The short wintry days were beginning to lengthen, the sun rose
earlier and staid up longer. Now and then a bluebird was heard
twittering a welcome to the coming spring. As for the robins, they
were as pert and busy as usual. The little streams were beginning to
find their way out of their icy prison slowly and with trembling, as
if they feared old winter might take a step and catch them, and
pinch them all up again.

Frank and Harry were sorry to see their snow man growing smaller and
smaller every day; from being a large, portly gentleman, he was
shrunk into a thin, shabby, ugly-looking fellow. His strong arms
were about falling to the ground; his fat nose had entirely
disappeared, and his mouth had grown so big that you might look down
his great throat, and see the place where one of the boys used to go
in to make his snowship talk. Frank and Harry loved all their winter
amusements, and were loath to give up skating, sliding, and
coasting, and above all, snowballing. Yet the boys enjoyed the
lengthening twilight—the hour their mother devoted to them.

“Will you please to give me two cents, Mother?” said Frank, one day.

“For what?”

“To buy a piece of chalk.”

“And two for me, Mother,” said Harry, “for I want a piece as well as
Frank.”

“What are you both going to do with chalk?” asked their mother. They
were silent. She asked again, but they made no reply. “I cannot give
you the money till you tell me what you want of the chalk. Why are
you not willing that I should know?”

The boys continued silent for a short time, and then Frank said, “I
am afraid that, if you know what we are going to do with the chalk,
you will not let us have the money.”

“Then,” replied their mother, “you think what you want to do is
wrong. I, perhaps, ought to insist upon your telling me what you
want of the chalk. I love to give you every innocent pleasure, and
what is right for you to do I think I may know about. However, if
you will assure me it is for nothing wrong that you want the chalk,
I will ask no more questions, and give you the money.”

“We do not mean to do any great harm with it,” said Harry. “Still I
am afraid you will not quite like to have us do it, mothers are so
much more particular than boys, you know.”

“Try and see if we disagree about this matter,” said their mother.

“Shall I tell?” said Harry to Frank.

“Yes,” he replied. “It is no such dreadful affair. Let’s tell mother
all about it. You know, she said the other day that she remembered
when she was a boy.”

They all laughed at this often quoted blunder, and Harry began: “You
see, Mother, that yesterday John Green contrived, while we were in
school, and engaged in doing our lessons, to make a great B on
Frank’s and my back, with a piece of chalk. John is a good hand at
such things, and he did it so nicely, that the master did not see
him, and neither of us saw the B on the other. When we went out to
play, all the boys cried out, “B for blockhead, B for blunderbuss, B
for booby,” and so on, ever so many other names beginning with B,
and kept pointing at us. At last, I saw Frank’s mark, and he saw
mine. I can tell you we were both angry enough. Now we want to be
revenged on John Green, and have a capital plan. You see he will be
on his guard, and we must be very cunning. To-morrow is exhibition
day, and he will have on his best dark-green jacket, and Frank and I
are to sit one on each side of him. You see he is really a dunce
about every thing but playing tricks; and, when he is asked a
question, he will be scared out of his senses, and not know what to
say. Now Frank is going to pretend to help him, while I write Dunce
in large letters on the stupid fellow’s back. John will not know
what I am doing, I am sure; and, as he is a real dunce, it will make
a good laugh; every one will think he is well served, and the whole
school will make fun of him.”

“So,” said Mrs. Chilton, “you acknowledge that you are planning a
piece of revenge.”

“Why, yes, Mother,” replied Frank; “I suppose you would think it
ought to be called revenge, but I don’t see any great harm in it.
Schoolboys always play such tricks, and no boy thinks the worse of
another for such a thing.”

“You think,” said Mrs. Chilton, “that this schoolmate of yours will
be so embarrassed at answering the questions that he will not know
what he is about; you mean, one of you, to pretend to be his friend
and help him, while the other makes him appear like a fool to the
rest of the boys.”

Frank and Harry looked a little troubled, and were silent a while.
Then Frank said, “It is no more than what John would do; ’tis what
he deserves, and it is true enough that he is a dunce.”

“I will tell you, Frank, a better way of being revenged,” replied
his mother.

“What is it, Mother?”

“Sit by him, as you intended, and when he is troubled and perplexed,
help him as well as you can, and be particularly kind to him.”

“And so reward him for making fools of us,” said Prank, pettishly.
“No, Mother, what you say may be very good, but I don’t want to do
such a thing as that.”

“If you were to treat him in the way I propose, do you think he
would ever treat you unkindly again? Would he not feel deeply
ashamed of his conduct if you thus returned him good for evil?”

The boys were silent, but it was evident that they did not quite
relish their mother’s advice, nor feel at all disposed to help John
Green say his lessons.

“I will tell you a story,” said Mrs. Chilton, of a man who overcame
evil with good. A gentleman was once travelling alone in a gig
through a very unfrequented road. There was no house, no sign of
human existence there. It was so still that the hills and rocks and
deep woods gave back the echo of his horse’s hoofs; the song of a
bird or the chirping of a cricket seemed to fill a great space, and
fell on the ear with a strange and almost startling effect. He was
observing or rather feeling this extreme solitude and stillness,
when suddenly at a turn in the road he came upon a man who placed
himself directly before the horse’s head. The man had a dark, bad
expression in his face, and fixed his eye upon the traveller in such
a way as to convince him that the man meant to stop and rob him.

The gentleman immediately drew up his reins, and said kindly,
“Friend, if you are going my way, step into my gig, and let me take
you on.”

The man hesitated, and then got in. My friend, who was a clergyman,
began immediately to talk earnestly about many interesting things,
and kept up a lively conversation. At last, he mentioned the
uncommon loneliness of the road, and observed that it would be a
good place for a robbery. He then went on to speak of robbers, and
then of criminals in general, and of what he thought was the right
way to treat them. He said that society should try to instruct and
reform them; that putting them to death was wicked; that, by patient
love and kindness, we should win them back to virtue, that we should
show them the way to peace and honor. He expressed his belief, that
there was something good in the heart of the very worst man, and
said that he believed God had placed a witness of Himself in every
human heart. “I am a non-resistant”–concluded the clergyman, “and I
would rather die than take the life of my bitterest enemy.”

The man listened very attentively. When they came to the next road,
he asked to be allowed to get out, as he said his home lay that way.
After bidding farewell, he added, “I thank you for taking me in, and
for all you have said to me. I shall never forget it. You have saved
me from a crime. When I met you, I meant to rob you. I could easily
have done so; but your kind words put better thoughts into my heart.
I think I shall never have such an evil purpose again. I thank God I
met you. You have made me a better man.”

“Now,” said Mrs. Chilton, “I will give you, boys, the money you ask
for, and leave you to do as you think best about John Green.”

“But, Mother,” said Harry, “I am sure chalking a boy’s back is a
very different thing from robbing a man; and chalking back again is
not like keeping a poor fellow in prison all his life, or hanging
him.”

“Very true, Harry, but the principle of overcoming evil with good is
the same for both cases. The evil purpose in the robber’s heart was
overcome by the love and kindness of the man he meant to injure.
Think the whole matter over, boys, and let me know to-morrow what
you have done. I leave you free to do as you think best.”

The next day after school, she asked them what they had done about
John Green, and whether they had spent their money for chalk to
write dunce on his back.

“I bought a piece of chalk,” said Frank, “for I thought I might want
very much to pay him back for his trick upon us, but the poor fellow
looked so frightened that I did not want to touch him.”

“I did not buy any chalk,” said Harry, “for I felt almost sure that,
if I had a piece in my pocket, I should leave some mark on his
back.”

“Did you then do nothing to revenge yourselves?” asked their mother.

“Frank had such a revenge as you would approve of,” said Harry.

“One of the examiners asked John where Athens was. The poor fellow
could not tell, for he is a real dunce, though we did not chalk the
word on his back. Well, he was just going to say that he did not
know, when Frank whispered the answer very softly into his ear, and
saved him from being disgraced. I did want, just then, to write
dunce on John’s back; but, on the whole, I pitied him, and, when I
heard him, after the examination, thank Frank, and say, “I am sorry
for what I did the other day,” I did feel that it was better to
overcome evil with good, though it comes hard, Mother, sometimes.”

“Very true,” said Mrs. Chilton; “to do right is not always easy. At
first, it is perhaps always hard, but it grows easier and easier,
the more we try; till, at last, that which was painful becomes
pleasant. Some good person, I forget who, said, “Whenever I want to
get over a dislike of any person, I always try to find an
opportunity to do him a service.” Tell me, Frank, if you do not feel
more kindly towards John Green, since you did him that kindness.”

“I suppose I do,” said Prank. “My anger is gone, at any rate.”

“We don’t want candles yet, do we, Mother,” said Harry. “There is
the moon just over the old pine tree, and there is a bright little
star waiting upon her. Now is our story time. Can you not make up
something to tell us?”

“I cannot think of any thing,” said Mrs. Chilton. “I believe I spun
all the cobwebs out of my brain when I told you about the old
garret.”

“Did you not say to us, the other day, Mother,” said Frank, “that,
when you were at uncle John’s many years ago, before we were born,
you wrote down some stories? I think you told aunt Susan that you
meant, when we were old enough, to read them to us.”

“I did, Frank, and when the light comes, I will read some of them.
Meantime, I will tell you one or two little anecdotes. I was dining
yesterday with a gentleman who told me this story. He was returning
from England to Boston in one of the fine royal steamers. When not
very far from the end of the voyage, he and some other gentlemen
determined to indulge themselves with the pleasure of giving a
dinner as good as they had every day to the sailors. I suppose you
know that in these steamers the passengers pay a large price for the
passage, and are feasted every day with luxuries. The gentleman
asked the captain’s leave to give this dinner, and wished him to
order it; but the captain replied, “I will have nothing to do with
such nonsense. I will give steward orders to do whatever you bid
him; and I don’t care what you do, only I must not appear in it.”
Accordingly, the gentleman gave the steward orders to provide the
very best dinner that the ship could afford, telling him to prepare
four courses, and adding that if the dinner was in any respect
inferior to what the cabin passengers had it would not be paid for.
The steward was desired to keep it a profound secret who ordered the
dinner, and not to say any thing about it beforehand.

When the day came, the sailors were astonished that they did not
have their dinner at the usual hour. Presently all hands were called
on deck. This was such an unusual thing when all was quiet in the
ship, that they were still more puzzled. The gentlemen meant to have
them dine in the cabin; but the captain advised against this on the
ground that sailors would feel confined in the cabin, and would not
enjoy themselves. So the dinner was served on deck. When the sailors
were assembled, and were ordered to take their places at the dinner
before them, they obeyed, looking greatly astonished. They were
first helped to soup–then to meats of all sorts–then puddings,
pies, &c.–then nuts, oranges, raisins, figs, and wine. At first,
they stared, as if they were in the land of dreams; but presently
the enchanting realities before them were welcomed and consumed with
the greatest relish. They were waited upon in the most respectful
manner. Their feast had no drawback. All was good and agreeable as
possible.

The gentleman said he had been at many grand dinners, but had never
enjoyed one so much as this.

The sailors tried to find out their benefactor, but no one would
tell them.

At last their suspicions fell upon the right man, him who told me
the story.

They chose the oldest of their number to wait upon him in the name
of the whole, to express their thanks. “When the old man approached
me,” said the gentleman to me, “he took off his hat and was going to
speak, but the tears came in his eyes, and he could not. He went
away, and presently returned; but again he lost his self-command,
and turned away. At last, he recovered himself enough to speak, and
these were his words: “‘Tis the first time, sir, that we were ever
treated like men.”

The captain, who laughed at the whim of these gentlemen, said
afterwards that he had never had such work from his sailors as he
had from that time to the end of the voyage.

I will tell you yet another true story.

There was a poor girl who was ill of a consumption. She did not
suffer much, yet was pretty certain that she should never get well.
She was very happy, however, for she had many beautiful thoughts to
keep her company in the sick room.

One day a good man came to visit her, and told her of a school in
Canada, to teach colored people who had been slaves, and had run
away from their masters. You know that in Canada American slaves
become free English subjects.

He told her that he was trying to get money to pay teachers in this
school.

The poor girl was very much interested, wished much to contribute
something, and felt grieved at her poverty. Presently her face
lighted up with a sad smile. “I have,” said she, “one thing of value
which I could give you, but,” (and she looked very sad,) “it would
be hard parting with it. My mother gave it to me.” She went to a
drawer, and took out of it a gold necklace. Then, as if she were
talking to herself, she said, “How sweetly my mother smiled upon me
when she put this around my neck! I cannot wear it now, my neck is
so thin, and is always covered up. She would wish me to give it for
this purpose, I know. Yes, she would like I should do it. But then I
cannot bear to give it away. It was hers; she wore it herself. I
shall not keep it a great while longer, at any rate. I can desire my
uncle to give it to the school when I am gone.” She covered her face
with her hands, but you could see her tears through her thin,
emaciated fingers.

Her friend, who had told her about the school, simply to please and
interest her, begged her not to think any more of giving away the
necklace, and spoke to her of something else.

“No,” said she, “I cannot keep it, now that it has come into my mind
that I ought to give it to you for the school. You must take it.
Forgive my weakness; the thought of my dear departed mother brings
the tears to my eyes.”

“Think again, then, before you give away this precious necklace,”
said the good man.

She put the necklace into his hand, and said, as she did so, “I have
thought of it again, and I have decided to give it.”

He took it, and left the generous-hearted girl, praying that she
might recover, but fearing that he should never see her again.

Not long after this, in a steamboat, he met a gentleman with whom he
had much conversation upon various subjects; among others the
institution for the instruction of the poor runaways. He mentioned
among other things this poor girl’s gift, and her grief at parting
with her mother’s gold necklace. “I hated,” said he, “to take it.
She will not stay here long, and her pleasures are very few.” He
mentioned also the name of the town in New Hampshire where she
lived.

“That is my native place,” said the gentleman to whom he was
relating the story. “Will you let me see the necklace?”

“Certainly,” said the missionary, and he took it from his pocket.

“What sum of money shall you obtain for this necklace?”

“I have had it weighed,” said he, “and I shall get so much money for
it,” naming the sum.

“Are you willing to sell it to me for that sum?”

“Certainly; that is all I can obtain for it.”

The bargain was concluded. The stranger paid the sum. Then, putting
the necklace into his own pocket, he said, “She shall have it for a
new year’s gift.”

Now let us, on the first of January, visit the poor sick girl again.
Early in the morning, some one hands her a little parcel–she opens
it, and there is her precious necklace, the gift of her dear mother
in the heavenly land. It is accompanied by a short note in which the
writer begs her not to part with the necklace again while she lives,
but to consider it her own to do as she pleases with it at her
death.

The stranger, who had purchased the necklace, and sent it back to
the poor girl, knew the true value of riches, and understood and
enjoyed the luxury of doing good, of making the poor and the
sorrowful rejoice. He was the same man who planned the dinner.”

After tea, Mrs. Chilton took out her manuscript book.

“The story I shall read,” said she, “is a very painful one, but
sadly true. If it makes you very unhappy, you must try to let it
save you from committing the fault which was so severely punished.
All the essential facts are true, as I shall read them to you.

“IT IS ONLY A TRIFLE.”

“Be sure, my son,” said Mr. Pratt, as he left his counting room, in
Philadelphia, “be sure that you send that money to Mr. Reid to-day;
direct it carefully, and see that all is done in proper form and
order.”

“Yes, sir,” replied George, “I will.”

George fully intended to obey implicitly. He was, in the main,
desirous to do right; but he had one great fault. When he had a
small duty to perform, he was apt to say and think, “O, that is only
a trifle. Why should we lay so much stress on trifles?” He would
often say, when any one found fault with him for the neglect of a
small duty, “I am sure it is only a trifle.”

George, as soon as he had finished something he was about, wrote the
letter according to the directions given him, carefully enclosed the
money in it, nicely folded and sealed it. Just as he was preparing
to direct it, a young man opened the door of the counting room in
great haste, and begged him to go with him that moment, to speak to
some one who was then passing.

“I can direct and carry the letter,” said George’s younger brother;
“I know to whom it is to go, and I can send it just as well as you.”

George had a slight feeling in his heart that he ought not to leave
this letter to any one to direct; but his brother again said, “I
should think I could do such a trifling thing as that; I can surely
direct a letter, though I cannot write one yet.”

Frank was the younger apprentice, and was anxious to get forward and
do what George did.

“Well,” said George, “you may do it, but be sure you do it right.
John Reid, you know, is the name;” and he went with his companion.
“It is only a trifle,” he said to himself, as he remembered his
father’s charge. “I have done all that is really important. It is of
little consequence who directs and carries the letter.” So he chased
away the slight cloud that hung over his mind as he left the
counting room with his friend.

These slight clouds that rise in the soul’s horizon, so prophetic,
so full of mercy or of terror as we regard or slight them! “Why do
we not learn their meaning? Why are they not ever messengers of love
and peace to us? Had George stopped and considered, perhaps he would
not have done as he did, perhaps he would not have called this duty
a trifle, and would not have left the counting room till he had
performed every tittle of his father’s command.

The letter was directed and sent. Frank did as well as he knew how.

When George returned, he asked, “Have you directed the letter to Mr.
John Reid?”

“Yes, I have, and carried it to the office.”

“Did you enclose that money to Mr. Reid, George?” asked his father,
when he next saw him.

“Yes, sir,” George replied, with a slight hesitation, which,
however, he soon got over; “for,” said he to himself, “I enclosed
the money carefully; what does it matter whether Frank or I directed
the letter?” So he spoke out freely to his father.

“All right, father; the letter is on its way to Ohio.”

Unfortunately his father had not noticed his hesitation, was
satisfied, and asked no further questions.

Again George checked the monitions of his conscience. Again he said
to himself, “It’s only a trifle.” He had yet to learn that no duty
is a trifle.

Weeks passed, and there was no acknowledgment of the money. At last
a letter arrived from Mr. Reid to Mr. Pratt, requesting him, if
convenient, to pay the two hundred dollars promised to him some
weeks before.

Mr. Reid was a poor man, to whom two hundred dollars was an
important sum.

Mr. Pratt again questioned his son, and was again assured that the
money had been sent, and wrote to Mr. Reid accordingly, advising him
to inquire at the post office.

There happened to be a young man in the office, by the name of Harry
Brown, whose mother was a widow. She was poor, and a stranger in the
town. Her son had obtained his place on account of his quick
intelligence, and because he could also write a very good hand.
Strong suspicions fell upon him. He was questioned about the letter,
and at last Mr. Reid accused him of the theft.

The young man’s indignation was uncontrollable; he turned white with
anger; he could not speak; he stammered and clenched his fists, and
at last burst into tears and left the office.

All this was taken for the agony of detected guilt and neither the
postmaster nor Mr. Reid attempted to stop him, for neither of them
wished to have him punished, and they hoped to recover the money by
gentler means.

We will now change the scene. Let us enter this small, neat cottage.
There are but two rooms on the floor. One is kitchen and parlor, the
other a bed room. A sort of ladder in one corner intimates that in
the small attic is also a sleeping place. A small table is spread
for two people; it is very clean and nice, but every thing that you
see indicates poverty. An old woman, with a sweet but sorrowful
countenance, sits by the small window, looking anxiously out of it
for some one who you might suppose was to share her simple meal with
her, which stood nicely covered up at the fire, awaiting his
arrival. She is talking to herself.

“One treasure is yet left me in this world–my noble, beautiful,
brave son. God bless him; for him I am willing to live. There he
comes; how fast he runs! but how red and heated he looks! What is
the matter, Harry? what has happened?” she exclaimed, as he entered;
“are you sick?”

“Yes, Mother, and I shall never be well again. I have been accused
of stealing, and Mr. Reid and the postmaster both believe it. I
cannot live here any longer. I have just come from the recruiting
office; I have enlisted for the Mexican war, and I hope I shall be
shot; I go the day after to-morrow. I will never be seen here again.
To think that any one should dare to accuse me of theft! Why did I
not knock him down? I hate the world, I hate all mankind, I hate
life, I want to die. If it were not for you, Mother, I believe I
should kill myself. O Mother, Mother! how can I live?” And the poor
fellow laid his head in his mother’s lap and wept bitterly.

The poor mother–she spoke not, she did not weep; she laid her hands
upon her son’s head, and looked up through the thin roof of her poor
cottage, far, far into the everlasting heavens, where alone are
peace and hope to be found. In her deep agony she called upon the
Almighty for aid. She looked like a marble image of despair.

“I must prepare to go,” at last her son said; “I have enlisted, and
I must be ready. “What will you do with yourself, Mother?”

“Go with you, my child. Wherever you go, there I go too. I can cook
for the camp. You have done wrong, my son, in enlisting as a
soldier; why not come first to me? Your innocence will yet be
proved. Why were you so rash? All might have yet been well with us.”

“I cannot bear it, Mother; I must go.”

“Then I go with you; I will never desert you.”

“But O, you will be killed with fatigue and exposure. Mother, dear
Mother, stay till I can get you a new home.”

“I go, my son, where you go,” said his mother; “my only home is with
you.”

In two days their few possessions were sold, and they were gone.

We will now return to the counting room where our TRUE story began.
Some months had passed; the father and son are there. “George,” said
Mr. Pratt, “I cannot but fear you made some mistake about that
letter. Money is seldom stolen out of letters. Were you very
particular about the name and place in your direction?”

“The truth is, Sir, that Frank directed the letter; I wrote and
folded and sealed it; but just as I was going to direct it, Harry
Flint called me to speak to some one, and I let Frank direct it; but
I told him to be sure to direct it to Mr. John Reid, and I know he
did so, just as well as if I had seen it.”

The father looked much displeased. “You did wrong, George, after my
particular orders.”

“Why, Father, I am sure it was of no importance which of us did it.
That was only a trifle, I am sure. I told Frank the name, and he
knows where Mr. Reid lives. I should not think you would blame me
for this–”

“I do blame you very much. You should not have left this to Frank. I
charged you to be very careful. This was your own duty, and you
should have performed it yourself. Your neglect will most likely
cost me two hundred dollars, for I shall send the money to Mr. Reid;
he of course is not to lose it. You cannot be sure that Frank
directed the letter correctly; he is not used to the work.”

George began to feel that it was not a trifle to leave another
person to direct a letter of importance; he felt very sorry at the
thought of losing his father’s money. Poor fellow! he had a worse
pain than this to endure.

The next morning, when the letters came from the post office, there
was one from Mr. Reid. The missing letter had at last arrived, and
the two hundred dollars were in it. The letter had been misdirected.
There was a mistake in the name of the place. The letter had been
sent to Washington, whence he had just received it, as the person
whose office it is to read these letters knew him personally, and so
could correct the mistake. He then related the sad story of the
clerk and his poor mother. He added that he went to the poor woman’s
house the very day that he left the town, intending to satisfy his
mind upon the question of her son’s guilt, of which he began to
doubt–intending, if he found the young man innocent, to take him
back into the office, and if not, to try to induce him to restore
the money, and go, to recover his character, to some other place, to
which he would have helped him to remove. He was too late. He found
the house empty. “I pity the person,” he said, “who misdirected that
letter–he was the unconscious cause of the ruin of two excellent
beings. We may blame the young man’s violence, and may call him
foolish and passionate; yet it was a deep hatred of even the
appearance of sin and shame that made him do so mad an action as to
enlist in a wicked war.”

Mr. Pratt now read this letter to his son. George covered his face
to hide his shame and sorrow; his heart was ready to break with
agony. He groaned aloud. He spoke not one word.

George was suffering in silence the bitterest of all pains which a
good mind can endure,–that of being the cause of misery to others,
through one’s own wrong-doing. After a few moments, he started up
and exclaimed, “I must send word to the poor fellow that the money
is found and his innocence proved; let me do what I can to repair
the evil I have caused. If I write to the postmaster and tell him
the story, he will take the poor fellow back again. I have some
money of my own, Father, to pay for the travelling expenses of the
boy and his mother. All perhaps may yet be right. I can work. I will
do any thing for them. Poor Harry Brown–so proud and so honest! O,
Father! I hate myself. But how shall I send him word? the post is
not certain; let me think. Bill Smith said he was going to the war,
if he could get money enough for his journey. He would take my
letter. I’ll be after him, and get him off in no time.”

Away flew George; he gave Bill Smith the money, told him the story,
and sent him off for that very night, George then wrote to the
postmaster, and implored him to write immediately to Harry, and
offer him again the place in the office. George went to bed with a
heavy heart, still with the hope that poor Harry had not been
killed.

Now let us follow Harry and his old mother to Mexico. Many weeks
have passed since we left George mourning his fault, and sending up
prayers for the life of poor Harry. It is a few days after a battle.
On the ground, in the corner of a small tent, lies a poor soldier.
Bandages stained with blood are lying about. The poor sufferer is
very pale, and his face shows marks of pain. An old woman, whose
face is full of anxious love, sits by his side and holds his hand.
The young man lifts the old withered hand to his lips and kisses it;
he looks up through the thin canvas of his tent, and says, “Thank
God, dear Mother, that you are here with me now to take care of me,
else I think I should die. Forgive my rashness; if I live will yet
be a good son to you. I knew was not a thief, and that ought to have
been enough for me. I was wrong to be so angry, and to forget you,
whom I ought to have staid by and taken care of, as I promised
father I would. Forgive me, dear Mother. Perhaps I shall be a better
man with one leg than I was with two.”

While the poor fellow, who had lost his leg the first day he went to
battle, was slowly uttering these words, the tears were running fast
down the hollow cheeks of his old mother, but gentle, quiet tears,
as though the heart of her who shed them was resigned and peaceful.

“I thank God for your life, my son. Your fighting days are over;
they have been short; but usefulness and happiness are yet before
you, though you go through life maimed. I shall yet see you smiling
and happy again in our cottage, your innocence proved, your place
restored, and friends all around you.”

“How can that be?” said Harry; “there is only my word and character
as evidence of my honesty. I cannot go back to the old place–never,
never, Mother. What shall I do? Better die than live disgraced.”

“Have no fear, Harry; I have none. I am sure all will be well, and
your honesty proved. So go to sleep, as the surgeon directed. Have
faith; you have shown courage.” His mother smoothed the clothes over
him, and gently stroked his hand, and he was silent, and fell
asleep.

Presently, the surgeon looked in. He was a kind-hearted man, and
knew their story. He said softly, “When the boy wakes I have some
news for him that will do him more good than I can.”

Harry, who was just waking, started and exclaimed, “What news? tell
me this minute! is the money found?”

“Come, Mr. Gunpowder, keep quiet, if you please, or you’ll not hear
any thing from me.”

“Yes, yes; I am as quiet as a lamb, only be quick. Tell me the
news.”

“Well, here are two letters that a great six foot chap has brought,
not for your lambship, Mr. Harry, but for your good mother, who
takes things like a rational being.”

He gave the letters to the mother and left the tent, saying with a
smile, “Don’t be too happy.”

The letter from the postmaster was to ask Harry’s pardon for the
injustice, and to offer the place in the office. “There is no one,”
it concluded, “I could trust as I can you.”

The other was from George, as follows:–

“DEAR MR. BROWN: My neglect of my duty in directing a letter was the
real cause of the suspicion that fell upon you. I can never forgive
myself. I can hardly hope you can forgive me. If you will be
generous enough to try to do so, you will make me less unhappy. If
you accept the sum I enclose you to meet the expenses of your
journey, I shall be less miserable. By taking it you will prove that
you pity and forgive me,–the unintentional cause of so much evil to
you and your excellent mother.” George enclosed a check for five
hundred dollars, all he had saved from his earnings as a clerk for
the two years past.

“Thank Heaven, my innocence is proved!” said the honest fellow.
“But, Mother, I don’t want the money.”

“It is kinder to take it,” said the mother.

Harry submitted. Ere long, he was able to move on crutches. He and
his mother were again in their little cottage. Harry received the
heartiest welcome from his towns-people when he was seen again with
his one leg in his place in the post-office.

George often went to the town. His first visit was always to Mrs.
Brown. He treated her as if she were his mother, and her son was to
him as a brother. He was often heard to say, “The sound of Harry
Brown’s crutches always reminds me sorrowfully that when there is a
duty to perform involving the rights of others we should never say,
It is only a trifle.”

“It seems to me,” said Frank, “that I should never have been happy
again to have caused so much misery by the neglect of my duty; and
yet, Mother, it did seem a trifle.”

“My mother,” replied Mrs. Chilton, “said to me, when I was a girl,
Never consider any duty, ever so great, as too difficult, or any,
ever so small, as too trifling. I have never forgotten her words,
and though I have not always been faithful to this lesson, it has
often saved me from wrong-doing and its consequent unhappiness.”

After a short silence, Mrs. Chilton said to her boys, The next story
is not so painful, but it illustrates the same truth–that, in
matters of conscience, nothing is trifling. You shall now hear how
happy a good conscience can make one even under the severest trials.

One pleasant afternoon, my friend and I were seated in the neat
little room which served old Susan Vincent for parlor, kitchen, and
bed-room. She was sitting in a nice arm-chair which her infirmities
made necessary for her comfort. A kind friend had sent it to her.
She had on a nice clean gingham gown, a handkerchief crossed on her
neck, in the fashion of the Shakers, and a plain cap, as white as
the driven snow, covered her silver locks. A little round table,
polished by frequent scouring, stood beside her; on it was her
knitting work, Baxter’s Saints’ Rest, and the Bible; the last lay
open before her. She was reading in it when we entered. As her door
was open and she did not hear very quickly, we had an opportunity of
observing her before she perceived us. There was that deep interest
in her manner of reading this holy book, as she was leaning over it
with her spectacles on, entirely absorbed, that made her resemble a
person who was examining a title deed to an estate which was to make
her the heir of uncounted treasures. She was indeed reading with her
whole soul the proofs she there found of her claim to an inheritance
that makes all earthly riches seem poor indeed.

“I am glad to see you, dear,” was her affectionate welcome to me;
“do I know this lady with you?”

“No,” I answered; “she is my friend whom I told you the other day I
should bring to see you.”

“I am glad to see her if she is your friend,” she replied.

“I want you, Susan, if you are strong enough to-day, to repeat to my
friend that little account of yourself that you were once kind
enough to give me.”

“What, the whole story?” said Susan, “beginning at the beginning, as
the children say?”

Susan was silent a minute or two, as if to collect her thoughts, and
then said, I have always believed, that, though it seemed strange
that such a good-for-nothing creature as I am should be spared, and
others taken away, that, may be, I was left to give my testimony for
some good purpose, and that my experience might do some good to poor
pilgrims. For

     "It is a straight and thorny road,
        And mortal spirits tire and faint;
      But they forget the mighty God
        Who feeds the strength of every saint."

Susan knew half the hymn book by heart, and loved to repeat hymns so
well, that she could hardly have told her story without this
preface. She immediately began as follows:–

“My father, who was a sailor, lost his life at sea when I was two
years old; my mother never had very good health, and about six years
afterward she fell into a consumption. She lived only a year after
she was taken sick. I was too young to remember much of her, but I
have a distinct recollection of seeing her often sitting by a little
stand like this, with an open Bible upon it; and once I was struck
with her looking up to heaven with her hands clasped for a long time
as if she were praying, and then looking at me, and then at the
book; and I saw big tears rolling down her cheeks. She called me to
her, and said, with an earnest but broken voice, God save my child
from the evil that is in the world! and give her the testimony of a
good conscience.

These words I could not forget, for the next day she died. We forget
many things in this world, ladies, but the words of a dying mother
we cannot help remembering. This was the first time I had ever seen
death, but there was such a peaceful, happy expression in my
mother’s face, that it did not seem very terrible to me, till I
found they were going to carry her away; indeed, I think I must have
believed it was sleep, and expected her to awake; for, when they
took her from me, I was half out of my senses, and screamed for them
to leave me my mother.

A kind old lady, a friend to my mother, took me in her lap and put
her arms round me, and tried to soothe and comfort me. She told me
my mother had gone to heaven; that it was only her body that was
dead; but that her soul was living, and was gone to heaven. “She
will never be sick or unhappy any more; she is gone to God, and she
will live forever with Jesus Christ and all good beings.”

“But I want to see her,” said I.

“You will see her again, I doubt not, my child, if you are good,”
the old lady said. Perhaps I should not have remembered so exactly
what she said, if she had not frequently repeated the same thing to
me, and if I had not loved my mother so much.

This excellent lady took me home with her, and it was to her
goodness I owe every thing. She had lost nearly all her property by
the failure of a merchant to whom she had lent money; she had
supported herself by taking boarders. I was perfectly destitute; my
mother had made out to get a living by taking in sewing, but left
nothing. The last year of her life she could not have got along
without my assistance, and what was given her by her charitable
neighbors; and for the last three months she could not even make her
bed, or clean her own room, or do her little cooking, without my
help. And O, how happy I was when I was helping my dear mother! Now
at this moment, when I am so old, and forget so many things, how
well I remember her and all she said! It seems as if I could hear
her say, “What should I do without you, my dear Susan.” It seems to
me as if I would rather live over again those days, when I was
trying to help and comfort my sick mother, than any of my whole
life. Children are not aware how much they can do for their parents,
nor do they know what a blessed remembrance it will be to them to
think that they have lessened the sufferings of a sick mother. All
the riches in the world would not afford them such happiness.

Mrs. Brown, the kind lady who took me home, told me that she would
send me to school, and that I should have a home at her house; but
that, as she was very poor, she should expect me to exert myself
when I was not at school, and do all I could to help in the house;
and that I must improve my time at school. She gave me a great deal
of good advice, and told me I must not imitate the bad conduct that
I might see; and that I must never do any thing without asking my
conscience whether it was right to do it. I remember she asked me if
I knew what my conscience was. I was not quite sure that I did; so I
said, I did not know whether I did. Then she asked me if I ever
remembered doing wrong.

“O yes, ma’am,” I said; “I never shall forget playing with my
mother’s bottle of cough drops, when she told me not to, and
spilling them all out. I did not tell her of it at first, and she
could not get any more till next day; and every time she coughed, it
seemed as if my heart would break; and I hated myself, and could not
bear it at all till I told her I had played with the bottle and
spilled the drops.”

“It was your conscience, Susan,” the old lady said, “that was so
troubled; it was your conscience that said you must tell your
mother; this is God’s witness in your heart; always do as that
directs you, and come what will, Susan, you can bear it.”

I was so grateful to my kind friend for her tender care of me, that
I attended to all she said to me, and never forgot it; and it has
been the source of happiness to me through life. I had not been long
in the school before I had a trial of my conscience, and I thank Him
who is the giver of all strength that I resisted this first
temptation.

One day the schoolmistress left her penknife open upon her desk,
when she went out of her room during the recess; nearly all the
girls took it into their hands to look at it, for it had a number of
blades, and was rather curious; some of them tried the knife to see
how sharp it was. We had been told not to meddle with her things,
and all of us knew it was wrong; as I was one of the small girls, I
did not get a chance to look at it till all had seen it; but, when
the others ran out to the play ground, and I was left alone, I went
to the desk, and took up the knife, and opened and shut all the
blades; but instead of leaving the one open which I found so, I left
open another blade, just put it on the edge of my nail, to see how
very sharp it was, and then laid it down, and ran after the rest of
the girls.

When the schoolmistress came in, she immediately saw that we had
taken up her knife. “Some one,” said she, “has been using my knife;
I am sure of it, because the blade that I left open is shut, and
another is open, and it is gapped; who has done it?” Not a girl
spoke; I thought that I was the only one who had opened and shut the
blades, but I knew I had not gapped either of them. I knew that all
the others had taken up the knife; I was afraid to speak; I did not
like to take the whole blame, and I was silent as the other girls
were.

After waiting a few minutes, our teacher said, “As none of you
choose to confess who has done this, I shall have to punish the
innocent with the guilty; I shall take away a merit from all of you,
except those few girls who, I feel sure, would not disobey me.”

There were only five girls in the school who did not lose a merit,
and I was one of the number. As she named them over, and gave her
reasons for believing them innocent, when she came to me, she said,
“Little Susan Vincent has been so orderly and so good ever since she
has been here, that I am sure it was not she that did it, and, if
she had, I am sure she would confess it.”

I felt as if I was choking; I put my head clear down so that no one
could see my face; but the girls, who had none of them seen me touch
the knife, thought that my modesty made me appear so much confused;
no one but God and myself knew that I had a guilty conscience. I
felt too dreadfully to speak then; I thought of nothing else all
school time; I missed in all my lessons, for I did not attend to any
thing that was said to me. The schoolmistress thought I was sick,
and I went home miserable enough.

As I went along, I thought over all that Mrs. Brown had said to me
about conscience, and I understood then what she meant by the voice
of God in the heart. No one accused me, but I felt like a criminal;
every one thought well of me; my schoolmistress and companions all
loved me; but I despised and hated myself. I felt as if God was
displeased with me.

As usual, I went directly to Mrs. Brown to ask what she had for me
to do. “What’s the matter, Susan?” said she; “you don’t look right;
have you been naughty, or are you sick, child?”

I could not bear to have her speak so kindly to me when I did not
deserve it, and I burst into tears; I loved her like a mother, and I
told her all.

“And now, Susan, what are you going to do?”

“I want you, ma’am, to tell the schoolmistress.”

“Better tell her yourself,” she answered.

After thinking a while, I said that I would; and then my conscience
was a little easier. I went a little before the time, that I might
see her alone. When I came in, I found a friend of hers with her,
and I heard my mistress whisper, “This is my dear little orphan
girl.” She called me to her, and took me up in her lap. “Well,
honest little Sue,” said she, “why don’t you look up in my face, as
you know you always do?”

This was too much for me; I burst into tears, and put my hands over
my face.

“What’s the matter, Susan?” said she.

As soon as I could speak, I said, “I did open the knife; I was
wicked when you thought I was good, for I did not tell the truth; I
opened and shut all the blades, and I cut a notch on my nail with
one, and then I did not tell you of it when you asked who opened
it.” When I had got it all out, I felt better; it seemed as if a
great load was taken off of my heart.

In a few minutes, my kind friend said to me, “I am sorry you did
wrong, Susan; but I am very glad to see that you have a tender
conscience, and that it has made you come and confess your faults; I
am very glad that you are so sorry; it is a bad sign when children
think they are happy, after they have done wrong. I trust, my dear
Susan, that you have suffered so much, that you will never commit
such a fault again; it was only foolish and disobedient to take up
my knife, but it was very wrong not to tell me, when I asked who did
it, and let me punish so many girls for your offence.”

I saw that she thought I was the only one that had touched the
knife, and believed me worse than I was; and then I felt what a
difference there was between a good and an evil conscience; for it
did not trouble me half so much that she thought me worse than I
really was, as to see that she thought me better.

Then she said, “You must, Susan, confess before the whole school
that it was you that took my knife.”

While she was speaking, the girls came in. I had cried so much that
I could hardly speak; and my good friend said that, as I was a
little girl, she would speak for me.

As soon as she said that I had confessed that it was I that took the
knife, almost every girl in the school cried out, “It was not little
Susan, it was I!” “It was not Sue, it was I!” was heard all round
the room. This made me feel bold enough to speak, and I said,

“Yes, I did take it up when you were all out on the play ground; I
opened and shut all the blades, and cut a little notch on my nail.”

“And so did I!” “And so did I!” was heard from a number of voices.
“And we took it up first,” said all the girls.

When there was silence, the schoolmistress told us that she was glad
to see that, though we had done wrong in the morning, we were trying
now to do right, and repair our fault; that although we had not
obeyed conscience then, we were acting as it directed us now.

“And are you not all happier?” said she. “Yes,” they all said. “And
is not God good, to put this feeling in your hearts, that makes you
unhappy when you do wrong, and happy when you do right? Follow this
guide, children, and it will lead you to heaven.”

It may seem strange that a child, hardly nine years old, should
remember all that was said at such a time; but I suffered a great
deal before I confessed my fault, for I was a little proud of my
good character at school, and my suffering made me remember.
Besides, Mrs. Brown often talked about conscience to me, and told me
that I must learn to govern myself, for that when she died, I should
have nothing but my character to depend upon; no guide but my Bible
and my conscience, and no protector but God.

When I was about fifteen years old, Mrs. Brown, my kind friend,
died, go sweetly and calmly that death in her seemed beautiful. I
sat by her side, after I had closed her eyes, and looked in her dear
face, till even my grief at losing her was quieted, and till I felt
what we learn in the good book, that the good never die. I felt sure
that her soul was with God.

After the funeral, I went out to inquire for a place, and soon found
one, for every one knew Mrs. Brown’s regard for me.

I met with a great trouble at my first place; I was the chamber
maid, and the nursery maid was envious of me, because my mistress
liked me better than her. She often accused me of faults I did not
commit; but, when my mistress spoke to me, I looked and was so
innocent that she was convinced.

One morning my mistress sent for me; as soon as I saw her face I
knew that something very bad was the matter, for the tears came into
her eyes when she spoke to me. She told me that she was very sorry,
but that she could not keep me any longer; she was grieved to lose
me, but more for the cause.

I asked her to tell me the cause.

“I am afraid,” she said, “indeed, Susan, I have a good reason to
believe, that you are not honest.”

I do confess, ladies, that I was very angry; it seemed as if all the
blood in my body flew up into my face and head; I could not speak,
and I don’t know but my confusion and anger together made me look
guilty.

“I am glad,” said she, “that you don’t tell any falsehood about it;
you are welcome to stay here till you get a place.”

By this time I could speak, and I said to her, “I am as innocent as
the child just born. I never took so much as a pin from any one; I
do not wish to stay a minute in your house; I would not stay in any
one’s house who had accused me of dishonesty;” and I called upon my
mother and my friend Mrs. Brown, though I knew they could not answer
me, and I cried aloud like a child.

My mistress shed tears, and said she should not have accused me
without certain proofs of my dishonesty, and begged me to confess my
fault, and to stay till I got a place; but I told her I would not
stay another minute, and I went to my chamber and tied up my bundle,
and put on my bonnet and shawl, and walked straight off without
speaking to any one.

I had gone nearly a mile before I was at all calmed, and then, out
of breath, and miserable beyond words to tell, I sat down under an
old tree by the roadside. It was autumn; the tree was stripped of
its leaves, the wind sounded mournfully among the dead branches,
there were heavy dark clouds in the sky, and my heart was heavier
and darker than the clouds, and my sighs were sadder than the wind.

The place where I had been living was two miles from the village
where I had lived with Mrs. Brown, and I had taken the road to it,
though then she was not there to take me in; I had no relation in
the wide world; O, I never shall forget that dreary moment, and how
desolate I felt. I looked up into the sky, and called upon God, the
Father of the fatherless; I cried to him for help, and help came to
me, for I felt stronger and I grew composed; and then I remembered I
was innocent, and just then the sun broke out between two dark
clouds, and it looked to me like the pure bright eye of God, looking
right into my heart, and seeing my innocence; and then it seemed as
if my soul was full of light, and I went on my way to the village,
feeling as if I had no dreadful sorrow.

When I got into the village, I remembered my old schoolmistress, and
I knew that, though she was poor herself, she would share her bed
with me for a night at least, and I remembered that scripture, “Be
not anxious for the morrow.”

It was dusk when I knocked at her door; and O, you know not, who
have never been without a happy home, how cheering to my heart was
the sound of her kind voice, saying, “Walk in.” She was not very
quick sighted, and at first she took me for a stranger, till I said,
“It is I, Miss Howe; do you not know me?” She turned me towards the
light that was still left in the west, and in a second exclaimed,
“Why, it is little Sue, my orphan girl!” This was too much for me.
She put her arms round me, and I cried again like a child; but they
were not such bitter tears as I had shed before.

“What brought you here at this time?” said she, “and what is the
matter? But come take some supper first, and tell me afterwards; you
look very tired.” She took off my bonnet, and made me sit down by
the fire, and finished getting her tea ready which she was preparing
when I came in, and made me drink a cup of it before she asked
another question, and then she said, “Now, Susan, tell me what is
the matter; something has happened, I know.” Then I told her all
that I knew myself, for why my mistress had treated me so I could
not tell.

When I had finished, she said, “Now, Susan, you will find the
advantage of a good character; if I did not believe that you would
starve sooner than steal or tell a falsehood, I should be afraid
about you now; but as it is, I do not feel uneasy, for I believe
that innocence always prevails. I will do the best I can for you; I
shall never forget the penknife; so, my child, do not cry any more,
and let us talk of other things; you shall have half of my bed and
whatever I have, till you can get a place to suit you; so, dear, do
not be downcast.”

O, young ladies, you must know what it is to be alone in the world,
and to be accused wrongfully, to be able to know the blessing of
kindness, of true Christian charity; it seemed as if a voice had
said to my troubled heart, “Peace, be still.”

Directly after breakfast the next morning, Miss Howe left me; she
said she was going to take a short walk before school began, and
should soon return. She looked much pleased when she came back. “I
think,” said she, “I have got a good place for you. It is at the
minister’s; I heard they wanted some one; I went and told them all
about you, and they believe you are innocent. Mr. A–says he
remembers you in Mrs. Brown’s sick chamber, but his wife thinks it
proper to go and see the lady you have been living with, and he will
come and see you this evening.”

A

“But why Turkish?” asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, gazing fixedly at
my boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed chair at the moment,
and my protruded feet had attracted his ever-active attention.

“English,” I answered in some surprise. “I got them at
Latimer’s, in Oxford Street.”

Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.

“The bath!” he said; “the bath! Why the relaxing and expensive
Turkish rather than the invigorating home-made article?”

“Because for the last few days I have been feeling rheumatic and
old. A Turkish bath is what we call an alterative in medicine–a
fresh starting-point, a cleanser of the system.

“By the way, Holmes,” I added, “I have no doubt the connection
between my boots and a Turkish bath is a perfectly self-evident
one to a logical mind, and yet I should be obliged to you if you
would indicate it.”

“The train of reasoning is not very obscure, Watson,” said Holmes
with a mischievous twinkle. “It belongs to the same elementary
class of deduction which I should illustrate if I were to ask you
who shared your cab in your drive this morning.”

“I don’t admit that a fresh illustration is an explanation,” said
I with some asperity.

“Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and logical remonstrance. Let
me see, what were the points? Take the last one first–the cab.
You observe that you have some splashes on the left sleeve and
shoulder of your coat. Had you sat in the centre of a hansom you
would probably have had no splashes, and if you had they would
certainly have been symmetrical. Therefore it is clear that you
sat at the side. Therefore it is equally clear that you had a
companion.”

“That is very evident.”

“Absurdly commonplace, is it not?”

“But the boots and the bath?”

“Equally childish. You are in the habit of doing up your boots
in a certain way. I see them on this occasion fastened with an
elaborate double bow, which is not your usual method of tying
them. You have, therefore, had them off. Who has tied them? A
bootmaker–or the boy at the bath. It is unlikely that it is the
bootmaker, since your boots are nearly new. Well, what remains?
The bath. Absurd, is it not? But, for all that, the Turkish
bath has served a purpose.”

“What is that?”

“You say that you have had it because you need a change. Let me
suggest that you take one. How would Lausanne do, my dear
Watson–first-class tickets and all expenses paid on a princely
scale?”

“Splendid! But why?”

Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took his notebook from his
pocket.

“One of the most dangerous classes in the world,” said he, “is
the drifting and friendless woman. She is the most harmless and
often the most useful of mortals, but she is the inevitable
inciter of crime in others. She is helpless. She is migratory.
She has sufficient means to take her from country to country and
from hotel to hotel. She is lost, as often as not, in a maze of
obscure pensions and boardinghouses. She is a stray chicken in a
world of foxes. When she is gobbled up she is hardly missed. I
much fear that some evil has come to the Lady Frances Carfax.”

I was relieved at this sudden descent from the general to the
particular. Holmes consulted his notes.

“Lady Frances,” he continued, “is the sole survivor of the direct
family of the late Earl of Rufton. The estates went, as you may
remember, in the male line. She was left with limited means, but
with some very remarkable old Spanish jewellery of silver and
curiously cut diamonds to which she was fondly attached–too
attached, for she refused to leave them with her banker and
always carried them about with her. A rather pathetic figure,
the Lady Frances, a beautiful woman, still in fresh middle age,
and yet, by a strange change, the last derelict of what only
twenty years ago was a goodly fleet.”

“What has happened to her, then?”

“Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she alive or
dead? There is our problem. She is a lady of precise habits,
and for four years it has been her invariable custom to write
every second week to Miss Dobney, her old governess, who has long
retired and lives in Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney who has
consulted me. Nearly five weeks have passed without a word. The
last letter was from the Hotel National at Lausanne. Lady Frances
seems to have left there and given no address. The family are
anxious, and as they are exceedingly wealthy no sum will be
spared if we can clear the matter up.”

“Is Miss Dobney the only source of information? Surely she had
other correspondents?”

“There is one correspondent who is a sure draw, Watson. That is
the bank. Single ladies must live, and their passbooks are
compressed diaries. She banks at Silvester’s. I have glanced
over her account. The last check but one paid her bill at
Lausanne, but it was a large one and probably left her with cash
in hand. Only one check has been drawn since.”

“To whom, and where?”

“To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to show where the check
was drawn. It was cashed at the Credit Lyonnais at Montpellier
less than three weeks ago. The sum was fifty pounds.”

“And who is Miss Marie Devine?”

“That also I have been able to discover. Miss Marie Devine was
the maid of Lady Frances Carfax. Why she should have paid her
this check we have not yet determined. I have no doubt, however,
that your researches will soon clear the matter up.”

“My researches!”

“Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne. You know that I
cannot possibly leave London while old Abrahams is in such mortal
terror of his life. Besides, on general principles it is best
that I should not leave the country. Scotland Yard feels lonely
without me, and it causes an unhealthy excitement among the
criminal classes. Go, then, my dear Watson, and if my humble
counsel can ever be valued at so extravagant a rate as two pence
a word, it waits your disposal night and day at the end of the
Continental wire.”

Two days later found me at the Hotel National at Lausanne, where
I received every courtesy at the hands of M. Moser, the well-
known manager. Lady Frances, as he informed me, had stayed there
for several weeks. She had been much liked by all who met her.
Her age was not more than forty. She was still handsome and bore
every sign of having in her youth been a very lovely woman. M.
Moser knew nothing of any valuable jewellery, but it had been
remarked by the servants that the heavy trunk in the lady’s
bedroom was always scrupulously locked. Marie Devine, the maid,
was as popular as her mistress. She was actually engaged to one
of the head waiters in the hotel, and there was no difficulty in
getting her address. It was 11 Rue de Trajan, Montpellier. All
this I jotted down and felt that Holmes himself could not have
been more adroit in collecting his facts.

Only one corner still remained in the shadow. No light which I
possessed could clear up the cause for the lady’s sudden
departure. She was very happy at Lausanne. There was every
reason to believe that she intended to remain for the season in
her luxurious rooms overlooking the lake. And yet she had left
at a single day’s notice, which involved her in the useless
payment of a week’s rent. Only Jules Vibart, the lover of the
maid, had any suggestion to offer. He connected the sudden
departure with the visit to the hotel a day or two before of a
tall, dark, bearded man. “Un sauvage–un veritable sauvage!”
cried Jules Vibart. The man had rooms somewhere in the town. He
had been seen talking earnestly to Madame on the promenade by the
lake. Then he had called. She had refused to see him. He was
English, but of his name there was no record. Madame had left
the place immediately afterwards. Jules Vibart, and, what was of
more importance, Jules Vibart’s sweetheart, thought that this
call and the departure were cause and effect. Only one thing
Jules would not discuss. That was the reason why Marie had left
her mistress. Of that he could or would say nothing. If I
wished to know, I must go to Montpellier and ask her.

So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The second was devoted
to the place which Lady Frances Carfax had sought when she left
Lausanne. Concerning this there had been some secrecy, which
confirmed the idea that she had gone with the intention of
throwing someone off her track. Otherwise why should not her
luggage have been openly labelled for Baden? Both she and it
reached the Rhenish spa by some circuitous route. This much I
gathered from the manager of Cook’s local office. So to Baden I
went, after dispatching to Holmes an account of all my
proceedings and receiving in reply a telegram of half-humorous
commendation.

At Baden the track was not difficult to follow. Lady Frances had
stayed at the Englischer Hof for a fortnight. While there she
had made the acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger and his wife, a
missionary from South America. Like most lonely ladies, Lady
Frances found her comfort and occupation in religion. Dr.
Shlessinger’s remarkable personality, his whole hearted devotion,
and the fact that he was recovering from a disease contracted in
the exercise of his apostolic duties affected her deeply. She
had helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the nursing of the convalescent
saint. He spent his day, as the manager described it to me, upon
a lounge-chair on the veranda, with an attendant lady upon either
side of him. He was preparing a map of the Holy Land, with
special reference to the kingdom of the Midianites, upon which he
was writing a monograph. Finally, having improved much in
health, he and his wife had returned to London, and Lady Frances
had started thither in their company. This was just three weeks
before, and the manager had heard nothing since. As to the maid,
Marie, she had gone off some days beforehand in floods of tears,
after informing the other maids that she was leaving service
forever. Dr. Shlessinger had paid the bill of the whole party
before his departure.

“By the way,” said the landlord in conclusion, “you are not the
only friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is inquiring after her
just now. Only a week or so ago we had a man here upon the same
errand.”

“Did he give a name?” I asked.

“None; but he was an Englishman, though of an unusual type.”

“A savage?” said I, linking my facts after the fashion of my
illustrious friend.

“Exactly. That describes him very well. He is a bulky, bearded,
sunburned fellow, who looks as if he would be more at home in a
farmers’ inn than in a fashionable hotel. A hard, fierce man, I
should think, and one whom I should be sorry to offend.”

Already the mystery began to define itself, as figures grow
clearer with the lifting of a fog. Here was this good and pious
lady pursued from place to place by a sinister and unrelenting
figure. She feared him, or she would not have fled from
Lausanne. He had still followed. Sooner or later he would
overtake her. Had he already overtaken her? Was that the secret
of her continued silence? Could the good people who were her
companions not screen her from his violence or his blackmail?
What horrible purpose, what deep design, lay behind this long
pursuit? There was the problem which I had to solve.

To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely I had got down
to the roots of the matter. In reply I had a telegram asking for
a description of Dr. Shlessinger’s left ear. Holmes’s ideas of
humour are strange and occasionally offensive, so I took no
notice of his ill-timed jest–indeed, I had already reached
Montpellier in my pursuit of the maid, Marie, before his message
came.

I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant and in learning all
that she could tell me. She was a devoted creature, who had only
left her mistress because she was sure that she was in good
hands, and because her own approaching marriage made a separation
inevitable in any case. Her mistress had, as she confessed with
distress, shown some irritability of temper towards her during
their stay in Baden, and had even questioned her once as if she
had suspicions of her honesty, and this had made the parting
easier than it would otherwise have been. Lady Frances had given
her fifty pounds as a wedding-present. Like me, Marie viewed
with deep distrust the stranger who had driven her mistress from
Lausanne. With her own eyes she had seen him seize the lady’s
wrist with great violence on the public promenade by the lake.
He was a fierce and terrible man. She believed that it was out
of dread of him that Lady Frances had accepted the escort of the
Shlessingers to London. She had never spoken to Marie about it,
but many little signs had convinced the maid that her mistress
lived in a state of continual nervous apprehension. So far she
had got in her narrative, when suddenly she sprang from her chair
and her face was convulsed with surprise and fear. “See!” she
cried. “The miscreant follows still! There is the very man of
whom I speak.”

Through the open sitting-room window I saw a huge, swarthy man
with a bristling black beard walking slowly down the centre of
the street and staring eagerly at he numbers of the houses. It
was clear that, like myself, he was on the track of the maid.
Acting upon the impulse of the moment, I rushed out and accosted
him.

“You are an Englishman,” I said.

“What if I am?” he asked with a most villainous scowl.

“May I ask what your name is?”

“No, you may not,” said he with decision.

The situation was awkward, but the most direct way is often the
best.

“Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?” I asked.

He stared at me with amazement.

“What have you done with her? Why have you pursued her? I
insist upon an answer!” said I.

The fellow gave a below of anger and sprang upon me like a tiger.
I have held my own in many a struggle, but the man had a grip of
iron and the fury of a fiend. His hand was on my throat and my
senses were nearly gone before an unshaven French ouvrier in a
blue blouse darted out from a cabaret opposite, with a cudgel in
his hand, and struck my assailant a sharp crack over the forearm,
which made him leave go his hold. He stood for an instant fuming
with rage and uncertain whether he should not renew his attack.
Then, with a snarl of anger, he left me and entered the cottage
from which I had just come. I turned to thank my preserver, who
stood beside me in the roadway.

“Well, Watson,” said he, “a very pretty hash you have made of it!
I rather think you had better come back with me to London by the
night express.”

An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and style,
was seated in my private room at the hotel. His explanation of
his sudden and opportune appearance was simplicity itself, for,
finding that he could get away from London, he determined to head
me off at the next obvious point of my travels. In the disguise
of a workingman he had sat in the cabaret waiting for my
appearance.

“And a singularly consistent investigation you have made, my dear
Watson,” said he. “I cannot at the moment recall any possible
blunder which you have omitted. The total effect of your
proceeding has been to give the alarm everywhere and yet to
discover nothing.”

“Perhaps you would have done no better,” I answered bitterly.

“There is no ‘perhaps’ about it. I have done better. Here is
the Hon. Philip Green, who is a fellow-lodger with you in this
hotel, and we may find him the starting-point for a more
successful investigation.”

A card had come up on a salver, and it was followed by the same
bearded ruffian who had attacked me in the street. He started
when he saw me.

“What is this, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “I had your note and I
have come. But what has this man to do with the matter?”

“This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson, who is helping
us in this affair.”

The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand, with a few words of
apology.

“I hope I didn’t harm you. When you accused me of hurting her I
lost my grip of myself. Indeed, I’m not responsible in these
days. My nerves are like live wires. But this situation is
beyond me. What I want to know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes,
is, how in the world you came to hear of my existence at all.”

“I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances’s governess.”

“Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember her well.”

“And she remembers you. It was in the days before–before you
found it better to go to South Africa.”

“Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide nothing from
you. I swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never was in this
world a man who loved a woman with a more wholehearted love than
I had for Frances. I was a wild youngster, I know–not worse
than others of my class. But her mind was pure as snow. She
could not bear a shadow of coarseness. So, when she came to hear
of things that I had done, she would have no more to say to me.
And yet she loved me–that is the wonder of it!–loved me well
enough to remain single all her sainted days just for my sake
alone. When the years had passed and I had made my money at
Barberton I thought perhaps I could seek her out and soften her.
I had heard that she was still unmarried, I found her at Lausanne
and tried all I knew. She weakened, I think, but her will was
strong, and when next I called she had left the town. I traced
her to Baden, and then after a time heard that her maid was here.
I’m a rough fellow, fresh from a rough life, and when Dr. Watson
spoke to me as he did I lost hold of myself for a moment. But
for God’s sake tell me what has become of the Lady Frances.”

“That is for us to find out,” said Sherlock Holmes with peculiar
gravity. “What is your London address, Mr. Green?”

“The Langham Hotel will find me.”

“Then may I recommend that you return there and be on hand in
case I should want you? I have no desire to encourage false
hopes, but you may rest assured that all that can be done will be
done for the safety of Lady Frances. I can say no more for the
instant. I will leave you this card so that you may be able to
keep in touch with us. Now, Watson, if you will pack your bag I
will cable to Mrs. Hudson to make one of her best efforts for two
hungry travellers at 7:30 to-morrow.”

A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street
rooms, which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest and
threw across to me. “Jagged or torn,” was the message, and the
place of origin, Baden.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It is everything,” Holmes answered. “You may remember my
seemingly irrelevant question as to this clerical gentleman’s
left ear. You did not answer it.”

“I had left Baden and could not inquire.”

“Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of
the Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here.”

“What does it show?”

“It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an
exceptionally astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr.
Shlessinger, missionary from South America, is none other than
Holy Peters, one of the most unscrupulous rascals that Australia
has ever evolved–and for a young country it has turned out some
very finished types. His particular specialty is the beguiling
of lonely ladies by playing upon their religious feelings, and
his so-called wife, an Englishwoman named Fraser, is a worthy
helpmate. The nature of his tactics suggested his identity to
me, and this physical peculiarity–he was badly bitten in a
saloon-fight at Adelaide in ‘89–confirmed my suspicion. This
poor lady is in the hands of a most infernal couple, who will
stick at nothing, Watson. That she is already dead is a very
likely supposition. If not, she is undoubtedly in some sort of
confinement and unable to write to Miss Dobney or her other
friends. It is always possible that she never reached London, or
that she has passed through it, but the former is improbable, as,
with their system of registration, it is not easy for foreigners
to play tricks with the Continental police; and the latter is
also unlikely, as these rouges could not hope to find any other
place where it would be as easy to keep a person under restraint.
All my instincts tell me that she is in London, but as we have at
present no possible means of telling where, we can only take the
obvious steps, eat our dinner, and possess our souls in patience.
Later in the evening I will stroll down and have a word with
friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard.”

But neither the official police nor Holmes’s own small but very
efficient organization sufficed to clear away the mystery. Amid
the crowded millions of London the three persons we sought were
as completely obliterated as if they had never lived.
Advertisements were tried, and failed. Clues were followed, and
led to nothing. Every criminal resort which Shlessinger might
frequent was drawn in vain. His old associates were watched, but
they kept clear of him. And then suddenly, after a week of
helpless suspense there came a flash of light. A silver-and-
brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been pawned at
Bovington’s, in Westminster Road. The pawner was a large, clean-
shaven man of clerical appearance. His name and address were
demonstrably false. The ear had escaped notice, but the
description was surely that of Shlessinger.

Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called for
news–the third time within an hour of this fresh development.
His clothes were getting looser on his great body. He seemed to
be wilting away in his anxiety. “If you will only give me
something to do!” was his constant wail. At last Holmes could
oblige him.

“He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should get him now.”

“But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady Frances?”

Holmes shook his head very gravely.

“Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is
clear that they cannot let her loose without their own
destruction. We must prepare for the worst.”

“What can I do?”

“These people do not know you by sight?”

“No.”

“It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the
future. in that case, we must begin again. On the other hand,
he has had a fair price and no questions asked, so if he is in
need of ready-money he will probably come back to Bovington’s. I
will give you a note to them, and they will let you wait in the
shop. If the fellow comes you will follow him home. But no
indiscretion, and, above all, no violence. I put you on your
honour that you will take no step without my knowledge and
consent.”

For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may mention, the
son of the famous admiral of that name who commanded the Sea of
Azof fleet in the Crimean War) brought us no news. On the
evening of the third he rushed into our sitting-room, pale,
trembling, with every muscle of his powerful frame quivering with
excitement.

“We have him! We have him!” he cried.

He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed him with a
few words and thrust him into an armchair.

“Come, now, give us the order of events,” said he.

“She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this time, but the
pendant she brought was the fellow of the other. She is a tall,
pale woman, with ferret eyes.”

“That is the lady,” said Holmes.

“She left the office and I followed her. She walked up the
Kennington Road, and I kept behind her. Presently she went into
a shop. Mr. Holmes, it was an undertaker’s.”

My companion started. “Well?” he asked in that vibrant voice
which told of the fiery soul behind the cold gray face.

“She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I entered as
well. ‘It is late,’ I heard her say, or words to that effect.
The woman was excusing herself. ‘It should be there before now,’
she answered. ‘It took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ They
both stopped and looked at me, so I asked some questions and then
left the shop.”

“You did excellently well. What happened next?”

“The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway. Her
suspicions had been aroused, I think, for she looked round her.
Then she called a cab and got in. I was lucky enough to get
another and so to follow her. She got down at last at No. 36,
Poultney Square, Brixton. I drove past, left my cab at the
corner of the square, and watched the house.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower floor.
The blind was down, and I could not see in. I was standing
there, wondering what I should do next, when a covered van drove
up with two men in it. They descended, took something out of the
van, and carried it up the steps to the hall door. Mr. Holmes,
it was a coffin.”

“Ah!”

“For an instant I was on the point of rushing in. The door had
been opened to admit the men and their burden. It was the woman
who had opened it. But as I stood there she caught a glimpse of
me, and I think that she recognized me. I saw her start, and she
hastily closed the door. I remembered my promise to you, and here
I am.”

“You have done excellent work,” said Holmes, scribbling a few
words upon a half-sheet of paper. “We can do nothing legal
without a warrant, and you can serve the cause best by taking
this note down to the authorities and getting one. There may be
some difficulty, but I should think that the sale of the
jewellery should be sufficient. Lestrade will see to all
details.”

“But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What could the coffin
mean, and for whom could it be but for her?”

“We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment will
be lost. Leave it in our hands. Now Watson,” he added as our
client hurried away, “he will set the regular forces on the move.
We are, as usual, the irregulars, and we must take our own line
of action. The situation strikes me as so desperate that the
most extreme measures are justified. Not a moment is to be lost
in getting to Poultney Square.

“Let us try to reconstruct the situation,” said he as we drove
swiftly past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster
Bridge. “These villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to London,
after first alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has
written any letters they have been intercepted. Through some
confederate they have engaged a furnished house. Once inside it,
they have made her a prisoner, and they have become possessed of
the valuable jewellery which has been their object from the
first. Already they have begun to sell part of it, which seems
safe enough to them, since they have no reason to think that
anyone is interested in the lady’s fate. When she is released
she will, of course, denounce them. Therefore, she must not be
released. But they cannot keep her under lock and key forever.
So murder is their only solution.”

“That seems very clear.”

“Now we will take another line of reasoning. When you follow two
deparate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some point of
intersection which should approximate to the truth. We will
start now, not from the lady but from the coffin and argue
backward. That incident proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that
the lady is dead. It points also to an orthodox burial with
proper accompaniment of medical certificate and official
sanction. Had the lady been obviously murdered, they would have
buried her in a hole in the back garden. But here all is open
and regular. What does this mean? Surely that they have done
her to death in some way which has deceived the doctor and
simulated a natural end–poisoning, perhaps. And yet how strange
that they should ever let a doctor approach her unless he were a
confederate, which is hardly a credible proposition.”

“Could they have forged a medical certificate?”

“Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them doing
that. Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the undertaker’s, for
we have just passed the pawnbroker’s. Would go in, Watson? Your
appearance inspires confidence. Ask what hour the Poultney
Square funeral takes place to-morrow.”

The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it was
to be at eight o’clock in the morning. “You see, Watson, no
mystery; everything above-board! In some way the legal forms
have undoubtedly been complied with, and they think that they
have little to fear. Well, there’s nothing for it now but a
direct frontal attack. Are you armed?”

“My stick!”

“Well, well, we shall be strong enough. ‘Thrice is he armed who
hath his quarrel just.’ We simply can’t afford to wait for the
police or to keep within the four corners of the law. You can
drive off, cabby. Now, Watson, we’ll just take our luck
together, as we have occasionally in the past.”

He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the
centre of Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the
figure of a tall woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.

“Well, what do you want?” she asked sharply, peering at us
through the darkness.

“I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger,” said Holmes.

“There is no such person here,” she answered, and tried to close
the door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.

“Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he may call
himself,” said Holmes firmly.

She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. “Well, come in!”
said she. “My husband is not afraid to face any man in the
world.” She closed the door behind us and showed us into a
sitting-room on the right side of the hall, turning up the gas as
she left us. “Mr. Peters will be with you in an instant,” she
said.

Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look
around the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found
ourselves before the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-
headed man stepped lightly into the room. He had a large red
face, with pendulous cheeks, and a general air of superficial
benevolence which was marred by a cruel, vicious mouth.

“There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen,” he said in an
unctuous, make-everything-easy voice. “I fancy that you have
been misdirected. Possibly if you tried farther down the street-
-”

“That will do; we have no time to waste,” said my companion
firmly. “You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr.
Shlessinger, of Baden and South America. I am as sure of that as
that my own name is Sherlock Holmes.”

Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his
formidable pursuer. “I guess your name does not frighten me, Mr.
Holmes,” said he coolly. “When a man’s conscience is easy you
can’t rattle him. What is your business in my house?”

“I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax,
whom you brought away with you from Baden.”

“I’d be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may be,”
Peters answered coolly. “I’ve a bill against her for a nearly a
hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple of
trumpery pendants that the dealer would hardly look at. She
attached herself to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden–it is a fact
that I was using another name at the time–and she stuck on to us
until we came to London. I paid her bill and her ticket. Once
in London, she gave us the slip, and, as I say, left these out-
of-date jewels to pay her bills. You find her, Mr. Holmes, and
I’m your debtor.”

In mean to find her,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I’m going through
this house till I do find her.”

“Where is your warrant?”

Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. “This will have to
serve till a better one comes.”

“Why, you’re a common burglar.”

“So you might describe me,” said Holmes cheerfully. “My
companion is also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are going
through your house.”

Our opponent opened the door.

“Fetch a policeman, Annie!” said he. There was a whisk of
feminine skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened
and shut.

“Our time is limited, Watson,” said Holmes. “If you try to stop
us, Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that
coffin which was brought into your house?”

“What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a
body in it.”

“I must see the body.”

“Never with my consent.”

“Then without it.” With a quick movement Holmes pushed the
fellow to one side and passed into the hall. A door half opened
stood immediately before us. We entered. It was the dining-
room. On the table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin was
lying. Holmes turned up the gas and raised the lid. Deep down
in the recesses of the coffin lay an emaciated figure. The glare
from the lights above beat down upon an aged and withered face.
By no possible process of cruelty, starvation, or disease could
this wornout wreck be the still beautiful Lady Frances. Holmes’s
face showed his amazement, and also his relief.

“Thank God!” he muttered. “It’s someone else.”

“Ah, you’ve blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said
Peters, who had followed us into the room.

“Who is the dead woman?”

“Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife’s,
Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse
Infirmary. We brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of
13 Firbank Villas–mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes–and had
her carefully tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day
she died–certificate says senile decay–but that’s only the
doctor’s opinion, and of course you know better. We ordered her
funeral to be carried out by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington
Road, who will bury her at eight o’clock to-morrow morning. Can
you pick any hole in that, Mr. Holmes? You’ve made a silly
blunder, and you may as well own up to it. I’d give something
for a photograph of your gaping, staring face when you pulled
aside that lid expecting to see the Lady Frances Carfax and only
found a poor old woman of ninety.”

Holmes’s expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of
his antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute
annoyance.

“I am going through your house,” said he.

“Are you, though!” cried Peters as a woman’s voice and heavy
steps sounded in the passage. “We’ll soon see about that. This
way, officers, if you please. These men have forced their way
into my house, and I cannot get rid of them. Help me to put them
out.”

A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes drew his
card from his case.

“This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson.”

“Bless you, sir, we know you very well,” said the sergeant, “but
you can’t stay here without a warrant.”

“Of course not. I quite understand that.”

“Arrest him!” cried Peters.

“We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is
wanted,” said the sergeant majestically, “but you’ll have to go,
Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, Watson, we shall have to go.”

A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes was as
cool as ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation. The
sergeant had followed us.

“Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that’s the law.”

“Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise.”

“I expect there was good reason for your presence there. If
there is anything I can do–”

“It’s a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that
house. I expect a warrant presently.”

“Then I’ll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If anything
comes along, I will surely let you know.”

It was only nine o’clock, and we were off full cry upon the trail
at once. First we drove to Brixton Workhoused Infirmary, where
we found that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple
had called some days before, that they had claimed an imbecile
old woman as a former servant, and that they had obtained
permission to take her away with them. No surprise was expressed
at the news that she had since died.

The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had found
the woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her pass
away, and had signed the certificate in due form. “I assure you
that everything was perfectly normal and there was no room for
foul play in the matter,” said he. Nothing in the house had
struck him as suspicious save that for people of their class it
was remarkable that they should have no servant. So far and no
further went the doctor.

Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had been
difficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some delay
was inevitable. The magistrate’s signature might not be obtained
until next morning. If Holmes would call about nine he could go
down with Lestrade and see it acted upon. So ended the day, save
that near midnight our friend, the sergeant, called to say that
he had seen flickering lights here and there in the windows of
the great dark house, but that no one had left it and none had
entered. We could but pray for patience and wait for the morrow.

Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too
restless for sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy,
dark brows knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers
tapping upon the arms of his chair, as he turned over in his mind
every possible solution of the mystery. Several times in the
course of the night I heard him prowling about the house.
Finally, just after I had been called in the morning, he rushed
into my room. He was in his dressing-gown, but his pale, hollow-
eyed face told me that his night had been a sleepless one.

“What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?” he asked
eagerly. “Well, it is 7:20 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has
become of any brains that God has given me? Quick, man, quick!
It’s life or death–a hundred chances on death to one on life.
I’ll never forgive myself, never, if we are too late!”

Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansom
down Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to eight as we
passed Big Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the Brixton
Road. But others were late as well as we. Ten minutes after the
hour the hearse was still standing at the door of the house, and
even as our foaming horse came to a halt the coffin, supported by
three men, appeared on the threshold. Holmes darted forward and
barred their way.

“Take it back!” he cried, laying his hand on the breast of the
foremost. “Take it back this instant!”

“What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you, where is your
warrant?” shouted the furious Peters, his big red face glaring
over the farther end of the coffin.

“The warrant is on its way. The coffin shall remain in the house
until it comes.”

The authority in Holmes’s voice had its effect upon the bearers.
Peters had suddenly vanished into the house, and they obeyed
these new orders. “Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a screw-
driver!” he shouted as the coffin was replaced upon the table.
“Here’s one for you, my man! A sovreign if the lid comes off in
a minute! Ask no questions–work away! That’s good! Another!
And another! Now pull all together! It’s giving! It’s giving!
Ah, that does it at last.”

With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As we did so
there came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell of
chloroform. A body lay within, its head all wreathed in cotton-
wool, which had been soaked in the narcotic. Holmes plucked it
off and disclosed the statuesque face of a handsome and spiritual
woman of middle age. In an instant he had passed his arm round
the figure and raised her to a sitting position.

“Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely we are not
too late!”

For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with actual
suffocation, and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloroform,
the Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last point of recall.
And then, at last, with artificial respiration, with injected
ether, and with every device that science could suggest, some
flutter of life, some quiver of the eyelids, some dimming of a
mirror, spoke of the slowly returning life. A cab had driven up,
and Holmes, parting the blind, looked out at it. “Here is
Lestrade with his warrant,” said he. “He will find that his
birds have flown. And here,” he added as a heavy step hurried
along the passage, “is someone who has a better right to nurse
this lady than we have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I think that
the sooner we can move the Lady Frances the better. Meanwhile,
the funeral may proceed, and the poor old woman who still lies in
that coffin may go to her last resting-place alone.”

“Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear Watson,”
said Holmes that evening, “it can only be as an example of that
temporary eclipse to which even the best-balanced mind may be
exposed. Such slips are common to all mortals, and the greatest
is he who can recognize and repair them. To this modified credit
I may, perhaps, make some claim. My night was haunted by the
thought that somewhere a clue, a strange sentence, a curious
observation, had come under my notice and had been too easily
dismissed. Then, suddenly, in the gray of the morning, the words
came back to me. It was the remark of the undertaker’s wife, as
reported by Philip Green. She had said, ‘It should be there
before now. It took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ It was
the coffin of which she spoke. It had been out of the ordinary.
That could only mean that it had been made to some special
measurement. But why? Why? Then in an instant I remembered the
deep sides, and the little wasted figure at the bottom. Why so
large a coffin for so small a body? To leave room for another
body. Both would be buried under the one certificate. It had all
been so clear, if only my own sight had not been dimmed. At
eight the Lady Frances would be buried. Our one chance was to
stop the coffin before it left the house.

“It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it
was a chance, as the result showed. These people had never, to
my knowledge, done a murder. They might shrink from actual
violence at the last. The could bury her with no sign of how she
met her end, and even if she were exhumed there was a chance for
them. I hoped that such considerations might prevail with them.
You can reconstruct the scene well enough. You saw the horrible
den upstairs, where the poor lady had been kept so long. They
rushed in and overpowered her with their chloroform, carried her
down, poured more into the coffin to insure against her waking,
and then screwed down the lid. A clever device, Watson. It is
new to me in the annals of crime. If our ex-missionary friends
escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall expect to hear of some
brilliant incidents in their future career.”

“Could you not tell us a traveller’s story of some strange people
that we have never heard of before?” said Harry to his mother, the
next evening.

After a moment or two of thought, Mis. Chilton said, “Yes, I will
tell you about a people who are great travellers. They take journeys
every year of their lives. They dislike cold weather so much that
they go always before winter, so as to find a warmer climate.”

“They usually meet together, fathers, mothers, and children, as well
as uncles, aunts, and cousins, but more especially grandfathers and
grandmothers, and decide whither they shall go. As their party is so
large, it is important that they should make a good decision.”

“When they are all prepared, and their mind quite made up, they all
set off together. I am told that they make as much noise, on this
occasion, as our people make at a town-meeting; but as I was never
present at one of the powwows of these remarkable travellers, I
cannot say.”

“What is a powwow?” asked Harry.

“It is the name the Indians give to their council meetings,” replied
Mis. Chilton.

She went on. “This people, so fond of travelling, have no great
learning; they write no books; they have no geographies, no
steamboats, no railroads, but yet never mistake their way.”

“Four-footed travellers, I guess,” said Harry.

“By no means; they have no more legs than any other great
travellers; but you must not interrupt me.”

Well, to go back to our travellers; every one is ready and glad to
prepare apartments for them, such as they like. They are so lively,
so merry, and good-natured, that they find a welcome every where.
They are such an easy, sociable set of folks that they like a house
thus prepared for them just as well as if they had built it
themselves.”

“I have been told that when they arrive at any place, before they
wash themselves, or brush off the dust of their journey, they will
go directly to one of these houses that has been prepared for them,
and examine every part of it; and, if they like it, they seem to
think they have, of course, a right to it, and they take possession
directly, and say, ‘Thank you’ to nobody.”

“No one is affronted with them; but every one is ready and glad to
accommodate the strangers as well as he can, merely for the sake of
their good company. They come to us in May, and leave our part of
the country in August, to visit other lands.

“The great reason, I think, that all the world welcomes these
travellers is, that they are such a happy, merry set of beings they
make every one around them cheerful; their gayety is never-failing.
They rise with the first streak of light; there are no sluggards
among them. They are all musical, and sing as they go about their
work; but their music pleases me best when they join in their
morning hymn. When the morning star is growing pale, and rosy light
tinges the edges of the soft clouds in the east, this choir of
singers stop for a second, as if waiting, in silent reverence, for
the glad light to appear; then, just as the first ray gilds the hill
tops and the village spire, all pour forth a joyful song, swelling
their little throats, and making such a loud noise that every sleepy
head in the neighborhood awakes.”

“Ah! now I have caught you, Mother,” said Frank; “these famous
travellers are martins. I wonder, when you said they were not four
footed, I did not think of martins. I heard George say, the other
day, that his father had put up a martin box, and how they came and
looked at it first, before they took it, and that they always sang
before daylight, and what a noise they made.

But, Mother, when you tell that story again, you must not say little
throats, or any one will know who your travellers are quick enough;
but do please tell us more about them.”

“Yes, Frank, you have caught me; these travellers are martins; and,
if you wish, I will tell you more about them. Mr. Wilson, whom I
have been reading to-day, calls them birds of passage.”

“What does that mean, Mother”?”

“It means that they find it necessary for their support to pass from
one country to another when winter is coming on. At that time they
leave us.

Some people think that martins and swallows hide themselves from the
cold in holes in rocks and banks, or in hollow trees; but Wilson,
who spent many years in watching the habits of birds, and learning
their history, thinks that these fly a great way off to a warmer
country as winter approaches, and that they return again in the
spring.”

“But how can they find the way?” asked Frank.

“All that we know about that, Frank, is, that He who created the
martins has given to them the knowledge that guides them right. In
their long way through the pathless air, they never make a mistake.
Our great vessels and our skilful captains sometimes get lost in the
wide ocean; but these little birds always know the way, and arrive
with unerring certainty at their place of destination.

Our great poet, Bryant, has written some beautiful lines to a water-
fowl, which express this idea. I will repeat these lines to you if
you like to hear them.

‘Whither, ‘midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler’s eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly limned upon the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek’st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,–
The desert and illimitable air,–
Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o’er thy sheltered nest.

Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.’”

“I should like to learn that by heart,” said Frank; “I like it very
much.”

“Come, Mother,” said Harry, “what more have you to tell us about
these travellers?”

“Not much, Harry. The martin is such a universal favorite that
Wilson says he never knew but one man that did not like them and
treat them kindly. Wherever they, go, they find some hospitable
retreat prepared for their reception. Some people have large
habitations formed for the martins, fitted up with a variety of
apartments and conveniences; these houses are regularly occupied
every spring, and the same individual birds have been known to
return to the same box for many successive years.

The North American Indians, who have a great regard for martins, cut
off all the top branches of a young tree, and leave the prongs a
foot or two in length, and hang hollow gourds or calabashes on the
ends for nests.”

“What are gourds and calabashes, Mother?” said Harry.

“A gourd, my dear, is a vegetable, something like a squash, only
much thicker and harder; when hollowed out, it is as hard as if it
were made of wood, and not so easy to break. It is shaped something
like a short, straight-necked winter squash; a calabash is a large
kind of gourd.

On the banks of the Mississippi, the negroes stick up long poles,
with calabashes on the ends, to accommodate the martins.

Martins have been known, when no house was provided for them, to
take possession of part of a pigeon house; and no pigeon ever dares
to set its foot in the martin’s side of the house. The martin is a
very courageous and spirited bird, and will attack hawks, crows, and
even great bald eagles; he whirls around and around them, and
torments them, till, at last, he succeeds in driving them off. This
makes the martin a very valuable friend to the farmer, whose
chickens he defends from their enemies.

The martins are very faithful and affectionate to each other; when
the mother bird is hatching her eggs, her mate often sits by her
side; and sometimes he will take her place, and send her out to take
exercise and get food. He passes a great deal of his time at the
door of her apartment, chattering to her, as if he were telling her
amusing stories; and then he will sing very softly and tenderly to
her, and he does every thing he can to please her.

The martin has very strong and large wings, and short legs, that
they may not interfere with his flight, which is very rapid. It is
calculated by Mr. Wilson that this bird flies as fast as a mile in a
minute. Sometimes you may see a martin flying in the midst of a
crowded street, so near people that it seems as if they might catch
him; and then, quick as thought, he darts out of their reach, and,
in less than a minute, you may see him far up among the clouds,
looking like a little black speck upon their silver edges.”

“How happy, Mother,” said Frank, “the martins must be, to be able to
fly about among the clouds, and travel so far, and go just where
they please so easily!”

“God has made every living thing to be happy,” said his mother; “and
in this we see His goodness. Are not you happy, too?”

“Almost always, Mother. Sometimes I am not happy.”

“What is the reason why you are not always happy?”

“Why, things trouble me, and I feel cross and impatient.”

“But if you try to bear with disagreeable things, and conquer your
ill-humor, and make yourself patient, are you unhappy then?”

“No, Mother; but then I have to try very hard.”

“But you are happy when you succeed. Now, what is it in you that
tries to be good, and is happy when it succeeds?”

“It is my mind, Mother.”

“Would you, Frank, give up your mind for a pair of martin’s wings?”

“O, no, Mother; but I want my mind, and a pair of wings too.”

“If you think your mind is better than the martin’s wings, my dear,
be thankful for the possession of it; and be thankful too that God
has allowed you the privilege of making yourself happy by your own
efforts, and by the exercise of your thoughts, for they are the
wings of your mind. You do not now see a martin in the air; you are
only thinking of him; and yet you feel how pleasant it might be to
be like him, up among the clouds.

The martin cannot have the pleasure we have now had, but God has
given him wings, and taught him the way through the air, and put
love into his heart for his mate; and let us rejoice in his
happiness, and, more than all, let us rejoice in the goodness of Him
who has put joy into so many hearts. And when, my dear children, you
see the martin cutting his way so swiftly through the air, and when
you think of him travelling away thousands of miles, guided by the
goodness of God to the right place, and you wish that you had wings
like him, and think that he is happier than you are, you can then
remember a far greater gift that God has bestowed upon you.

Although the martin’s flight is very swift and very high, yet he can
go but so far, and he knows not what directs him. When his wings are
wearied, and he is nothing but a speck of dust, and when your body
also is nothing but dust, these thoughts of yours, that have pursued
him, will be still travelling on; and, if you stretch the wings of
your mind, and soar upward, as the martin does with his bodily
wings, and like him, use all your powers as God directs you, you
will be rising higher and higher. And you will also know to whom you
go, and who gives you all your powers. The martin knows nothing of
this. He must go and come at such a time, and do just as all other
martins have done; but you are free to choose for yourself, and to
take the right and happy way, because you know it is the right way,
and the path to heaven.

But I must tell you what made me think particularly now of these
travellers through the pathless air. Last week, you remember, I was
ill, and shut up in my room. As I was sitting at my chamber window,
enjoying the perfume of the apple blossoms, and listening to the
song of the birds, and the soft sighing of the south wind, the world
looked as beautiful to me as if it had been that moment created.

You remember that there is an olive jar in the cherry tree close to
my window, which I had last autumn desired to have placed there, in
the hope that the birds would build in it this spring.

While I was looking I saw a bluebird alight on the tree. Presently
she came nearer and nearer to the jar, and looked earnestly at the
small round opening in it, as much as to say, ‘That looks like a
nice place for a nest.’ Then she came still nearer, and looked round
to see if any one noticed her. I kept very still. At last she grew
bolder, and flew upon the jar. Now she looked around again, as if
she was afraid of something. Then she turned her head sideways, and
looked up and down, this way, and that way, and every way, till she
satisfied herself that no enemy was near. At last, she flew upon the
edge of the hole, and courageously looked in; then she quickly drew
her head out, and looked all around again. I thought she looked
directly into my face, and came to the conclusion that I was a
friend, for she went part way in. Then she suddenly drew her
beautiful head and shoulders out again, and looked about once more.
At last, she seemed satisfied, made one more effort, and flew in.
She staid in long enough to make up her mind that it was a good
place for her nest, and then she flew off, quick as thought. In less
than two minutes she came back with her mate. They alighted upon a
bough near the jar, and it was plain that they were confabulating
together, and that she was urging him to go in and look at the place
she had chosen for her nursery. Her mate looked very wise and grave,
as much as to say, ‘My dear, we must not be too hasty. We must
choose this home of ours with great care. Too much of our happiness
depends upon this step to allow of any mistake’; he then flew upon
the outside of the jar, and went through just the same ceremonies
that his better half had performed before, only he was still more
deliberate and cautious about entering. At last, he flew in, and, in
a short time, appeared again, and alighted on a branch near the jar
by the side of his dear mate. There they conversed together in their
bird language for some time, as plainly to me as if they had spoken
good English. ‘This,’ said he, ‘is a nice large comfortable place,
my dear. That great house is rather too near, to be sure, but I am
well informed that its inhabitants, and those of all this
neighborhood, will never molest us. Last year, the cherry birds ate
up all the cherries in all the gardens around here, and not one of
the thieves received the slightest harm. We will, I think, begin our
work immediately, and make a nice soft bed for our young to rest in
when we shall be so happy as to have any.’ This, I am sure, was the
result of their confab, for directly they began to pick up hay, and
furze, and feathers, and every soft thing they could find, and carry
them into the jar.

The male bird, which I knew by the greater brightness of his
plumage, and his more slender form, seemed to be fondest of bringing
sticks, one of which was too long for the mouth of the jar to admit.
It was very amusing to witness his efforts to get the stick in; but
it would not do; the stick fell to the ground. All day long, these
pretty creatures were busy at their work; one usually watched while
the other was in the jar arranging the nest for their expected
brood. In about a week, it was evident that their work was
completed, for they carried in no more sticks or dried grass. They
were gone a great part of the day, I suppose playing, after so much
hard work, but they returned at evening. Some one in the
neighborhood fired a gun. This scared the bluebirds so that they
staid away for two whole days; and, when they returned, it was
amusing to see how timidly they entered their house. Then they would
fly off to another tree at a distance, and make believe they had
nothing to do with the one their nest was in. At last, they grew
bolder; and, every evening at sunset, I saw the mother bird go into
her nest while her mate went to roost.

There was a slight feeling of despondency in my heart when I first
went to look out of this window; but when I saw these birds, and
witnessed the scene of faithful love and domestic industry and
happiness set forth by these little creatures, the spirit of
complaint was rebuked within me, and I learned a new lesson of
serene trust and assurance that all were cared for by the Creator of
all.

But I must tell you the rest of the story of the bluebirds; and I am
sorry to say, they met with sad trials. The first encroacher, as
they supposed him to be, was a woodpecker; he seemed, as I thought,
to mean them no harm; but as soon as they heard his tap, tap, tap,
they flew at him very angrily and drove him away. A more dangerous
enemy was at hand, one that from his size you would not have
supposed dangerous to them. A little wren, not nearly so large as
the bluebird, came one day to the tree; and, seeing the jar, having
examined it, and being pleased with it, resolved to take it for
herself. The little thief waited till the bluebirds had gone upon
some expedition; and then, without any ceremony, without any fear of
any thing, she entered the jar, and was evidently confirmed in her
purpose of taking possession of it. Probably she held a consultation
with her mate; but this I did not witness, as I did that between the
two bluebirds. The next day this pert little Madam Wren, or her
mate, I could not tell which, came again, and, perching on the
topmost branch of the tree, poured forth a loud triumphant song, and
then, as soon as the coast was clear, entered the house she was
resolved to appropriate to herself. In a minute after, she appeared
at the mouth of the jar with her bill full of the dried grass of
which the bluebird’s nest was made, which she threw out on the
ground disdainfully. Back again she flew, and in an instant brought
some more and threw it out. This she did with the most impudent look
you can imagine. Then she flew swiftly in and out, like a little
termagant, throwing out of the mouth of the jar, sticks, dead
leaves, grass, with all the nice soft things which the poor bluebird
had been a week in collecting. Every now and then, she came out for
a minute and sang as sweetly as if she were not engaged in such a
piratical work; and the little rogue looked up in my face so
saucily, too, as much as to say, ‘Who cares for you?’ Then she began
singing at the top of her voice, exulting over her work of
destruction. Can you suppose it was any sense of honesty that
prevented her using the bluebird’s nest after having stolen her
house? No, Jenny Wren had no principle. You would have laughed to
see how scornfully she tossed out those dead leaves. Every thing
went out of the nest pell-mell. The little monster! what could the
poor bluebirds say or do? This bird evidently had no conscience, at
least not a good one, that is plain. Never did general rejoice more
over the capture and destruction of a city than this little bit of a
bird rejoiced over the destruction of the bluebird’s nest, and at
the unlawful possession of the house. I saw her carrying in a long
stick that suited her better than the short ones that the bluebird
had carried in: she found she could not get it in if she took it in
the middle; so she changed the place, and held it by the end, and so
by that means got it in. She was more cunning than the bluebird. Now
you might hear the two little robbers sing again. They are happier
than any king can be nowadays. Poor, dear, beautiful bluebirds! What
has become of them? Then came the mother. She looked into the jar
and saw the destruction of her nest–all her week’s work. How
distressed she seemed! but the victorious wrens had no pity on her.
They drove her away. She disappeared. The saucy conquerors flew in
and out of their stolen house twenty times a minute, caring for
nothing. They could have had no moral sense; but they were very
amusing, and they were nothing but birds; they knew no better; so we
must forgive them.”

“I like stories about animals better than any other stories,” said
Frank. “I think animals know as much, and sometimes more than we do.
So, Mother, do tell us all you can think of about elephants, bears,
and lions, as well as dogs, and cats, and birds.”

“I have laid up in my memory two or three dog and cat stories, which
I will tell you, and then I will see what I can remember of lions,
bears, and elephants. But first I must tell you what I have lately
read about courts of justice among the crows.”

“What is a court of justice?” asked Harry.

“A court of justice is an assemblage of men who meet together to
ascertain if any one who is accused of doing a wrong thing has
really done it or not. If he is proved to have committed the
offence, he is declared to be guilty; if he is not proved to have
done it, he is declared not guilty.

A writer on the history of the Feroe Islands describes these
extraordinary courts as if he had witnessed them. He says, these
crow-courts are observed here (in the Feroe Islands) as well as in
the Scotch Isles. The crows collect in great numbers, as if they had
been all summoned for the occasion. A few of the flock sit with
drooping heads, others seem as grave as if they were judges, and
some are exceedingly active and noisy, like lawyers and witnesses;
in the course of about an hour the company generally disperse, and
it is not uncommon, after they have flown away, to find one or two
left dead on the spot.

Dr. Edmondstone, in his View of the Shetland Islands, says that
sometimes the crow-court, or meeting, does not appear to be complete
before the expiration of a day or two,–crows coming from all
quarters to the session. As soon as they are all arrived, a very
general noise ensues, the business of the court is opened, and
shortly after they all fall upon one or two individual crows, (who
are supposed to have been condemned by their peers,) and put them to
death. When the execution is over, they quietly disperse.”

“I shall never look at a crow, Mother, again,” said Harry, “without
dislike–cruel creatures.”

“We don’t understand these things,” said his mother; “animals have
no compassion for their sick companions; they kill them sometimes
for being sick. It seems very cruel, but we don’t understand enough
to judge.”

“Now, Mother, what new story have you about dogs?”

“The story I shall tell you now seems to show that dogs have good
hearts, and are compassionate and magnanimous. A dog was placed to
watch a piece of ground, perhaps a garden. A boy ran across the
forbidden place. The dog chased him. The boy, greatly frightened,
ran very fast, fell, and broke his leg. The dog, when he came up and
heard the boy’s cries, did not touch him, but ran up to the passers
by, and barked till he attracted their attention, and brought some
one to the aid of the poor boy, who could not move.

The faithful creature had performed his duty in driving away
intruders; but he had too good a heart, and was too generous to hurt
a fallen enemy. In the account I read he was called a Christian dog.
His conduct would be a good example to all Christians.

I have now a story of a roguish dog that I think we could not praise
so much for his goodness as for his cunning. A gentleman in Paris
was in the habit of crossing every day one of the bridges over the
Seine, on his way to his place of business. One day, a very dirty
poodle dog rubbed himself so against his boots as to make it
necessary to get a man, who sat at one end of the bridge with
blacking, to clean them. The next day the same thing occurred, and
again and again, till, at last, the gentleman suspected that the
bootblack had taught the dog this trick, in order by that means to
get customers. He watched, and saw, when he approached the bridge,
Master Poodle go and roll himself in a mud puddle, and then come and
rub himself against his boots. The gentleman accused the bootblack
of the trick. After a while the man laughed, and confessed his
roguery.”

“That poodle was a brick,” said Harry.

“One more story of dogs. A surgeon of Leeds, in England, found a
little spaniel who had been lamed. The surgeon carried the poor
animal home, bandaged up his leg, and after two or three days turned
him out. The dog returned to the surgeon’s house every morning till
his leg was perfectly well.

At the end of several months, the spaniel again presented himself,
bringing another dog who had also been lamed, and intimating, as
plainly as piteous and intelligent looks could intimate, that he
desired the same kind assistance to be rendered to his friend as had
been bestowed upon himself.

But I am forgetting poor puss.

Mr. W., a friend of mine, whose word might be taken for any thing,
told me an extraordinary anecdote of a cat, which he said he knew to
be true.

A friend of his was setting out on a voyage to some place, I forget
where. Every thing was carried on board, and the two friends were in
the cabin about taking leave of each other. “I asked my friend
before parting,” said Mr. W., “whether he had every thing that he
wanted; if there was nothing more that he could think of to make him
more comfortable or happy on his voyage.” “One thing,” he replied,
“would add to my pleasure very much, if you would bring it to me. In
the counting room of my store is a small white cat; I am very fond
of the poor thing, and she will miss me I know; I should like to
take her with me.” I immediately went ashore and found his little
cat looking very sorrowful in his lonely room; I carried her to him.
They seemed mutually pleased at meeting.”

When the vessel returned, Mr. W. received this account from the
officers of the ship. They said that his friend made a great pet of
the cat, and fed her always at his own meal times. He taught her to
stand on her hind legs and ask for her food; he made her jump over a
stick for his amusement; in short, he taught her to perform a great
many amusing tricks. The officers and men were all very fond of poor
little puss.

At length, the young man became very ill. The cat would not leave
him night or day. At last, one day, she left the cabin and began to
run about the ship, making the most terrible mewing. The sailors
offered her food; she refused it. She would not be comforted.
Finally, her cries turned into a complete howl. She manifested the
greatest suffering, and, at last, she ran off to the end of the
bowsprit and leaped into the sea. Just at the moment that the poor
little faithful, loving cat was swallowed up by the waves, her human
friend breathed his last, and they both entered the invisible land
together.

Such an extraordinary event, and the gloom which a death at sea
always casts over a ship’s company, both together made the sailors
even more than usually superstitious. They all declared that, every
night at that same hour when the sick man died, a white cat was seen
leaping into the ocean. The white crests of the breaking waves might
easily thus appear to an ignorant person who lives, as a sailor
does, in the midst of the wonders and sublime scenes which the ocean
presents, in the awful terrors of its storms, or the serene glory of
its quiet hours. But the love of the poor dumb animal for its
master–that was a beautiful reality.

I have a story now for you, Frank, about a horse, as I know you are
particularly fond of horses. An Arab chief with his tribe had
attacked in the night a caravan, and had plundered it; when loaded
with their spoil, however, the robbers were overtaken on their
return by some horsemen of the Pacha of Acre, who killed several,
and bound the remainder with cords. The horsemen brought one of the
prisoners, named Abou el Mavek, to Acre, and laid him, bound hand
and foot, wounded as he was, at the entrance to their tent. As they
slept during the night, the Arab, kept awake by the pain of his
wounds, heard his horse’s neigh at a distance, and being desirous to
stroke, for the last time, the companion of his life, he dragged
himself, bound as he was, to the horse which was picketed at a
little distance.

“Poor friend,” said he; “what will you do among the Turks? You will
be shut up under the roof of a khan, with the horses of a pacha or
an aga; no longer will the women and children of the tent bring you
barley, camel’s milk, or dourra, in the hollow of their hands. No
longer will you gallop, free as the wind of Egypt, in the desert. No
longer will you cleave with your bosom the water of the Jordan which
cools your sides, as pure as the foam of your lips. If I am to be a
slave, at least may you go free. Go, return to our tent which you
know so well; tell my wife that Abou el Marek will return no more;
but put your head still into the folds of the tent, lick the hands
of my beloved children.”

With these words, he untied with his teeth the fetters, and set the
courser at liberty. But the noble animal, on recovering its freedom,
instead of bounding away alone, bent its head over its master, and,
seeing him in fetters, took his clothes gently in its teeth, lifted
him up, set off at full speed, and, without ever resting, made
straight for the distant but well-known tent in the mountains.

The horse arrived in safety, laid his master down at the feet of his
wife and children, and immediately dropped down dead with fatigue.
The whole tribe mourned him, the poets celebrated his fidelity, and
his name is still constantly in the mouths of the Arabs of Jericho.

And now, boys, let us talk about the elephant a little. I have been
reading something of his history, and I am disposed to think that,
of all animals, he is, on the whole, the most intelligent.”

“More intelligent than the dog, Mother?”

“Yes, it seems so to me. He is not so disinterested, so loving, but
he reasons more than any other animal. He is also capable of very
strong attachment, but he will not bear ill treatment. The elephant
seems revengeful. The dog still loves the master who is unkind to
him.

The elephant will learn to assist his master in his work. An
elephant who belonged to the Duke of Devonshire would come out of
her house when her keeper called her, take up a broom, and stand
ready to sweep the paths and grass when he told her to do so. She
would take up a pail or a watering pot, and follow him round the
place, ready to do his bidding. Her keeper usually rode on her neck,
like the elephant drivers in India, and he always spread over her a
large, strong cloth for alighting, which the elephant, by kneeling,
allowed him to do. He desired her to take off the cloth. This she
contrived to do by drawing herself up in such a way that the
shrinking of her loose skin moved the cloth, and it gradually
wriggled on one side, till, at last, it would fall by its own
weight. The cloth, of course, fell all in a heap; but the elephant
would spread it carefully on the grass, and then fold it up, as you
fold your napkin, till it was small enough for her purpose; then she
held it up with her trunk for a moment, and, at last, with one jerk,
threw it up over her head to the centre of her back, where it
remained for use, out of the way, ready for next time, and as nicely
placed as if human hands had put it there.

A few years ago, an elephant in London was taught to take part in a
play. She came in and marched very properly in a procession. At the
waving of her keeper’s hand, she would kneel down and salute any
individual, or put a crown on the head of the true prince. She would
eat and drink with great propriety of manner, and make her reverence
to the audience. But all this is nothing to what the elephants were
taught by the Romans. The keepers, by treating their elephants with
the utmost kindness, taking care of them as to health, and doing
every thing to make them happy, acquired over them the greatest
power. The elephants learned to love music. They were at first
frightened by the loud instruments; but, after a while, became very
fond of all, particularly of the gentle flute, at which they would
show their delight by beating time with their great feet. The
keepers accustomed them to the sight of great multitudes of people.
At one time, when a particular exhibition of the docility of
elephants was required, twelve of the most sagacious and well
trained were made to march into the theatre with a regular step. At
the voice of their keeper, they moved in harmonious measure,
sometimes in a circle, and sometimes divided into parties,
scattering flowers around them. In the intervals of the dance, they
would beat time to the music, and were careful to keep in proper
order. After this display, the elephants were feasted, as the Romans
were in the habit of feasting themselves, in grand style. Splendid
couches were placed, ornamented with paintings and covered with
tapestry. Before the couches, upon tables of ebony and cedar, was
spread the banquet, in vessels of gold and silver. When the feast
was prepared, the twelve elephants marched in; six gentleman
elephants dressed in the robes of men, and six lady elephants
attired in women’s clothes. They lay down in order upon the couches;
and then, at a certain signal, extended their trunks, and eat their
suppers with the most praiseworthy moderation and propriety. “Not
one of them,” says the historian of the elephant, “appeared the
least voiacious, or manifested the least desire for more than his
share of the food, or an undue proportion of the delicacies. They
were as moderate also in their drink, and received the cups that
were presented to them with the greatest decorum and temperance.”

The elephants were taught to hurl javelins, and catch them with
their trunks, and to pretend to fight with each other, for the
amusement of their warlike masters, and were taught also to perform
a dance. Finally, these wonderful animals would do what you would
think was utterly impossible. You remember, when the circus riders
were here seeing a man walk and dance on a rope.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Frank; “but an elephant could not do that, I’m
sure.”

“Historians of Rome, supposed to give true accounts, say that the
elephants were taught to walk along a rope forward and then
backward. One elephant is described as walking up a slanting rope to
the roof of the theatre with a man on his back.”

“I should not have liked to be the man on his back,” said Harry.

“It is as astonishing, perhaps more so, that a horse has been taught
to do similar things. When I was in Paris, I saw some horses dance a
quadrille very respectably, and keep excellent time. One of the
Roman historians relates, “An elephant, having been punished for
stupidity in executing some feat which he was required to learn, was
observed, at night, endeavoring to practise what he had failed to
perform in the daytime.” It is mentioned that elephants have been
observed practising their lessons by moonlight, without any
directions from the keepers. Think what a good example elephants are
for school boys. I have only told you a very little about this
wonderful animal; yet enough, I hope, to make you want to read some
of the many books about him. You have, I think, read of the story of
the elephant who was wounded in his proboscis or trunk, and, in his
anger, unintentionally killed his keeper, and of what the keeper’s
wife did.”

“No, Mother,” said Frank; “we have never read it. What did she do?”

“In her despair, not knowing what she did, she held out her son, and
said to the raging animal, “Take him too.” The angry elephant became
quiet. He seemed to understand the agony of the poor woman. He
gently lifted and placed upon his back the little child, and ever
after obeyed him for a master.”

“You know the story in Evenings at Home, Mother, of the Elephant and
the Cobbler, how the fellow pricked the elephant’s trunk, and how
the elephant punished him by squirting muddy water all over him.”

“Yes. The elephant’s trunk is so susceptible that nothing enrages
him so much as any wound on it. He cannot bear patiently the
slightest scratch.

Now I will tell you a story of a lion. An English gentleman, who was
living in India, had a fancy to see what effect extreme gentleness,
and kindness, and very simple diet would have upon the character of
the lion. The gentleman had the good fortune to get a baby lion for
the experiment. He made a real pet of him. He fed him with bread and
milk and rice, and such things, and took care always to satisfy him
with food. The young lion loved his master, who was always very kind
to him, and who was really very fond of his lionship. This man
lived, as in India a gentleman often does, in a house by himself,
and could easily have his friend lion with him, without annoying any
one. The baby grew bigger and bigger, and became a good-sized, full-
grown lion. He was gentle and happy, full of play, and rather a
pleasant companion to his two-legged friend. Whether the lion ever
roared for his master’s amusement, the friend who told me this story
did not say.

At last, this gentleman wished to return to England to see his old
mother. He was too much attached to his lion to leave him, and so
took him in the place of a dog. The lion was very good all the
voyage. No one had a word to say against him. His conduct and
manners were faultless. He played with the sailors, he obeyed his
master, and, in short, was a very quiet, well-behaved, human lion.
When the gentleman arrived in England, as soon as he could leave the
ship, he called for a carriage to take him to his mother. When he
got into the carriage, the lion jumped in after him. “Your honor,”
said the driver, “I’m afraid of that beast.” “O, never mind,” said
the gentleman; “he’ll not hurt you.” “But, your honor, I never in my
born days took a lion in my carriage. It’s not a place for such
brutes.” “There’s always a first time,” said the gentleman. “Here’s
a crown for my lion; and now get on; I can’t wait.” The cabman,
thinking it wise to make the best of things, and not quarrel with a
man who had a lion for a friend, stepped up on his box, and drove
away rattlety-bang to Regent’s Park, some three or four miles’
drive. The lion was much astonished, and sat bolt upright on his
hind legs, looking out of the window. He did not appreciate the
beauties of London; he was disgusted with the noise, and growled a
little. The driver heard him, and drove all the faster. Poor Lord
Lion, his temper was tried; but he bore it better than most lions
would. At last, the cab stopped at the house of the gentleman’s
mother. He sprang out, and rang the bell: “Does Mrs. B. live here?”
“Yes, sir.” “Is she well?” The footman turned pale as ashes, and
scampered off as if he thought the lion would devour him. The
gentleman ran up stairs, and the lion after him. In another moment,
the arms of the son were around his mother. Presently, the lady saw
the lion. She had heard of her son’s pet, and saw she was in no
danger. She begged her son, however, to put him down in the yard and
keep him chained, or she should not have a servant in the house. The
lion was not happy chained. The gentleman, finding, moreover, that
he could not go into the streets with his friend without being
followed by a mob, at last placed him in the Tower, where there were
other lions, and gave many charges that the pet lion should be well
treated. Many years afterwards, the gentleman returned from another
voyage to India; and, after seeing his mother, went to the Tower to
see his friend. When he came to the large cage in which the lion was
confined, the keeper said, “This is our finest and our fiercest
lion.” “Open the door,” said the gentleman. The keeper, not knowing
him, objected. The gentleman insisted, and entered. The lion was
lying down, and, seeing a man in his cage, for a moment looked
angry; in another moment he rose on his hind legs, put his paws
around his old master, and showed the greatest delight at seeing
him.”

“Why, he was almost as good as a dog,” said Frank. “But now, Mother,
please tell us the story about a bear which you said you heard on
your journey last summer.”

“I ought rather,” said Mrs. Chilton, “to call it the story of a cow,
for she was the heroine of the tale. I was travelling with a small
party among the White Hills. When we stopped to dine, we saw a
number of people assembled around the door of the hotel, and found
that they were looking at a black bear that had been just shot. This
bear had inspired the neighborhood with some fear, for he was a
large one. They had tried a number of times to shoot him; but all in
vain. Master Bruin was never off his guard. At last, the poor fellow
foolishly left the deep wild wood, where he could easily hide
himself, for a little grove. When the villagers saw his mistake,
they immediately took steps to surround the grove. The number of the
inhabitants was small; so they summoned all the women and children,
as well as the men, and so got an unbroken line all around the
little wood. As soon as the bear sought any part, in order to
escape, he was saluted by the most frightful screams, as well as a
shower of stones. He fled to the opposite side, but there met with
the same reception. This went on for some time. At last, some one
succeeded in shooting him. He measured a little over six feet from
the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail, and his teeth were very
formidable.

A gentleman who had assisted in the capture of the bear, told me the
story I promised to tell you of the cow and the bear. A little girl,
about twelve or thirteen years of age, was sent by her mother, one
afternoon, to bring home the cows from a neighboring wood, where
they were at pasture. There were many fallen trees, as is often the
case in our wild woods; and the child amused herself by climbing
over the trunks.

Now, one of the black-looking logs was a large bear that was lying
asleep, and the little girl jumped right upon his growling majesty.
The bear arose, evidently not quite pleased at being made a stepping
stone, took the little girl in his great shaggy paws, and gave her
an ugly hug, such as only a bear can give. Mr. Bear would have
squeezed the breath out of the body of the poor little girl, had not
the good old cow seen the danger. The courageous creature, instead
of running away, turned back immediately, and began goring the bear
with her horns in such a way as to force old Bruin, if he valued a
whole hide, to turn round and defend himself. So he let go his hold
on the little girl, who, though sadly frightened and bruised, was
still strong enough to run towards home. Presently the bear followed
her. Immediately the cow attacked him again with her horns, and
drove him off. This continued till they got out of the wood, when
the bear ran back to his own home. The gentleman who told us this
story said he had seen the little girl, and that she had never quite
recovered from the effect of the horrid squeeze of the grim old
bear, but still suffered in her chest. Still she was thankful that
her life was saved, and always considered the good old cow her
preserver.”

“Why, Mother,” said Frank, “I did not think that a cow could be good
for any thing but to give milk.”

“In Germany, they use cows for draught, and make them work pretty
hard. There you see cows every day doing the same work that our oxen
do, and giving the poor man his supper at the end of the day
besides; and it is said that the labor does not hurt them. The
Germans feed the cows well, treat them gently and kindly, but make
them, as well as the dogs, work for a living.”

“Now I will tell you a story about a pike. We are apt to think fishes
very stupid; that they have no feeling. A gentleman in England,
a surgeon and a naturalist, told me of what he had himself seen. A
pike had struck its head against a tenter hook on a post in the pond
where he was swimming. His agony was so great that he darted
backward and forward with the greatest rapidity, then buried his
head in the mud, then whirled his tail round and round, and threw
himself up into the air to the height of two or three feet, and, at
last, he threw himself out of the pond upon the grass. Dr. Warwick
placed his hand on the fish, examined the injury, and observed that
the hook had entered the skull, wrenching up one side of the bone
and depressing the other, and that a small part of the brain had
escaped. With a toothpick the doctor restored the bones to their
proper places. The patient remained perfectly still during the
operation, and after-ward was returned to his native element. He
seemed restless for a little while, and then lay quiet. Dr. Warwick
then made a sort of cradle in which he placed the poor sufferer, who
seemed disposed to lie still on one side.”

“The next day, very early, Dr. Warwick went to the pond. To his
astonishment, he found that the pike knew and remembered him. The
fish came to the edge of the pond, placed his jaw upon the toe of
the doctor’s boot, let himself be taken hold of and caressed, and
allowed the wound to be examined. It was much better. When the
doctor walked along the side of the pond, the fish followed him.
When the doctor returned from his walk, he found his patient
watching for him. The pike then swam backward and forward while the
doctor remained there. The fish had lost one eye in consequence of
the wound from the hook, and, when his blind side was towards the
doctor, was always very restless. The poor fellow seemed anxious to
keep his surgical friend in sight. The doctor would often whistle
when he went to the pond; and the pike always came at the call, and
showed pleasure at seeing him. Dr. Warwick introduced his family to
his friend and patient, the pike. The grateful fish allowed them to
give him food, and put aside much of his native shyness. In truth,
he received their attentions very civilly, but he always showed a
decided preference for his medical friend. Dr. Warwick was the
father of my friend, Mrs. A., in Liverpool. He related all these
facts to me himself, and they are all to be perfectly relied upon.”

Now I will read you a German story called Caliph Stork.

One pleasant afternoon, the Caliph of Bagdad was sitting comfortably
on his sofa: he had slept a little, (for it was a hot day,) and
looked quite bright after his nap. He was smoking a long rose-wood
pipe, and sipping coffee, which was poured out for him by a slave;
and occasionally he stroked his beard with great satisfaction. In
short, it was evident that he felt quite pleasantly.

This was the best time of day for speaking with him; for at this
hour he was always very good-natured and affable; and, on this
account, the Grand Vizier Mansor always visited him at this hour. He
came also this afternoon, but looking very thoughtful, quite against
his wont. The caliph took the pipe partly away from his mouth, and
said, “What makes you look so thoughtful, Grand Vizier?”

The grand vizier crossed his arms over his breast, bowed to his
master, and answered, “Sir! whether I look thoughtful or not is more
than I know; but certain it is, that there is a pedler down stairs
who has such beautiful things, that it vexes me not to have any
money to spare.”

The caliph was very willing to do his grand vizier a favor; so he
sent the black slave to bring the pedler up stairs. The pedler came.
He was a little, dumpy man, with a dark complexion, and dressed in
ragged garments. He bore a chest in which were wares of all sorts:
pearls and rings, richly mounted pistols, drinking cups, and combs.
The caliph and his vizier rummaged over the whole chest, and the
caliph finally bought some pistols for himself and Mansor, and a
comb for the vizier’s wife. As the pedler was about to close the
chest, the caliph saw a little drawer, and asked if there was any
thing more in it. The pedler pulled the drawer out, and showed in it
a box of blackish powder, and a paper with curious writing on it,
which neither the caliph nor Mansor could read. “I got these two
things from a merchant who found them at Mecca, in the street; I do
not know what they contain, but you may have them very cheap, for I
cannot do any thing with them.”

The caliph, who liked to have old manuscripts in his library,
although he could not read them, bought the paper and the box, and
dismissed the pedler.

The caliph, however, thought he should like to know the contents of
the manuscript, and asked the vizier if he knew any body who could
decipher it. “Most gracious sovereign and master,” answered he,
“there is a man at the great mosque, who is called Selim the
Learned; he understands all languages; send for him; perhaps he may
make out these mysterious characters.”

The learned Selim was soon brought. “Selim,” said the caliph to him,
“they say you are very learned; now just look into this manuscript,
and see whether you can read it; if you can, I will give you a new
dress; but if you cannot, you shall have twelve boxes on the ear,
and twenty-five blows on the soles of your feet, for having been
called, without reason, Selim the Learned.”

Selim bowed and said, “Be it as you command, Sir!” He examined the
writing for a long time, and then suddenly cried out, “This is
Latin, sir, or I’ll give you leave to hang me.” “Let us hear what it
contains, then, if it is Latin,” said the caliph.

Selim began to translate: “O man who findest this, praise Allah for
his goodness. Whoever snuffs up some of the powder in this box, and
at the same time says, ‘Mutabor,’ may change himself into any
animal, and will understand the language of animals. If he wishes to
return to the human shape, let him bow three times towards the East,
and pronounce the same word. But let him take care, after he is
transformed, not to laugh, otherwise the word will disappear
entirely from his memory, and he will remain a beast.”

When Selim the Learned had read this, the caliph was exceedingly
delighted. He made Selim swear never to reveal any thing of the
secret to any one; then he gave him a beautiful robe, and dismissed
him.

Then he said to his grand vizier, “That is what I call a good
bargain, Mansor! How impatient I am to become a beast! Come to me
easily to-morrow morning, and we will go out into the fields, snuff
up a little of the powder, and then listen to what is said in the
air and in the water, in the woods and in the fields!”

Scarcely had the caliph breakfasted and dressed, the next morning,
when the grand vizier appeared, according to his orders, to
accompany him in his excursion. The caliph stuck the box with the
magic powder into his girdle, and having commanded his retinue to
remain behind, he set off with only the grand vizier, on his way.
They went first through the spacious gardens of the caliph, but they
could not find any living animal to try their experiment upon. At
last, the vizier proposed to go out to a pond, where he had often
seen many animals, particularly storks, which had attracted his
attention by their grave demeanor and their chattering.

The caliph approved of the vizier’s proposal, and went with him
towards the pond. When they got there, they saw a stork, walking
gravely back and forth, searching for frogs, and occasionally
chattering something to himself. At the same time they saw another
stork soaring high in the air, above the place.

“I will wager my beard, most gracious Sir,” said the grand vizier,
“that these two long-legs are carrying on a fine conversation
together. What say you to turning ourselves into storks?”

“Well said!” answered the caliph. “But let us see; how is it that
one is to become man again?”

“O, yes! we are to bow three times towards the East, and say,
Mutabor, and then I am caliph again, and you vizier. But for
Heaven’s sake don’t laugh, or we are lost!”

While the caliph was speaking, he saw the other stork come sailing
down over their heads, and settle in a business manner on the
ground. Quickly he drew the box from his girdle, took a good pinch
of the powder, and handed it to the grand vizier, who also took a
pinch, and then both cried out, “Mutabor!”

Immediately their legs shrivelled up, and became thin and red; the
beautiful yellow slippers of the caliph and his companion turned
into clumsy stork-feet; their arms became wings; their necks
stretched out from their shoulders, and were an ell long; their
beards disappeared, and their bodies were covered with soft
feathers, instead of clothes.

“That’s a pretty bill of yours, Mr. Grand Vizier,” said the caliph,
after a long pause of astonishment. “By the beard of the Prophet, I
never saw any thing like that in my life.”

“Thank you kindly,” answered the grand vizier, bowing; “but, if I
may he allowed the observation, your highness looks almost handsomer
as stork than as caliph. But come, if you please, let us listen to
our comrades yonder, and try whether we really do understand
Storkish.”

In the mean time the other stork had alighted on the ground. He
arranged his feathers with his bill, put himself to rights, and
walked up to the first stork.

The two new storks made haste to approach them, and overheard, to
their astonishment, the following conversation.

“Good morning, Mrs. Longlegs; you are early on the meadow.”

“Thank you, dear blatterbeak! I have been getting a little
breakfast. Will you take a bit of lizard, or a frog’s leg?”

“Much obliged, but I have no appetite this morning. I came on to the
meadow for quite a different purpose. I am to dance before the
guests at my father’s to-day, and I thought I would exercise a
little in private beforehand.”

At the same time the young storkess marched about the field making
the oddest gesticulations. The caliph and Mansor looked on with
wonder. But at last, when she put herself into a picturesque
attitude on one foot, and gracefully waved her wings, they could
stand it no longer; an inextinguishable laugh burst from their
bills, from which they did not recover for some time. The caliph
composed himself first. “What a capital joke!” cried he; “I never
saw any thing better in my life; it is a pity that the stupid birds
were frightened away by our laughter, else she would certainly have
sung!”

But it now occurred to the grand vizier that they had been forbidden
to laugh during their transformation. He communicated his anxiety to
the caliph.

“By Mecca and Medina!” cried the caliph, “it would be a pretty piece
of business if I had to remain a stork all my life! Try think of the
stupid word; I can’t remember it.”

“We must bow three times towards the East, and say, Mu–Mu–Mu–.”
They turned to the East, and bowed away till their beaks touched the
ground. But, alas! The magic word had vanished, and with all the
caliph’s bowing, and his vizier’s crying Mu–Mu–, all recollections
of it had disappeared from their memories, and the poor Chasid and
his vizier still remained storks as before.

The caliph and the grand vizier walked in a melancholy mood through
the fields, not knowing what to do in their sad plight. They could
not get out of their stork-skins, and it would not do for them to go
back to the town to tell any one of their condition. for who would
believe a stork if he said that he was the caliph? And even if they
had believed him, would the inhabitants of Bagdad be willing to have
a stork for their caliph? So they sneaked about for several days,
feeding upon wild fruits, which, however, they could not manage very
well, on account of their long bills. For lizards and frogs, they
had no appetite. Their only satisfaction in this sad predicament was
that they could fly; and they often flew over on to the roofs in the
city of Bagdad, to see what was going on.

For the first few days they observed great uneasiness and mourning
in the streets. But, on the fourth day of their enchantment, as they
were sitting on the roof of the caliph’s palace, they saw in the
street below a splendid procession. The drums and fifes sounded, and
a man in a scarlet robe, embroidered with gold, came riding along on
a richly caparisoned horse, surrounded by servants in glittering
garments. Half the town were at his heels, and all were shouting,
“Hail to Mizra! Caliph of Bagdad!” The two storks looked at each
other as they sat on the roof, and the Caliph Chasid said, “Do not
you begin to understand how I come to be enchanted, Grand Vizier?
This Mizra is the son of my mortal enemy, the powerful enchanter,
Kaschnur, who in an evil hour vowed vengeance against me. But I do
not yet give up all hope. Come with me, faithful companion in
misfortune; we will make a pilgrimage to the grave of the Prophet;
perhaps the charm may be broken in sacred places.”

So they raised themselves from the roof of the palace, and flew in
the direction of Medina.

Flying, however, did not suit the two storks very well, on account
of their want of practice. “Ah, Sir,” groaned the vizier, after they
had been flying a couple of hours, “with your permission–I cannot
stand it any longer; you fly too fast! Besides, it is already
growing dark, and we should do well to be looking out for some place
to pass the night.”

Chasid yielded to the request of his officer, and perceiving a
ruined building in the valley below, they flew down to it. The place
which they had pitched upon for their night-quarters, seemed to have
been a castle. Beautiful columns were still standing among the
ruins, and numerous chambers, which were in tolerable preservation,
testified to the former splendor of the house. Chasid and his
companion walked about the passages to find a dry spot; suddenly the
stork Mansor stood still. “Lord and