Chatterbox, 1906 Part 29

Mother, too, was very much puzzled. 'No, I don't say it was naughty, my dears, but you had better not have surprises out of doors again,' she said. 'But what made you think of it at all, Ada?'

'But Grannie and Grandfather could live here if they wanted to, only the country is better for them,' she explained, when the little girls had told her the reason of their 'factory.' 'Yes, you do hear me say we can't afford things, but they are things we don't really need. You always have all you want, don't you? Don't worry your little heads about money, then, and promise me one thing--never to go a step farther than I send you when you go out alone! You might have been lost if Mr. O'Brien hadn't met you!'

'Indeed we will not, Mother darling!' cried the two in one breath.

'And I think,' said May, soberly, 'we will tell Jane or somebody about our next surprise, and then we shall know whether it is all right.'

E. S. S.

THE SLOTH.

Waterton, the famous naturalist, has told us concerning his doings with a sloth when he was going through a forest near the River Essequibo. He says: 'I saw a large sloth on the ground upon the bank. How he had got there n.o.body could tell. My Indian said he had never surprised a sloth in such a situation before. He could hardly have come there to drink, for both above and below the place the branches of the trees touched the water, and afforded him an easy and safe access to it. Be this as it may, though the trees were not above twenty yards from him, he could not make his way through the sand in time to escape before we landed. As soon as we came up to him, he threw himself on his back, and defended himself with his legs.

'"Come, poor fellow," said I to him, "if thou hast got into a hobble to-day, thou shalt not suffer for it. I will take no advantage of thee in misfortune. The forest is large enough both for thee and me to rove in. Go thy way alive and enjoy thyself in the wilds; it is probable thou wilt never have another interview with man, so fare thee well!"

'After this I took up a long stick which was lying there, held it for him to hook on, and then conveyed him to a high and stately tree. He ascended with wonderful rapidity, and in about a minute he was almost at the top. He now went off in a side direction, and caught hold of the branch of a neighbouring tree; next he went towards the heart of the forest. I stood looking on, amazed at his singular mode of progress. I was going to add that I never saw a sloth take to his heels in such earnest, but the expression will not do, for the sloth has no heels.'

The Indians of Guiana declare that the sloth travels chiefly when the wind blows. During calm weather the animal is still, but if a breeze rises, the branches of the trees generally become interwoven, and he can pursue his journey safely from branch to branch. Should a wind blow, as it often does, after ten o'clock in the morning till sunset, a sloth will manage a good distance without resting.

Seldom, unless perhaps by accident, is a sloth seen upon the ground.

There its movements do seem laborious and painful. Its home is amongst trees, and its favourite position not on, but under, the branches. Off the trees it obtains the various insects which are its food, and escapes the danger of being seized by most beasts of prey. When the sloth is at rest under a branch, it has been noticed to make a sort of purring sound, expressing pleasure, though at times one is heard uttering a plaintive shriek, possibly telling of discontent.

The head of the sloth is small and round. It is well clothed with s.h.a.ggy hair, and the fore-legs are long and strong. While quite young, the little sloth is carried about by its mother.

THE NIGHT BEFORE MY BIRTHDAY.

The longest night--so people say-- Follows the short December day; And if by hours you count the night, Then surely what they say is right.

But years, and years, and years ago, When I was very young, you know, The longest night, I'm bound to say, Followed the shortest month's last day.

_That_ night I always lay awake, And longed to see the morning break, And sunshine through the window burst, For I was born on March the First.

I heard the big clock--stiff and stark-- Sedately ticking in the dark, And when I murmured: 'Hurry, _do_!'

It made reply by chiming 'Two.'

And on from hour to hour it seemed I dozed, I waked, I thought and dreamed Of pleasures mine--an endless sum-- If March the First would ever come.

And yet the morning's earliest peep Would always find me fast asleep: So fast asleep that at my door They called and called me o'er and o'er.

So, since that time I've learned, my dear, The longest night in all the year Is that on which we lie awake, Impatient for the dawn to break.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 87._)

CHAPTER V.

'Where's Estelle?' cried Alan, bursting into the schoolroom at the Moat House a few days later. 'I'm so sorry, Mademoiselle, for startling you like that, but I thought Estelle was sure to be here.'

'She has gone to the Bridge House,' answered Mademoiselle, with an indulgent smile.

She was quite prepared for any amount of interruption and noise during the holidays, since Alan always brought a lively, breezy air with him, in his delight at being home again, and free from school work.

'Estelle is taking some grapes and roses to d.i.c.k Peet,' continued Mademoiselle. 'He seemed very weak and poorly when we pa.s.sed yesterday, and she has so wanted to do something for him. He's a sad wreck, poor fellow!'

'Poor chap! It's hard lines on him. I will cut down and catch Estelle before she leaves the Bridge House.'

He was off, and Mademoiselle heard his fleet steps in the corridor a moment. Then she saw him going at full speed down the drive, so br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with health and spirits, so keen in the enjoyment of life and activity, with a future before him so rose-coloured and fortunate, that she could not but contrast him with that poor broken specimen of humanity, Richard Peet, the gardener's son. A contrast to him, indeed, were the children as they stood together in the little garden at the Bridge House. d.i.c.k, seated in his armchair, was looking at them in his peaceful, half-sleepy way. A handsome fellow he must have been in the days of health and prosperity. Even now, though he was paralysed in brain as well as in limbs, there was a wonderful expression of goodness and patience in his worn face.

'Are you well to-day?' asked little Georgie, putting his hand on the invalid's knee, and looking up into his face with his blue eyes full of childish sympathy.

d.i.c.k smiled. Getting better every day,' replied he, in the indistinct accents of the partially paralysed.

Estelle was arranging her flowers on the little table at his side, and Marjorie had gone to speak to Mrs. Peet.

The house was close to the old drawbridge, and its garden sloped down to the waters of the moat. Shining like silver in the bright sunshine, the waterlilies were resting on their broad leaves, and two swans were sailing in stately beauty. The summer sun had banished all signs of the thunderstorm, and d.i.c.k's chair had been placed near the elms overhanging the water. It was a pretty, well-kept garden, and a very old-world house, with a deep porch, overgrown with honeysuckle and clematis--a home not to be despised by any one. The rooms were of good size and well furnished, and everything had been done which could make d.i.c.k happy and comfortable in his misfortune.

'Better!' said Mrs. Peet, who came down the lawn with Marjorie, and had heard d.i.c.k's reply to Georgie's question, 'It's not the sort of getting better that _we_ understand. He is a bit weaker, if anything. Perhaps 'tis the heat tries him. My poor d.i.c.k!' she went on, putting her ap.r.o.n to her eyes, 'he will never be better in this world, that's what I says, though it does make his father angry.'

'Is he angry?' said Estelle. 'Why?

'He thinks it is hard on us, is poor d.i.c.k's illness. It _is_ hard! But it seems to me we have much to be thankful for, specially in my lady's goodness to us in our affliction.'

'I think it's worse for d.i.c.k than for any one else,' declared Alan, who had joined the group; he could not imagine a more terrible life than the one of utter helplessness to which d.i.c.k was condemned.

'So it is,' returned Mrs. Peet, with a heavy sigh, as she gazed at her son with tears in her eyes, 'and he is so patient! Why, you never so much as hear a grumble, nor a fret! Now, what do you think his great wish is--what he is always wanting, miss?'

'If it is anything we can do---- ' began Marjorie.

'That it isn't, miss, nor n.o.body else. He wants some news of the man what done him the mischief. d.i.c.k's that soft. And--and, well, he is an angel. His father don't understand it, but d.i.c.k has really forgiven that man. He's downright anxious to hear how that rascal's been getting on.'

'Why should he care about that?' said Alan, who knew very little of d.i.c.k's story.

'He's afraid that the man thinks he's killed him, and that perhaps he's made wickeder than he was before,' answered Mrs. Peet, shaking her head.

'He said he'd die satisfied if he could hear that the fellow had repented.'