next day school began. All thoughts of skating were banished; there was a prize to be fought for, and Dolly had set her heart on winning it.

Somehow the spirit that had hitherto animated her now failed. The world seemed all out of tune. Again and again she was on the point of confessing her wrong-doing, as mother bent above her for a good-night kiss. But weeks passed, and still the words remained unspoken. Ralph never mentioned the ice; yet Dolly fancied he had loved her less since that morning.

"You musn't be too anxious about the prize, Dolly, darling," said her mother, noticing the tired face, "or I am afraid you will fall ill from worry. I am quite glad to think the breaking-up party is to-morrow. Mind, dear, I shall not be disappointed if you fail. I can trust my child, and I know she has done her best."

Dolly flushed crimson. Her mother trusted her, and imagined she knew every thought of her childish heart. How little mother knew the misery Dolly was enduring!

All was excitement at the school. The prize-giving only took place once a year, and many and great were the hopes and fears on that eventful day. Some girls were of opinion that Dolly would carry off the coveted prize, others that she had lost ground of late, and failed utterly. Dolly, quite aware of her shortcomings, was yet vaguely longing for success. Her rival in the class was older and cleverer than herself, but without the perseverance that characterized Dolly, therefore Dolly hoped on until the prize-giving began.