back to get it, and Vandroosten went with him into the cabin. Once there, he began pressing him to take another glass, pouring it out, and holding his arm in a firm grip, as he almost forced it down the boy's mouth. For the sake of peace and civility, Lewis complied, much against his will. When he had emptied the glass, he turned to pick up his bundle, and would have taken leave of his troublesome entertainer. But in that moment, Vandroosten had quietly slipped out of the cabin, locking the door after him, and Lewis was astonished and dismayed to find himself a prisoner. He fell forthwith to thumping at the door, and bawling at the pitch of his voice. No one came, and his shouts might well be drowned in the hurly-burly that now resounded on the deck. Then he sat down on a locker, and tried to think what this might mean, and what he could do. But he could not think calmly; the blood was rushing up into his fevered brain, and everything in the cabin seemed to spin round before his dazed eyes. The liquor he had drank was fast overpowering his senses. He let his throbbing head sink, then soon insensibly fell into a heavy sleep, and knew no more of what was going on around him. For several hours he must have lain thus unconscious. In truth, he was tired out, having been travelling, mostly on foot, for two days, with but little rest through the night, when his thoughts had been too busy to let him sleep soundly on the comfortless couch of the bare ground. A scanty and early meal was all he had eaten that day, which may account for the rapid effect of the liquor upon his head. When he awoke he could not at first understand how he came to be in such a situation, nor what might be this strange heaving and creaking in the timbers about him. Getting up and looking round, he gradually collected himself so far as to recall some memory of what had passed. Or had he been dreaming? No-there were the bottle and the glasses, and the ashes of that grim captain's pipe. The door of the close-smelling cabin was open now, and through an opening above he caught a glimpse of grey sky, inviting him towards the fresh air. Still half dazed, he made his way to the companionladder and staggered upon deck. He might well start and stare, this home-bred youth, who, till two days ago, had never travelled beyond the bounds of his native valley. The brig was no longer at her moorings by the busy quay, but pitching along under sail in the open channel of the Severn, a colourless flood washing on dreary banks of mud, with the hills of Wales on the right half veiled in misty rain. For a moment Lewis stood dumbfounded. Then he remembered all, and springing across the wet deck to where he saw Vandroosten and the captain talking together under the shelter of a boat on the davits, he accosted them excitedly. Where are you taking me? Let me go! How shall I get to the shore?" "Softly, softly!" replied Vandroosten. "We e are off for Virginia with a fair wind and tide, and can put no man on shore, were it the king himself." "I have been kidnapped!" exclaimed Lewis despairingly; for even in his quiet home he had heard the tales of such doings, now remembered too late. "You are both villains!" he cried in the scowling face of the skipper. "Oh, for shame, young man! Hast never learned thy catechism? I was taught to speak more civilly to my elders and betters." So spoke the oily-tongued owner, a leer in his eyes; but the captain, without a word, raised his great fist and knocked Lewis flat on the deck. Then, half kicking and half dragging him to the forehatchway, the brutal fellow bundled him down into the hold, in which were penned up a flock of voyagers whose lot, for the most part, though better deserved, was as pitiable as his own. It was no will of theirs, for the most part, that sent them to Virginia, the Botany Bay of the period. (To be continued.) TO OUR READERS. week by week, or month by month, have been HOSE who have welcomed YOUNG ENGLAND, either Li informed of the reasons that have led us to adopt the changes which this present number represents, and we need not therefore repeat the words with which our last volume was closed. Those who now for the first time become our readers may be briefly informed of our object and our aim. In a word we desire to become a companion of boys and girls, both on Sunday and during the week. We shall not cater for the very young; our Child's Own and other Magazines do that. Our mission is not so much to young men and young women; Excelsior provides for such. But intelligent boys and girls, who are fond of reading, and who feel that life is not to be all play, and that reading should not be entirely in the direction of impossible fictions, will find in the pages of YOUNG ENGLAND that which will help to make them better and more useful, as well as that which will minister to their amusement and recreation. We shall provide for leisure hours at home, as well as for holiday times out-of-doors; but we remember that many to whom these pages will come are Sunday-scholars, who will none the less enjoy the teaching in their classes because they may have read in YOUNG ENGLAND some stories which may illustrate the truths of the lessons taught them. We hope our connection with boys and girls, extending now from 1866, when Kind Words was first published, will be some guarantee that our sympathies and our experience can be trusted. It has been our pleasure to provide some of the very best stories that were ever offered to young people; and many of the best of those writers whose names have become so well known to the readers of Kind Words will contribute to these pages. Our Prize Competition will be continued, and will find pleasant occupation for Sunday and week-day leisure, and Our Young Author's Page will enable literary aspirants to win their first spurs, and perhaps encourage them to emulate so many of our former boys and girls, who are now frequent contributors to literature in various fields. Our aim is to be a bright companion for the home, the playground, and the Sunday-school; and we ask the cordial support of our readers in making YOUNG ENGLAND known among their friends and companions. We shall be deeply grateful if our readers will send their names and addresses to the Editor, 56, Old Bailey, for packets of hand-bills for distribution. TH My "Raree Show." OY "RAREE SHOW." QY BY THE REV. FREDERIC WAGSTAFF. 27 HE study window near to which I sit to pen this | hanging head downwards, swinging himself quietly article is partly overshadowed by the branches backwards and forwards, as if he quite enjoyed the of a large tree, yet not so much as to prevent a good fun, as I dare say he does. I have watched one view, in one direction, of the blue sky and the clouds feathered Blondin in this position for several minutes. that go flying past. My young friends will remember I wonder whether he has got tired of looking at the rhymethings the right side up, and is trying to find out how matters would look if everything were topsy-turvy. Or, perhaps, he is a bird philosopher trying experi "All work and no play Makes Jack a dull boy;" and they must not imagine that a parson sits in his study, read, read, reading, or write, write, writing all day long, without sometimes putting down book or pen, and looking out at the beautiful things in God's big world. This morning, after working hard for two long hours, I laid aside my pen, leaned back in my chair, and amused myself for a while by looking at my "raree-show." And now, when I take up my pen again, it is not to finish the work I have been about, but just to tell you a little of what I can see. Well, I can't see any houses from my study window, nor any men and women, nor any living thing, except the happy birds who fly past, or lodge on the branches of the tree I spoke of. These are some of the performers in my show. I am afraid I'm a terrible dunce at botany, but I think the tree is a sycamore; I won't be quite sure and certain, lest any one wiser than I should come along and laugh at my ignorance. Nor do I know the names of all the birds that come to play in the tree. I know Mr. Sparrow, and Mr. Robin, and Mr. Tomtit, and Mr. Blackbird; but there are others to whom I have not yet been introduced by name. When they give me a call and leave their cards I shall be wiser. Meanwhile, I must be content to have my boy readers laugh at me for an "old duffer," who can't tell what every bird is called; and I fear the School Board won't have me in their school to teach me better. What a pity! The gambols that the birds play on the branches outside my study window are laughable beyond measure. It does one good to look at them; it's better than physic. One little fellow, there, sits on a big branch that is strong enough almost to hold an elephant without breaking, but the bird hops, and hops, and hops along towards the end of it as carefully as if he was afraid it would break down under his weight-I dare say he weighs three ounces!--and when at last he gets to the smallest end, and it doesn't break at all, he looks round as proud as a boy that had gone across a pond of thin ice without getting in. Then two birds want to sit on the same twig, and they jostle each other, and twitter angry little notes, and nearly knock each other off the tree altogether, just like foolish boys I have seen sometimes quarrelling about nothing at all, or wanting to have what some one else has got. Silly little birds; yes, and silly something else that begins with a "b." Eh? Presently, I am favoured with the performances of another bird, who is quite an acrobat in his way. First he balances himself on a tiny twig, then raises one leg, then the other, then stretches out a leg and a wing together, following up the whole by suddenly ments. The sparrows seem to be the only birds at all conscious that I am looking at them through the window. The others dance, flutter, swing, catch flies, dress their feathers, quarrel, and do all sorts of curious things, hour after hour, among the leaves, and never appear to be aware that I am sitting by my table writing, or reading, or looking up at them. If they do know it, they are too well behaved to show it. Mr. Sparrow, however, will boldly place himself on the nearest twig, and sit staring at me for several minutes together, and as I never saw him blush. when I have looked up and caught him at it, I expect he has never been taught any better, and does not know that it is very rude to stare. Anyhow, as I have said, he looks in at me, wondering, I dare say, what I can be doing, and why I am so silly as to sit leaning over my desk, hour after hour, when it must be so much jollier outdoors, hopping from tree to tree. Ah! well, Mr. Sparrow, I rather guess we are all of us a bit of a puzzle to one another. Other entertaining performers in my "raree-show" are the clouds. Solomon says, " He that regardeth the clouds shall not reap;" but, of course, he did not mean that in the sense of looking at them, observing them, and learning lessons from them. On the contrary, there is much to learn from the clouds, and any one who regards them thoughtfully may reap a rich harvest of instruction. The Bible tells us many things about the clouds, from God's promise never to destroy the earth any more with a flood, in token of which He set His "bow in the cloud," as mentioned in Genesis ix. 13, down to the "white cloud" on which the beloved apostle saw, in a vision, one sitting "like unto the Son of Man," as related in Rev. xiv. 14. I confess it is not always for instruction, but very often for amusement, that I watch the clouds. They assume such fantastic shapes, that no pantomime could ever be so entertaining, and there is such a variety in them that no kaleidoscope was ever half so wonderful. There, for instance, is a cloud driving along before the wind, and a very little stretch of the imagination enables one to see how much it resembles an old woman with a great stick in her hand. has a great rough head, her hair is all loose, flying behind her as if caught by the wind, and, see! she has her mouth open as if trying to say something. Perhaps she is scolding, and screaming at some one, but is too far off for us to hear what she says, She When the old lady has gone, another cloud comes on the scene that looks for all the world like a pig trying hard to go one way while someone pulls it another way by its tail. There it goes, as the wind carries it along, just the shape of a pig. How he seems to struggle, but it is of no use; back, back, back, he goes, and now is gone altogether. Then comes a cloud spread out like a beautiful tree; the darker parts seem to resemble the trunk and branches, and the lighter parts the leaves. Even as I look at it the shape has changed, and now, instead of a tree, I see a huge wave dashing against the rocks, with its spray thrown high in the air, just as I have seen it at Scarborough or Ilfracombe. Ha ha ha! There is an ill-tempered, angry, old man. The cloud that comes next is like a big head, with short hair standing up on end, and a big nose, projecting chin, over-hanging eye-brows, scowling eye, and wrinkled forehead. Surely, that old man must be husband to the ancient lady we saw just now with the stick, or else the owner of the refractory pig. But, stay! surely the face is changing. Yes, as the cloud moves along, and the lights and shadows are differently disposed, its whole character seems to have changed. We still trace the resemblance to a human head, but with a little stretch of fancy it may be regarded as that of a venerable and pleasant old gentleman. The hair is scanty, but it hangs down behind in long silvery locks. The nose has no more the appearance of a gin-drinker's proboscis, and the eye looks bright and kindly. It is just such a face as my young readers would welcome. But time would fail to tell of all the shapes that appear in the clouds to form my "raree-show." As I look up now I can see three heads, all linked together by an irregular mass of clouds. First, there is the head of a camel, next the head of a cow, then the head of a bear. Almost before I pen the sentence that contains the list, bear, cow, and camel have all disappeared with the shifting cloud, and the end of it, just visible behind the branches of a tree, is not unlike a cock stretching out his neck to crow lustily. Sometimes, I see sad pictures, such as those that remind me of sinful and suffering men, or of a dead child; but mostly I find the clouds suggest lively and cheerful thoughts. The darkest of them all has a silver lining; and, when they are so small and thin as to slowly vanish from my sight, I remember the mercy of God that endures for ever. Will my young friends look up at the bright and beautiful clouds, and as they shape out for themselves quaint and amusing forms, will they try to gather profit, as well as pleasure, from the sight? I have still a little room on the sheet of paper, and a little more ink in my pen, so I will wind up by quoting a few lines from one of the prettiest poems ever written, namely, Shelley's "Cloud:" "I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that awaken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, THE HIPPOCAMPUS. ANY of our readers who have visited the Brighton or Crystal Palace Aquarium must have noticed the curious animals that are represented in the accompanying illustration, and have been amused at their quaint appearance and unfishlike mode of progression. The genus hippocampus (so called from their peculiar resemblance to a horse's head) contains some four or five species, the best known of which is the one we have figured-the hippocampus brevirostris, or sea-horse pipe-fish. This animal is from eight to ten inches in length, and has the body covered throughout with shields, or small plates, giving it an angular appearance, which is, however, characteristic of the whole order to which it belongs. When swimming about, the hippocampus maintains an upright position, but is at any moment ready to lay hold of a branch of seaweed, or such like substance, with its prehensile tail. When thus fixed, it sways slowly from side to side, and pounces upon its passing prey with a rapidity that would hardly be expected from an animal whose motions are ordinarily so leisurely. The hippocampus is abundant in most parts of the Mediterranean; and those who have visited the Bay of Naples will recall the importunity with which the Neapolitan beggars offer the dried specimens for sale, in which state the resemblance to a horse's head, from which the fish takes its name, is even more apparent than during life. Of the same order, and closely allied to the hippocampus, is the pipe-fish, which is also figured in our illustration. This is a tolerably common species on the coasts of Great Britain, and sometimes abounds in seaweed-covered pools below low water. It is of a dull brownish colour, banded with somewhat darker stripes, and is by no means a striking species compared with its Indian relation, the foliated pipefish. This curious animal is provided with large leaf-shaped appendages, which are affixed to the back, tail, and abdomen, and exactly resemble, both in shape and colour, the seaweed in which it lives. So great, indeed, is the resemblance, that it is hard to convince oneself, even with a knowledge of the fact, that some pieces of fucus have not become attached to the spines. This species is considerably brighter in colour than the European kind, which we have illustrated. But it is not only for its curious shape that the It shares with the hippocampus is remarkable. pipe-fish a peculiarity which has puzzled so good a naturalist as Mr. Darwin. The male fish is provided with a sort of marsupial pouch, in which the eggs are received, and carried about until hatched, the young even taking refuge in it after birth. It is also believed that the walls of this abdominal pouch are in some way capable of affording nourishment. A somewhat similar instance to this, in bird-life, is that of the wandering penguin, which carries its one egg in a fold of the skin until it hatches. [OUR PRIZE TALE.] GIDEON HOOLE'S SECRET. A Story of Trial and Truth. CHAPTER I.-Leaving Home. BY WILLIAM J. LACEY. OLIDAYS, like half-pennies, have two sides to them; especially that greatest of them all -the festival of Christmastide. As well as being a time of reunion, this is also a time of parting. As well as dealing in mirth and gladness, holly and mistletoe, presents and prizes, it brings tears and good-byes in its wake, wider views of life, new hopes and strange aims. Many a family has a red cross-in the memories of its members if not in the register-set against some special yule-tide as being the date of the first breach in its ranks. It promised to be so with the Grentons. It was a cold, cheerless evening in the first days of January. A thick, yellow fog had come down on the streets of Hollingdale, and sent everybody, who was not compelled to brave it by reason of poverty or business, within doors. Martin Grenton had been skating nearly all the afternoon, on the frozen park-lake, in company with his little sister and some friends; but he, too, had beaten a retreat, and sat now with his parents and Milly around the parlour fire. Tea was just over, and the quiet occupations of the evening had commenced. It was a whole family circle for almost the last time for years; and as these are people with whom our story will have much to do, it may be well to sketch them individually, and with some detail. Robert Grenton, the head of the household, who is sitting in the wide arm-chair, running his finger slowly over the advertisement sheet of a borrowed Times, has in his day been a busy manufacturer, but is now a banker's clerk only. He is a tall, wiry man, over whose head the waves of many troubles have passed. He is grey, and when he rises you may see that he stoops a little; but there is still a ring in his voice, and now and then a gleam in his eye, which forbids the idea that this is altogether Time's work. And, in truth, he is not fifty; it is disappointment which has aged him. Mrs. Grenton is a quiet, rather small, simple woman, who looks much younger than her husband, but is not so. An easy temperament and natural good spirits have made for her a shield, and warded off the blows of Fortune. She constitutes an agreeable foil to her companion's somewhat gloomy severity. It is probable that twenty years ago Mrs. Grenton was pretty as her daughter Milly promises to be even now-but the roses have faded, and regularity of features alone is left. And now for my hero. Martin is said by those who ought to know-that is, his own relatives-very much to resemble his father; but, if so, it is surely the Robert Grenton of the past they mean. Martin is tall and thin, and has blue eyes; but there the analogy ceases. His easy grace of word and demeanour, his cheery laugh, his abundance of fun and frolic, may be the natural inheritance of boyhood; but the wavy auburn hair, the clear complexion, the pleasant ripples of his smile, are plainly those of Millicent Grenton the elder. He is fifteen years of age, and with no particular bent towards study, has yet contrived to hold a fair place in class lists, and even to bring home the reputation of some cleverness. Milly is five years her brother's junior, and is a merry little maiden, a very miniature of her mother. She idolizes Martin, and just now has her own secret troubles about him. She is, however, of a very retiring disposition, and will do her best to avoid strange scrutiny. But to Martin's mind the Times is waving to and fro ominously, and by and by his father steps across and lays it before him, a long line of pencil ticks meandering down one or more of its columns. "There, my lad," said Robert Grenton; "I have marked at least a score of places I should recommend you to write to at once-to-night-so as to catch the up mail. Plenty of irons in the fire, and no time lost, is my motto." "Thank you, father; I will," answered Martin, rising in his turn to reach down his desk, the prize he had brought away in his last quarter from Sunslope School. "It seems a pity we can't get the boy a situation somewhere in the town, or close, at first," said Mrs. Grenton slowly, looking up from her needlework. "And let Martin stay at home," eagerly corroborated Milly. 66 Hollingdale is a small town; openings of any worth are scarce everywhere nowadays-except to those who can afford to pay premiums and sadly few in the provinces, you know," replied her husband. "I've enquired all around; I tried hard to get Martin in the bank, but it was of no use. And, after all, he wants to go away; don't you, Martin? "There will be more chance of getting on in London or in a big town," the boy replied. Like most other lads in similar circumstances, now the pinch was really at hand, Martin had begun to question whether after all the leaving home for a new life was quite so pleasant as he had imagined; hence the evasiveness of his reply. "You are "To be sure,' ," said the father. ambitious, and ambition in young people-so that they don't carry it too far-is a good thing." There was a strange break in that last sentence, but no one seemed to notice it; Mrs. Grenton made no further objection, and in silence the proposed work of letter-writing was set about and continued for at least half an hour. "Why, father, these are not all in London," |