Chatterbox, 1905 Part 90

Perhaps no greater benefit ever befell the good folk of London town than when, early in the nineteenth century, it occurred to the authorities to turn the old Royal Park of St. Mary-le-bone into a real people's park. A great many plans were suggested for laying out the ground. One very ornamental scheme was probably rejected because of its expense; in it a fine church was to form a central point, with avenues running from it like spokes of a wheel. The design which was accepted and carried out consists of four oval drives lying like rings inside one another; in the centre of the inside one are the Royal Botanical Gardens. Rare and wonderful treasures of vegetable life are kept there--flowering plants and shrubs, palms, ferns, mosses, water-plants, and trees from many lands, each the object of deep thought and care. From time to time grand floral fetes are held in the gardens, and often on summer evenings Shakespeare's plays are acted in the open air.

The northern side of the park is chiefly given up to the Zoological Gardens; and, indeed, to the world at large, apart from Londoners, Regent's Park often means nothing but 'the Zoo.' Probably it is safe to say that no other park in the world annually attracts so many visitors.

The collection at the Zoological Gardens was begun in 1828, and amongst the first arrivals were the lions from the Tower, for, from ancient days, lions and bears kept the old royal fortress lively. Great sums of money have been spent in securing fine specimens, and now Britons have the satisfaction of knowing that our Zoo is second to none. Amongst recent arrivals at the gardens were two young gorillas from Western Africa, who reached the Zoo in apparent health, but, as has happened on former occasions, after a few weeks the poor things sickened and died.

Whether they suffer from the effects of the voyage, or whether the shock of their capture is too great for them, the fact remains that gorillas seem unable to endure the altered conditions of life which most of the other members of the great ape family can put up with.

But, with all the attractions of the Zoo, it would not do to be dependent on it for amus.e.m.e.nt, for even on Monday, 'the people's day,'

it costs sixpence, and many of the park's most frequent visitors find pennies hard to come by. Pleasure has to be sought and found on the various recreation grounds, and, in fine weather, cricket and other games are usually in full swing.

A very favourite walk with many visitors is to Primrose Hill, north-west of the Zoo, which rises two hundred and nineteen feet above sea-level, where the air is usually clear and bright, whilst the view over London is very fine. The hill is the property of Eton College, and is separated from the Zoo by the Regent's Ca.n.a.l, as well as by the Albert Road.

Beneath the slope is a fine gymnasium, which still further adds to the attractions of the park, and many fine terraces of houses line the outer circles.

The park takes its name from the Prince Regent, afterwards George IV.

HELENA HEATH.

NEVER CAUGHT IT.

'He is always very busy,' said one man to another.

'Yes,' answered a gentleman who knew the person in question. 'He is so lazy in getting up that he loses an hour every morning, and spends all the rest of the day in running after it.'

An hour lost means an hour which can only be regained by neglecting other work.

RAT-SKINS.

The j.a.panese are a wonderful people, and their foresight in even the smallest matters is really marvellous. Here is a case in point.

Late in 1904, when the time came to forward the winter outfits for their soldiers fighting in Manchuria, amongst the wadded overcoats and thick blankets were some hundreds of thousands of ear-protectors made out of rats' skins.

Even the military authorities were surprised by these, and wondered where the Government could have found so many rats as to be able to supply their soldiers with such soft and comfortable coverings for their ears.

It seems that two years ago plague was raging along the China coast, and, to keep the disease out of j.a.pan, the quarantine authorities made war against the rats. In all the seaports and larger cities rewards were offered for each rat brought; small boys found this a delightful way of earning money, and the compet.i.tion at once became very keen.

Every rat was duly registered, and the place where it was caught noted, and if any suspicious germs were found, the building from which the rat came was raided, all the rats in it hunted down, and the place disinfected. So the plague was kept out of j.a.pan.

Meanwhile the rat-skins had not been thrown away; war was even then threatening, and ear-protectors _might_ be wanted.

So the rat-skins were all thoroughly cleansed and disinfected, and made into ear-protectors, and now have proved a great blessing to the soldiers in the field.

THE OLD CLOCK.

None of my early recollections of our pretty little home in England is so clear as that of the old grandfather's clock that stood in the hall.

I remember that my mother and father were very fond of it, and when my brother and I once grumbled, saying, 'That old clock is always slow,' my mother reproved us with the words: 'Oh, children, you must not say that, for the fact that it often goes slow when the big hand is going up towards the hour was the very thing that once saved your great-grandfather's life.'

That was the curious thing about the clock. Every now and then, for some reason, the minute-hand seemed to work loose, soon after the half-hour, and, before it reached the three-quarters, it lost five minutes. It might manage to go a whole day without doing this; but sooner or later it always happened, so that the clock could not be relied upon for time.

Of course, we were very eager to hear the story, and, as we sat round the fire that evening, my mother told us the following tale:--

'You know, children, that we have not always lived in England; my ancestors were French, and lived at Chateau Roquefort, in the province of La Vendee. When the great insurrection broke out in the year 1792, my grandfather, Philippe de Roquefort, was one of the leading insurgents against the Republic. For a time the insurrection was successful, and the Republican generals were driven across the Loire. But at last there came a time when Philippe de Roquefort saw that to resist any longer was hopeless, and, as he had a wife and a little son, he resolved that, for their sakes, it was prudent to flee to England.

'They had abandoned Roquefort itself three days before, but the evening before their leaving France, Philippe was obliged to ride over to the chateau (five miles or so from the little town where he and his family, with about a dozen trusty followers, had taken refuge) to fetch some important papers.

'The whole neighbourhood swarmed with Republicans, but, with his knowledge of the country, he reached the deserted chateau safely.

'The whole place had a forsaken air as Philippe entered the hall he knew so well, where all his happy boyhood had been spent; but one familiar object caught his eye--the old clock, which had been too c.u.mbersome to take with them in their flight, and which was still ticking in its accustomed manner. Philippe secured his papers, and was just leaving the chateau, taking a last fond look at his home, when a heavy hand pulled him backwards, and, before he could reach his sword, he was bound hand and foot.

'"We have caught the bird in his own nest," said a loud voice--and the boisterous laughter of several men made the rafters in the old hall ring.

'Philippe saw that he had been captured by five rough Republicans, who dragged him into the middle of the hall and then sat round him, consulting as to his fate. At last they decided that, at a quarter to six by the old clock, he should be shot. They had some time to wait before going back to their camp.

'Philippe gave himself up for lost. The ruffians soon began to jeer at him, and asked if he had any messages for his friends. Then my grandfather lost all his patience, and throwing aside all prudence, cried: "Yes, you villains, if I had my faithful followers here, they would soon make an end of you."

'The men laughed at this, but suddenly a cruel idea struck one of them.

'"Yes," he said, "Monsieur shall have his way"--and, looking up at the clock, he continued: "It is now five o'clock; Pierre, the peasant's son, who lives yonder, shall ride with a message to these devoted followers.

Monsieur shall be shot at a quarter to six; but he can write and tell his friends to be here at ten minutes to the hour; they will come and find Monsieur--five minutes too late. We can get away easily enough before they arrive."

'His comrades agreed to this plan, which gave an adventurous tone to their enterprise, and inflicted, as well, extra misery upon their prisoner.

'A sc.r.a.p of paper and a pencil were given to my grandfather; but, as he was writing, Philippe remembered with joy that the old clock on which his captors were relying had not yet lost its five minutes that day; he had noticed this as he glanced round the hall before his capture; and, therefore, at a quarter to six--the time when, by the clock, he was going to be put to death--it _might_ be ten minutes to the hour by the proper time--if the clock only went wrong for once at a convenient time!

'The peasant-boy, Pierre, was sent with the message, and the men settled themselves down to ransacking the house, exulting over the trick they were going to play.

'The time crept by. As a quarter to six drew near Philippe was bound to a tree, and the men set to work to load their muskets! Had the clock lost five minutes, or not? Every minute of waiting seemed like an hour, and Philippe could not be sure whether the hand had stuck still too long, or not. He thought it had, but could he trust his eyes in such a terrible situation?

'You can imagine my grandfather's feelings during those last few awful minutes! A hundred conjectures flashed through his mind. Suppose the boy never gave the message! or suppose the men were late! or suppose the clock was not slow after all!

'At last the Republicans were ready, and Philippe gave himself up for lost. Suddenly the sound of horses' hoofs was heard breaking through the undergrowth. The Republicans hesitated, and, as they stood undecided, ten or a dozen men rode up hastily. They were only just in time; the Republicans fought for a few minutes, but they were taken by surprise, and soon surrendered. Philippe was saved!'

'What a narrow escape, Mother,' we cried, 'and if it had not been for the old clock's habit of losing time----'

'Well, my dear, the story would have ended very differently.'