Chapter 40

The Pages and Ping Wang were among the first twenty to pass in at the town gates, and the latter at once crossed over to an inn and peeped in at the door. The glance he gave satisfied him, and he beckoned to Charlie and Fred to enter. It was not an attractive-looking place, but there was a smell of roast pork, that made the hungry travellers sniff with delight.

The dining-room into which Ping Wang led the way was very dirty, and until Charlie and Fred were told what the room was they had no idea that it was there that they were to breakfast. They sat down on a form at a little, bare wooden table, and before long were enjoying a hearty meal of roast pork and tea.

'And now,' Fred said, when they had satisfied their healthy appetites, 'I should like to lie down and sleep.'

'So should I,' Charlie declared. 'What kind of beds do they have here?'

'We can lie on the floor here if we like,' Ping Wang answered.

'I'll do so,' Charlie said, and down he went on the floor, turned his face to the wall, rested his head on his arm, and closed his eyes: Fred followed his example at once.

Ping Wang waited until his friends were asleep, and then, having satisfied himself that their pigtails were not slipping off, and that there was nothing about their appearance to attract attention, he lay down beside them.

All three slept soundly until the landlord came in and awoke Ping Wang, who had an argument with him about the price of roast pork.

'What is our next move?' Charlie asked, quietly, when the landlord had left the room.

'To go and see my cousin,' Ping Wang replied, 'to warn him of the danger which threatens his brother and all other Christians.'

Ping Wang found his cousin--a fan-maker--at his shop. He had heard of the Boxers' intentions the day before, and had already been to his brother to warn him and his friends. This was indeed good news, and Ping Wang was anxious to tell his friends of it, but dared not, for his cousin's work-people were in the next room, and would probably hear them speaking English. He told his cousin, however, that his friends, who were standing at the door, were Englishmen, a piece of news which caused the fan-maker much uneasiness. He begged Ping Wang not to introduce him to the Englishmen, and urged him to get them out of the town as quickly as possible. Ping Wang chatted with him for a few more minutes and then departed.

The streets were now crowded with people, and Ping Wang whispered to his friends not to speak on any account until they were safe at another inn. He led them through numerous narrow streets, and was within a hundred yards of the inn where he hoped to get a room when a man came running along the street, shouting wildly, slashing about with a whip, and driving the people back against the houses on either side. Ping Wang pushed the Pages back quickly and stood in front of them.

A few moments later Charlie and Fred understood the cause of the excitement. A gorgeous palanquin was borne rapidly past them, but not so quickly that they were unable to see the occupant. He was a fat, cruel-looking man, and took no notice whatever of the kowtowing of the people. On his head he wore a yellow cloth, such as the Boxers had worn on the previous evening, and this was regarded, as it was meant to be, as a sign that he was in sympathy with the Boxer movement.

'Chin Choo,' Ping Wang muttered, as the palanquin passed out of sight, and Charlie and Fred knew that they had seen the murderer of their friend's father, and the possessor of the treasure which they had come to China to secure.

The inn to which Ping Wang led his friends was the best in Kwang-ngan. It was roomy, fairly clean, and was the only place of its kind that was two storeys high. The other inns had but one storey.

Ping Wang took a room on the first floor, and they entered into occupation at once.

'Let us sit in the middle of the room,' Ping Wang said, 'and then, if we talk very quietly, there will be no fear of any one hearing that we are not talking Chinese.'

Ping Wang then told his friends of what his cousin had said to him. They were very much relieved to hear that the missionaries had been warned of the danger that threatened them, but were rather worried by the difficulties before them.

'The easiest way to get into Chin Choo's garden,' Ping Wang said, 'will be by climbing over the wall. It is a high one, certainly, but I do not think that we shall have much difficulty in scaling it. What I do fear is that, as Chin Choo's house is in the busiest part of the town, we may have to wait days, perhaps weeks, before we find the road deserted, even at night. As soon as it is dark, we will go out and find the most convenient spots for climbing. In the meanwhile, are either of you hungry?'

Charlie and Fred had had such a hearty breakfast that they almost shuddered at the mention of food.

'Well,' Ping Wang said, 'I'm not hungry either, but we shall want some dinner.'

He went downstairs to give the order and have a chat with the inn-keeper. He was absent about twenty minutes, and when he returned the Pages saw that he had some news to tell them.

'What is it?' Charlie asked.

Ping Wang quietly turned the key in the door and then sat down beside his friends.

'There is to be a feast to-night. It's to be held at the other end of the town, and everybody who possibly can will be there. That will leave this end of the town nearly deserted. A better opportunity for climbing over Chin Choo's wall we could not possibly have. The road will be deserted, and most of Chin Choo's servants will be at the feast. Perhaps Chin Choo himself will be there. Don't let us talk about it just now. Our dinner will not be brought up for three hours, and in the meantime we had better get all the sleep that we can. We must be as fresh as possible this evening.'

Charlie and Fred agreed, and five minutes later all three were sleeping soundly.

They were aroused from their slumber by a terrific banging at their door.

'Who's there?' Ping Wang asked in Chinese, and the reply came, from the landlord himself, that he was their disreputable nephew, who would, if permitted to intrude his worthless body upon their exalted presence, lay the dinner.

Ping Wang replied instantly that if their intellectual uncle would condescend to demean himself by waiting on such idiotic monkeys, they would at once admit his glorious body to their ridiculous and contemptible presence.

These flowery Chinese compliments having been exchanged, Ping Wang opened the door to his 'uncle,' and his 'nephew' walked in and placed a couple of ducks on the table.

As soon as they had finished their meal, the Pages and Ping Wang went to the window and stood gazing down into the busy street. Charlie quickly noticed that nearly all the people who were proceeding in one direction were carrying provisions.

'Are they taking those things to give to their ancestors' ghosts?' he inquired.

'Well, no,' Ping Wang replied. 'The feast to be given to-night has been got up by the priests of Fo.'

'Who is Fo?'

'Buddha. Fo is our name for him. The Buddhists decided, many years ago, that the Confucians were to be blamed for neglecting to feast the ghosts of those who had been so unfortunate as to die without leaving any descendants, and agreed to do the work themselves. They published accounts of the terrible sufferings of the starving ghosts who had no descendants, and urged the people to contribute food to relieve their wants. The people gave willingly, and from that time the Buddhist priests have had feasts at intervals. I think that we shall be able to see part of this evening's performance. At dusk we will go out and examine the wall round Chin Choo's house, and when we have found the best place for scaling it, we will hurry off to the feast. We will stay there a short time, and then return to finish our job. By this time to-morrow I hope that we shall be back at Su-ching, with our pockets full of rubies. But Chin Choo is not likely to be merciful to any one found robbing him.'

'But we are not going to rob him,' Charlie declared. 'We are simply going to recover what he has stolen from you.'

'That is so,' said Fred; 'but Chin Choo will think that as much stealing as if we were taking from him something to which he had a perfect right.'

'Oh, well, don't let us look on the gloomy side of the affair,' said Ping Wang. 'We need not talk about it any more now. I must go out for a few minutes. Wait for me here.'

(_Continued on page 366._)

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

XI.--CATERPILLARS AND THEIR ENEMIES.

The feebler folk among Nature's children have many enemies; against these they are, as a rule, nearly powerless; but here and there, among the different groups of animals, we meet with strange devices for repelling attacks. Though these are by no means always successful, it seems clear that they are good enough to serve as a fairly sure protection. This is especially the case with the Caterpillars.

There are two methods of defence used by caterpillars. One of these is the device of squirting noxious fluids from the body; the other is found in the poisonous hairs and spines which are scattered more or less all over the body.

Those who have taken up the study of butterflies and moths, will do well to be careful in handling hairy caterpillars, especially those of the family known as the Bombyces. Some of the members of this family, such as the Fox-moth and the Brown and Gold-tailed moths, when in the caterpillar stage are thickly clothed with long stiff hairs, and these, if the creature be handled, pierce the skin and break off. In consequence very painful itching and irritation is set up. But this is nothing to the pain caused by the caterpillars of the wonderful 'Procession moth' (fig. 1). In these caterpillars the poison hairs are very loosely attached to the body, and studded with exceedingly fine hooks that curve inwards, as may be seen in the diagram of a magnified portion of one of the spines (fig. 2, D and E). Partly by adhering to the skin, and partly by means of a very fine dust with which they are covered, these hairs set up a very violent inflammation on the skin of men and animals, which is hard to get rid of. On this account, moreover, the neighbourhood of the nests of these larvæ is dangerous, for the surrounding air is filled with the hairs and dust borne about by the wind. These are thus inhaled, and give rise to internal inflammation and swellings which have sometimes caused death.

One of the most remarkable of all hairy caterpillars is that of an American species (fig. 3), burdened by scientific men with the terrible name--_Megalopyga!_ The shorter hairs are poisonous.

The caterpillar of our British 'Festoon moth' belongs to a very remarkable family indeed. All the caterpillars of this group, which is found in many parts of the world, are very slug-like in form, and many have an evil reputation as poisoners, though our English species is happily innocent. A small Australian species has the body armed with slight reddish knobs, four in the front and four in the hind part of the body. These knobs can be opened at will, and from them slight rays or bunches of stings of a yellow colour are thrust out. The wounds which these darts inflict are very painful. Of one Indian species a collector records that 'the caterpillar stung with such horrible pain that I sat in the room almost sick with it, and unable to keep the tears from running down my cheeks, for more than two hours, applying ammonia all the time.'

(_Concluded on page 364._)

A FAIR-SIZED FIELD.

Hugh Martin had come home from Canada, where his father owned a ranch, on a visit to some English relations.

Willie Pearse was the cousin nearest him in age, and the two boys became great friends.

'It must be a jolly life out there, and money seems to be made much more quickly than in England,' Willie said one day. 'I wish Father would let me go out with you.'

'You would have to make up your mind to work harder than you do here,' Hugh told him, for he had noticed that his cousin was inclined to be lazy.

'Oh, I like that! Why, you were telling me how little there was to do in the winter, with everything frozen up! I thought that when you were not having a ripping time with sleighing parties and tobogganing, you just sat by the fire and read.'

'Compared with the summer, of course, the winter work is nothing. We just have to feed the calves every day, and ride round the field where our stock are wintering, to look up the cattle. But even that is more than you seem to get through, Will.'

'Not more than just ride round a field!' cried Willie. 'I should be glad if that ended my day's work.'

'Perhaps you do not quite realise the size of what we call a field,' Hugh said quietly.

'How many acres?' asked his cousin.

'Oh, a matter of two thousand acres or so,' was the answer, and then Willie began to think that if all the little jobs of work were on the same scale, perhaps only the energetic folk were the sort to go to Canada, and those who loved their ease had better stay at home.

M. H.

A STROLL AMONGST FERNS.

We cannot show in Britain such tall and beautiful natives of the fern tribe as may be found growing freely in tropical countries, but still we have some fine ferns belonging to our islands. These are much commoner in some parts than in others, and probably, many years ago, when a great part of the country was covered with damp forests or woods, there was a greater abundance of ferns generally than there is now. Indeed, even in the last few years, some ferns that used to be abundant have become quite scarce, often owing to the fact that unwise people dig them up, to carry the plants away from their haunts, and put them in gardens.

There are, fortunately, some ferns which such thefts do not harm, because they are plentiful. The well-known bracken, for instance, though quantities of it may be cut for wrapping or decoration, is not thereby thinned much, and it covers acres and acres of ground in some woodlands, especially about the western counties. The West of England is the home of ferns, big and small; but some southern counties, such as Sussex and Hampshire, have a good display. In Scotland, again, glens or copses, often the haunts of wild deer, are green with a thick growth of bracken.

A well-known writer, who lives where ferns abound, says that the bracken is the fern of ferns in the British Islands. The shelter of it is a pleasure and a safeguard too, not only to the tall deer and their fawns, but to thousands of quadrupeds and birds, whose home is amid the copses, shady lanes, or moorlands. In sandy wastes, this fern only grows a foot high; along the paths in woods it will attain to six or seven feet, or grow taller still in a lofty hedge, or in a clump of supporting trees. Even in the winter months the ferns have their uses; it is delightful, after walking over some moist lowland, to come upon a hilly ridge of ground, where, amongst the birches and the fragrant firs, the brown ferns grow freely.

Grand in its growth, but only to be found in a few places, is the Osmund or Royal Fern, which throws up a tall spike bearing the spores or seeds of the plant. Sometimes, in moist places, the crown of the root is a clump of more than a foot high, from which the stem rises. Of late years, this kingly fern has become still more rare, and happy is the fern-hunter who comes upon a specimen.

Who can help admiring the beautiful Lady Fern, which seems to be most at home when growing near a streamlet or pond? It is stately and graceful, with large fronds of clear green, and the tips of its sprays bend like plumes. What is called the Male Fern grows in hedges or banks, and indeed almost anywhere; a handsome cheery-looking plant, though of moderate size. It will even manage to live in a London back-garden, or area, and many cottagers have it amongst the flowers of their small garden plots. Occasionally, by the side of a copse, we may come upon a great bed of the male fern, which frequently keeps green all the winter. Often, about the same spots where the male fern flourishes, the Shield Fern displays its fronds, larger and broader, but fewer in number, and prettily toothed along their edges. Fond of damp hollows or the sides of ditches is the handsome Hart's-tongue Fern, which will also, now and then, choose to grow on a cracked wall, or perhaps down a well.

We must not forget the Polypody, which delights to creep amongst the trees and bushes of a lane, and looks very fresh in June, keeping its fronds till some sharp frost brings them off. It took the name of Polypody from its jagged leaves, upon which the seeds or spores appear in bright orange spots. The humble Wall Rue and the Wall Spleenwort grow on walls chiefly, sometimes on rocky banks. The true Maiden-hair Fern is amongst the rarest of our native ferns. What is so commonly grown by gardeners, and used for bouquets and buttonholes, is the Black Maiden-hair, a rather stronger plant.

THE CONTENTED PANSY.

'I wish,' said the Pansy, 'I had not been planted To catch the full force of the wind from the east; But, somehow, the gardener takes it for granted That that's not a hardship I mind in the least. 'Twas all very well while the laurel was growing, Her glittering leaves were a capital shield; But now she is gone, and the chilly winds blowing Can whistle unchecked from the neighbouring field.

'The pinks and the roses are grandly protected, They're touched but by winds from the south and the west; Yet here, in exposure, I'm always expected To blossom in colours my brightest and best. The sun on my home his warm light seldom squanders, And only when night is beginning to fall; While if through the garden the honey-bee wanders, He never looks twice at my corner at all.

'But light is my heart as the fairest of roses, For yesterday morning, in kindliest tone, I heard some one say, who was gathering posies, "I'm fond of that pansy that blossoms alone." Just think of it! Some one has noticed me growing! I don't want the wind from the south and the west, And, spite of the hurricane bitterly blowing, I'll blossom in colours the brightest and best.'

HOW HETAIS WORE HIS MEDAL.

A True Story.

Hetais was a French sailor, a carpenter of the _Ville de Paris_, and he and his ship-mates took part with our soldiers in the siege of Sebastopol in 1854, where Hetais, having shown great gallantry during one of the sorties, was adjudged that coveted decoration, the _médaille militaire_--a medal that is only given to privates and non-commissioned officers.

The presentation of this medal was to be made on a certain evening, and on the morning, as he and his mates were on duty in the trenches, the chief subject of conversation was the honour that had befallen Hetais.

He was a modest, brave-hearted fellow, and though much pleased at the prospect of his medal, was pleased, too, to think of the treat he meant to give his comrades to celebrate the event.

'Look here,' he said to his particular chum, 'I have just drawn out all the money owing to me, and I mean you fellows to have a good, hot supper to-night at the canteen, and I foot the bill!' and as he spoke he pulled out a handful of silver from his pocket and showed it with a laugh to his friend.

Hot suppers were a rarity in that camp, and the very thought of such a treat was cheering to the half-starved men.

'You are a good fellow, Hetais,' said one of the men, 'and you deserve your luck.'

'Hold your tongue, you silly fellow,' said Hetais, with a good-natured thump on the speaker's back. 'Get on with your coffee-making, and do not talk nonsense!'

'All right,' said the man, cautiously lifting his head above the shelter of the trench, so as to see what the Russians were about. 'The "Moscos"' (so the French termed the enemy) 'seem keeping quiet to-day, and we shall be able to enjoy our coffee in peace,' he continued.

A fire was lighted, and the water put on to boil in a saucepan, the men all sitting round in eagerness, for it was bitterly cold in the trenches, and a hot cup, or rather tin, of coffee seemed to warm and cheer them better than anything else.

'Now then,' at last said the coffee-maker, 'hold out your mess-tins, and we will divide fairly.'

Every man held out his mess-tin--but not one drop of coffee was to be drunk by any of them, for at that very moment a bomb from the Russian battery landed in their midst, upsetting the saucepan of coffee and exploding in the midst of the little crowd of men.

It seemed as if none could escape! Yet, strange to say--for this is a true story--of all that group, no one was hurt, except the brave Hetais, whose head had been all but blown away by the bursting of the bomb.

It is impossible to describe the grief and consternation of his comrades, who felt, one and all, that each could have been better spared than the man who lay dead at their feet.

Just then the officer in charge of the party came up, and the senior man told him how Hetais had met his death. The officer was no less sorry than the men, for Hetais was popular with all ranks.

'Poor fellow! he was a brave man if there ever was one,' said the officer. 'Carry his body back to camp, my lads; he shall be honoured in death, if he has just missed it in life,' for the officer was thinking of the medal and the ceremony of presentation which was to have taken place that evening.

The men extemporised a sort of bier out of a litter on which the dead man was lying and their muskets, and thus they reverently carried him back to camp, the relief party presenting arms as the funeral procession passed by them.

When the General in command was informed of the death of Hetais, he issued the following order to the troops:

'I was to have presented Hetais, of the _Ville de Paris_, with the _médaille militaire_, and his untimely death must not deprive him of this honour. I shall fasten the medal on him at his burial.'

A few hours later, all the sailors and soldiers who could be spared from the trenches were drawn up in a hollow square outside the camp around the body of Hetais, who, wrapped in his cloak, slept his last calm sleep on the rough litter in which he had been carried from the trenches.

The deep silence was at last broken by the loud voice of the commanding officer: 'Present arms!' Then he took off his helmet, and followed by another officer, who carried the medal, he advanced towards the bier, and read out the brief account of the gallant action which had gained Hetais his medal.

Then, taking the medal from the hand of the subaltern, he fastened it on to the cloak of the sailor, and, turning to the assembled soldiers and sailors, he thus addressed them:

'A glorious death has ended a noble life,' he said, in a loud, clear voice, which could be heard by all; 'but death, though it has robbed us of a brave comrade, shall not rob him of the honour due to his services. In the name of the General commanding the forces in the East, I confer on our dead comrade the _médaille militaire_!'

Then all ranks passed in turn, bare-headed, past the still figure of Hetais, lying all unconscious of the honour done to him; and thus were the last honours paid to a brave man.

TWENTY POUNDS REWARD.

It was the visit to Dan Webster which brought it all about; but for the fact that the handle of Charlie's bicycle got badly bent, so that only the village blacksmith could put it right, the most exciting incident which ever befell the boys would probably never have taken place.

It happened thus.

'Dan,' said Charlie, as he and his brother Sydney were waiting while the blacksmith finished a job he was at work on when they arrived, 'how would you like to earn twenty pounds reward?'

'I should like it amazingly well, sir,' was the reply; 'a third of that sum even would be a godsend to me.'

'How would you spend it?' asked Sydney, with an amused smile.

A serious look came into old Dan's face. 'I'd send my daughter away to the seaside for a change,' he said. 'The doctor tells me it would do her more good than all his medicines. But what's all this,' he asked, 'about twenty pounds reward? I suppose it's some joke of yours, young gentlemen?'

'It's no joke,' said Charlie; 'at least, Lady Winterton does not think so. She is on a visit to our house, you know; and this morning she discovered that she had lost a valuable necklace. Father was so angry that such a thing should have happened that he at once offered twenty pounds reward for the recovery of the necklace.'

Dan thought seriously awhile. Then he said, 'I wonder if the young chap who roused me up this morning at six o'clock, because his horse had cast a shoe, had anything to do with it?'

Both boys were instantly on the alert. 'What was he like?' they asked, in a breath.

Dan described the stranger as minutely as he could. 'He had a small bag slung round him,' he finished, 'and seemed in a great hurry to be off.'

'That's the thief, you may depend upon it,' said Charlie. 'If we can only track him, Dan, you shall share the profits.'

Dan laughed. 'He didn't look much like a thief, now I come to think of it,' said he. 'He had too honest a face for that.'

'Oh, you never know,' was Sydney's comment. 'I dare say he's a thorough bad 'un, if the truth is known. Which way did he go, Dan, when he left you?'

The blacksmith then told all he knew, and the boys, as soon as Charlie's bicycle was ready, started off, as they fondly hoped, on the track of the thief. After a good long ride, they suddenly came upon the object of their search. He was leisurely taking photographs on the outskirts of a wood. No horse was visible, so he had evidently been home to breakfast, and had started forth again.

As the lads drew near he eyed them with interest, his idea being to photograph them.

Charlie, plucking up all the courage he possessed, went straight to the point. 'I wonder if you would mind,' said he, growing very red, 'if we looked into that case of yours?'

'And what for, young stranger, may I ask?' was the reply, given with a slightly American accent.

'Because--because,' stammered Charlie, 'we think you have something there belonging to Lady Winterton.'

'Upon my word,' laughed the young fellow, 'you are a "cute" chap. As a matter of fact, I have, but how did you know it?'

'We guessed it,' said Sydney, thinking it was time he put a spoke in the wheel; 'and now, if you will give it up to us, without making any fuss about it, we won't give you in charge.'

'Very kind of you, I am sure,' replied the thief. 'How am I to reward you for your goodness?'

'Oh, Father is going to give us the reward!' cried Charlie, very pleased with himself. 'It's twenty pounds, you know.'

'Is it, indeed?' said the young man, looking rather mystified. 'Tell me all about it, and what you are going to do with the money?'

There was something so winning about this innocent-looking criminal that the boys grew quite confidential, telling him the history of the whole morning.

'Dan said you had too honest a face for a thief,' said Sydney, at the close of the recital. 'I wonder what made you do it?'

The stranger was nearly doubled up with laughter, which he turned away to hide. 'Well, you see,' he replied, as gravely as he could, 'Lady Winterton left it about so temptingly that I really couldn't help it. It's my first offence, though.'

'Yes, so I should say,' Charlie's voice was eager as he spoke, 'and we should like you to get off, awfully. You are much too nice to go to prison.'

'Thanks, old chap, you're very kind,' said the thief; 'if you really mean to let me off scot-free I will be making a move. Take this case'--here drawing forth from his satchel a small package--'to Lady Winterton, with my regrets and apologies.'

* * * * *

'We have got the necklace!' So cried Charlie, as with flushed, triumphant faces the boys entered the dining-room, where the whole family party was assembled together.

'My dear boy, that's impossible,' replied Lady Winterton, 'for I found it myself, only ten minutes ago, behind a chest of drawers.'

'Then what is this?' cried poor Charlie, looking very surprised. He then told his story, which was certainly a very strange one. However, the mystery was soon cleared up. The case contained nothing but photographs, one of which was a portrait of Lady Winterton taken with her daughter, Alice. Clearly this was the theft to which the stranger (a wealthy, if somewhat eccentric, young American) alluded. He was Alice Winterton's accepted lover, and, half in earnest, half in jest, had taken the photograph for his own use.

The reward was not paid, after all. But when Mr. Hereford and Lady Winterton heard, from Charlie's story, of the blacksmith's trouble, they put their heads together, with the result that Dan Webster's daughter spent a happy time in a seaside home, and came back very grateful, and quite restored to health. The amateur detectives had done some good, after all.

WHY THE SEA SOBS.

The Sea no father has, Nor any mother: A trouble quite enough One's mind to bother. That's why, my dear, Where'er it be, We sometimes hear A sobbing Sea.

If we no fathers had, Or loving mothers, No little sisters fair, No baby-brothers, We'd shed a tear, (Poor You, poor Me,) And sigh, 'Oh, dear,' Just like the Sea.

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

XI.--THE GROTTOES OF ADELSBERG

About twenty miles north-east of Trieste, which stands at the north of the Adriatic Sea, is the little town of Adelsberg. It is a market town, and would have no more claim to notice than thousands of similar places in Europe, had it not chanced to have been built within a mile of one of the natural wonders of the world.

Thousands of years ago, when Europe was covered with dense forests, and savage man was struggling for existence with savage man and yet more savage beast, living in rude huts and ignorant of any kind of civilisation, Nature was hard at work deep below the slopes of those Adelsberg mountains. Age after age, with her simple tools of water, lime, and carbonic acid, she dug, scooped, carved, and built, fashioning by slow degrees vaulted chambers, halls with lofty domes, arches, and galleries, all gleaming like frosted silver set with diamonds, far more wonderful than Aladdin's palace, or the marble halls of the _Arabian Nights_. And all the while, even when Christianity and civilisation spread over the country, no one thought of the beautiful world down below those grassy slopes; though now and again some one might wonder why a deep basin in the hills, where according to tradition a lake once existed, should have been turned into dry pasture, with only the little river, Poyk or Pinka, running through it; or some more inquiring mind might have been puzzled to know why that little river should suddenly bury itself in the ground and vanish utterly from sight.

At last some enterprising being, a boy most likely, climbed into the fissure down which the waters went, most probably in the summer-time when the stream was low, and there discovered a cavern nearly three hundred feet long, now known as the Old Grotto. For ninety years this was one of the sights of the country; and then a large piece of stalactite was broken from the end, and the entrance to a far more superb cavern, known as the New Grotto, lay bare.

This New Grotto is ten times larger than the old one. It is furnished with stalactites and stalagmites of huge size and of every imaginable shape, forming arches, pillars, cornices, and fringes of exquisite beauty. The roof and walls are covered with lacework and pendants of crystals, to which great fissures, leading into narrow galleries, form backgrounds of dense shadow. The ornamental work was effected from outside by damp lime and carbonic acid, but the actual excavator was simply the river Poyk, which in time drained the lake and carried its waters through soft spots in the rock below. Every little drop that poured in did something of the digging process, and when the snows on the mountains melted, and great floods came to help, the river was able to tear away the rocks above, beside, and beneath its channel. Sometimes, for a long time together, it found itself imprisoned and could get no further, and then it would whirl round and round, boiling with anger and beating against its rocky walls, until it had hewn out quite a lofty chamber. Then sooner or later it would reach some softer formation which would yield, and the great volume of water would rush through, tearing down everything in its way, until it last it found itself once again in the sunshine.

Now, with its work in the Adelsberg Grottoes done, the river Poyk is taking a well-earned rest, and flows gently through the Grottoes, reflecting in its waters the lofty bridges and vaulted roofs hewn out by its former toil. Not that the Poyk has grown lazy! It only desires fresh worlds to conquer; after enjoying a little run in the daylight, it changes its name to the Laybach, and again plunges into the Grottoes of Reifnitz, where with all its old energy it is working as hard as ever to make the Laybach Caves as celebrated as those of Adelsberg.

Various animals live in these caverns, of which the most celebrated is the 'Proteus,' a creature which has greatly perplexed naturalists. At first sight it looks like a lizard, but its movements are those of a fish. The head, lower part of the body, and tail resemble an eel, but it has no fins, and its breathing organs are quite unlike those of fishes. Round its neck is a ruffle, which seems to help it to breathe, although it has perfect lungs and can breathe, as well as move, equally comfortably on land and in water. The front feet are like hands, and each has three fingers, whilst the back limbs have only two. The eyes are very tiny, like those of the rat or mole; its mouth is well set with teeth, proving it to be a beast of prey, and its organs of smell are fully developed. A great authority has declared its spine to be like those of the monster animals of pre-historic ages known as Saurians. The most extraordinary part of the Proteus' history is that it seems perfectly able to live without food. It has never been seen to eat in captivity, and one has been kept alive for years by occasionally changing the water in which it lives. These animals were originally discovered in the Grottoes of Laybach, and later on at Adelsberg, being rare in dry seasons, but plentiful after heavy rains.

HELENA HEATH.

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

XI.--CATERPILLARS AND THEIR ENEMIES.

(_Concluded from page 357._)

The caterpillar of the North American Great Peacock moth (fig. 4) is armed with numerous tufts of prickles ending in minute black points which pierce the hand if touched, and cause severe pain. These spines, as shown in the illustration (fig. 2, A B, on page 357) are hollow, and filled with liquid poison. 'A' is the portion which breaks off; 'B' the hollow base which contains the poison.

In some few caterpillars the poison spines take the form of balls armed with short prickles and one large spike; hence they are known as caltrop spines (fig. 2, C), from their likeness to the cruel weapons, known as caltrops, which used to be scattered over the ground in time of war to repel the attacks of cavalry; the spikes forced their way into the horses' feet when trampled on, and so disabled them.

The spines of the caterpillar of our Oak Eggar moth are very brittle, and in handling these insects, great care must be taken, as cases are known of blindness having been caused by the spines being carried into the eyes by the fingers.

Let us now turn to the liquid squirts with which some caterpillars are provided. Our Spurge-hawk caterpillar, for example, when threatened, squirts from the mouth a spray of poison. In our illustration (fig. 5) it is shown repelling the attack of the dreaded ichneumon fly by means of this spray. The quaint Puss moth, which many _Chatterbox_ readers must have seen, can squirt out an irritant fluid, generally supposed to be formic acid, from the mouth, when alarmed, and this, if it enters the eye, causes acute pain.

The caterpillars of the Swallow-tailed moths, when irritated, give out an offensive smell, but they are unable to 'spray.'

Many beetles have the power of forcing drops of blood from a minute hole in one of the legs. This blood is saturated either with a fluid which causes a burning sensation on everything it touches, or with an intolerable odour; in either case the result is the same--they are given a wide berth by all who have discovered their power. The little lady-bird beetle, for example, sends out, when frightened, a tiny drop of a yellow fluid from the 'knee-joint,' which has a smell like opium. The Javanese 'violin-beetle' gives off a fluid which is said to paralyse the fingers for twenty-four hours.

W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.

THE BLACK SWAN.

The Black Swan is an Australian bird, and was not known in Europe until that continent began to be explored, although black swans had been often spoken of before that time as a kind of fabulous monster. The ordinary white, or mute, swan, which graces our rivers and lakes, has been admired, and even protected by laws, for many centuries, and its plumage is so beautifully and uniformly snowy that we can hardly be surprised if people thought that all swans must be white, and should regard a black swan as impossible, like the two-necked swan sometimes painted upon inn-signs. But travellers have discovered many strange animals in unexplored countries, and we now know that there are not only black swans, but even swans that have a black neck and a white body.

The plumage of the black swan, with the exception of the quill feathers, which are white, is entirely black. The bill and the skin between the eyes are a beautiful red, which contrasts handsomely with the black feathers. The tail of the bird is very short, and, next to the colour of the plumage, this is the chief peculiarity which distinguishes it from the white swan.

The black swan frequents the swamps and secluded bays on the Australian coast. It is not a very shy bird, and is frequently seen by the sportsman and the camper-out. It enjoys the companionship of its kind, and congregates usually in small flocks. August and September are, it is believed, the breeding months, and shortly before this the swans leave the swamps and seek the nesting-grounds, which are usually on the islands in the bays. Western Port Bay, not far from Melbourne, is one of their favourite haunts. The nest is a collection of reeds, and in this the female swan lays five or six eggs of a whitish-grey colour, and a little smaller than those of our white swan.

The black swan is rather strong upon the wing, and, when flying, it frequently utters a musical cry. But, being a heavy bird, its flight is very exhausting, and it appears to have more confidence in its webbed feet than its wings. It is said that when it is startled it tries to escape by swimming, if it can, rather than by taking flight. As the birds breed upon islands on the coast, they may occasionally swim out, or be drifted out, to sea. A short time ago, two black swans were picked up off Norfolk Island. They were miles away from the nearest part of Australia, and they must have been driven from their native land by winds and currents until they were lost. They were greatly exhausted when taken up, but a bath in fresh water and a good supply of food soon put them right again.

This incident is not only interesting because it shows the endurance of the swans and how long a journey they may sometimes make almost by accident, but because it illustrates the way in which animals which are natives of one country may be carried to a new one. If these two swans could have continued on to Norfolk Island, which is about nine hundred miles from Australia, and, after arriving there, could have recovered their health, made a nest, and reared a brood of young ones, then there might have been black swans in Norfolk Island as well as in Australia. These swans were probably too much exhausted to have accomplished this long journey, but we have many reasons for believing that animals have often been unwillingly driven by winds and currents to new homes across the seas, and have thus helped to extend their species over a larger portion of the earth.

W. A. ATKINSON.

AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.

(_Continued from page 356._)