666 'How you speck Brer Rabbit gittin' on, Brer right down ter de groun'. Den Mr. Buzzard Buzzard?' sez Brer Fox, sezee. squall out, sezee : "Oh, he in dar,' sez Brer Buzzard, sezee. 'He mighty still, dough. I speck he takin' a nap,' sezee. "Den I'm des in time fer ter wake 'im up,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. En wid dat he fling off his coat, en spit in his han's, en grab de axe. Den he draw back en come down on de tree-pow! En eve'y time he come down wid de axe-pow!-Mr. Buzzard, he step high, he did, en hollar out: "Oh, he in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho.' "En eve'y time a chip ud fly off, Mr. Buzzard, he'd jump, en dodge, en hole his head sideways, he would, en holler: "He in dar, Brer Fox. I done heerd 'im. He in dar, sho.' "En Brer Fox, he lammed away at dat holler tree, he did, like a man maulin' rails, twel bimeby atter he done got de tree mos' cut thoo, he stop fer ter ketch his bref, en he seed Mr. Buzzard laffin' behime his back, he did, en right den en dar, widout gwine enny fudder, Brer Fox he smelt a rat. But Mr. Buzzard, he keep on holler'n : "He in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho. I done seed 'im.' bush,' sez Brer Fox, sezee, 'en dat ain't de way he come,' sezee. "Den Mr. Buzzard up'n tell Brer Fox how 'twuz, en he low'd, Mr. Buzzard did, dat Brer Rabbit wuz de low-downest w'atsizname wa't he ever run up wid. Den Brer Fox say, sezee : "Dat's needer here ner dar, Brer Buzzard,' sezee. I lef' you yer fer ter watch dish yer hole en I lef' Brer Rabbit in dar. I comes back en I fines you at de hole, en Brer Rabbit ain't in dar,' sezee. I'm gwinter make you pay fer't. I done bin tampered wid twel plum' down ter de sap sucker'll set on a log en sassy me. I'm gwinter "Den Brer Fox, he make like he peepin' up de fling you in a bresh-heap en burn you up,' sezee. holler, en he say, sezee: "Run yer, Brer Buzzard, en look ef dis ain't Brer Rabbit's foot hanging down yer.' "En Mr. Buzzard, he come steppin' up, he did, same ez ef he were treddin' on kurkle-burrs, en he stick his head in de hole; en no sooner did he done dat dan Brer Fox grab 'im. Mr. Buzzard flap his wings, en scramble roun' right smartually, he did, but 'twant no use. Brer Fox had de 'vantage er de grip, he did, en he hilt 'im "Ef you fling me on der fier, Brer Fox, I'll fly 'way,' sez Mr. Buzzard, sezee. "Well, den, I'll settle yo' hash right now,' sez Brer Fox, sezee, en wid dat he grab Mr. Buzzard by de tail, he did, en make fer ter dash 'im 'gin do groun', but des 'bout dat time de tail fedders come out, en Mr. Buzzard sail off like wunner dese yer berloons, en ez he riz, he holler back : "You gimme good start, Brer Fox,' sezee, en Brer Fox sot dar en watch 'im fly outer sight." THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. HIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their stream- Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed. Year after year beheld the silent toil Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, Leave thy low-vaulted past ! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! ROBERT FALCONER'S FIDDLE.* OWARDS the end of the week, The housing of Shargar in the garret had led Robert to make a close acquaintance with the place. He was familiar with all the outs and ins of the little room which he considered his own, for that was a civilised-being plastered, ceiled, and comparatively well-lighted-little room, but not with the other, which was three times its size, very badly lighted, and showing the naked couples from rooftree to floor. Besides, it contained no end of dark corners, with which his childish imagination had associated undefined horrors, assuming now one shape, now another. Also there were several closets in it, constructed in the angles of the place, and several chests-two of which he had ventured to peep into. But although he had found them filled, not with bones, as he had expected, but one with papers, and one with garments, he had yet dared to carry his researches no further. One evening, however, when Betty was out, and he had got hold of her candle, and gone up to keep Shargar company for a few minutes, a sudden impulse seized him to have a peep into all the closets. One of them he knew a little about, as containing, amongst other things, his father's coat with the gilt buttons, and his great-grandfather's kilt, as well as other garments useful to Shargar: now he would see what was in the rest. He did not find anything very interesting, however, till he arrived at the last. Out of it he drew a long queer-shaped box intc the light of Betty's dip. "Luik here, Shargar!" he said, under his breath, for they never dared to speak aloud in these precincts-"luik here! What can there be in this box? Is 't a bairnie's coffin, duv ye think? Luik at it." In this case Shargar, having roamed the country a good deal more than Robert, and having been present at some merrymakings with his mother, of which there were comparatively few in that countryside, was better informed than his friend. "Eh! Bob, duvna ye ken what that is? I thocht ye kent a' thing. That's a fiddle." By permission of the Proprietors of Dr. George MacDonald's works. "That's buff an' styte [stuff and nonsense], Shargar. Do ye think I dinna ken a fiddle whan I see ane, wi' its guts ootside o' 'ts wame, an' the thoomacks to screw them up wi' an' gar't skirl?" "Buff an' styte yersel'!" cried Shargar, in indignation, from the bed. "Gie's a haud o' 't." Robert handed him the case. Shargar undid the hooks in a moment, and revealed the creature lying in its shell like a boiled bivalve. can play the fiddle fine. An' I'll play 't too, or the de'il s' be in't." "Eh, man, that'll be gran'!" cried Shargar, incapable of jealousy. "We can gang to a' the markets thegither and gaither baubees." To this anticipation Robert returned no reply, for, hearing Betty come in, he judged it time to restore the violin to its case, and Betty's candle to the kitchen, lest she should invade the upper regions "I tellt ye sae!" he exclaimed, triumphantly. "Maybe ye'll lippen to me [trust me] neist time." "An' I tellt you," retorted Robert, with an equivocation altogether unworthy of his growing honesty. "I was cocksure that cudna be a fiddle. There's the fiddle i' the hert o''t! Losh! I min' noo. It maun be my grandfather's fiddle 'at I hae heard tell o'." "No to ken a fiddle-case!" reflected Shargar, with as much of contempt as it was possible for him to show. "I tell ye what, Shargar," returned Robert, indignantly; "ye may ken the box o' a fiddle better nor I do, but de'il hae me gin I dinna ken the fiddle itsel' raither better nor ye do in a fortnicht frae this time. I s' tak it to Dooble Sanny; he | in search of it. But that very night he managed to have an interview with Dooble Sanny, the shoemaker, and it was arranged between them that Robert should bring his violin on the evening at which my story has now arrived. Whatever motive he had for seeking to commence the study of music, it holds even in more important matters that, if the thing pursued be good, there is a hope of the pursuit purifying the motive. And Robert no sooner heard the fiddle utter a few mournful sounds in the hands of the soutar, who was no contemptible performer, than he longed to establish such a relation between himself and the strange instrument, that, dumb and deaf as it had been to him hitherto, it would respond to his touch also, and tell him the secrets of its queerly-twisted skull, full of sweet sounds instead of brains. From that moment he would be a musician for music's own sake, and forgot utterly what had appeared to him, though I doubt if it was, the sole motive of his desire to learn-namely, the necessity of retaining his superiority over Shargar. "But wad ye hae ony objection to lat it lie aside ye, and lat me come whan I can ?" "Objection, laddie? I wad as sune objeck to lattin my ain wife lie aside me." "Ay," said Robert, seized with some anxiety about the violin as he remembered the fate of the wife, "but ye ken Elspet comes aff a' the waur sometimes." Softened by the proximity of the wonderful violin, and stung afresh by the boy's words as his conscience had often stung him before, for he loved his wife dearly save when the demon of drink possessed him, the tears rose in Elshender's eyes. He held out the violin to Robert, saying, with unsteady voice: "Hae, tak her awa'. I dinna deserve to hae sic a thing i' my hoose. But hear me, Robert, and lat hearin' be believin'. I never was sae drunk but I cud tune my fiddle. Mair by token, ance they fand me lyin' o' my back i' the Corrie, an' the watter, they say, was ower a' but the mou' o' me; but I was haudin' my fiddle up abune my heid, and de'il a spark o' watter was upo' her.” What added considerably to the excitement of his feelings on the occasion, was the expression of reverence, almost of awe, with which the shoemaker took the instrument from its case, and the tenderness with which he handled it. The fact was that he had not had a violin in his hands for nearly a year, having been compelled to pawn his own in order to alleviate the sickness brought on his wife by his own ill-treatment of her, once that he came home drunk from a wedding. It was strange to think that such dirty hands should be able to bring such sounds out of the instrument the moment he got it safely cuddled under his cheek. So dirty were they, that it was said Dooble Sanny never required to carry any rosin with him for fiddler's need, his own fingers having always enough upon them for one bow at least. Yet the points of those fingers never lost the delicacy of their touch. Some people thought this was in virtue of their being washed only once a week-awit. custom Alexander justified on the ground that, in a trade like his, it was of no use to wash oftener, for he would be just as dirty again before night. The moment he began to play, the face of the soutar grew ecstatic. He stopped at the very first note, notwithstanding, let fall his arms, the one with the bow, the other with the violin, at his sides, and said, with deep-drawn respiration and lengthened utterance: "Eh!" Then after a pause, during which he stood motionless : The crater maun be a Cry Moany! Hear till her!" he added, drawing another long note. Then, after another pause: 66 'She's a Straddle Vawrious at least! Hear till her! I never had sic a combination o' timmer and catgut atween my cleuks [claws] afore." As to its being a Stradivarius, or even a Cremona at all, the testimony of Dooble Sanny was not worth much on the point. But the shoemaker's admiration roused in the boy's mind a reverence for the individual instrument, which he never lost. From that day the two were friends. Suddenly the soutar started off at full speed in a strathspey, which was soon lost in the wail of a Highland psalm-tune, giving place in its turn to "Sic a wife as Willie had!" And on he went without pause, till Robert dared not stop any longer. The fiddle had bewitched the fiddler. "Come as often 's ye like, Robert, gin ye fess this leddy wi' ye," said the soutar. And he stroked the back of the violin tenderly with his open palm. "It's a pity yer wife wasna yer fiddle, than, Sanny," said Robert, with more presumption than "'Deed ye're i' the richt, there, Robert. Hae, tak yer fiddle." "'Deed no," returned Robert. "I maun just lippen [trust] to ye, Sanders. I canna bide langer the nicht; but maybe ye'll tell me hoo to haud her the neist time 'at I come-will ye?" "That I wull, Robert, come whan ye like. An' gin ye come o' ane 'at cud play this fiddle as this fiddle deserves to be playt, ye'll do me credit." "Ye min' what that sumph Lumley said to me the ither nicht, Sanders, aboot my grandfather?" "Ay, weel eneuch. A dish o' drucken havers !" "It was true eneuch aboot my great-grandfather, though." "No! Was't railly?" "Ay. He was the best piper in 's regiment at Culloden. Gin they had a' fouchten as he pipit, there wad hae been anither tale to tell. And he was toon-piper forby, jist like you, Sanders, efter they took frae him a' 'at he had." "Na! heard ye ever the like o' that! Weel, wha wad hae thocht it? Faith! we maun hae you fiddle as weel as yer lucky - daiddy pipit.-But here's the King o' Bashan comin' efter his butes, an' them no half dune yet!" exclaimed Dooble Sanny, settling in haste to his awl and his lingel (Fr. ligneul). "He'll be roarin' mair like a bull o' the country than the king o''t. As Robert departed, Peter Ogg came in, and as he passed the window, he heard the shoemaker averring: "I haena risen frae my stule sin' ane o'clock; but there's a sicht to be dune to them, Mr. Ogg." One evening, resolved to make a confidant of Mr. Lammie, and indeed to cast himself upon the kindness of the household generally, Robert went up to his room to release his violin from its prison of brown paper. What was his dismay to find -not his bonny leddy, but her poor cousin, the soutar's auld wife! It was too bad. Dooble Sanny indeed! He first stared, then went into a rage, and then came out of it to go into a resolution. He replaced the unwelcome fiddle in the parcel, and came down stairs gloomy and still wrathful, but silent. The evening passed over, and the inhabitants of the farmhouse went early to bed. Robert tossed about fuming on his. He had not undressed. About eleven o'clock, after all had been still for more than an hour, he took his shoes in one hand and the brown parcel in the other, and descending the stairs like a thief, undid the quiet wooden bar that secured the door, and let himself out. All was darkness, for the moon was not yet up, and he felt a strange sensation of ghostliness in himself -awake and out of doors, when he ought to be asleep and unconscious in bed. He had never been out so late before, and felt as if walking in the region of the dead, existing when and where he had no business to exist. For it was the time Nature kept for her own quiet, and having once put her children to bed-hidden them away with the world wiped out of them-enclosed them in her ebony box, as George Herbert says-she did not expect to have her hours of undress and meditation intruded upon by a venturesome school-boy. Yet she let him pass. He put on his shoes and hurried to the road. He heard a horse stamp in the stable, and saw a cat dart across the corn-yard as he went through. Those were all the signs of life about the place. It was a cloudy night and still. Nothing was to be heard but his own footsteps. The cattle in the fields were all asleep. The larch and sprucetrees on the top of the hill by the foot of which his road wound were still as clouds. He could just see the sky through their stems. It was washed with the faintest of light, for the moon, far below, was yet climbing towards the horizon. A star or two sparkled where the clouds broke, but so little light was there, that, until he had passed the moorland on the hill, he could not get the horror of mossholes, and deep springs covered with treacherous green, out of his head. But he never thought of turning. When the fears of the way at length fell back and allowed his own thoughts to rise, the sense of a presence, or of something that might grow to a presence, was the first to awake in him. The stillness seemed to be thinking all around his head. But the way grew so dark, where it lay through a corner of the pine-wood, that he had to feel the edge of the road with his foot to make sure that he was keeping upon it, and the sense of the silence vanished. Then he passed a farm, and the motions of horses came through the dark, and a doubtful crow from a young inexperienced cock, who did not yet know the moon from the sun. Then a sleepy low in his ear startled him, and made him quicken his pace involuntarily. By the time he reached Rothieden all the lights were out, and this was just what he wanted. The economy of Dooble Sanny's abode was this: the outer door was always left on the latch at night, because several families lived in the house; the soutar's workshop opened from the passage, close to the outer door, therefore its door was locked; but the key hung on a nail just inside the soutar's bedroom. All this Robert knew. Arrived at the house, he lifted the latch, closed the door behind him, took off his shoes once more, like a housebreaker, as indeed he was, although a righteous one, and felt his way to and up the stair to the bed-room. There was a sound of snoring within. The door was a little ajar. He reached the key and descended, his heart beating more and more wildly as he approached the realisation of his hopes. Gently as he could he turned it in the lock. In a moment more he had his hands on the spot where the shoemaker always laid his violin. But his heart sank within him: there was no violin there. A blank of dismay held him both motionless and thoughtless; nor had he recovered his senses before he heard footsteps, which he well knew, approaching in the street. He slunk at once into a corner. Elshender entered, feeling his way carefully, and muttering at his wife. He was tipsy, most likely, but that had never yet interfered with the safety of his fiddle: Robert heard its faint echo as he laid it gently down. Nor was he too tipsy to lock the door behind him, leaving Robert incarcerated amongst the old boots and leather and rosin. For one moment only did the boy's heart fail him. The next he was in action, for a happy thought had already struck him. Hastily, that he might forestall sleep in the brain of the soutar, he undid his parcel, and after carefully enveloping his own violin in the paper, took the old wife of the soutar, and proceeded to perform upon her a trick which in a merry moment his master had taught him, and which, not without some feeling of irreverence, he had occasionally practised upon his own bonny lady. The shoemaker's room was overhead; its thin floor of planks was the ceiling of the workshop. Ere Dooble Sanny was well laid by the side of his sleeping wife, he heard a frightful sound from below, as of some one tearing his beloved violin to pieces. No sound of rending coffin-planks or rising dead would have been so horrible in the ears of the soutar. He sprang from his bed with |