CHAPTER IV.

To keep such a romance to himself was beyond the powers of Mr. Chalk. The captain had made no conditions as to secrecy, and he therefore considered himself free to indulge in hints to his two greatest friends, which caused those gentlemen to entertain some doubts as to his sanity. Mr. Robert Stobell, whose work as a contractor had left a permanent and unmistakable mark upon Binchester, became imbued with a hazy idea that Mr. Chalk had invented a new process of making large diamonds. Mr. Jasper Tredgold, on the other hand, arrived at the conclusion that a highly respectable burglar was offering for some reason to share his loot with him. A conversation between Messrs. Stobell and Tredgold in the High Street only made matters more complicated.

"Chalk always was fond of making mysteries of things," complained Mr. Tredgold.

Mr. Stobell, whose habit was taciturn and ruminative, fixed his dull brown eyes on the ground and thought it over. "I believe it's all my eye and Betty Martin," he said, at length, quoting a saying which had been used in his family as an expression of disbelief since the time of his great-grandmother.

"He comes in to see me when I'm hard at work and drops hints," pursued his friend. "When I stop to pick 'em up, out he goes. Yesterday he came in and asked me what I thought of a man who wouldn't break his word for half a million. Half a million, mind you! I just asked him who it was, and out he went again. He pops in and out of my office like a figure on a cuckoo-clock."

Mr. Stobell relapsed into thought again, but no gleam of expression disturbed the lines of his heavy face; Mr. Tredgold, whose sharp, alert features bred more confidence in his own clients than those of other people, waited impatiently.

"He knows something that we don't," said Mr. Stobell, at last; "that's what it is."

Mr. Tredgold, who was too used to his friend's mental processes to quarrel with them, assented.

"He's coming round to smoke a pipe with me to-morrow night," he said, briskly, as he turned to cross the road to his office. "You come too, and we'll get it out of him. If Chalk can keep a secret he has altered, that's all I can say."

His estimate of Mr. Chalk proved correct. With Mr. Tredgold acting as cross-examining counsel and Mr. Stobell enacting the part of a partial and overbearing judge, Mr. Chalk, after a display of fortitude which surprised himself almost as much as it irritated his friends, parted with his news and sat smiling with gratification at their growing excitement.

"Half a million, and he won't go for it?" ejaculated Mr. Tredgold. "The man must be mad."

"No; he passed his word and he won't break it," said Mr. Chalk. "The captain's word is his bond, and I honour him for it. I can quite understand it."

Mr. Tredgold shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Mr. Stobell, that gentleman, after due deliberation, gave an assenting nod.

"He can't get at it, that's the long and short of it," said Mr. Tredgold, after a pause. "He had to leave it behind when he was rescued, or else risk losing it by telling the men who rescued him about it, and he's had no opportunity since. It wants money to take a ship out there and get it, and he doesn't see his way quite clear. He'll have it fast enough when he gets a chance. If not, why did he make that map?"

Mr. Chalk shook his head, and remarked mysteriously that the captain had his reasons. Mr. Tredgold relapsed into silence, and for some time the only sound audible came from a briar-pipe which Mr. Stobell ought to have thrown away some years before.

"Have you given up that idea of a yachting cruise of yours, Chalk?" demanded Mr. Tredgold, turning on him suddenly.

"No," was the reply. "I was talking about it to Captain Bowers only the other day. That's how I got to hear of the treasure."

Mr. Tredgold started and gave a significant glance at Mr. Stobell. In return he got a wink which that gentleman kept for moments of mental confusion.

"What did the captain tell you for?" pursued Mr. Tredgold, returning to Mr. Chalk. "He wanted you to make an offer. He hasn't got the money for such an expedition; you have. The yarn about passing his word was so that you shouldn't open your mouth too wide. You were to do the persuading, and then he could make his own terms. Do you see? Why, it's as plain as A B C."

"Plain as the alphabet," said Mr. Stobell, almost chidingly.

Mr. Chalk gasped and looked from one to the other.

"I should like to have a chat with the captain about it," continued Mr. Tredgold, slowly and impressively. "I'm a business man and I could put it on a business footing. It's a big risk, of course; all those things are ... but if we went shares ... if _we_ found the money----"

He broke off and, filling his pipe slowly, gazed in deep thought at the wall. His friends waited expectantly.

"Combine business with pleasure," resumed Mr. Tredgold, lighting his pipe; "sea air ... change ... blow away the cobwebs ... experience for Edward to be left alone. What do you think, Stobell?" he added, turning suddenly.

Mr. Stobell gripped the arms of his chair in his huge hands and drew his bulky figure to a more upright position.

"What do you mean by combining business with pleasure?" he said, eyeing him with dull suspicion.

"Chalk is set on a trip for the love of it," explained Mr. Tredgold.

"If we take on the contract, he ought to pay a bigger share, then," said the other, firmly.

"Perhaps he will," said Tredgold, hastily.

Mr. Stobell pondered again and, slightly raising one hand, indicated that he was in the throes of another idea and did not wish to be disturbed.

"You said it would be experience for Edward to be left alone," he said, accusingly.

"I did," was the reply.

"You ought to pay more, too, then," declared the contractor, "because it's serving of your ends as well."

"We can't split straws," exclaimed Tredgold, impatiently. "If the captain consents we three will find the money and divide our portion, whatever it is, equally."

Mr. Chalk, who had been in the clouds during this discussion, came back to earth again. "_If_ he consents," he said, sadly; "but he won't."

"Well, he can only refuse," said Mr. Tredgold; "and, anyway, we'll have the first refusal. Things like that soon get about. What do you say to a stroll? I can think better while I'm walking."

His friends assenting, they put on their hats and sallied forth. That they should stroll in the direction of Dialstone Lane surprised neither of them. Mr. Tredgold leading, they went round by the church, and that gentleman paused so long to admire the architecture that Mr. Stobell got restless.

"You've seen it before, Tredgold," he said, shortly.

"It's a fine old building," said the other. "Binchester ought to be proud of it. Why, here we are at Captain Bowers's!"

"The house has been next to the church for a couple o' hundred years," retorted his friend.

"Let's go in," said Mr. Tredgold. "Strike while the iron's hot. At any rate," he concluded, as Mr. Chalk voiced feeble objections, "we can see how the land lies."

He knocked at the door and then, stepping aside, left Mr. Chalk to lead the way in. Captain Bowers, who was sitting with Prudence, looked up at their entrance, and putting down his newspaper extended a hearty welcome.

"Chalk didn't like to pass without looking in," said Mr. Tredgold, "and I haven't seen you for some time. You know Stobell?"

The captain nodded, and Mr. Chalk, pale with excitement, accepted his accustomed pipe from the hands of Miss Drewitt and sat nervously awaiting events. Mr. Tasker set out the whisky, and, Miss Drewitt avowing a fondness for smoke in other people, a comfortable haze soon filled the room. Mr. Tredgold, with a significant glance at Mr. Chalk, said that it reminded him of a sea-fog.

It only reminded Mr. Chalk, however, of a smoky chimney from which he had once suffered, and he at once entered into minute details. The theme was an inspiriting one, and before Mr. Tredgold could hark back to the sea again Mr. Stobell was discoursing, almost eloquently for him, upon drains. From drains to the shortcomings of the district council they progressed by natural and easy stages, and it was not until Miss Drewitt had withdrawn to the clearer atmosphere above that a sudden ominous silence ensued, which Mr. Chalk saw clearly he was expected to break.

"I--I've been telling them some of your adventures," he said, desperately, as he glanced at the captain; "they're both interested in such things."

The latter gave a slight start and glanced shrewdly at his visitors. "Aye, aye," he said, composedly.

"Very interesting, some of them," murmured Mr. Tredgold. "I suppose you'll have another voyage or two before you've done? One, at any rate."

"No," said the captain, "I've had my share of the sea; other men may have a turn now. There's nothing to take me out again--nothing."

Mr. Tredgold coughed and murmured something about breaking off old habits too suddenly.

"It's a fine career," sighed Mr. Chalk.

"A manly life," said Mr. Tredgold, emphatically.

"It's like every other profession, it has two sides to it," said the captain.

"It is not so well paid as it should be," said the wily Tredgold, "but I suppose one gets chances of making money in outside ways sometimes."

The captain assented, and told of a steward of his who had made a small fortune by selling Japanese curios to people who didn't understand them.

The conversation was interesting, but extremely distasteful to a business man intent upon business. Mr. Stobell took his pipe out of his mouth and cleared his throat. "Why, you might build a hospital with it," he burst out, impatiently.

"Build a hospital!" repeated the astonished captain, as Mr. Chalk bent suddenly to do up his shoe-lace.

"Think of the orphans you could be a father to!" added Mr. Stobell, making the most of an unwonted fit of altruism.

The captain looked inquiringly at Mr. Tredgold.

"And widows," said Mr. Stobell, and, putting his pipe in his mouth as a sign that he had finished his remarks, gazed stolidly at the company.

"Stobell must be referring to a story Chalk told us of some precious stones you buried, I think," said Mr. Tredgold, reddening. "Aren't you, Stobell?"

"Of course I am," said his friend. "You know that."

Captain Bowers glanced at Mr. Chalk, but that gentleman was still busy with his shoe-lace, only looking up when Mr. Tredgold, taking the bull by the horns, made the captain a plain, straightforward offer to fit out and give him the command of an expedition to recover the treasure. In a speech which included the benevolent Mr. Stobell's hospitals, widows, and orphans, he pointed out a score of reasons why the captain should consent, and wound up with a glowing picture of Miss Drewitt as the heiress of the wealthiest man in Binchester. The captain heard him patiently to an end and then shook his head.

"I passed my word," he said, stiffly.

Mr. Stobell took his pipe out of his mouth again to offer a little encouragement. "Tredgold has broke his word before now," he observed; "he's got quite a name for it."

"But you would go out if it were not for that?" inquired Tredgold, turning a deaf ear to this remark.

"Naturally," said the captain, smiling; "but, then, you see I did."

Mr. Tredgold drummed with his fingers on the arms of his chair, and after a little hesitation asked as a great favour to be permitted to see the map. As an estate agent, he said, he took a professional interest in plans of all kinds.

Captain Bowers rose, and in the midst of an expectant silence took the map from the bureau, and placing it on the table kept it down with his fist. The others drew near and inspected it.

"Nobody but Captain Bowers has ever seen the other side," said Mr. Chalk, impressively.

"Except my niece," interposed the captain. "She wanted to see it, and I trust her as I would trust myself. She thinks the same as I do about it."

His stubby forefinger travelled slowly round the coast-line until, coming to the extreme south-west corner, it stopped, and a mischievous smile creased his beard.

"It's buried here," he observed. "All you've got to do is to find the island and dig in that spot."

Mr. Chalk laughed and shook his head as at a choice piece of waggishness.

"Suppose," said Mr. Tredgold, slowly--"suppose anybody found it without your connivance, would you take your share?"

"Let 'em find it first," said the captain.

"Yes, but would you?" inquired Mr. Chalk.

Captain Bowers took up the map and returned it to its place in the bureau. "You go and find it," he said, with a genial smile.

"You give us permission?" demanded Tredgold.

"Certainly," grinned the captain. "I give you permission to go and dig over all the islands in the Pacific; there's a goodish number of them, and it's a fairly common shape."

"It seems to me it's nobody's property," said Tredgold, slowly. "That is to say, it's anybody's that finds it. It isn't your property, Captain Bowers? You lay no claim to it?"

"No, no," said the captain. "It's nothing to do with me. You go and find it," he repeated, with enjoyment.

Mr. Tredgold laughed too, and his eye travelled mechanically towards the bureau. "If we do," he said, cordially, "you shall have your share."

The captain thanked him and, taking up the bottle, refilled their glasses. Then, catching the dull, brooding eye of Mr. Stobell as that plain-spoken man sat in a brown study trying to separate the serious from the jocular, he drank success to their search. He was about to give vent to further pleasantries when he was stopped by the mysterious behaviour of Mr. Chalk, who, first laying a finger on his lip to ensure silence, frowned severely and nodded at the door leading to the kitchen.

The other three looked in the direction indicated. The door stood half open, and the silhouette of a young woman in a large hat put the upper panels in shadow. The captain rose and, with a vigorous thrust of his foot, closed the door with a bang.

"Eavesdropping," said Mr. Chalk, in a tense whisper.

"There'll be a rival expedition," said the captain, falling in with his mood. "I've already warned that young woman off once. You'd better start to-night."

He leaned back in his chair and surveyed the company pleasantly. Somewhat to Mr. Chalk's disappointment Mr. Tredgold began to discuss agriculture, and they were still on that theme when they rose to depart some time later. Tredgold and Chalk bade the captain a cordial good-night; but Stobell, a creature of primitive impulses, found it difficult to shake hands with him. On the way home he expressed an ardent desire to tell the captain what men of sense thought of him.

The captain lit another pipe after they had gone, and for some time sat smoking and thinking over the events of the evening. Then Mr. Tasker's second infringement of discipline occurred to him, and, stretching out his hand, he rang the bell.

"Has that young woman gone?" he inquired, cautiously, as Mr. Tasker appeared.

"Yessir," was the reply.

"What about your articles?" demanded the captain, with sudden loudness. "What do you mean by it?"

Mr. Tasker eyed him forlornly. "It ain't my fault," he said, at last. "I don't want her."

"Eh?" said the other, sternly. "Don't talk nonsense. What do you have her here for, then?"

"Because I can't help myself," said Mr. Tasker, desperately; "that's why. She's took a fancy to me, and, that being so, it would take more than you and me to keep 'er away."

"Rubbish," said his master.

Mr. Tasker smiled wanly. "That's my reward for being steady," he said, with some bitterness; "that's what comes of having a good name in the place. I get Selina Vickers after me."

"You--you must have asked her to come here in the first place," said the astonished captain.

"_Ask_ her?" repeated Mr. Tasker, with respectful scorn. "_Ask_ her? She don't want no asking."

"What does she come for, then?" inquired the other.

"Me," said Mr. Tasker, brokenly. "I never dreamt o' such a thing. I was going 'er way one night--about three weeks ago, it was--and I walked with her as far as her road--Mint Street. Somehow it got put about that we were walking out. A week afterwards she saw me in Harris's, the grocer's, and waited outside for me till I come out and walked 'ome with me. After she came in the other night I found we was keeping company. To-night--to-night she got a ring out o' me, and now we're engaged."

"What on earth did you give her the ring for if you don't want her?" inquired the captain, eyeing him with genuine concern.

"Ah, it seems easy, sir," said the unfortunate; "but you don't know Selina. She bought the ring and said I was to pay it off a shilling a week. She took the first shilling to-night."

His master sat back and regarded him in amazement.

"You don't know Selina, sir," repeated Mr. Tasker, in reply to this manifestation. "She always gets her own way. Her father ain't 'it 'er mother not since Selina was seventeen. He dursent. The last time Selina went for him tooth and nail; smashed all the plates off the dresser throwing 'em at him, and ended by chasing of him up the road in his shirt-sleeves."

The captain grunted.

"That was two years ago," continued Mr. Tasker; "and his spirit's quite broke. He 'as to give all his money except a shilling a week to his wife, and he's not allowed to go into pubs. If he does it's no good, because they won't serve 'im. If they do Selina goes in next morning and gives them a piece of 'er mind. She don't care who's there or what she says, and the consequence is Mr. Vickers can't get served in Binchester for love or money. That'll show you what she is."

"Well, tell her I won't have her here," said the captain, rising. "Good-night."

"I've told her over and over again, sir," was the reply, "and all she says is she's not afraid of you, nor six like you."

The captain fell back silent, and Mr. Tasker, pausing in a respectful attitude, watched him wistfully. The captain's brows were bent in thought, and Mr. Tasker, reminding himself that crews had trembled at his nod and that all were silent when he spoke, felt a flutter of hope.

"Well," said the captain, sharply, as he turned and caught sight of him, "what are you waiting there for?"

Mr. Tasker drifted towards the door which led upstairs.

"I--I thought you were thinking of something we could do to prevent her coming, sir," he said, slowly. "It's hard on me, because as a matter of fact----"

"Well?" said the captain.

"I--I've 'ad my eye on another young lady for some time," concluded Mr. Tasker.

He was standing on the bottom stair as he spoke, with his hand on the latch. Under the baleful stare with which the indignant captain favoured him, he closed it softly and mounted heavily to bed.

(_To be continued._)

Like other peoples the world over, the Afghans use the beast fable to point morals and illustrate rules of conduct. Perhaps the moral is not invariably such as commends itself to Western standards, and the methods applauded are sometimes not such as would make for popularity in more civilized circles. But what would you? The characteristics of a race colour its literature, and the more homely the literature the clearer the colouring. Hence the Afghan beast fable more frequently than not reflects the respectful admiration accorded the successful exercise of craft and cunning, for which self-helpful qualities the dwellers on the other side of the North-Western Frontier of India are famed.

Soldiers who are acquainted with Afghan usages in warfare will appreciate the truth of the maxim which furnishes the text for the story of the Camel-rider, the Snake, and the Fox. A man riding on his camel happened to pass a place where a jungle fire was raging, and a snake, calling from the midst of the flames, begged his aid. The man, ignoring the snake's enmity to the human race and considering only his present danger, consented to save him: he lowered his saddle-bag to the ground, and the snake, having coiled himself up in it, was carried by his rescuer to a place of safety. Then the man opened his bag and bade the snake go, with an admonition to behave better towards mankind for the future. The snake made answer, "Until I have stung thee and this camel of thine I will not depart!"

The man, hurt by this black ingratitude, drew the snake's attention to the service he had just rendered. The snake admitted his debt, but pointed out that his rescuer had acted injudiciously, in view of the hereditary enmity existing between snakes and men. The two proceeded to argue the point in commendably temperate spirit, the snake laying stress on the circumstance that mankind "always return evil for good"; and the man, denying it, eventually agreed that if the snake could find a witness to the truth of his assertion he would submit to be stung.

The witness was found in the person of an elderly cow-buffalo. Examined by the snake, she succinctly reviewed her career, and gave it as her opinion that man's creed was to return evil for good, inasmuch as her owner, when she ceased to give milk, turned her out to graze till she should be fat enough to kill. Upon this testimony the snake claimed fulfilment of the bargain. The man, however, urged that two witnesses were necessary, and, the snake consenting, a tree was called upon for his opinion. The tree, in a few well-chosen sentences, recalled the fact that for years he had granted shade to all men who sought his protection in the heat of day; but, he complained, when they had rested they always looked him over and, if they happened to have tools, lopped off a branch to make a spade-handle or axe-haft. They went even further, reckoning up the use they could make of their protector from the scorching sun if they reduced him to planks. In short, the tree was distinctly of the cow-buffalo's way of thinking. The camel-man, sorely perplexed, was wondering how he could gain time when a fox came by and asked, in his sarcastic way, "What kindness hast thou shown this snake, that he desires to do thee harm?"

Having heard the story the fox refused to believe it; the bag was small, and he was sure so large a snake could not get into it. Of course, the snake had no alternative but to show that he could; so the fox obligingly held the bag open for him, and when he was fairly entrapped handed him over to the man to kill. "A wise man should not be gulled by the cries for mercy of his foes; otherwise he will fall into misfortune," is the suggestive moral. It does not say much for Afghan principle, does it?

The fox, as ever, serves the Afghan fabulist for the personification of cunning and ingenuity. The tale of the Tiger, the Wolf, and the Fox exhibits the last-named in the character of the discreet and sagacious courtier. These three animals one day went hunting together, and having killed a wild hill-goat, a deer, and a hare, took them home to the tiger's den to eat. Having settled themselves comfortably, the tiger requested the wolf to divide the game as he thought fit; whereupon the wolf allotted the hill-goat as the biggest to the tiger, the deer to himself, and the hare to the fox. "It is strange that thou in my very presence talkest of 'I' and 'mine,'" said the tiger. "Who and what art thou, and what opinion hast thou of me?" and raising his paw he struck the wolf dead on the spot. Then he turned to the fox and requested him to divide the spoil. The fox instantly replied that the hill-goat would do for his Majesty's breakfast, the deer would serve for his Majesty's dinner at noon, and, of course, the hare must be reserved for his Majesty's supper. "And from whom," said the tiger, with well-feigned curiosity, "didst thou learn this mode of distribution and this sagacity?"

The fox replied that he was one who took warning from the fate of others. The tiger (who could not have been very hungry) expounded his own idea of justice, which was that the sagacious fox should have the whole bag of game while the tiger got more for himself; "and after this I will do whatever thou tellest me." A significant hint that physical strength does wisely to profit by the craft of the weaker. A fable closely resembling this, but in which, of course, the lion takes the part here played by the tiger, is current among some North African tribes.

One of the cleverest tales is that of the Merchant and his Parrot, which illustrates the great Afghan maxim that you can procure by craft what you can procure by no other means. A certain merchant, says the fable, was about to make a journey south into India. Before setting out he assembled his family and requested each member to name the gift he or she would like brought home. Last of all he asked the parrot, who was a native of Hindustan, what he could do for him in that country. The parrot at once begged him to visit a certain forest, where some more parrots would probably be found. "Give them my compliments and tell them that such and such a parrot, who is a friend of theirs, is confined in a cage in your house and says, 'This is a strange friendship, that I should be in bondage while you, quite unconcerned for my fate, flit hither and thither.' Now, whatever reply they give," said the parrot, "deliver it to me." The merchant punctually fulfilled his promise. He found the forest and the parrots and gave his parrot's message; and having done so was distressed to observe that one of the birds was so profoundly affected that, after a spasm of trembling and fluttering, he fell lifeless to the ground.

On his return home, after he had distributed the presents he had brought among his family, his parrot inquired whether he had not something to say to him. The merchant, fearful of grieving the bird, fenced with the question, but when the parrot grew huffy and told him he need not speak if he did not choose he relented, and with many expressions of regret told the fatal consequences of delivering the message. When the parrot heard of the death of his friend he, too, was seized with flutterings and shiverings, and then and there fell dead from his perch. The merchant shed tears over him and, after great lamentation, threw the body out of the cage. No sooner did the parrot touch the ground, however, than he came to life again and flew on to the top of the house; and the merchant, staring in amazement, asked for explanations. The parrot thereupon explained that his friend had sent this message: "Pretend to be dead and thou wilt get free."

"Now I, of course, understood his meaning from what thou saidst," added the parrot, "so I gained my freedom. I now ask thee, as I have eaten thy salt"--mark the punctilious courtesy of parrots educated in Afghan homes--"to forgive me. Good-bye."

"I forgive thee," said the crestfallen merchant. "God preserve thee." And the parrot went his way, saying, "Peace be with thee."

As we might expect of an animal so feared and hated, the tiger never figures in fable as heroic, but always as a stupid, blustering bully, to be outwitted by any creature, however weak, who has a little cunning. The tale of the Tiger and the Jackal is a good example. A tiger who, exercising a liberty of choice unknown to natural history, had engaged a female monkey as his companion and housekeeper, went out one day on business, enjoining the monkey to stay at home and let nobody enter the house.

By-and-by there came a jackal with his wife and family, house-hunting. Mr. Jackal, impressed at first sight with the eligibility of the tiger's premises, forthwith entered and took possession, ignoring the protests and warnings of the monkey housekeeper. Mrs. Jackal would have had her husband leave, but he refused; and while they argued the tiger was heard approaching. The monkey hastened to meet him and tell what had happened; but the tiger could not bring himself to believe that a jackal would be so reckless and insolent as to take possession of his house. "It must be some other horrid creature," he said. And though the monkey protested that she knew a jackal when she saw one, the tiger could not credit her story. Meantime the jackal had arranged his plans. When the tiger drew near his house he heard the little jackals crying and Mrs. Jackal say to her husband, "They want tiger's meat," and Mr. Jackal's reply: "It was only yesterday I killed an enormous tiger. Has the meat been finished already? Nonsense!"

Mrs. Jackal explained that her children wanted fresh meat, and Mr. Jackal then told the cubs to wait a little. "A great big tiger will come presently, and I will kill him, and you shall have fresh meat."

When the tiger overheard this he was terrified and ran away, but the monkey, following him, contrived to allay his fears, explaining that the jackals were fooling him, and persuaded him to come back. Once more the tiger ventured near enough to hear the young jackals crying, but this time he also hears their father say to them, soothingly:--

"That monkey, who is a great friend of mine, has told me that she would, without fail, bring me a tiger to-day."

Whereupon the tiger, only pausing to strike the unfortunate monkey dead, fled without once looking behind him.

Another tale shows the tiger victimized by the cunning of the hare. In this fable the tiger discovers quite remarkable skill in debate; he discourses eloquently on the dignity of labour to justify his depredations in the jungle, and only after prolonged discussion with the beasts does he consent to their proposal that he shall stay at home and they provide him with a daily victim. For a time all goes smoothly; then the hare's turn comes and she objects, saying, "How long is this oppression to last?" The other beasts cry out upon her for wishing to break the agreement, and are only half satisfied when the hare hints that she has a plan for making an end of the tiger. They wish to know what it is; but the hare in reply quotes a saying which, by the way, sheds significant light on the insecurity of travellers' lives and property in Afghanistan. "Three matters," she reminds them, "are best concealed: first, one's money; second, the time one intends to start on a journey; third, the road one intends to take."

In a word, she keeps her own counsel and starts so late for the tiger's den that that animal grows hungry and--there is a good deal of human nature in tigers--very angry at the delay of his dinner. When the hare, apparently in a great hurry, arrived the tiger abused her vehemently, and with difficulty is induced to hear her explanation. She and a friend, she says, were on their way to him when they met another tiger who seized them; she warned their captor that they were set apart for the service of their own king, but the strange tiger threatened to tear their king to pieces. At length, said the hare, she persuaded the strange tiger to grant her respite that she might come and explain matters; and she had been granted this favour, leaving her friend in his clutches.

"Do not expect any more victims," she concluded. "The road hither is closed by that tiger. If thou desirest thy daily food, go at once and clear the road."

At this the tiger, beside himself with rage, jumps up, calling on the hare to come and show where his rival is, and the hare obediently follows, until they come in sight of a well by the road. There she lags behind; she is frightened to death. Cannot the tiger see how pale she is? Nothing will induce her to go near that well, for therein is hiding the other tiger, who holds her friend captive. The tiger insists that she shall come and point out the other tiger. Well, the hare will do so on condition that his Majesty holds her in his arms. He does so, and, peeping into the water, sees their reflection in the water below; whereupon he sets the hare down, and springing into the well to fall upon his enemy is drowned.

A story that seems familiar is that of the friendship of the frog and the rat. These two conceived so deep a regard for one another that they were miserable apart: the rat, more particularly, bewailed the facts that she only saw the frog once a day, and that he, being in the stream, could not hear her when she called. The frog, whose attachment appears not wholly to have obscured his native good sense, pointed out that "if friends see each other occasionally only their affection is the greater," to which argument, albeit undeniable, the rat objected that in their case some means of establishing closer communication were indispensable.

The frog gave way, and the two agreed to tie the ends of a string to a leg of each, so that when one wanted to see the other all he or she need do was to pull the string. Other frogs came around and pointed out the obvious objections to supplementing the bonds of their affection with string, but neither would listen.

"It is all right," they said; "if we die together, so much the better"; and so they tied themselves as they had arranged. And one day came a kite, who pounced upon the rat, who could not escape because he tripped in the string; and the kite, carrying away the rat, carried away the frog at the other end of the string. And the dying moments of the frog were embittered by hearing the villagers applaud the cleverness of a kite who could catch frogs; whereas he knew the kite had done nothing clever, but that he himself had done something very foolish.

Another tale exhibits the helpless old tiger dependent for his daily fare on the cunning of his humble follower the fox, and insists upon the stupidity of the ass. The tiger was so old and decrepit that he could not hunt for himself, and he appealed to an elderly vixen, who was also hungry, to lure an ox or some other beast within his reach. The vixen willingly assents, and searching the country finds an ass feeding. Him she accosts with respectful sympathy, asking why he grazes on such poor pasture. The ass, who, by the way, is deplorably long-winded, replies by giving the vixen a lecture on the propriety of contentment with one's lot.

The vixen listens patiently and replies, Eastern fashion, with a brief parable, whose moral is that those who can help themselves to the good things of life should do so. The vixen's parable reminds the ass of another rather like it, but very much longer and pointing a different moral; he relates it with circumstance and detail. After much argument the vixen loses patience, and upbraiding the ass for his want of enterprise describes in graphic language the attractions of certain pasture known to her; and the ass, his hopes getting the better of his discretion, follows, till they come within eye range of the tiger.

The tiger, being very hungry, cannot wait till the ass comes within reach; he rushes out prematurely and frightens the ass away. This precipitation on the tiger's part gives rise to unpleasantness. The vixen, naturally enough, is furiously angry at the way her scheme has been upset after all the trouble she has had with the argumentative ass, and she speaks her mind freely to the tiger. He apologizes, and the vixen consents to try and bring the prey within reach again. In fine, she out-argues the foolish ass and eventually brings him to her patron.

The story of the Cock and Hawk furnishes a caution against talking about things we don't understand. These two were great friends and spent much time together. One day the hawk, in didactic mood, took the cock to task for the shameful ingratitude of his race; men fed fowls on all kinds of luxuries, and cared for them carefully, and yet never did fowl see a man approach but it ran away. Now the hawk, on the other hand, repaid captivity and cruelties with the utmost gratitude, catching and killing game to order. When the cock heard his friend's views he was so amused that he nearly dropped with laughing. The hawk, rather stiffly, inquires what he has said that the cock should be so overcome with amusement; and, being reminded that men only feed fowls in order to kill and eat them, confesses that this most important detail had never struck him.

It is curious to observe that all the Afghan beast fables are distinguished by the same quality of sardonic humour, but they have this great merit, that they never fail to drive home the moral.

_Wonders of the World._

LXIX.--A NEW "LOOPING THE LOOP."

There seems to be no finality in the art of invention, whether it be in commerce, technology, science, art, or even in connection with the variety-stage. In the last-named case the struggle for supremacy is exceedingly keen, and requires, more than in other professions, untiring perseverance, courage, and intelligence if one wishes to obtain a place on the "roll of fame."

In the theatre or in the music-hall the public only see the glittering outside appearance, and applaud the attractive items of an artist without thinking of how much work and trouble it has cost him to be able to execute his performance without apparent effort and with extreme perfection. Such a sensational performance will soon be seen in a Berlin circus--a new kind of "Looping the Loop"--"The ride on the Salto Monocycle Track," as the audacious artist calls it, and with whom we are going to make our readers acquainted.

This sensational act consists in the artist being rolled in a wheel, measuring six and a half feet in diameter and eighteen inches wide, along a track in the form of a loop. Our first two illustrations give a clearer idea than can be given in words.

Mr. Eclair--the artist's name--has had his track made by Mr. A. Klose, Schiffbauerdamm, and practised in the so-called training-wheel for the past fifteen weeks before he undertook his first journey. In this training-wheel he accustomed himself to the revolutions of the wheel. This was all the more necessary, as he found on practising that, in consequence of the rapid revolutions, the small veins and other blood-vessels in the neck and head became swollen--so much so that a journey in the "loop" without previous experience would certainly, in his opinion, have been fatal.

After the perfect construction of the track had been ascertained by thorough tests--amongst which heavy waggon-wheels were caused to be rolled along the track--Mr. Eclair at length took his first ride. It was a ride for life or death. Nobody could foresee what the result would be. Luck favoured the venturesome artist, and his success was acclaimed with joy and satisfaction by all the interested beholders, so smoothly and faultlessly did the performance end. Such was the birth of a new sensational circus feat! And a second ride which Mr. Eclair soon afterwards took turned out equally successful.

The track slopes from a platform about fifteen yards high down into the "loop." It must be understood that this is not a real loop, such as, for example, Mündner uses, but is so constructed that the fearless rider rushes in his wheel down the slope, entering the ring by a trap-door, so that the wheel rolls round it. This heavy wheel, which weighs five hundredweight, flies up the track with a terrific momentum, and, in consequence of its centrifugal force, presses against the track with a force of seventeen times its own weight.

When the wheel has passed the highest point of the loop it flies down the other side, and leaves the loop again by another trap-door which has in the meantime been opened. The downward movement, being still very rapid at the point of exit, is then retarded by means of outlet-rails which adjust themselves exactly to the wheel, and the mad ride ends at length in a net.

The track has a total length of about sixty-five yards, inclusive of loop and exit. The loop is about twenty-four feet high. The wheel rolls in a mould-shaped groove. The slightest mistake in the construction of the track, which is an extremely ingenious one, would result in an unsuccessful performance and a dangerous, if not deadly, fall. Especially ingenious is the mechanism of the trap-doors at the entrance and exit. These are in charge of the artist's colleague, and form the most important part of the track, as any failure in this part would end in dire catastrophe.

LXX.--A BONFIRE OF GAMBLING APPARATUS.

The Anti-Gambling Leagues of British cities have their counterpart in the various Law and Order Societies of American municipalities, and their labours are much the same. Just as the societies in England attempt to protect the poor and middle-class people from the encroachments of vice by initiating prosecutions against wrong-doers, so do these Law and Order Societies fight in the interests of the American public. They go to excesses sometimes, it is true, but their labours have a positive value for good. In England they keep an eye upon the book-maker in the street, upon the sporting tipster with his betting circulars and notices, and upon gambling in general. They prosecute where prosecution is needed, and carry on in Parliament a fight for virtue.

Never, however, have they prepared a fire for the benefit of their supporters such as the Law and Order Society of Philadelphia got up last May. It is, perhaps, not wholly correct to say that when the Philadelphia Society seized and burned over thirteen hundred gambling machines in a public place it did so merely for the benefit of its followers, but that was practically the case, and among those who saw this unique conflagration there were none more interested than the crusaders against vice. It was an actual destruction of valuable property, but not a wanton one, and when the fire was over the charred metal and molten tin represented a sum of not less than one hundred and thirty thousand dollars. We doubt if England has ever had the privilege of witnessing such a sight, for the vested right of the Briton is too sacred to permit of his property being done away with in such brilliant manner.

The reason for the fire was the abnormal growth in Philadelphia of the penny-in-the-slot gambling machine, owing to its fascination for the young and its asserted protection by careless or corrupt municipal government. The machines--some of them very elaborate, costing from three hundred to six hundred dollars each--were nothing but "money-machines," automatic gamblers of the most hardened sort. If the player dropped any sum, from five cents to twenty-five cents, into the slot, he stood a chance to win about ten times as much as he put in, and the prospect of such a huge percentage upon a small investment fascinated poor people and boys and girls alike. One boy was known to have lost as much as three hundred and fifty dollars in a week through this form of gambling, having resorted to theft in order to obtain the wherewithal to gamble.

"For four years," writes Mr. D. Clarence Gibboney, the secretary of the Law and Order Society of Philadelphia, "our city was cursed with thousands of these conscienceless gambling devices. The authorities protected them, and our citizens were almost helpless. Fathers and mothers stood by, unable to do much more than make a feeble protest, while their sons and daughters were turned into gamblers.

"This society took hold of the situation and, in face of very determined opposition, arrested many of the owners and keepers of the machines in 1902, and in December burned a hundred and ninety-six machines, valued at about twenty thousand dollars. The police, however, supported the gambling people, and it was not until after January 1st, 1903, that we were able to wipe the entire business out of the city.

"A new mayor was elected, and he immediately forced the police to aid us. The police seized five hundred machines and we, through our own constables, seized over eight hundred others between January 1st and May 10th, 1903. On May 19th the entire lot was burned, the police and the Law and Order Society joining in the work of destruction. Not a machine that we know of exists in this city to-day."

LXXI.--A BANQUET IN A WATER-PIPE.

In the middle of October last a banquet was served to the League of Iowa Municipalities, at Waterloo, Iowa, which, so far as we know, has no duplicate in the history of gastronomy. It was in every way the most successful gathering of the sort that ever took place in this enterprising city of the West, and the novelty of the affair drew public notice from near and far.

The table was spread in a sewer constructed by the city to carry off the surplus water which at different periods of heavy rains had threatened the existence of the place with damaging floods. The name by which this work of engineering is known--the Dry Run Sewer--recalls to many the story of an innocent little stream running through the principal business and residence section of the city, a stream which in its driest day would attract little attention from a passer-by. Unfortunately, however, for the inhabitants the Dry Run has frequently become very wet. Within the past seven years, on three different occasions it has flooded the entire western portion of the city, causing a property loss of many thousands and endangering the lives of the inhabitants. In 1902 it was flooded twice within twenty days. It rose on July 3rd at the rate of ten feet within five minutes, and on July 23rd ambitiously repeated the same perilous feat.

The citizens of Waterloo, at the head of whom stood Mr. P. J. Martin, the mayor, now concluded that this recurring danger should be met by heroic measures, and a flood-sewer, twelve feet by twelve feet in width and height, and three thousand four hundred feet long, was planned at a cost of about one hundred thousand dollars. To many the project appeared impossible of completion, owing to the peculiar situation of Dry Run, but the difficulties in the way did not daunt the Iowa engineers. Hundreds of men were put upon the work of excavation and construction, under the charge of contractor William Horrabin, of Iowa City, and the giant structure rapidly took the permanent form which we see in our photographs. Our illustration of the entrance to the sewer unfortunately does not suggest the size of it, but when we say that a man could walk through this sewer easily carrying another upright on his head, we may fairly suggest the height of the arch. Some thirteen thousand barrels of cement and over thirty-two million pounds of sand and rock were used in the construction, and nearly one million cubic feet of dirt were excavated. The side walls of the sewer are vertical for six feet, and the base is at present about fifteen feet below the level of the street.

With the completion of the largest work of the kind ever undertaken by an Iowa municipality, satisfaction took the place of unrest in the feelings of the citizens. The manufacturers were able to leave their places of business without fear of catastrophe behind them, and the residents could now go to bed at night without dread of a flood-warning from the fire bell. In fact, the relief was so widespread that it was deemed fitting by the mayor and aldermen that the completion of the sewer should be signalized by a great banquet, to which the mayors and representative citizens of other towns should be invited.

The happy thought now occurred to the _Waterloo Times and Tribune_ of holding this banquet, not in an hotel, but in the sewer itself, and the project was carried out with enthusiasm. This meant, of course, unusual effort on the part of those in charge, but all obstacles were easily surmounted, and on the night of October 16th that part of the city which, little more than a year before, had been the bed of a raging torrent was turned by engineering and culinary magic into a banqueting-hall of security and light. The tables were laid along the floor of the sewer over four hundred feet of its length, and on both sides of this table, with plenty of room in which to move, sat the best-known citizens of the State. Simple but pretty decorations hung in festoons from the archway and on the side walls gleamed rows of electric lights. Mayor Martin acted as toast-master, and the programme of toasts lasted an hour and a half. As if to suggest a danger happily past the rain was falling outside, but no fear of flood troubled the gathering. The banquet was as successful as the construction of the sewer itself, and those who were privileged on this memorable occasion to partake of Dry Run punch drank it with a special gusto. This little joke of the caterer was duly appreciated. The dessert was as happily chosen, for it ended with Roquefort and "water crackers."

LXXII.--AN ANTI-COLLISION TRAIN.

Even in this age of wonders no one would have expected to experience a railway collision without the usual horrors of a smash-up, yet that is the feature of one of the latest wonders of inventive genius. An electrical engineer of New York, Mr. P. K. Stern, has just come forward with such a contrivance.

His system is remarkable chiefly for the daring conception which it expresses and for the exceptional skill shown in devising mechanism absolutely safe in its operation.

A single track is used, on which railway-cars are caused to travel. Two cars are rushing towards each other at a speed of twenty-five miles an hour, so that a collision would, under ordinary conditions, be inevitable, when suddenly one of the cars runs, not into, but over the top of the other and lands on the track on the other side, where it continues in perfect safety to its destination. The underneath car has proceeded as if nothing had happened.

The cars, although they run upon wheels, are really travelling bridges, with overhanging compartments for the accommodation of passengers. Over the framed structure of the cars thus constituted an arched track is carried, securely fastened to the car and serving the purpose of providing a road-bed for the colliding car. This superimposed track is built in accordance with well-understood principles of bridge construction.

The passengers find accommodation in the cars arranged along each side of the travelling structure. The cars run at a speed of about ten to fifteen miles an hour, and are caused to collide at about eight miles an hour, which is quite sufficient for amusement purposes. The principle upon which these cars are constructed renders it impossible for one to crush the other while going over it.

In this device the speed of the cars is immaterial. One car may be moving very slowly--such as is the case sometimes in crowded streets--and the overtaking car, when meeting with obstructions, though it may be in close proximity, can go straight ahead just as though nothing had happened. In fact, automobiles and carts can go over the cars just as though they were mounting a gradual incline or small hill.

In cases of street locomotion there is a fender effect for the safety of people crossing the streets, which picks the person up and lands him down on the other side unhurt.

A great deal might be done with a system of this character, and Mr. Stern's next work will be a careful study on the lines of carrying freight, as he believes that a single line of railway may be duplexed in this manner, and thus enable more business to be carried on than by the ordinary railroad having two tracks.

_The Forbidden City of Lhassa._

BY G. T. TSYBIKOV.

[As soon as the brief telegraphic announcement of M. Tsybikov's remarkable journey reached England we took steps to secure the earliest account in an English magazine of this expedition. At the present moment its value is enhanced by the fact that a British mission is being dispatched into the mysterious land of Tibet. The account of "The Forbidden City of Lhassa" which follows is the first that has been written by a visitor to Lhassa since the French missionary Huc spent a few months there in 1845. It has been translated and edited for THE STRAND MAGAZINE by David B. Macgowan, by permission of the Russian Imperial Geographical Society.]

M. G. T. Tsybikov is by birth a Russian Bouriat from the Trans-Baikal territory. He learned his own, the Mongolian, and the Tibetan languages in infancy and boyhood, and completed his education in the St. Petersburg schools for Oriental languages. He was sent to Tibet by the Russian Imperial Geographical Society, and his success in reaching the Tibetan capital and in remaining there or in its vicinity for more than a year was due in large measure to the careful planning of his journey by the experienced officers of this society. He carried a high-class camera of special construction and returned with a number of excellent photographs, some of which are reproduced with this article.

The explorer left Lhassa on September 10th, 1901, but was detained on his return journey and did not reach the hospitable Russian consulate at Urga until the middle of last year.

The following is his narrative:--

* * * * *

On May 7th, 1900, a caravan of about seventy Mongolian and Amdo Lamas left the Amdo monastery of Goumboum for Lhassa. I had joined it as a simple pilgrim. We rode and carried our belongings on about two hundred horses and mules obtained in Amdo, and lived in seventeen tents. After a journey of twenty-two days across the uninhabited North Tibetan table-land, we pitched camp on the banks of the San-chou, on the northern side of the Boumza Ridge. Here we, for the first time, met with inhabitants of Central Tibet. Our road was, in fact, blocked by the first of a series of military posts maintained to stop the advance of foreigners and to notify the Government of their presence. It was near here that the great Russian explorer, P. M. Przhevalsky, was compelled to turn back upon his third journey into Central Asia. The soldiers of the post at once came to our camp and, observing that ours was an ordinary pilgrim caravan, resumed their usual occupations, which were mainly barter on a small scale and keeping a sharp look-out for any unconsidered trifles which were not tied down.

After four short marches we reached the Nak-chou monastery. Here reside the two governors of the local nomadic tribes--one, called the "Khanbo," being a priest, and the other, called the "Nansal," being a layman. They rule the natives, collect taxes, control the post-stations, and investigate suspicious travellers. I fell into the latter class, thanks to the head of our caravan, who reported that there were Bouriats among the Mongolians. Although it had been recently decided that Bouriats were to be admitted into the country, the "Khanbo" squeezed five "lans" of silver out of me, which sum removed me from the category of suspects and opened the road to Lhassa, where we arrived on August 16th, after a journey of three months from Goumboum.

Lhassa, or Lhadàn as it is sometimes called, means the "land of the gods," or "full of gods." It was founded in the seventh century A.D. by the Khan Srontszan-Gambo, who, it is related, had among his wives a Nepaulese and a Chinese princess, and they brought with them statues of Buddha Sakya Muni. For these statues temples were built in Lhassa, and the Khan settled on the hill where now stands the palace of the Dalai-Lama--the supreme ruler of Tibet both in spiritual and worldly affairs. The city is situated in a broad plain, bordered on one side by the Wi-chou and on the other by the high mountains on its right bank. Not counting Bodalà, the residence of the Dalai-Lama, it is almost circular in form, with a diameter of about one English mile. However, numerous parks to the south and west, the proximity of Bodalà and two other palaces, have caused its girth to be stated as about twenty-five miles. As a matter of fact, the circular road around the city is not more than eight miles long. The devout are in the habit of making the circuit, prostrating themselves continually. A zealous pilgrim can complete the journey in two days, making three thousand prostrations a day. They travel, in fact, on their stomachs, drawing up their legs as far as possible, and pushing themselves forward a body's length at a time, standing erect, however, between the movements and falling flat again. Sometimes the pilgrims protect their hands with boards, though these are not the most fervent devotees. Thus they traverse not only the circuit of the city, but often pass three times and even seven times round it. The last feat takes about a fortnight, and requires forty-two thousand prostrations!

The Tibetans are very fond of parks and forests, and their capital presents a beautiful appearance from a distance, particularly in spring and autumn, when the golden roofs of the two principal temples and the white walls of many-storied houses gleam and glisten among the tree-tops. The enchantment of the view from afar disappears abruptly when one enters the crooked and extremely narrow streets, which during the rainy season are transformed into muddy pools, in which one sees here and there the corpse of a yak or other pack animal.

The plain in which the city lies is subject to inundations both from the river and from mountain streams. Dykes and canals have been constructed both inside and outside the city for protection from overflows. The houses of the common people are built of stone plates or of unbaked bricks, one-storied usually, except in the cities, where two and three storied houses prevail. The window openings are either bare or are protected merely with muslin or calico in summer, and with paper in winter. Fire-places are provided only in the kitchen, and are heated only for the preparation of food.

In the centre of the city stands the temple in which the great statue of Buddha is placed. This temple is a rectangular structure about one hundred and forty feet square. It is three stories high and has four gilded roofs in Chinese style, with gates and a door opening to the west. The temple contains a number of gloomy chambers lighted with candles, in all of which there are various statues of Buddhas. The chief object of veneration is placed beneath a costly baldachin in the middle room. It is the great statue of Buddha Sakya Muni, just mentioned. It is of bronze, and is distinguished from ordinary images of the Indian sage by its ornaments of hammered gold on head and breast, encrusted with precious stones, mainly turquoises. The face of the statue is decorated with burnished gold, put on in the form of a powder. Golden lamps fed with animal fat, placed on long, bench-like tables, burn before it continually. These lamps are the gifts of worshippers.

Almost equal honour is bestowed upon two other statues in the same temple, that of Avalokiteshvar, who is supposed to be reincarnated in the Dalai-Lamas, and the statue of Bal-Lhamo, the patroness of women. Libations of barley-wine, called the "golden drink," are constantly being poured out before this statue and barley grains are liberally strewn on the ground, supplying inexhaustible food to the multitude of mice which thrive here undisturbed, as they are accounted sacred. They have comfortable nests in the drapery of the statue. The bodies of these mice, when accidentally killed, are regarded as very useful to ladies who are expecting babies, and are exported thousands of miles to Mongolia and Amdo. However, mice in other houses in Lhassa do not share their privileged position, being, as in other countries, the prey of cats.

The ancient palace of the Tibetan kings, shown in the photograph given above, is carefully preserved as a monument of great interest in the history of the city. It was the residence of the last King of Tibet, before the Dalai-Lama received the temporal as well as the spiritual power. It is the only building in Lhassa which is not allowed to be white-washed.

Above all the buildings of the city rises Bodalà, the palace of the Dalai-Lama, about a thousand yards to the west, and built on a rocky eminence. Although commenced earlier, it was rebuilt and extended, with the addition of the central part, called the "red palace," during the lifetime, or shortly after the death, of the celebrated fifth Dalai-Lama, Agvan Lovsan-chzhiamtso. The palace was evidently built mainly for purposes of defence, being, in fact, the survivor of those ancient castles with whose ruins Tibet is richly strewn, and whose sad fate was largely the work of this very Bodalà.

The palace is about fourteen hundred feet long and nine to ten stories high. The front and sides are surrounded by a wall, while the rear is protected by the mountain. In the construction of this palace the Tibetans exhausted all their architectural skill, and it contains much of the wealth and all that Tibet possesses of artistic value, notably the golden epitaph of the fifth Dalai-Lama. The valuables and the Dalai-Lama's apartments are in the central part of the palace, which is called the "red palace," but is really painted brown. In other parts of the palace live various officials, employés, and followers of the Dalai-Lama, including a chapter of five hundred monks. Among the duties of the latter are the recital of prayers for the happiness and long life of the Dalai-Lama.

The mint, the courts of justice, and the prison are situated in a courtyard under the hillside, and a little farther on is the only medical school in Tibet, the "Manba Datsan." It has sixty teachers, supported by the Dalai-Lama. Westward and lower down the hill from the palace and the medical school are the temples of Chinese Buddhists, while two other palaces, one of which is the summer palace of the Dalai-Lama, are situated only a little farther. Lhassa itself contains two faculties for instruction in the mystical cults, embracing together twelve hundred men.

Lhassa is a city of women. The entire population, excluding priests, can scarcely exceed ten thousand persons, and at least two-thirds of these are women. The city might seem more populous owing to the proximity of two great monasteries and to the great ingress, at particular times, of the rural inhabitants and of pilgrims from Lamaitic countries. It is the most important commercial centre of the country, being the intermediary between India and Western Tibet and between China and Eastern Tibet. The market is situated around the great temple, and the lower floors of houses, as well as all free spaces on the streets and public squares, are occupied by shops and booths. The clerks in the shops, excepting those kept by Kashmir and Nepaul merchants, are nearly all women.

Not only Lhassa, but Tibet itself can be described as the land of women and women's rights. This is due to the vast number of celibate priests. The results of this institution to a large part of the female population are complete independence both in business and in personal conduct. In family life both polygamy and polyandry are met with. The marriage of several brothers with one wife, or of several sisters with one husband, is regarded as the ideal condition.

In no country in the world, perhaps, do women play a greater part in business than in Tibet. I can recall no occupation that is carried on in the country in which women are not actively engaged, and they often conduct great undertakings quite independently of men.

The choice of a new Dalai-Lama is put into practice in the following picturesque manner: The names of three candidates, determined upon in a previously agreed manner, are written on separate tickets and then put into a golden urn. The urn is set in front of the great statue of Buddha, and religious services designed to disclose the identity of the "reincarnate"[1] are held by deputies from the monasteries. The urn is then taken to Bodalà and set down before a small board inscribed with the name of the Emperor, and in the presence of the highest officials, and of deputies from the principal monasteries, the Manchurian Amban--the representative of the Emperor--removes one of the tickets by means of a pair of chop-sticks. The choice so made is confirmed by an Imperial rescript, and the happy, or unhappy, boy is transferred to the palace. From this moment he receives the veneration and the honours due to his station. From his earliest years he is taught reading and writing by a special master selected from among the most illustrious Lamas. After this he is given a purely theological education. For purposes of practical disputation all the theological faculties of the principal monasteries send one of their members. Upon the completion of the prescribed course of study he receives the highest theological degree in the same manner as other Lamas do, but naturally makes a more lavish distribution of money to the monasteries. As a matter of course his generosity is rewarded by a correspondingly careful selection of questions on the part of the examiners.

[Footnote 1: The "reincarnates" are persons in whom the souls of former saints are supposed to have become reincarnated.]

The present Dalai-Lama has now, at the age of twenty-one or twenty-two, attained his majority. Since 1806 there have been five new Dalai-Lamas. Six or seven years ago the present holder of the title entered upon a struggle with his regent, the most illustrious of the Tibetan "reincarnates," and issued from it victorious, thereby escaping the fate of his four predecessors, who died comparatively young, most of them having been put to death by their regents, or the rivals of the latter. The present Dalai-Lama accused his regent of having performed conjurations against his life, confiscated the regent's large estate, and placed him under strict domiciliary arrest. The regent was found dead one fine morning. The Dalai-Lama is evidently an energetic and well-intentioned man. One of his first acts after seizing the reins of authority was the abolition of the death penalty.

The supreme administration is in the hands of a council under the presidency of the Dalai-Lama, known as the "Devashoun." The four principal members are appointed by the Chinese Emperor. Justice is sold, and in general all Government business is carried on by means of bribery. Criminal inquiries are pursued by means of whipping and other tortures, the most cruel of which is probably cauterization with blazing sealing-wax. The penalties are flogging, imprisonment, exile into slavery, blinding, amputation of the fingers, and perpetual fetters or stocks.

Four thousand soldiers are maintained at the cost of the State. Their armament consists of swords, muzzle-loading firearms, and bows and arrows. A helmet decorated with feathers is worn and a small shield is carried, and some wear a cuirass also. The discipline is poor. The soldiers live in their villages, and assemble only periodically for drill in archery and in the use of firearms. The army is divided into cavalry and infantry. The Central Tibetan is averse to war and military service. One often sees a soldier on the way to the drill-ground placidly spinning wool or sewing on a boot-sole, or perhaps employing the time which would otherwise be wasted in telling a rosary or turning a prayer-cylinder. The nomadic clans of Eastern Tibet, who are prone to raiding their peaceful neighbours, strive as a rule to avoid bloodshed, employing intimidation oftener than force. The slightest determined opposition sends them back home.

The Tibetans have lately been taking a more and more pronounced fancy for English goods, and Indian rupees have begun to compete with the native coin. Among the articles exported to India are yak tails, sheep's wool, borax, salt, silver and gold, yaks, and horses and asses from Western China.

Both men and women wear local cloth in various colours. The clothing of the poor is usually white, because white is the cheapest. Soldiers wear dark blue, the well-to-do classes prefer red, and the princes and higher officials are privileged to wear yellow. The people are vain and fond of display. They wear jewellery of gold, silver, corals, diamonds, rubies, pearls, turquoises, and other stones.

The principal article of food is flour of roasted barley. It is mixed with tea or barley-wine. The most common vegetable is the radish. The favourite dish of all classes is a porridge of barley-flour mixed with finely-chopped radishes. The best variety of this porridge is prepared with a bouillon of pounded bones, which can be had only by the rich. Tibetans love raw or underdone meat. Yak-meat, mutton, and pork are more highly esteemed than beef. The flesh of asses and horses is not eaten. Fish is eaten by the poor, fowl not at all, chickens being kept only for the sake of eggs. Butter is used principally as fuel for holy lamps. Sour milk, treated in a special way, is highly esteemed as a drink and is the common poetic symbol of pure white. Both men and women drink great quantities of barley-wine, which is but slightly intoxicating and is very cheap. The men smoke leaf tobacco in pipes, the monks crush it into snuff. Tobacco is dear, and it is usually mixed for smoking with leaves of another plant.

The Tibetan is very impressionable and superstitious, and he goes to the Lamas, or oracles, after every event in his life and demands the explanation of it. In case of sickness he puts more faith in a grain of barley blessed by a Lama than in medicine; or he prefers, if able, to send for a Lama to read whole litanies in his presence. However, he is also disposed to be merry, and proves it by singing and dancing on holidays and during carousals.

The Tibetan's requirements are limited. The local coin was worth ten cents during my stay in Tibet. Nevertheless, one of these coins is the highest wage known, that of a Lama for a whole day's prayers. The best spinner in the rural districts receives seven cents a day; the ordinary labourer, whether man or woman, two or three cents. Domestic servants scarcely ever get any money, receiving only food and clothing.

Beggary thrives in Lhassa, this being the sole recourse of criminals who have been blinded, or have lost their hands, or been bound to perpetual fetters or stocks. In fact, begging is regarded with no shame, even when practised by the comparatively well-to-do, especially priests.

Copyright, 1904, by George Newnes, Limited.

VIII.--THE CATS, THE COW, AND THE BURGLAR.

The nursery was full of Persian cats and musk-rats that had been brought there by the Wishing Carpet. The cats were mewing and the musk rats were squeaking so that you could hardly hear yourself speak. In the kitchen were the four children, one candle, a concealed Phoenix, and a very visible policeman.

"Now, then, look here," said the policeman, very loudly, and he pointed his lantern at each child in turn; "what's the meaning of this here yelling and caterwauling? I tell you you've got a cat here, and someone's a-illtreating of it. What do you mean by it, eh?"

It was five to one, counting the Phoenix, but the policeman, who was one, was of unusually fine size, and the five, including the Phoenix, were small. The mews and the squeaks grew softer, and in the comparative silence Cyril said:--

"It's true. There are a few cats here. But we've not hurt them. It's quite the opposite. We've just fed them."

"It don't sound like it," said the policeman, grimly.

"If you understood anything except people who steal and do murders and stealings and naughty things like that I'd tell you all about it," said Robert, "but I'm certain you don't. You're not meant to shove your oar into people's private cat-keepings. You're only supposed to interfere when people shout 'Murder!' and 'Stop thief!' in the street. So there!"

The policeman assured them that he should see about that, and at this point the Phoenix, who had been making itself small on the pot-shelf under the dresser, among the saucepan-lids and the fish-kettle, walked on tip-toed claws in a noiseless and modest manner, and left the room unnoticed by anyone.

"Oh, don't be so horrid!" Anthea was saying, gently and earnestly. "We _love_ cats--dear, pussy-soft things. We wouldn't hurt them for worlds. Would we, Pussy?"

And Jane answered that of course they wouldn't.

And still the policeman seemed unmoved by their eloquence.

"Now, look here," he said, "I'm a going to see what's in that room beyond there--and----"

His voice was drowned in a wild burst of mewing and squeaking.

And as soon as it died down all four children began to explain at once, and though the squeaking and mewing were not at their very loudest, yet there was quite enough of both to make it very hard for the policeman to understand a single word of any of the four wholly different explanations now poured out to him.

"Stow it!" he said, at last. "I'm a-going into the next room in the execution of my duty. I'm a-going to use my eyes--my ears are gone off their chumps, what with you and them cats."

And he pushed Robert aside and strode through the door.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," said Robert.

"It's tigers, _really_," said Jane. "Father said so. I wouldn't go in if I were you."

But the policeman was quite stony; nothing anyone said seemed to make any difference to him. Some policemen are like this, I believe. He strode down the passage, and in another moment he would have been in the room with all the cats and all the rats (musk), but at that very instant a thin, sharp voice screamed from the street outside:--

"Murder! Murder! Stop thief!"

The policeman stopped, with one regulation boot heavily poised in the air.

"Eh?" he said.

And again the shrieks sounded shrilly and piercingly from the dark street outside.

"Come on," said Robert. "Come and look after cats while somebody's being killed outside." For Robert had an inside feeling that told him quite plainly _who_ it was that was screaming.

"You young rip!" said the policeman. "I'll settle up with you bimeby."

And he rushed out; and the children heard his boots going weightily along the pavement, and the screams also going along rather ahead of the policeman, and both the murder-screams and the policeman's boots faded away in the remote distance.

Then Robert smacked his knickerbockers loudly with his palm, and said:--

"Good old Phɶnix! I should know its golden voice anywhere."

And then everyone understood how cleverly the Phɶnix had caught at what Robert had said about the real work of a policeman being to look after murderers and thieves, and not after cats, and all hearts were filled with admiring affection.

"But he'll come back," said Anthea, mournfully, "as soon as he finds the murderer is only a bright vision of a dream, and there isn't one at all really."

"No, he won't," said the soft voice of the clever Phɶnix, as he flew in. "_He does not know where your house is._ I heard him own as much to a fellow-mercenary. Oh! what a night we are having! Lock the door, and let us rid ourselves of this intolerable smell of the perfume peculiar to the musk-rat and to the house of the trimmers of beards. If you'll excuse me I will go to bed. I am worn out."

It was Cyril who wrote the paper that told the carpet to take away the rats and bring milk, because there seemed to be no doubt in any breast that, however Persian cats may be, they must like milk.

"Let's hope it won't be musk-milk," said Anthea, in gloom, as she pinned the paper face-downwards on the carpet. "Is there such a thing as a musk-cow?" she added, anxiously, as the carpet shrivelled and vanished. "I do hope not. Perhaps, really, it _would_ have been wiser to let the carpet take the cats away. It's getting quite late, and we can't keep them all night."

"Oh, can't we?" was the bitter rejoinder of Robert, who had been fastening the side door. "You might have consulted me," he went on. "I'm not such an idiot as some people."

"Why, whatever----"

"Don't you see? We've jolly well _got_ to keep the cats all night--oh, get down, you furry beasts!--because we've had three wishes out of the old carpet now, and we can't get any more till to-morrow."

The liveliness of Persian mews alone prevented the occurrence of a dismal silence.

Anthea spoke first. "Never mind," she said. "Do you know, I really do think they're quieting down a bit. Perhaps they heard us say milk."

"They can't understand English," said Jane. "You forget they're Persian cats, Panther."

"Well," said Anthea, rather sharply, for she was tired and anxious, "who told you milk wasn't Persian for milk? Lots of English words are just the same in French--at least, I know 'miaw' is, and croquet, and _fiancé_. Oh, pussies, do be quiet! Let's stroke them as hard as we can with both hands, and perhaps they'll stop."

So everyone stroked grey fur till their hands were tired, and as soon as a cat had been stroked enough to make it stop mewing it was pushed gently away, and another mewing mouser was approached by the hands of the strokers. And the noise was really more than half purr when the carpet suddenly appeared in its proper place, and on it, instead of rows of milk-cans or even of milk-jugs, there was a _cow_. Not a Persian cow, either; nor, most fortunately, a musk-cow, if there is such a thing, but a smooth, sleek, dun-coloured Jersey cow, who blinked large, soft eyes at the gaslight and mooed in an amiable, if rather inquiring, manner.

Anthea had always been afraid of cows. But now she tried to be brave.

"Anyway, it can't run after me," she said to herself. "There isn't room for it even to begin to run."

The cow was perfectly placid. She behaved like a strayed duchess till someone brought a saucer for the milk and someone else tried to milk the cow into it. Milking is very difficult. You may think it is easy, but it is not. All the children were by this time strung up to a pitch of heroism that would have been impossible to them in their ordinary condition. Robert and Cyril held the cow by the horns, and when she was quite sure that their end of the cow was secure Jane consented to stand by, ready to hold the cow by the tail, should occasion arise. Anthea, holding the saucer, now advanced towards the cow. She remembered to have heard that cows, when milked by strangers, are susceptible to the soothing influence of the human voice. So, clutching her saucer very tight, she sought for words to whose soothing influence the cow might be susceptible. And her memory, troubled by the events of the night, which seemed to go on and on for ever and ever, refused to help her with any form of words suitable to address a Jersey cow in.

"Poor pussy, then. Lie down, then, good dog, lie down," was all she could think of to say, and she said it. And nobody laughed--the situation, full of grey, mewing cats, was too serious for that.

Then Anthea, with a beating heart, tried to milk the cow. Next moment the cow had knocked the saucer out of her hand and trampled on it with one foot, while with the other three she had walked on a foot each of Robert, Cyril, and Jane.

Jane burst into tears.

"Oh, how much too horrid everything is!" she cried. "Come away. Let's go to bed and leave the horrid cats with the hateful cow. Perhaps somebody will eat somebody else. And serve them right."

They did not go to bed, but had a shivering council in the drawing-room, which smelt of soot--and, indeed, a heap of this lay in the fender. There had been no fire in the room since mother went away, and all the chairs and tables were in the wrong places, and the chrysanthemums were dead, and the water in their pots nearly dried up.

Anthea wrapped the embroidered, woolly sofa-blanket round Jane and herself, while Robert and Cyril had a struggle, silent and brief, but fierce, for the larger share of the fur hearthrug.

"It is most truly awful," said Anthea. "And I _am_ so tired. Let's let the cats loose."

"And the cow, perhaps?" said Cyril. "The police would find us at once. That cow would stand at the gate and mew--I mean moo--to come in. And so would the cats. No; I see quite well what we've got to do. We must put them in baskets and leave them on people's doorsteps, like orphan foundlings."

"We've got three baskets, counting mother's work one," said Jane, brightening.

"And there are nearly two hundred cats," said Anthea, "besides the cow, and it would have to be a different-sized basket for her. And then I don't know how you'd carry it, and you'd never find a doorstep big enough to put it on, except the church one, and----"

"Oh, well," said Cyril, "if you simply _make_ difficulties----"

"I'm with you," said Robert. "Don't fuss about the cow, Panther. It's simply _got_ to stay the night, and I'm sure I've read that the cow is a remunerating creature, and that means it will sit still and think for hours. The carpet can take it away in the morning. And as for baskets, we'll do them up in dusters or pillow-cases, or bath-towels. Come on, Squirrel. You girls can be out of it, if you like."

His tone was full of contempt, but Jane and Anthea were too tired and desperate to care; even being "out of it," which at other times they could not have borne, now seemed quite a comfort. They snuggled down in the sofa-blanket and Cyril threw the fur hearthrug over them.

"Ah," he said, "that's all women are fit for--to keep safe and warm while the men do the work and run dangers and risks and things."

"I'm not," said Anthea; "you know I'm not."

But Cyril was gone.

It was warm under the blanket and the hearthrug, and Jane snuggled up close to her sister, and Anthea cuddled Jane closely and kindly, and in a sort of dream they heard the rise of a wave of mewing as Robert opened the door of the nursery. They heard the booted search for baskets in the back kitchen. They heard the side door open and close, and they knew that each brother had gone out with at least one cat. Anthea's last thought was that it would take at least all night to get rid of one hundred and ninety-nine cats by twos. There would be eighty-nine journeys of two cats each, and one cat over. "I almost think we might keep the one cat over," said Anthea; "I don't seem to care for cats just now, but I dare say I shall again some day." And she fell asleep. Jane also was sleeping.

It was Jane who awoke with a start to find Anthea still asleep. As in the act of awakening she kicked her sister, she wondered idly why they should have gone to bed in their boots, but the next moment she remembered where they were.

There was a sound of muffled, shuffled feet on the stairs. Like the heroine of the classic poem, Jane "thought it was the boys," and, as she now felt quite wide awake and not nearly so tired as before, she crept gently from Anthea's side and followed the footsteps. They went down into the basement. The cats, which seemed to have fallen into the sleep of exhaustion, awoke at the sound of the approaching footsteps and mewed piteously. Jane was at the foot of the stairs before she saw that it was not her brothers whose coming had roused her and the cats, but a burglar. She knew he was a burglar at once, because he wore a fur cap and a red and black charity-check comforter, and he had no business where he was.

If you had been stood in Jane's shoes you would no doubt have run away in them, appealing to the police and neighbours with horrid screams. But Jane knew better. She had read a great many nice stories about burglars, as well as some affecting pieces of poetry, and she knew that no burglar will ever hurt a little girl if he meets one when burgling. Indeed, in all the cases Jane had read of his burglarishness was almost at once forgotten in the interest he felt in the little girl's artless prattle. So if Jane hesitated for a moment before addressing the burglar it was only because she could not at once think of any remark sufficiently prattling and artless to make a beginning. In the stories and the affecting poetry the child could never speak plainly, though it always looked old enough to in the pictures. And Jane could not make up her mind to lisp and "talk baby," even to a burglar. And while she hesitated he softly opened the nursery door and went in.

Jane followed--just in time to see him sit down flat on the floor, scattering cats as a stone thrown into a pool splashes water.

She closed the door softly and stood there, still wondering whether she _could_ bring herself to say: "What's 'oo doing here, Mithter Wobber?" and whether any other kind of talk would do.

Then she heard the burglar draw a long breath, and he spoke:--

"It's a judgment," he said. "Oh, 'ere's a thing to 'appen to a chap! Cats an' cats an' cats. Let alone the cow. If she ain't the moral of the old man's Daisy! She's a dream out of when I was a lad; I don't mind 'er so much. 'Ere, Daisy, Daisy!"

The cow turned and looked at him.

"_She's_ all right," he went on; "sort of company, too. But them cats--oh, take 'em away, take 'em away! Oh, take 'em away!"

"Burglar," said Jane, close behind him, and he started convulsively and turned on her a blank face whose pale lips trembled--"I can't take those cats away."

"Lor'!" exclaimed the man; "if 'ere ain't another on 'em. Are you real, miss, or something I'll wake up from presently?"

"I am quite real," said Jane, relieved to find that a lisp was not needed to make the burglar understand her. "And so," she added, "are the cats."

"Then send for the police, send for the police, and I'll go quiet. If you ain't no realler than them cats I'm done. Send for the police. I'll go quiet. One thing, there'd not be room for 'arf them cats in no cell as ever _I_ see."

He ran his fingers through his hair, which was short, and his eyes wandered wildly round the roomful of cats.

"Burglar," said Jane, kindly and softly, "if you didn't like cats, what did you come here for?"

"Send for the police," was the unfortunate criminal's only reply. "I'd rather you would--honest, I'd rather."

"I daren't," said Jane; "and, besides, I've no one to send. I hate the police. I wish he'd never been born."

"You've a feeling 'art, miss," said the burglar. "But them cats is really a little bit too thick."

"Look here," said Jane. "I won't call the police. And I am quite a real little girl, though I talk older than the kind you have met before when you've been doing your burglings. And they _are_ real cats--and they want real milk--and--didn't you say the cow was like somebody's Daisy that you used to know? Well, then, perhaps you know how to milk cows?"

"Perhaps I does," was the burglar's cautious rejoinder.

"Then," said Jane, "if you will _only_ milk ours, you don't know how we shall always love you."

The burglar replied that loving was all very well.

"If those cats only had a good, long, wet, thirsty drink of milk," Jane went on, with eager persuasion, "they'll lie down and go to sleep as likely as not, and then the police won't come back. But if they go on mewing like this he will, and then I don't know what'll become of us or you either."

This argument seemed to decide the criminal. Jane fetched the wash-bowl from the sink and he prepared to milk the cow. At this instant boots were heard on the stairs.

"It's all up," said the man, desperately. "This 'ere's a plant. _'Ere's_ the police." He made as if to open the window and leap from it.

"It's all right, I tell you," whispered Jane, in anguish. "I'll say you're a friend of mine, or the good clergyman called in, or my uncle, or _anything_--only do, do, do milk the cow. Oh, _don't_ go--oh--oh, thank goodness, it's only the boys!"

It was; and their entrance had awakened Anthea, who, with her brothers, now crowded through the doorway. The man looked about him as a rat looks round a trap.

"This is a friend of mine," said Jane. "He's just called in, and he's going to milk the cow for us. _Isn't_ it good and kind of him?"

She winked at the others, and though they did not understand they played up loyally.

"How do?" said Cyril. "Very glad to meet you. Don't let us interrupt the milking."

The burglar began to milk the cow, and the others went to get things to put the milk in, for it was now spurting and foaming in the wash-bowl, and the cats had ceased from mewing and were crowding round the cow, with expressions of hope and anticipation on their whiskered faces.

"We can't get rid of any more cats," said Cyril, as he and his sisters piled a tray high with saucers and soup-plates and platters and pie-dishes; "the police nearly got us as it was. Not the same one--a much stronger sort. He thought it really was a foundling orphan we'd got. If it hadn't been for me throwing the two bags of cat slap in his eye and hauling Robert over a railing, and lying like mice under a laurel bush--well, it's jolly lucky I'm a good shot, that's all. He pranced off when he'd got the cat-bags off his face--thought we'd bolted. And here we are."

The gentle sameishness of the milk swishing into the hand-bowl seemed to have soothed the burglar very much. He went on milking in a sort of happy dream, while the children got a cup and ladled the warm milk out into the pie-dishes and plates, and platters and saucers, and set them down to the music of Persian purrs and lappings.

"It makes me think of old times," said the burglar, smearing his ragged coat-cuff across his eyes; "about the apples in the orchard at home, and the rats at threshing time, and the rabbits and the ferrets, and how pretty it was seeing the pigs killed."

Finding him in this softened mood, Jane said:--

"I wish you'd tell us how you came to choose our house for your burglaring to-night. I'm awfully glad you did. You _have_ been so kind. I don't know what we should have done without you," she added, hastily. "We all love you ever so. Do tell us."

The others added their affectionate entreaties, and at last the burglar said:--

"Well, it's my first job, and I didn't expect to be made so welcome, and that's the truth, young gents and ladies. And I don't know but what it won't be my last. For this 'ere cow, she reminds me of my father, and I know 'ow 'e'd 'ave 'ided me if I'd laid 'ands on a 'apenny as wasn't my own."

"Look here," said Cyril, "these cats are very valuable--very, indeed. And we will give them all to you if only you will take them away."

"I see they're a breedy lot," replied the burglar; "but I don't want no bother with the coppers. Did you come by them honest, now--straight?"

"They are all our very own," said Anthea. "We wanted them; but the confidement----"

"Consignment," whispered Cyril.

"----was larger than we wanted, and they're an awful bother. If you got your barrow and some sacks or baskets we would be awfully pleased. My father says Persian cats are worth pounds and pounds each."

"Well," said the burglar, and he was certainly moved by her remarks, "I see you're in a hole; I've got a pal--I'll fetch him along, and if he thinks they'd fetch anything above their skins, I don't mind doin' you a kindness."

Then he went, and Cyril and Robert sent the girls to bed and sat up to wait for his return. It soon seemed absurd to await him in a state of wakefulness, but his stealthy tap on the window awoke them readily enough when he returned. And he did return, with the pal and the barrow and the sacks. The pal approved of the cats, now dormant in Persian repletion, and they were bundled into the sacks and taken away on the barrow, mewing indeed, but with mews too sleepy to attract public attention.

"I'm a fence, that's what I am," said the burglar, gloomily; "I never thought I'd come down to this and all acause er my kind 'art."

Cyril knew that a fence is a receiver of stolen goods, and he replied, briskly:--

"I give you my word the cats aren't stolen. What do you make the time?"

"I ain't got the time on me," said the pal; "but it was just about chucking-out time as I come by the Bull and Gate. I shouldn't wonder if it was nigh upon one now."

When the cats had been removed and the boys and the burglar had parted with warm expressions of friendship there remained only the cow.

"She must stay all night," said Robert. "Cook'll have a fit when she sees her."

"All night?" said Cyril. "Why, it's to-morrow morning if it's one. We can have another wish!"

So the carpet was urged, in a hastily-written note, to remove the cow to wherever she belonged and to return to its proper place on the nursery floor. And the cow could not be got to move on to the carpet. So Robert got the clothes-line out of the back kitchen and tied one end very firmly to the cow's horns and the other end to a bunched-up corner of the carpet, and said, "Fire away!"

And carpet and cow vanished together, and the boys went to bed tired out, and only too thankful that the evening at last was over.

Next morning the carpet lay calmly in its place, but one corner was very badly torn. It was the corner that the cow had been tied on to.

_What Is a Good Advertisement?_

What is a good advertisement? The question was recently asked of the readers of _Tit-Bits_, who were desired to select the best twelve advertisements which appeared in this magazine during six months--the competitor selecting the greatest number of advertisements which corresponded to the choice of the majority being rewarded with a substantial prize. The grounds on which the competitors based their opinions were probably, consciously or unconsciously, very much alike in most instances. It is interesting to consider what these grounds were. We reproduce on this and following pages reduced facsimiles of the twelve winning advertisements, which will serve to illustrate the several points which go to make up a good advertisement.

Moreover, the question is of interest to a greater number of persons than may appear at first sight. To every advertiser, of course--that is, to every man who has anything to sell, from the big firms who spend colossal sums in making known the merits of their productions down to the smallest village tradesman who puts his "ad" into the local paper--the question of how to make the most efficient use of the means at his disposal is of the greatest moment. But the general public, who have no occasion to use advertisements for the purpose of business, have also a direct interest in the question, for the simple reason that striking advertisements are entertaining to read, while commonplace advertisements are dull. From the same point of view the proprietors of periodical publications are concerned, for it is clearly to their advantage to interest the readers of their advertisements rather than to bore them.

An advertisement has three things to accomplish before it can be called good. First, it must attract attention; secondly, it must arouse interest; and thirdly, it must leave an impression on the brain--the message must have struck home. It may in some cases make you want a particular article, but in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred its seed lies dormant until the moment arrives for you to make your purchase; and then, if the advertisement has done its work as a good advertisement should do, your brain couples the article with a certain name, and that particular brand stands a very big chance of finding you a purchaser.

To catch the eye is the first essential of a good advertisement; the first sense to which it appeals is that of sight. The object of the skilful advertiser is to make the space he occupies--whether a page or a portion of a page--the most conspicuous in the publication. Turn for a moment to any page of advertisements you please, open and shut it quickly, and you will generally find that there is one advertisement which has immediately attracted your eye. Let two persons try at the same time, and on comparing notes it will generally be found that the same advertisement has been spotted by both. That one possesses the first essential of a good advertisement more conspicuously than its fellows.

Try again, and this time run through the pages rapidly, so that every leaf of the journal falls quickly from your thumb. There are certain to be one or two pages which will stand out conspicuously and leave their impression on your eye beyond all the rest, and you will turn back to see what it is all about.

The cunning advertiser has thus obtained his audience--it is now his aim to keep it, Here he has to introduce some connecting link to hold the attention until his message has been duly delivered. Where the original design has nothing particular about it to hold the attention, there is no better method than the insertion of some catch sentence, generally a question, which you are compelled to read, and, of course, to investigate further.

It may be said that the language of a good advertisement should resemble that of a telegram--straight to the point; the information is to be given in the most concise, clear, and complete form possible, confined to the main feature or features of the article advertised, so as to convince the prospective buyer of the excellence of the goods in a short, logical manner, and to do this so that fact and not fiction is apparent to the reader.

In drawing up an advertisement there are many ways of incurring failure, and one very sure method is the abuse of one's rivals. An advertisement which is meant to be taken too seriously is rarely a success. Let the reader's eye catch any of the hackneyed phrases, "Beware of Imitations," "Thousands of Testimonials," "Is the Best," and such like, and it will immediately pass on to something else. Such well-worn and unconvincing statements excite in him no interest, but rather a feeling of distrust.

It has been said that a magazine advertisement has three things to accomplish before it can be called good, but in judging the quality of the complete article two more things should be added, of less importance, and really subdivisions of the striking home of the message.

The points one might apportion for each feature might be as follows:--

Points. 1. Power to attract attention 40 2. Power to hold attention 20 3. Prominence of the article advertised 20 4. Brevity of necessary information 10 5. Composition 10

And now, how do we stand in comparison with other nations in this matter of effective advertising? It is universally admitted that advertisement is the soul of business. How, then, does the business man of this country compare with the business man of America. Some of our great advertising firms certainly display no very marked inferiority, but as a rule it is unfortunately true that to glance through the announcements in an American magazine is to be brought face to face with the enormously superior ability in design of the American over the Englishman. Here you have, as it were, your finger on the pulse of a country's commerce; you can feel the vigorous beats, or the languid and anæmic current. And the main reason is just this: that the American never loses sight of the fact that the first three essentials in attracting and keeping attention are novelty, novelty, novelty. Their skill in attracting attention in new ways is always a matter of admiration.

The question altogether is one of far more importance than it may seem on first consideration; it is hardly too much to say that the prosperity of a nation's trade depends upon its ability in attractive advertising.

Advertisement is an art of its own, and if you are going to advertise to any considerable extent and do it yourself, either your business must suffer to allow you time to do your advertising well, or your advertising must suffer so that you may properly attend to your business.

Of course, it is the advertising that suffers. If you do it yourself, sooner or later it becomes a worry, and when a reminder arrives that your copy is due very likely your instructions will be to repeat the last, or possibly, if you have a minute or two to spare, you will sit down and grind out a lot of nonsense which no one cares to read. If you wish to make any genuine effort properly to employ the most important factor in commerce, get someone who understands the art to do it for you; engage a good man, and do not expect to get the same for five pounds as you would for ten pounds.

_Curiosities._

Copyright, 1904, By George Newnes, Ltd.

[_We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section, and to pay for such as are accepted._]

"HUMAN NOTES."

"I beg to send you a photograph of some little boys in this parish who were taking part in a Band of Hope entertainment. The item on the programme was called 'Human Notes,' and the little songsters, each taking the note he represented, sang a peal of bells and extracts from nursery rhymes. I thought the idea might be useful for other places. The framework is easily made and costs little, and was most heartily received wherever tried."--Miss Statham, River Vicarage, Dover. Photo. by Mr. Ray Sherman.

HOW A SHOT BIRD REALLY FALLS.

"Painters of sporting subjects have often portrayed, from memory necessarily, a bird in the act of being shot, either immediately before or after the event. Here, at last, is an actual photograph of a wild duck at the moment of receiving its _coup de grâce_. It was in a lonely, low-lying bay on the West Coast of Ireland. Ducks were homing in fair numbers overhead on their way to the large lakes lying inland, when, telling my photographic friend to get well behind me and snap away as fast as he could, I advanced a few paces and also merrily snapped away. Upon developing the series at home that night we found that between us our snaps had resulted in our obtaining the photograph here reproduced. It shows clearly that a duck--well shot--falls like a plumb to the earth, head foremost, and may serve to correct some of the imaginary pictures of similar incidents."--Mr. Dudley M. Stone, 8, Chichele Road, Cricklewood, N.W.

A FLOATING CHAPEL.

"I took this photograph during the recent heavy floods in Wales. A mission-room had been washed away during the night, and it was an uncommon sight seeing a party of men 'towing' the edifice back to a place of safety. It struck me as being a unique incident, so I forward it on to you."--Mrs. E. L. F. Mansergh, 59, Madeley Road, Ealing, W.

HOUSE-MOVING EXTRAORDINARY.

"This extraordinary photograph was taken a short time ago in Pittsburg, Pa., of a house which is being moved up a hill, the former site being bought by a railway company. It is a fifteen or twenty-roomed house, built of brick, the hill is one hundred and fifty feet high, and the cost of moving the house between £6,000 and £7,000."--Mr. D. Munro, 21, Sydney Road, West Ealing, W.

A STONE INSIDE A TREE.

This is a photograph of a piece of oak with a stone in the centre, two inches square, found by Mr. A. Steven, sawyer, St. Mary's Isle Estate, Kirkcudbright. The stone was situated three feet from the ground and three inches in from the bark. Nothing could be discerned of it from the outside.--The photo. is by Mr. A. Kello Henderson, chemist, Kirkcudbright.

WILL READERS HELP?

"Can anyone give a clue to this 'Curiosity'? It is a dark-green silk ribbon eight inches by one and a half inches, the accompanying letters, figures, and key being beautifully embroidered in silver thread. The dots between the upper letters are small metal discs secured by a tiny metal bead sewn on with yellow silk. The wards of the key are sewn in black silk. The embroidery is backed with canvas and interlined with seemingly soft paper. I found it some years ago in a parcel of doll's finery given to my little daughter by a friend who could throw no light upon it. This badge has been the cause of much guesswork, speculation, and earnest inquiry and search."--Mrs. Anne W. Newton, Ballybeg, Ballinglen, Rathdrum, Ireland.

THE BITER BIT.

"The fox in the photograph was discovered quite dead in this curious position on the morning of November 17th, 1903, by Mr. H. Sparling, dairyman, Tadcaster. The wooden erection is a poultry house, and the hole from which the fox is hanging is, when the door is shut for the night, the only possible means of entering or leaving the same. Reynard had evidently entered by this aperture, for inside were discovered three fowls he had killed. (These are shown at the foot of the photograph.) In leaving by the same means he stuck fast, the hole narrowing to quite a point at the bottom, and the more he struggled the faster he had got, till at last he could struggle no longer, and death intervened, probably from exhaustion."--Mr. John H. Hull, chemist, Tadcaster.

A PRIMITIVE RAILWAY-STATION.

"I send you a photo. taken by Mrs. Hind, of Stoke-on-Trent. The photo. shows a railway-station on the Eskdale and Ravenglass line, which consists of a flat-bottomed boat turned up on its side, with a seat inside for passengers. I think it likely this is the most primitive and unique station in the United Kingdom. I may add that the guard is also station-master, ticket-collector, and porter at the different stations along the line, of which there are six or seven."--Mr. M. Hind, Felsham Rectory, Bury St. Edmunds.

THE PRANKS OF A CYCLONE.

"This strangely-placed house is one of the pranks played by a cyclone that almost destroyed the little town of St. Charles, Minn., U.S.A., on October 6th, 1903. The building was carried from the hill, which may be seen in the left-hand corner of the photo., for the distance of half a mile. At the time the storm picked it up it was occupied by Mrs. Edward Drew and two children, who escaped uninjured. The house itself was practically undamaged, though left in the topsy-turvy condition shown here."--Mr. Geo. E. Luxton, 3,220, Third Avenue, Minn.

THE DREAM-PAINTING AT CAVE DAVAAR.

"Cave Davaar, or the Picture Cave, as it is sometimes called, near Campbelltown, Argyllshire, is noted as being the repository of a mural painting of the Crucifixion of our Lord. When the painting was first discovered its author and the manner of its creation were a mystery. Shortly, the story of the picture and its romance is as follows: Upon a smooth mural surface of the rock which forms the inner wall of the interior of the cave, and in a position adjusted to the light which penetrates the cavern, visitors see a life-size representation of Christ on the Cross, measuring seven feet from head to foot, the cross itself being fifteen feet in height. It appears that Mr. McKinnon, a native of Campbelltown, and now of Nantwich, was, it is believed, originally a ship's carpenter by trade, with a strong artistic taste, which was afterwards afforded proper training through the patronage and assistance of the Argyll family. One night, about twelve years ago, he had a dream. He saw, in his dream, on the inner wall of the Cave Davaar a vivid picture of the Crucifixion, and so strikingly real and soul-stirring was the vision that it continually haunted him in his waking hours. He could not rest, and, as he himself said, 'I took my brushes and materials and went to the cave. I found the smooth surface I had seen in my dream, and set to work and painted. I stopped in the cave for twenty-four hours until I had completed my task, and when I had finished I had painted just the picture I had seen in my dream.'"--Mr. S. J. Oakley, H.M.S. _Northampton_, Special Service.

A TERRIBLE FALL.

"I send you a snap-shot, taken by me, of a man falling ninety feet! The high-diver (forming part of a street carnival show) climbed up his ninety-foot ladder set up in the main street of Washington, N.C., half an hour before he was to make his daring leap into four feet of water. As he tested the ladder to see if all was in readiness one of the guy-ropes broke, and, to the horror of the crowd below, man and ladder came crashing down to the pavement. With rare presence of mind the athlete turned when he felt the ladder start and slid down for his life, thus lessening the fall by almost half. Strange to say he was not killed, but his legs were badly broken."--Miss Mary Brickell Hoyt, Candler Post Office, Buncombe Co., North Carolina.

AN ENORMOUS ICICLE.

We have published a great many photographs, at different times, of strange and beautiful effects wrought by frost, but the annexed is so striking and peculiar that we have no hesitation in adding it to the number. In the words of the sender: "My photograph is of an enormous icicle, or one might call it a land iceberg on a small scale. The ice was formed during a recent frost by the overflow of a spring which runs from a pipe about eighteen feet from the ground into the branches of a tree. In the full sunlight it was a very pretty and novel sight."--Mr. Chas. W. Chilton, 17, West Gate, Sleaford, Lines.

WHEN IS A PLATE NOT A PLATE?

"The accompanying photographs are of a kitchen dinner-plate, which, as I discovered by chance, consists of two distinct pieces held together merely by their peculiar conformation. There is enough spring in the outer piece to enable the parts to be separated, which has been repeatedly done; but when they are reunited the whole will easily pass for a slightly cracked plate. From the colour of the fracture it is evident that the plate was in use in its present condition for at least some weeks."--Mr. S. B. Whanker, 62, Acre Lane, Brixton, S.W.

AN OYSTER IN THE KETTLE.

"Here is the photo. of an oyster-shell which has been in a tea-kettle for seven years. When I put it in it weighed about one and a half ounces, and was not more than three thirty-seconds of an inch thick in any part. Now it is three-quarters of an inch thick and weighs eleven ounces. It had lain out in the garden for a long time and lost all the crust, which accounted for it being so thin at first. No one has ever been able to say what it is, although many have seen it in the glass case in the shop."--Mr. R. G. Foster, Post Office Drug Stores, High Street, Burford, Oxon.

A GEOGRAPHICAL POST-CARD.

"This curious post-card was delivered to me in Richmond thirty-eight hours after being posted in Lausanne. No other clue was given as to the intended destination than that afforded by the physical peculiarities of the 'map' itself--the address on the side of the card being written during transmission. The full address as shown on the 'map' is as follows, and is that of yours faithfully: 'To Edward H. W. Wingfield King, Esq., 5, Spring Terrace, Richmond-on-Thames, Angleterre.'" This is, perhaps, the most curious post-card of the many which we have published, and which does the Post Office the most credit.

ELECTRIC LAMPS AND PLANT LIFE.

"At the present time, when the effect upon the rainfall of the kingdom of multiplying electrical agencies is being discussed, it is interesting to note the results which follow upon the use of electric lamps in the public thoroughfares of our towns. There is to be seen at Southend-on-Sea a remarkable instance of the influence which the electric street lamps have upon the duration of leaves. In Cliff Town Parade those trees contiguous to the lamps were still well covered on December the 1st ult. on the side nearest the light, when the next tree, only a few yards distant, was entirely denuded of leaves. Our photograph gives the first tree in the parade with a good show of leaves on its front half, but the back of the same tree, which has been shaded from the lamp, has entirely shed its leaves. The next few trees are also quite bare of leaves, and looking down the row one sees that only those trees opposite the lamps bear any sign of verdure."--Mr. W. J. Cooper, 162, Stanstead Road, Forest Mill, S.E.

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+----------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber notes: | | | | Fixed various punctuation. | | P.149. 'phesaant' changed to 'pheasant'. | | | | Note: Underscore around words indicate italics: | | _See page 135._ | +----------------------------------------------------------+