Citation
The story of a short life

Material Information

Title:
The story of a short life
Creator:
Ewing, Juliana Horatia Gatty, 1841-1885
Browne, Gordon, 1858-1932
Evans, Edmund, 1826-1905
Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge (Great Britain)
E. & J.B. Young & Co. ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
London
New York
Publisher:
Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge ;
E. & J. B. Young & Co.
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
82 p. : ill. (wood-engravings) ; 22 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Juvenile fiction. -- Soldiers
Juvenile fiction. -- Conduct of life -- Children
Juvenile fiction. -- Conduct of life
Juvenile fiction. -- Parent and child
Juvenile fiction. -- Sisters
Juvenile fiction. -- Children, Blind
Juvenile fiction. -- Death -- Children
Juvenile fiction. -- Families of military personnel
Juvenile fiction. -- Imagination
Genre:
Publishers' advertisements ( local )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London.
England -- Brighton.
United States -- New York -- New York.

Notes

General Note:
Publisher's advertisements on back cover.
General Note:
Publisher's other addresses from t.p.: 43, Queen Victoria Street, E.C.; 26, St. George's Place, Hyde Park Corner, S.W.; Brighton: 135, North Street.
General Note:
Date from Osborne Coll., cited below.
General Note:
Half-title.
General Note:
Wood engravings: frontispiece, title vignette, historiated initials; frontis. included in pagination.
General Note:
Gumuchian, 2444, approximates date as ca. 1887.
Funding:
Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in Special Collections, George A. Smathers Libraries
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026684403 ( ALEPH )
ALG6240 ( NOTIS )
13316831 ( OCLC )

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SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,

ares NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, CHARING CROSS, W.C.;
i 43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, E.C.
26, ST. GEORGE'S PLACE, HYDE PARK CORNER, S.W. 3

BRIGHTON ; 135, NORTH STREET, j ~
gw York: E. & J. B. YOUNG & CO.



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““Do you know now when I am wheeling about in my chair, and playing with him and he looks
at me wherever I go; sometimes for a bit I forget about the King, and I fancy he is sorry for me.
Under the table was the only place where I could get out of the sight of his eyes.”
Frontispiece.



The

Story of a Short Life

By
Juliana Horatia Ewing
AUTHOR OF “ FACKANAPES,” “DADDY DARWIN’S DOVECOT,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY GORDON BROWNE



LONDON
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, CHARING CROSS, W.C.;
43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, F.C.3
26, ST. GEORGES PLACE, HYDE PARK CORNER, S.W.
BRIGHTON : 135, NORTH STREET.
New Yorx: E. & J. B. YOUNG & CO.



** But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhoréd shears
And slits the thin spun life,—‘ But not the praise.’””—J@ilron.

“It is a calumny on men to say that they are roused to heroic action by ease,
hope of pleasure, recompense,—sugar-plums of any kind in this world or the next!
In the meanest mortal there lies something nobler . . . . Difficulty, abnegation,
martyrdom, death are the a@//urements that act on the heart of man. Kindle thc
inner genial life of him, you have a flame that burns up all lower considerations . .
. . Not by flattering our appetites; no, by awakening the Heroic that slumbers in
every heart oe Carlyle.





CHAPTER I,

** Arma virumque cano.”— Zeid.

« tian—and the horseradish—are most biting when grated.”— fan Paul Richter.

OST annoying!” said the
Master of the House. His
thick eyebrows were puck-
ered just then with the vexa-
tion of his thoughts; but the
lines of annoyance on his
forehead were to some ex-
tent fixed lines. They helped
to make him look older than
his age—he was not forty—
and they gathered into a
fierce frown as his elbow was
us softly touched by his little



wy i) son.

Al) The child was defiantly
“iy; like his father, even to a
knitted brow, for his whole
face was crumpled with the
vigour of some resolve which
he found it hard to keep, and
which was symbolised by his
holding the little red tip of
his tongue betwixt finger and thumb.

“Put your hands down, Leonard! Put your tongue in, sir! What
are you after? What do you want? What are you doing here? Be
off to the nursery, and tell Jemima to keep you there. Your mother
and I are busy.”

Far behind the boy, on the wall, hung the portrait of one of his
ancestors—a youth of sixteen. The painting was by Vandyck, and it
was the most valuable of the many valuable things that strewed and
decorated the room. A very perfect example of the great master’s work,
B



6 DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI,

and uninjured by Time. ‘The young Cavalier’s face was more interest-
ing than handsome, but so eager and refined that, set off as it was by
pale-hued satin and falling hair, he might have been called effeminate, if
his brief life, which ended on the field of Naseby, had not done more
than common to prove his manhood. A coat-of-arms, blazoned in the
corner of the painting, had some appearance of having been added later.
Below this was rudely inscribed, in yellow paint, the motto which also
decorated the elaborate stone mantlepiece opposite—Letus sorte mea.

Leonard was very fond of that picture. It was known to his child-
ish affections as “ Uncle Rupert.” He constantly wished that he could
get into the frame and play with the dog—the dog with the upturned
face and melancholy eyes, and odd resemblance to a long haired Cava-
lier—on whose faithful head Uncle Rupert’s slender fingers perpetually
reposed.

Though not able to play with the dog, Leonard did play with
Uncle Rupert—the game of trying to get out of the reach of his eyes.

“T play ‘ Puss-in-the-corner’ with him,” the child was wont to ex-
plain ; “but whichever corner I get into, his eyes come after me. The
dog looks at Uncle Rupert always, and Uncle Rupert always looks at me.”

its “To see if you are growing up a good boy and a
gallant young gentleman, such as he was.” So Leonard’s parents and
guardians explained the matter to him, and he devoutedly believed
them.

Many an older and less credulous spectator stood in the light of
those painted eyes, and acknowledged their spell. Very marvellous was
the cunning which, by dabs and streaks of colour, had kept the spirit
of this long dead youth to gaze at his descendants from a sheet of
canvas and stir the sympathy of strangers, parted by more than two
centuries from his sorrows, with the mock melancholy of painted tears.
For whether the painter had just overdone some trick of representing
their liquidness, or whether the boy’s eyes had brimmed over as he was
standing for his portrait (his father and elder brother had died in the
civil war before him), there remains no tradition to tell. But Vandyck
never painted a portrait fuller of sad dignity, even in those troubled
times.

Happily for his elders, Leonard invented for himself a reason for
the obvious tears.

“TI believe Uncle Rupert knew that they were going to chop the
poor king’s head off, and that’s why he looks as if he were going to cry.”



WORD AND HONOUR, q

It was partly because the child himself looked as if he were going
to cry—and that not fractiously, but despite a struggle with himself—
that, as he stood before the Master of the House, he might have been
that other master of the same house come to life again at six years of
age. His long, fair hair, the pliable, nervous fingers, which he had put
down as he was bid, the strenuous tension of his little figure under a
sense of injustice, and, above all, his beautiful eyes, in which the tears
now brimmed over the eyelashes as the waters of a lake well up through
the reeds that fringe its banks. He was very very like Uncle Rupert
when he turned those eyes on his mother in mute reproach.

Lady Jane came to his defence.

“T think Leonard meant to be good. I made him promise me to
try and cure himself of the habit of speaking to you when you are
speaking to some one else. But, dear Leonard” (and she took the hand
that had touched his father’s elbow), “I don’t think you were quite on
honour when you interrupted Father with this hand, though you were
holding your tongue with the other. That is what we call keeping a
promise to the ear and breaking it to the sense.”

All the Cavalier dignity came unstarched in Leonard’s figure. With
a red face, he answered bluntly, “I’m very sorry. I meant to keep my
promise.”

“Next time keep it we//, as a gentleman should. Now, what do
you want?”

“ Pencil and paper, please.”

“There they are. Take them to the nursery, as Father told you.”

Leonard looked at his father. He had not been spoilt for six years
by an irritable and indulgent parent without learning those arts of dip-
lomacy in which children quickly become experts.

“Oh, he can stay,” said the Master of the House, “and he may say
a word now and then, if he dosn’t talk too much. Boys can’t sit mum-
chance always—can they, Len? There; kiss your poor old father, and
get away, and keep quiet.”

Lady Jane made one of many fruitless efforts on behalf of discipline.

“T think, dear, as you told him to go, he had better go now.”

“He wi go, pretty sharp, if he isn’t good. Now, for pity’s sake,
let’s talk out this affair, and let me get back to my work.”

“Have you been writing poetry this morning, Father dear?” Leonard
inquired, urbanely.

He was now lolling againgst a writing-table of the first empire,



8 CROSS QUESTIONS

where sheets of paper lay like fallen leaves among Japanese bronzes, old
and elaborate candlesticks, grotesque letter-clips and paper-weights,
quaint pottery, big seals, and spring flowers in slender Venetian glasses
of many colours. *

“T wrote three lines, and was interrupted four times,” replied his
sire, with bitter brevity.

“T think /’7Z write some poetry. I don’t mind being interrupted.
May I have your ink ?” ‘

‘‘No, you may wof/” roared the Master of the House and of the
inkpot of priceless china which Leonard had siezed. ‘“ Now, be off to
the nursery !”

“JT won't touch anything. I am going to draw out of the window,”
said Leonard, calmly.

He had practised the art of being troublesome to the verge of ex-
pulsion ever since he had had a whim of his own, and as skilfully as
he played other games. He was seated among the cushions of the oriel
window-seat (coloured rays from coats-of-arms in the upper panes falling
on his fair hair with a fanciful effect of canonizing him for his sudden
goodness) almost before his father could reply.

“T advise you to stay there, and to keep quiet.” Lady Jane took
up the broken thread of conversation in despair.

“Have you ever seen him ?”

“Yes ; years ago.”

“You know I never saw either. Your sister was much older than
you ; wasn’t she?”

“The shadows move so on the grass, and the elms have so many
branches, I think I shall turn round and draw the fire-place,’ murmured
Leonard.

“Ten years. You may be sure, if I had been grown up I should
never have allowed the marriage. I cannot think what possessed my
father——”

“Tam doing the inscription! I can print Old English. What does
L. diphthong A. T. U. S. mean?” said Leonard.

“Tt means joyful, contented, happy.—1 was at Eton at the time.
Disastrous ill-luck |”

“ Are there any children ?”

“QOne son. And to crown all, 4és regiment is at Asholt. Nice
‘family party !”

“A young man!” Has he been well brought up ?”



AND CROOKED ANSWERS, 9



“ What does a

“Will you hold your tongue, Leonard ?@—Is he likely to have been
well brought up? However, he’s ‘in the Service,’ as they say. . I wish
it didn’t make one think of flunkeys, what with the word service, and
the liveries (I mean uniforms), and the legs, and shoulders, and swag-
ger, and tag-rags, and epaulettes, and the fatiguing alertness and atten-
tiveness of ‘men in the Service.”

The Master of the House spoke with the pettish accent of one who
says what he does not mean, partly for lack of something better to do,
and partly to avenge some inward vexation upon his hearers. He
lounged languidly on a couch, but Lady Jane sat upright, and her eyes
gave an unwonted flash. She came of an ancient Scottish race, that had
shed its blood like water on many a battle-field, generations before the
family of her English husband had become favourites at the Court of
the Tudors. i

“T have so many military belongings, both in the past and the
present, that I have a respect for the Service a

He got up, and patted her head, and smiled.

“J beg your pardon, my child. Et ego—” and he looked at uncle
Rupert, who looked sadly back again : “but you must make allowances
forme. Asholt Camp has been a thorn in my side from the first. And
now to have the barrack master, and the youngest subaltern of a march-
ing regiment ——”

“ He’s our nephew, Rupert !”

“ Mine—not yours. You've nothing to do with him, thank good-
ness.”

“Your people are my people. Now do not worry yourself. Of course
T shall call on your sister at once. Will they be here for some time?”

“Five years, you may depend. He’s just the sort of man to
wedge himself into a snug berth at Asholt. You're an angel, Jane;
you always are. But fighting ancestors are one thing, a barrack-master
brother-in-law is another.

“Has he done any fighting ?”

“Oh dear, yes! Bemedalled like that Guy Fawkes General in the
pawnbroker’s window, that Len was so charmed by. But, my dear, I
assure you v

“TZ only just want to know what S. O. R. T. E. M, EA. means.”
Leonard hastily broke in. “I’ve done it all now, and shan't want to know
anything more.”







Io HEN WOULD HE SING ACHIEVEMENTS HIGH

“ Sorte mea ts Latin for My fate, or My lot in life. Letus sorte mea
means Happy in my lot. It is our family motto. Now, tf you ask another
question, off you go /—After all, Jane, you must allow it’s about as hard
lines as could be, to have a few ancestral acres and a nice old place in
one of the quietest, quaintest corners of Old England ; and for Govern-
ment to come and plant a Camp of Instruction, as they call it; and pour
in tribes of savages in war-paint to build wigwams within a couple of
miles of your lodge-gates !”

She laughed heartily.

“Dear Rupert! You ave a born poet! You do magnify your
woes so grandly. What was the brother-in-law like when you saw
him?”

“Oh, the regular type. Hair cut like a pauper, or a convict,” (the
Master of the House tossed his own locks as he spoke), “ big, swagger-
ing sort of fellow, swallowed the poker and not digested it, rather good
features, acclimatized complexion, tight fit of hot-red cloth, and general
pipeclay.”

“ Then he must be the Sapper !” Leonard announced, as he advanced
with a firm step and kindling eyes from the window. “Jemima’s other
brother is a Gunner. He dresses in blue. But they both pipeclay their
gloves, and I pipeclayed mine this morning, when she did the hearth.
You've no idea how nasty they look whilst it’s wet, but they dry as white
as snow, only mine fell among the cinders. The Sapper is very kind,
both to her and to me. He gave her a brooch, and he is making me a
wooden fort to put my cannon in. But the Gunner is such a funny
man! I said to him, ‘Gunner! why do you wear white gloves?’ and
he said, ‘ Young gentleman, why does a miller wear a white hat?’ He’s
very funny. But I think I like the tidy one best of all. He is so very
beautiful, and I should think he must be very brave.”

That Leonard was permitted to deliver himself of this speech with-
out a check can only have been due to the paralysing nature of the
shock which it inflicted on his parents, and of which he himself was
pleasantly unconscious. His whole soul was in the subject, and he
spoke with a certain grace and directness of address, and with a clear
and facile enunciation, which were among the child’s most conspicuous
marks of good breeding.

“This is nice!” said the Master of the House between his teeth
with a deepened scowl.

The air felt stormy, and Leonard began to coax. He laid his curls



AND CIRCUMSTANCE OF CHIVALRY. Ii

against his father’s arm, and asked, “Did you ever see a ¢idy one, Father
dear? He zs a very splendid sort of man.”

“ What nonsense are you talking? What do you mean bya ézdy one?”

There was no mistake about the storm now ; and Leonard began to
feel helpless, and, as usual in such circumstances, turned to Lady Jane.

“Mother told me !” he gasped.

The Master of the House also turned to Lady Jane.

“Do you mean you have heard of this before?”

She shook her head, and he seized his son by the shoulder.

“Tf that woman has taught you to tell untruths——”

“Lady Jane firmly interposed.

“Leonard never tells untruths, Rupert. Please don’t frighten him,
into doing so. Now, Leonard, don’t be foolish and cowardly. Tell
Mother quite bravely all about it. Perhaps she has forgotten.”

The child was naturally brave ; but the elements of excitement and
uncertainty in his up-bringing were producing their natural results in a
nervous and unequable temperament. It is not the least serious of the
evils of being “spoilt,” though, perhaps, the most seldom recognized.
Many a fond parent justly fears to overdo “lessons,” who is surprisingly
blind to the brain-fag that comes from the strain to live at grown-up
people’s level; and to the nervous exhaustion produced in children, no
less than in their elders, by indulged restlessness, discontent, and craving
for fresh excitenrent, and for want of that sense of power and repose
which comes with habitual obedience to righteous rules and regulations.
Laws that can be set at nought are among the most demoralising of in-
fluences which can curse a nation ; and their effects are hardly less dis-
astrous in the nursery. Moreover, an uncertain discipline is apt to take
even the spoilt by surprise: and as Leonard seldom fully understood
the checks he did receive, they unnerved him. He was unnerved now ;
and, even with his hand in that of his mother, he stammered over his
story with ill-repressed sobs and much mental confusion.

“W—we met him out walking. I m—mean we were out walking.
He was out riding. He looked like a picture in my t—t—tales from
Froissart. He had a very curious kind of a helmet—n—not quite a
helmet, and a beautiful green feather—at least, n—not exactly a feather
and a beautiful red waistcoat, only n—not a real waistcoat, b—but ”

“Send him to bed!” roared the Master of the House. “ Don’t let
him prevaricate any more !”

“No, Rupert, please! I wish him to try and give a straight ac-





12 WITH BURNISHED BRAND AND MUSKETOON

count. Now, Leonard, don’t be a baby; but go on and tell the truth,
like a brave boy.”

Leonard desperately proceeded, sniffing as he did so.

“He c—carried a spear, like an old warrior. He truthfully did.
On my honour! One end was on the tip of his foot, and there was a
flag at the other end—a real fluttering pennon—there truthfully was!
He does poke with his spear in battle, I do believe ; but he didn’t poke
us. He was b—b—beautiful to b—b—be—hold! I asked Jemima,
‘Is he another brother, for you do have such very nice brothers?’
and she said, ‘No, he’s——’”

“ Hang Jemima!” said the Master of the House. “ Now listen to
me. You said your mother told you. What did she tell you?”

“Je—Je—Jemima said, ‘No, he’s a Orderly ;’ and asked the way
—I qu—dquite forget where to—I truthfully do. And next morning I
asked Mother what does Orderly mean? And she said #dy. So I call
him the tidy one. Dear Mother, you truthfully did—at least,” added
Leonard chivalrously, as Lady Jane’s face gave no response, ' at least, if
you've forgotten, never mind: it’s my fault.’”

But Lady Jane’s face was blank because she was trying not to
laugh. The Master of the House did not try long. He bit his lip, and
then burst into a peal.

“Better say no more to him,” murmured Lady Jane. “Tl see
Jemima now, if he may stay with you.”

He nodded, and throwing himself back on the couch, held out his
arms to the child.

“Well, that’ll do. Put these men out of your head, and let me see
your drawing.”

Leonard stretched his faculties, and perceived that the storm was
overpast. He clambered on to his father’s knee, and their heads were
soon bent lovingly together over the much-smudged sheet of paper, on
which the motto from the chimneypiece was irregularly traced.

“You should have copied it from Uncle Rupert’s picture. It is in
plain letters there.”

Leonard made no reply. His head now lay back on his father’s
shoulder, and his eyes were fixed on the ceiling, which was of Eliza-
bethan date, with fantastic flowers in raised plaster-work. But Leonard
did not see them at that moment. His vision was really turned inwards.
Presently he said, “I am trying to think. Don’t interrupt me, Father, if
you please.”

























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































“He does poke with his speax in battle, 1 do believe ; but he didn’t poke us.
to behold !”"—Page 12.

He was beautiful



14 THE LOT IS CAST INTO THE LAP:

The Master of the House smiled, and gazed complacently at the
face beside him. No painting, no china in his possession, was more
beautiful. Suddenly the boy jumped down and stood alone, with his
hands behind his back, and his eyes tightly shut.

“T am thinking very hard, Father. Please tell me again what our
motto means.” /

“ your little brains about ?”

“Because I know I know something so like it, and I can’t think
what! Yes—no! Wait a minute! I’ve just got it! Yes, I remember
now : it was my Wednesday text !”

He opened wide shining eyes, and clapped his hands, and his clear
voice rang with the added note of triumph, as he cried, “‘The Zof is
fallen unto me in a fair ground. Yea, I have a goodly heritage.’”

The Master of the House held out his arms without speaking ; but
when Leonard had climbed back into them, he stroked the child’s hair
slowly, and said, “Is that your Wednesday text?”

“Last Wednesday’s. I learn a text every day. Jemima sets them.
She says her grandmother made her learn texts when she was a little
girl. Now, Father dear, I’ll tell you what I wish you would do: and I
want you to do it at once—this very minute.”

“That is generally the date of your desires. What is it?”

“T don’t know what you are talking about, but I know what I
want. Now you and I are all alone to our very selves, I want you to
come to the organ, and put that text to music like the anthem you made
out of those texts Mother chose for you, for the harvest festival. Tl
tell you the words, for fear you don’t quite remember them, and I’ll blow
the bellows. You may play on all-fours with both your feet and hands ;
you may pull out trumpet handle ; you may make as much noise as ever
you like—you'll see how I’ll blow !”

* * * * * *

Satisfied by the sounds of music that the two were happy, Lady
Jane was in no haste to go back to the library; but when she did return,
Leonard greeted her warmly.

He was pumping at the bellows handle of the chamber organ,
before which sat the Master of the House, not a ruffle on his brow,
playing with “all-fours,” and singing as he played.

Leonard’s cheeks were flushed, and he cried impatiently,—

“Mother! Mother dear! I’ve been wanting you ever so long!



THE DISPOSING THEREOF IS OF THE LORD. 15

Father has set my text to music, and I want you to hear it; but I want
to sit by him and sing too. So you must come and blow.”

“Nonsense, Leonard! Your mother must do nothing of the sort,
Jane! Listen to this !—/u a fa—air grou—nd. Bit of pure melody,
that, eh? The land flowing with milk and honey seems to stretch be-
fore one’s eyes x

“No! Father, that zs unfair. You are not to tell her bits in the
middle. Begin at the beginning, and—Mother dear, will you blow, and
let me sing?”

“Certainly. Yes, Rupert, please. I’ve done it before; and my
back isn’t aching to-day. Do let me !”

“Yes, do let her,” said Leonard, conclusively; and he swung him-
self up into the seat beside his father without more ado.

“Now, Father, begin! Mother, listen! And when it comes to
‘ Yea, and I pull trumpet handle out, blow as hard as ever you can.
This first bit—when he only plays—is very gentle, and quite easy to
blow.”

Deep breathing of the organ filled a brief silence, then a prelude
stole about the room. Leonard’s eyes devoured his father’s face, and
the Master of the House looking down on him, with the double compla-
cency of father and composer, began to sing:

‘The lot—the lot is fallen un-to me ;’ and, his mouth wideparted
with smiles, Leonard sang also: ‘The lot—the lot is fallen—fallen un-
to me.’

“In a fa—air grou—nd.’

“Yea! (Now, Mother dear, blow! and fancy you hear trumpets !)

‘ Yea! YEA! I have a good-ly Her—i—tage !’

And after Lady Jane had ceased to blow, and the musician to make
music, Leonard still danced and sang wildly about the room.

“Tsn’t it splendid, Mother? Father and I made it together out of
my Wednesday text. Uncle Rupert, can you hear it? I don’t think
you can. I believe you are dead and deaf, though you seem to see.

And standing face to face with the young Cavalier, Leonard sang
his Wednesday text all through :

“The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground ; yea, I have a goodly
heritage.”

But Uncle Rupert spoke no word to his young kinsman, though he
still “seemed to see” through eves drowned in tears.





16

CHAPTER II.

—— “an acre of barren ground ; ling, heath, broom, furze, anything.”
Lempest, Act i. Scene I.

*¢ Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife !
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life

Is worth an age without a name.”
Scolt.

















AKE a Highway-
man’s Heath.

Destroy every
vestige of life with
fire and axe, from
the pine that has
longest been a land-
mark, to the smallest
beetle smothered in
smoking moss.

Burn acres of
purple and pink
heather, and pare
away the young
bracken that springs
verdant from its
ashes.

Let flame con-
sume the perfumed gorse in all its glory, and not spare the broom,
whose more exquisite yellow atones for its lack of fragrance.

In this common ruin be every lesser flower involved: blue beds of
speedwell by the wayfarer’s path—the daintier milkwort, and rougher
red rattle—down to the very dodder that clasps the heather, let ther
perish, and the face of Dame Nature be utterly blackened! Then:

Shave the heath as bare as the back of your hand, and if you have
felled every tree, and left not so much as a tussock of grass or a scarlet
toadstool to break the force of the winds ; then shall the winds come,

















































































































































































CAMP AND COMRADES. 7

from the east and from the west, from the north and from the south,
and shall raise on your shaven heath clouds of sand that would not
discredit a desert in the heart of Africa.

By some such recipe the ground was prepared for that Camp of
Instruction at Asholt which was, as we have seen, a thorn in the side
of at least one of its neighbours. Then a due portion of this sandy
oasis in a wilderness of beauty was mapped out into lines, with military
precision, and on these were built rows of little wooden huts, which
were painted a neat and useful black.

The huts for married men and officers were of varying degrees ot
comfort and homeliness, but those for single men were like toy-boxes
of wooden soldiers; it was only by doing it very tidily that you could
(so to speak) put your pretty soldiers away at night when you had done
playing with them, and get the lid to shut down.

But then tidiness is a virtue which—like Patience—is its own
reward. And nineteen men who keep themselves clean and their be-
longings cleaner ; who have made their nineteen beds into easy chairs
before most people have got out of bed at all; whose tin pails are kept
as bright as average teaspoons (to the envy of housewives and the
shame of housemaids!); who establish a common and a holiday side
to the reversible top of their one long table, and scrupulously scrub
both ; who have a place for everything and a discipline which obliges
everybody to put everything in its place ;—nineteen men, I say, with
such habits, find more comfort and elbow-room in a hut than-an out-
sider might believe possible, and hang up a photograph or two into the
bargain.

But it may be at once conceded to the credit of the camp, that
those who lived there thought better of it than those who did not, and
that those who lived there longest were apt to like it best of all.

It was, however, regarded by different people from very opposite
points of view, in each of which was some truth. f

There were those to whom the place and the life were alike
hateful.

They said that, from a soldier’s stand point, the life was one of
exceptionally hard work, and uncertain stay, with no small proportion
of the hardships and even risks of active service, and none of the more
glorious chances of war.

That you might die of sunstroke on the march, or contract rheu-
matism, fever, or dysentery, under canvas, without drawing Indian pay

Cc



18 HARD LINES.

and allowances ; and that you might ruin your uniform as rapidly as in
a campaign, and never hope to pin a ribbon over its inglorious stains.

That the military society was too large to find friends quickly in
the neighbourhood, and that as to your neighbours in camp, they were
sure to get-marching orders just when you had learnt to like them.
And if you did wot like them—! (But for that matter, quarrelsome
neighbours are much the same everywhere. And a boundary road
between two estates will furnish as pretty a feud as the pump of a com-
mon back-yard.)

The haters of the camp said that it had every characteristic to
disqualify it for a home; that it was ugly and crowded without the
appliances of civilisation ; that it was neither town nor country, and
had the disadvantages of each without the merits of either.

That it was unshaded and unsheltered, that the lines were monoto-
nous and yet confusing, and every road and parade-ground more dusty
than another.

That the huts let in the frost in winter and the heat in summer,
and were at once stuffy and draughty.

That the low roofs were like a weight upon your head, and that
the torture was invariably brought to a climax on the hottest of the
dog-days, when they were tarred and sanded in spite of your teeth; a
process which did not insure their being water-tight or snow-proof when
the weather changed.

That the rooms had no cupboards, but an unusual number of
doors, through which no tall man could pass without stooping,

That only the publicity and squalor of the back-premises of the
“Lines ”—their drying clothes, and crumbling mud walls, their coal-
boxes and slop-pails—could exceed the depressing effects of the gardens
in front, where such plants as were not uprooted by the winds perished
of frost or drought, and where, if some gallant creeper had stood fast
and covered the nakedness of your wooden hovel, the Royal Engineers
would arrive one morning, with as little announcement as the tar and
sand men, and tear down the growth of years before you had finished
shaving, for the purpose of repainting your outer walls.

On the other hand, there were those who had a great affection for
Asholt, and affection never lacks arguments.

Admitting some hardships and blunders, the defenders of the
Camp fell back successfully upon statistics for a witness to the general
good health.



ET CONSTRICTA SUAS HABITANS AMAT OSTREA VALVAS 19

They said that if the Camp was windy the breezes were exquisitely
bracing, and the climate of that particular part of England such as
would qualify it for a health-resort for invalids, were it only situated in
a comparatively inaccessible part of the Pyrenees, instead of being
within an hour or two of London.

That this fact of being within easy reach of town made the Camp
practically at the head-quarters of civilisation and refinement, whilst the
simple and sociable ways of living, necessitated by hut-life in common,
emancipated its select society from rival extravagance and cumbersome
formalities.

That the Camp stood on the borders of the two counties of Eng-
land which rank highest on the books of estate and house-agents, and
that if you did not think the country lovely and the neighbourhood
agreeable you must be hard to please.

That, as regards the Royal Engineers, it was one of your privileges
to be hard to please, since you were entitled to their good offices ; and
if, after all, they sometimes failed to cure your disordered drains and
smoky chimneys, you, at any rate, did not pay as well as suffer, which
is the case in civil life.

That low doors to military quarters might be regarded as a practi-
cal joke on the part of authorities, who demand that soldiers shall be
both tall and upright, but that man, whether military or not, is an adapt-
able animal and can get used to anything; and indeed it was only those
officers whose thoughts were more active than their instincts who in-
variably crushed their best hats before starting for town.

That huts (if only they were a little higher!) had a great many
advantages over small houses, which were best appreciated by those
who had tried drawing lodging allowance and living in villas, and which
would be fully known if ever the Lines were rebuilt in brick.

That on moonlit nights the airs that fanned the silent Camp were
as dry and wholesome as by day; that the song of the distant nightin-
gale could be heard there; and finally, that from end to end of this
dwelling-place of ten thousand to (on occasion) twenty thousand men,
a woman might pass at midnight with greater safety than in the country
lanes of a rural village or a police protected thoroughfare of the metro-
polis.

But, in truth, the Camp’s best defence in the hearts of its deten-
ders was that it was a camp,—military life in epitome, with all its
defects and all its charm; not the least of which, to some whimsical



20 AUF WIEDER SEHN!

minds, is, that it represents, as no other phase of society represents, the
human pilgrimage in brief.

Here be sudden partings, but frequent re-unions ; the charities and
courtesies of an uncertain life lived largely in common ; the hospitality
of passing hosts to guests who tarry but a day.

Here, surely, should be the home of the sage as well as the soldier,
where every hut might fitly carry the ancient motto, “ Dwell as if about
to Depart,” where work bears the nobler name of duty, and where the
living, hastening on his business amid “the hurryings of this life,”*
must pause and stand to salute the dead as he is carried by.

Bare and dusty are the Parade Grounds, but they are thick with
memories. Here were blessed the colours that became a young man’s
shroud that they might not be a nation’s shame. Here march and
music welcome the coming and speed the parting regiments. On this
Parade the rising sun is greeted with gun-fire and trumpet clarions
shriller than the cock, and there he sets to a like salute with tuck of
drum. Here the young recruit drills, the warrior puts on his medal,
the old pensioner steals back to watch them, and the soldiers’ children
play—sometimes at fighting or flag-wagging,t but oftener at funerals!

* Bunyan’s Filgrim’s Progress.

7 ‘‘ Flag-wagging,” a name among soldiers’ children for ‘‘ signalling.”



2r

CHAPTER III.

&
* Ut migraturus habita” (‘‘ Dwell as if about to Depart”). —Old House Motto.

HE barrack-master’s wife
was standing in the porch
of her hut, the sides of
which were of the simp-
lest trellis-work of crossed
fir-poles, through which
she could watch the pro-
ceedings of the gardener
= without baking herself in
the sun. Suddenly she
snatched up a green-lined
white umbrella, that had
=" seen service in India, and
ran out. .

“O'Reilly! what zs
that baby doing? There!
that white-headed child
crossing the parade with,
a basket in its little arms!
It’s got nothing on. its
head. Please go and take
it to its mother before it
gets sunstroke.”

The gardener was an
Trish soldier—an old sol-:
dier, as the handkerchief.
depending from his cap,
to protect the nape of his neck from the sun, bore witness. He.was a
tall man, and stepped without ceremony over the garden paling to get:
a nearer view of the parade. But he stepped back again at once, and.
resumed his place in the garden.









22 A FUNERAL; AND THIS HATH NOW HIS HEART.

“He’s Corporal Macdonald’s child, madam. The Blind Baby,
they call him. Not a bit of harm will he get. They’re as hard as
nails the whole lot of them. If I was to take him in now, he'd be
out before my back was turned. His brothers and sisters are at the
school, and Blind Baby’s just as happy as the day is long, playing at
funerals all the time.”

“Blind! Is he blind? Poor little soul! But he’s got a great
round potato-basket in his arms. Surely they don’t make that afflicted
infant fetch and carry?”

O’Reilly laughed so heartily, that he scandalized his own sense of
propriety. ,

“TI ask your pardon, madam. But there’s no fear that Blind
Baby ’ll fetch and carry. Every man in the Lines is his nurse.”

“ But what’s he doing with that round hamper as big as himself?”

“Tt’s just a make-believe for the Big Drum, madam. The Dead
March is his whole delight. “Twas only yesterday I said to his father,
‘Corporal,’ I says, ‘we'll live to see Blind Baby a bandmaster yet,’ I
says; ‘it’s a pure pleasure to see him beat out a tune with his closed
fist.”

“Will I go and borrow a barrow now, madam?” added O'Reilly,
returning to his duties. He was always willing and never idle, but he
liked change of occupation.

“No, no. Don’t go away. We shan’t want a wheelbarrow till
we've finished trenching this border, and picking out me stones. Then
you can take them away and fetch the new soil.”

“You're at a deal of pains, madam, and it’s'a poor patch when
all’s done to it.”

“T can’t live without flowers, O’Reilly, and the Colonel says I may
do what I like. with this bare strip.”

“Ah! Don’t touch the dirty stones with your fingers, ma’am. I'll
have the lot picked in no time at all.” ,

“You see, O’Reilly, you can’t grow flowers in sand unless you can
command water, and the Colonel tells me that when it’s hot here the
water supply runs short, and we mayn’t water the garden from the
pumps.”

O’Reilly smiled superior.

“The Colonel will get what water he wants, ma’am. Never fear
him! ‘There’s ways and means. Look at the gardens of the Royal
Engineers’ Lines. In the hottest of summer weather they’re as green



EXPERIENCE KEEPS A DEAR SCHOOL. 23

as Old Ireland ; and it’s not to be supposed that the Royal Engineers
can requisition showers from the skies when they need them, more than
the rest of Her Majesty’s forces.”

“Perhaps the Royal Engineers do what I mean to do—take more
pains than usual; and put in soil that will retain some moisture. One
can’t make poor land yield anything without pains, O’Reilly, and this is
like the dry bed of a stream—all sand and pebbles.”

“That's as true a word as ever ye spoke, madam, and if it were
not that ’twould be taking a liberty, I’d give ye some advice about gar-
dening in Camp. It’s not the first time I’m quartered in Asholt, and
I know the ways of it.”

“T shall be very glad of advice. You know I have never been
stationed here before.”

“Tis an old soldier’s advice, madam.”

“So much the better,” said the lady, warmly.

O'Reilly was kneeling to his work. He now sat back on his heels,
and not without a certain dignity that bade defiance to his surroundings
he commenced his oration.

“Please Gop to spare you and the Colonel, madam, to put in his
time as Barrack Master at this station, ye’ll see many a regiment come
and go, and be making themselves at home all along. And anny one
that knows this place, and the nature of the soil, tear-rs would overflow
his eyes to see the regiments come for drill, and betake themselves to
gardening. Maybe the boys have marched in footsore and fasting, in
the hottest of weather, to cold comfort in empty quarters, and they’ll
not let many hours flit over their heads before some of ’em ’ll get
possession of a load of green turf, and be laying it down for borders
around their huts. It’s the young ones I’m speaking of; and there
ye’ll see them, in the blazing sun, with their shirts open, and not a
thing on their heads, squaring and fitting the turfs for bare life, water-
ing them out of old pie-dishes and stable-buckets and whatnot, singing
and whistling, and fetching and carrying between the pump and their
quarters, just as cheerful as so many birds building their nests in the
spring.”

‘A very pretty picture, O’Reilly. Why should it bring tears to
your eyes? An old soldier like you must know that one would never
have a home in quarters at all if one did not begin to make it at
once.”

“True for you, madam. Nota doubt of it. But it goes to your



24 SOW BEANS IN THE MUD AND THEY'LL GROW LIKE WOOD.

heart to see labour thrown away; and it’s not once in a hundred times
that grass planted like that will get hold of a soil like this, and the boys
themselves at drill all along, or gone out under canvas in Bottomless
Bog before the week’s over, as likely as not.”

“That would be unlucky. But one must take one’s luck as it
comes. And you've not told me, now, what you do advise for Camp
Gardens.”

““That’s just what I’m coming to, ma’am. See the old soldier!
What does 4e do? Turns the bucket upside down outside his hut, and
sits on it, with a cap on his head, and a handkerchief down his back,
and some tin tacks, and a ball of string—trust a soldier’s eye to get the
lines straight—every one of them beginning on the ground and going
nearly up to the roof.”

“For creepers, I suppose? What does the old soldier plant?”

“Beans, madam—scarlet runners. These are the things for Asholt.
A few beans are nothing in your baggage. They like a warm place,
and when they’re on the sunny side of a hut they’ve got it, and no
mistake. They’re growing while you’re on duty. The flowers are the
right soldier’s colour; and when it comes to the beans, ye may put
your hand out of the window and gather them, and no trouble at all.”

“The old soldier is very wise; but I think I must have more
flowers than that. So I plant, and if they die I am very sorry ; and if
they live, and other people have them, I try to be glad. One ought to
learn to be unselfish, O’Reilly, and think of one’s successors.”

“ And that’s true, madam ; barring that I never knew any one’s
successor to have the same fancies as himself: one plants trees to give
shelter, and the next cuts them down to let in the air.”

“Well, I suppose the only way is to be prepared for the worst.
The rose we planted yesterday by the porch is a great favourite of
mine; but the Colonel calls it ‘Marching Orders.’ It used to grow
over my window in my old home, and I have planted it by every home
I have had since; but the Colonel says whenever it settled and began
to flower the regiment got the route.”

“The Colonel must name it again, madam,” said O’Reilly, gallantly,
as he hitched up the knees of his trowsers, and returned to the border.
“It shall be ‘Standing Orders’ now, if soap and water can make it
blossom, and I’m spared to attend to it all the time. Many a hundred
roses may you and the Colonel pluck from it, and never one with a
thorn !”



BRING EVERY FLOWER THAT SAD EMBROIDERY WEARS. 25

“Thank you, O’Reilly ; thank you very much. Soapy water is
very good for roses, I believe ?”

“Tt is so, madam. I put in a good deal of my time as officer's
servant after I was in the Connaught Rangers, and the Captain I was
with one time was as fond of flowers as yourself. There was a mighty
fine rose-bush by his quarters, and every morning I had to carry out
his bath to it. He used more soap than most gentlemen, and when he
sent me to the town for it—‘It’s not for myself, O’Reilly,’ he’d say,
‘so much as for the Rose. Bring large tablets,’ he’d say, ‘and the
best scented ye can get. The roses’ll be the sweeter for it.’ That was.
his way of joking, and never a smile on his face. He was odd in many
of his ways, was the Captain, but he was a grand soldier entirely ; a
good officer, and a good friend to his men, and to the wives and chil-
dren no less. The regiment was in India when he died of cholera,
in twenty-four hours, do what I would. ‘Oh, the cramp in my legs,
O’Reilly ! he says. ‘Gop bless ye, Captain,’ says I; ‘never mind your
legs ; ’d manage the cramp, sir,’ I says, ‘if I could but keep up your
heart.’ ‘Ye’ll not do that, O’Reilly,’ he says, ‘for all your goodness ;
I lost it too long ago.’ That was his way of joking, and never a smile
on his face. ”“I'was a pestilential hole we were in, and that’s the truth ;
and cost Her Majesty more in lives than would have built healthy
quarters, and given us every comfort; but the flowers throve there if
we didn’t, and the Captain’s grave was filled till ye couldn’t get the
sight of him for roses. He was a good officer, and beloved of his
men ; and better master never a man had !”

As he ceased speaking, O’Reilly drew his sleeve sharply across his
eyes, and then bent again to his work, which was why he failed to see
what the Barrack Master’s wife saw, and did not for some moments dis:
cover that she was no longer in the garden. The matter was this:

The Barrack Master’s quarters were close to the Iron Church, and
the straight road that ran past both was crossed, just beyond the church,
by another straight road, which finally led out to and joined a country
highway. From this highway an open carriage and pair were being
driven into the camp as a soldier’s funeral was marching to church.
The band frightened the horses, who were got past with some difficulty,
and having turned the sharp corner, were coming rapidly towards the
Barrack Master’s hut when Blind Baby, excited by the band, strayed.
from his parade-ground, tumbled, basket and all, into the ditch that
divided it from the road, picked up himself and his basket, and was



26 BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER,

sturdily setting forth across the road just as the frightened horses came
plunging to the spot.

The Barrack Master’s wife was not very young, and not very
slender. Rapid movements were not easy to. her. She was nervous
also, and could never afterwards remember what she did with herself in
those brief moments before she became conscious that the footman had
got to the horses’ heads, and that she herself was almost under their
feet, with Blind Baby in her arms. Blind Baby himself recalled her to
consciousness by the ungrateful fashion in which he pummelled his
deliverer with his fists and howled for his basket, which had rolled
under the carriage to add to the confusion. Nor was he to be pacified
till O'Reilly took him from her arms.

By this time men had rushed from every hut and kitchen, wash-
place and shop, and were swarming to the rescue, and through the
whole disturbance, like minute-guns, came the short barks of a black
puppy, which Leonard had insisted upon taking with him to show to
his aunt despite the protestations of his mother: for it was Lady Jane’s
carriage, and this was how the sisters met.

They had been sitting together for some time, so absorbed by the
strangeness and the pleasure of their new relations that Leonard and
his puppy had slipped away unobserved, when Lady Jane, who was near
the window, called to her sister-in-law :—“ Adelaide, tell me, my dear, is
this Colonel Jones?” She spoke with some trepidation. It is so easy for
those unacquainted with uniforms to make strange blunders. Moreover,
the Barrack Master, though soldierly looking, was so, despite a very un-
soldierly defect. He was exceedingly stout, and as he approached the
miniature garden gate, Lady Jane found herself gazing with some anxiety
to see if he could possibly get through.

But O’Reilly did not make an empty boast when he said that a
soldier's eye was true. The Colonel came quite neatly through the toy
entrance, knocked nothing down in the porch, bent and bared his head
with one gesture as he passed under the drawing-room doorway, and
bowing again to Lady Jane, moved straight to the side of his wife.

Something in the action—a mixture of dignity and devotion, with
just a touch of defiance—went to Lady Jane’s heart. She went up to
him and held out both her hands :—‘“ Please shake hands with me,
Colonel Jones. I am so very happy to have found a sister!” Ina



TOLL FOR THE BRAVE! 27

moment more she turned round, saying: —“I must show you your
nephew. Leonard!” But Leonard was not there.

“TI fancy I have seen him already,” said the Colopel. “If he is a
very beautitul boy, very beautifuily dressed 1n velvet, he’s with O'Reilly,
watching the funeral.”

Lady Jane looked horrified, and Mrs. Jones looked much relieved.

“ He's quite safe if he’s with O'Reilly. But give me my sunshade,
Henry, please ; I dare say Lady Jane would like to see the funeral too.”

It is an Asholt amenity to take care that you miss no opportunity
of seeing a funeral. It would not have occurred to Lady Jane to wish
to go, but as her only child had gone she went willingly to look for him.
As they turned the corner of the hut they came straight upon it, and at
that moment the “ Dead March” broke forth afresh.

‘lhe drum beat cut those familiar notes which strike upon the heart
rather than the ear, the brass screamed, the ground trembled to the
tramp of feet and the lumbering of the gun-carriage, and Lady Jane’s
eyes filled suddenly with tears at the sight of the dead man’s accoutre-
ments lying on the Union Jack that serves a soldier for a pall. As she
dried them she saw Leonard.

Drawn up in accurate line with the edge of the road, O’Reilly was
standing to salute; and as near to the Irish private as he could squeeze
himself stood the boy, his whole body stretched to the closest possible
imitation of his new and deeply-revered friend, his left arm glued to his
side, and the back of his little right hand laid against his brow, gazing at
the pathetic pageant as it passed him with devouring eyes. And behind
them stood Blind Baby, beating upon his basket.

For the basket had been recovered, and Blind Baby’s equanimity
also ; and he wandered up and down the parade again im the sun, long
after the soldier’s funeral had wailed its way to the graveyard, over the
heather-covered hill.



CHAPTER IV.

‘* My mind is in the anomalous condition of hating war, and loving its discipline,

which has been an incalculable contribution to the
devotion of the common soldier to his leader (the

sentiment of duty . . the
sign for him of hard duty), is the

type of all higher devotedness, and is full of promise to other and better generations.”

We
NSO

\\

EO

WW




s
\
\

\

SQQOE

WS gos
WK
MOA

CY

\



need
pendale arm-chair. It will hold the Barrack
“Rupert !—I cannot help saying it—it ought to have held him






George Eliot,

OUR sister is as nice as
nice can be, Rupert; and
I like the Barrack Master
very much, too. He zs
stout! But he is very ac-
tive and upright, and his
manners to his wife are
wonderfully pretty. Do
you know, there is some-
thing to me most touching
in the way these two have
knocked about the world
together, and seem so
happy with so little. Cot-
tagers could hardly live
more simply, and yet their
ideas, or at any rate their
experiences, seem so much
larger than one’s own.”

“My dear Jane! if
you've taken them up from
the romantic point of view
allis, indeed, accomplished.
I know the wealth of your
imagination, and the riches
of its charity. If, in such
a mood, you will admit
that Jones is stout, he must
be fat indeed! Never again
upbraid me with the price
that I paid for that Chip-
Master.”



BIRTH’S GUDE, BUT BREEDING’S BETTER. 29

long ago. It makes me miserable*to think that they have never been
under our roof.”

“Jane! Be miserable if you must; but, at least, be aecurate.
The Barrack Master was in India when I bought that paragon of all
Chips, and he has only come home this year. Nay, my dear! Don’t
be vexed. I give you my word, I’m a good deal more ashamed than I
like to own to think how Adelaide has been treated by the family—with
me as its head. Did you make my apologies to-day, and tell her that I
shall ride out to-morrow and pay my respects to her and Jones?”

» “Of course. JI told her you were obliged to go to town, and I
would not delay to call and ask if I could be of use to them. I begged
them to come here till their quarters are quite finished; but they won't.
They say they are settled. I could not say much, because we ought to
have asked them sooner. He is rather on his dignity with us, I think,
and no wonder.”

“ He’s disgustingly on his dignity!’ They both are. Because the
family resented the match at first, they have refused every kind of help
that one would have been glad to give him as Adelaide’s husband, if
only to secure their being in a decent position. Neither interest nor
money would he accept, and Adelaide has followed his lead. She has
very little of her own, unfortunately ; and she knows how my father left
things as well as I do, and never would accept a farthing more than her
bare rights. I tried some dodges, through Quills; but it was of no use.
The vexation is that he has taken this post of Barrack Master as a sort
of pension, which need never have been. I suppose they have to make
that son an allowance. It’s not likely he lives on his pay. I can’t con-
ceive how they scrub along.”

And as the Master of the House threw himself into the paragon ot
all Chips, he ran his fingers through hair, the length and disorder of
which would have made the Barrack Master feel positively ill, with a
gesture of truly dramatic despair.

“Your sister has made her room look wonderfully pretty. One
would never imagine those huts could lock as nice as they do inside.
But it’s like playing with a doll's house, One feels inclined to examine
everything, and to be quite pleased that the windows have glass in them,
and will really open and shut.”

The Master of the House raised his eyebrows funnily.

“You did take rose-coloured spectacles with you to the Camp !”

Lady Jane laughed.

“I did not see the Camp itself through them. What an incompar-



30 NON EADEM MIRAMUR.

ably dreary place it is! It makes me think of little woodcuts in mis-
sionary reports—“ Sketch of a Native Settlement ”—rows of little black
huts that look, at a distance, as if one must creep into them on all-fours ;
nobody about, and an iron church on the hill.”

“Most accurately described! And you wonder that I regret that
a native settlement should have been removed from the enchanting dis-
tance of missionary reports to become my permanent neighbour?”

“ Well, I must confess the effect it produces on me is to make me
feel quite ashamed of the peace and pleasure of this dear old place, the
shade and greenery outside, the space above my head, and the lovely
things before my eyes inside (for you know, Rupert, how I appreciate
your decorative tastes, though I have so few myself. I only scolded about
the Chip because I think you might have got him for less)—when so
many men bred to similar comforts, and who have served their country
so well, with wives I dare say quite as delicate as I am, have to be
cooped up in those ugly little kennels in that dreary place t:

“ What an uncomfortable thing a Scotch conscience is!” interrupted
the Master of the House. “By-the-by, those religious instincts, which
are also characteristic of your race, must have found one redeeming
feature in the Camp, the “iron church on the hill;” especially as I
imagine that it is puritanically ugly !”

“There was a funeral going into it as we drove into Camp, and I
wanted to tell you the horses were very much frightened.”

“ Richards fidgets those horses; they’re quiet enough with me.”

“They did not like the military band.”

“They must get used to the band and to other military nuisances.
It is written in the stars, as I too clearly foresee,that we shall be driving
in and out of that Camp three days a-week. I can’t go to my club
without meeting men I was at school with who are stationed at Asholt,
and expect me to look them up. As to the women, I met a man yes-
terday who is living in a hut, and expects a Dowager Countess and her
two daughters for the ball. He has given up his dressing-room to the
Dowager, and put two barrack-beds into the coal-hole for the young
ladies, he says. It’s an insanity !”

“‘ Adelaide told me about the ball. The Camp seems very gay just
now. They have had theatricals ; and there is to be a grand Field Day
this week.”

“So our visitors have already informed me. They expect to go.
Louisa Mainwaring is looking handsomer than ever, and I have always
regarded her as a girl with a mind. I took her to see the peep I have





FIELD Bays, 31

cut opposite to the island, and I could not imagine why those fine eyes
of hers looked so blank. Presently she said, ‘I suppose you can see
the Camp from the little pine-wood?” And to the little pine-wood we
had to go. Both the girls have got stiff necks with craning out of the
carriage window to catch sight of the white tents among the heather as
they came along in the train.

“T suppose we must take them to the Field Day; but I am very
nervous about those horses, Rupert.”

“The horses will be taken out before any firing begins. As to
bands, the poor creatures must learn, like their master, to endure the
brazen liveliness of military music. It’s no fault of mine that our
nerves are scarified by any sounds less soothing than the crooning of
the wood pigeons among the pines !”

No one looked forward to the big Field Day with keener interest
than Leonard ; and only a few privileged persons knew more about the
arrangements for the day than he had contrived to learn.

O’Reilly was sent over with a note from Mrs. Jones to decline the
offer of a seat in Lady Jane’s carriage for the occasion. She was not
very well. Leonard waylaid the messenger (whorn he hardly recognised
as a tidy one!), and O’Reilly gladly imparted all that he knew about
the Field Day: and this was a good deal. He had it from a friend—a
corporal in the Head Quarters Office.

As a rule, Leonard only enjoyed a limited popularity with his
mother’s visitors. He was very pretty and very amusing, and had
better qualities even than these ; but he was restless and troublesome.
On this occasion, however, the young ladies suffered him to trample
their dresses and interrupt their conversation without remonstrance.
He knew more about the Field Day than any one in the house, and,
standing among their pretty furbelows and fancywork in stiff military
attitudes, he imparted his news with an unsuccessful imitation of an
Irish accent.

“O’Reilly says the March Past ’Il be at eleven o’clock on the
Sandy Slopes.”

“ Louisa, is that Major O’Reilly ofthe Rifles?”

“T don’t know, dear. Is your friend O’Reilly in the Rifles,
Leonard ?”

“JT don’t know. I know he’s an owld soldier—he told me so.”

“Old, Leonard ; not owld. You mustn’t talk like that.”

“TY shall if I like. He does, and I mean to.”

“T dare say he did, Louisa. He’s always joking.”



32 OLD SOLDIERS.

“No he isn’t. He didn’t joke when the funeral went past. He
looked quite grave, as if he was saying his prayers, and stood so.”

“How touching!”

“ How like him !”

“ How graceful and tenderhearted Irishmen are !”

“T stood so, too. I mean to do as like him as ever I can. I do
love him so very very much !”

“ Dear boy !”

“You good, affectionate little soul !”

“Give me a kiss, Leonard dear.”

“No, thank you. I’m too old for kissing. He’s going to march
past, and he’s going to look out for me with the tail of his eye, and I’m
going to look out for him.”

“Do, Leonard ; and mind you tell us when you see him coming.”

I can’t promise. I might forget. But perhaps you can know
him by the good-conduct stripe on his arm. He used to have two;
‘but he lost one all along of St. Patrick’s Day.”

“That caw’t be your partner, Louisa !”

“Officers zever have good-conduct stripes.”

“Leonard, you ought not to talk to common soldiers. You've got
a regular Irish brogue, and you're learning all sorts of ugly words.
You'll grow up quite a vulgar little boy, if you don’t take care.”

“T don't want to take care. I like being Irish, and I shall be a
vulgar little boy too, if I choose. But when I do grow up, I am going
to grow into an owld, owld, Owld Soldier!” -

“Leonard made this statement of his intentions in his clearest
manner. After which, having learned that the favour of the fair is
fickleness, hegleft the ladies, and went to look for his Black Puppy.

The Master of the House, in arranging for his visitors to go to the
Field Day, had said that Leonard was not to be of the party. He had
no wish to encourage the child’s fancy for soldiers: and as Leonard
was invariably restless out driving, and had a trick of kicking people’s
shins~in his changes of mood and position, he was a most uncomfort-
able element in a carriage full of ladies. But it is needless to say that
he stoutly resisted his father’s decree; and the child’s disappointment
was so bitter, and he howled and wept himself into such a deplorable
condition, that the young ladies sacrificed their own comfort and the
crispness of their new dresses to his grief, and petitioned the Master of
the House that he might be allowed to go.

‘The Master of the House gave in. He was accustomed to yield



LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG. 33

where Leonard was concerned. But the concession proved only a pre-
lude to another struggle. Leonard wanted the Black Puppy to go too.
On this point the young ladies presented no petition. Leonard’s
boots they had resolved to endure, but not the dog’s paws. Lady Jane,
too, protested against the puppy, and the matter seemed settled ; but at
the last moment, when all but Leonard were in the carriage, and the
horses chafing to be off, the child made his appearance, and stood on
the entrance-steps with his puppy in his arms, and announced, in digni-
fied sorrow, “I really cannot go if my Sweep has to be left behind.”
With one consent the grown-up people turned to look:at him.
Even the intoxicating delight that colour gives can hardly exceed
the satisfying pleasure in which beautiful proportions steep the sense of
sight ; and one is often at fault to find the law that has been so exqui-
sitely fulfilled, when the eye has no doubt of its own satisfaction.
The shallow stone steps, on the top of which Leonard stood, and
the old doorway that framed him, had this mysterious grace, and, truth
to say, the boy’s beauty was a jewel not unworthy of its setting.

A holiday dress of crimson velvet, with collar and ruffles of old |

lace, became him very quaintly ; and as he laid a cheek like a rose-leaf
against the sooty head of his pet, and they both gazed piteously at the
carriage, even Lady Jane’s conscience was stifled by motherly pride.
He was her only child, but as he had said of the Orderly, “a very
splendid sort of one.”

The Master of the House stamped his foot wah an impatience that
was partly real and partly, perhaps, affected.

“Well, get in somehow, if you mean to. The horses can’t wait all
day for you.” /

No ruby-throated humming-bird could have darted more swiftly
from one point to another than Leonard from the old gray steps into
the carriage. Little boys can be very careful when they choose, and he
trode on no toes and crumpled no finery in his flitting.

To those who know dogs, it is needless to say that the puppy
showed an even superior discretion. It bore throttling without a
struggle. Instinctively conscious of the alternative of being shut up
in a stable for the day, and left there to bark its heart out, it shrank
patiently into Leonard’s grasp, and betrayed no sign of life except in
the strained and pleading anxiety which a puppy’s eyes so often wear.

“Your dog is a very good dog, Leonard, I must say,” said Louisa
Mainwaring ; “but he’s very ugly. I never saw such legs!”

Leonard tucked the lank black legs under his velvet and. ruffles.

a : a





















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































‘© At the last moment, when all but Leonard were in the carriage, and the horses chafing to be
off, the child made his appearance, and stood on the entrance-steps, with his puppy in his arms, and
announced in dignified sorrow, ‘I really cannot go if my Sweep has to be left behind.’ —Page 33.



THE BEETLE IS A BEAUTY IN THE EYES OF ITS MOTHER. 35

“Oh, he’s all right,” he said. ‘He'll be very handsome soon. It’s his
ugly month.”

“TI wonder you didn’t insist on our bringing Uncle Rupert and Aas
dog to complete the party,” said the Master of the House.

The notion tickled Leonard, and he laughed so heartily that the
puppy’s legs got loose, and required to be tucked in afresh. Then both
remained quiet for several seconds, during which the puppy looked as
anxious as ever; but Leonard’s face wore a smile of dreamy content
that doubled its loveliness.

But as the carriage passed the windows of the library a sudden
thought struck him, and dispersed his repose.

Gripping his puppy firmly under his arm, he sprang to his feet—
regardless of other people’s—and waving his cap and feather above his
head he cried aloud, “Good-bye, Uncle Rupert! Can you hear me?
Uncle Rupert, I say! I am—déetus—sorte—mea !”

* % * * * *

All the Camp was astir.

Men and bugles awoke with the dawn and the birds, and now the
women and children of all ranks were on the alert. (Nowhere does so
large and enthusiastic a crowd collect “to see the pretty soldiers go by,”
as in those places where pretty soldiers live.)

Soon after gun-fire O’Reilly made his way from his own quarters to
those of the Barrack Master, opened the back-door by some process
best known to himself, and had been busy for half an hour in the
drawing-room before his proceedings woke the Colonel. They had
been as noiseless as possible ; but the Colonel’s dressing-room opened
into the drawing-room, his bedroom opened into that, and all the doors
and windows were open to court the air.

“ Who’s there ?” said the Colonel from his pillow.

“Tis O’Reilly, Sir. I ask your pardon, Sir; but I heard that the
Mistress was not well. She'll be apt to want the reclining-chair, Sir;
and ’twas damaged in the unpacking. I got the screws last night, but I
was busy soldiering* till too late ; so I come in this morning, for Smith’s
no good at a job of the kind at all. He’s a butcher to his trade.”

“Mrs. Jones is much obliged to you for thinking of it, O’Reilly.”

“°Tis an honour to oblige her, Sir. I done it sound and secure.
Tis as safe as a rock ; but I’d like to nail a bit of canvas on from the
porch to the other side of the hut, for shelter, in case she’d be sitting

* “* Soldiering ”—a barrack term for the furbishing up of accoutrements, &c.



36 FAIR LAUGHS THE MORN, AND SOFT THE ZEPHYR BLOWS.

out to taste the air and see the troops go by. “Twill not take me five
minutes, if the hammering wouldn't be too much for the Mistress. "Tis
a hot day, Sir, for certain, till the guns bring the rain down.”

“ Put it up, if you’ve time.”

“¥ will, Sir. I left your sword and gloves on the kitchen- Eble:
Sir ; and I told Smith to water the rose before the sun’s on to it.”

With which O Reilly adjusted the cushions of the invalid-chair, and
having nailed up the bit of canvas outside, so as to form an impromptu
veranda, he ran back to his quarters to put himself into marching order
for the Field Day.

The Field Day broke into smiles of sunshine too early to be last-
ing. By breakfast-time the rain came down without waiting for the
guns; but those most concerned took the changes of weather cheer-
fully, as soldiers should. Rain damages uniforms, but it lays dust ; and
the dust of the Sandy Slopes was dust indeed!

After a pelting shower the sun broke forth again, and from that
time onwards the weather was “Queen’s Weather,” and Asholt was at its
best. The sandy Camp lay girdled by a zone of the verdure of early
summer, which passed by miles of distance, through exquisite gradations
of many blues, to meet the soft threatenings of the changeable sky.
Those lowering and yet tender rain-clouds which hover over the British
Isles, guardian spirits of that scantly recognized blessing——a temperate
climate ; Naiads of the waters over the earth, whose caprices betwixt
storm and sunshine fling such beauty upon a landscape as has no‘
parallel except in the common simile of a fair face quivering between
tears and smiles.

Smiles were in the ascendant as the regiments began to leave their
parade-grounds, and the surface of the Camp (usually quiet, even to
dullness) sparkled with movement. Along every principal road the
colour and glitter of marching troops rippled like streams, and as the
band of one regiment died away another broke upon the excited ear.

At the outlets of the Camp eager crowds waited patiently in the
dusty hedges to greet favourite regiments, or watch for personal friends
amongst the troops ; and on the ways to the Sandy Slopes every kind
of vehicle, from a drag to a donkey-cart, and every variety of pedes:
trian, from an energetic tourist carrying a field-glass to a more admirably
energetic mother carrying a baby, disputed the highway with cavalry in
brazen breastplates, and horse-artillery whose gallant show was noe ned
in its own dust.

Lady. Jane’s. visitors. had expressed themselves as. anxious not to



STAND FAST, CRAIGELLACHIE ! 37

miss anything, and troops were still pouring out of the Camp when the
Master of the House brought his skittish horses to where a “block”
had just occurred at the turn to the Sandy Slopes.

What the shins and toes of the visitors endured whilst that knot of
troops of all arms disentangled itself and streamed away in gay and
glittering lines, could only have been concealed by the supreme powers
of endurance latent in the weaker sex; for with the sight of every
fresh regiment Leonard changed his plans for his own future career, and
with every change he forgot a fresh promise to keep quiet, and took by
storm that corner of the carriage which for the moment offered the best
point of view.

Suddenly, through the noise and dust, and above the dying away of
conflicting bands into the distance, there came another sound—a sound
unlike any other—the skirling of the pipes; and Lady Jane sprang up
and put her arms about her son, and bade him watch for the High-
landers, and if Cousin Alan looked up as he went past to cry “ Hurrah
for Bonnie Scotland !”

For this sound and this sight—the bagpipes and the Highlanders—
a sandy-faced Scotch lad on the tramp to Southampton had waited for
an hour past, frowning and freckling his face in the sun, and exasperat-
ing a naturally dour temper by reflecting on the probable pride and
heartlessness of folk who wore such soft complexions and pretty clothes
as the ladies and the little boy in the carriage on the other side of the
road.

But when the skirling of the pipes cleft the air his cold eyes
softened as he caught sight of Leonard’s face, and the echo that he
made to Leonard’s cheer was caught up by the good-humoured crowd,
who gave the Scotch regiment a willing ovation as it swung proudly by.
After which the carriage moved on, and for a time Leonard sat very
still. He was thinking of Cousin Alan and. his comrades; of the toss-
ing plumes that shaded their fierce eyes; of the swing of kilt and
sporran with their unfettered limbs; of the rhythmic tread of their
white feet and the fluttering ribbons on the bagpipes; and of Alan’s
handsome face looking out of his most becoming bravery.

The result of -his meditations Leonard announced with his usual
lucidity :—

“I am Scotch, not Irish, though O’Reilly zs the nicest man I ever
knew. But I must tell him that I really cannot grow up into an Owld
Soldier, because I mean to be a young. Highland officer, and look at
ladies with my eyes like ¢#és—and carry my sword so /”



a

CHAPTER V.

«Oh that a man might know the end of this day’s business ere it comes!”

Gulius Cesar.












EARS of living amongst
soldiers had increased,
rather than diminished,
Mrs. Jones's telish for
he sights and sounds of.
military life.
! . The charm of novelty

s proverbially great, but
: it is not so powerful as

‘ that peculiar spell which
“drew the retired tallow-
chandler back to “shop” |
on melting-days, and
which guided the choice
of the sexton of a ceme-
tery who only took one
holiday trip in the course
of seven years, and then
he went to a cemetery
at some distance to see
how they managed mat-
ters there. And, indeed, poor humanity may be very thankful for the
infatuation, since it goes far to make life pleasant in the living to plain
folk who-do not make a point of being discontented.

In obedience to this law of nature, the Barrack Master’s wife did
exactly what O’Reilly had expected: her to do. As she could not drive
to the Field Day, she strolled out to see the troops go by. Then the
vigour derived from breakfast and the freshness of the morning air
began to fail, the day grew hotter, the camp looked dreary and deserted,

Sv ebs



THERE’S TROUBLE IN THE AIR. 39

and, either from physical weakness or from some untold cause, a name-
less anxiety, a sense of trouble in the air, began to oppress her.

Wandering out again to try and shake it off, it was almost a relief,
like the solving of a riddle, to find Blind Baby sitting upon his Big
Drum, too low-spirited to play the Dead March, and crying because
all the bands had “gone right away.” Mrs. Jones made friends with
him, and led him off to her hut for consolation, and he was soon as
happy as ever, standing by the piano and beating upon his basket in
time to the tunes she played for him. But the day and the hut grew
hotter, and her back ached, and the nameless anxiety re-asserted itself,
and was not relieved by Blind Baby’s preference for the Dead March
over every other tune with which she tried to beguile him. ,

And when he had gone back to his own Parade, with a large piece
of cake and many assurances that the bands would undoubtedly return,
and the day wore on, and the hut became like an oven (in the absence
of any appliances to mitigate the heat), the Barrack Master’s wife came
to the hasty conclusion that Asholt was hotter than India, whatever
thermometers might say; and, too weary to seek for breezes outside, or
to find a restful angle of the reclining chair inside, she folded her hands
in her lap and abandoned herself to the most universal remedy for most
ills—patience. And Patience was its own reward, for she fell asleep.

Her last thoughts as she dozed off were of her husband and her
son, wishing that they were safe home again, that she might assure her-
self that it was not on their account that there was trouble in the air.
Then she dreamed of being roused by the Colonel’s voice saying, “I
have bad news to tell you——” and was really awakened by straining
in her dream to discover what hindered him from completing his
sentence.

She had slept some time—it was now afternoon, and the air was
full of sounds of the returning bands. She went out into the road and
saw the Barrack Master (he was easy to distinguish at some distance !)
pause on his homeward way, and then she saw her son running to join
his father, with his sword under his arm; and they came on together,
talking as they came.

And as soon as they got within earshot she said, “Have you bad
news to tell me?”

The Colonel ran up and drew her hand within his arm.

“Come indoors, dear Love.”

“You are both well?”



40 ROOSE THE FAIR DAY AT F’EN,

“Both of us. Brutally so.”

“ Quite well, dear Mother.”

Her son was taking her other hand into caressing care; there
could be no doubt about the bad news.

“ Please tell me what it is.”

“There has been an accident——”

“To whom?”

“To your brother’s child ; that jolly little chap——”

“Oh, Henry! how?”

“ He was standing up in the carriage, I believe, with a dog in his
arms. George saw him when he went past—didn’t you?”

“Ves. I wonder he didn’t fall then. I fancy some one had told
him it was our regiment. The dog was struggling, but he would take
off his hat to us .

The young soldier choked, and added with difficulty, “I think I
never saw so lovely a face. Poor little cousin !”

“ And he overbalanced himself?”

“Not when George saw him. I believe it was when the Horse
Artillery were going by at the gallop. They say he got so much ex-
cited, and the dog barked, and they both fell. Some say there were
people moving a drag, and some that he fell under the horse of a patrol.
Anyhow, I’m afraid he’s very much hurt. They took him straight home
in an ambulance-waggon to save time. Erskine went with him. I sent
off a telegram for them for a swell surgeon from town, and Lady Jane
promised a line if I send over this evening. O’Reilly must go after
dinner and wait for the news.”

O’Reilly, sitting stiffly amid the coming and going of the servants
at the Hall, was too deeply devoured by anxiety to trouble himself as to
whether the footman’s survey of his uniform bespoke more interest or
contempt. But when—just after gunfire had sounded from the distant .
camp—Jemima brought him the long-waited for note, he caught the
girl’s hand, and held it for some moments before he was able to say,
“Just tell me, miss ; is it good news or bad that Pll be carrying back in
this bit of paper?” And as Jemima only answered by sobs, he added,
almost impatiently, “Will he live, dear? Nod your head if ye can do
no more.”

Jemima nodded, and the soldier dropped her hand, drew a long
breath, and gave himself one of those shakes with which an Irishman
so often throws off care.





PORCELAIN OR BRICK—-YET BOTH CLAY. 41

“ Ah, then, dry your eyes, darlin’; while there’s life there’s hope.”

But Jemima sobbed still.

“The doctor—from London—says he may live a good while, but
—but—he’s to be a cripple all his days !”

“Now wouldn’t I rather be meeting a tiger this evening than see
the mistress’s face when she gets that news !”

And O’Reilly strode back to camp.

Going along through a shady part of the road in the dusk, seeing
nothing but the red glow of the pipe with which he was consoling him-
self, the soldier stumbled against a lad sleeping on the grass by the
roadside. It was the tramping Scotchman, and as he sprang to his feet
the two Kelts broke into a fiery dialogue that seemed as if it could only
come to blows.

It did not. It came to the good-natured soldier’s filling the way-
farer’s pipe for him.

“Much good may it do ye! And maybe the next time a decent
man that’s hastening home on the wings of misfortune stumbles against
ye, ye’ll not be so apt to take offence.”

“T ask your pardon, man; I was barely wakened, and I took ye
for one of these gay red-coats blustering hame after a bloodless battle
on the Field Day, as they ca’ it.”

“Bad luck to the Field Day! A darker never dawned; and
wouldn’t a bloodier battle have spared a child?”

“Your child? What’s happened to the bairn ?”

“My child indeed! And his mother a lady of title, no less.”

“What's got him?”

“Fell out of the carriage, and was trampled into a cripple for all
the days of his life. He that had set as fine a heart as ever beat on
being a soldier ; and a grand one he’d have made. “Sure ’tis a noble-
man ye'll be,” says I. “’Tis an owld soldier I mean to be, O’Reilly,”
says he. And——”

“Fond of the soldiers—his mother a leddy? Man! Had he a
braw new velvet coat and the face of an angel on him?”

“He had so.”

“And I that thocht they’d all this warld could offer them!—A
cripple? Ech sirs !”



42

CHAPTER VI.

“T will do it... . for Iam weak by nature, and very timorous, unless where
a strong sense of duty holdeth and supporteth me. There GoD acteth, and not His.

creature,”
Lady Fane Grey.







EONARD was to some ex-
tent a spoiled child. But it.
demands a great deal of un-
selfish foresight, and of self-
discipline, to do more for a
beautiful and loving pet than
play with it.

4 And if his grace and

“beauty and high spirits had

been strong temptations to.




A









â„¢ sired, and his own way above
== all, how much greater were:
a = the excuses fOr indulging every
whim when the radiant loveli-

= ness of health had faded to the:

SS ob wan wistfulness of pain, when.

Sram the young limbs bounded no.

more, and when his boyish hopes and hereditary ambitions were cut
off by the shears of a destiny that seemed drearier than death?

As soon as the poor child ‘was able to be moved his parents took a
place on the west coast of Scotland, and carried him thither.

The neighbourhood of Asholt had become intolerable by them for
some time to come, and a soft climate and sea-breezes were 4-ecom-
mended for his general health.

Jemima’s dismissal was revoked. Leonard flatly, and indeed furi-
ously, refused to have any other nurse. During the first crisis a skilled:
hospital nurse was engaged, but from the time that he fully recovered
consciousness he would receive help from no hands but those of Jemima
and Lady Jane.







THE TYRANNY OF THE WEAK. 43

Far older and wiser patients than he become ruthless in their de-
mands upon the time and strength of those about them; and Leonard
did not spare his willing slaves by night or by day. It increased their
difficulties and his sufferings that the poor child was absolutely un-
accustomed to prompt obedience, and disputed the doctor’s orders as
he had been accustomed to dispute all others.

Lady Jane’s health became very much broken, but Jemima was
fortunately possessed of a sturdy body and an inactive mind, and with
a devotion little less than maternal she gave up both to Leonard’s
service.

He had a third slave of his bed-chamber—a black one—the Black
Puppy, from whom he had resolutely refused to part, and whom he
insisted upon having upon his bed, to the Doctor’s disgust. When
months passed, and the Black Puppy became a Black Dog, large and
cumbersome, another effort was made to induce Leonard to part with
him at night ; but he only complained bitterly.

“It is very odd that there cannot be a bed big enough for me and
my dog. I am an invalid, and I ought to have what I want.”

So The Sweep remained as his bedfellow.

The Sweep also played the part of the last straw in the drama of
Jemima’s life ; for Leonard would allow no one but his own dear nurse
to wash his own dear dog ; and odd hours, in which Jemima might have
snatched a little rest and relaxation, were spent by her in getting the
big dog’s still lanky legs into a tub, and keeping him there, and washing
him, and drying and combing him into fit condition to spring back on
to Leonard’s coverlet when that imperious little invalid called for him.

Tt was a touching manifestation of the dog’s intelligence that he
learned with the utmost care to avoid jostling or hurting the poor suffer-
ing little body of his master.

Leonard’s fourth slave was his father.

But the Master of the House had no faculty for nursing, and was
by no means possessed of the patience needed to persuade Leonard for
his good. So he could only be with the child when he was fit to be
read or played to, and later on, when he was able to be out of doors.
And at times he went away out of sight of his son’s sufferings, and tried
to stifle the remembrance of a calamity and disappointment, whose
bitterness his own heart alone fully knew.

After the lapse of nearly two years Leonard suddenly asked to be
taken home. He was tired of the shore, and wanted to see if The



44 TO EACH HIS SUFFERINGS.

Sweep remembered the park. He wanted to see if Uncle Rupert would
look surprised to see him going about in a wheel-chair. He wanted to
go to the Camp again, now the doctor said he might have drives, and
see if O’Reilly was alive still, and his uncle, and his aunt, and his
cousin. He wanted father to play to him on their own organ, their very
own organ, and—no, thank, you!—he did not want any other music
now.

He hated this nasty place, and wanted to go home. If he was
going to live he wanted to live there, and if he was going to die he
wanted to die there, and have his funeral his own way, if they knew a
General and could borrow a gun-carriage and a band.

He didn’t want to eat or to drink, or to go to sleep, or to take his
medicine, or to go out and send The Sweep into the sea, or to be read
to or played to; he wanted to go home—home—home !

The upshot of which was, that before his parents had time to put
into words the idea that the agonizing associations of Asholt were still
quite unendurable, they found themselves congratulating each other on
having got Leonard safely home before he had cried himself into con-
vulsions over twenty-four hours’ delay.

For a time, being at home seemed to revive him. He was in less
pain, in better spirits, had more appetite, and was out a great deal with
his dog and his nurse. But he fatigued himself, which made him fret-
ful, and he certainly grew more imperious every day.

His whim was to be wheeled into every nook and corner of the
place, inside and out, and to show them to The Sweep. And who
could have had the heart to refuse him anything in the face of that
dread affliction which had so changed him amid the unchanged sur-
roundings of his old home?

Jemima led the life of a prisoner on the treadmill. When she
wasn’t pushing him about she was going errands for him, fetching and
carrying. She was “never off her feet.”

He moved about a little now on crutches, though he had not
strength to be very active with them, as some cripples are. But they
became ready instruments of his impatience to thump the floor with
one end, and not infrequently to strike those who offended him with the
other. :

His face was little less beautiful than of old, but it looked wan and
weird ; and his beauty was often marred by what is more destructive of
beauty even than sickness— the pinched lines of peevishness and ill-



STERN DAUGHTER OF THE VOICE OF GOD! 0 DuTy! 45

temper. He suffered less, but he looked more unhappy, was more
difficult to please, and more impatient with all efforts to please him.
But then, though nothing is truer than that patience is its own reward,
it has to be learned first. And, with children, what has to be learned
must be taught.

To this point Lady Jane’s meditations brought her one day as
she paced up and down her own morning-room, and stood before the
window which looked down where the elm-trees made long shadows on
the grass ; for the sun was declining, greatly to Jemima’s relief, who had
been toiling in Leonard’s service through the hottest hours of a summer
day.

Lady Jane had a tender conscience, and just now it was a very
uneasy one. She was one of those somewhat rare souls who are by
nature absolutely true. Not so much with elaborate avoidance of lying,
or an aggressive candour, as straight-minded, single-eyed, clear-headed,
and pure-hearted ; a soul to which the truth and reality of things, and
the facing of things, came as naturally as the sham of them and the
blinking of them comes to others.

When such a nature has strong affections it is no light matter if
love and duty come into conflict. They were in conflict now, and the
mother’s, heart was pierced with a two-edged sword. For if she truly
believed what she believed, her duty towards Leonard was not only that
of a tender mother to a suffering child, but the duty of one soul to
another soul, whose responsibilities no man might deliver him from, nor
make agreement unto Gon that he should be quit of them.

And if the disabling of his body did not stop the developing, one
way or another, of his mind; if to learn fortitude and patience under
his pains was not only his highest duty but his best chance of happi-
ness ; then, if she failed to teach him these, of what profit was it that
she would willingly have endured all his sufferings ten times over that
life might be all sunshine for him?

And deep down in her truthful soul another thought rankled. No
one but herself knew how the pride of her heart had been stirred by
Leonard’s love for soldiers, his brave ambitions, the. high spirit and
heroic instincts which he inherited from a long line of gallant men and
noble women. Had her pride been a sham? Did she only care for the
courage of the battle-field? Was she willing that her son should be a
coward, because it was not the trumpet’s sound that summoned him to
fortitude? She had strung ‘her: héart to the thought that, like many a



46 HE THAT THOLES, QE’RCOMES.

mother of her race, she might live to gird on his sword; should she fail
to help him to carry his cross ?

At this point a cry came from below the window, and looking out
she saw Leonard, beside himself with passion, raining blows like hail
with his crutch upon poor Jemima; The Sweep watching matters ner-
vously from under a garden seat.

Leonard had been irritable all day, and this was the second serious
outbreak. The first had sent the Master of the House to town with a
deeply-knitted brow.

Vexed at being thwarted in some slight matter, when he was sitting
in his wheel-chair by the side of his father in the library, he had seized
a sheaf of papers tied together with amber-coloured ribbon, and had
torn them to shreds. It was a fair copy of the first two cantos of Zhe
Soul’s Satiety, a poem on which the Master of the House had been
engaged for some years. He had not touched it in Scotland, and was
now beginning to work at it again. He could not scold his cripple
child, but he had gone up to London in a far from comfortable mood.

And now Leonard was banging poor Jemima with his crutches!
Lady Jane felt that her conscience had not roused her an hour too soon.

The Master of the House dined in town, and Leonard had tea
with his mother in her very own room; and The Sweep had tea there too.

And when the old elms looked black against the primrose-coloured
sky, and it had been Leonard’s bed-time for half an hour pab the three
were together still.

* * * * * *

“TJ beg your pardon, Jemima, I am very sorry, and I’ll never do so
any more. I didn’t want to beg your pardon before, because I was
naughty, and because you trode on my Sweep’s foot. But I beg your
pardon now, because I am good—at least I am better, and I am going
to try to be good.”

Leonard’s voice was as clear as ever, and his manner as direct and
forcible. Thus he contrived to say so much before Jemima burst in
(she was putting him to bed).

““My lamb! my pretty; You're always good——”

“Don’t tell stories, Jemima; and please don’t contradict me, for it
makes me cross; and if I am cross I can’t be good; and if I am not
good all to-morrow I am not to be allowed to go downstairs after
dinner. And there’s a V.C. coming to dinner, and I do want to see
him more than I want anything else in all the world.”



47

CHAPTER VII.

‘What is there in the world to distinguish virtues from dishonour, or that can
make anything rewardable, but the labour and the danger, the pain and the diffi-
culty ?”—Feremy Taylor.






a Bee HE V.C. did not look like a
Z =— bloodthirsty warrior. He had a
_ smooth, oval, olivart face, and
~~ dreamy eyes. He was not very
“big, and he was absolutely
unpretending. He was a
young man, and only by
the courtesy of his manners
escaped the imputation of
being a shy young man.

Before the campaign in

which he won his cross he
was most distinctively
known in society as having
a very beautiful voice and
a very charming way of
singing, and yet as giving
himself no airs on the sub-
ject of an accomplishment
which makes some men
almost intolerable by their fellow-men.

He was a favourite with ladies on several accounts, large and small.
Among the latter was his fastidious choice in the words of the songs he
sang, and sang with a rare fineness of enunciation.

It is not always safe to believe that a singer means what he sings ;
but if he’sing very noble words with justness and felicity, the ear rarely
refuses to flatter itself that it is learning some of the secrets of a noble
heart.

Upon a silence that could be felt the last notes of such a song had
just fallen. The V.C.’s lips were closed, and those of the Master of



STM

48 THE COURAGE TO BEAR, AND THE COURAGE TO DARE

the House (who had been accompanying him) were still parted with a
smile of approval, when the wheels of his chair and some little fuss at
the drawing-room door announced that Leonard had come to claim his
mother’s promise. And when Lady Jane rose and went to meet him,
the V. C. followed her.

“There is my boy, of whom I told you. Leonard, this is the
gentleman you have wished so much to see.”

The V.C., who sang so easily, was not a ready speaker, and the
sight of Leonard took him by surprise, and kept him silent. He had
been prepared to pity and be good-natured to a lame child who had a
whim to see him; but not for this vision of rare beauty, beautifully
dressed, with crippled limbs lapped in Eastern embroideries by his
colour-loving father, and whose wan face and wonderful eyes were
lambent with an intelligence so eager and so wistful, that the creature
looked less like a morsel of suffering humanity than like a soul fretted
by the brief detention of an all-but-broken chain.

* How do you do, V.C.? I am very glad to see you. I wanted
to see you more than anything in the world. I hope you don’t mind
seeing me because I have been a coward, for I mean to be brave now ;
and that is why I wanted to see you so much, because you are such a
very brave man. The reason I was a coward was partly with being so
cross when my back hurts, but particularly with hitting Jemima with my
crutches, for no one but a coward strikes a woman. She trode on my
dog’s toes. This is my dog. Please pat him; he would like to be
patted bya V.C. He is called The Sweep because he is black. He
lives with me all along. I “ave hit Aim, but I hope I shall not be
naughty again any more. I wanted to grow up into a brave soldier,
but I don’t think, perhaps, that I ever can now; but mother says I can
be a brave cripple. I would rather be a brave soldier, but I’m going to
try to be a brave cripple. ’ Jemima says there’s no saying what you can
do till you try. Please show me your Victoria Cross.”

“It’s on my tunic, and that’s in my quarters in Camp. I’m so
sorry.”

“So am I. I knew you lived in Camp. I like the Camp, and I
want you to tell me about your hut. Do you know my uncle, Colonel
Jones? Do you know my aunt, Mrs. Jones? And my cousin, Mr.
Jones? Do you know a very nice Irishman, with one good-conduct
stripe, called O’Reilly? Do you know my cousin Alan in the Highlan-
ders? But I believe he has gone away. I have so many things I want



ARE REALLY ONE AND THE SAME. 49

to ask you, and oh !—those ladies are coming after us! They want to
take you away. Look at that ugly old thing with a hook-nose and an
eye-glass, and a lace shawl and a green dress; she’s just like the Poll
Parrot in the housekeeper’s room. But she’s looking at you. Mother !
Mother dear! Don’t let them take him away. You did promise me,
you know you did, that if I was good all to-day I should talk to the
V.C. Ican’t talk to him if I can’t have him all to myself. Do let us
go into the library, and be all to ourselves. Do keep those women
away, particularly the Poll Parrot. Oh, I hope I shan’t be naughty! I
do feel so impatient! I was good, you know I was. Why doesn’t
James come and show my friend into the library, and carry me out of
my chair?” pms tows

“Let me carry you, little friend, and we'll run away together, and
the company will say, ‘There goes a V.C. running away from a Poll
Parrot in a lace shawl !’”

“Ha! ha! You are nice and funny. But caz you carry me?
Take off this thing! Did you ever carry anybody that had been hurt?”

“Yes, several people—much bigger than you.”

“Men?”

“Men.”

“Men hurt like me, or wounded in battle 2?”

“Wounded in battle.”

“Poor things! Did they die?”

“Some of them.”

“TI shall die pretty soon, I believe. I meant to die young, but
more grown-up than this, and in battle. About your age, I think. How
old are you?”

“T shall be twenty-five in October.”

“That’s rather old. I meant about Uncle Rupert’s age. He died
in battle. He was seventeen. You carry very comfortably. Now we're
safe! Put me on the yellow sofa, please. I want all the cushions, be-
cause of my back. It’s because of my back, you know, that I can’t
grow up into a soldier. I don’t think I possibly can. Soldiers do have
to have such very straight backs, and Jemima thinks mine will never be
straight again ‘on this side the grave.’ So I’ve got to try and be brave
as I am ; and that’s why I wanted to see you. Do you mind my talking
rather more than you? I have so very much to say, and I’ve only a
quarter of an hour, because of its being long past my bed-time, and a

good lot of that has gone.”
E













































































































































































































CN ii

ee

















































































































































































































































































































“Let me carry you, little friend, and we'll run away together, and the company will say,
‘There goes a V.C. running away from a Poll Parrot in a lace shawl !'"—Page 4g. .



*TIS GOOD FOR MEN TO LOVE THEIR PRESENT PAINS, 5!

' “Please talk, and let me listen.”

“Thank you. Pat The Sweep again, please. He thinks we're
neglecting him. That’s why he gets up and knocks you with his head.”

“Poor Sweep! Good old dog !”

“Thank you. Now should you think that if I am very good, and
not cross about a lot of pain in my back and my head—really a good
lot—that that would count up to be as brave as having one wound if I'd
been a soldier?”

“ Certainly.”

“Mother says it would, and I think it might. Not a very big
wound, of course, but.a poke with a spear, or something of that sort.
It és very bad sometimes, particularly when it keeps you awake at
night.”

“My little friend, zat would count for lying out all night wounded
on the field when the battle’s over. Soldiers are not always fighting.”

“Tid you ever lie out for a night on a battle-field ?”

“Yes, once.”

“Did the night seem very long ?”

“Very long; and we were very thirsty.”

“So am I sometimes, but I have barley-water and lemons by my
bed, and jelly, and lots of things. You’d no barley-water, had you ?”

“No.”

“ Nothing ?”

“Nothing till the rain fell, then we sucked our clothes.”

“Tt would take a lot of my bad nights to count up to that! But I
think when I’m ill in bed I might count that like being a soldier in
hospital?” :

“Of course.”

“T thought—no matter how good I got to be—nothing could ever
count up to be as brave as a real battle, leading your men on and fight-
ing for your country, though you know you may be killed any minute.
But Mother says, if I coud try very hard, and think of poor Jemima as
well as myself, and keep brave in spite of feeling miserable, that then
(particularly as I shan’t be very long before I do die) it would be as
good as if I’d lived to be as old as Uncle Rupert, and fought bravely
when the battle was against ‘me, and cheered on my men, though I
knew I could never come out of it alive. Do you think it cow/d count
up to that? Do you? Oh, do answer me, and don’t stroke my head!
I get so impatient. You've been in battles—do you?”



52 UPON EXAMPLE; SO IS THE SPIRIT EASED.

“T do, I do.” ny

“You're a V.C., and you ought to know. I suppose nothing—not
even if I could be good always, from this minute right away till I die—
nothing could ever count up to the courage of a V.C.?”

“Gop knows it could, a thousand times over !”

“Where are you going? Please don’t go. Look at me. They’re
not going to chop the Queen’s head off, are they ?”

“Heaven forbid! What are you thinking about?”

“Why, because Look at me again. Ah! you’ve winked it
away, but your eyes were full of tears ; and the only other brave man
I ever heard of crying was Uncle Rupert, and that was because he
knew they were going to chop the poor King’s head off.”

“That was enough to make anybody cry.”

“T know it was. But do you know now, when I’m wheeling about
in my chair and playing with him, and he looks at me wherever I go;
sometimes for a bit I forget about the King, and I fancy he is sorry for
me. Sorry, I mean, that I can’t jump about, and creep under the table.
Under the table was the only place where I could get out of the sight.
of his eyes. Oh, dear! there’s Jemima.”

“But you are going to be good?” ;

“T know Iam. And I’m going to do lessons again. I did a little
French this morning—a story. Mother did most of it; but I know
what the French officer called the poor old French soldier when he
went to see him in a hospital.”

“What ?”

“ Mon brave. That means ‘my brave fellow.’ A nice name, wasn’t
it?”

“Very nice. Here’s Jemima.”

“I’m coming, Jemima. I’m not going to be naughty; but you
may go back to the chair, for this officer will carry me. He carries so
comfortably. Come along, my Sweep. Thank you so much. You
have put me in beautifully. Kiss me, please. Good night, V. C.”

“Good night, mon brave.”





CHAPTER VIII

“‘T am a man of no strength at all of body, nor yet of mind; but would, if I
could, though I can but crawl, spend my life in the pilgrims’ way. When I came at
the gate that is at the head of the way, the lord of that place did entertain me freely.
© + » gave me such things that were necessary for my journey, and bid me hope to the
end. . . . Other brunts I also look for; but this I have resolved on, to wit, to run
when I can, to go when I cannot run, and to creep when I cannot go. As to the
main, I thank Him that loves me, I am fixed; my way is before me, my mind is be-
yond the river that has no bridge, though I am as you see.”

““And behold—Mr. Ready-
to-halt came by with his crutches
in his hand, and he was also
going on Pilgrimage.”

Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress.

ND if we tie it with the
amber-coloured ribbon,
then every time I have it
out to put in a new Poor
Thing, I shall remember
how very naughty I was,and
how I spoilt your poetry.”

“Then we'll certainly
tie it with something else,”
said the Master of the
House, and he jerked away
the ribbon with a gesture
as decisive as his words.







1?

remember it
| «Oh, but, indeed, I
| ought to remember it ; and
a) : I do think I detter had—to
4? remind myself never, never
to be so naughty again !”

“Your mother’s own
son !” muttered the Master
of the House; and he
added aloud: “Well, I for-
bid you to remember it--so there! It'll be naughty if you do. Here’s






54 THE BOOK OF POOR THINGS.

some red ribbon. That should please :you, as you're so fond of
soldiers.”

Leonard and his father were seated side by side at a table in the
library. The dog lay at their feet.

They were very busy; the Master of the House working under
Leonard’s direction, who, issuing his orders from his wheel-chair, was so
full of anxiety and importance, that when Lady Jane opened the library-
door he knitted his brow and put up one thin little hand, in a comically
old-fashioned manner, to deprecate interruption.

“Don’t make any disturbance, Mother dear, if you please. Father
and I are very much engaged.”

“Don’t you think, Len, it would be kind to let poor Mother see
what we are doing, and tell her about it?”

Leonard pondered an instant.

“Well. I don’t mind.”

Then, as his mother’s arm came round him, he added, impetuously:

“Ves, I should like to. You can show, Father dear, and 7’7 do all
the explaining.”

The Master of the House displayed some sheets of paper, tied
with ribbon, which already contained a good deal of his handiwork, in-
cluding a finely-illuminated capital L on the title-page.

“Tt is to be called the Book of Poor Things, Mother dear. We're
doing it in bits first; then it will be bound. It’s a collection—a collec-
tion of Poor Things who’ve been hurt, like me; or blind, like the
organ-tuner ; or had their heads—no, not their heads, they couldn’t ga
on doing things after that—had their legs or their arms chopped off in
battle, and are very good and brave about it, and manage very, very
nearly as well as people who have got nothing the matter with them.
Father doesn’t think Poor Things is a good name. He wanted to call
it Masters of Fate, because of some poetry. What was it, Father?”

“¢Man is man and Master of his Fate,” quoted the Master of the
House.

“Yes, that’s it. But I don’t understand it so well as Poor Things.
They ave Poor Things, you know, and of course we shall only put in
brave Poor Things: not cowardly Poor Things. It was all my idea
only Father is doing the ruling, and printing, and illuminating for me.
I thought of it when the Organ-tuner was here.”

“The Organ-tuner ?”

“Yes, I heard the organ, and I made James carry me in, and put





SWEET ARE THE USES OF ADVERSITY. 55

me in the armchair close to the organ. And the tuner was tuning, and
he looked round, and James said, ‘It’s the young gentleman,’ and the
Tuner said, ‘Good morning, Sir, and I said, ‘Good morning, Tuner ;
go on tuning, please, for I want to see you do it’ And he went on ;
and he dropped a tin thing, like a big extinguisher, on to the floor ; and
he got down to look for it, and he felt about in such a funny way that I
burst out laughing. I didn’t mean to be rude; I couldn’t help it. And
I said, ‘Can't you see it? It's just under the table’ And he said, ‘I
can’t see anything, Sir; I’m stone blind.’ And he said, perhaps I would
be kind enough to give it him. And I said I was very sorry, but I hadn’t
got my crutches, and so I couldn’t get out of my chair without some
one to help me. And he was so awfully sorry for me, you can’t think !
He said he didn’t know I was more afflicted than he was; but I was
awfully sorry for him, for I’ve tried shutting my eyes; and you can bear
it just a minute, but then you must open them to see again, And I
said, ‘How can you do anything when you see nothing but blackness all
along?’ And he says he can do well enough as long as he's spared the
use of his limbs to earn his own livelihood. And I said, Are there
any more blind men, do you think, that earn their own livelihood? I
wish I could earn mine!’ And he said, ‘There are a good many blind
tuners, Sir’ And I said, ‘Go on tuning, please : I like to hear you do ;
it’ And he went on, and I did like him so much. Do you know the
blind tuner, Mother dear? And don’t you like him very much? I
think he is just what you think very good, and I think V.C. would
think it nearly as brave as a battle to be afflicted and go on earning
your own livelihood when you can see nothing but blackness all along.
Poor man !”

“JT do think it very good of him, my darling, and very brave.”

“T knew you would. And then I thought perhaps there are lots of
brave afflicted people—poor things! and perhaps there never was any-
body but me who wasn’t. And I wished I knew their names, and I
asked the Tuner his name, and he told me. And then I thought of my
book, for a good idea—a collection, you know. And I thought per-
haps, by degrees, I might collect three hundred and sixty-five Poor
Things, all brave. And so I am making Father rule it like his Diary,
and we’ve got the Tuner’s name down for the First of January; and if
you can think of anybody else you must tell me, and if I think they’re
afflicted enough and brave enough, I’ll put them in. But I shall have
to be rather particular, for we don’t want to fill up too fast. Now,



36 NOBLESSE OBLIGE.

Father, I’ve done the explaining, so you can show your part. Look,
Mother, hasn’t he ruled it well?” There’s only one tiny mess, and it
was the Sweep shaking the table with getting up to be patted.”

“ He has ruled it beautifully, But what a handsome L !”

“Oh, I forget! Wait a minute, Father; the explaining isn’t quite
finished. What do you think that L stands for, Mother dear?”

“For Leonard, I suppose.”

“No, no! What fun! You're quite wrong, Guess again.”

“Ts it not the Tuner’s name?”

“Oh, no! He’s in the first of January—I told you so. And in
plain printing. Father really couldn’t illuminate three hundred and
sixty-five poor things !”

“Of course he couldn’t. It was silly of me to think so.”

“Do you give it up?”

“I must. I cannot guess.”

“It’s the beginning of “ Zetus sorte mea.” Ah, you know now!
You ought to have guessed without my telling you. Do you remember?
I remember, and I mean to remember. I told Jemima that very night.
I said, ‘It means Happy with my fate, and in our family we have to be
happy with it, whatever sort of a one it is.’ For you told me so. And
I told the Tuner, and he liked hearing about it very much. And then
he went on tuning, and he smiled so when he was listening to the
notes, I thought he looked very happy; so I asked him, and he said,
Yes, he was always happy when he was meddling with a musical instru-

-ment. But I thought, most likely all brave poor things are happy with
their fate, even if they can’t tune; and I asked Father, and he said, ‘Yes,’
and so we are putting it into my collection—partly for that, and partly,
when the coat-of-arms is done, to show that the book belongs to me.
Now, Father dear, the explaining is really quite finished this time, and
you may do all the rest of the show-off yourself!”



57

CHAPTER IX.

** St. George ! a stirring life they lead,
‘That have such neighbours near.”
Marmion.

H, Jemima! Jemima! I
4 know you are very kind,
f and I do mean not to be
impatient; but either
you're telling stories or
you're talking nonsense,
and that’s a fact. How
can you say that that blue
stuff is a beautiful match,
and will wash the exact
colour, and that you’re
sure I shall like it when
it’s made up with a cord
and tassels, when it’s ot
the blue I want, and when
you £nxow the men in hos-
pital haven’t any tassels
to their dressing-gowns at

; a all! Youre as bad as
that horrid shopman who made me so angry. If I had not been obliged
to be good, I should have liked to hit him hard with my crutch, when
he kept on saying he knew I should prefer a shawl-pattern lined with
crimson, if I would let him send one. Oh, here comes Father! . Now,
that’s right; he'll know. Father dear, zs this blue pattern the same
colour as that?”

“Certainly not. But what’s the matter, my child?”

“It’s about my dressing-gown ; and I do get so tired about it, be-
cause people will talk nonsense, and won’t speak the truth, and won’t
believe I know what I want myself. Now, I'll tell you what I want. Do
you know the Hospitai Lines?”



= —— — ee



58 A BLUE DRESSING GOWN,

“Tn the cape > Yes.”

“ And you've seen all the invalids walling about in blue dressing-
gowns and little red ties?”

“Ves. Charming bits of colour.”

“Hurrah! that’s just it! Now, Father dear, if you wanted a
dressing-gown exactly like that would you have one made of
this?”

“Not if I knew it! Crude, coarse, staring——please don’t wave
it in front of my eyes, unless you want to make me feel like a bull with
a red-rag before him !”

“Oh, Father dear, you ave sensible! (Jemima, throw this pattern
away, please!) But you'd have felt far worse if you'd seen the shawl-
pattern lined with crimson. Oh, I do wish I could have been a bull
that wasn’t obliged to be /efus for half a minute, to give that shopman
just one toss! But I believe the best way to do will be as O’Reilly says.
—get Uncle Henry to buy me a real one out of store, and have it made
smaller for me. And I should like it ‘out of store.’”

From this conversation it will be seen that Leonard’s military bias.
knew no change. Had it been less strong it could only have served to
intensify the pain of the heartbreaking associations which anything con-
nected with the troops now naturally raised in his parents’ minds. But
it was a sore subject that fairly healed itself.

The Camp had proved a more cruel neighbour than the Master of
the House had ever imagined in his forebodings ; but it also proved a
friend. For if the high, ambitious spirit, the ardent imagination, the
vigorous will, which fired the boy’s fancy for soldiers and soldier-life,
had thus led to his calamity, they found in that sympathy with men of
hardihood and lives of discipline, not only an interest that never failed
and that lifted the sufferer out of himself, but a constant incentive to
those virtues of courage and patience for which he struggled with touch-
ing conscientiousness.

Then, without disparagement to the earnestness of his efforts to be
good, it will be well believed that his parents did their best to make
goodness easy to him. His vigorous individuality still swayed the plans
of the household, and these came to be regulated by those of the Camp
to a degree which half annoyed and half amused its Master.

The Asholt Gazette was delivered as regularly as the Zimes,; but on
special occasions, the arrangements for which were only known the night
before, O'Reilly, or some other Orderly, might be seen wending his way





MILITARY MANCEUVRES. 59

up the Elm Avenue by breakfast time, “with Colonel Jones’ compli-
ments, and the Orders of the Day for the young gentleman.” And
sO many were the military displays at which Leonard contrived to be
present, that the associations of pleasure and alleviation with Parades
and Manceuvres came at last almost to blot out the associations of pain
connected with that fatal Field Day.

He drove about a great deal, either among air-cushions in the big
carriage or in a sort of perambulator of his own, which was all too
easily pushed by any one, and by the side of which the Sweep walked
slowly and contentedly, stopping when Leonard stopped, wagging his
tail when Leonard spoke, and keeping sympathetic step to the invalid’s
pace with four sinewy black legs, which were young enough and strong
enough to have ranged for miles over the heather hills and never felt
fatigue. A true Dog Friend!

What the Master of House pleasantly called “Our Military Mania,”
seemed to have reached its climax during certain July manceuvres of the
regiments stationed at Asholt, and of additional troops who lay out
under canvas in the surrounding country.

Into this mimic campaign Leonard threw himself heart and soul.
His camp friends furnished him with early information of the plans for
each day, so far as the generals of the respective forces allowed them to
get wind, and with an energy that defied his disabilities he drove about
after “the armies,” and then scrambled on his crutches to points of
vantage where the carriage could not go.

And the Master of the House went with him.

The House itself seemed soldier-bewitched. Orderlies were as
plentiful as rooks among the elm-trees. The staff clattered in and out,
and had luncheon at unusual hours, and strewed the cedar-wood hall
with swords and cocked hats, and made low bows over Lady Jane’s
hand, and rode away among the trees.

These were weeks of pleasure and enthusiasm for Leonard, and of
not less delight for the Sweep ; but they were followed by an illness.

That Leonard bore his sufferings better helped to conceal the fact
that they undoubtedly increased ; and he over-fatigued himself and got
a chill, and had to go to bed, and took the Sweep to bed with him.

And it was when he could play at no “soldier-game,” except that
of “being in hospital,” that he made up his mind to have a blue dress-
ing-gown of regulation colour and pattern, and met with the difficulties
aforesaid in carrying out his whim.



60

CHAPTER X.

‘Fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.”

King John, Act iii.

ONG years after they were
written, a bundle of letters lay in
the drawer of a cabinet in Lady
Jane’s morning-room, carefully
kept, each in its own envelope,
and every envelope stamped with
the post-mark of Asholt Camp.

They were in Leonard’s
handwriting. A childish hand,
though good for his age, but
round and clear as his own
speech.

After much coaxing and
> considering, and after consulting
Z== with the doctors, Leonard had
Z been allowed to visit the Barrack
Master and his wife. After his
illness he was taken to the sea-
side, which he liked so little that
qs he was bribed to stay there by

the promise that, if the doctor
would allow it, he should, on his return, have the desire of his heart,
and be permitted to live for a time “in Camp,” and sleep in a hut.

The doctor gave leave. Small quarters would neither mar nor
mend an injured spine ; and if he felt the lack of space and luxuries to
which he was accustomed, he would then be content to return home.

The Barrack Master’s hut only boasted one spare bed-chamber for





LIFE IS MADE UP OF LITTLE THINGS. 6r

visitors, and when Leonard and his dog were in it there was not much
elbow-room. A sort of cupboard was appropriated for the use of
Jemima, and Lady Jane drove constantly into Camp to see her son.
Meanwhile he proved a very good correspondent, as his letters will show
for themselves. ,

LETTER I.
“ BARRACK Master’s Hut,
“6 The Camp, Asholt.

‘*MyY DEAR, DEAR MOTHER,—

‘*T hope you are quite well, and Father also. I am very happy, and
so is the Sweep. He tried sleeping on my bed last night, but there was not room,
though I gave him as much as ever I could. So he slept on the floor. It is a camp.
bed, and folds up, if you want it to. We have nothing like it. It belonged to a real
General. The General is dead. Uncle Henry bought it at his sale, You always.
have a sale if you die; and your brother-officers buy your things to pay your debts.
Sometimes you get them very cheap. I mean the things.

‘The drawers fold up, too. I mean the chest of drawers, and so does the wash-
hand-stand. It goes into the corner, and takes up very little room. There couldn’t
be a bigger one, or the door would not open—the one that leads into the kitchen.
The other door leads into a passage. I like having the kitchen next me. You can
hear everything. You can hear O’Reilly come in the morning, and I call to him to
open my door, and he says, ‘ Yes, sir,’ and opens it, and lets the Sweep out for a
run, and takes my boots. And you can hear the tap of the boiler running with your
hot water before she brings it, and you can smell the bacon frying for breakfast.

* Aunt Adelaide was afraid I should not like being woke up so early, but I do.
I waked a good many times. First with the gun. It’s like a very short thunder, and
shakes you. And then the bugles play. Father would like stem / And then right
away in the distance—trumpets. And the air comes in so fresh at the window. And
you pull up the clothes, if they’ve fallen off you, and go to sleep again. Mine had
all fallen off, except the sheet, and the Sweep was lying on them. Wasn’t it clever
of him to have found them in the dark? If I can’t keep them on, I’m going to have
campaigning blankets; they are sewed up like a bag, and you get into them.

‘*What do you think I found on my coverlet when I went to bed? A real,
proper, blue dressing-gown, and a crimson tie! It came out of store, and Aunt
Adelaide made it smaller herself. Wasn’t it kind of her?

“*T have got it on now. . Presently I am going to dress properly, and O’Reilly is.
going to wheel me down to the stores. It will be great fun. My cough has been
pretty bad, but it’s no worse than it was at home.

“ There’s a soldier come for the letters, and they are obliged to be ready.

*‘T am, your loving and dutiful son,
** LEONARD.

**P.S.—Uncle Henry says his father was very old-fashioned, and he always.
liked him to put ‘ Your dutiful son,’ so I put it to you.
‘* All these crosses mean kisses, Jemima told me.”



62 CHURCH PARADE,

LETTER II.

‘“¢, . .. I WENT to church yesterday, though it was only Tuesday. I need not
have gone unless I liked, but I liked. There is service every evening in the Iron
‘Church, and Aunt Adelaide goes, and so do I, and sometimes Uncle Henry. There
are not very many people go, but they behave very well, what there are. You can’t
tell what the officers belong to in the afternoon, because they are in plain clothes ;
but Aunt Adelaide thinks they were Royal Engineers, except one Commissariat one,
and an A.D. C., and the Colonel of a regiment that marched in last week. You
can’t tell what the ladies belong to unless you know them,

‘*You can always tell the men. Some were Barrack Sergeants, and some were
Sappers, and there were two Gunners, and an Army Hospital Corps, and a Cavalry
Corporal who came all the way from the barracks, and sat near the door, and said
very long prayers to himself at the end. And there were some schoolmasters, and a
man with gray hair and no uniform, who mends the roofs and teaches in the Sunday
School, and I fotget the rest. Most of the choir are Sappers and Commissariat
men, and the boys are soldiers’ sons. The Sappers and Commissariat belong to our
Brigade.

“There is no Sexton to our Church. He’s a Church Orderly. He has put me
-a kind of a back in the corner of one of the Officers’ Seats, to make me comfortable
in church, and a very high footstool. I mean to go every day, and as often as I can
‘on Sundays, without getting too much tired.

“You can go very often on Sunday mornings if you want to. They begin at
-eight o’clock, and go on till luncheon. There’s a fresh band, and a fresh chaplain,
and a fresh sermon, and a fresh congregation every time. Those are Parade Services.
The others are Voluntary Services, and I thought that meant for the Volunteers; but
‘O’Reilly laughed, and said, ‘ No, it only means that there’s no occasion to go to them
at all’—he means unless you like. But then I do like. There’s no sermon on week
days. Uncle Henry is very glad, and so am I. I think it might make my back ache.

‘*] am afraid, dear Mother, that you won’t be able to understand all I write to
you from the Camp ; but if you don’t, you must ask me and I’ll explain.

“When I say our guarters, remember I mean our hut; and when I say rations
it means bread and meat, and I’m not quite sure if it means coals and candles as well.
But I think I’ll make you a Dictionary if I can get a ruled book from the Canteen.
It would make this letter too much to go for a penny if I put all the words in I know.
Cousin George tells me them when he comes in after mess. He told me the Camp
name for Iron Church is Tin Tabernacle; but Aunt Adelaide says it’s not, and I’m
not to call it so, so I don’t. But that’s what he says.

“*I like Cousin George very much. I like his uniform. He is very thin, par-
‘ticularly round the waist. Uncle Henry is very stout, particularly round the waist.
Last night George came in after mess, and two other officers out of his regiment came
‘too. And then another officer came in. And they chaffed Uncle Henry, and Uncle
Henry doesn’t mind. And the other officer said, ‘Three times round a Subaltern—
‘once round a Barrack Master.’ And so they got Uncle Henry’s sword-belt out of his
‘dressing-room, and George and his friends stood back to back, and held up their
_jackets out of the way, and the other officer put the belt right round them, all three,



WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK, 63

and told them not to laugh. And Aunt Adelaide said, ‘Oh!’ and ‘You'll hurt
them.’ And he said, ‘Not a bit of it.’ And he buckled it. So that shows, It was

great fun. 2 :
‘‘Tam, your loving and dutiful Son,

‘* LEONARD,

‘ quite sure, because he won’t speak the truth. I said, ‘You talk rather like O'Reilly;
are you an Irish soldier?’ And he said, ‘I’d the misfortune to be quartered for six
months in the County Cork, and it was the ruin of my French accent.’ So I said,
* Are you a Frenchman ?’ and they all laughed, so I don’t know.

“*P,S. No. 2.—My back has been very bad, but Aunt Adelaide says I have been
very good. This is not meant for swagger, but to let you know.

(‘‘ Swagger means boasting. If you’re a soldier, swagger is the next worst thing
to running away.)

““P.S. No, 3.—I know another officer now. IJ like him. He is a D,A.Q.M.G.
I would let you guess that if you could ever find it out, but you couldn’t. It means
Deputy-Assistant-Quarter-Master-General. He is not so grand as you would think ;
a plain General is really grander. Uncle Henry says so, and he knows.”

LETTER III.

“*.... LT HAVE seen V.C. I have seen him twice. I have seen his cross. The
first time was at the Sports. Aunt Adelaide drove me there in the pony carriage,
We stopped at the Enclosure. The Enclosure is a rope, with a man taking tickets.
The Sports are inside ; so is the tent, with tea; so are the ladies, in awfully pretty
‘dresses, and the officers walking round them.

‘“‘There’s great fun outside, at least, I should think so. There’s a crowd of
people, and booths, and a skeleton man. I saw his picture. I should like to have
seen him, but Aunt Adelaide didn’t want to, so I tried to be Zetus without.

‘*When we got to the Enclosure there was a gentleman taking his ticket, and
when he turned round he was V.C. Wasn't it funny? So he came back and said,
‘Why, here’s my little friend!’ And he said, ‘You must let me carry you.’ And so
he did, and put me among the ladies. But the ladies got him a good deal. He went
and talked to lots of them, but I tried to be Ze¢ss without him; and then Cousin
George came, and lots of others, and then the V. C. came back and showed me
things about the Sports.

‘*Sports are very hard work: they make you so hot and tired; but they are
very nice to watch. The races were great fun, particularly when they fell in the
water, and the men in sacks who hop, and the blindfolded men with wheelbarrows.
Oh, they were so funny! They kept wheeling into each other, all except one, and he
‘went wheeling and wheeling right away up the field, all by himself and all wrong!
I did laugh.

“‘But what I liked best were the tent-pegging men, and most best of all, the
“Tug-of- War. :

‘The Irish officer did tent-pegging. He has the dearest pony you ever saw.
He is so fond of it, and it is so fond of him. He talks to it in Irish, and it under-



64 THEN COMES THE TUG-OF-WAR.

stands him. He cut off the Turk’s head,—not a real Turk, a shain Turk, and not a
whole one, only the head stuck on a pole. :

“The Tug-of-War was splendid! Two sets of men pulling at a rope to see
which is strongest. They did pull! They pulled so hard, both of them, with all
their might and main, that we thought it must be a drawn battle. But at last one set
pulled the other over, and then there was such a noise that my head ached dreadfully,
and the Irish officer carried me into the tent and gave me some tea. And then we
went home.

‘‘The next time I saw V. C. was on Sunday at Parade Service. He is on the
Staff, and wears a cocked hat. He came in with the General and the A.D.C., who
was at church on Tuesday, and I was so glad to see him.

‘* After church, everybody went about saying ‘Good morning,’ and ‘ How hot it
was in church!’ and V.C. helped me with my crutches, and showed me his cross.
And the General came up and spoke to me, and I saw his medals, and he asked how
you were, and I said, ‘ Quite well, thank you.’ And then he talked to a lady with
some little boys dressed like sailors. She said how hot it was in church, and he said,
‘I thought the roof was coming off with that last hymn.’ And she said, ‘ My little
boys call it the Tug-of-War Hymn; they are very fond of it.’ And he said, ‘The
men seem very fond of it.’ And he turned round to an officer I didn’t know, and
said, ‘ They ran away from you that last verse but one.’ And the officer said,
‘Yes, sir, they always do ; so I stop the organ and let them have it their own way.’

“T asked Aunt Adelaide, ‘Does that officer play the organ?’ And she said,
‘Yes, and he trains the choir. He’s coming in to supper.’ So he came. If the
officers stay sermon on Sunday evenings, they are late for mess. So the chaplain
stops after Prayers, and anybody that likes to go out before sermon can. If they stay
sermon, they go to supper with some of the married officers instead of dining at mess.

“‘So he came. I liked him awfully. He plays like Father, only I think he can
play more difficult things.

‘¢ He says, “‘ Tug-of-War Hymn’ is the very good name for that hymn, because
the men are so fond of it they all sing, and the ones at the bottom of the church
‘drag over’ the choir and the organ.

‘‘He said, ‘I’ve talked till I’m black in the face, and all to no purpose. It
would try the patience of a saint.” So I said, ‘Are youa saint?’ And he laughed
and said, ‘ No, I’m afraid not; I’m only a kapellmeister.’ So I call him ‘ Kapell-
meister.’ I do like him.

**T do like the Tug-of-War Hymn. It begins, ‘ The Son of Gop goes forth to
war.’ That’s the one. But we have it to a tune of our own, on Saints’ Days. The
verse the men tug with is, ‘A noble army, men and boys.’ I think they like it, be-
cause it’s about the army; and so do I.

“I am, your loving and dutiful son,
** LEONARD.

“«P.S.—I call the ones with cocked hats and feathers, ‘Cockatoos.’ There was
another Cockatoo who walked away with the General. Not very big. About the
bigness of the stuffed General in that Pawnbroker’s window; and I do think he had
quite as many medals. I wanted to see them. I wish Ihad. He looked at me.
He had a very gentle face ; but I was afraid of it. Was I a coward?

**You remember what these crosses are, don’t you? I told you.”



A SOLDIER SAINT. 65

LETTER IV.

“Tus is a very short letter. It’s only to ask you to send my book of Poor
Things by the Orderly who takes this, unless you are quite sure you are coming to see
me to-day. t

‘*A lot of officers are collecting for me, and there’s one in the Engineers can
print very well, so he’ll put them in.

‘©A Colonel with only one arm dined here yesterday. You can’t think how well
he manages, using first his knife and then his fork, and talking so politely all the
time. He has all kinds of dodges, so as not to give trouble and do everything for
himself. I mean to put him in,

‘‘IT wrote to Cousin Alan, and asked him to collect for me. I like writing
letters, and I do like getting them. Uncle Henry says he hates a lot of posts in the
day. I hate posts when there’s nothing for me. [I like all the rest.

**Cousin Alan wrote back by return, He says he can only think of the old
chap, whose legs were cut off in battle:

“And when his legs were smitten oft, |
He fought upon his stumps!”

It was very brave, if it’s true. Do you think itis? He did not tell me his name.
y 2 y
** Your loving and dutiful son,

‘* LEONARD.
*P.S.—I am letus sorte mea, and so is the Sweep.”

LETTER V.

“Tuis letter is not about a Poor Thing. It’s about a saint—a soldier saint—
which I and the chaplain think nearly the best kind. His name was Martin, he got
to be a Bishop in the end, but when he first enlisted he was only a catechumen. Do
you know what a catechumen is, dear mother? Perhaps if you're not quite so high-
church as the engineer I told you of, who prints so beautifully, you may not know.
It means when you’ve been born a heathen, and are going to be a Christian, only
you've not yet been baptized. The engineer has given me a picture of him, St.
Martin I mean, and now he has printed underneath it, in beautiful thick black letters
that you can hardly read if you don’t know what they are, and the very particular
words in red, ‘ Martin—yet but a Catechumen!’? He can illuminate too, though not
quite so well as Father, he is very high-church, and I’m high-church too, and so is our
Chaplain, but he is broad as well. The engineer thinks he’s rather too broad, but
Uncle Henry and Aunt Adelaide think he’s quite perfect, and so do I, and so does
everybody else, He comes in sometimes, but not very often because he’s so busy.
He came the other night because I wanted to confess. What I wanted to confess
was that I had laughed in church. He is a very big man, and he has a very big sur-
plice, with a great lot of gathers behind, which makes my engineer very angry, because
it’s the wrong shape, and he preaches splendidly, the Chaplain I mean, straight out
of his head, and when all the soldiers are listening he swings his arms about, and the
surplice gets in his way, and he catches hofli of it, and oh! Mother dear, I must tell
you what it reminded me of. When I was very little, and Father used to tie a knot

F



66 MARTIN—YET BUT A CATECHUMEN!

in his big pocket-handkerchief and put his first finger into it to make a head that
nodded, and wind the rest round his hand, and stick out his thumb and another finger
for arms, and do the ‘ Yea-verily-man’ to amuse you and me. It was last Sunday,
and a most splendid sermon, but his stole got round under his ear, and his sleeves did
look just like the Yea-verily-man, and I tried not to look, and then I caught the Irish
officer’s eye and he twinkled, and then I laughed, because I remembered his telling
Aunt Adelaide ‘That’s the grandest old Padré that ever got up into a pulpit, but did .
ye ever see a man get so mixed up with his clothes?’ I was very sorry when I laughed,
so I settled I would confess, for my engineer thinks you ought always to confess, so
when our chaplain came in after dinner on Monday, I confessed, but he only laughed,
till he broke down Aunt Adelaide’s black and gold chair. He is too big for it,
really, Aunt Adelaide never lets Uncle Henry sit on it. So he was very sorry, and
Aunt Adelaide begged him not to mind, and then in came my engineer in war-paint
(if you look out war-paznut in the Canteen Book I gave you, you'll see what it means).
He was in war-paint because he was Orderly Officer for the evening, and he’d got
his sword under one arm, and the picture under the other, and his short cloak on to
keep it dry, because it was raining, He made the frame himself; he can make
Oxford frames quite well, and he’s going to teach me how to. Then I said, ‘ Who
is it?’ so he told me, and now I’m going to tell you, in case you don’t know. Well,
St. Martin was born in Hungary, in the year 316. His father and mother were
heathens, but when he was about my age he made up his mind he would be a
Christian. His father and mother were so afraid of his turning into a monk, that as
soon as he was old enough they enlisted him in the army, hoping that would cure
him of wanting to be a Christian, but it didn’t—Martin wanted to be a Christian just
as much as ever; still he got interested with his work and his comrades, and he
dawdled on only a Catechumen, and didn’t make full profession and get baptized.
One winter his corps was quartered at Amiens, and on a very bitter night, near the
gates, he saw a half-naked beggar shivering with the cold. (I asked my engineer,
‘Was he Orderly Officer for the evening ?’ but he said, ‘More likely on patrol duty,
with some of his comrades.’ However, he says he won’t be sure, for Martin was
Tribune, which is very nearly a Colonel, two years afterwards, he knows). When
Martin saw the Beggar at the gate, he pulled out his big military cloak, and drew his
sword, and cut it in half, and wrapped half of it round the poor Beggar to keep him
warm, I know you'll think him very kind, but wait a bit, that’s not all. Next night
when Martin the soldier was asleep he had a vision. Did you ever have a vision ?
I wish I could! This was Martin’s vision. He saw Christ our Lord in Heaven,
sitting among the shining hosts, and wearing over one shoulder half a military cloak,
and as Martin saw Him he heard Him say, ‘Behold the mantle given to Me by
Martin—yet but a Catechumen!’ After that vision he didn’t wait any longer; he
was baptized at once.

“*Mother dear, I’ve told you this quite truthfully, but I can’t tell it you so
splendidly as my engineer did, standing with his back to the fire and holding out
his cape, and drawing his sword to show me how Martin divided his cloak with the
Beggar. Aunt Adelaide isn’t afraid of swords, she is too used to them, but she says
she thinks soldiers do things in huts they would never think of doing in big rooms,
just to show how neatly they can manage, without hurting anything. The chaplain
broke the chair, but.then he isn’t exactly a soldier, and the D.A.Q.M.G. that I told









































































































**Martin—yet but a Catechumen !"— Page 66.



68 ON GOD AND GOD-LIKE MEN WE BUILD OUR TRUST.

you of, comes in sometimes and says, ‘I beg your pardon Mrs. Jones, but I must,’—
and puts both his hands on the end of the sofa, and lifts his body till he gets his legs
sticking straight out. They are very long legs, and he and the sofa go nearly across
the room, but he never kicks anything, it’s a kind of athletics ; and there’s another
officer who comes in at one door and Catherine-wheel’s right across to the {farthest
corner, and he is over six foot, too, but they never break anything. We do laugh.

**T wish you could have seen my engineer doing St. Martin. Hehad to go directly
afterwards, and then the chaplain came and stood in front of me, on the hearthrug, in
the firelight, just where my engineer had been standing, and he took up the picture,
and looked at it. So I said, ‘Do you know about St. Martin?’ and he said he did,
and he said, ‘One of the greatest of those many Soldiers of the Cross who have also
fought under earthly banners.’ Then he put down the picture, and got hold of his
elbow with his hand, as if he was holding his surplice out of the way, and said, ‘Great,
as well as good, for this reason : he was one of those rare souls to whom the counsels
of Gop are clear, not to the utmost of the times in which he lived—but in advance ot
those times. Such men are not always popular, nor even largely successful in their
day, but the light they hold lightens more generations of this naughty world, than
the pious tapers of commoner men. You know that Martin the Catechumen became
Martin the Saint—do you know that Martin the Soldier became Martin the Bishop?—
and that in an age of credulity and fanaticism, that man of Gop discredited some
relics very popular with the pious in his diocesé, and proved and exposed them to be
those of an executed robber. Later in life it is recorded of Martin, Bishop of Tours,
that he lifted his voice in protest against persecutions for religion, and the punishment
of heretics. In the nineteenth century we are little able to judge, how great must
have been the faith of that man in the Gop of truth and of love.’ It was like a little
sermon, and I think this is exactly how he said it, for I got Aunt Adelaide to write it
out for me this morning, and she remembers sermons awfully well. I’ve been looking
St. Martin out in the calendar; his day is the roth of November. He is not a
Collect, Epistle, and Gospel Saint, only one of the Black Lettér ones ; but the roth
of November is going to be on a Sunday this year, and I am so“glad, for I’ve asked
our chaplain if we may have the Tug-of-War Hymn for St. Martin—and he has given
leave.

“It’s a long way off; I wish it came sooner. So now, Mother dear, you have
time to make your arrangements as you like, but you see that whatever happens, Z
must be in Camp on St. Martin’s Day.

** Your loving and dutiful son,

‘* LEONARD.”



69

CHAPTER XI.

“T have fought a good fight. I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.
Hencelorth —— !”
1 Tim, iv. 7.

T was Sunday. Sun-
day, the tenth of
November — St. Mar- ©
tin’s Day.

Though it was in
~~ November, a summer
day. A day of that
Little Summer which
alternately claims St.
Luke and St. Martin
as its patrons, and is
apt to shine its bright-
est when it can claim both—on the feast of All
Saints.

Sunday in camp. With curious points of
likeness and unlikeness to English Sundays else-
where. Like in that general aspect of tidiness
and quiet, of gravity and pause, which betrays
that a hard-working and very practical people have thought good to
keep much of the Sabbath with its Sunday. Like, too, in the little
groups of children, gay in Sunday best, and grave with Sunday books,
trotting to Sunday school.

Unlike, in that to see all the men about the place washed and
shaved is not, among soldiers, peculiar to Sunday. Unlike, also, in a
more festal feeling produced by the gay gatherings of men and officers
on Church Parade (far distant be the day when Parade Services shall be
abolished!), and by the exhilarating sounds of the Bands with which
each regiment marched from its parade-ground to the church.

Here and there small detachments might be met making their way
to the Roman Catholic church?in camp, or to places of worship. of

Y |
we
i

b. Moan









70 SAINT MARTIN’S DAY.

various denominations in the neighbouring town ; and on Blind Baby’s
Parade (where he was prematurely crushing his Sunday frock with his
drum-basket in ecstatic sympathy with the bands), a corporal of excep-
tional views was parading himself and two privates of the same denomi-
nation, before marching the three of them to their own peculiar prayer-
meeting.

The Brigade for the Iron Church paraded early (the sunshine and
sweet air seemed to promote alacrity). And after the men were seated
their officers still lingered outside, chatting with the ladies and the Staff,
as these assembled by degrees, and sunning themselves in the genial
warmth of St. Martin’s Little Summer.

The V.C. was talking with the little boys in sailor suits and their
mother, when the officer who played the organ came towards them.

“Good morning, Kapellmeister !” said two or three voices.

Nicknames were common in the camp, and this one had been
rapidly adopted.

“Ye look cloudy this fine morning, Kapellmeister !” cried the Irish
officer. “Got the toothache?”

The Kapellmeister shook his head, and forced a smile which rather
intensified than diminished the gloom of a countenance which did not
naturally lend itself to lines of levity. Was he not a Scotchman and
also a musician? His lips smiled in answer to the chaff, but his sombre
eyes were fixed on the V.C. They had—as some eyes have—an odd,
summoning power, and the V.C. went to meet him.

When he said, “I was in there this morning,” the V. C.’s eyes fol-
lowed the Kapellmeister’s to the Barrack Master’s hut, and his own face
fell.

“ He wants the Tug-of-War Hymn,” said the Kapellmeister.

“He’s not coming to church ?”

‘Oh, no ; but he’s set his heart on hearing the Tug-of-War Hymn
through his bedroom window ; and it seems the chaplain has pro-
mised we shall have it to-day. It’s a most amazing thing,” added the
Kapellmeister, shooting out one arm with a gesture common to him
when oppressed by an idea,—“it’s a most amazing thing! For I think, if
I were in my grave, that hymn—as these men bolt with it—might make
me turn in my place of rest ; but it’s the last thing I should care to hear
if I were ill in bed! However, he wants it, poor lad, and he asked me
to ask you if you would turn outside when it begins, and sing so that he
can hear your voice and the words.”

X



ES GILT AM ENDE DOCH NUR VORWARTS! 91

“Oh, he can never hear me over there !”

“He can hear you fast enough! It’s quite close. He begged me
to ask you, and I was to say it’s his last Sunday.”

There was a pause. The V.C. looked at the little “ Officers’
Door,” which was close to his usual seat, which always stood open in
summer weather, and half in half out of which men often stood in the
crush of a Parade Service. There was no difficulty in the matter ex-
cept his own intense dislike to anything approaching to display. Also
he had become more attached than he could have believed possible to
the gallant-hearted child whose worship of him had been flattery as
delicate as it was sincere. It was no small pain to know that the boy
lay dying—a pain he would have preferred to bear in silence.

“Ts he very much set upon it?”

“ Absolutely.”

“Ts she is Lady Jane there?”

“All of them. He can’t last the day out.”

. “When will it be sung—that hymn, I mean?”

“T’ve put it on after the third Collect.”

“ All right.”

The V.C. took up his sword and went to his seat, and the Kapell-

meister took up his and went to the organ.
* * * * * *



In the Barrack Master’s Hut my hero lay dying. His mind was
now absolutely clear, but during the night it had wandered—wandered
in a delirium that was perhaps some solace of his sufferings, for he had
believed himself to be a soldier on active service, bearing the brunt of
battle and the pain of wounds; and when fever consumed him, he
thought it was the heat of India that parched his throat and scorched
his skin, and called again and again in noble raving to imaginary com-
rades to keep up heart and press forward.

About four o’clock he sank into stupor, and the doctor forced Lady
Jane to go and lie down, and the Colonel took his wife away to rest
also.

At Gun-fire Leonard opened his eyes. For some minutes he gazed
straight ahead of him, and the Master of the House, who sat by his
bedside, could not be sure whether he were still delirious or no; but
when their eyes met he saw that Leonard’s senses had returned to him,
and kissed the wan little hand that was feeling about for the Sweep’s
head in silence that he almost féared to break.



72 BEYOND THE VEIL.

Leonard broke in by saying, “When did you bring Uncle Rupert
to Camp, Father dear?”

“Uncle Rupert is at home, my darling; and you are in Uncle
Henry’s hut.”

“T know I am; and so is Uncle Rupert. He is at the end of the
room there. Can’t you see him?”

“No, Len; I only see the wall, with your text on it that poor old
Father did for you.”

“My ‘Goodly heritage,’ you mean? I can’t see that now. Uncle
Rupert is in front of it. I thought you put him there. Only he’s out
of his frame, and it’s very odd!” ’

“What's odd, my darling?”

“Some one has wiped away all the tears from his eyes.”



* * * * * *

“Hymn two hundred and sixty-three: ‘Fight the good fight of
faith.’”

The third Collect was just ended, and a prolonged and somewhat
irregular Amen was dying away among the Choir, who were beginning:
to feel for their hymn-books.

The lack of precision, the “dropping shots” style in which that
Amen was delivered, would have been more exasperating to the Kapell-
meister, if his own attention had not been for the moment diverted by
anxiety to know if the V.C. remembered that the time had come.

As the Chaplain gave out the hymn, the Kapellmeister gave one
glance of an eye, as searching as it was sombre, round the corner of
that odd little curtain which it is the custom to hang behind an organist ;
and this sufficing to tell him that the V.C. had not forgotten, he drew
out certain very vocal stops, and- bending himself to manual and pedal,
gave forth the popular melody of the “ Tug-of-War” hymn with a pre-
cision indicative of a resolution to have it sung in strict time, or know
the reason why.

And as nine hundred and odd men rose to their feet with some
_ clatter of heavy boots and accoutrements the V.C. turned quietly out

of the crowded church, and stood outside upon the steps, bare-headed
in the sunshine of St. Martin’s Little Summer, and with the tiniest of
hymn-books between his fingers and thumb.

Circumstances had made a soldier of the V.C.,.but by nature he
was a student. When he brought the little hymn-book to his eyes to



IF THOU BEAR THY CROSS IT WILL BEAR THEE. 73

get a mental grasp of the hymn before he began to sing it, he committed
the first four lines to an intelligence sufficiently trained to hold them in
remembrance for the brief time that it would take to sing them. Invol-
untarily his active brain did more, and was crossed by a critical sense
of the crude, barbaric taste of childhood, and a wonder what consola-
tion the suffering boy could find in these gaudy lines :—~

‘* The Son of Gop goes forth to war,
A kingly crown to gain ;
His blood-red banner streams afar :
Who follows in His train ?”

But when he brought the little hymn-book to his eyes to take in the
next four lines, they startled him with the revulsion of a sudden sym-
pathy; and lifting his face towards the Barrack Master’s Hut, he sang
—as he rarely sang in drawing-rooms, even words the most felicitous to
melodies the most sweet—sang not only to the delight of dying ears,
but so that the Kapellmeister himself heard him, and smiled as he
heard :— ‘
‘* Who best can drink His cup of woe
Triumphant over pain,

Who patient bears His cross below,
He follows in His train,”

* * * * * *

On each side of Leonard’s bed, like guardian angels, knelt his
father and mother. At his feet lay the Sweep, who now and then lifted
a long, melancholy nose and anxious eyes.

At the foot of the bed stood the Barrack Master. He had taken
up this position at the request of the Master of the House, who had
avoided any further allusion to Leonard’s fancy that their Naseby An-
cestor had come to Asholt Camp, but had begged his big brother-in-law
to stand there and blot out Uncle Rupert’s Ghost with his substantial
body.

But whether Leonard perceived the ruse, forgot Uncle Rupert, or
saw him all the same, by no word or sign did he ever betray.

Near the window sat Aunt Adelaide, with her Prayer-book, follow-
ing the service in her own orderly and pious fashion, sometimes saying a
prayer aloud at Leonard’s bidding, and anon. replying to his oft-repeated.
inquiry: “Is it the third Collect yet, Aunty dear?”



74 THUS TO THE STARS!

She had turned her head, more quickly than usual, to speak, when,
clear and strenuous on vocal stops, came the melody of the “Tug-of-
War” hymn.

“There! There it is! Oh, good Kapellmeister! Mother dear,
please go to the window and see if V.C. is there, and wave your hand
to him. Father dear, lift me up a little, please. Ah, now I hear him!
Good V.C.! I don’t believe you'll sing better than that when you're
promoted to be an angel. Are the men singing pretty loud? May I
have a little of that stuff to keep me from coughing, Mother dear? You
know I am not impatient’; but I do hope, please Gop, I shan’t die till
I’ve just heard them Zug that verse once more !”

* * *& * ES *

The sight of Lady Jane had distracted the V.C.’s thoughts from
the hymn. He was singing mechanically, when he became conscious of
some increasing pressure and irregularity in the time. ‘Then he remem-
bered what it was. The soldiers were beginning to tug.

In a moment more the organ stopped, and the V.C. found him-
self, with over three hundred men at his back, singing without accom-
paniment, and in unison—

‘* A noble army—men and boys,
The matron and the maid,
Around their Saviour’s throne rejoice,
In robes of white arrayed,”

The Kapellmeister conceded that verse to the shouts of the con-
gregation ; but he invariably reclaimed control over the last.

Even now, as the men paused to take breath after their “ tug,” the
organ spoke again, softly, but seraphically, and clearer and sweeter above
the voices behind him rose the voice of the V.C., singing to his little
friend—

‘‘ They climbed the steep ascent of Heaven,
Through peril, toil, and pain” ——

The men sang on ; but the V. C. stopped, as if he had been shot. For
a man’s hand had come to the Barrack Master’s window and pulled the
white blind down.



CHAPTER XII.

“* He that hath found some fledged-bird’s nest may know
At first sight, if the bird be flown ;
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.”

Henry Vaughan,

RUE to its character as
lan emblem of human
life, the Camp stands
on, with all its little
manners and customs,
whilst the men who
garrison it pass rapidly
|, away.

| Strange as the vicis-
|’ situdes of a whole gene-
' ration elsewhere, are the
changes and _ chances
that a few years bring to
those who were stationed

there together.

: To what unforseen
celebrity (or to a drop-
ping out of one’s life
and even hearsay that
once seemed quite as
little likely) do one’s old
neighbours sometimes
come!, They seem to
pass in a few drill seasons
as other men pass by
lifetimes. Some to fool-
ishness and forgetfulness,
and some to fame. This
old acquaintance to un-
expected glory; that dear friend—alas!—to the grave. And some—
Gop speed them !—to the world’s end and back, following the drum





76 UNWORLDLY WISE.

till it leads them Home again, with familiar faces little changed—with
boys and girls, perchance, very greatly changed—and with hearts not
changed at all. Can the last parting do much to hurt such friendships
between good souls, who have so long learnt to say farewell ; to love in
absence, to trust through silence, and to have faith in reunion?

The Barrack Master’s appointment was an unusually permanent
one; and he and his wife lived on in Asholt Camp, and saw regiments
come and go, as O’Reilly had prophesied, and threw out additional
rooms and bow-windows, and took in more garden, and kept a cow on
a bit of Government grass beyond the stores, and—with the man who
did the roofs, the church orderly, and one or two other public characters
—came to be reckoned among the oldest inhabitants.

- George went away pretty soon with his regiment. He was a good,
straightforward young fellow, with a dogged devotion to duty, and a
certain provincialism of intellect, and general John Bullishness, which
he inherited from his father, who had inherited it from his country fore-
fathers. He inherited equally a certain romantic, instinctive, and im-
movable high-mindedness, not invariably characteristic of much more
brilliant men.

He had been very fond of his little cousin, and Leonard’s death was.
a natural grief by him. The funeral tried his fortitude, and his detesta-
tion of “scenes,” to the very uttermost.

Like most young men who had the honour to know hen George’s:
devotion to his beautiful and gracious aunt, Lady Jane, had had in it
something of the nature of worship ; but now he was almost glad he was
going away, and not likely to see her face for a long time, because it
made him feel miserable to see her, and he objected to feeling miserable
both on principle and in practice. His peace of mind was assailed,
however, from a wholly unexpected quarter, and one which pursued him
even more abroad than at home.

The Barrack Master’s son had been shocked by his cousin’s death;
but the shock was really and truly greater when he discovered, by chance
gossip, and certain society indications, that the calamity which left Lady
Jane childless had made him his uncle’s presumptive heir. The almost
physical disgust which the discovery that he had thus acquired some
little social prestige produced in this subaltern of a marching regiment
must be hard to comprehend by persons of more imagination and less
sturdy independence, or by scholars in the science of success. But man
differs widely from man, and it is true.



GOOD NEWS FROM HOME. "4

He had been nearly two years in Canada when “the English mail”
caused him to fling his fur cap into the air with such demonstrations of
delight as greatly aroused the curiosity of his comrades, and, as he
bolted to his quarters without further explanation than “Good news
from home!” a rumour was for some time current that “Jones had
come into his fortune.”

Safe in his own quarters, he once more applied himself to his mother’s
letter, and picked up the thread of a passage which ran thus :—

‘‘ Your dear father gets very impatient, and I long to be back in my hut again
and see after my flowers, which I can trust to no one since O’Reilly took his discharge.
The little conservatory is like a new toy to me, but it is very tiny, and your dear father
is worse than no use in it, as he says himself. However, I can’t leave Lady Jane till
she is quite strong. The baby is a noble little fellow and really beautiful—which I
know you won’t believe, but that’s because you know nothing about babies: not as
beautiful as Leonard, of course—that could never be—but a fine, healthy, handsome
boy, with eyes that do remind one of his darling brother. I know, dear George, how
greatly you always did admire and appreciate your Aunt. Not one bit too much, my
son. She is the noblest woman I have ever known. We have had a very happy time
together, and I pray it may please Gop to spare this child to be the comfort to her
that you are and have been to

“ Your loving “© MOTHER.”

This was the good news from home that had sent the young sub-
altern’s fur cap into the air, and that now sent him to his desk ; the last
place where, as a rule, he enjoyed himself. Poor scribe as he was, how-
ever, he wrote two letters then and there: one to his mother, and one of
impetuous congratulations to his uncle, full of messages to Lady Jane.

The Master of the House read the letter more than once. It
pleased him.

In his own way he was quite as unworldly as his nephew, but it was
chiefly from a philosophic contempt for many things that worldly folk
struggle for, and a connoisseurship in sources of pleasure not purchas-
able except by the mentally endowed, and not even valuable to George,
as he knew. And he was a man of the world, and a somewhat cynical
student of character.

After the third reading he took it, smiling, to Lady Jane’s morning
room, where she was sitting, looking rather pale, with: her fine hair
“coming down” over a tea-gown of strange tints of her husband’s
choosing, and with the new baby lying in her lap.

He shut the door noiselessly, took a footstool to her feet, and
kissed her hand.



78 MORE PRECIOUS THAN RUBIES.

“You look like a Romney, Jane,—an .unfinished Romney, for you
are too white. If you’ve got a headache, you shan’t hear this letter,
which I know you'd like to hear.”

“T see that I should. Canada postmarks. It’s George.”

Yes; it’s George. He’s uproariously delighted at the advent of
this little chap.”

“Oh, I knew he’d be that. Let me hear what he says.”

The Master of the House read the letter. Lady Jane’s eyes filled
with tears at the tender references to Leonard, but she smiled through
them.

“ He’s a dear, good fellow.”

“He zs a dear, good fellow. It’s a most dorné intellect, but excel-
lence itself. And I’m bound to say,” added the Master of the House,
driving his hands through the jungle of his hair, “that there is a certain
excellence about a soldier when he is a good fellow that seems to be a
thing per se.”

After meditating on this matter for some moments, he sprang up
and vigorously rang the bell.

“Jane, you're terribly white ; you can bear nothing. Nurse is to
take that brat at once, and I’m going to carry you into the garden.”

Always much given to the collection and care of precious things,
and apt also to change his fads and to pursue each with partiality for
the moment, the Master of the House had, for some time past, been
devoting all his thoughts and his theories to the preservation of a pos-
session not less valuable than the paragon of Chippendale chairs, and
much more destructible—he was taking care of his good wife.

Many family treasures are lost for lack of a little timely care and
cherishing, and there are living “examples” as rare as most bric-a-
brac, and quite as perishable. Lady Jane was one of them, and after
Leonard’s death, with no motive for keeping up, she sank into a.con-
dition of weakness so profound that it became evident that, unless her
failing forces were fostered, she would not long be parted from her son.

Her husband had taken up his poem again, to divert his mind from
his own grief; but he left it behind, and took Lady Jane abroad.

Once roused, he brought to the task of coaxing her back to life an
intelligence that generally insured the success of his aims, and he suc-
ceeded now. ‘Lady Jane got well; out of sheer gratitude, she said.

Leonard’s military friends do not forget him. They are accustomed
to remember the absent.



I LIST NO MORE THE TUCK OF DRUM. 19

With the death of his little friend the V. C. quits these pages. He
will be found in the pages of history.

The Kapellmeister is a fine organist, and a few musical members of
the congregation, of all ranks, have a knack of lingering after Evensong
at the Iron Church to hear him “play away the people.” But on the
Sunday after Leonard’s death the congregation rose and remained ex
masse as the Dead March from Saul spoke in solemn and familiar tones
the requiem of a hero’s soul.

Blind Baby’s father was a Presbyterian, and disapproved of organs,
but he was a fond parent, and his blind child had heard tell that the
officer who played the organ so grandly was to play the Dead March on
the Sabbath evening for the Itttle gentlemen that died on the Sabbath
previous, and he was wild to go and hear it. Then the service would
be past, and the Kapellmeister was a fellow-Scot, and the house of
mourning has a powerful attraction for that serious race, and for one
reason or another Corporal Macdonald yielded to the point of saying,
“ Aweel, if you're a gude bairn, I’ll tak ye to the kirk door, and ye may
lay your lug at the chink, and hear what ye can.”

But when they got there the door was open, and Blind Baby pushed
his way through the crowd, as if the organ had drawn him with a rope,
straight to the Kapellmeister’s side.

It was the beginning of a friendship much to Blind Baby’s advan-
tage, which did not end when the child had been sent to a Blind School,
and then to a college where he learnt to be a tuner, and “earned his
own living.”

Poor Jemima fretted so bitterly for the loss of the child she had
nursed with such devotion, that there was possibly some truth in
O’Reilly’s rather complicated assertion that he married her because he
could not bear to see her cry.

He took his discharge, and was installed by the Master of the
House as lodge-keeper at the gates through which he had so often
passed as “a tidy one.”

Freed from military restraints, he became a very untidy one indeed,
and grew hair in such reckless abundance that he came to look like an
ourang outang with an unusually restrained figure and exceptionally up-
right catriage.

He was the best of husbands every day in the year but the seven-
teenth of March ; and Jemima enjoyed herself very much as she boasted
to the wives of less handy civilians that “her man was as good as a



80 WHAT IS HOME, AND WHEREP

woman about the house, any day.” (Any day, that is, except the seven-
teenth of March.)

With window-plants cunningly and ornamentally enclosed by a
miniature paling and gate, as if the window-sill were a hut garden ; with
coloured tissue-paper fly-catchers made on the principle of barrack-
room Christmas decorations ; with shelves, brackets, Oxford frames, and
other efforts of the decorative joinery of O’Reilly’s evenings; with a
large, hard sofa, chairs, elbow-chairs, and antimacassars; and with a
round table in the middle—the Lodge parlour is not a room to live in,
but it is almost bewildering to peep into, and curiously like the shrine of
some departed saint, so highly framed are the photographs of Leonard’s
lovely face, and so numerous are his relics.

The fate of Leonard’s dog may not readily be guessed.

The gentle reader would not deem it unnatural were I to chronicle
that he died of a broken heart. Failing this excess of sensibility, it
seems obvious that he should have attached himself immovably to Lady
Jane, and have lived at ease and died full of dignity in his little master’s
ancestral halls. He did go back there for a short time, but the day
after the funeral he disappeared. When word came to the household
that he was missing and had not been seen since he was let out in the
morning, the’ butler put on his hat and hurried off with a beating heart
to Leonard’s grave.

But the Sweep was not there, dead or alive. He was at that mo-
ment going at a sling trot along the dusty road that led into the Camp.
Timid persons, imperfectly acquainted with dogs, avoided him ; he went
so very straight, it looked like hydrophobia ; men who knew better, and
saw that he was only “on urgent private affairs,” chaffed him as they
passed, and some with little canes and horseplay waylaid and tried to
intercept him. But he was a big dog, and made himself respected, and
pursued his way.

His way was to the Barrack Master’s hut.

The first room he went into was that in which Leonard died. He
did not stay there three minutes. ‘Then he went to Leonard’s own room,
the little one next to the kitchen, and this he examined exhaustively,
crawling under the bed, snuffing at both doors, and lifting his long nose
against hope to investigate impossible places, such as the top of the
military chest of drawers. Then he got on to the late General’s camp
bed and went to sleep.

He was awakened by the smell of the bacon frying for breakfast, and



— BUT WITH THE LOVING. SI

he had breakfast with the family. After this he went out, and was seen
by different persons at various places in the Camp, the General Parade,
the Stores, and the Iron Church, still searching.

He was invited to dinner in at least twenty different barrack-rooms,
but he rejected all overtures till he met O’Reilly, when he turned round
and went back to dine with him and his comrades.

He searched Leonard’s room once more, and not finding him, he
refused to make his home with the Barrack Master ; possibly because
he could not make up his mind to have a home at all till he could have
one with Leonard.

Half-a-dozen of Leonard’s officer friends would willingly have
adopted him, but he would not own another master. Then military
dogs are apt to attach themselves exclusively either to commissioned or
to non-commissioned soldiers, and the Sweep cast in his lot with the
men, and slept on old coats in corners of barrack-rooms, and bided his
time. Dogs’ masters do get called away suddenly and come back again.
The Sweep had his hopes, and did not commit himself.

Even if, at length, he realised that Leonard had passed beyond this
life’s outposts, it roused in him no instincts to return to the Hall. With
a somewhat sublime contempt for those shreds of poor mortality laid to
rest in the family vault, he elected to live where his little master had
been happiest—in Asholt Camp.

Now and then he became. excited. It was when a fresh regiment
marched in. On these occasions he invariably made so exhaustive an
examination of the regiment and its baggage, as led to his being more
or less forcibly adopted by half-a-dozen good-natured soldiers who had
had to leave their previous pets behind them. But when he found that
Leonard had not returned with that detachment, he shook off everybody
and went back to O’Reilly.

When O’Reilly married, he took the Sweep to the Lodge, who there-
upon instituted a search about the house and grounds; but it was
evident that he had not expected any good results, and when he did
not find Leonard he went away quickly down the old Elm Avenue. As
he passed along the dusty road that led to Camp for the last time, he
looked back now and again with sad eyes to see if O’Reilly was not
coming too.. Then he returned to the Barrack Room, where he was
greeted with uproarious welcome, and eventually presented with a new
collar by subscription. And so, rising with gunfire and resting ‘with
“lights out,” he lived and died a Soldier’s Dog.

* *

* 8 * a



82 NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.

‘The new heir thrives at the Hall. He has brothers and sisters to
complete the natural happiness of his home, he has good health, good
parents, and is having a good education. He will have a goodly
heritage. He is developing nearly as vigorous a fancy for soldiers as
Leonard had, and drills his brothers and sisters with the help of O’Reilly.
If he wishes to make arms his profession he will not be thwarted, for
the Master of the House has decided that it is in many respects a
desirable and wholesome career for an eldest son. Lady Jane may yet
have to buckle on a hero’s sword. Brought up by such a mother in
the fear of Gop, he ought to be good, he may live to be great, it’s odds
if he cannot be happy. But never, not in the “one crowded hour of
glorious” victory, not in years of the softest comforts of a peaceful home,
by no virtues and in no success shall he bear more fitly than his
crippled brother bore the ancient motto of their house:

“fetus BDorte flea.”

THE END.



LONDON : ENGRAVED AND PRINTED BY EDMUND EVANS, RACQUET COURT, FLEET STREET, E.C.



Joist





JACKANAPES,

(FIFTIETH THOUSAND.)

With 17 Illustrations by Randolph Oaldecott,
Small 4to, Ornamental Paper Boards, 1s,

“© An exquisite bit of finished work —a

Meissonier in its way—as well as one of the

most tender and touching of short stories, is

Jackanapes.... The book is admirably illus-

trated by Caldecott. The picture of the two

youngsters, sitting on a tombstone in the churchyard enjoying their first smoke of ‘ brown paper
cigars, with only a very little tobacco inside them,’ is capital.” —Zvery Other Saturday, Boston.

‘*Here, stitched up in a paper coyer, and almost overlooked, we found the book of the
season... . We will willingly incur the charge of exaggeration by saying that there is nothing
equal to it outside Thackeray.”—
“‘Tt is about as good a story, and as well told as anybody is likely to write, or anybody
could wish to read, full of genuine humour, and of true, deep, pathetic feeling.” —///ustrated
London News. , ,

‘Mrs, Ewing has never surpassed, even if she has ever reached, the movement, liveli-

ness, pathos, and general charm of this vivid little sketeh, which is admirably illustrated by

Mr. Caldecott.” —Spectator. .
“‘ Written by Mrs. Ewing and illustrated by Randolph Caldecott. It is hardly neces:

to say that the result of such collaboration is simply charming... . We should \ave to tell |

the story, and enumerate all the cuts, to give an idea of this delightful little book.” —Saturday — |
Review.

DADDY DARWIN’s DOVECOT

A COUNTRY TALE.

BY

JULIANA HORATIA EWING.

AUTHOR OF “‘ JACKANAPES.”

With 17 Illustrations by Randolph Caldecott.
Small 4to, Ornamental Paper Boards, 15.

LAR RRR

“From all these exaggerations and discords between
intention and execution, it is like turning to the perfec-
tion of a flower to open Mrs. Ewing’s last sketch, ‘Daddy
Darwin’s Dovecot’ is less than ‘Jackanapes’ only in
that its simpler, homelier theme does not offer quite such w=:
full felicity of subject, ow well done was ‘the setting fe ry
of a wild graft on an old standard’ is told from the talk of M f
two old gaffers gossiping on a sunny wall. There is the ~/A2=
same delightful, suggestive commentary in homely pro- 2
verb or tender household word as made the earlier story
a poem.” — Zhe Nation, U.S.A.

Shee





Full Text








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“ae LONDON
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,

ares NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, CHARING CROSS, W.C.;
i 43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, E.C.
26, ST. GEORGE'S PLACE, HYDE PARK CORNER, S.W. 3

BRIGHTON ; 135, NORTH STREET, j ~
gw York: E. & J. B. YOUNG & CO.
The Baldwin Library

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““Do you know now when I am wheeling about in my chair, and playing with him and he looks
at me wherever I go; sometimes for a bit I forget about the King, and I fancy he is sorry for me.
Under the table was the only place where I could get out of the sight of his eyes.”
Frontispiece.
The

Story of a Short Life

By
Juliana Horatia Ewing
AUTHOR OF “ FACKANAPES,” “DADDY DARWIN’S DOVECOT,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY GORDON BROWNE



LONDON
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, CHARING CROSS, W.C.;
43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, F.C.3
26, ST. GEORGES PLACE, HYDE PARK CORNER, S.W.
BRIGHTON : 135, NORTH STREET.
New Yorx: E. & J. B. YOUNG & CO.
** But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhoréd shears
And slits the thin spun life,—‘ But not the praise.’””—J@ilron.

“It is a calumny on men to say that they are roused to heroic action by ease,
hope of pleasure, recompense,—sugar-plums of any kind in this world or the next!
In the meanest mortal there lies something nobler . . . . Difficulty, abnegation,
martyrdom, death are the a@//urements that act on the heart of man. Kindle thc
inner genial life of him, you have a flame that burns up all lower considerations . .
. . Not by flattering our appetites; no, by awakening the Heroic that slumbers in
every heart oe Carlyle.


CHAPTER I,

** Arma virumque cano.”— Zeid.

« tian—and the horseradish—are most biting when grated.”— fan Paul Richter.

OST annoying!” said the
Master of the House. His
thick eyebrows were puck-
ered just then with the vexa-
tion of his thoughts; but the
lines of annoyance on his
forehead were to some ex-
tent fixed lines. They helped
to make him look older than
his age—he was not forty—
and they gathered into a
fierce frown as his elbow was
us softly touched by his little



wy i) son.

Al) The child was defiantly
“iy; like his father, even to a
knitted brow, for his whole
face was crumpled with the
vigour of some resolve which
he found it hard to keep, and
which was symbolised by his
holding the little red tip of
his tongue betwixt finger and thumb.

“Put your hands down, Leonard! Put your tongue in, sir! What
are you after? What do you want? What are you doing here? Be
off to the nursery, and tell Jemima to keep you there. Your mother
and I are busy.”

Far behind the boy, on the wall, hung the portrait of one of his
ancestors—a youth of sixteen. The painting was by Vandyck, and it
was the most valuable of the many valuable things that strewed and
decorated the room. A very perfect example of the great master’s work,
B
6 DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI,

and uninjured by Time. ‘The young Cavalier’s face was more interest-
ing than handsome, but so eager and refined that, set off as it was by
pale-hued satin and falling hair, he might have been called effeminate, if
his brief life, which ended on the field of Naseby, had not done more
than common to prove his manhood. A coat-of-arms, blazoned in the
corner of the painting, had some appearance of having been added later.
Below this was rudely inscribed, in yellow paint, the motto which also
decorated the elaborate stone mantlepiece opposite—Letus sorte mea.

Leonard was very fond of that picture. It was known to his child-
ish affections as “ Uncle Rupert.” He constantly wished that he could
get into the frame and play with the dog—the dog with the upturned
face and melancholy eyes, and odd resemblance to a long haired Cava-
lier—on whose faithful head Uncle Rupert’s slender fingers perpetually
reposed.

Though not able to play with the dog, Leonard did play with
Uncle Rupert—the game of trying to get out of the reach of his eyes.

“T play ‘ Puss-in-the-corner’ with him,” the child was wont to ex-
plain ; “but whichever corner I get into, his eyes come after me. The
dog looks at Uncle Rupert always, and Uncle Rupert always looks at me.”

its “To see if you are growing up a good boy and a
gallant young gentleman, such as he was.” So Leonard’s parents and
guardians explained the matter to him, and he devoutedly believed
them.

Many an older and less credulous spectator stood in the light of
those painted eyes, and acknowledged their spell. Very marvellous was
the cunning which, by dabs and streaks of colour, had kept the spirit
of this long dead youth to gaze at his descendants from a sheet of
canvas and stir the sympathy of strangers, parted by more than two
centuries from his sorrows, with the mock melancholy of painted tears.
For whether the painter had just overdone some trick of representing
their liquidness, or whether the boy’s eyes had brimmed over as he was
standing for his portrait (his father and elder brother had died in the
civil war before him), there remains no tradition to tell. But Vandyck
never painted a portrait fuller of sad dignity, even in those troubled
times.

Happily for his elders, Leonard invented for himself a reason for
the obvious tears.

“TI believe Uncle Rupert knew that they were going to chop the
poor king’s head off, and that’s why he looks as if he were going to cry.”
WORD AND HONOUR, q

It was partly because the child himself looked as if he were going
to cry—and that not fractiously, but despite a struggle with himself—
that, as he stood before the Master of the House, he might have been
that other master of the same house come to life again at six years of
age. His long, fair hair, the pliable, nervous fingers, which he had put
down as he was bid, the strenuous tension of his little figure under a
sense of injustice, and, above all, his beautiful eyes, in which the tears
now brimmed over the eyelashes as the waters of a lake well up through
the reeds that fringe its banks. He was very very like Uncle Rupert
when he turned those eyes on his mother in mute reproach.

Lady Jane came to his defence.

“T think Leonard meant to be good. I made him promise me to
try and cure himself of the habit of speaking to you when you are
speaking to some one else. But, dear Leonard” (and she took the hand
that had touched his father’s elbow), “I don’t think you were quite on
honour when you interrupted Father with this hand, though you were
holding your tongue with the other. That is what we call keeping a
promise to the ear and breaking it to the sense.”

All the Cavalier dignity came unstarched in Leonard’s figure. With
a red face, he answered bluntly, “I’m very sorry. I meant to keep my
promise.”

“Next time keep it we//, as a gentleman should. Now, what do
you want?”

“ Pencil and paper, please.”

“There they are. Take them to the nursery, as Father told you.”

Leonard looked at his father. He had not been spoilt for six years
by an irritable and indulgent parent without learning those arts of dip-
lomacy in which children quickly become experts.

“Oh, he can stay,” said the Master of the House, “and he may say
a word now and then, if he dosn’t talk too much. Boys can’t sit mum-
chance always—can they, Len? There; kiss your poor old father, and
get away, and keep quiet.”

Lady Jane made one of many fruitless efforts on behalf of discipline.

“T think, dear, as you told him to go, he had better go now.”

“He wi go, pretty sharp, if he isn’t good. Now, for pity’s sake,
let’s talk out this affair, and let me get back to my work.”

“Have you been writing poetry this morning, Father dear?” Leonard
inquired, urbanely.

He was now lolling againgst a writing-table of the first empire,
8 CROSS QUESTIONS

where sheets of paper lay like fallen leaves among Japanese bronzes, old
and elaborate candlesticks, grotesque letter-clips and paper-weights,
quaint pottery, big seals, and spring flowers in slender Venetian glasses
of many colours. *

“T wrote three lines, and was interrupted four times,” replied his
sire, with bitter brevity.

“T think /’7Z write some poetry. I don’t mind being interrupted.
May I have your ink ?” ‘

‘‘No, you may wof/” roared the Master of the House and of the
inkpot of priceless china which Leonard had siezed. ‘“ Now, be off to
the nursery !”

“JT won't touch anything. I am going to draw out of the window,”
said Leonard, calmly.

He had practised the art of being troublesome to the verge of ex-
pulsion ever since he had had a whim of his own, and as skilfully as
he played other games. He was seated among the cushions of the oriel
window-seat (coloured rays from coats-of-arms in the upper panes falling
on his fair hair with a fanciful effect of canonizing him for his sudden
goodness) almost before his father could reply.

“T advise you to stay there, and to keep quiet.” Lady Jane took
up the broken thread of conversation in despair.

“Have you ever seen him ?”

“Yes ; years ago.”

“You know I never saw either. Your sister was much older than
you ; wasn’t she?”

“The shadows move so on the grass, and the elms have so many
branches, I think I shall turn round and draw the fire-place,’ murmured
Leonard.

“Ten years. You may be sure, if I had been grown up I should
never have allowed the marriage. I cannot think what possessed my
father——”

“Tam doing the inscription! I can print Old English. What does
L. diphthong A. T. U. S. mean?” said Leonard.

“Tt means joyful, contented, happy.—1 was at Eton at the time.
Disastrous ill-luck |”

“ Are there any children ?”

“QOne son. And to crown all, 4és regiment is at Asholt. Nice
‘family party !”

“A young man!” Has he been well brought up ?”
AND CROOKED ANSWERS, 9



“ What does a

“Will you hold your tongue, Leonard ?@—Is he likely to have been
well brought up? However, he’s ‘in the Service,’ as they say. . I wish
it didn’t make one think of flunkeys, what with the word service, and
the liveries (I mean uniforms), and the legs, and shoulders, and swag-
ger, and tag-rags, and epaulettes, and the fatiguing alertness and atten-
tiveness of ‘men in the Service.”

The Master of the House spoke with the pettish accent of one who
says what he does not mean, partly for lack of something better to do,
and partly to avenge some inward vexation upon his hearers. He
lounged languidly on a couch, but Lady Jane sat upright, and her eyes
gave an unwonted flash. She came of an ancient Scottish race, that had
shed its blood like water on many a battle-field, generations before the
family of her English husband had become favourites at the Court of
the Tudors. i

“T have so many military belongings, both in the past and the
present, that I have a respect for the Service a

He got up, and patted her head, and smiled.

“J beg your pardon, my child. Et ego—” and he looked at uncle
Rupert, who looked sadly back again : “but you must make allowances
forme. Asholt Camp has been a thorn in my side from the first. And
now to have the barrack master, and the youngest subaltern of a march-
ing regiment ——”

“ He’s our nephew, Rupert !”

“ Mine—not yours. You've nothing to do with him, thank good-
ness.”

“Your people are my people. Now do not worry yourself. Of course
T shall call on your sister at once. Will they be here for some time?”

“Five years, you may depend. He’s just the sort of man to
wedge himself into a snug berth at Asholt. You're an angel, Jane;
you always are. But fighting ancestors are one thing, a barrack-master
brother-in-law is another.

“Has he done any fighting ?”

“Oh dear, yes! Bemedalled like that Guy Fawkes General in the
pawnbroker’s window, that Len was so charmed by. But, my dear, I
assure you v

“TZ only just want to know what S. O. R. T. E. M, EA. means.”
Leonard hastily broke in. “I’ve done it all now, and shan't want to know
anything more.”




Io HEN WOULD HE SING ACHIEVEMENTS HIGH

“ Sorte mea ts Latin for My fate, or My lot in life. Letus sorte mea
means Happy in my lot. It is our family motto. Now, tf you ask another
question, off you go /—After all, Jane, you must allow it’s about as hard
lines as could be, to have a few ancestral acres and a nice old place in
one of the quietest, quaintest corners of Old England ; and for Govern-
ment to come and plant a Camp of Instruction, as they call it; and pour
in tribes of savages in war-paint to build wigwams within a couple of
miles of your lodge-gates !”

She laughed heartily.

“Dear Rupert! You ave a born poet! You do magnify your
woes so grandly. What was the brother-in-law like when you saw
him?”

“Oh, the regular type. Hair cut like a pauper, or a convict,” (the
Master of the House tossed his own locks as he spoke), “ big, swagger-
ing sort of fellow, swallowed the poker and not digested it, rather good
features, acclimatized complexion, tight fit of hot-red cloth, and general
pipeclay.”

“ Then he must be the Sapper !” Leonard announced, as he advanced
with a firm step and kindling eyes from the window. “Jemima’s other
brother is a Gunner. He dresses in blue. But they both pipeclay their
gloves, and I pipeclayed mine this morning, when she did the hearth.
You've no idea how nasty they look whilst it’s wet, but they dry as white
as snow, only mine fell among the cinders. The Sapper is very kind,
both to her and to me. He gave her a brooch, and he is making me a
wooden fort to put my cannon in. But the Gunner is such a funny
man! I said to him, ‘Gunner! why do you wear white gloves?’ and
he said, ‘ Young gentleman, why does a miller wear a white hat?’ He’s
very funny. But I think I like the tidy one best of all. He is so very
beautiful, and I should think he must be very brave.”

That Leonard was permitted to deliver himself of this speech with-
out a check can only have been due to the paralysing nature of the
shock which it inflicted on his parents, and of which he himself was
pleasantly unconscious. His whole soul was in the subject, and he
spoke with a certain grace and directness of address, and with a clear
and facile enunciation, which were among the child’s most conspicuous
marks of good breeding.

“This is nice!” said the Master of the House between his teeth
with a deepened scowl.

The air felt stormy, and Leonard began to coax. He laid his curls
AND CIRCUMSTANCE OF CHIVALRY. Ii

against his father’s arm, and asked, “Did you ever see a ¢idy one, Father
dear? He zs a very splendid sort of man.”

“ What nonsense are you talking? What do you mean bya ézdy one?”

There was no mistake about the storm now ; and Leonard began to
feel helpless, and, as usual in such circumstances, turned to Lady Jane.

“Mother told me !” he gasped.

The Master of the House also turned to Lady Jane.

“Do you mean you have heard of this before?”

She shook her head, and he seized his son by the shoulder.

“Tf that woman has taught you to tell untruths——”

“Lady Jane firmly interposed.

“Leonard never tells untruths, Rupert. Please don’t frighten him,
into doing so. Now, Leonard, don’t be foolish and cowardly. Tell
Mother quite bravely all about it. Perhaps she has forgotten.”

The child was naturally brave ; but the elements of excitement and
uncertainty in his up-bringing were producing their natural results in a
nervous and unequable temperament. It is not the least serious of the
evils of being “spoilt,” though, perhaps, the most seldom recognized.
Many a fond parent justly fears to overdo “lessons,” who is surprisingly
blind to the brain-fag that comes from the strain to live at grown-up
people’s level; and to the nervous exhaustion produced in children, no
less than in their elders, by indulged restlessness, discontent, and craving
for fresh excitenrent, and for want of that sense of power and repose
which comes with habitual obedience to righteous rules and regulations.
Laws that can be set at nought are among the most demoralising of in-
fluences which can curse a nation ; and their effects are hardly less dis-
astrous in the nursery. Moreover, an uncertain discipline is apt to take
even the spoilt by surprise: and as Leonard seldom fully understood
the checks he did receive, they unnerved him. He was unnerved now ;
and, even with his hand in that of his mother, he stammered over his
story with ill-repressed sobs and much mental confusion.

“W—we met him out walking. I m—mean we were out walking.
He was out riding. He looked like a picture in my t—t—tales from
Froissart. He had a very curious kind of a helmet—n—not quite a
helmet, and a beautiful green feather—at least, n—not exactly a feather
and a beautiful red waistcoat, only n—not a real waistcoat, b—but ”

“Send him to bed!” roared the Master of the House. “ Don’t let
him prevaricate any more !”

“No, Rupert, please! I wish him to try and give a straight ac-


12 WITH BURNISHED BRAND AND MUSKETOON

count. Now, Leonard, don’t be a baby; but go on and tell the truth,
like a brave boy.”

Leonard desperately proceeded, sniffing as he did so.

“He c—carried a spear, like an old warrior. He truthfully did.
On my honour! One end was on the tip of his foot, and there was a
flag at the other end—a real fluttering pennon—there truthfully was!
He does poke with his spear in battle, I do believe ; but he didn’t poke
us. He was b—b—beautiful to b—b—be—hold! I asked Jemima,
‘Is he another brother, for you do have such very nice brothers?’
and she said, ‘No, he’s——’”

“ Hang Jemima!” said the Master of the House. “ Now listen to
me. You said your mother told you. What did she tell you?”

“Je—Je—Jemima said, ‘No, he’s a Orderly ;’ and asked the way
—I qu—dquite forget where to—I truthfully do. And next morning I
asked Mother what does Orderly mean? And she said #dy. So I call
him the tidy one. Dear Mother, you truthfully did—at least,” added
Leonard chivalrously, as Lady Jane’s face gave no response, ' at least, if
you've forgotten, never mind: it’s my fault.’”

But Lady Jane’s face was blank because she was trying not to
laugh. The Master of the House did not try long. He bit his lip, and
then burst into a peal.

“Better say no more to him,” murmured Lady Jane. “Tl see
Jemima now, if he may stay with you.”

He nodded, and throwing himself back on the couch, held out his
arms to the child.

“Well, that’ll do. Put these men out of your head, and let me see
your drawing.”

Leonard stretched his faculties, and perceived that the storm was
overpast. He clambered on to his father’s knee, and their heads were
soon bent lovingly together over the much-smudged sheet of paper, on
which the motto from the chimneypiece was irregularly traced.

“You should have copied it from Uncle Rupert’s picture. It is in
plain letters there.”

Leonard made no reply. His head now lay back on his father’s
shoulder, and his eyes were fixed on the ceiling, which was of Eliza-
bethan date, with fantastic flowers in raised plaster-work. But Leonard
did not see them at that moment. His vision was really turned inwards.
Presently he said, “I am trying to think. Don’t interrupt me, Father, if
you please.”






















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































“He does poke with his speax in battle, 1 do believe ; but he didn’t poke us.
to behold !”"—Page 12.

He was beautiful
14 THE LOT IS CAST INTO THE LAP:

The Master of the House smiled, and gazed complacently at the
face beside him. No painting, no china in his possession, was more
beautiful. Suddenly the boy jumped down and stood alone, with his
hands behind his back, and his eyes tightly shut.

“T am thinking very hard, Father. Please tell me again what our
motto means.” /

“ your little brains about ?”

“Because I know I know something so like it, and I can’t think
what! Yes—no! Wait a minute! I’ve just got it! Yes, I remember
now : it was my Wednesday text !”

He opened wide shining eyes, and clapped his hands, and his clear
voice rang with the added note of triumph, as he cried, “‘The Zof is
fallen unto me in a fair ground. Yea, I have a goodly heritage.’”

The Master of the House held out his arms without speaking ; but
when Leonard had climbed back into them, he stroked the child’s hair
slowly, and said, “Is that your Wednesday text?”

“Last Wednesday’s. I learn a text every day. Jemima sets them.
She says her grandmother made her learn texts when she was a little
girl. Now, Father dear, I’ll tell you what I wish you would do: and I
want you to do it at once—this very minute.”

“That is generally the date of your desires. What is it?”

“T don’t know what you are talking about, but I know what I
want. Now you and I are all alone to our very selves, I want you to
come to the organ, and put that text to music like the anthem you made
out of those texts Mother chose for you, for the harvest festival. Tl
tell you the words, for fear you don’t quite remember them, and I’ll blow
the bellows. You may play on all-fours with both your feet and hands ;
you may pull out trumpet handle ; you may make as much noise as ever
you like—you'll see how I’ll blow !”

* * * * * *

Satisfied by the sounds of music that the two were happy, Lady
Jane was in no haste to go back to the library; but when she did return,
Leonard greeted her warmly.

He was pumping at the bellows handle of the chamber organ,
before which sat the Master of the House, not a ruffle on his brow,
playing with “all-fours,” and singing as he played.

Leonard’s cheeks were flushed, and he cried impatiently,—

“Mother! Mother dear! I’ve been wanting you ever so long!
THE DISPOSING THEREOF IS OF THE LORD. 15

Father has set my text to music, and I want you to hear it; but I want
to sit by him and sing too. So you must come and blow.”

“Nonsense, Leonard! Your mother must do nothing of the sort,
Jane! Listen to this !—/u a fa—air grou—nd. Bit of pure melody,
that, eh? The land flowing with milk and honey seems to stretch be-
fore one’s eyes x

“No! Father, that zs unfair. You are not to tell her bits in the
middle. Begin at the beginning, and—Mother dear, will you blow, and
let me sing?”

“Certainly. Yes, Rupert, please. I’ve done it before; and my
back isn’t aching to-day. Do let me !”

“Yes, do let her,” said Leonard, conclusively; and he swung him-
self up into the seat beside his father without more ado.

“Now, Father, begin! Mother, listen! And when it comes to
‘ Yea, and I pull trumpet handle out, blow as hard as ever you can.
This first bit—when he only plays—is very gentle, and quite easy to
blow.”

Deep breathing of the organ filled a brief silence, then a prelude
stole about the room. Leonard’s eyes devoured his father’s face, and
the Master of the House looking down on him, with the double compla-
cency of father and composer, began to sing:

‘The lot—the lot is fallen un-to me ;’ and, his mouth wideparted
with smiles, Leonard sang also: ‘The lot—the lot is fallen—fallen un-
to me.’

“In a fa—air grou—nd.’

“Yea! (Now, Mother dear, blow! and fancy you hear trumpets !)

‘ Yea! YEA! I have a good-ly Her—i—tage !’

And after Lady Jane had ceased to blow, and the musician to make
music, Leonard still danced and sang wildly about the room.

“Tsn’t it splendid, Mother? Father and I made it together out of
my Wednesday text. Uncle Rupert, can you hear it? I don’t think
you can. I believe you are dead and deaf, though you seem to see.

And standing face to face with the young Cavalier, Leonard sang
his Wednesday text all through :

“The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground ; yea, I have a goodly
heritage.”

But Uncle Rupert spoke no word to his young kinsman, though he
still “seemed to see” through eves drowned in tears.


16

CHAPTER II.

—— “an acre of barren ground ; ling, heath, broom, furze, anything.”
Lempest, Act i. Scene I.

*¢ Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife !
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life

Is worth an age without a name.”
Scolt.

















AKE a Highway-
man’s Heath.

Destroy every
vestige of life with
fire and axe, from
the pine that has
longest been a land-
mark, to the smallest
beetle smothered in
smoking moss.

Burn acres of
purple and pink
heather, and pare
away the young
bracken that springs
verdant from its
ashes.

Let flame con-
sume the perfumed gorse in all its glory, and not spare the broom,
whose more exquisite yellow atones for its lack of fragrance.

In this common ruin be every lesser flower involved: blue beds of
speedwell by the wayfarer’s path—the daintier milkwort, and rougher
red rattle—down to the very dodder that clasps the heather, let ther
perish, and the face of Dame Nature be utterly blackened! Then:

Shave the heath as bare as the back of your hand, and if you have
felled every tree, and left not so much as a tussock of grass or a scarlet
toadstool to break the force of the winds ; then shall the winds come,














































































































































































CAMP AND COMRADES. 7

from the east and from the west, from the north and from the south,
and shall raise on your shaven heath clouds of sand that would not
discredit a desert in the heart of Africa.

By some such recipe the ground was prepared for that Camp of
Instruction at Asholt which was, as we have seen, a thorn in the side
of at least one of its neighbours. Then a due portion of this sandy
oasis in a wilderness of beauty was mapped out into lines, with military
precision, and on these were built rows of little wooden huts, which
were painted a neat and useful black.

The huts for married men and officers were of varying degrees ot
comfort and homeliness, but those for single men were like toy-boxes
of wooden soldiers; it was only by doing it very tidily that you could
(so to speak) put your pretty soldiers away at night when you had done
playing with them, and get the lid to shut down.

But then tidiness is a virtue which—like Patience—is its own
reward. And nineteen men who keep themselves clean and their be-
longings cleaner ; who have made their nineteen beds into easy chairs
before most people have got out of bed at all; whose tin pails are kept
as bright as average teaspoons (to the envy of housewives and the
shame of housemaids!); who establish a common and a holiday side
to the reversible top of their one long table, and scrupulously scrub
both ; who have a place for everything and a discipline which obliges
everybody to put everything in its place ;—nineteen men, I say, with
such habits, find more comfort and elbow-room in a hut than-an out-
sider might believe possible, and hang up a photograph or two into the
bargain.

But it may be at once conceded to the credit of the camp, that
those who lived there thought better of it than those who did not, and
that those who lived there longest were apt to like it best of all.

It was, however, regarded by different people from very opposite
points of view, in each of which was some truth. f

There were those to whom the place and the life were alike
hateful.

They said that, from a soldier’s stand point, the life was one of
exceptionally hard work, and uncertain stay, with no small proportion
of the hardships and even risks of active service, and none of the more
glorious chances of war.

That you might die of sunstroke on the march, or contract rheu-
matism, fever, or dysentery, under canvas, without drawing Indian pay

Cc
18 HARD LINES.

and allowances ; and that you might ruin your uniform as rapidly as in
a campaign, and never hope to pin a ribbon over its inglorious stains.

That the military society was too large to find friends quickly in
the neighbourhood, and that as to your neighbours in camp, they were
sure to get-marching orders just when you had learnt to like them.
And if you did wot like them—! (But for that matter, quarrelsome
neighbours are much the same everywhere. And a boundary road
between two estates will furnish as pretty a feud as the pump of a com-
mon back-yard.)

The haters of the camp said that it had every characteristic to
disqualify it for a home; that it was ugly and crowded without the
appliances of civilisation ; that it was neither town nor country, and
had the disadvantages of each without the merits of either.

That it was unshaded and unsheltered, that the lines were monoto-
nous and yet confusing, and every road and parade-ground more dusty
than another.

That the huts let in the frost in winter and the heat in summer,
and were at once stuffy and draughty.

That the low roofs were like a weight upon your head, and that
the torture was invariably brought to a climax on the hottest of the
dog-days, when they were tarred and sanded in spite of your teeth; a
process which did not insure their being water-tight or snow-proof when
the weather changed.

That the rooms had no cupboards, but an unusual number of
doors, through which no tall man could pass without stooping,

That only the publicity and squalor of the back-premises of the
“Lines ”—their drying clothes, and crumbling mud walls, their coal-
boxes and slop-pails—could exceed the depressing effects of the gardens
in front, where such plants as were not uprooted by the winds perished
of frost or drought, and where, if some gallant creeper had stood fast
and covered the nakedness of your wooden hovel, the Royal Engineers
would arrive one morning, with as little announcement as the tar and
sand men, and tear down the growth of years before you had finished
shaving, for the purpose of repainting your outer walls.

On the other hand, there were those who had a great affection for
Asholt, and affection never lacks arguments.

Admitting some hardships and blunders, the defenders of the
Camp fell back successfully upon statistics for a witness to the general
good health.
ET CONSTRICTA SUAS HABITANS AMAT OSTREA VALVAS 19

They said that if the Camp was windy the breezes were exquisitely
bracing, and the climate of that particular part of England such as
would qualify it for a health-resort for invalids, were it only situated in
a comparatively inaccessible part of the Pyrenees, instead of being
within an hour or two of London.

That this fact of being within easy reach of town made the Camp
practically at the head-quarters of civilisation and refinement, whilst the
simple and sociable ways of living, necessitated by hut-life in common,
emancipated its select society from rival extravagance and cumbersome
formalities.

That the Camp stood on the borders of the two counties of Eng-
land which rank highest on the books of estate and house-agents, and
that if you did not think the country lovely and the neighbourhood
agreeable you must be hard to please.

That, as regards the Royal Engineers, it was one of your privileges
to be hard to please, since you were entitled to their good offices ; and
if, after all, they sometimes failed to cure your disordered drains and
smoky chimneys, you, at any rate, did not pay as well as suffer, which
is the case in civil life.

That low doors to military quarters might be regarded as a practi-
cal joke on the part of authorities, who demand that soldiers shall be
both tall and upright, but that man, whether military or not, is an adapt-
able animal and can get used to anything; and indeed it was only those
officers whose thoughts were more active than their instincts who in-
variably crushed their best hats before starting for town.

That huts (if only they were a little higher!) had a great many
advantages over small houses, which were best appreciated by those
who had tried drawing lodging allowance and living in villas, and which
would be fully known if ever the Lines were rebuilt in brick.

That on moonlit nights the airs that fanned the silent Camp were
as dry and wholesome as by day; that the song of the distant nightin-
gale could be heard there; and finally, that from end to end of this
dwelling-place of ten thousand to (on occasion) twenty thousand men,
a woman might pass at midnight with greater safety than in the country
lanes of a rural village or a police protected thoroughfare of the metro-
polis.

But, in truth, the Camp’s best defence in the hearts of its deten-
ders was that it was a camp,—military life in epitome, with all its
defects and all its charm; not the least of which, to some whimsical
20 AUF WIEDER SEHN!

minds, is, that it represents, as no other phase of society represents, the
human pilgrimage in brief.

Here be sudden partings, but frequent re-unions ; the charities and
courtesies of an uncertain life lived largely in common ; the hospitality
of passing hosts to guests who tarry but a day.

Here, surely, should be the home of the sage as well as the soldier,
where every hut might fitly carry the ancient motto, “ Dwell as if about
to Depart,” where work bears the nobler name of duty, and where the
living, hastening on his business amid “the hurryings of this life,”*
must pause and stand to salute the dead as he is carried by.

Bare and dusty are the Parade Grounds, but they are thick with
memories. Here were blessed the colours that became a young man’s
shroud that they might not be a nation’s shame. Here march and
music welcome the coming and speed the parting regiments. On this
Parade the rising sun is greeted with gun-fire and trumpet clarions
shriller than the cock, and there he sets to a like salute with tuck of
drum. Here the young recruit drills, the warrior puts on his medal,
the old pensioner steals back to watch them, and the soldiers’ children
play—sometimes at fighting or flag-wagging,t but oftener at funerals!

* Bunyan’s Filgrim’s Progress.

7 ‘‘ Flag-wagging,” a name among soldiers’ children for ‘‘ signalling.”
2r

CHAPTER III.

&
* Ut migraturus habita” (‘‘ Dwell as if about to Depart”). —Old House Motto.

HE barrack-master’s wife
was standing in the porch
of her hut, the sides of
which were of the simp-
lest trellis-work of crossed
fir-poles, through which
she could watch the pro-
ceedings of the gardener
= without baking herself in
the sun. Suddenly she
snatched up a green-lined
white umbrella, that had
=" seen service in India, and
ran out. .

“O'Reilly! what zs
that baby doing? There!
that white-headed child
crossing the parade with,
a basket in its little arms!
It’s got nothing on. its
head. Please go and take
it to its mother before it
gets sunstroke.”

The gardener was an
Trish soldier—an old sol-:
dier, as the handkerchief.
depending from his cap,
to protect the nape of his neck from the sun, bore witness. He.was a
tall man, and stepped without ceremony over the garden paling to get:
a nearer view of the parade. But he stepped back again at once, and.
resumed his place in the garden.






22 A FUNERAL; AND THIS HATH NOW HIS HEART.

“He’s Corporal Macdonald’s child, madam. The Blind Baby,
they call him. Not a bit of harm will he get. They’re as hard as
nails the whole lot of them. If I was to take him in now, he'd be
out before my back was turned. His brothers and sisters are at the
school, and Blind Baby’s just as happy as the day is long, playing at
funerals all the time.”

“Blind! Is he blind? Poor little soul! But he’s got a great
round potato-basket in his arms. Surely they don’t make that afflicted
infant fetch and carry?”

O’Reilly laughed so heartily, that he scandalized his own sense of
propriety. ,

“TI ask your pardon, madam. But there’s no fear that Blind
Baby ’ll fetch and carry. Every man in the Lines is his nurse.”

“ But what’s he doing with that round hamper as big as himself?”

“Tt’s just a make-believe for the Big Drum, madam. The Dead
March is his whole delight. “Twas only yesterday I said to his father,
‘Corporal,’ I says, ‘we'll live to see Blind Baby a bandmaster yet,’ I
says; ‘it’s a pure pleasure to see him beat out a tune with his closed
fist.”

“Will I go and borrow a barrow now, madam?” added O'Reilly,
returning to his duties. He was always willing and never idle, but he
liked change of occupation.

“No, no. Don’t go away. We shan’t want a wheelbarrow till
we've finished trenching this border, and picking out me stones. Then
you can take them away and fetch the new soil.”

“You're at a deal of pains, madam, and it’s'a poor patch when
all’s done to it.”

“T can’t live without flowers, O’Reilly, and the Colonel says I may
do what I like. with this bare strip.”

“Ah! Don’t touch the dirty stones with your fingers, ma’am. I'll
have the lot picked in no time at all.” ,

“You see, O’Reilly, you can’t grow flowers in sand unless you can
command water, and the Colonel tells me that when it’s hot here the
water supply runs short, and we mayn’t water the garden from the
pumps.”

O’Reilly smiled superior.

“The Colonel will get what water he wants, ma’am. Never fear
him! ‘There’s ways and means. Look at the gardens of the Royal
Engineers’ Lines. In the hottest of summer weather they’re as green
EXPERIENCE KEEPS A DEAR SCHOOL. 23

as Old Ireland ; and it’s not to be supposed that the Royal Engineers
can requisition showers from the skies when they need them, more than
the rest of Her Majesty’s forces.”

“Perhaps the Royal Engineers do what I mean to do—take more
pains than usual; and put in soil that will retain some moisture. One
can’t make poor land yield anything without pains, O’Reilly, and this is
like the dry bed of a stream—all sand and pebbles.”

“That's as true a word as ever ye spoke, madam, and if it were
not that ’twould be taking a liberty, I’d give ye some advice about gar-
dening in Camp. It’s not the first time I’m quartered in Asholt, and
I know the ways of it.”

“T shall be very glad of advice. You know I have never been
stationed here before.”

“Tis an old soldier’s advice, madam.”

“So much the better,” said the lady, warmly.

O'Reilly was kneeling to his work. He now sat back on his heels,
and not without a certain dignity that bade defiance to his surroundings
he commenced his oration.

“Please Gop to spare you and the Colonel, madam, to put in his
time as Barrack Master at this station, ye’ll see many a regiment come
and go, and be making themselves at home all along. And anny one
that knows this place, and the nature of the soil, tear-rs would overflow
his eyes to see the regiments come for drill, and betake themselves to
gardening. Maybe the boys have marched in footsore and fasting, in
the hottest of weather, to cold comfort in empty quarters, and they’ll
not let many hours flit over their heads before some of ’em ’ll get
possession of a load of green turf, and be laying it down for borders
around their huts. It’s the young ones I’m speaking of; and there
ye’ll see them, in the blazing sun, with their shirts open, and not a
thing on their heads, squaring and fitting the turfs for bare life, water-
ing them out of old pie-dishes and stable-buckets and whatnot, singing
and whistling, and fetching and carrying between the pump and their
quarters, just as cheerful as so many birds building their nests in the
spring.”

‘A very pretty picture, O’Reilly. Why should it bring tears to
your eyes? An old soldier like you must know that one would never
have a home in quarters at all if one did not begin to make it at
once.”

“True for you, madam. Nota doubt of it. But it goes to your
24 SOW BEANS IN THE MUD AND THEY'LL GROW LIKE WOOD.

heart to see labour thrown away; and it’s not once in a hundred times
that grass planted like that will get hold of a soil like this, and the boys
themselves at drill all along, or gone out under canvas in Bottomless
Bog before the week’s over, as likely as not.”

“That would be unlucky. But one must take one’s luck as it
comes. And you've not told me, now, what you do advise for Camp
Gardens.”

““That’s just what I’m coming to, ma’am. See the old soldier!
What does 4e do? Turns the bucket upside down outside his hut, and
sits on it, with a cap on his head, and a handkerchief down his back,
and some tin tacks, and a ball of string—trust a soldier’s eye to get the
lines straight—every one of them beginning on the ground and going
nearly up to the roof.”

“For creepers, I suppose? What does the old soldier plant?”

“Beans, madam—scarlet runners. These are the things for Asholt.
A few beans are nothing in your baggage. They like a warm place,
and when they’re on the sunny side of a hut they’ve got it, and no
mistake. They’re growing while you’re on duty. The flowers are the
right soldier’s colour; and when it comes to the beans, ye may put
your hand out of the window and gather them, and no trouble at all.”

“The old soldier is very wise; but I think I must have more
flowers than that. So I plant, and if they die I am very sorry ; and if
they live, and other people have them, I try to be glad. One ought to
learn to be unselfish, O’Reilly, and think of one’s successors.”

“ And that’s true, madam ; barring that I never knew any one’s
successor to have the same fancies as himself: one plants trees to give
shelter, and the next cuts them down to let in the air.”

“Well, I suppose the only way is to be prepared for the worst.
The rose we planted yesterday by the porch is a great favourite of
mine; but the Colonel calls it ‘Marching Orders.’ It used to grow
over my window in my old home, and I have planted it by every home
I have had since; but the Colonel says whenever it settled and began
to flower the regiment got the route.”

“The Colonel must name it again, madam,” said O’Reilly, gallantly,
as he hitched up the knees of his trowsers, and returned to the border.
“It shall be ‘Standing Orders’ now, if soap and water can make it
blossom, and I’m spared to attend to it all the time. Many a hundred
roses may you and the Colonel pluck from it, and never one with a
thorn !”
BRING EVERY FLOWER THAT SAD EMBROIDERY WEARS. 25

“Thank you, O’Reilly ; thank you very much. Soapy water is
very good for roses, I believe ?”

“Tt is so, madam. I put in a good deal of my time as officer's
servant after I was in the Connaught Rangers, and the Captain I was
with one time was as fond of flowers as yourself. There was a mighty
fine rose-bush by his quarters, and every morning I had to carry out
his bath to it. He used more soap than most gentlemen, and when he
sent me to the town for it—‘It’s not for myself, O’Reilly,’ he’d say,
‘so much as for the Rose. Bring large tablets,’ he’d say, ‘and the
best scented ye can get. The roses’ll be the sweeter for it.’ That was.
his way of joking, and never a smile on his face. He was odd in many
of his ways, was the Captain, but he was a grand soldier entirely ; a
good officer, and a good friend to his men, and to the wives and chil-
dren no less. The regiment was in India when he died of cholera,
in twenty-four hours, do what I would. ‘Oh, the cramp in my legs,
O’Reilly ! he says. ‘Gop bless ye, Captain,’ says I; ‘never mind your
legs ; ’d manage the cramp, sir,’ I says, ‘if I could but keep up your
heart.’ ‘Ye’ll not do that, O’Reilly,’ he says, ‘for all your goodness ;
I lost it too long ago.’ That was his way of joking, and never a smile
on his face. ”“I'was a pestilential hole we were in, and that’s the truth ;
and cost Her Majesty more in lives than would have built healthy
quarters, and given us every comfort; but the flowers throve there if
we didn’t, and the Captain’s grave was filled till ye couldn’t get the
sight of him for roses. He was a good officer, and beloved of his
men ; and better master never a man had !”

As he ceased speaking, O’Reilly drew his sleeve sharply across his
eyes, and then bent again to his work, which was why he failed to see
what the Barrack Master’s wife saw, and did not for some moments dis:
cover that she was no longer in the garden. The matter was this:

The Barrack Master’s quarters were close to the Iron Church, and
the straight road that ran past both was crossed, just beyond the church,
by another straight road, which finally led out to and joined a country
highway. From this highway an open carriage and pair were being
driven into the camp as a soldier’s funeral was marching to church.
The band frightened the horses, who were got past with some difficulty,
and having turned the sharp corner, were coming rapidly towards the
Barrack Master’s hut when Blind Baby, excited by the band, strayed.
from his parade-ground, tumbled, basket and all, into the ditch that
divided it from the road, picked up himself and his basket, and was
26 BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER,

sturdily setting forth across the road just as the frightened horses came
plunging to the spot.

The Barrack Master’s wife was not very young, and not very
slender. Rapid movements were not easy to. her. She was nervous
also, and could never afterwards remember what she did with herself in
those brief moments before she became conscious that the footman had
got to the horses’ heads, and that she herself was almost under their
feet, with Blind Baby in her arms. Blind Baby himself recalled her to
consciousness by the ungrateful fashion in which he pummelled his
deliverer with his fists and howled for his basket, which had rolled
under the carriage to add to the confusion. Nor was he to be pacified
till O'Reilly took him from her arms.

By this time men had rushed from every hut and kitchen, wash-
place and shop, and were swarming to the rescue, and through the
whole disturbance, like minute-guns, came the short barks of a black
puppy, which Leonard had insisted upon taking with him to show to
his aunt despite the protestations of his mother: for it was Lady Jane’s
carriage, and this was how the sisters met.

They had been sitting together for some time, so absorbed by the
strangeness and the pleasure of their new relations that Leonard and
his puppy had slipped away unobserved, when Lady Jane, who was near
the window, called to her sister-in-law :—“ Adelaide, tell me, my dear, is
this Colonel Jones?” She spoke with some trepidation. It is so easy for
those unacquainted with uniforms to make strange blunders. Moreover,
the Barrack Master, though soldierly looking, was so, despite a very un-
soldierly defect. He was exceedingly stout, and as he approached the
miniature garden gate, Lady Jane found herself gazing with some anxiety
to see if he could possibly get through.

But O’Reilly did not make an empty boast when he said that a
soldier's eye was true. The Colonel came quite neatly through the toy
entrance, knocked nothing down in the porch, bent and bared his head
with one gesture as he passed under the drawing-room doorway, and
bowing again to Lady Jane, moved straight to the side of his wife.

Something in the action—a mixture of dignity and devotion, with
just a touch of defiance—went to Lady Jane’s heart. She went up to
him and held out both her hands :—‘“ Please shake hands with me,
Colonel Jones. I am so very happy to have found a sister!” Ina
TOLL FOR THE BRAVE! 27

moment more she turned round, saying: —“I must show you your
nephew. Leonard!” But Leonard was not there.

“TI fancy I have seen him already,” said the Colopel. “If he is a
very beautitul boy, very beautifuily dressed 1n velvet, he’s with O'Reilly,
watching the funeral.”

Lady Jane looked horrified, and Mrs. Jones looked much relieved.

“ He's quite safe if he’s with O'Reilly. But give me my sunshade,
Henry, please ; I dare say Lady Jane would like to see the funeral too.”

It is an Asholt amenity to take care that you miss no opportunity
of seeing a funeral. It would not have occurred to Lady Jane to wish
to go, but as her only child had gone she went willingly to look for him.
As they turned the corner of the hut they came straight upon it, and at
that moment the “ Dead March” broke forth afresh.

‘lhe drum beat cut those familiar notes which strike upon the heart
rather than the ear, the brass screamed, the ground trembled to the
tramp of feet and the lumbering of the gun-carriage, and Lady Jane’s
eyes filled suddenly with tears at the sight of the dead man’s accoutre-
ments lying on the Union Jack that serves a soldier for a pall. As she
dried them she saw Leonard.

Drawn up in accurate line with the edge of the road, O’Reilly was
standing to salute; and as near to the Irish private as he could squeeze
himself stood the boy, his whole body stretched to the closest possible
imitation of his new and deeply-revered friend, his left arm glued to his
side, and the back of his little right hand laid against his brow, gazing at
the pathetic pageant as it passed him with devouring eyes. And behind
them stood Blind Baby, beating upon his basket.

For the basket had been recovered, and Blind Baby’s equanimity
also ; and he wandered up and down the parade again im the sun, long
after the soldier’s funeral had wailed its way to the graveyard, over the
heather-covered hill.
CHAPTER IV.

‘* My mind is in the anomalous condition of hating war, and loving its discipline,

which has been an incalculable contribution to the
devotion of the common soldier to his leader (the

sentiment of duty . . the
sign for him of hard duty), is the

type of all higher devotedness, and is full of promise to other and better generations.”

We
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need
pendale arm-chair. It will hold the Barrack
“Rupert !—I cannot help saying it—it ought to have held him






George Eliot,

OUR sister is as nice as
nice can be, Rupert; and
I like the Barrack Master
very much, too. He zs
stout! But he is very ac-
tive and upright, and his
manners to his wife are
wonderfully pretty. Do
you know, there is some-
thing to me most touching
in the way these two have
knocked about the world
together, and seem so
happy with so little. Cot-
tagers could hardly live
more simply, and yet their
ideas, or at any rate their
experiences, seem so much
larger than one’s own.”

“My dear Jane! if
you've taken them up from
the romantic point of view
allis, indeed, accomplished.
I know the wealth of your
imagination, and the riches
of its charity. If, in such
a mood, you will admit
that Jones is stout, he must
be fat indeed! Never again
upbraid me with the price
that I paid for that Chip-
Master.”
BIRTH’S GUDE, BUT BREEDING’S BETTER. 29

long ago. It makes me miserable*to think that they have never been
under our roof.”

“Jane! Be miserable if you must; but, at least, be aecurate.
The Barrack Master was in India when I bought that paragon of all
Chips, and he has only come home this year. Nay, my dear! Don’t
be vexed. I give you my word, I’m a good deal more ashamed than I
like to own to think how Adelaide has been treated by the family—with
me as its head. Did you make my apologies to-day, and tell her that I
shall ride out to-morrow and pay my respects to her and Jones?”

» “Of course. JI told her you were obliged to go to town, and I
would not delay to call and ask if I could be of use to them. I begged
them to come here till their quarters are quite finished; but they won't.
They say they are settled. I could not say much, because we ought to
have asked them sooner. He is rather on his dignity with us, I think,
and no wonder.”

“ He’s disgustingly on his dignity!’ They both are. Because the
family resented the match at first, they have refused every kind of help
that one would have been glad to give him as Adelaide’s husband, if
only to secure their being in a decent position. Neither interest nor
money would he accept, and Adelaide has followed his lead. She has
very little of her own, unfortunately ; and she knows how my father left
things as well as I do, and never would accept a farthing more than her
bare rights. I tried some dodges, through Quills; but it was of no use.
The vexation is that he has taken this post of Barrack Master as a sort
of pension, which need never have been. I suppose they have to make
that son an allowance. It’s not likely he lives on his pay. I can’t con-
ceive how they scrub along.”

And as the Master of the House threw himself into the paragon ot
all Chips, he ran his fingers through hair, the length and disorder of
which would have made the Barrack Master feel positively ill, with a
gesture of truly dramatic despair.

“Your sister has made her room look wonderfully pretty. One
would never imagine those huts could lock as nice as they do inside.
But it’s like playing with a doll's house, One feels inclined to examine
everything, and to be quite pleased that the windows have glass in them,
and will really open and shut.”

The Master of the House raised his eyebrows funnily.

“You did take rose-coloured spectacles with you to the Camp !”

Lady Jane laughed.

“I did not see the Camp itself through them. What an incompar-
30 NON EADEM MIRAMUR.

ably dreary place it is! It makes me think of little woodcuts in mis-
sionary reports—“ Sketch of a Native Settlement ”—rows of little black
huts that look, at a distance, as if one must creep into them on all-fours ;
nobody about, and an iron church on the hill.”

“Most accurately described! And you wonder that I regret that
a native settlement should have been removed from the enchanting dis-
tance of missionary reports to become my permanent neighbour?”

“ Well, I must confess the effect it produces on me is to make me
feel quite ashamed of the peace and pleasure of this dear old place, the
shade and greenery outside, the space above my head, and the lovely
things before my eyes inside (for you know, Rupert, how I appreciate
your decorative tastes, though I have so few myself. I only scolded about
the Chip because I think you might have got him for less)—when so
many men bred to similar comforts, and who have served their country
so well, with wives I dare say quite as delicate as I am, have to be
cooped up in those ugly little kennels in that dreary place t:

“ What an uncomfortable thing a Scotch conscience is!” interrupted
the Master of the House. “By-the-by, those religious instincts, which
are also characteristic of your race, must have found one redeeming
feature in the Camp, the “iron church on the hill;” especially as I
imagine that it is puritanically ugly !”

“There was a funeral going into it as we drove into Camp, and I
wanted to tell you the horses were very much frightened.”

“ Richards fidgets those horses; they’re quiet enough with me.”

“They did not like the military band.”

“They must get used to the band and to other military nuisances.
It is written in the stars, as I too clearly foresee,that we shall be driving
in and out of that Camp three days a-week. I can’t go to my club
without meeting men I was at school with who are stationed at Asholt,
and expect me to look them up. As to the women, I met a man yes-
terday who is living in a hut, and expects a Dowager Countess and her
two daughters for the ball. He has given up his dressing-room to the
Dowager, and put two barrack-beds into the coal-hole for the young
ladies, he says. It’s an insanity !”

“‘ Adelaide told me about the ball. The Camp seems very gay just
now. They have had theatricals ; and there is to be a grand Field Day
this week.”

“So our visitors have already informed me. They expect to go.
Louisa Mainwaring is looking handsomer than ever, and I have always
regarded her as a girl with a mind. I took her to see the peep I have


FIELD Bays, 31

cut opposite to the island, and I could not imagine why those fine eyes
of hers looked so blank. Presently she said, ‘I suppose you can see
the Camp from the little pine-wood?” And to the little pine-wood we
had to go. Both the girls have got stiff necks with craning out of the
carriage window to catch sight of the white tents among the heather as
they came along in the train.

“T suppose we must take them to the Field Day; but I am very
nervous about those horses, Rupert.”

“The horses will be taken out before any firing begins. As to
bands, the poor creatures must learn, like their master, to endure the
brazen liveliness of military music. It’s no fault of mine that our
nerves are scarified by any sounds less soothing than the crooning of
the wood pigeons among the pines !”

No one looked forward to the big Field Day with keener interest
than Leonard ; and only a few privileged persons knew more about the
arrangements for the day than he had contrived to learn.

O’Reilly was sent over with a note from Mrs. Jones to decline the
offer of a seat in Lady Jane’s carriage for the occasion. She was not
very well. Leonard waylaid the messenger (whorn he hardly recognised
as a tidy one!), and O’Reilly gladly imparted all that he knew about
the Field Day: and this was a good deal. He had it from a friend—a
corporal in the Head Quarters Office.

As a rule, Leonard only enjoyed a limited popularity with his
mother’s visitors. He was very pretty and very amusing, and had
better qualities even than these ; but he was restless and troublesome.
On this occasion, however, the young ladies suffered him to trample
their dresses and interrupt their conversation without remonstrance.
He knew more about the Field Day than any one in the house, and,
standing among their pretty furbelows and fancywork in stiff military
attitudes, he imparted his news with an unsuccessful imitation of an
Irish accent.

“O’Reilly says the March Past ’Il be at eleven o’clock on the
Sandy Slopes.”

“ Louisa, is that Major O’Reilly ofthe Rifles?”

“T don’t know, dear. Is your friend O’Reilly in the Rifles,
Leonard ?”

“JT don’t know. I know he’s an owld soldier—he told me so.”

“Old, Leonard ; not owld. You mustn’t talk like that.”

“TY shall if I like. He does, and I mean to.”

“T dare say he did, Louisa. He’s always joking.”
32 OLD SOLDIERS.

“No he isn’t. He didn’t joke when the funeral went past. He
looked quite grave, as if he was saying his prayers, and stood so.”

“How touching!”

“ How like him !”

“ How graceful and tenderhearted Irishmen are !”

“T stood so, too. I mean to do as like him as ever I can. I do
love him so very very much !”

“ Dear boy !”

“You good, affectionate little soul !”

“Give me a kiss, Leonard dear.”

“No, thank you. I’m too old for kissing. He’s going to march
past, and he’s going to look out for me with the tail of his eye, and I’m
going to look out for him.”

“Do, Leonard ; and mind you tell us when you see him coming.”

I can’t promise. I might forget. But perhaps you can know
him by the good-conduct stripe on his arm. He used to have two;
‘but he lost one all along of St. Patrick’s Day.”

“That caw’t be your partner, Louisa !”

“Officers zever have good-conduct stripes.”

“Leonard, you ought not to talk to common soldiers. You've got
a regular Irish brogue, and you're learning all sorts of ugly words.
You'll grow up quite a vulgar little boy, if you don’t take care.”

“T don't want to take care. I like being Irish, and I shall be a
vulgar little boy too, if I choose. But when I do grow up, I am going
to grow into an owld, owld, Owld Soldier!” -

“Leonard made this statement of his intentions in his clearest
manner. After which, having learned that the favour of the fair is
fickleness, hegleft the ladies, and went to look for his Black Puppy.

The Master of the House, in arranging for his visitors to go to the
Field Day, had said that Leonard was not to be of the party. He had
no wish to encourage the child’s fancy for soldiers: and as Leonard
was invariably restless out driving, and had a trick of kicking people’s
shins~in his changes of mood and position, he was a most uncomfort-
able element in a carriage full of ladies. But it is needless to say that
he stoutly resisted his father’s decree; and the child’s disappointment
was so bitter, and he howled and wept himself into such a deplorable
condition, that the young ladies sacrificed their own comfort and the
crispness of their new dresses to his grief, and petitioned the Master of
the House that he might be allowed to go.

‘The Master of the House gave in. He was accustomed to yield
LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG. 33

where Leonard was concerned. But the concession proved only a pre-
lude to another struggle. Leonard wanted the Black Puppy to go too.
On this point the young ladies presented no petition. Leonard’s
boots they had resolved to endure, but not the dog’s paws. Lady Jane,
too, protested against the puppy, and the matter seemed settled ; but at
the last moment, when all but Leonard were in the carriage, and the
horses chafing to be off, the child made his appearance, and stood on
the entrance-steps with his puppy in his arms, and announced, in digni-
fied sorrow, “I really cannot go if my Sweep has to be left behind.”
With one consent the grown-up people turned to look:at him.
Even the intoxicating delight that colour gives can hardly exceed
the satisfying pleasure in which beautiful proportions steep the sense of
sight ; and one is often at fault to find the law that has been so exqui-
sitely fulfilled, when the eye has no doubt of its own satisfaction.
The shallow stone steps, on the top of which Leonard stood, and
the old doorway that framed him, had this mysterious grace, and, truth
to say, the boy’s beauty was a jewel not unworthy of its setting.

A holiday dress of crimson velvet, with collar and ruffles of old |

lace, became him very quaintly ; and as he laid a cheek like a rose-leaf
against the sooty head of his pet, and they both gazed piteously at the
carriage, even Lady Jane’s conscience was stifled by motherly pride.
He was her only child, but as he had said of the Orderly, “a very
splendid sort of one.”

The Master of the House stamped his foot wah an impatience that
was partly real and partly, perhaps, affected.

“Well, get in somehow, if you mean to. The horses can’t wait all
day for you.” /

No ruby-throated humming-bird could have darted more swiftly
from one point to another than Leonard from the old gray steps into
the carriage. Little boys can be very careful when they choose, and he
trode on no toes and crumpled no finery in his flitting.

To those who know dogs, it is needless to say that the puppy
showed an even superior discretion. It bore throttling without a
struggle. Instinctively conscious of the alternative of being shut up
in a stable for the day, and left there to bark its heart out, it shrank
patiently into Leonard’s grasp, and betrayed no sign of life except in
the strained and pleading anxiety which a puppy’s eyes so often wear.

“Your dog is a very good dog, Leonard, I must say,” said Louisa
Mainwaring ; “but he’s very ugly. I never saw such legs!”

Leonard tucked the lank black legs under his velvet and. ruffles.

a : a


















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































‘© At the last moment, when all but Leonard were in the carriage, and the horses chafing to be
off, the child made his appearance, and stood on the entrance-steps, with his puppy in his arms, and
announced in dignified sorrow, ‘I really cannot go if my Sweep has to be left behind.’ —Page 33.
THE BEETLE IS A BEAUTY IN THE EYES OF ITS MOTHER. 35

“Oh, he’s all right,” he said. ‘He'll be very handsome soon. It’s his
ugly month.”

“TI wonder you didn’t insist on our bringing Uncle Rupert and Aas
dog to complete the party,” said the Master of the House.

The notion tickled Leonard, and he laughed so heartily that the
puppy’s legs got loose, and required to be tucked in afresh. Then both
remained quiet for several seconds, during which the puppy looked as
anxious as ever; but Leonard’s face wore a smile of dreamy content
that doubled its loveliness.

But as the carriage passed the windows of the library a sudden
thought struck him, and dispersed his repose.

Gripping his puppy firmly under his arm, he sprang to his feet—
regardless of other people’s—and waving his cap and feather above his
head he cried aloud, “Good-bye, Uncle Rupert! Can you hear me?
Uncle Rupert, I say! I am—déetus—sorte—mea !”

* % * * * *

All the Camp was astir.

Men and bugles awoke with the dawn and the birds, and now the
women and children of all ranks were on the alert. (Nowhere does so
large and enthusiastic a crowd collect “to see the pretty soldiers go by,”
as in those places where pretty soldiers live.)

Soon after gun-fire O’Reilly made his way from his own quarters to
those of the Barrack Master, opened the back-door by some process
best known to himself, and had been busy for half an hour in the
drawing-room before his proceedings woke the Colonel. They had
been as noiseless as possible ; but the Colonel’s dressing-room opened
into the drawing-room, his bedroom opened into that, and all the doors
and windows were open to court the air.

“ Who’s there ?” said the Colonel from his pillow.

“Tis O’Reilly, Sir. I ask your pardon, Sir; but I heard that the
Mistress was not well. She'll be apt to want the reclining-chair, Sir;
and ’twas damaged in the unpacking. I got the screws last night, but I
was busy soldiering* till too late ; so I come in this morning, for Smith’s
no good at a job of the kind at all. He’s a butcher to his trade.”

“Mrs. Jones is much obliged to you for thinking of it, O’Reilly.”

“°Tis an honour to oblige her, Sir. I done it sound and secure.
Tis as safe as a rock ; but I’d like to nail a bit of canvas on from the
porch to the other side of the hut, for shelter, in case she’d be sitting

* “* Soldiering ”—a barrack term for the furbishing up of accoutrements, &c.
36 FAIR LAUGHS THE MORN, AND SOFT THE ZEPHYR BLOWS.

out to taste the air and see the troops go by. “Twill not take me five
minutes, if the hammering wouldn't be too much for the Mistress. "Tis
a hot day, Sir, for certain, till the guns bring the rain down.”

“ Put it up, if you’ve time.”

“¥ will, Sir. I left your sword and gloves on the kitchen- Eble:
Sir ; and I told Smith to water the rose before the sun’s on to it.”

With which O Reilly adjusted the cushions of the invalid-chair, and
having nailed up the bit of canvas outside, so as to form an impromptu
veranda, he ran back to his quarters to put himself into marching order
for the Field Day.

The Field Day broke into smiles of sunshine too early to be last-
ing. By breakfast-time the rain came down without waiting for the
guns; but those most concerned took the changes of weather cheer-
fully, as soldiers should. Rain damages uniforms, but it lays dust ; and
the dust of the Sandy Slopes was dust indeed!

After a pelting shower the sun broke forth again, and from that
time onwards the weather was “Queen’s Weather,” and Asholt was at its
best. The sandy Camp lay girdled by a zone of the verdure of early
summer, which passed by miles of distance, through exquisite gradations
of many blues, to meet the soft threatenings of the changeable sky.
Those lowering and yet tender rain-clouds which hover over the British
Isles, guardian spirits of that scantly recognized blessing——a temperate
climate ; Naiads of the waters over the earth, whose caprices betwixt
storm and sunshine fling such beauty upon a landscape as has no‘
parallel except in the common simile of a fair face quivering between
tears and smiles.

Smiles were in the ascendant as the regiments began to leave their
parade-grounds, and the surface of the Camp (usually quiet, even to
dullness) sparkled with movement. Along every principal road the
colour and glitter of marching troops rippled like streams, and as the
band of one regiment died away another broke upon the excited ear.

At the outlets of the Camp eager crowds waited patiently in the
dusty hedges to greet favourite regiments, or watch for personal friends
amongst the troops ; and on the ways to the Sandy Slopes every kind
of vehicle, from a drag to a donkey-cart, and every variety of pedes:
trian, from an energetic tourist carrying a field-glass to a more admirably
energetic mother carrying a baby, disputed the highway with cavalry in
brazen breastplates, and horse-artillery whose gallant show was noe ned
in its own dust.

Lady. Jane’s. visitors. had expressed themselves as. anxious not to
STAND FAST, CRAIGELLACHIE ! 37

miss anything, and troops were still pouring out of the Camp when the
Master of the House brought his skittish horses to where a “block”
had just occurred at the turn to the Sandy Slopes.

What the shins and toes of the visitors endured whilst that knot of
troops of all arms disentangled itself and streamed away in gay and
glittering lines, could only have been concealed by the supreme powers
of endurance latent in the weaker sex; for with the sight of every
fresh regiment Leonard changed his plans for his own future career, and
with every change he forgot a fresh promise to keep quiet, and took by
storm that corner of the carriage which for the moment offered the best
point of view.

Suddenly, through the noise and dust, and above the dying away of
conflicting bands into the distance, there came another sound—a sound
unlike any other—the skirling of the pipes; and Lady Jane sprang up
and put her arms about her son, and bade him watch for the High-
landers, and if Cousin Alan looked up as he went past to cry “ Hurrah
for Bonnie Scotland !”

For this sound and this sight—the bagpipes and the Highlanders—
a sandy-faced Scotch lad on the tramp to Southampton had waited for
an hour past, frowning and freckling his face in the sun, and exasperat-
ing a naturally dour temper by reflecting on the probable pride and
heartlessness of folk who wore such soft complexions and pretty clothes
as the ladies and the little boy in the carriage on the other side of the
road.

But when the skirling of the pipes cleft the air his cold eyes
softened as he caught sight of Leonard’s face, and the echo that he
made to Leonard’s cheer was caught up by the good-humoured crowd,
who gave the Scotch regiment a willing ovation as it swung proudly by.
After which the carriage moved on, and for a time Leonard sat very
still. He was thinking of Cousin Alan and. his comrades; of the toss-
ing plumes that shaded their fierce eyes; of the swing of kilt and
sporran with their unfettered limbs; of the rhythmic tread of their
white feet and the fluttering ribbons on the bagpipes; and of Alan’s
handsome face looking out of his most becoming bravery.

The result of -his meditations Leonard announced with his usual
lucidity :—

“I am Scotch, not Irish, though O’Reilly zs the nicest man I ever
knew. But I must tell him that I really cannot grow up into an Owld
Soldier, because I mean to be a young. Highland officer, and look at
ladies with my eyes like ¢#és—and carry my sword so /”
a

CHAPTER V.

«Oh that a man might know the end of this day’s business ere it comes!”

Gulius Cesar.












EARS of living amongst
soldiers had increased,
rather than diminished,
Mrs. Jones's telish for
he sights and sounds of.
military life.
! . The charm of novelty

s proverbially great, but
: it is not so powerful as

‘ that peculiar spell which
“drew the retired tallow-
chandler back to “shop” |
on melting-days, and
which guided the choice
of the sexton of a ceme-
tery who only took one
holiday trip in the course
of seven years, and then
he went to a cemetery
at some distance to see
how they managed mat-
ters there. And, indeed, poor humanity may be very thankful for the
infatuation, since it goes far to make life pleasant in the living to plain
folk who-do not make a point of being discontented.

In obedience to this law of nature, the Barrack Master’s wife did
exactly what O’Reilly had expected: her to do. As she could not drive
to the Field Day, she strolled out to see the troops go by. Then the
vigour derived from breakfast and the freshness of the morning air
began to fail, the day grew hotter, the camp looked dreary and deserted,

Sv ebs
THERE’S TROUBLE IN THE AIR. 39

and, either from physical weakness or from some untold cause, a name-
less anxiety, a sense of trouble in the air, began to oppress her.

Wandering out again to try and shake it off, it was almost a relief,
like the solving of a riddle, to find Blind Baby sitting upon his Big
Drum, too low-spirited to play the Dead March, and crying because
all the bands had “gone right away.” Mrs. Jones made friends with
him, and led him off to her hut for consolation, and he was soon as
happy as ever, standing by the piano and beating upon his basket in
time to the tunes she played for him. But the day and the hut grew
hotter, and her back ached, and the nameless anxiety re-asserted itself,
and was not relieved by Blind Baby’s preference for the Dead March
over every other tune with which she tried to beguile him. ,

And when he had gone back to his own Parade, with a large piece
of cake and many assurances that the bands would undoubtedly return,
and the day wore on, and the hut became like an oven (in the absence
of any appliances to mitigate the heat), the Barrack Master’s wife came
to the hasty conclusion that Asholt was hotter than India, whatever
thermometers might say; and, too weary to seek for breezes outside, or
to find a restful angle of the reclining chair inside, she folded her hands
in her lap and abandoned herself to the most universal remedy for most
ills—patience. And Patience was its own reward, for she fell asleep.

Her last thoughts as she dozed off were of her husband and her
son, wishing that they were safe home again, that she might assure her-
self that it was not on their account that there was trouble in the air.
Then she dreamed of being roused by the Colonel’s voice saying, “I
have bad news to tell you——” and was really awakened by straining
in her dream to discover what hindered him from completing his
sentence.

She had slept some time—it was now afternoon, and the air was
full of sounds of the returning bands. She went out into the road and
saw the Barrack Master (he was easy to distinguish at some distance !)
pause on his homeward way, and then she saw her son running to join
his father, with his sword under his arm; and they came on together,
talking as they came.

And as soon as they got within earshot she said, “Have you bad
news to tell me?”

The Colonel ran up and drew her hand within his arm.

“Come indoors, dear Love.”

“You are both well?”
40 ROOSE THE FAIR DAY AT F’EN,

“Both of us. Brutally so.”

“ Quite well, dear Mother.”

Her son was taking her other hand into caressing care; there
could be no doubt about the bad news.

“ Please tell me what it is.”

“There has been an accident——”

“To whom?”

“To your brother’s child ; that jolly little chap——”

“Oh, Henry! how?”

“ He was standing up in the carriage, I believe, with a dog in his
arms. George saw him when he went past—didn’t you?”

“Ves. I wonder he didn’t fall then. I fancy some one had told
him it was our regiment. The dog was struggling, but he would take
off his hat to us .

The young soldier choked, and added with difficulty, “I think I
never saw so lovely a face. Poor little cousin !”

“ And he overbalanced himself?”

“Not when George saw him. I believe it was when the Horse
Artillery were going by at the gallop. They say he got so much ex-
cited, and the dog barked, and they both fell. Some say there were
people moving a drag, and some that he fell under the horse of a patrol.
Anyhow, I’m afraid he’s very much hurt. They took him straight home
in an ambulance-waggon to save time. Erskine went with him. I sent
off a telegram for them for a swell surgeon from town, and Lady Jane
promised a line if I send over this evening. O’Reilly must go after
dinner and wait for the news.”

O’Reilly, sitting stiffly amid the coming and going of the servants
at the Hall, was too deeply devoured by anxiety to trouble himself as to
whether the footman’s survey of his uniform bespoke more interest or
contempt. But when—just after gunfire had sounded from the distant .
camp—Jemima brought him the long-waited for note, he caught the
girl’s hand, and held it for some moments before he was able to say,
“Just tell me, miss ; is it good news or bad that Pll be carrying back in
this bit of paper?” And as Jemima only answered by sobs, he added,
almost impatiently, “Will he live, dear? Nod your head if ye can do
no more.”

Jemima nodded, and the soldier dropped her hand, drew a long
breath, and gave himself one of those shakes with which an Irishman
so often throws off care.


PORCELAIN OR BRICK—-YET BOTH CLAY. 41

“ Ah, then, dry your eyes, darlin’; while there’s life there’s hope.”

But Jemima sobbed still.

“The doctor—from London—says he may live a good while, but
—but—he’s to be a cripple all his days !”

“Now wouldn’t I rather be meeting a tiger this evening than see
the mistress’s face when she gets that news !”

And O’Reilly strode back to camp.

Going along through a shady part of the road in the dusk, seeing
nothing but the red glow of the pipe with which he was consoling him-
self, the soldier stumbled against a lad sleeping on the grass by the
roadside. It was the tramping Scotchman, and as he sprang to his feet
the two Kelts broke into a fiery dialogue that seemed as if it could only
come to blows.

It did not. It came to the good-natured soldier’s filling the way-
farer’s pipe for him.

“Much good may it do ye! And maybe the next time a decent
man that’s hastening home on the wings of misfortune stumbles against
ye, ye’ll not be so apt to take offence.”

“T ask your pardon, man; I was barely wakened, and I took ye
for one of these gay red-coats blustering hame after a bloodless battle
on the Field Day, as they ca’ it.”

“Bad luck to the Field Day! A darker never dawned; and
wouldn’t a bloodier battle have spared a child?”

“Your child? What’s happened to the bairn ?”

“My child indeed! And his mother a lady of title, no less.”

“What's got him?”

“Fell out of the carriage, and was trampled into a cripple for all
the days of his life. He that had set as fine a heart as ever beat on
being a soldier ; and a grand one he’d have made. “Sure ’tis a noble-
man ye'll be,” says I. “’Tis an owld soldier I mean to be, O’Reilly,”
says he. And——”

“Fond of the soldiers—his mother a leddy? Man! Had he a
braw new velvet coat and the face of an angel on him?”

“He had so.”

“And I that thocht they’d all this warld could offer them!—A
cripple? Ech sirs !”
42

CHAPTER VI.

“T will do it... . for Iam weak by nature, and very timorous, unless where
a strong sense of duty holdeth and supporteth me. There GoD acteth, and not His.

creature,”
Lady Fane Grey.







EONARD was to some ex-
tent a spoiled child. But it.
demands a great deal of un-
selfish foresight, and of self-
discipline, to do more for a
beautiful and loving pet than
play with it.

4 And if his grace and

“beauty and high spirits had

been strong temptations to.




A









â„¢ sired, and his own way above
== all, how much greater were:
a = the excuses fOr indulging every
whim when the radiant loveli-

= ness of health had faded to the:

SS ob wan wistfulness of pain, when.

Sram the young limbs bounded no.

more, and when his boyish hopes and hereditary ambitions were cut
off by the shears of a destiny that seemed drearier than death?

As soon as the poor child ‘was able to be moved his parents took a
place on the west coast of Scotland, and carried him thither.

The neighbourhood of Asholt had become intolerable by them for
some time to come, and a soft climate and sea-breezes were 4-ecom-
mended for his general health.

Jemima’s dismissal was revoked. Leonard flatly, and indeed furi-
ously, refused to have any other nurse. During the first crisis a skilled:
hospital nurse was engaged, but from the time that he fully recovered
consciousness he would receive help from no hands but those of Jemima
and Lady Jane.




THE TYRANNY OF THE WEAK. 43

Far older and wiser patients than he become ruthless in their de-
mands upon the time and strength of those about them; and Leonard
did not spare his willing slaves by night or by day. It increased their
difficulties and his sufferings that the poor child was absolutely un-
accustomed to prompt obedience, and disputed the doctor’s orders as
he had been accustomed to dispute all others.

Lady Jane’s health became very much broken, but Jemima was
fortunately possessed of a sturdy body and an inactive mind, and with
a devotion little less than maternal she gave up both to Leonard’s
service.

He had a third slave of his bed-chamber—a black one—the Black
Puppy, from whom he had resolutely refused to part, and whom he
insisted upon having upon his bed, to the Doctor’s disgust. When
months passed, and the Black Puppy became a Black Dog, large and
cumbersome, another effort was made to induce Leonard to part with
him at night ; but he only complained bitterly.

“It is very odd that there cannot be a bed big enough for me and
my dog. I am an invalid, and I ought to have what I want.”

So The Sweep remained as his bedfellow.

The Sweep also played the part of the last straw in the drama of
Jemima’s life ; for Leonard would allow no one but his own dear nurse
to wash his own dear dog ; and odd hours, in which Jemima might have
snatched a little rest and relaxation, were spent by her in getting the
big dog’s still lanky legs into a tub, and keeping him there, and washing
him, and drying and combing him into fit condition to spring back on
to Leonard’s coverlet when that imperious little invalid called for him.

Tt was a touching manifestation of the dog’s intelligence that he
learned with the utmost care to avoid jostling or hurting the poor suffer-
ing little body of his master.

Leonard’s fourth slave was his father.

But the Master of the House had no faculty for nursing, and was
by no means possessed of the patience needed to persuade Leonard for
his good. So he could only be with the child when he was fit to be
read or played to, and later on, when he was able to be out of doors.
And at times he went away out of sight of his son’s sufferings, and tried
to stifle the remembrance of a calamity and disappointment, whose
bitterness his own heart alone fully knew.

After the lapse of nearly two years Leonard suddenly asked to be
taken home. He was tired of the shore, and wanted to see if The
44 TO EACH HIS SUFFERINGS.

Sweep remembered the park. He wanted to see if Uncle Rupert would
look surprised to see him going about in a wheel-chair. He wanted to
go to the Camp again, now the doctor said he might have drives, and
see if O’Reilly was alive still, and his uncle, and his aunt, and his
cousin. He wanted father to play to him on their own organ, their very
own organ, and—no, thank, you!—he did not want any other music
now.

He hated this nasty place, and wanted to go home. If he was
going to live he wanted to live there, and if he was going to die he
wanted to die there, and have his funeral his own way, if they knew a
General and could borrow a gun-carriage and a band.

He didn’t want to eat or to drink, or to go to sleep, or to take his
medicine, or to go out and send The Sweep into the sea, or to be read
to or played to; he wanted to go home—home—home !

The upshot of which was, that before his parents had time to put
into words the idea that the agonizing associations of Asholt were still
quite unendurable, they found themselves congratulating each other on
having got Leonard safely home before he had cried himself into con-
vulsions over twenty-four hours’ delay.

For a time, being at home seemed to revive him. He was in less
pain, in better spirits, had more appetite, and was out a great deal with
his dog and his nurse. But he fatigued himself, which made him fret-
ful, and he certainly grew more imperious every day.

His whim was to be wheeled into every nook and corner of the
place, inside and out, and to show them to The Sweep. And who
could have had the heart to refuse him anything in the face of that
dread affliction which had so changed him amid the unchanged sur-
roundings of his old home?

Jemima led the life of a prisoner on the treadmill. When she
wasn’t pushing him about she was going errands for him, fetching and
carrying. She was “never off her feet.”

He moved about a little now on crutches, though he had not
strength to be very active with them, as some cripples are. But they
became ready instruments of his impatience to thump the floor with
one end, and not infrequently to strike those who offended him with the
other. :

His face was little less beautiful than of old, but it looked wan and
weird ; and his beauty was often marred by what is more destructive of
beauty even than sickness— the pinched lines of peevishness and ill-
STERN DAUGHTER OF THE VOICE OF GOD! 0 DuTy! 45

temper. He suffered less, but he looked more unhappy, was more
difficult to please, and more impatient with all efforts to please him.
But then, though nothing is truer than that patience is its own reward,
it has to be learned first. And, with children, what has to be learned
must be taught.

To this point Lady Jane’s meditations brought her one day as
she paced up and down her own morning-room, and stood before the
window which looked down where the elm-trees made long shadows on
the grass ; for the sun was declining, greatly to Jemima’s relief, who had
been toiling in Leonard’s service through the hottest hours of a summer
day.

Lady Jane had a tender conscience, and just now it was a very
uneasy one. She was one of those somewhat rare souls who are by
nature absolutely true. Not so much with elaborate avoidance of lying,
or an aggressive candour, as straight-minded, single-eyed, clear-headed,
and pure-hearted ; a soul to which the truth and reality of things, and
the facing of things, came as naturally as the sham of them and the
blinking of them comes to others.

When such a nature has strong affections it is no light matter if
love and duty come into conflict. They were in conflict now, and the
mother’s, heart was pierced with a two-edged sword. For if she truly
believed what she believed, her duty towards Leonard was not only that
of a tender mother to a suffering child, but the duty of one soul to
another soul, whose responsibilities no man might deliver him from, nor
make agreement unto Gon that he should be quit of them.

And if the disabling of his body did not stop the developing, one
way or another, of his mind; if to learn fortitude and patience under
his pains was not only his highest duty but his best chance of happi-
ness ; then, if she failed to teach him these, of what profit was it that
she would willingly have endured all his sufferings ten times over that
life might be all sunshine for him?

And deep down in her truthful soul another thought rankled. No
one but herself knew how the pride of her heart had been stirred by
Leonard’s love for soldiers, his brave ambitions, the. high spirit and
heroic instincts which he inherited from a long line of gallant men and
noble women. Had her pride been a sham? Did she only care for the
courage of the battle-field? Was she willing that her son should be a
coward, because it was not the trumpet’s sound that summoned him to
fortitude? She had strung ‘her: héart to the thought that, like many a
46 HE THAT THOLES, QE’RCOMES.

mother of her race, she might live to gird on his sword; should she fail
to help him to carry his cross ?

At this point a cry came from below the window, and looking out
she saw Leonard, beside himself with passion, raining blows like hail
with his crutch upon poor Jemima; The Sweep watching matters ner-
vously from under a garden seat.

Leonard had been irritable all day, and this was the second serious
outbreak. The first had sent the Master of the House to town with a
deeply-knitted brow.

Vexed at being thwarted in some slight matter, when he was sitting
in his wheel-chair by the side of his father in the library, he had seized
a sheaf of papers tied together with amber-coloured ribbon, and had
torn them to shreds. It was a fair copy of the first two cantos of Zhe
Soul’s Satiety, a poem on which the Master of the House had been
engaged for some years. He had not touched it in Scotland, and was
now beginning to work at it again. He could not scold his cripple
child, but he had gone up to London in a far from comfortable mood.

And now Leonard was banging poor Jemima with his crutches!
Lady Jane felt that her conscience had not roused her an hour too soon.

The Master of the House dined in town, and Leonard had tea
with his mother in her very own room; and The Sweep had tea there too.

And when the old elms looked black against the primrose-coloured
sky, and it had been Leonard’s bed-time for half an hour pab the three
were together still.

* * * * * *

“TJ beg your pardon, Jemima, I am very sorry, and I’ll never do so
any more. I didn’t want to beg your pardon before, because I was
naughty, and because you trode on my Sweep’s foot. But I beg your
pardon now, because I am good—at least I am better, and I am going
to try to be good.”

Leonard’s voice was as clear as ever, and his manner as direct and
forcible. Thus he contrived to say so much before Jemima burst in
(she was putting him to bed).

““My lamb! my pretty; You're always good——”

“Don’t tell stories, Jemima; and please don’t contradict me, for it
makes me cross; and if I am cross I can’t be good; and if I am not
good all to-morrow I am not to be allowed to go downstairs after
dinner. And there’s a V.C. coming to dinner, and I do want to see
him more than I want anything else in all the world.”
47

CHAPTER VII.

‘What is there in the world to distinguish virtues from dishonour, or that can
make anything rewardable, but the labour and the danger, the pain and the diffi-
culty ?”—Feremy Taylor.






a Bee HE V.C. did not look like a
Z =— bloodthirsty warrior. He had a
_ smooth, oval, olivart face, and
~~ dreamy eyes. He was not very
“big, and he was absolutely
unpretending. He was a
young man, and only by
the courtesy of his manners
escaped the imputation of
being a shy young man.

Before the campaign in

which he won his cross he
was most distinctively
known in society as having
a very beautiful voice and
a very charming way of
singing, and yet as giving
himself no airs on the sub-
ject of an accomplishment
which makes some men
almost intolerable by their fellow-men.

He was a favourite with ladies on several accounts, large and small.
Among the latter was his fastidious choice in the words of the songs he
sang, and sang with a rare fineness of enunciation.

It is not always safe to believe that a singer means what he sings ;
but if he’sing very noble words with justness and felicity, the ear rarely
refuses to flatter itself that it is learning some of the secrets of a noble
heart.

Upon a silence that could be felt the last notes of such a song had
just fallen. The V.C.’s lips were closed, and those of the Master of
STM

48 THE COURAGE TO BEAR, AND THE COURAGE TO DARE

the House (who had been accompanying him) were still parted with a
smile of approval, when the wheels of his chair and some little fuss at
the drawing-room door announced that Leonard had come to claim his
mother’s promise. And when Lady Jane rose and went to meet him,
the V. C. followed her.

“There is my boy, of whom I told you. Leonard, this is the
gentleman you have wished so much to see.”

The V.C., who sang so easily, was not a ready speaker, and the
sight of Leonard took him by surprise, and kept him silent. He had
been prepared to pity and be good-natured to a lame child who had a
whim to see him; but not for this vision of rare beauty, beautifully
dressed, with crippled limbs lapped in Eastern embroideries by his
colour-loving father, and whose wan face and wonderful eyes were
lambent with an intelligence so eager and so wistful, that the creature
looked less like a morsel of suffering humanity than like a soul fretted
by the brief detention of an all-but-broken chain.

* How do you do, V.C.? I am very glad to see you. I wanted
to see you more than anything in the world. I hope you don’t mind
seeing me because I have been a coward, for I mean to be brave now ;
and that is why I wanted to see you so much, because you are such a
very brave man. The reason I was a coward was partly with being so
cross when my back hurts, but particularly with hitting Jemima with my
crutches, for no one but a coward strikes a woman. She trode on my
dog’s toes. This is my dog. Please pat him; he would like to be
patted bya V.C. He is called The Sweep because he is black. He
lives with me all along. I “ave hit Aim, but I hope I shall not be
naughty again any more. I wanted to grow up into a brave soldier,
but I don’t think, perhaps, that I ever can now; but mother says I can
be a brave cripple. I would rather be a brave soldier, but I’m going to
try to be a brave cripple. ’ Jemima says there’s no saying what you can
do till you try. Please show me your Victoria Cross.”

“It’s on my tunic, and that’s in my quarters in Camp. I’m so
sorry.”

“So am I. I knew you lived in Camp. I like the Camp, and I
want you to tell me about your hut. Do you know my uncle, Colonel
Jones? Do you know my aunt, Mrs. Jones? And my cousin, Mr.
Jones? Do you know a very nice Irishman, with one good-conduct
stripe, called O’Reilly? Do you know my cousin Alan in the Highlan-
ders? But I believe he has gone away. I have so many things I want
ARE REALLY ONE AND THE SAME. 49

to ask you, and oh !—those ladies are coming after us! They want to
take you away. Look at that ugly old thing with a hook-nose and an
eye-glass, and a lace shawl and a green dress; she’s just like the Poll
Parrot in the housekeeper’s room. But she’s looking at you. Mother !
Mother dear! Don’t let them take him away. You did promise me,
you know you did, that if I was good all to-day I should talk to the
V.C. Ican’t talk to him if I can’t have him all to myself. Do let us
go into the library, and be all to ourselves. Do keep those women
away, particularly the Poll Parrot. Oh, I hope I shan’t be naughty! I
do feel so impatient! I was good, you know I was. Why doesn’t
James come and show my friend into the library, and carry me out of
my chair?” pms tows

“Let me carry you, little friend, and we'll run away together, and
the company will say, ‘There goes a V.C. running away from a Poll
Parrot in a lace shawl !’”

“Ha! ha! You are nice and funny. But caz you carry me?
Take off this thing! Did you ever carry anybody that had been hurt?”

“Yes, several people—much bigger than you.”

“Men?”

“Men.”

“Men hurt like me, or wounded in battle 2?”

“Wounded in battle.”

“Poor things! Did they die?”

“Some of them.”

“TI shall die pretty soon, I believe. I meant to die young, but
more grown-up than this, and in battle. About your age, I think. How
old are you?”

“T shall be twenty-five in October.”

“That’s rather old. I meant about Uncle Rupert’s age. He died
in battle. He was seventeen. You carry very comfortably. Now we're
safe! Put me on the yellow sofa, please. I want all the cushions, be-
cause of my back. It’s because of my back, you know, that I can’t
grow up into a soldier. I don’t think I possibly can. Soldiers do have
to have such very straight backs, and Jemima thinks mine will never be
straight again ‘on this side the grave.’ So I’ve got to try and be brave
as I am ; and that’s why I wanted to see you. Do you mind my talking
rather more than you? I have so very much to say, and I’ve only a
quarter of an hour, because of its being long past my bed-time, and a

good lot of that has gone.”
E










































































































































































































CN ii

ee

















































































































































































































































































































“Let me carry you, little friend, and we'll run away together, and the company will say,
‘There goes a V.C. running away from a Poll Parrot in a lace shawl !'"—Page 4g. .
*TIS GOOD FOR MEN TO LOVE THEIR PRESENT PAINS, 5!

' “Please talk, and let me listen.”

“Thank you. Pat The Sweep again, please. He thinks we're
neglecting him. That’s why he gets up and knocks you with his head.”

“Poor Sweep! Good old dog !”

“Thank you. Now should you think that if I am very good, and
not cross about a lot of pain in my back and my head—really a good
lot—that that would count up to be as brave as having one wound if I'd
been a soldier?”

“ Certainly.”

“Mother says it would, and I think it might. Not a very big
wound, of course, but.a poke with a spear, or something of that sort.
It és very bad sometimes, particularly when it keeps you awake at
night.”

“My little friend, zat would count for lying out all night wounded
on the field when the battle’s over. Soldiers are not always fighting.”

“Tid you ever lie out for a night on a battle-field ?”

“Yes, once.”

“Did the night seem very long ?”

“Very long; and we were very thirsty.”

“So am I sometimes, but I have barley-water and lemons by my
bed, and jelly, and lots of things. You’d no barley-water, had you ?”

“No.”

“ Nothing ?”

“Nothing till the rain fell, then we sucked our clothes.”

“Tt would take a lot of my bad nights to count up to that! But I
think when I’m ill in bed I might count that like being a soldier in
hospital?” :

“Of course.”

“T thought—no matter how good I got to be—nothing could ever
count up to be as brave as a real battle, leading your men on and fight-
ing for your country, though you know you may be killed any minute.
But Mother says, if I coud try very hard, and think of poor Jemima as
well as myself, and keep brave in spite of feeling miserable, that then
(particularly as I shan’t be very long before I do die) it would be as
good as if I’d lived to be as old as Uncle Rupert, and fought bravely
when the battle was against ‘me, and cheered on my men, though I
knew I could never come out of it alive. Do you think it cow/d count
up to that? Do you? Oh, do answer me, and don’t stroke my head!
I get so impatient. You've been in battles—do you?”
52 UPON EXAMPLE; SO IS THE SPIRIT EASED.

“T do, I do.” ny

“You're a V.C., and you ought to know. I suppose nothing—not
even if I could be good always, from this minute right away till I die—
nothing could ever count up to the courage of a V.C.?”

“Gop knows it could, a thousand times over !”

“Where are you going? Please don’t go. Look at me. They’re
not going to chop the Queen’s head off, are they ?”

“Heaven forbid! What are you thinking about?”

“Why, because Look at me again. Ah! you’ve winked it
away, but your eyes were full of tears ; and the only other brave man
I ever heard of crying was Uncle Rupert, and that was because he
knew they were going to chop the poor King’s head off.”

“That was enough to make anybody cry.”

“T know it was. But do you know now, when I’m wheeling about
in my chair and playing with him, and he looks at me wherever I go;
sometimes for a bit I forget about the King, and I fancy he is sorry for
me. Sorry, I mean, that I can’t jump about, and creep under the table.
Under the table was the only place where I could get out of the sight.
of his eyes. Oh, dear! there’s Jemima.”

“But you are going to be good?” ;

“T know Iam. And I’m going to do lessons again. I did a little
French this morning—a story. Mother did most of it; but I know
what the French officer called the poor old French soldier when he
went to see him in a hospital.”

“What ?”

“ Mon brave. That means ‘my brave fellow.’ A nice name, wasn’t
it?”

“Very nice. Here’s Jemima.”

“I’m coming, Jemima. I’m not going to be naughty; but you
may go back to the chair, for this officer will carry me. He carries so
comfortably. Come along, my Sweep. Thank you so much. You
have put me in beautifully. Kiss me, please. Good night, V. C.”

“Good night, mon brave.”


CHAPTER VIII

“‘T am a man of no strength at all of body, nor yet of mind; but would, if I
could, though I can but crawl, spend my life in the pilgrims’ way. When I came at
the gate that is at the head of the way, the lord of that place did entertain me freely.
© + » gave me such things that were necessary for my journey, and bid me hope to the
end. . . . Other brunts I also look for; but this I have resolved on, to wit, to run
when I can, to go when I cannot run, and to creep when I cannot go. As to the
main, I thank Him that loves me, I am fixed; my way is before me, my mind is be-
yond the river that has no bridge, though I am as you see.”

““And behold—Mr. Ready-
to-halt came by with his crutches
in his hand, and he was also
going on Pilgrimage.”

Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress.

ND if we tie it with the
amber-coloured ribbon,
then every time I have it
out to put in a new Poor
Thing, I shall remember
how very naughty I was,and
how I spoilt your poetry.”

“Then we'll certainly
tie it with something else,”
said the Master of the
House, and he jerked away
the ribbon with a gesture
as decisive as his words.







1?

remember it
| «Oh, but, indeed, I
| ought to remember it ; and
a) : I do think I detter had—to
4? remind myself never, never
to be so naughty again !”

“Your mother’s own
son !” muttered the Master
of the House; and he
added aloud: “Well, I for-
bid you to remember it--so there! It'll be naughty if you do. Here’s



54 THE BOOK OF POOR THINGS.

some red ribbon. That should please :you, as you're so fond of
soldiers.”

Leonard and his father were seated side by side at a table in the
library. The dog lay at their feet.

They were very busy; the Master of the House working under
Leonard’s direction, who, issuing his orders from his wheel-chair, was so
full of anxiety and importance, that when Lady Jane opened the library-
door he knitted his brow and put up one thin little hand, in a comically
old-fashioned manner, to deprecate interruption.

“Don’t make any disturbance, Mother dear, if you please. Father
and I are very much engaged.”

“Don’t you think, Len, it would be kind to let poor Mother see
what we are doing, and tell her about it?”

Leonard pondered an instant.

“Well. I don’t mind.”

Then, as his mother’s arm came round him, he added, impetuously:

“Ves, I should like to. You can show, Father dear, and 7’7 do all
the explaining.”

The Master of the House displayed some sheets of paper, tied
with ribbon, which already contained a good deal of his handiwork, in-
cluding a finely-illuminated capital L on the title-page.

“Tt is to be called the Book of Poor Things, Mother dear. We're
doing it in bits first; then it will be bound. It’s a collection—a collec-
tion of Poor Things who’ve been hurt, like me; or blind, like the
organ-tuner ; or had their heads—no, not their heads, they couldn’t ga
on doing things after that—had their legs or their arms chopped off in
battle, and are very good and brave about it, and manage very, very
nearly as well as people who have got nothing the matter with them.
Father doesn’t think Poor Things is a good name. He wanted to call
it Masters of Fate, because of some poetry. What was it, Father?”

“¢Man is man and Master of his Fate,” quoted the Master of the
House.

“Yes, that’s it. But I don’t understand it so well as Poor Things.
They ave Poor Things, you know, and of course we shall only put in
brave Poor Things: not cowardly Poor Things. It was all my idea
only Father is doing the ruling, and printing, and illuminating for me.
I thought of it when the Organ-tuner was here.”

“The Organ-tuner ?”

“Yes, I heard the organ, and I made James carry me in, and put


SWEET ARE THE USES OF ADVERSITY. 55

me in the armchair close to the organ. And the tuner was tuning, and
he looked round, and James said, ‘It’s the young gentleman,’ and the
Tuner said, ‘Good morning, Sir, and I said, ‘Good morning, Tuner ;
go on tuning, please, for I want to see you do it’ And he went on ;
and he dropped a tin thing, like a big extinguisher, on to the floor ; and
he got down to look for it, and he felt about in such a funny way that I
burst out laughing. I didn’t mean to be rude; I couldn’t help it. And
I said, ‘Can't you see it? It's just under the table’ And he said, ‘I
can’t see anything, Sir; I’m stone blind.’ And he said, perhaps I would
be kind enough to give it him. And I said I was very sorry, but I hadn’t
got my crutches, and so I couldn’t get out of my chair without some
one to help me. And he was so awfully sorry for me, you can’t think !
He said he didn’t know I was more afflicted than he was; but I was
awfully sorry for him, for I’ve tried shutting my eyes; and you can bear
it just a minute, but then you must open them to see again, And I
said, ‘How can you do anything when you see nothing but blackness all
along?’ And he says he can do well enough as long as he's spared the
use of his limbs to earn his own livelihood. And I said, Are there
any more blind men, do you think, that earn their own livelihood? I
wish I could earn mine!’ And he said, ‘There are a good many blind
tuners, Sir’ And I said, ‘Go on tuning, please : I like to hear you do ;
it’ And he went on, and I did like him so much. Do you know the
blind tuner, Mother dear? And don’t you like him very much? I
think he is just what you think very good, and I think V.C. would
think it nearly as brave as a battle to be afflicted and go on earning
your own livelihood when you can see nothing but blackness all along.
Poor man !”

“JT do think it very good of him, my darling, and very brave.”

“T knew you would. And then I thought perhaps there are lots of
brave afflicted people—poor things! and perhaps there never was any-
body but me who wasn’t. And I wished I knew their names, and I
asked the Tuner his name, and he told me. And then I thought of my
book, for a good idea—a collection, you know. And I thought per-
haps, by degrees, I might collect three hundred and sixty-five Poor
Things, all brave. And so I am making Father rule it like his Diary,
and we’ve got the Tuner’s name down for the First of January; and if
you can think of anybody else you must tell me, and if I think they’re
afflicted enough and brave enough, I’ll put them in. But I shall have
to be rather particular, for we don’t want to fill up too fast. Now,
36 NOBLESSE OBLIGE.

Father, I’ve done the explaining, so you can show your part. Look,
Mother, hasn’t he ruled it well?” There’s only one tiny mess, and it
was the Sweep shaking the table with getting up to be patted.”

“ He has ruled it beautifully, But what a handsome L !”

“Oh, I forget! Wait a minute, Father; the explaining isn’t quite
finished. What do you think that L stands for, Mother dear?”

“For Leonard, I suppose.”

“No, no! What fun! You're quite wrong, Guess again.”

“Ts it not the Tuner’s name?”

“Oh, no! He’s in the first of January—I told you so. And in
plain printing. Father really couldn’t illuminate three hundred and
sixty-five poor things !”

“Of course he couldn’t. It was silly of me to think so.”

“Do you give it up?”

“I must. I cannot guess.”

“It’s the beginning of “ Zetus sorte mea.” Ah, you know now!
You ought to have guessed without my telling you. Do you remember?
I remember, and I mean to remember. I told Jemima that very night.
I said, ‘It means Happy with my fate, and in our family we have to be
happy with it, whatever sort of a one it is.’ For you told me so. And
I told the Tuner, and he liked hearing about it very much. And then
he went on tuning, and he smiled so when he was listening to the
notes, I thought he looked very happy; so I asked him, and he said,
Yes, he was always happy when he was meddling with a musical instru-

-ment. But I thought, most likely all brave poor things are happy with
their fate, even if they can’t tune; and I asked Father, and he said, ‘Yes,’
and so we are putting it into my collection—partly for that, and partly,
when the coat-of-arms is done, to show that the book belongs to me.
Now, Father dear, the explaining is really quite finished this time, and
you may do all the rest of the show-off yourself!”
57

CHAPTER IX.

** St. George ! a stirring life they lead,
‘That have such neighbours near.”
Marmion.

H, Jemima! Jemima! I
4 know you are very kind,
f and I do mean not to be
impatient; but either
you're telling stories or
you're talking nonsense,
and that’s a fact. How
can you say that that blue
stuff is a beautiful match,
and will wash the exact
colour, and that you’re
sure I shall like it when
it’s made up with a cord
and tassels, when it’s ot
the blue I want, and when
you £nxow the men in hos-
pital haven’t any tassels
to their dressing-gowns at

; a all! Youre as bad as
that horrid shopman who made me so angry. If I had not been obliged
to be good, I should have liked to hit him hard with my crutch, when
he kept on saying he knew I should prefer a shawl-pattern lined with
crimson, if I would let him send one. Oh, here comes Father! . Now,
that’s right; he'll know. Father dear, zs this blue pattern the same
colour as that?”

“Certainly not. But what’s the matter, my child?”

“It’s about my dressing-gown ; and I do get so tired about it, be-
cause people will talk nonsense, and won’t speak the truth, and won’t
believe I know what I want myself. Now, I'll tell you what I want. Do
you know the Hospitai Lines?”



= —— — ee
58 A BLUE DRESSING GOWN,

“Tn the cape > Yes.”

“ And you've seen all the invalids walling about in blue dressing-
gowns and little red ties?”

“Ves. Charming bits of colour.”

“Hurrah! that’s just it! Now, Father dear, if you wanted a
dressing-gown exactly like that would you have one made of
this?”

“Not if I knew it! Crude, coarse, staring——please don’t wave
it in front of my eyes, unless you want to make me feel like a bull with
a red-rag before him !”

“Oh, Father dear, you ave sensible! (Jemima, throw this pattern
away, please!) But you'd have felt far worse if you'd seen the shawl-
pattern lined with crimson. Oh, I do wish I could have been a bull
that wasn’t obliged to be /efus for half a minute, to give that shopman
just one toss! But I believe the best way to do will be as O’Reilly says.
—get Uncle Henry to buy me a real one out of store, and have it made
smaller for me. And I should like it ‘out of store.’”

From this conversation it will be seen that Leonard’s military bias.
knew no change. Had it been less strong it could only have served to
intensify the pain of the heartbreaking associations which anything con-
nected with the troops now naturally raised in his parents’ minds. But
it was a sore subject that fairly healed itself.

The Camp had proved a more cruel neighbour than the Master of
the House had ever imagined in his forebodings ; but it also proved a
friend. For if the high, ambitious spirit, the ardent imagination, the
vigorous will, which fired the boy’s fancy for soldiers and soldier-life,
had thus led to his calamity, they found in that sympathy with men of
hardihood and lives of discipline, not only an interest that never failed
and that lifted the sufferer out of himself, but a constant incentive to
those virtues of courage and patience for which he struggled with touch-
ing conscientiousness.

Then, without disparagement to the earnestness of his efforts to be
good, it will be well believed that his parents did their best to make
goodness easy to him. His vigorous individuality still swayed the plans
of the household, and these came to be regulated by those of the Camp
to a degree which half annoyed and half amused its Master.

The Asholt Gazette was delivered as regularly as the Zimes,; but on
special occasions, the arrangements for which were only known the night
before, O'Reilly, or some other Orderly, might be seen wending his way


MILITARY MANCEUVRES. 59

up the Elm Avenue by breakfast time, “with Colonel Jones’ compli-
ments, and the Orders of the Day for the young gentleman.” And
sO many were the military displays at which Leonard contrived to be
present, that the associations of pleasure and alleviation with Parades
and Manceuvres came at last almost to blot out the associations of pain
connected with that fatal Field Day.

He drove about a great deal, either among air-cushions in the big
carriage or in a sort of perambulator of his own, which was all too
easily pushed by any one, and by the side of which the Sweep walked
slowly and contentedly, stopping when Leonard stopped, wagging his
tail when Leonard spoke, and keeping sympathetic step to the invalid’s
pace with four sinewy black legs, which were young enough and strong
enough to have ranged for miles over the heather hills and never felt
fatigue. A true Dog Friend!

What the Master of House pleasantly called “Our Military Mania,”
seemed to have reached its climax during certain July manceuvres of the
regiments stationed at Asholt, and of additional troops who lay out
under canvas in the surrounding country.

Into this mimic campaign Leonard threw himself heart and soul.
His camp friends furnished him with early information of the plans for
each day, so far as the generals of the respective forces allowed them to
get wind, and with an energy that defied his disabilities he drove about
after “the armies,” and then scrambled on his crutches to points of
vantage where the carriage could not go.

And the Master of the House went with him.

The House itself seemed soldier-bewitched. Orderlies were as
plentiful as rooks among the elm-trees. The staff clattered in and out,
and had luncheon at unusual hours, and strewed the cedar-wood hall
with swords and cocked hats, and made low bows over Lady Jane’s
hand, and rode away among the trees.

These were weeks of pleasure and enthusiasm for Leonard, and of
not less delight for the Sweep ; but they were followed by an illness.

That Leonard bore his sufferings better helped to conceal the fact
that they undoubtedly increased ; and he over-fatigued himself and got
a chill, and had to go to bed, and took the Sweep to bed with him.

And it was when he could play at no “soldier-game,” except that
of “being in hospital,” that he made up his mind to have a blue dress-
ing-gown of regulation colour and pattern, and met with the difficulties
aforesaid in carrying out his whim.
60

CHAPTER X.

‘Fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.”

King John, Act iii.

ONG years after they were
written, a bundle of letters lay in
the drawer of a cabinet in Lady
Jane’s morning-room, carefully
kept, each in its own envelope,
and every envelope stamped with
the post-mark of Asholt Camp.

They were in Leonard’s
handwriting. A childish hand,
though good for his age, but
round and clear as his own
speech.

After much coaxing and
> considering, and after consulting
Z== with the doctors, Leonard had
Z been allowed to visit the Barrack
Master and his wife. After his
illness he was taken to the sea-
side, which he liked so little that
qs he was bribed to stay there by

the promise that, if the doctor
would allow it, he should, on his return, have the desire of his heart,
and be permitted to live for a time “in Camp,” and sleep in a hut.

The doctor gave leave. Small quarters would neither mar nor
mend an injured spine ; and if he felt the lack of space and luxuries to
which he was accustomed, he would then be content to return home.

The Barrack Master’s hut only boasted one spare bed-chamber for


LIFE IS MADE UP OF LITTLE THINGS. 6r

visitors, and when Leonard and his dog were in it there was not much
elbow-room. A sort of cupboard was appropriated for the use of
Jemima, and Lady Jane drove constantly into Camp to see her son.
Meanwhile he proved a very good correspondent, as his letters will show
for themselves. ,

LETTER I.
“ BARRACK Master’s Hut,
“6 The Camp, Asholt.

‘*MyY DEAR, DEAR MOTHER,—

‘*T hope you are quite well, and Father also. I am very happy, and
so is the Sweep. He tried sleeping on my bed last night, but there was not room,
though I gave him as much as ever I could. So he slept on the floor. It is a camp.
bed, and folds up, if you want it to. We have nothing like it. It belonged to a real
General. The General is dead. Uncle Henry bought it at his sale, You always.
have a sale if you die; and your brother-officers buy your things to pay your debts.
Sometimes you get them very cheap. I mean the things.

‘The drawers fold up, too. I mean the chest of drawers, and so does the wash-
hand-stand. It goes into the corner, and takes up very little room. There couldn’t
be a bigger one, or the door would not open—the one that leads into the kitchen.
The other door leads into a passage. I like having the kitchen next me. You can
hear everything. You can hear O’Reilly come in the morning, and I call to him to
open my door, and he says, ‘ Yes, sir,’ and opens it, and lets the Sweep out for a
run, and takes my boots. And you can hear the tap of the boiler running with your
hot water before she brings it, and you can smell the bacon frying for breakfast.

* Aunt Adelaide was afraid I should not like being woke up so early, but I do.
I waked a good many times. First with the gun. It’s like a very short thunder, and
shakes you. And then the bugles play. Father would like stem / And then right
away in the distance—trumpets. And the air comes in so fresh at the window. And
you pull up the clothes, if they’ve fallen off you, and go to sleep again. Mine had
all fallen off, except the sheet, and the Sweep was lying on them. Wasn’t it clever
of him to have found them in the dark? If I can’t keep them on, I’m going to have
campaigning blankets; they are sewed up like a bag, and you get into them.

‘*What do you think I found on my coverlet when I went to bed? A real,
proper, blue dressing-gown, and a crimson tie! It came out of store, and Aunt
Adelaide made it smaller herself. Wasn’t it kind of her?

“*T have got it on now. . Presently I am going to dress properly, and O’Reilly is.
going to wheel me down to the stores. It will be great fun. My cough has been
pretty bad, but it’s no worse than it was at home.

“ There’s a soldier come for the letters, and they are obliged to be ready.

*‘T am, your loving and dutiful son,
** LEONARD.

**P.S.—Uncle Henry says his father was very old-fashioned, and he always.
liked him to put ‘ Your dutiful son,’ so I put it to you.
‘* All these crosses mean kisses, Jemima told me.”
62 CHURCH PARADE,

LETTER II.

‘“¢, . .. I WENT to church yesterday, though it was only Tuesday. I need not
have gone unless I liked, but I liked. There is service every evening in the Iron
‘Church, and Aunt Adelaide goes, and so do I, and sometimes Uncle Henry. There
are not very many people go, but they behave very well, what there are. You can’t
tell what the officers belong to in the afternoon, because they are in plain clothes ;
but Aunt Adelaide thinks they were Royal Engineers, except one Commissariat one,
and an A.D. C., and the Colonel of a regiment that marched in last week. You
can’t tell what the ladies belong to unless you know them,

‘*You can always tell the men. Some were Barrack Sergeants, and some were
Sappers, and there were two Gunners, and an Army Hospital Corps, and a Cavalry
Corporal who came all the way from the barracks, and sat near the door, and said
very long prayers to himself at the end. And there were some schoolmasters, and a
man with gray hair and no uniform, who mends the roofs and teaches in the Sunday
School, and I fotget the rest. Most of the choir are Sappers and Commissariat
men, and the boys are soldiers’ sons. The Sappers and Commissariat belong to our
Brigade.

“There is no Sexton to our Church. He’s a Church Orderly. He has put me
-a kind of a back in the corner of one of the Officers’ Seats, to make me comfortable
in church, and a very high footstool. I mean to go every day, and as often as I can
‘on Sundays, without getting too much tired.

“You can go very often on Sunday mornings if you want to. They begin at
-eight o’clock, and go on till luncheon. There’s a fresh band, and a fresh chaplain,
and a fresh sermon, and a fresh congregation every time. Those are Parade Services.
The others are Voluntary Services, and I thought that meant for the Volunteers; but
‘O’Reilly laughed, and said, ‘ No, it only means that there’s no occasion to go to them
at all’—he means unless you like. But then I do like. There’s no sermon on week
days. Uncle Henry is very glad, and so am I. I think it might make my back ache.

‘*] am afraid, dear Mother, that you won’t be able to understand all I write to
you from the Camp ; but if you don’t, you must ask me and I’ll explain.

“When I say our guarters, remember I mean our hut; and when I say rations
it means bread and meat, and I’m not quite sure if it means coals and candles as well.
But I think I’ll make you a Dictionary if I can get a ruled book from the Canteen.
It would make this letter too much to go for a penny if I put all the words in I know.
Cousin George tells me them when he comes in after mess. He told me the Camp
name for Iron Church is Tin Tabernacle; but Aunt Adelaide says it’s not, and I’m
not to call it so, so I don’t. But that’s what he says.

“*I like Cousin George very much. I like his uniform. He is very thin, par-
‘ticularly round the waist. Uncle Henry is very stout, particularly round the waist.
Last night George came in after mess, and two other officers out of his regiment came
‘too. And then another officer came in. And they chaffed Uncle Henry, and Uncle
Henry doesn’t mind. And the other officer said, ‘Three times round a Subaltern—
‘once round a Barrack Master.’ And so they got Uncle Henry’s sword-belt out of his
‘dressing-room, and George and his friends stood back to back, and held up their
_jackets out of the way, and the other officer put the belt right round them, all three,
WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK, 63

and told them not to laugh. And Aunt Adelaide said, ‘Oh!’ and ‘You'll hurt
them.’ And he said, ‘Not a bit of it.’ And he buckled it. So that shows, It was

great fun. 2 :
‘‘Tam, your loving and dutiful Son,

‘* LEONARD,

‘ quite sure, because he won’t speak the truth. I said, ‘You talk rather like O'Reilly;
are you an Irish soldier?’ And he said, ‘I’d the misfortune to be quartered for six
months in the County Cork, and it was the ruin of my French accent.’ So I said,
* Are you a Frenchman ?’ and they all laughed, so I don’t know.

“*P,S. No. 2.—My back has been very bad, but Aunt Adelaide says I have been
very good. This is not meant for swagger, but to let you know.

(‘‘ Swagger means boasting. If you’re a soldier, swagger is the next worst thing
to running away.)

““P.S. No, 3.—I know another officer now. IJ like him. He is a D,A.Q.M.G.
I would let you guess that if you could ever find it out, but you couldn’t. It means
Deputy-Assistant-Quarter-Master-General. He is not so grand as you would think ;
a plain General is really grander. Uncle Henry says so, and he knows.”

LETTER III.

“*.... LT HAVE seen V.C. I have seen him twice. I have seen his cross. The
first time was at the Sports. Aunt Adelaide drove me there in the pony carriage,
We stopped at the Enclosure. The Enclosure is a rope, with a man taking tickets.
The Sports are inside ; so is the tent, with tea; so are the ladies, in awfully pretty
‘dresses, and the officers walking round them.

‘“‘There’s great fun outside, at least, I should think so. There’s a crowd of
people, and booths, and a skeleton man. I saw his picture. I should like to have
seen him, but Aunt Adelaide didn’t want to, so I tried to be Zetus without.

‘*When we got to the Enclosure there was a gentleman taking his ticket, and
when he turned round he was V.C. Wasn't it funny? So he came back and said,
‘Why, here’s my little friend!’ And he said, ‘You must let me carry you.’ And so
he did, and put me among the ladies. But the ladies got him a good deal. He went
and talked to lots of them, but I tried to be Ze¢ss without him; and then Cousin
George came, and lots of others, and then the V. C. came back and showed me
things about the Sports.

‘*Sports are very hard work: they make you so hot and tired; but they are
very nice to watch. The races were great fun, particularly when they fell in the
water, and the men in sacks who hop, and the blindfolded men with wheelbarrows.
Oh, they were so funny! They kept wheeling into each other, all except one, and he
‘went wheeling and wheeling right away up the field, all by himself and all wrong!
I did laugh.

“‘But what I liked best were the tent-pegging men, and most best of all, the
“Tug-of- War. :

‘The Irish officer did tent-pegging. He has the dearest pony you ever saw.
He is so fond of it, and it is so fond of him. He talks to it in Irish, and it under-
64 THEN COMES THE TUG-OF-WAR.

stands him. He cut off the Turk’s head,—not a real Turk, a shain Turk, and not a
whole one, only the head stuck on a pole. :

“The Tug-of-War was splendid! Two sets of men pulling at a rope to see
which is strongest. They did pull! They pulled so hard, both of them, with all
their might and main, that we thought it must be a drawn battle. But at last one set
pulled the other over, and then there was such a noise that my head ached dreadfully,
and the Irish officer carried me into the tent and gave me some tea. And then we
went home.

‘‘The next time I saw V. C. was on Sunday at Parade Service. He is on the
Staff, and wears a cocked hat. He came in with the General and the A.D.C., who
was at church on Tuesday, and I was so glad to see him.

‘* After church, everybody went about saying ‘Good morning,’ and ‘ How hot it
was in church!’ and V.C. helped me with my crutches, and showed me his cross.
And the General came up and spoke to me, and I saw his medals, and he asked how
you were, and I said, ‘ Quite well, thank you.’ And then he talked to a lady with
some little boys dressed like sailors. She said how hot it was in church, and he said,
‘I thought the roof was coming off with that last hymn.’ And she said, ‘ My little
boys call it the Tug-of-War Hymn; they are very fond of it.’ And he said, ‘The
men seem very fond of it.’ And he turned round to an officer I didn’t know, and
said, ‘ They ran away from you that last verse but one.’ And the officer said,
‘Yes, sir, they always do ; so I stop the organ and let them have it their own way.’

“T asked Aunt Adelaide, ‘Does that officer play the organ?’ And she said,
‘Yes, and he trains the choir. He’s coming in to supper.’ So he came. If the
officers stay sermon on Sunday evenings, they are late for mess. So the chaplain
stops after Prayers, and anybody that likes to go out before sermon can. If they stay
sermon, they go to supper with some of the married officers instead of dining at mess.

“‘So he came. I liked him awfully. He plays like Father, only I think he can
play more difficult things.

‘¢ He says, “‘ Tug-of-War Hymn’ is the very good name for that hymn, because
the men are so fond of it they all sing, and the ones at the bottom of the church
‘drag over’ the choir and the organ.

‘‘He said, ‘I’ve talked till I’m black in the face, and all to no purpose. It
would try the patience of a saint.” So I said, ‘Are youa saint?’ And he laughed
and said, ‘ No, I’m afraid not; I’m only a kapellmeister.’ So I call him ‘ Kapell-
meister.’ I do like him.

**T do like the Tug-of-War Hymn. It begins, ‘ The Son of Gop goes forth to
war.’ That’s the one. But we have it to a tune of our own, on Saints’ Days. The
verse the men tug with is, ‘A noble army, men and boys.’ I think they like it, be-
cause it’s about the army; and so do I.

“I am, your loving and dutiful son,
** LEONARD.

“«P.S.—I call the ones with cocked hats and feathers, ‘Cockatoos.’ There was
another Cockatoo who walked away with the General. Not very big. About the
bigness of the stuffed General in that Pawnbroker’s window; and I do think he had
quite as many medals. I wanted to see them. I wish Ihad. He looked at me.
He had a very gentle face ; but I was afraid of it. Was I a coward?

**You remember what these crosses are, don’t you? I told you.”
A SOLDIER SAINT. 65

LETTER IV.

“Tus is a very short letter. It’s only to ask you to send my book of Poor
Things by the Orderly who takes this, unless you are quite sure you are coming to see
me to-day. t

‘*A lot of officers are collecting for me, and there’s one in the Engineers can
print very well, so he’ll put them in.

‘©A Colonel with only one arm dined here yesterday. You can’t think how well
he manages, using first his knife and then his fork, and talking so politely all the
time. He has all kinds of dodges, so as not to give trouble and do everything for
himself. I mean to put him in,

‘‘IT wrote to Cousin Alan, and asked him to collect for me. I like writing
letters, and I do like getting them. Uncle Henry says he hates a lot of posts in the
day. I hate posts when there’s nothing for me. [I like all the rest.

**Cousin Alan wrote back by return, He says he can only think of the old
chap, whose legs were cut off in battle:

“And when his legs were smitten oft, |
He fought upon his stumps!”

It was very brave, if it’s true. Do you think itis? He did not tell me his name.
y 2 y
** Your loving and dutiful son,

‘* LEONARD.
*P.S.—I am letus sorte mea, and so is the Sweep.”

LETTER V.

“Tuis letter is not about a Poor Thing. It’s about a saint—a soldier saint—
which I and the chaplain think nearly the best kind. His name was Martin, he got
to be a Bishop in the end, but when he first enlisted he was only a catechumen. Do
you know what a catechumen is, dear mother? Perhaps if you're not quite so high-
church as the engineer I told you of, who prints so beautifully, you may not know.
It means when you’ve been born a heathen, and are going to be a Christian, only
you've not yet been baptized. The engineer has given me a picture of him, St.
Martin I mean, and now he has printed underneath it, in beautiful thick black letters
that you can hardly read if you don’t know what they are, and the very particular
words in red, ‘ Martin—yet but a Catechumen!’? He can illuminate too, though not
quite so well as Father, he is very high-church, and I’m high-church too, and so is our
Chaplain, but he is broad as well. The engineer thinks he’s rather too broad, but
Uncle Henry and Aunt Adelaide think he’s quite perfect, and so do I, and so does
everybody else, He comes in sometimes, but not very often because he’s so busy.
He came the other night because I wanted to confess. What I wanted to confess
was that I had laughed in church. He is a very big man, and he has a very big sur-
plice, with a great lot of gathers behind, which makes my engineer very angry, because
it’s the wrong shape, and he preaches splendidly, the Chaplain I mean, straight out
of his head, and when all the soldiers are listening he swings his arms about, and the
surplice gets in his way, and he catches hofli of it, and oh! Mother dear, I must tell
you what it reminded me of. When I was very little, and Father used to tie a knot

F
66 MARTIN—YET BUT A CATECHUMEN!

in his big pocket-handkerchief and put his first finger into it to make a head that
nodded, and wind the rest round his hand, and stick out his thumb and another finger
for arms, and do the ‘ Yea-verily-man’ to amuse you and me. It was last Sunday,
and a most splendid sermon, but his stole got round under his ear, and his sleeves did
look just like the Yea-verily-man, and I tried not to look, and then I caught the Irish
officer’s eye and he twinkled, and then I laughed, because I remembered his telling
Aunt Adelaide ‘That’s the grandest old Padré that ever got up into a pulpit, but did .
ye ever see a man get so mixed up with his clothes?’ I was very sorry when I laughed,
so I settled I would confess, for my engineer thinks you ought always to confess, so
when our chaplain came in after dinner on Monday, I confessed, but he only laughed,
till he broke down Aunt Adelaide’s black and gold chair. He is too big for it,
really, Aunt Adelaide never lets Uncle Henry sit on it. So he was very sorry, and
Aunt Adelaide begged him not to mind, and then in came my engineer in war-paint
(if you look out war-paznut in the Canteen Book I gave you, you'll see what it means).
He was in war-paint because he was Orderly Officer for the evening, and he’d got
his sword under one arm, and the picture under the other, and his short cloak on to
keep it dry, because it was raining, He made the frame himself; he can make
Oxford frames quite well, and he’s going to teach me how to. Then I said, ‘ Who
is it?’ so he told me, and now I’m going to tell you, in case you don’t know. Well,
St. Martin was born in Hungary, in the year 316. His father and mother were
heathens, but when he was about my age he made up his mind he would be a
Christian. His father and mother were so afraid of his turning into a monk, that as
soon as he was old enough they enlisted him in the army, hoping that would cure
him of wanting to be a Christian, but it didn’t—Martin wanted to be a Christian just
as much as ever; still he got interested with his work and his comrades, and he
dawdled on only a Catechumen, and didn’t make full profession and get baptized.
One winter his corps was quartered at Amiens, and on a very bitter night, near the
gates, he saw a half-naked beggar shivering with the cold. (I asked my engineer,
‘Was he Orderly Officer for the evening ?’ but he said, ‘More likely on patrol duty,
with some of his comrades.’ However, he says he won’t be sure, for Martin was
Tribune, which is very nearly a Colonel, two years afterwards, he knows). When
Martin saw the Beggar at the gate, he pulled out his big military cloak, and drew his
sword, and cut it in half, and wrapped half of it round the poor Beggar to keep him
warm, I know you'll think him very kind, but wait a bit, that’s not all. Next night
when Martin the soldier was asleep he had a vision. Did you ever have a vision ?
I wish I could! This was Martin’s vision. He saw Christ our Lord in Heaven,
sitting among the shining hosts, and wearing over one shoulder half a military cloak,
and as Martin saw Him he heard Him say, ‘Behold the mantle given to Me by
Martin—yet but a Catechumen!’ After that vision he didn’t wait any longer; he
was baptized at once.

“*Mother dear, I’ve told you this quite truthfully, but I can’t tell it you so
splendidly as my engineer did, standing with his back to the fire and holding out
his cape, and drawing his sword to show me how Martin divided his cloak with the
Beggar. Aunt Adelaide isn’t afraid of swords, she is too used to them, but she says
she thinks soldiers do things in huts they would never think of doing in big rooms,
just to show how neatly they can manage, without hurting anything. The chaplain
broke the chair, but.then he isn’t exactly a soldier, and the D.A.Q.M.G. that I told






































































































**Martin—yet but a Catechumen !"— Page 66.
68 ON GOD AND GOD-LIKE MEN WE BUILD OUR TRUST.

you of, comes in sometimes and says, ‘I beg your pardon Mrs. Jones, but I must,’—
and puts both his hands on the end of the sofa, and lifts his body till he gets his legs
sticking straight out. They are very long legs, and he and the sofa go nearly across
the room, but he never kicks anything, it’s a kind of athletics ; and there’s another
officer who comes in at one door and Catherine-wheel’s right across to the {farthest
corner, and he is over six foot, too, but they never break anything. We do laugh.

**T wish you could have seen my engineer doing St. Martin. Hehad to go directly
afterwards, and then the chaplain came and stood in front of me, on the hearthrug, in
the firelight, just where my engineer had been standing, and he took up the picture,
and looked at it. So I said, ‘Do you know about St. Martin?’ and he said he did,
and he said, ‘One of the greatest of those many Soldiers of the Cross who have also
fought under earthly banners.’ Then he put down the picture, and got hold of his
elbow with his hand, as if he was holding his surplice out of the way, and said, ‘Great,
as well as good, for this reason : he was one of those rare souls to whom the counsels
of Gop are clear, not to the utmost of the times in which he lived—but in advance ot
those times. Such men are not always popular, nor even largely successful in their
day, but the light they hold lightens more generations of this naughty world, than
the pious tapers of commoner men. You know that Martin the Catechumen became
Martin the Saint—do you know that Martin the Soldier became Martin the Bishop?—
and that in an age of credulity and fanaticism, that man of Gop discredited some
relics very popular with the pious in his diocesé, and proved and exposed them to be
those of an executed robber. Later in life it is recorded of Martin, Bishop of Tours,
that he lifted his voice in protest against persecutions for religion, and the punishment
of heretics. In the nineteenth century we are little able to judge, how great must
have been the faith of that man in the Gop of truth and of love.’ It was like a little
sermon, and I think this is exactly how he said it, for I got Aunt Adelaide to write it
out for me this morning, and she remembers sermons awfully well. I’ve been looking
St. Martin out in the calendar; his day is the roth of November. He is not a
Collect, Epistle, and Gospel Saint, only one of the Black Lettér ones ; but the roth
of November is going to be on a Sunday this year, and I am so“glad, for I’ve asked
our chaplain if we may have the Tug-of-War Hymn for St. Martin—and he has given
leave.

“It’s a long way off; I wish it came sooner. So now, Mother dear, you have
time to make your arrangements as you like, but you see that whatever happens, Z
must be in Camp on St. Martin’s Day.

** Your loving and dutiful son,

‘* LEONARD.”
69

CHAPTER XI.

“T have fought a good fight. I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.
Hencelorth —— !”
1 Tim, iv. 7.

T was Sunday. Sun-
day, the tenth of
November — St. Mar- ©
tin’s Day.

Though it was in
~~ November, a summer
day. A day of that
Little Summer which
alternately claims St.
Luke and St. Martin
as its patrons, and is
apt to shine its bright-
est when it can claim both—on the feast of All
Saints.

Sunday in camp. With curious points of
likeness and unlikeness to English Sundays else-
where. Like in that general aspect of tidiness
and quiet, of gravity and pause, which betrays
that a hard-working and very practical people have thought good to
keep much of the Sabbath with its Sunday. Like, too, in the little
groups of children, gay in Sunday best, and grave with Sunday books,
trotting to Sunday school.

Unlike, in that to see all the men about the place washed and
shaved is not, among soldiers, peculiar to Sunday. Unlike, also, in a
more festal feeling produced by the gay gatherings of men and officers
on Church Parade (far distant be the day when Parade Services shall be
abolished!), and by the exhilarating sounds of the Bands with which
each regiment marched from its parade-ground to the church.

Here and there small detachments might be met making their way
to the Roman Catholic church?in camp, or to places of worship. of

Y |
we
i

b. Moan






70 SAINT MARTIN’S DAY.

various denominations in the neighbouring town ; and on Blind Baby’s
Parade (where he was prematurely crushing his Sunday frock with his
drum-basket in ecstatic sympathy with the bands), a corporal of excep-
tional views was parading himself and two privates of the same denomi-
nation, before marching the three of them to their own peculiar prayer-
meeting.

The Brigade for the Iron Church paraded early (the sunshine and
sweet air seemed to promote alacrity). And after the men were seated
their officers still lingered outside, chatting with the ladies and the Staff,
as these assembled by degrees, and sunning themselves in the genial
warmth of St. Martin’s Little Summer.

The V.C. was talking with the little boys in sailor suits and their
mother, when the officer who played the organ came towards them.

“Good morning, Kapellmeister !” said two or three voices.

Nicknames were common in the camp, and this one had been
rapidly adopted.

“Ye look cloudy this fine morning, Kapellmeister !” cried the Irish
officer. “Got the toothache?”

The Kapellmeister shook his head, and forced a smile which rather
intensified than diminished the gloom of a countenance which did not
naturally lend itself to lines of levity. Was he not a Scotchman and
also a musician? His lips smiled in answer to the chaff, but his sombre
eyes were fixed on the V.C. They had—as some eyes have—an odd,
summoning power, and the V.C. went to meet him.

When he said, “I was in there this morning,” the V. C.’s eyes fol-
lowed the Kapellmeister’s to the Barrack Master’s hut, and his own face
fell.

“ He wants the Tug-of-War Hymn,” said the Kapellmeister.

“He’s not coming to church ?”

‘Oh, no ; but he’s set his heart on hearing the Tug-of-War Hymn
through his bedroom window ; and it seems the chaplain has pro-
mised we shall have it to-day. It’s a most amazing thing,” added the
Kapellmeister, shooting out one arm with a gesture common to him
when oppressed by an idea,—“it’s a most amazing thing! For I think, if
I were in my grave, that hymn—as these men bolt with it—might make
me turn in my place of rest ; but it’s the last thing I should care to hear
if I were ill in bed! However, he wants it, poor lad, and he asked me
to ask you if you would turn outside when it begins, and sing so that he
can hear your voice and the words.”

X
ES GILT AM ENDE DOCH NUR VORWARTS! 91

“Oh, he can never hear me over there !”

“He can hear you fast enough! It’s quite close. He begged me
to ask you, and I was to say it’s his last Sunday.”

There was a pause. The V.C. looked at the little “ Officers’
Door,” which was close to his usual seat, which always stood open in
summer weather, and half in half out of which men often stood in the
crush of a Parade Service. There was no difficulty in the matter ex-
cept his own intense dislike to anything approaching to display. Also
he had become more attached than he could have believed possible to
the gallant-hearted child whose worship of him had been flattery as
delicate as it was sincere. It was no small pain to know that the boy
lay dying—a pain he would have preferred to bear in silence.

“Ts he very much set upon it?”

“ Absolutely.”

“Ts she is Lady Jane there?”

“All of them. He can’t last the day out.”

. “When will it be sung—that hymn, I mean?”

“T’ve put it on after the third Collect.”

“ All right.”

The V.C. took up his sword and went to his seat, and the Kapell-

meister took up his and went to the organ.
* * * * * *



In the Barrack Master’s Hut my hero lay dying. His mind was
now absolutely clear, but during the night it had wandered—wandered
in a delirium that was perhaps some solace of his sufferings, for he had
believed himself to be a soldier on active service, bearing the brunt of
battle and the pain of wounds; and when fever consumed him, he
thought it was the heat of India that parched his throat and scorched
his skin, and called again and again in noble raving to imaginary com-
rades to keep up heart and press forward.

About four o’clock he sank into stupor, and the doctor forced Lady
Jane to go and lie down, and the Colonel took his wife away to rest
also.

At Gun-fire Leonard opened his eyes. For some minutes he gazed
straight ahead of him, and the Master of the House, who sat by his
bedside, could not be sure whether he were still delirious or no; but
when their eyes met he saw that Leonard’s senses had returned to him,
and kissed the wan little hand that was feeling about for the Sweep’s
head in silence that he almost féared to break.
72 BEYOND THE VEIL.

Leonard broke in by saying, “When did you bring Uncle Rupert
to Camp, Father dear?”

“Uncle Rupert is at home, my darling; and you are in Uncle
Henry’s hut.”

“T know I am; and so is Uncle Rupert. He is at the end of the
room there. Can’t you see him?”

“No, Len; I only see the wall, with your text on it that poor old
Father did for you.”

“My ‘Goodly heritage,’ you mean? I can’t see that now. Uncle
Rupert is in front of it. I thought you put him there. Only he’s out
of his frame, and it’s very odd!” ’

“What's odd, my darling?”

“Some one has wiped away all the tears from his eyes.”



* * * * * *

“Hymn two hundred and sixty-three: ‘Fight the good fight of
faith.’”

The third Collect was just ended, and a prolonged and somewhat
irregular Amen was dying away among the Choir, who were beginning:
to feel for their hymn-books.

The lack of precision, the “dropping shots” style in which that
Amen was delivered, would have been more exasperating to the Kapell-
meister, if his own attention had not been for the moment diverted by
anxiety to know if the V.C. remembered that the time had come.

As the Chaplain gave out the hymn, the Kapellmeister gave one
glance of an eye, as searching as it was sombre, round the corner of
that odd little curtain which it is the custom to hang behind an organist ;
and this sufficing to tell him that the V.C. had not forgotten, he drew
out certain very vocal stops, and- bending himself to manual and pedal,
gave forth the popular melody of the “ Tug-of-War” hymn with a pre-
cision indicative of a resolution to have it sung in strict time, or know
the reason why.

And as nine hundred and odd men rose to their feet with some
_ clatter of heavy boots and accoutrements the V.C. turned quietly out

of the crowded church, and stood outside upon the steps, bare-headed
in the sunshine of St. Martin’s Little Summer, and with the tiniest of
hymn-books between his fingers and thumb.

Circumstances had made a soldier of the V.C.,.but by nature he
was a student. When he brought the little hymn-book to his eyes to
IF THOU BEAR THY CROSS IT WILL BEAR THEE. 73

get a mental grasp of the hymn before he began to sing it, he committed
the first four lines to an intelligence sufficiently trained to hold them in
remembrance for the brief time that it would take to sing them. Invol-
untarily his active brain did more, and was crossed by a critical sense
of the crude, barbaric taste of childhood, and a wonder what consola-
tion the suffering boy could find in these gaudy lines :—~

‘* The Son of Gop goes forth to war,
A kingly crown to gain ;
His blood-red banner streams afar :
Who follows in His train ?”

But when he brought the little hymn-book to his eyes to take in the
next four lines, they startled him with the revulsion of a sudden sym-
pathy; and lifting his face towards the Barrack Master’s Hut, he sang
—as he rarely sang in drawing-rooms, even words the most felicitous to
melodies the most sweet—sang not only to the delight of dying ears,
but so that the Kapellmeister himself heard him, and smiled as he
heard :— ‘
‘* Who best can drink His cup of woe
Triumphant over pain,

Who patient bears His cross below,
He follows in His train,”

* * * * * *

On each side of Leonard’s bed, like guardian angels, knelt his
father and mother. At his feet lay the Sweep, who now and then lifted
a long, melancholy nose and anxious eyes.

At the foot of the bed stood the Barrack Master. He had taken
up this position at the request of the Master of the House, who had
avoided any further allusion to Leonard’s fancy that their Naseby An-
cestor had come to Asholt Camp, but had begged his big brother-in-law
to stand there and blot out Uncle Rupert’s Ghost with his substantial
body.

But whether Leonard perceived the ruse, forgot Uncle Rupert, or
saw him all the same, by no word or sign did he ever betray.

Near the window sat Aunt Adelaide, with her Prayer-book, follow-
ing the service in her own orderly and pious fashion, sometimes saying a
prayer aloud at Leonard’s bidding, and anon. replying to his oft-repeated.
inquiry: “Is it the third Collect yet, Aunty dear?”
74 THUS TO THE STARS!

She had turned her head, more quickly than usual, to speak, when,
clear and strenuous on vocal stops, came the melody of the “Tug-of-
War” hymn.

“There! There it is! Oh, good Kapellmeister! Mother dear,
please go to the window and see if V.C. is there, and wave your hand
to him. Father dear, lift me up a little, please. Ah, now I hear him!
Good V.C.! I don’t believe you'll sing better than that when you're
promoted to be an angel. Are the men singing pretty loud? May I
have a little of that stuff to keep me from coughing, Mother dear? You
know I am not impatient’; but I do hope, please Gop, I shan’t die till
I’ve just heard them Zug that verse once more !”

* * *& * ES *

The sight of Lady Jane had distracted the V.C.’s thoughts from
the hymn. He was singing mechanically, when he became conscious of
some increasing pressure and irregularity in the time. ‘Then he remem-
bered what it was. The soldiers were beginning to tug.

In a moment more the organ stopped, and the V.C. found him-
self, with over three hundred men at his back, singing without accom-
paniment, and in unison—

‘* A noble army—men and boys,
The matron and the maid,
Around their Saviour’s throne rejoice,
In robes of white arrayed,”

The Kapellmeister conceded that verse to the shouts of the con-
gregation ; but he invariably reclaimed control over the last.

Even now, as the men paused to take breath after their “ tug,” the
organ spoke again, softly, but seraphically, and clearer and sweeter above
the voices behind him rose the voice of the V.C., singing to his little
friend—

‘‘ They climbed the steep ascent of Heaven,
Through peril, toil, and pain” ——

The men sang on ; but the V. C. stopped, as if he had been shot. For
a man’s hand had come to the Barrack Master’s window and pulled the
white blind down.
CHAPTER XII.

“* He that hath found some fledged-bird’s nest may know
At first sight, if the bird be flown ;
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.”

Henry Vaughan,

RUE to its character as
lan emblem of human
life, the Camp stands
on, with all its little
manners and customs,
whilst the men who
garrison it pass rapidly
|, away.

| Strange as the vicis-
|’ situdes of a whole gene-
' ration elsewhere, are the
changes and _ chances
that a few years bring to
those who were stationed

there together.

: To what unforseen
celebrity (or to a drop-
ping out of one’s life
and even hearsay that
once seemed quite as
little likely) do one’s old
neighbours sometimes
come!, They seem to
pass in a few drill seasons
as other men pass by
lifetimes. Some to fool-
ishness and forgetfulness,
and some to fame. This
old acquaintance to un-
expected glory; that dear friend—alas!—to the grave. And some—
Gop speed them !—to the world’s end and back, following the drum


76 UNWORLDLY WISE.

till it leads them Home again, with familiar faces little changed—with
boys and girls, perchance, very greatly changed—and with hearts not
changed at all. Can the last parting do much to hurt such friendships
between good souls, who have so long learnt to say farewell ; to love in
absence, to trust through silence, and to have faith in reunion?

The Barrack Master’s appointment was an unusually permanent
one; and he and his wife lived on in Asholt Camp, and saw regiments
come and go, as O’Reilly had prophesied, and threw out additional
rooms and bow-windows, and took in more garden, and kept a cow on
a bit of Government grass beyond the stores, and—with the man who
did the roofs, the church orderly, and one or two other public characters
—came to be reckoned among the oldest inhabitants.

- George went away pretty soon with his regiment. He was a good,
straightforward young fellow, with a dogged devotion to duty, and a
certain provincialism of intellect, and general John Bullishness, which
he inherited from his father, who had inherited it from his country fore-
fathers. He inherited equally a certain romantic, instinctive, and im-
movable high-mindedness, not invariably characteristic of much more
brilliant men.

He had been very fond of his little cousin, and Leonard’s death was.
a natural grief by him. The funeral tried his fortitude, and his detesta-
tion of “scenes,” to the very uttermost.

Like most young men who had the honour to know hen George’s:
devotion to his beautiful and gracious aunt, Lady Jane, had had in it
something of the nature of worship ; but now he was almost glad he was
going away, and not likely to see her face for a long time, because it
made him feel miserable to see her, and he objected to feeling miserable
both on principle and in practice. His peace of mind was assailed,
however, from a wholly unexpected quarter, and one which pursued him
even more abroad than at home.

The Barrack Master’s son had been shocked by his cousin’s death;
but the shock was really and truly greater when he discovered, by chance
gossip, and certain society indications, that the calamity which left Lady
Jane childless had made him his uncle’s presumptive heir. The almost
physical disgust which the discovery that he had thus acquired some
little social prestige produced in this subaltern of a marching regiment
must be hard to comprehend by persons of more imagination and less
sturdy independence, or by scholars in the science of success. But man
differs widely from man, and it is true.
GOOD NEWS FROM HOME. "4

He had been nearly two years in Canada when “the English mail”
caused him to fling his fur cap into the air with such demonstrations of
delight as greatly aroused the curiosity of his comrades, and, as he
bolted to his quarters without further explanation than “Good news
from home!” a rumour was for some time current that “Jones had
come into his fortune.”

Safe in his own quarters, he once more applied himself to his mother’s
letter, and picked up the thread of a passage which ran thus :—

‘‘ Your dear father gets very impatient, and I long to be back in my hut again
and see after my flowers, which I can trust to no one since O’Reilly took his discharge.
The little conservatory is like a new toy to me, but it is very tiny, and your dear father
is worse than no use in it, as he says himself. However, I can’t leave Lady Jane till
she is quite strong. The baby is a noble little fellow and really beautiful—which I
know you won’t believe, but that’s because you know nothing about babies: not as
beautiful as Leonard, of course—that could never be—but a fine, healthy, handsome
boy, with eyes that do remind one of his darling brother. I know, dear George, how
greatly you always did admire and appreciate your Aunt. Not one bit too much, my
son. She is the noblest woman I have ever known. We have had a very happy time
together, and I pray it may please Gop to spare this child to be the comfort to her
that you are and have been to

“ Your loving “© MOTHER.”

This was the good news from home that had sent the young sub-
altern’s fur cap into the air, and that now sent him to his desk ; the last
place where, as a rule, he enjoyed himself. Poor scribe as he was, how-
ever, he wrote two letters then and there: one to his mother, and one of
impetuous congratulations to his uncle, full of messages to Lady Jane.

The Master of the House read the letter more than once. It
pleased him.

In his own way he was quite as unworldly as his nephew, but it was
chiefly from a philosophic contempt for many things that worldly folk
struggle for, and a connoisseurship in sources of pleasure not purchas-
able except by the mentally endowed, and not even valuable to George,
as he knew. And he was a man of the world, and a somewhat cynical
student of character.

After the third reading he took it, smiling, to Lady Jane’s morning
room, where she was sitting, looking rather pale, with: her fine hair
“coming down” over a tea-gown of strange tints of her husband’s
choosing, and with the new baby lying in her lap.

He shut the door noiselessly, took a footstool to her feet, and
kissed her hand.
78 MORE PRECIOUS THAN RUBIES.

“You look like a Romney, Jane,—an .unfinished Romney, for you
are too white. If you’ve got a headache, you shan’t hear this letter,
which I know you'd like to hear.”

“T see that I should. Canada postmarks. It’s George.”

Yes; it’s George. He’s uproariously delighted at the advent of
this little chap.”

“Oh, I knew he’d be that. Let me hear what he says.”

The Master of the House read the letter. Lady Jane’s eyes filled
with tears at the tender references to Leonard, but she smiled through
them.

“ He’s a dear, good fellow.”

“He zs a dear, good fellow. It’s a most dorné intellect, but excel-
lence itself. And I’m bound to say,” added the Master of the House,
driving his hands through the jungle of his hair, “that there is a certain
excellence about a soldier when he is a good fellow that seems to be a
thing per se.”

After meditating on this matter for some moments, he sprang up
and vigorously rang the bell.

“Jane, you're terribly white ; you can bear nothing. Nurse is to
take that brat at once, and I’m going to carry you into the garden.”

Always much given to the collection and care of precious things,
and apt also to change his fads and to pursue each with partiality for
the moment, the Master of the House had, for some time past, been
devoting all his thoughts and his theories to the preservation of a pos-
session not less valuable than the paragon of Chippendale chairs, and
much more destructible—he was taking care of his good wife.

Many family treasures are lost for lack of a little timely care and
cherishing, and there are living “examples” as rare as most bric-a-
brac, and quite as perishable. Lady Jane was one of them, and after
Leonard’s death, with no motive for keeping up, she sank into a.con-
dition of weakness so profound that it became evident that, unless her
failing forces were fostered, she would not long be parted from her son.

Her husband had taken up his poem again, to divert his mind from
his own grief; but he left it behind, and took Lady Jane abroad.

Once roused, he brought to the task of coaxing her back to life an
intelligence that generally insured the success of his aims, and he suc-
ceeded now. ‘Lady Jane got well; out of sheer gratitude, she said.

Leonard’s military friends do not forget him. They are accustomed
to remember the absent.
I LIST NO MORE THE TUCK OF DRUM. 19

With the death of his little friend the V. C. quits these pages. He
will be found in the pages of history.

The Kapellmeister is a fine organist, and a few musical members of
the congregation, of all ranks, have a knack of lingering after Evensong
at the Iron Church to hear him “play away the people.” But on the
Sunday after Leonard’s death the congregation rose and remained ex
masse as the Dead March from Saul spoke in solemn and familiar tones
the requiem of a hero’s soul.

Blind Baby’s father was a Presbyterian, and disapproved of organs,
but he was a fond parent, and his blind child had heard tell that the
officer who played the organ so grandly was to play the Dead March on
the Sabbath evening for the Itttle gentlemen that died on the Sabbath
previous, and he was wild to go and hear it. Then the service would
be past, and the Kapellmeister was a fellow-Scot, and the house of
mourning has a powerful attraction for that serious race, and for one
reason or another Corporal Macdonald yielded to the point of saying,
“ Aweel, if you're a gude bairn, I’ll tak ye to the kirk door, and ye may
lay your lug at the chink, and hear what ye can.”

But when they got there the door was open, and Blind Baby pushed
his way through the crowd, as if the organ had drawn him with a rope,
straight to the Kapellmeister’s side.

It was the beginning of a friendship much to Blind Baby’s advan-
tage, which did not end when the child had been sent to a Blind School,
and then to a college where he learnt to be a tuner, and “earned his
own living.”

Poor Jemima fretted so bitterly for the loss of the child she had
nursed with such devotion, that there was possibly some truth in
O’Reilly’s rather complicated assertion that he married her because he
could not bear to see her cry.

He took his discharge, and was installed by the Master of the
House as lodge-keeper at the gates through which he had so often
passed as “a tidy one.”

Freed from military restraints, he became a very untidy one indeed,
and grew hair in such reckless abundance that he came to look like an
ourang outang with an unusually restrained figure and exceptionally up-
right catriage.

He was the best of husbands every day in the year but the seven-
teenth of March ; and Jemima enjoyed herself very much as she boasted
to the wives of less handy civilians that “her man was as good as a
80 WHAT IS HOME, AND WHEREP

woman about the house, any day.” (Any day, that is, except the seven-
teenth of March.)

With window-plants cunningly and ornamentally enclosed by a
miniature paling and gate, as if the window-sill were a hut garden ; with
coloured tissue-paper fly-catchers made on the principle of barrack-
room Christmas decorations ; with shelves, brackets, Oxford frames, and
other efforts of the decorative joinery of O’Reilly’s evenings; with a
large, hard sofa, chairs, elbow-chairs, and antimacassars; and with a
round table in the middle—the Lodge parlour is not a room to live in,
but it is almost bewildering to peep into, and curiously like the shrine of
some departed saint, so highly framed are the photographs of Leonard’s
lovely face, and so numerous are his relics.

The fate of Leonard’s dog may not readily be guessed.

The gentle reader would not deem it unnatural were I to chronicle
that he died of a broken heart. Failing this excess of sensibility, it
seems obvious that he should have attached himself immovably to Lady
Jane, and have lived at ease and died full of dignity in his little master’s
ancestral halls. He did go back there for a short time, but the day
after the funeral he disappeared. When word came to the household
that he was missing and had not been seen since he was let out in the
morning, the’ butler put on his hat and hurried off with a beating heart
to Leonard’s grave.

But the Sweep was not there, dead or alive. He was at that mo-
ment going at a sling trot along the dusty road that led into the Camp.
Timid persons, imperfectly acquainted with dogs, avoided him ; he went
so very straight, it looked like hydrophobia ; men who knew better, and
saw that he was only “on urgent private affairs,” chaffed him as they
passed, and some with little canes and horseplay waylaid and tried to
intercept him. But he was a big dog, and made himself respected, and
pursued his way.

His way was to the Barrack Master’s hut.

The first room he went into was that in which Leonard died. He
did not stay there three minutes. ‘Then he went to Leonard’s own room,
the little one next to the kitchen, and this he examined exhaustively,
crawling under the bed, snuffing at both doors, and lifting his long nose
against hope to investigate impossible places, such as the top of the
military chest of drawers. Then he got on to the late General’s camp
bed and went to sleep.

He was awakened by the smell of the bacon frying for breakfast, and
— BUT WITH THE LOVING. SI

he had breakfast with the family. After this he went out, and was seen
by different persons at various places in the Camp, the General Parade,
the Stores, and the Iron Church, still searching.

He was invited to dinner in at least twenty different barrack-rooms,
but he rejected all overtures till he met O’Reilly, when he turned round
and went back to dine with him and his comrades.

He searched Leonard’s room once more, and not finding him, he
refused to make his home with the Barrack Master ; possibly because
he could not make up his mind to have a home at all till he could have
one with Leonard.

Half-a-dozen of Leonard’s officer friends would willingly have
adopted him, but he would not own another master. Then military
dogs are apt to attach themselves exclusively either to commissioned or
to non-commissioned soldiers, and the Sweep cast in his lot with the
men, and slept on old coats in corners of barrack-rooms, and bided his
time. Dogs’ masters do get called away suddenly and come back again.
The Sweep had his hopes, and did not commit himself.

Even if, at length, he realised that Leonard had passed beyond this
life’s outposts, it roused in him no instincts to return to the Hall. With
a somewhat sublime contempt for those shreds of poor mortality laid to
rest in the family vault, he elected to live where his little master had
been happiest—in Asholt Camp.

Now and then he became. excited. It was when a fresh regiment
marched in. On these occasions he invariably made so exhaustive an
examination of the regiment and its baggage, as led to his being more
or less forcibly adopted by half-a-dozen good-natured soldiers who had
had to leave their previous pets behind them. But when he found that
Leonard had not returned with that detachment, he shook off everybody
and went back to O’Reilly.

When O’Reilly married, he took the Sweep to the Lodge, who there-
upon instituted a search about the house and grounds; but it was
evident that he had not expected any good results, and when he did
not find Leonard he went away quickly down the old Elm Avenue. As
he passed along the dusty road that led to Camp for the last time, he
looked back now and again with sad eyes to see if O’Reilly was not
coming too.. Then he returned to the Barrack Room, where he was
greeted with uproarious welcome, and eventually presented with a new
collar by subscription. And so, rising with gunfire and resting ‘with
“lights out,” he lived and died a Soldier’s Dog.

* *

* 8 * a
82 NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.

‘The new heir thrives at the Hall. He has brothers and sisters to
complete the natural happiness of his home, he has good health, good
parents, and is having a good education. He will have a goodly
heritage. He is developing nearly as vigorous a fancy for soldiers as
Leonard had, and drills his brothers and sisters with the help of O’Reilly.
If he wishes to make arms his profession he will not be thwarted, for
the Master of the House has decided that it is in many respects a
desirable and wholesome career for an eldest son. Lady Jane may yet
have to buckle on a hero’s sword. Brought up by such a mother in
the fear of Gop, he ought to be good, he may live to be great, it’s odds
if he cannot be happy. But never, not in the “one crowded hour of
glorious” victory, not in years of the softest comforts of a peaceful home,
by no virtues and in no success shall he bear more fitly than his
crippled brother bore the ancient motto of their house:

“fetus BDorte flea.”

THE END.



LONDON : ENGRAVED AND PRINTED BY EDMUND EVANS, RACQUET COURT, FLEET STREET, E.C.
Joist


JACKANAPES,

(FIFTIETH THOUSAND.)

With 17 Illustrations by Randolph Oaldecott,
Small 4to, Ornamental Paper Boards, 1s,

“© An exquisite bit of finished work —a

Meissonier in its way—as well as one of the

most tender and touching of short stories, is

Jackanapes.... The book is admirably illus-

trated by Caldecott. The picture of the two

youngsters, sitting on a tombstone in the churchyard enjoying their first smoke of ‘ brown paper
cigars, with only a very little tobacco inside them,’ is capital.” —Zvery Other Saturday, Boston.

‘*Here, stitched up in a paper coyer, and almost overlooked, we found the book of the
season... . We will willingly incur the charge of exaggeration by saying that there is nothing
equal to it outside Thackeray.”—
“‘Tt is about as good a story, and as well told as anybody is likely to write, or anybody
could wish to read, full of genuine humour, and of true, deep, pathetic feeling.” —///ustrated
London News. , ,

‘Mrs, Ewing has never surpassed, even if she has ever reached, the movement, liveli-

ness, pathos, and general charm of this vivid little sketeh, which is admirably illustrated by

Mr. Caldecott.” —Spectator. .
“‘ Written by Mrs. Ewing and illustrated by Randolph Caldecott. It is hardly neces:

to say that the result of such collaboration is simply charming... . We should \ave to tell |

the story, and enumerate all the cuts, to give an idea of this delightful little book.” —Saturday — |
Review.

DADDY DARWIN’s DOVECOT

A COUNTRY TALE.

BY

JULIANA HORATIA EWING.

AUTHOR OF “‘ JACKANAPES.”

With 17 Illustrations by Randolph Caldecott.
Small 4to, Ornamental Paper Boards, 15.

LAR RRR

“From all these exaggerations and discords between
intention and execution, it is like turning to the perfec-
tion of a flower to open Mrs. Ewing’s last sketch, ‘Daddy
Darwin’s Dovecot’ is less than ‘Jackanapes’ only in
that its simpler, homelier theme does not offer quite such w=:
full felicity of subject, ow well done was ‘the setting fe ry
of a wild graft on an old standard’ is told from the talk of M f
two old gaffers gossiping on a sunny wall. There is the ~/A2=
same delightful, suggestive commentary in homely pro- 2
verb or tender household word as made the earlier story
a poem.” — Zhe Nation, U.S.A.

Shee







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'2012-05-18T11:58:20-04:00'
describe
'4303952' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWPQ' 'sip-files00008.tif'
92a5fa7495ba2f9cf4b3f45d5810dc97
8d79612eea317016b50e9e96e9ee601f522d07a4
'2012-05-18T11:55:02-04:00'
describe
'470039' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWPR' 'sip-files00021.jpg'
bd4f7325c42d65bb0e7e339bdeb2b75c
a3194fdfd9daecfa01052d0594e32b1c8e12aa75
'2012-05-18T11:57:36-04:00'
describe
'351683' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWPS' 'sip-files00078.jpg'
0c6f0fce2eacf95b37574cc06aaa1ba5
952a280555945b17ac973baee60fcdfe8d3872b3
'2012-05-18T11:53:35-04:00'
describe
'55016' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWPT' 'sip-files00064thm.jpg'
ae3061507754d1973c801848a8c70513
60a9d4192f4aea8a5daf6d6b8d9e78fe543c1b3d
'2012-05-18T11:54:35-04:00'
describe
'4098280' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWPU' 'sip-files00046.tif'
8f00003133a292b52dcb4ce52a121117
3b55e4b659b1adaef24d62a81d800a238058abd7
'2012-05-18T11:58:33-04:00'
describe
'492696' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWPV' 'sip-files00039.jpg'
c478a65ad39330d2cd6b54b9de2bfe7c
0b5a918a1affd76436e56302fdc573ed29a28877
'2012-05-18T11:55:21-04:00'
describe
'435519' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWPW' 'sip-files00015.jpg'
9eed4299674bcc54c4de715f183cdb4e
439ab8dd71f0fc2e758c3c9cf1dc3a18589af7e9
'2012-05-18T11:57:18-04:00'
describe
'509498' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWPX' 'sip-files00054.jp2'
6e35ba5608cdf7bcdfcfa0b21884256b
1f86f89247072add0a6472ead2d65166a2012006
'2012-05-18T11:58:16-04:00'
describe
'4101260' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWPY' 'sip-files00018.tif'
5309e22b08f70bc190680da5f0f3f5dd
6b1099ed0f917c86149d2f7371fdbe2998c812b2
describe
'33110' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWPZ' 'sip-files00008.pro'
16e4ee87dc30efc2b38cd5f8c5bb4309
bccaf0d1b3ee6dd0a6200f10d42389fad6df4eef
'2012-05-18T11:57:24-04:00'
describe
'135920' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQA' 'sip-files00056.QC.jpg'
5f972bebc8cf150cf9557b56fe8b9aa6
e1b07ec2c277d8efeabe8195d3d1feae65b9d9b5
'2012-05-18T11:57:30-04:00'
describe
'50898' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQB' 'sip-files00060thm.jpg'
c20d6afb3074d45685f4f49a5da06e59
99b0072ed7801ab765fc3e4cd508514c656abf9b
'2012-05-18T11:54:01-04:00'
describe
'55395' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQC' 'sip-files00061thm.jpg'
680707698d67655f67e74a136275076b
36650ecfb8d76b5334eb469541601a90a896837e
'2012-05-18T11:54:07-04:00'
describe
'522708' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQD' 'sip-files00010.jp2'
e789dad7bc14925af807c59bb604fe15
0881895665fbf893f0868526b45b27a47f9c41fd
'2012-05-18T11:54:54-04:00'
describe
'1894' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQE' 'sip-files00055.txt'
97cdebdc65419e64fa50b7abfbd8a4f1
49251206a53560de7a4295aad35140196b08aadd
describe
'447490' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQF' 'sip-files00043.jpg'
a57caa2f7f79c8cb09fd6d80dab943bf
915a6cde880f7d8e2d0276422a04aa0ac45828f3
'2012-05-18T11:57:41-04:00'
describe
'488011' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQG' 'sip-files00036.jpg'
ad23d1b84175f7e67506312ede448b4d
c0fc3fc787d3a5ab0aaadedcfdab78c9591925d7
'2012-05-18T11:55:55-04:00'
describe
'51490' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQH' 'sip-files00050thm.jpg'
bd8e8985ddfad423b9d28d3de41c8da3
e933c21a1ee66c2c6091686b05b56deb2ebc4723
'2012-05-18T11:54:37-04:00'
describe
'509476' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQI' 'sip-files00035.jp2'
0c4451f6df0d8e93c72d37f4a775ae93
40ca15ef7c494db1297fc4f50b89615a8fdb0aef
'2012-05-18T11:55:06-04:00'
describe
'62003' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQJ' 'sip-files00027.pro'
76cbe64673d0de18a8cf649987bef1c9
77210411938f07d38b5d85d682d0a24b38d619f6
'2012-05-18T11:56:44-04:00'
describe
'4098324' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQK' 'sip-files00080.tif'
a882458f7d8a3f291aa52f18449baac7
547be07288aba231a74b6558865883ad0ba7c965
'2012-05-18T11:55:28-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQL' 'sip-files00046.jp2'
c7766b2a2c816c0a83d3e19d92667f71
c416665e000de2e15648e5d99a2c96135915f8e5
describe
'509391' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQM' 'sip-files00049.jp2'
a3c94e8b9d6ac6a082bb1bd29ca70856
4353ddee526f0a7168a064e3f8a8e163d1634c3f
'2012-05-18T11:55:32-04:00'
describe
'4098480' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQN' 'sip-files00038.tif'
fc13dd1f0dad358288a861edbf0dbede
bb6470188a58c2b94b5d7ec12e5e67ecb1c384e6
'2012-05-18T11:58:27-04:00'
describe
'467454' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQO' 'sip-files00082.jpg'
a2392173795e9efc9af1d9743f5d538c
6ed53470cb6bf9194e1f668385d0aa6663f18e81
'2012-05-18T11:57:39-04:00'
describe
'443881' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQP' 'sip-files00025.jpg'
f49c1b34175194f6c339481aa99a22fe
1cab74ab9b6b1b60aa65a8610a71c4a32149fe24
'2012-05-18T11:57:34-04:00'
describe
'464159' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQQ' 'sip-files00026.jpg'
5a14cac8d041b043cfe8c5d5cd962717
c638504a649e8e5a3edc719fa9ce42833b0c20f1
'2012-05-18T11:54:41-04:00'
describe
'509507' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQR' 'sip-files00078.jp2'
895728e6f18987ca94bfbea74da40ca6
041e567eb152158478eee1f88a375c61a324d873
'2012-05-18T11:55:07-04:00'
describe
'56582' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQS' 'sip-files00015.pro'
993997dc9df835183d31a2970b2bcb84
05ff58dd5ebeda367b1ba95504878402ee0f7a61
'2012-05-18T11:55:16-04:00'
describe
'53006' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQT' 'sip-files00037thm.jpg'
2616ccf19186233b483903bed004aeab
dffc6ccde28d17aea3c76ab349492aa972efed5c
'2012-05-18T11:58:22-04:00'
describe
'135888' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQU' 'sip-files00055.QC.jpg'
8b38bd94edef50d43e6e1a17a260e684
d8c1dea207b2eb275cb9cc25ceebf4da0069138a
describe
'509517' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQV' 'sip-files00072.jp2'
142d3cb6816d7dc4d8558b6b47c1aa7b
58bd3898171a66819b353a1d0e4ffaa9dafd4a5d
'2012-05-18T11:55:38-04:00'
describe
'296525' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQW' 'sip-files00007.jpg'
2ac868e8fe797b070f8d012b73a357ab
e8935722fe9440ea5b746d844139c4dcb53a016c
'2012-05-18T11:53:34-04:00'
describe
'143453' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQX' 'sip-files00016.QC.jpg'
9ddd3dbbf77219fe24a9e5cf67056ea5
89d34377085d5c3f7668cd52bed068dea2c42020
describe
'155687' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQY' 'sip-files00062.QC.jpg'
09a2d5fef2de71b69bf0d8ce0da8d81f
30ddfd683adf07ff9bfc8f4c800ce6b1d0538f33
describe
'47812' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWQZ' 'sip-files00078thm.jpg'
ddcf5a14905427936b185cdb7ad93e50
7713564aa2df83ec1691c6dd42ef51cb40727e28
describe
'62807' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRA' 'sip-files00083.pro'
7157a5c2383b7361410f37895428313c
0632bb1cbd8d6a2b3cb14600456d156a8c5434e8
'2012-05-18T11:54:23-04:00'
describe
'55308' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRB' 'sip-files00022thm.jpg'
c13dc727a23e5c64934dbab0e8336ca7
03b4bf93249c7dff7bc20da0b4b7d970f43ea4a9
'2012-05-18T11:55:03-04:00'
describe
'2631' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRC' 'sip-files00062.txt'
0aff8bbbd13002ac7a5ce3e74179726c
0cd5f7d9007f339435b06a8dc5818bb953f4d478
'2012-05-18T11:54:52-04:00'
describe
'4202968' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRD' 'sip-files00031.tif'
c247fca6cba9d5362973462b980cca74
eec4e3d4f686f573cbbf2acc1200c6a43768166e
'2012-05-18T11:54:51-04:00'
describe
'509402' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRE' 'sip-files00075.jp2'
27443786e7e095e7a28c4d01ecd1db78
f2c6b80e306db1c5fe13b0a16bdd0026f92cf217
'2012-05-18T11:54:04-04:00'
describe
'2131' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRF' 'sip-files00011.txt'
741b0518fddaf95e2df12f8ee0781b96
82ae3bcbfc991a7615f4534369da43f48af3e2dd
'2012-05-18T11:56:02-04:00'
describe
'509431' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRG' 'sip-files00058.jp2'
38ed985f0b8c4d18a2bd1b2f31b6eaab
6728f7b87e0ad026987661d1071d2487ee67c077
'2012-05-18T11:55:37-04:00'
describe
'149925' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRH' 'sip-files00081.QC.jpg'
e693d56422a5088c0df7c35e42abbc70
99f7ef7cc43d083cd9a7128f971248b1fa7ad368
'2012-05-18T11:54:21-04:00'
describe
'6790' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRI' 'sip-files00053.pro'
2b81c052b87fa6b25f8a4d65a7482e41
df3e89c43ba68f63d0137ae3fb8b908576750d5c
describe
'4098796' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRJ' 'sip-files00067.tif'
d36d7ec077eb6e545019f2f27305d4b8
d17fc5965cb1dda459c472fb1b778f5a7fdaa7a5
describe
'474870' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRK' 'sip-files00084.jpg'
8ac42dbaff0d5e9cd685c3631ff6c6f5
c9cfe47adab13714f6b04f0e3e51f1a0d1282c82
'2012-05-18T11:55:54-04:00'
describe
'514372' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRL' 'sip-files00063.jp2'
1f62d835b80ef079084b377cf2777df6
b313e4ba46dffed9f42733dd09956c89934c71ce
'2012-05-18T11:57:35-04:00'
describe
'55553' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRM' 'sip-files00042thm.jpg'
193db528a6591756b4962ac278635054
41d12359e9532c9944ab7998df8c8cef734392a7
'2012-05-18T11:56:56-04:00'
describe
'4163412' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRN' 'sip-files00023.tif'
f82871b83a6c4f2fb5b4adecf180e603
20ced358af82943cd2fd2635276c08248e07c890
'2012-05-18T11:57:40-04:00'
describe
'54672' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRO' 'sip-files00062thm.jpg'
3eda33a7982d1a7461f613b50666a85d
02e8ed7cc962aa45525dadd256be5630d0890b4d
'2012-05-18T11:54:28-04:00'
describe
'448671' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRP' 'sip-files00013.jpg'
39fd4d4bd78b5fd2e55cbd97291c8dec
f3929c84ac8f6704c661be5f699eb9ce5dd1afcf
describe
'2241' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRQ' 'sip-files00024.txt'
f6bb9831d2e945643bd738f2286c855f
d1c22a9eef8d33f40b8b5fe5ed248057933f351e
'2012-05-18T11:54:59-04:00'
describe
'4098320' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRR' 'sip-files00061.tif'
c4edba18e304e6960e969e22a731b383
e231cebe891dc7fdcbbb664310c76ca07efd4f40
'2012-05-18T11:53:55-04:00'
describe
'4136320' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRS' 'sip-files00063.tif'
c38cfaa3638e25d6e3f86ff6daa66d1d
cc862cc83b46efc4d059f2c1305177998db98216
describe
'4243568' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRT' 'sip-files00014.tif'
5e83d43601d2c2167c67c8ed1e0d14a4
d9d0c5eae5bc19e4c2edd04a37b06f83f0cc65c7
'2012-05-18T11:53:44-04:00'
describe
'56227' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRU' 'sip-files00036thm.jpg'
88225a68423a831178511d9e86d54ca1
0482dbf07c16399fb0e836e4d14abb357963ca1e
'2012-05-18T11:54:17-04:00'
describe
'518324' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRV' 'sip-files00028.jp2'
0b2e3a571794e60a35f8db9f67fcb410
1919e3fea493807d3895fbe90f4cd4e6d24b776f
'2012-05-18T11:57:15-04:00'
describe
'462024' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRW' 'sip-files00073.jpg'
2f12cae5b5b636d153c87792554aff97
7bbd09cd8383e1f3fa65eff3179a97e1084be68c
describe
'1261' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRX' 'sip-files00085.txt'
64165b28d895b86908cf1ea3ba126ac9
befabbccb5d03b646c7831c3855c6f6b2129930b
'2012-05-18T11:53:54-04:00'
describe
'72856' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRY' 'sip-files00071.pro'
514104fddc493a6dc6b15e9bebc567e9
c1379694da49940afb93be6e9ea6fab06f62a43d
'2012-05-18T11:57:33-04:00'
describe
'62903' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWRZ' 'sip-files00062.pro'
aee4d1cd1cdc42baaed12fd295addadb
53b69ed95ed89935cd4be36a1fff2be350c2989b
'2012-05-18T11:54:02-04:00'
describe
'48720' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSA' 'sip-files00030.pro'
333731751fe587af13fc104a3ad7109d
b5aa937b935ab454348b83468c9cd5d2baef04ff
'2012-05-18T11:54:45-04:00'
describe
'309403' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSB' 'sip-files00006.jpg'
757f3a58055077feda9ba29abec8ea1e
290853bfbd9df5360d57d76ca1d635e10ce52a3d
describe
'54843' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSC' 'sip-files00013thm.jpg'
6e2e10e58a374c28e28039ed348a20a4
e8dcaf1551f1be6d829890350fb349dafa64c666
describe
'201635' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSD' 'sip-files00088.QC.jpg'
0ef31adbbb433007f3636d1fecd45ba0
c5357f66f724680d8766b3274720217073b9f85e
'2012-05-18T11:56:51-04:00'
describe
'4098540' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSE' 'sip-files00040.tif'
ade320080dbb3057d127b491cff11d63
314e7b8cb63a95d976af7a16880e8ee5e62bae17
'2012-05-18T11:58:19-04:00'
describe
'137' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSF' 'sip-files00002.txt'
cd3e529cbcdfa13f0d6632920570e3de
06dfa0a249bf4d00558570d1aafa6975ef8800ae
'2012-05-18T11:57:38-04:00'
describe
'509513' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSG' 'sip-files00032.jp2'
27b94de1d7ec83c8dcc7acc64ddcb98e
d30780e4366a0ed3d06c7b7ed9a957cde9eff002
describe
'32807' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSH' 'sip-files00031.pro'
f745396e5d6ce165ac3e06b527a0b79a
39707f23bf5da47f1767200d2bd2dac7184f9796
describe
'515528' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSI' 'sip-files00024.jp2'
8197fd0f5fcb7ec82d163d45930f6fe2
36ed169b112bcd70a332bd946673784aa8791362
'2012-05-18T11:58:02-04:00'
describe
'1233' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSJ' 'sip-files00088.txt'
727c3e046d9aa3fcc09e8d1a74051b5a
095889203ec631a4480e04914a8cf6797af711c4
'2012-05-18T11:57:20-04:00'
describe
WARNING CODE 'Daitss::Anomaly' Invalid character
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSK' 'sip-files00039.jp2'
40bf89b332b02eee4c28aaaa67ffe0fc
dab047142b9338793550b1daefadc00d2f33f9ca
'2012-05-18T11:57:23-04:00'
describe
'54453' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSL' 'sip-files00020thm.jpg'
5b7c3326a723f22143b139c9fc19f080
67666d66c66fd9ac40d76e38a50d392fab83f5de
describe
'66985' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSM' 'sip-files00079.pro'
e19c23a203104222ebd52d995fe8d4d0
1fe81b943dfbc52ad9aa08e30a19e5fd73369874
'2012-05-18T11:56:21-04:00'
describe
'54613' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSN' 'sip-files00005thm.jpg'
320cfe2d69755637dc7f6c4fc58f1f3d
b1a2b98fdf4d93ae6e5cb86daf29685f141f0faf
describe
'157691' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSO' 'sip-files00058.QC.jpg'
b7005d6726ebac2e282cf39882e78087
b242f9d1f5bb07dd2781562db0b4035a76013ce6
describe
'512355' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSP' 'sip-files00026.jp2'
c21cc1d8e012097be6da6eeecc7268f8
b0f84e50d5784db90fb1038a9f6edd3ea04c0b48
'2012-05-18T11:55:25-04:00'
describe
'60215' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSQ' 'sip-files00021.pro'
6187e6910a077ed5f17e5f095d6a81c5
a4845f5184e6d8c9481ccbfa0357b4e2f950d497
'2012-05-18T11:57:14-04:00'
describe
'74927' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSR' 'sip-files00066.pro'
f456476fec17b5b7a0e39ac6d902fe85
693db5431a4b85b814ae0fde639f85ac5519118c
'2012-05-18T11:55:19-04:00'
describe
'123590' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSS' 'sip-files00078.QC.jpg'
29ba9cd368871db5c2f70734bef7a4ce
5edf552e71af7c0ac2cde64a6e88e908a89f3586
'2012-05-18T11:56:06-04:00'
describe
'509502' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWST' 'sip-files00053.jp2'
87535df48802789c6f03edcf008f339d
31bc6c34b9c072ca97d76de7e9ed2418f74ed4e2
'2012-05-18T11:54:56-04:00'
describe
'410230' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSU' 'sip-files00011.jpg'
642a9ce264fb2641f893e8bc89a140d3
3a16c24a655ddcdb7aef9c80ac061d2fc0ae5ddc
'2012-05-18T11:53:52-04:00'
describe
'74859' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSV' 'sip-files00064.pro'
f65973fe2b3a528bfe28f1633958eb17
b0c642bf58b09b4eefa832efbc1375b27d720a8d
'2012-05-18T11:56:58-04:00'
describe
'2405' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSW' 'sip-files00017.txt'
bf84f2809f9e1002c3ab428e7f0173bd
51a4e7564dc7d1f7f71f08e7607eeb35086be2ab
describe
'109061' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSX' 'sip-files00085.QC.jpg'
a94cede44dcd579ebbbc95c38b5d49b1
7b83656f8f7954d33b406f0ac4b6e5e3431ae54d
describe
'51197' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSY' 'sip-files00031thm.jpg'
5eb2a9ec235e79b4315e595a609b9e55
4ed92ea9a7e3be3f86b08370126884c3ad47028f
'2012-05-18T11:53:48-04:00'
describe
'4188244' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWSZ' 'sip-files00030.tif'
ef0a4ee77d93209aad71db731b1819bb
358635604416f2080b106331a917226551a949f0
'2012-05-18T11:55:42-04:00'
describe
'4203564' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTA' 'sip-files00010.tif'
0bf9e87f5eff3221188a7e27b848a00d
5ab998afeffe83c3de3fa108cb103b893f702561
'2012-05-18T11:55:01-04:00'
describe
'509425' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTB' 'sip-files00056.jp2'
ccb9e706b3611be76b085cbbd095cbe1
294cfef63bc71b459dcee330167b1ea4e5001852
describe
'355144' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTC' 'sip-files00023.jpg'
1b3a1ad0fb8526da12a13ec70549ab11
4bc57e1606c7cecca422d2088ec25187399d3b9c
'2012-05-18T11:55:13-04:00'
describe
'2292' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTD' 'sip-files00050.txt'
666dd60d568b433bdc1b32edcb8d17cd
0d3f99789873d609aec3e6e0a4eeb471c8c799a7
'2012-05-18T11:56:25-04:00'
describe
'54658' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTE' 'sip-files00025.pro'
47c6d0108e29933faf6ac0f55bdd3a45
fd7af212a27d4fa67844c8b5e4357789224093a4
describe
'55617' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTF' 'sip-files00066thm.jpg'
53ec97d648b23f4c1395747962c8fdae
f4a3fe1353dea876d3e9c467793baf2c7f346b63
describe
'530514' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTG' 'sip-files00069.jpg'
31d4ba463a051d781e2051cb5d2419aa
53027be3878b887c71fbeccb1327e62de539fac1
'2012-05-18T11:56:35-04:00'
describe
'146686' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTH' 'sip-files00025.QC.jpg'
7b195baf829ca70612719cb6b1f970d4
50884f3ce86878f4ab8f6cca9cbdf484b4a849ee
'2012-05-18T11:55:49-04:00'
describe
'510884' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTI' 'sip-files00021.jp2'
593c4519731c62dc0889738509fb6270
5e85c40ad6e6ee8adf991316fa8342e9da977fd3
describe
'146219' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTJ' 'sip-files00010.QC.jpg'
e445411cfc05a554e9e0094c40f53168
1403ca76313d4275e51eca65c8d50a7c375c1833
'2012-05-18T11:56:05-04:00'
describe
'4098392' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTK' 'sip-files00053.tif'
a23ead2df9b8848db4c1a171687683aa
1b9d57ab429d694a66ef61e05aa2332cddfce719
'2012-05-18T11:55:40-04:00'
describe
'157537' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTL' 'sip-files00067.QC.jpg'
ba0effa4aed5630fedada35711b8b15c
262fc62f1895ce9d3047c07b4ecea4cb622cc7f6
describe
'63346' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTM' 'sip-files00032.pro'
25bb855730c9ab09d1786053b52dc9b1
871bd2f3baf364673ef006c0fd52d2f98690fd2f
describe
'4097088' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTN' 'sip-files00059.tif'
5a29fcc291356c0320f0063d010661d6
118982f61b8da8ce9e583ad5d8a3828e870fb802
describe
'794' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTO' 'sip-files00070.txt'
eb3cbb0ea128e615ac49f8e8514b4eb0
b36b1638d60f0086b3f82b77d60ca1121ba8719d
'2012-05-18T11:54:08-04:00'
describe
Invalid character
'509445' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTP' 'sip-files00080.jp2'
6169bc338aa14eaba6fa3d73e2e09cb4
752aed81b38b33ff903fca1d67a39c727f9bee32
'2012-05-18T11:54:48-04:00'
describe
'2396' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTQ' 'sip-files00078.txt'
ab9251954fe5ba7d264e12cbbd077f32
976d5cc12a8db4d2eeec03b566b4846060d229f2
'2012-05-18T11:55:11-04:00'
describe
'54831' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTR' 'sip-files00075thm.jpg'
7d6e85933324301ae8b162997db94c90
ac20f3b5fdf39dfc927c16938bc9861ab44c8c92
describe
'560098' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTS' 'sip-files00088.jp2'
0d322bdc50ae9efbb4b9751721909a5a
152ed68710f0571bc9af082e2953dadc4331d98a
describe
'482438' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTT' 'sip-files00042.jpg'
d2cb827842577ac08096cd5427cca6a5
9784b9559087fb6ce8cf5e410c47d9c80f527db9
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTU' 'sip-files00067.jp2'
adff02330fb27024bf096816cda55840
78bea584b6e0ae4c078335b89b2889d9fdf1941b
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTV' 'sip-files00047.jp2'
acb216a5f3a3e6719ad06e9658cff929
37681ad8b56ae992472ae84d2b08ff96defbf1dc
'2012-05-18T11:54:34-04:00'
describe
'156191' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTW' 'sip-files00028.QC.jpg'
8229f13ec06db8076a600a3992ce18e2
38092a63d4cc64d5ebf4d518a5dd78bb324d8032
'2012-05-18T11:55:34-04:00'
describe
'509438' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTX' 'sip-files00079.jp2'
9299b6f8a14624d8f7d82c5286fdbd63
004e307524bbc4e47be8d0595e797fca69b705c0
'2012-05-18T11:53:53-04:00'
describe
'7588' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTY' 'sip-files00037.pro'
78862c93e55a561396b3324b4364295b
e9f3bb52106c4e92094638329f05a1c551a20b1a
describe
'49839' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWTZ' 'sip-files00072thm.jpg'
5f0bbdd00c4b29082f32e1b2a114111b
1fc53360ee64a069f3a30672cfc43bccc0aa1fc1
'2012-05-18T11:55:35-04:00'
describe
'486257' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUA' 'sip-files00033.jpg'
e545f004ba445d25a0ae7acb9464bf49
3d79c34e8a6140019193ca3218b87b73caa8383c
'2012-05-18T11:57:26-04:00'
describe
'516981' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUB' 'sip-files00005.jp2'
f629ac6178938f83fa8860d23b24c524
0f1e711ad4e26338e26deba344c31e33f9aad1e1
describe
'156186' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUC' 'sip-files00048.QC.jpg'
aad8a2d0c4ba150c02e66ea60827d412
8bf31067018693a8787ff769c0f5d533d7946f09
'2012-05-18T11:53:58-04:00'
describe
'462002' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUD' 'sip-files00029.jpg'
c792ea510e29e565ba3210b289566b7f
d3c42796db6236e672108fd2788e9f23a4e5ee0b
'2012-05-18T11:54:00-04:00'
describe
'147840' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUE' 'sip-files00035.QC.jpg'
08962f1d582f1317635506a4d887d76a
6fe7eac592f740a2dcda8011c3f1cd896a172d32
'2012-05-18T11:54:03-04:00'
describe
'3913' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUF' 'sip-files00069.txt'
c5179caade42b76f53b7029a798284cb
c0ed3a6d36046a9702f484f43c2d74dfc6908d65
'2012-05-18T11:57:31-04:00'
describe
'28127' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUG' 'sip-files00085.pro'
d43d007b95627c38d699bfab1c78172b
67802a54fc0bbb6ac85d9df0eaed9d160097490c
'2012-05-18T11:56:41-04:00'
describe
'471190' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUH' 'sip-files00061.jpg'
ba68e8cc00a3b01f3d628726bfdfe2a3
6ee2bbc39e4dc0013ba54d6e057554df4b92f4d7
describe
'488845' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUI' 'sip-files00040.jpg'
08811ab8f570b612dd03b42d1fa4241b
3cd5665211548caed80cd07f91c7a3e7620c5ec7
'2012-05-18T11:58:36-04:00'
describe
'2238' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUJ' 'sip-files00043.txt'
a989a1f2187278cc127086183f65ad5b
010e61745b422c509cfcaa7800c853a7b5d441c0
'2012-05-18T11:54:09-04:00'
describe
'458288' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUK' 'sip-files00081.jpg'
da25a632554fdef01f573b338a3231fb
1ce9593db007b13e6e9986268043b84eff231bc5
'2012-05-18T11:54:26-04:00'
describe
'61418' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUL' 'sip-files00020.pro'
75529ed6de4b49e0fa26244dabb294e3
7410e998bc41db73bc60668650528c8e998b752e
describe
'600' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUM' 'sip-files00006.txt'
34f8f093931fe8472341699451f1acba
cb74f286515e2af6cdf16bbcb1cfb726eb9a135e
'2012-05-18T11:57:58-04:00'
describe
'159136' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUN' 'sip-files00040.QC.jpg'
2e28ca27077bb78131c364182b05228c
dfc02f1594ac0feba971f30031787c13b6e021fd
describe
'61317' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUO' 'sip-files00029.pro'
5f6e69a3da08d879e8a1d6aba553d902
52fee3d5d58aa9e49e11ceada0747c174b71477e
'2012-05-18T11:54:43-04:00'
describe
'564297' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUP' 'sip-files00001.jp2'
d9fc3fc6bcd23ade837f034b8d41dd27
cace934f325115c32a3728694e9eaefe33d98474
'2012-05-18T11:57:19-04:00'
describe
'455508' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUQ' 'sip-files00068.jpg'
da9f92ef7fe3896dd0af190821d4c68f
3ade68b74f5476a6261b63ceea4e0e481c331e2c
'2012-05-18T11:53:57-04:00'
describe
'66724' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUR' 'sip-files00001thm.jpg'
fae77b6e280193fd8510b66e86236e49
649124a7f05b85455a721688e5bf1e75a0ea02f0
'2012-05-18T11:56:33-04:00'
describe
'4098056' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUS' 'sip-files00037.tif'
c73fe4bc34d9d1d236a80fe26461addf
bdb82401a0c79c93f84b0271be0498fda69b73c5
describe
'517870' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUT' 'sip-files00029.jp2'
70c53e344297801001da8257000af62d
c0d548b1d9dbc70639f0bf4829603ea6d7a48f77
describe
'2624' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUU' 'sip-files00032.txt'
f0c88436e049332a875afef33dbb4674
2217b9428b8c05bba1519cf625cca3f263f85431
'2012-05-18T11:54:30-04:00'
describe
'4098292' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUV' 'sip-files00068.tif'
f1836b47628243b4065cdfed2c59ce2e
5df15d2693619b7220b40d8b618053cebc3f894c
describe
'419682' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUW' 'sip-files00041.jpg'
791a1737ba2914753da65f27f6b3412d
8bde55b6894f8cbe36ff5a8a7b522eaa7e81688c
'2012-05-18T11:53:45-04:00'
describe
'144233' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUX' 'sip-files00017.QC.jpg'
297508859355d69f0881e3097e7f7c98
08f28611837fc3da3de889616f4ea4bc1c10c640
describe
'7451' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUY' 'sip-files00005.pro'
3eca0163455c17919c04af4c30e7df1f
80fae1342f6065398599ef4ee0af6cb456198f5a
'2012-05-18T11:56:29-04:00'
describe
'56443' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWUZ' 'sip-files00058thm.jpg'
fa566a9cdbdf862aad7ba017ee37dbb2
df1e57e780b789df736e32d2af38c06b6687618a
'2012-05-18T11:55:17-04:00'
describe
'2616' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVA' 'sip-files00020.txt'
091b82da309f273eb0380e1785e73430
93a30d74fbdc1edfb0993a2b578493277787d4c3
'2012-05-18T11:57:10-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVB' 'sip-files00077.jp2'
9f4f3cb2b745196c0c8779106a57da2a
4d6e09433c4d8317e4803bb8466e2ff187441661
describe
'509514' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVC' 'sip-files00044.jp2'
4e1aa12700d2c92e42f05c5f9aa99fc1
7b77c708828059e2921c183e91ac263543419df7
'2012-05-18T11:57:04-04:00'
describe
'1910' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVD' 'sip-files00059.txt'
d69179b1b555017aa70729165577012f
22a020137f661bc875eef4d3ee5c35ff32072279
'2012-05-18T11:56:42-04:00'
describe
'355038' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVE' 'sip-files00019.jpg'
83cc4cbaddce46354adf978f207c89aa
fa4ead9fc08dad8201a3b877799843daaef14ba6
describe
'4098204' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVF' 'sip-files00054.tif'
0377f8e42c6db6cd85b3958ecfe4802c
7746d2ac17674085f0d8f09e5af7084f7491c19d
'2012-05-18T11:56:30-04:00'
describe
'57726' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVG' 'sip-files00035.pro'
12d0ae11a8c6d0608691eb0958beb9f1
a5072ac64763bba3e3a0fa3aab2aadb160477023
describe
'55661' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVH' 'sip-files00033thm.jpg'
04ad5b5fda4c0ab2504b8e76267cee9f
3e89a14644cd8b224885239d101e23d933916fe1
describe
'149844' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVI' 'sip-files00009.QC.jpg'
f090fe3741ef8c6996a96348476ef8d3
3d8ed9c5ef28231fac93b4282ccf37a52a411426
describe
'49232' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVJ' 'sip-files00063thm.jpg'
30ff58e2f540750b835bea8bd24567f9
9032839c33ca3cc2b6160260e407d1a8f12a2e70
'2012-05-18T11:57:48-04:00'
describe
'2302' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVK' 'sip-files00076.txt'
220deea8b6557f9f8dd51c7927c90399
fb350b2b0acbce249fd7fabb476e6f1db35f508a
'2012-05-18T11:57:53-04:00'
describe
'154738' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVL' 'sip-files00046.QC.jpg'
b0b339fdf1220cbfb311e92e0a43eb5d
10dbf257bee645c479a284c1fa1fa87698a8d69f
'2012-05-18T11:57:47-04:00'
describe
'518280' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVM' 'sip-files00020.jp2'
12de72c747c7f01b0a7a47b846d863e4
02bf25dc7d7dc50dc66c7d0486b2bdb17b2c94db
'2012-05-18T11:56:15-04:00'
describe
'96527' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVN' 'sip-files00069.pro'
7efd6b1b360c3b2dca21fae84ee1e4e3
5597ae2ae229338ef328d29fa3d04dafd82bbd4e
describe
'4097216' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVO' 'sip-files00072.tif'
33eb12b705638bd4a32c2677ba3235f2
e5e0af937c5f934beb60c673b087d7f04888443d
describe
'2658' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVP' 'sip-files00079.txt'
2585790a9c4855c61b8e468fd47f992c
759848cdaa8a75a746bd48acafa8ff57782b2732
'2012-05-18T11:58:31-04:00'
describe
'131110' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVQ' 'sip-files00030.QC.jpg'
a1a8699adc3610bc521f04edf1c429b1
4ba42d4b465c698c280da8415d42925a1d687de5
'2012-05-18T11:56:12-04:00'
describe
'329186' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVR' 'sip-files00085.jpg'
37eaa7b22e77117a61dc8115e47ea54e
fb445b99e0283adc459a21bd3b660032ede44ace
'2012-05-18T11:54:40-04:00'
describe
'2623' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVS' 'sip-files00009.txt'
531e38ddc62eb646791f607e1a816eb9
f55bf79e10995e943a260067ab0456a8557df3f3
'2012-05-18T11:58:15-04:00'
describe
'86598' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVT' 'sip-files00065.pro'
80a09d0720458675234c70ed2a22f03c
cf4c9bbae06a8ebf2a3412b65ade7748bcd1ff30
describe
'4061100' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVU' 'sip-files00011.tif'
bb5e614875afc13636bf8d0f2c017785
9e767d53197698c32860e5ea3d62c6df3484db7f
describe
'63909' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVV' 'sip-files00084.pro'
3695375937ad165c25f91b0249f7147f
015a6727415f15e9aee88c9615b3b7ba349f8f4a
describe
'2042' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVW' 'sip-files00030.txt'
f1bdaa4a206f9ac782b2bfed7a34317c
d2a01f92e4b987854eeaec634a0adaae1a8f2966
'2012-05-18T11:55:58-04:00'
describe
'522115' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVX' 'sip-files00022.jp2'
20fabf92163f58d4a85b4c06820318f7
117b4b80090aba8596bb78a3b39f301a08f4d083
describe
'463526' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVY' 'sip-files00080.jpg'
9960eb34229283fcdabf38bc1d313f3d
fae8018a406369ecac1e214d586e4069444460a9
describe
'425273' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWVZ' 'sip-files00044.jpg'
7255f65ad2764483c42f466e397026d6
06a138e82de11fd1917dc765cbe3388e3149cd5e
describe
'413079' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWA' 'sip-files00056.jpg'
516d3fa6103e521ba607b2b4ecac559d
f4705bd68887e793eb7d1cfca8ce114a608a31ed
describe
'53705' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWB' 'sip-files00014thm.jpg'
fbb7da60653988c1d7b23d26df9b5b89
af9d1a5215e064e918d195c48737d4c2cb6e60a2
describe
'4119504' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWC' 'sip-files00027.tif'
66acc516ba8a426694ef89f75336c0cf
e5c29407a72eda4da15622c50c1a87cdda6a0ff0
describe
'26281' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWD' 'sip-files00024.pro'
2c40df38cb2d934902637dd59c6dd586
c62b28bc60915863e1bbad3e064c4269e9c392d8
'2012-05-18T11:56:59-04:00'
describe
'5431' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWE' 'sip-files00016.pro'
0a82fddfe63851008eb4e5dce1d362f2
7c924e8eeb507725d32f77ee993d99225d8f7a2b
describe
'2365' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWF' 'sip-files00052.txt'
be5ed927008f9bf0cd19daf5daa4b99a
8f540beb05bec3de6f8124e9662b5c2df7485853
'2012-05-18T11:53:41-04:00'
describe
'55444' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWG' 'sip-files00065thm.jpg'
e7aad24ecb58541518e0953c2b4acc1c
58e5fae5abc263e12fd2a0fb2be7dcba7c93b22d
describe
'468588' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWH' 'sip-files00064.jpg'
6588fce08b0ea1ac09df7b1f8db15e53
b200a2ac7b6498327373f27dce1f971536071f86
'2012-05-18T11:57:17-04:00'
describe
'32801' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWI' 'sip-files00063.pro'
79347c345089a41d85955aa9726ad959
b248296efc3a86cd9f35b20ca64a8c0e5a9703a8
describe
'34694' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWJ' 'sip-files00041.pro'
87278e80e5628cac5ec991e19dc0952e
6a939e49bc035b86386e0853c5ac0650a43679b2
describe
'56734' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWK' 'sip-files00040thm.jpg'
88a887a55549be83f21c802d49249136
7c3e9b7e497e2e81d5ef5d35da3bffcffc316c43
'2012-05-18T11:57:11-04:00'
describe
'4098420' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWL' 'sip-files00065.tif'
9b7a85ea7aea4a5e97b27531cd497eaf
6dcaefba3f00be5794744da00ed725c811d80b38
'2012-05-18T11:56:20-04:00'
describe
'2529' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWM' 'sip-files00061.txt'
9389ba764544cabfd361dda47b6b1997
a4ba73bbeda17a382f108c5c1cca4916b1196294
describe
'151703' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWN' 'sip-files00026.QC.jpg'
4251e63c8adbccd733a9ab6590ce4815
a6e2b8201ef20865d32d9e0f8605b5242d1ebc51
'2012-05-18T11:55:44-04:00'
describe
'496213' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWO' 'sip-files00065.jpg'
15575fbb4619ce138a3b0c47542e9e82
18ae39b26b51f03d15f693f4e04c0594ae12157c
'2012-05-18T11:54:44-04:00'
describe
'53440' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWP' 'sip-files00035thm.jpg'
f28e2893f480a5049d0cab15e9ce6146
45b98cc2bab765ca21ce77a9a0992fb8cae208f3
'2012-05-18T11:55:14-04:00'
describe
'2299' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWQ' 'sip-files00012.txt'
efa98e59676db09825dfe9911e379901
4b9c4107295f9e36325bdeac4a1d8197319587f9
'2012-05-18T11:55:46-04:00'
describe
'2219' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWR' 'sip-files00063.txt'
d810b539b2b0e93dd3018fb719e2b2a9
5c36ef6eb3fcd6dd354e9750c615e4f76a767835
describe
Invalid character
'3609' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWS' 'sip-files00065.txt'
9bcf44085f318775a17725ab2f128ca5
d6574a06369c7e6a4c5c0438d870790bbd0022d9
'2012-05-18T11:57:01-04:00'
describe
'55590' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWT' 'sip-files00049thm.jpg'
f69e7e34be97eca9e3da4ebf5b2601df
83bd69c989bcede79f05750194187ee0593d5f6e
'2012-05-18T11:56:52-04:00'
describe
'453959' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWU' 'sip-files00016.jpg'
af224aee4ac7432abdfe3a45c888e9bf
7e533800717b7e18c1a848ca56060a8410f99c40
describe
'62088' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWV' 'sip-files00046.pro'
008720077aa7138868f85e86c17ea149
03abfbb1dbe2978912543bd27a3fc008db4eba2a
'2012-05-18T11:54:10-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWW' 'sip-files00040.jp2'
0c0e53b4fdb882725324b717f5c64dea
5d76cb6e0ad5fccf608ec97ae9e9de52da759e15
describe
'2754' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWX' 'sip-files00028.txt'
6260959cb5dad45bce23559c0e05ae04
dd2341456d916d7071a807a182b42303b704f2a6
describe
'2395' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWY' 'sip-files00074.txt'
40d542c721937de6ca8805c22c31f0b2
b82760484fdb0fca2ab6520c279543c696e8166b
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWWZ' 'sip-files00060.jp2'
fdfc05c54d79539ab8c76f406b18f6be
0d2202e59bae744060397ba6e68ca51fd72add4f
'2012-05-18T11:58:26-04:00'
describe
'514617' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXA' 'sip-files00025.jp2'
7b07981a8ea5d6c61f0407eacb972209
f67fb9c17afdc64cbf6769f9585ba60060a0d5e8
describe
'124761' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXB' 'sip-files00008.QC.jpg'
ee3ccdcaa0ae5ad87d6427e801cfcaff
80a798b0b5756bba2116852cd861bb7aa94a2ecc
'2012-05-18T11:58:24-04:00'
describe
'509500' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXC' 'sip-files00036.jp2'
de4ab1bee1115db3a2b0e2bcb97397f5
b74520a4ad42886226f535968542145bf566aa38
'2012-05-18T11:57:08-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXD' 'sip-files00076.jp2'
94d4e51e0c46832f35e2ee06566bfb31
5b9d35f78b81135346bd02f6157feacce804f190
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXE' 'sip-files00003.jp2'
e688bee16ec8a9142dab8f13a7a9907a
c755d7dce814b7430ac3f1193b243cc0a8dc9be5
describe
'150062' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXF' 'sip-files00066.QC.jpg'
f9f7da4eb277cede50a00070b015222f
f979e76e69d68f70c824010a36ed5505179ce307
'2012-05-18T11:53:51-04:00'
describe
'83801' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXG' 'sip-files00067.pro'
5193997c1735f8c1c1e4dfb3aede9f56
688fae2d1d3cd3e0d190c1a2a5f306c5184f387a
describe
'4145664' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXH' 'sip-files00024.tif'
1b5843a77872a9a593446331a953b803
d629e5605d10bc4ee8f6bc1e29f9c154e2199454
'2012-05-18T11:56:27-04:00'
describe
'53945' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXI' 'sip-files00043thm.jpg'
0f7697647f2a86a72bcb9d9410b6968f
fceb1bb955a00837f1b7e04a1d855678dc7bf08f
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXJ' 'sip-files00070.jp2'
096eb7ce33036603ba65852e65e14ffb
280c2df32a1167bbc39480e158b2c3d30244b3b2
describe
'490443' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXK' 'sip-files00058.jpg'
8b5f4fa65c39f2d4110dd0bdd58e0905
b3692a4c0461ea32bafe6422a16b39fe69690168
describe
'146251' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXL' 'sip-files00015.QC.jpg'
dc63530adf85370a6dd3beb687371bc8
84e22c2b559805436eac7e0b49d588e9b60eddc9
'2012-05-18T11:54:49-04:00'
describe
'13569840' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXM' 'sip-files00001.tif'
c821174f38b367e03de62b926ba5562b
875dc12fbba8e56de83f78d5c74ea66ea75b7988
describe
'453145' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXN' 'sip-files00014.jpg'
5c137825d923756763e64d1f35ebda5b
5c239e215db75d02d324daf8132cfa8a8abd4260
describe
'51274' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXO' 'sip-files00012thm.jpg'
ce0f36b2a6d53bb10fbc4240939adc5d
f7e4f2db8251a7a41f2c47b537ed2d39035b4158
describe
'539842' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXP' 'sip-files00017.jp2'
4680ddc1a9fab3b841a1b89b052e6a4a
ca95fe11eb49ee248b47ab65e4225b0772082e42
describe
'4093408' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXQ' 'sip-files00013.tif'
97d6bae9ba263ebcb02b7f2055a8c902
f861c13e587c1bab738eb17d1eac6e15160330ce
'2012-05-18T11:56:09-04:00'
describe
'9735' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXR' 'sip-files00006.pro'
e1662034197280d20c09fffd16e7edaf
91b82c52ed326ac88c5e529e582a58b8147c1d26
'2012-05-18T11:58:34-04:00'
describe
'49689' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXS' 'sip-files00077thm.jpg'
98ee69f1afeabcff0c2a54f27ecbc4c8
46733bdb19a47d02452abbd3d787953592545795
describe
'509451' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXT' 'sip-files00083.jp2'
0e96c504e3d4e987a672c8a16b6602e3
a145a011743f6b8063dbe1c6f0959f3f1a77aab7
describe
'131018' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXU' 'sip-files00072.QC.jpg'
8969c4678872ce4e8a2e3bb13cce7e2f
b8db6171257f039dd863933e2918fbd64fd50cd8
describe
'525154' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXV' 'sip-files00006.jp2'
c0111d68b8248d412627e4c835e3541f
b19dd70d3082b3614fb6c84f2055c9a603c4c80b
describe
'52913' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXW' 'sip-files00011thm.jpg'
c071c0721e4fe6c26c6a9913b6b0c6b3
dae2ae8039b13ddec19fe10ce366482300666ece
describe
'4222676' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXX' 'sip-files00006.tif'
c2f02751b0d82485e555db2e41451b69
499e90c3a393c52fa2ba4878fb7bb3dc8738ffac
describe
'156200' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXY' 'sip-files00032.QC.jpg'
8a4cd35b55cec712a5a94fae26622acb
b1bed5d6fc3676f15c24faadd9d73e186bbc4eb4
'2012-05-18T11:54:55-04:00'
describe
'59498' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWXZ' 'sip-files00026.pro'
1a6fe168c578a25a02e78935617e3bc2
a9e4833fa8cb45b9371a873055b1e60a8847be3b
'2012-05-18T11:57:03-04:00'
describe
'48476' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYA' 'sip-files00044.pro'
1ff757b60d87bb6ab143115a106f99f4
a9a396d1e22db48c8105161d9159ee21a535bffe
'2012-05-18T11:58:00-04:00'
describe
'116961' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYB' 'sip-files00023.QC.jpg'
61cd3813afb7444376e858379634101f
9b9923599fb09a7fabcce53f8db9715171d79bee
'2012-05-18T11:53:43-04:00'
describe
'404854' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYC' 'sip-files00059.jpg'
c5dea1cea22ba98ae9d2e5a21232fff8
7762489d0f64d2512bfb81ad95d039d1551121d6
'2012-05-18T11:53:59-04:00'
describe
'443618' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYD' 'sip-files00075.jpg'
b80cb3cbe9bbd80cc1943c8315c9a113
741aefeb2f4d9407ca43705f8a5ab4f37bb2d973
'2012-05-18T11:55:05-04:00'
describe
'509487' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYE' 'sip-files00059.jp2'
4d2b157b6a02f071b24ca129eaac3cb4
62f6edd87ea7a9857617076379c4f6bc793b4384
describe
'59118' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYF' 'sip-files00010.pro'
8f42470e7f434439bbf8b94217984e4c
40c40e7fcf3cb59b8aa8ff622d5b8ed7032eb6a0
'2012-05-18T11:56:40-04:00'
describe
'520809' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYG' 'sip-files00030.jp2'
76b25c5862286562599e01a9f9bd0cab
5418839b6f811059f0104abd65f8444361e7eb13
describe
'139224' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYH' 'sip-files00045.QC.jpg'
9ab53f83539b010d0acb573ec82a7e4e
bdafdb6e7a29fd09683ace0e57a3eac7a75d685f
describe
'155271' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYI' 'sip-files00084.QC.jpg'
a2c4872a5dc9dd33b0522685354ea394
73fd6594d612dd689c168e4779f735aaf380febc
'2012-05-18T11:55:59-04:00'
describe
'152066' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYJ' 'sip-files00005.QC.jpg'
f10fda1f45ea4f1e98b348234dc4f8f9
65ea71c250c8b96338f0a11ce13efb181f54f5c7
describe
'485' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYK' 'sip-files00016.txt'
e5c21e437e63ed8dff5748dd7ff05377
b431f779ef6c3df2442e1735ab219dc532129577
describe
Invalid character
'4184096' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYL' 'sip-files00009.tif'
9905fab53c0408a4923c012fcae67981
96bdebd89a3192866aa088144d1b338875dccb17
'2012-05-18T11:57:57-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYM' 'sip-files00073.jp2'
d71d838b43e564f94fd018106c54b32e
742e0898ac502e45adeb426da576139744bf09a8
'2012-05-18T11:57:42-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYN' 'sip-files00054thm.jpg'
df8369cf192e40389d5033d1323cdc5d
27a9dc80b0de3097a235e15b0b62d5ea2203471a
describe
'65172' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYO' 'sip-files00033.pro'
1c86476b9b095d3a8a37a84d488e0eb1
9c13200b7e5d69304754a45d0551bdc139ca8a7c
'2012-05-18T11:57:21-04:00'
describe
'400478' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYP' 'sip-files00077.jpg'
1194ac4f9922957e2e5220aafbe9cd84
29264087f1844cbceee8cd445b6b09e322a73a9c
describe
'150366' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYQ' 'sip-files00022.QC.jpg'
6feaa5fd113cf657d946b2ffa3f24cc5
12acd057c6cac735d7be72572be90e39604dfae6
'2012-05-18T11:56:48-04:00'
describe
'469099' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYR' 'sip-files00047.jpg'
88999ae5b1d7f5b834543e2e6adfb72f
fbbfbba3ba1de12330752f26fd22509d54333e13
describe
'4097872' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYS' 'sip-files00035.tif'
0d41deb84630e371e05f27a2907118c2
e8694b9bab8968caee9b89f737b78e5fc2d42cad
'2012-05-18T11:53:36-04:00'
describe
'2507' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYT' 'sip-files00026.txt'
7eea804a39c84735d389c14c40b3e4fe
1ca5c141c19f8008f60d81257f981e749cfb3150
describe
'45316' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYU' 'sip-files00002thm.jpg'
b6bb3abc1b6ebe888f35b4de95491cf7
a78a13d3792236c367141d8d3c3ae02d2ec83ecb
'2012-05-18T11:57:12-04:00'
describe
'148452' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYV' 'sip-files00074.QC.jpg'
4ff2fa559ea13235df79c032a61dcf7e
5277bec08eb1cdc3e99b061cb6de876337f13edc
describe
'52108' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYW' 'sip-files00056thm.jpg'
484e73e888a5c901ff15e898156b4cbc
d19eab7861b736835cd01666be6b97d0351040e9
'2012-05-18T11:56:32-04:00'
describe
'135730' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYX' 'sip-files00050.QC.jpg'
3c34095472593063e233357966259bcc
3e431e5eb80800122391bb7bb13f3def75460565
describe
'252582' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYY' 'sip-files00004.jpg'
515e1a0044e9aaaadc86bbbd405c19f6
997efe3d1b14e37f5cb8b3e7081aed44cbc43613
'2012-05-18T11:55:20-04:00'
describe
'536794' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWYZ' 'sip-files00004.jp2'
bab3076f9c20ae85669816daec95713e
6615da3e9cdb8e20450ae48f9dac1266899218ef
'2012-05-18T11:57:32-04:00'
describe
'504958' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZA' 'sip-files00011.jp2'
84af9ade9a77b29cae3db538006c4f6c
f7fdebed4ef4bc9a829de0ea8e7bfff18db462d7
describe
'156623' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZB' 'sip-files00042.QC.jpg'
602a01dfcf8d93fa4a1d86d7a94d5980
835925c0d226a7a2eee5177a67612e86bc8f9df4
'2012-05-18T11:55:09-04:00'
describe
'55140' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZC' 'sip-files00028thm.jpg'
11ec0fc2e5497fd5087d75e6999039e3
d08d7a17550c9dc7012b2fdfd126a35cfb9713cb
describe
'4094180' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZD' 'sip-files00003.tif'
a5b4e0fc63081540cb72289e3d67e306
96cdbeb2bcc324a9f747d049a8e6104281625c76
describe
'152582' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZE' 'sip-files00029.QC.jpg'
689ce40add864b76a82bf5025a331352
b81be1282ef8b49e7a3d898fc60e6832c296a71d
'2012-05-18T11:57:43-04:00'
describe
'4115792' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZF' 'sip-files00015.tif'
0ee176cbfcab996631b2c950fd5516e9
563650d85fe84c05459374abfad30a7123955dbc
'2012-05-18T11:57:22-04:00'
describe
'54711' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZG' 'sip-files00073thm.jpg'
7b5b55eab20ce4ec3bb4cd8db5ea4648
be9f513a4160b09ed115147b17455494067870f0
'2012-05-18T11:58:35-04:00'
describe
'52338' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZH' 'sip-files00053thm.jpg'
828b447be581d65559794ecd9d84233e
6dfa865c622855da9b2412f0725be9387393b777
describe
'34566' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZI' 'sip-files00050.pro'
6b267e60a47b48c187e292b1b6676115
c18f2e24efda6913512c2986c9104bb3cd3b6c5b
describe
'52294' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZJ' 'sip-files00070thm.jpg'
9029b35e82b22b97fc285758982ec6e9
7a4942a1c4b9ae485160a2b451cbee7949b47d25
describe
'2280' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZK' 'sip-files00041.txt'
67ec99d37bddc9dfad2702e138ee5407
acc8d785e81ba2a4c6b8b1868be331aa8d37a6b7
describe
'476' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZL' 'sip-files00087.pro'
0e9c4498a85ad841531c2985f2e56441
2c28aae5a538f96656d12c774302dc941effbacd
'2012-05-18T11:55:08-04:00'
describe
'391575' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZM' 'sip-files00063.jpg'
04a9c2fbcc540ac2841778d31c4825ed
48e53b914fecdc9d7741966f699086fc72843651
'2012-05-18T11:54:19-04:00'
describe
'2627' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZN' 'sip-files00022.txt'
6290515e7ed6e4c311452d4f209e2cac
c58d80b81cd47085c6ed784fd1c10ec15da59bbb
'2012-05-18T11:57:13-04:00'
describe
'2834' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZO' 'sip-files00036.txt'
6a208e2a68d359374b266cf610d8cb2e
d630a142249e25abf74adf2146d400cb1f914f00
describe
'55123' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZP' 'sip-files00046thm.jpg'
e3fbcaba2ec942b748b12cb50512e851
dd77f32137bba4e24c1064ed77117cf45fb2c371
'2012-05-18T11:55:18-04:00'
describe
'148130' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZQ' 'sip-files00054.QC.jpg'
a8e1e42562db273dca1a6e5c72262262
d62ba07870ae14800af7babbce1f7cf95dd80f56
describe
'55761' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZR' 'sip-files00034thm.jpg'
5073a85c085ac23e750edbd5a83c2f20
d3e6dd10a94d2294c4f89a8dc45aa874eeb92c07
describe
'478714' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZS' 'sip-files00032.jpg'
48ac4ef737916fa654be530c7ed3177d
336684356896104eb4eb757378771f59a243f3b4
describe
'34954' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZT' 'sip-files00023.pro'
84188dac39a159e2e03f0a57766077e9
b81b076149b8c40fd813f5e6ae20b2423200a90d
'2012-05-18T11:57:51-04:00'
describe
'4098604' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZU' 'sip-files00083.tif'
3bba0d7b58abb149a8005cfea5efa790
e5ce5b08f20a2ec4a41c4b2756fce1c8b70ca368
'2012-05-18T11:57:29-04:00'
describe
'150768' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZV' 'sip-files00013.QC.jpg'
c7215978f7218ceeaa6b1324232f3e4d
a48451366b7c6baf61f030c76e9c348f96e39918
describe
'139998' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZW' 'sip-files00044.QC.jpg'
408185de64aefa9c2d51d56b9c948848
2cb3897e4527fda4fd87b7db8fd48fc5fd83abc4
describe
'2067' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZX' 'sip-files00044.txt'
ce94ffb6451b73d955a2a6ce82ffdeb9
2cfa3a6c2119f6b6a9c93597e366e34e36abd580
describe
'2588' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZY' 'sip-files00083.txt'
f78da375a6d51b1833bec00550aade6b
b60d49f1c1fe5dae067d59c15deee7e158484b2e
describe
'48712' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABWZZ' 'sip-files00024thm.jpg'
d0e705fe6e79ff8957b20e8d8771b5e6
e8b8f04bd9d7493623474a5dbc22aa89427b13ba
describe
'2275' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAA' 'sip-files00045.txt'
3513a6fc16a083c9ef6e714453ed0937
92b4cc326fe9a4fbf3632eaaa1b4a483f08cde18
'2012-05-18T11:58:06-04:00'
describe
'121720' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAB' 'sip-files00002.QC.jpg'
30fecee2b4876b98fafc4507334bddf1
8e9f0267bd9f8d546b1015df12b6dd9ff55cc3c7
describe
'567673' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAC' 'sip-files00087.jp2'
ff409884f89b9d7ac1e4d6fc1ceb38f6
f63f14065e390d98776fe609081039fd12916c50
describe
'2552' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAD' 'sip-files00027.txt'
0d724431cd51148538add610cd5c9b89
2a99709ea169f6eb86af8ea80fd72ec9fb519e44
describe
'2523' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAE' 'sip-files00038.txt'
2558e85c0f663abe576d80121f07b327
a787c381c0f0b90a630dc3e77bcda55f27ca2288
'2012-05-18T11:53:47-04:00'
describe
'1319' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAF' 'sip-files00002.pro'
90c46ef5e838babd1c54a0d4fa327b86
c7e71abcab2abd162141b59d5cc196bc104d571d
describe
'154923' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAG' 'sip-files00027.QC.jpg'
3f2dee9becebf9f63df79b0c593548fb
4d9aeb040b086b0ad54ee4e88a39edf688afbad0
describe
'921' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAH' 'sip-files00004.pro'
405c680001af3e680632bfdef04bde89
9ebc5bc5fed1af9736cb21c080f8ab59da86e64c
describe
'2483' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAI' 'sip-files00010.txt'
c20157cc0e1397d3e309f435a1b5b7b8
62166a467d7fdf5946c2088d63702b6c801c5185
describe
'52813' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAJ' 'sip-files00010thm.jpg'
c7ac831a063d89b36c7d93c6ddebd3fd
4f21077a1732757b00773bb15dea5a767f2b244f
'2012-05-18T11:55:57-04:00'
describe
'64237' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAK' 'sip-files00048.pro'
cb32105a9f8958b45a92dc9d5f90f777
7fa32f9fe83abb185c7a8256a14b76c3e1d7becf
'2012-05-18T11:54:42-04:00'
describe
'377065' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAL' 'sip-files00031.jpg'
e3800016ff459d18b859f245b3ecdedc
2e55acee7d3b07e77c2b991dcbc6c47ff5d868f6
'2012-05-18T11:55:50-04:00'
describe
'154281' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAM' 'sip-files00065.QC.jpg'
7a1014c474b0ba4935ec7c8c477c86c8
02e81c3e209232f796b2c09389aebed2ab4517cb
'2012-05-18T11:53:38-04:00'
describe
'4098144' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAN' 'sip-files00034.tif'
624021ba557a64c0979cd76038bcd06b
0cc7d58c4c68eff2098cbbb7ed517bd546fea277
describe
'439676' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAO' 'sip-files00037.jpg'
823f38df9ef1d0e2264b69062edeff7e
c084af78ca088e383c24dd4ba14ecdf4cbbfd091
'2012-05-18T11:55:51-04:00'
describe
'35510' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAP' 'sip-files00072.pro'
063e17689434fd8128e8aab38c045a43
647992536d13d032e8e6e7210bb5b4b92834f61c
'2012-05-18T11:55:12-04:00'
describe
'4097984' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAQ' 'sip-files00074.tif'
a76d51b3cf5f14acbef0bb2e1c4b8e40
aebbfef7e62d0c038560799dc99d6bafb115a8b5
describe
'4165308' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAR' 'sip-files00029.tif'
f1b974cf11a3d91ca8479c8597592af5
90695485f85774f1c1da593578de921380414bd5
'2012-05-18T11:58:11-04:00'
describe
'13641464' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAS' 'sip-files00087.tif'
27f7c11c319e0c147a0796f0afe6137c
6bfda6e7582097357f8c71978e4fbbbae2da5ef4
describe
'509501' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAT' 'sip-files00034.jp2'
5fded82b0b5d6f092c0c7e2a2183a439
57aab45f17522a03dac2935d79c4f5802f507980
describe
'563942' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAU' 'sip-files00002.jp2'
fa773db7d3d7ebd48b9b8851f416a6a3
c61a9256d1a38c0698c7360f55fd66ac338233fc
describe
'26519' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAV' 'sip-files00078.pro'
f9fc4d7d8140f358b3384f7046fce893
197802261c69ee6966f3a59ff9dd2947a483d3bf
'2012-05-18T11:53:50-04:00'
describe
'149167' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAW' 'sip-files00057.QC.jpg'
a2a53a28ea6ad7308263775cb4a13515
db6fed76630d13241a0ea04ece688b6ab6eb7884
describe
'57770' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAX' 'sip-files00017.pro'
64b7ffabe082918205952726a3c3c127
4bb469cc1940f8bc61e8c5b1e2c2d27d9c838e90
'2012-05-18T11:58:13-04:00'
describe
'4098020' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAY' 'sip-files00043.tif'
b7972f6543168cf3d11800cd3e625574
d758d0ba319421b520bc8ae19da5d43d5f0f4112
'2012-05-18T11:58:14-04:00'
describe
'466274' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXAZ' 'sip-files00049.jpg'
cefa8efc58c17525c88b391dbe43db74
71908c09055442321be341ce6e1e5aaf82c6c138
describe
'3273' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBA' 'sip-files00066.txt'
3aa072ff6c0394e5e3f3a89c75f7aeb1
4fc7f11b7cf109af29b667ef4e2ee81b26bb09f3
describe
'44327' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBB' 'sip-files00056.pro'
48242655c9b715791d400c4285ddf478
185a1390b1988288a0bca3d1fe558a9deb46355d
'2012-05-18T11:54:13-04:00'
describe
'61621' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBC' 'sip-files00042.pro'
183ca7d69761ea0da9c5674da9603479
6139c2ddfef68bed22d7521dbbd0547241e9644c
'2012-05-18T11:58:09-04:00'
describe
'18169' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBD' 'sip-files00007.pro'
c8fb3bf2a2231a811ed50f7a0009e9b3
1613dc2cc61d2fdcc336d62beef3bdc7f2a32b44
describe
'4215192' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBE' 'sip-files00012.tif'
239e8c029a8f55086507108de24cfad6
c2f662f9371a94a7e75a5563f06deb8c642bd5c5
'2012-05-18T11:57:06-04:00'
describe
'142374' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBF' 'sip-files00076.QC.jpg'
db8915d62036c5809c338253b0ea1a45
291b858a935958879620eac5ab603ec3c9b72c12
describe
'66738' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBG' 'sip-files00080.pro'
1f52f2c7636da06b9ce16805873133f4
48c2656c37a05fbc787a61f3dabc54998f1f9c06
describe
'4097848' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBH' 'sip-files00050.tif'
3b43a4bad68772d171ed83410764a400
605fed8b91f299be6bc0ac8ab1998049ff96fb17
describe
'520242' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBI' 'sip-files00009.jp2'
3e8925a423c8637517cce982b3efc83e
97dc1ef662b8c47e24420263e581207b85de8d9a
describe
'153140' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBJ' 'sip-files00049.QC.jpg'
09d8ec4e5d9e12b41e3e70c86f0ed2c5
464a1fbbc620698a105e6087f66d62d445478d35
describe
'153021' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBK' 'sip-files00061.QC.jpg'
c13976334df9abe0005468f6bc6ac7a3
71765ed0e97d067c6fbe6756438275017fe1badc
describe
'2756' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBL' 'sip-files00058.txt'
fc63d1a38c95451bbde81d4162ae5ae9
c60cdeb80e92cb91e4e83fc539bc6379a96971e1
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBM' 'sip-files00057.jp2'
402deca853b8d47eb5923018020c58b8
5128b118ed8f3370f28cba4867420e10b0f52bd2
describe
'845' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBN' 'sip-files00003.pro'
498c8fccc2f2a67ed050aa3ccd5f9be2
7c17186ad96fee7aba3bf77a0b7a046327b6bbe6
describe
'509508' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBO' 'sip-files00050.jp2'
b652c7e4f26b74bee780eb43d4292a34
a6fa34f885348d0959ac4c96e7f8c68ec5022ab6
describe
'535302' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBP' 'sip-files00008.jp2'
b9517608f783a239d70fed3d9ded0916
b9cdfa9b3b61294dfcc21549c4f126bf40f2856e
describe
'397492' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBQ' 'sip-files00024.jpg'
d7d89ea58734a8361642c2507002b022
07fa2bc1df3398fb5425df322a9274c459111841
'2012-05-18T11:56:43-04:00'
describe
'432199' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBR' 'sip-files00018.jpg'
cb91c7e1607c1eb659744071ba17a3c4
41492ea07eb734928a40c367520c7ea19aed43ef
describe
'451410' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBS' 'sip-files00035.jpg'
505b763f3c05b3e3253073e50663482a
c381b709c55ade6e4841af73a88aec41ccdca9ea
'2012-05-18T11:55:47-04:00'
describe
'506765' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBT' 'sip-files00019.jp2'
a7352b1ba6fbb8d994d7808a890fafee
441e4988c18b0be20faa17e590438e13c3297915
'2012-05-18T11:54:36-04:00'
describe
'56338' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBU' 'sip-files00083thm.jpg'
3703fde0f79e95a7d185c5b7fa6deee0
57cb26b39bf1026fd6cab080743d242adb67b036
'2012-05-18T11:55:52-04:00'
describe
'191486' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBV' 'sip-files00001.QC.jpg'
5f2b558b28eb64455b6d5673e3ab9911
b52d8302b2ea53b7c1e4fa012916c8c3af8e4c77
describe
'63698' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBW' 'sip-files00022.pro'
540f95b8c1b05af0fa16cb900ab685a3
8f10a29fd59e1b485ad40998e923c1e238935466
'2012-05-18T11:55:31-04:00'
describe
'509506' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBX' 'sip-files00055.jp2'
7b6cd3daaacf8d3b0a5c60e09488e81e
953aa3f7815a8e1bb13fa481e53fdf3f67b5dbe4
describe
'128557' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBY' 'sip-files00031.QC.jpg'
4a8283fd8234cf90019fd79e79b628c2
b0f59f5c5b49bd7ecf6413db0c87bb51a648d1b6
describe
'4098300' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXBZ' 'sip-files00033.tif'
5c5b4ad01346349615a66dd9a073b516
53e3d606296fc81df210b95cc07354b9a64b87b8
describe
'465049' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCA' 'sip-files00066.jpg'
2a39645c020ff0356eee4eb6b7d9bc19
0e982a53233c3c3caa4fbc19f58a983999b0eba9
describe
'57161' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCB' 'sip-files00069thm.jpg'
3c6fd240a3de0e611aefa16ed6b2213c
9ac3419ef0fa83ea9c016486106a7ad22de8c727
describe
'4098124' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCC' 'sip-files00075.tif'
773b7de68578019d3a9a007a3d52ff58
788a1c08e32454059074ee1621f61860f49bed28
describe
'4097584' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCD' 'sip-files00041.tif'
3755a291d0cc0da1ebf85f958974a3ad
e95633b9dab9f696fd34837a9e51730d4ecc9b5b
describe
'130423' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCE' 'sip-files00063.QC.jpg'
1478b5205cbd3c7bb66b4f281597c2fb
a6e3fcf6ed0f49395d170f66641a6b10faa71607
describe
'37268' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCF' 'sip-files00007thm.jpg'
8d0252f15e3f2a2a2618323e45d26471
12acab0777fd07138d77b30ee21faec598d1efd3
'2012-05-18T11:54:31-04:00'
describe
'43442' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCG' 'sip-files00006thm.jpg'
d2a28ffd1f1ee06dc5bf99647cdc7a70
28a2cc26b23fe2c3a1d71a627a55cb112784f439
describe
'4097544' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCH' 'sip-files00055.tif'
68862d77e150c40cd0a06885bafca184
4c85c34dd083907a5d87ca82c005fd41d3114315
'2012-05-18T11:54:05-04:00'
describe
'60861' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCI' 'sip-files00082.pro'
0611d960527a604f4752cab211cb1a9c
aa869ea3af9aa4d7cdbb0e6af37417eb945577de
'2012-05-18T11:55:29-04:00'
describe
'55671' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCJ' 'sip-files00082thm.jpg'
21a357e67f24a8c4579c59c7e2cb8155
3f637543407775487495b5de92832b48ddefc034
describe
'2818' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCK' 'sip-files00080.txt'
3ffdc9b0096d60956dcff414a3d1a1ef
c2ba7d285657d93ce8de5e605fe194a296f8de6b
describe
'148760' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCL' 'sip-files00080.QC.jpg'
a55ee0f71dc66617f82a15d023e8e0e0
9107a5ddd9a1e3c229d0a85ed19aba3ab3ccf65e
'2012-05-18T11:56:38-04:00'
describe
'161795' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCM' 'sip-files00036.QC.jpg'
ebd31d77bd6b0e37e73a5c4279d7f089
f43a727073590eeba4fa3c96a8a7f20d27824200
describe
'56847' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCN' 'sip-files00039thm.jpg'
0c04fe0154b6b30d114e20e1ae2f3691
7ab343b3a59541989132e23ad60889645bb14a24
describe
'59399' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCO' 'sip-files00073.pro'
b856fe39082b584cb0585844e1cd07ee
4aef7378e9a6693e52532e923efa97aea2035919
describe
'32054' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCP' 'sip-files00060.pro'
7ecf0150984c3c4f00eccf9787e98d4a
08f920aa42b7bdcf983652470292e9c25bc827d4
describe
'55691' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCQ' 'sip-files00009thm.jpg'
85f095a53dda49a07d258c232cebef3e
288918d704a6069c469e7108ed93bfd4ef7667ec
describe
'73923' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCR' 'sip-files00068.pro'
865d8e7731cdfc87e74e993cfefa4c0a
2d342ac370c09293029d951be6a56a859f8f9cfb
describe
'4098000' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCS' 'sip-files00044.tif'
9dcdf2667c8baa76560983eb62e938ee
643c861c3f2ca0ea961a41713e8442a553e9ce09
describe
'4098432' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCT' 'sip-files00084.tif'
e22f1e28bbde275063c3e40b847a2485
ee89a3326fc8559b023ba2052396a4c65949d6c7
'2012-05-18T11:56:17-04:00'
describe
'486348' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCU' 'sip-files00079.jpg'
c6817d0016849b5e89a97cf29daf876b
5d9621fe2b403e274fa1e7abf3820aa86ac616bd
describe
'424910' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCV' 'sip-files00012.jpg'
037185dfdd747d220d2990945f87d2d2
5bf9e4a5c05ea8092d80883108c7a136640f795c
'2012-05-18T11:57:07-04:00'
describe
'4340564' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCW' 'sip-files00017.tif'
afa6e598795de11984dbc74845cf68a9
e39e0aa862c33927b6e026e0427f72a3c273389c
'2012-05-18T11:56:13-04:00'
describe
'2590' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCX' 'sip-files00046.txt'
95abcb051e884f26c7227dead9fb7ed8
ea8bf23f60d3210593c87cbd08fe1e72f580e4c5
describe
'4066608' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCY' 'sip-files00016.tif'
59a973e7c3e6b128d8e1af87c165bdff
e1852dbd8e4182a07240a6ecd66a62fe53d94c2f
describe
'126' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXCZ' 'sip-files00001.txt'
c5d9cea74a39b3378b3119bcc2079a29
009c221a6e3c7f7e82794632367fa64f71b01243
'2012-05-18T11:56:55-04:00'
describe
Invalid character
'154261' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDA' 'sip-files00047.QC.jpg'
63f1834df80d93ce326a90363febf33d
73f0fda817c401f035121b68c3f8f55219ee9773
'2012-05-18T11:55:30-04:00'
describe
'62854' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDB' 'sip-files00051.pro'
ced52cb0e1a3f04c653179e76c02083e
ef3c37212f9570b5a30cedff1822e7102356e076
describe
'480356' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDC' 'sip-files00048.jpg'
a475eee762a5d1d2b364d19218793f58
7ed12d9b301398e6a853704669be78b24859daac
describe
'2511' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDD' 'sip-files00047.txt'
cb2248f9c519fee9b02bd1f1f171edf4
55f2dc835024d61578743a8b8adbddc2742b3bdb
'2012-05-18T11:54:06-04:00'
describe
'509489' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDE' 'sip-files00066.jp2'
2b067cd8a911c2c27503d6ecff86c9d8
d930dc12897a004f01c6f6f559e8697ce65ef0af
describe
'2442' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDF' 'sip-files00035.txt'
914aa078611d4c5b8611a5a36bcb2157
e0512c37674b8c8243587a825609e73abc4ff18e
describe
'137164' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDG' 'sip-filesUF00054267_00001.xml'
a97cb8a51dcdab6eef176ec9ff8bcb21
0c63da4798d94cd301eab473141973993f97e381
describe
TargetNamespace.1: Expecting namespace 'http://www.uflib.ufl.edu/digital/metadata/ufdc2/', but the target namespace of the schema document is 'http://digital.uflib.ufl.edu/metadata/ufdc2/'.
'2013-12-10T15:35:01-05:00' 'mixed'
xml resolution
http://www.uflib.ufl.edu/digital/metadata/ufdc2/ufdc2.xsd
BROKEN_LINK http://www.uflib.ufl.edu/digital/metadata/ufdc2/ufdc2.xsd
The element type "div" must be terminated by the matching end-tag "
".
TargetNamespace.1: Expecting namespace 'http://www.uflib.ufl.edu/digital/metadata/ufdc2/', but the target namespace of the schema document is 'http://digital.uflib.ufl.edu/metadata/ufdc2/'.
'616802' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDJ' 'sip-files00001.jpg'
1d8294ae7a5a3d9617051b933d73c76e
f98b67ddec1467d92eaed6b5f3bb1a547c736fb8
describe
'259960' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDK' 'sip-files00003.jpg'
94681b85ce08764785de8caf70b9677d
d2a75836dd4dad6e77642b2a12d9d303d26201fd
describe
'444579' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDL' 'sip-files00009.jpg'
51faa4b2ced1ba331ff2ffa3f6190050
140637c43ffc537fff24284bf9c8be06815ffa66
'2012-05-18T11:53:42-04:00'
describe
'450234' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDM' 'sip-files00010.jpg'
ac0e07d28c5117f55f3c3e7b5197e84b
03b36c05fa608f28eec9671cf577976255b49fef
describe
'426890' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDN' 'sip-files00017.jpg'
fe26fe91bd46d1273fd91eee9dad68e3
d69b26b8206bfd6bd4ab3fe8a9d8e482a814210f
describe
'462944' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDO' 'sip-files00020.jpg'
4e7315f98181139bd778c745719512ac
edd246cdd3587c68c2a4bb9b9bb235c4bfe4e4bb
describe
'462007' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDP' 'sip-files00022.jpg'
2f0affc4902fc1ead7328aa50db7b6f5
1ccbeab9912e3624f400f648a19cec91c5edf64d
describe
'468017' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDQ' 'sip-files00038.jpg'
197911c3ce0fcf48608b39b9a8da6f0f
a8fbc4de8b7b9f69eeef9074f247c87d06202fde
describe
'427298' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDR' 'sip-files00045.jpg'
40c6abcd5704c3e9ded28acccd415de5
948120295ba92d5ddfc641073e919391343b0f81
describe
'475332' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDS' 'sip-files00046.jpg'
7c163509050aa7f5185de275b88d7ffc
3d5f4caed4ac83092073e8e17cdd71c6605f4d07
describe
'406100' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDT' 'sip-files00050.jpg'
c25d4cfe3a0a6e3f3dde5c39909c32d7
0617ef110b87036760e8360911131001e2abec51
describe
'480030' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDU' 'sip-files00051.jpg'
2d3736b3ac60ed7aec57293687b92bd6
65e852f8502a78b2b6757ead77d934af1aa40cfd
describe
'449977' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDV' 'sip-files00052.jpg'
1ebc50201fd5a1aa47824fbb1eb3f9e1
05cb16acce037d62bf723d593c8e380294341504
describe
'433112' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDW' 'sip-files00053.jpg'
c807c398f0268149e4d0741518bd5078
59ff7a82c46eedc1af18d43b14c90613d9b4b610
describe
'439593' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDX' 'sip-files00054.jpg'
091e47083ba204e3931249be6387ed03
41a8e5fec071e9e42f2c7e21e1a807067f033976
describe
'454719' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDY' 'sip-files00057.jpg'
e20f927394cf6feebc68ccbef01e0548
6c0099f644deb5f7b4885188ce684c85e3ab2fc3
'2012-05-18T11:56:19-04:00'
describe
'491482' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXDZ' 'sip-files00067.jpg'
46595c4b067120920b7b79001b2e9c61
03c7727ce11a8465a37228e959097a4ba09caf0d
describe
'426607' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEA' 'sip-files00070.jpg'
29a3ac191dc666e8d9c6ec20721d1e57
0e2e6d7cca9d652eb05167df242a1892b6924655
describe
'398925' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEB' 'sip-files00072.jpg'
2a1a7f6696bb6e7804122b698dc2072f
5d5fcdb9c822f0ea3d1595d8adeab967f2dcbf54
describe
'449919' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEC' 'sip-files00074.jpg'
43122aa5720a8ed50a9102964996e5c4
307bfd1d2f7de897fb0010a15b9fad5c5b548b4c
'2012-05-18T11:56:00-04:00'
describe
'479743' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXED' 'sip-files00083.jpg'
5a744befd0b71ebc29dda508fdcf370e
33c2a76611a35bd27622f41d792cbcc04c8a8d41
describe
'398532' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEE' 'sip-files00087.jpg'
b20c000dfddb25796e3f4f99f62606f2
bef9aa1d8884bab98635d4c200d5aa99d6f0af48
describe
'649724' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEF' 'sip-files00088.jpg'
96832ed574139a6797361873f4a83d7f
777d0ee1a946ec9206ac8412c40c608c83213df5
describe
'533548' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEG' 'sip-files00007.jp2'
79f1d5598cfdddb329e83f2763107733
c3ac00bb8529424e14ac8ce5c1436da8548c3a25
describe
'524102' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEH' 'sip-files00012.jp2'
2fdc1c68527da7e9bfb5dff1e31869fa
2aa28bec693ffb9faf1c4e1e84055a2a7a4d259f
describe
'511764' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEI' 'sip-files00015.jp2'
015f4f0569473aceb0165270f8c43439
aa03d8eb65ea590dd57bb0355e92d6c7b23aafb9
'2012-05-18T11:58:25-04:00'
describe
'505445' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEJ' 'sip-files00016.jp2'
84211670460e64f2c47906e1738b5044
6e3f10ff2a56284f792cb5e4a0fcab55e7f9fe09
describe
'509934' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEK' 'sip-files00018.jp2'
2a3daf92bcc43e384b5ef296350bb6a7
5b189fd3d342bf4d686a6c68ef33212f69e8121a
describe
'512172' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEL' 'sip-files00027.jp2'
076bffe6853391aed5e0d376cc6e2668
9e0dcf0b5ec77dde3e2c0c8e44698a8170eb79a1
describe
'522368' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEM' 'sip-files00031.jp2'
5bf1d6ae1ad72d208bacad191c7a8482
4e8cc58e3cb4bfbea98217d0f857cff9ccc32b26
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEN' 'sip-files00033.jp2'
16b1a6e3972a692b43ad4cb0b0435848
727cd1901cb8f88041a7dfa887b32ae1b9c111e2
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEO' 'sip-files00037.jp2'
f66a44f83fac8b84ff66f8f7c94dab03
77c0aea7690a75353f43ebbdab421cf8b0574785
describe
'509267' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEP' 'sip-files00041.jp2'
3f6dd8afcfdd8ae494f77cea218b010c
af10d654598592a31d0b48a67a9198178c8d92b4
describe
'509495' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEQ' 'sip-files00043.jp2'
21cd6ab02a559888c1623ff67f17c161
1c9343c59bbb8d76e93cec4be2ae6063c5201e00
describe
'509504' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXER' 'sip-files00048.jp2'
1bf82cd0844f2de39cf0ebab63c63275
8197979fced3ddf6596db26b16a3c83ff284c95e
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXES' 'sip-files00052.jp2'
8cb09e5bf4416726f4454cdec11eb0d5
935c684f157de775de7515798819b2403b740ace
describe
'509446' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXET' 'sip-files00061.jp2'
eb992c463b58c31eebed037ecee60b02
1439832e5c57721cd160462ec39f71a487a4fd7f
'2012-05-18T11:55:23-04:00'
describe
'509441' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEU' 'sip-files00065.jp2'
55895103250258efe8cd8a0c24805f62
e0bc7c5c8f417ca83641dfa1e846a1f02cb5ac5c
'2012-05-18T11:54:39-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEV' 'sip-files00069.jp2'
37d9f33e4c307785fe8b16df13671f3d
8639564c88d89d41a92d60677ddca7c6394b4f83
'2012-05-18T11:54:20-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEW' 'sip-files00071.jp2'
ede3571351d2f18cdabd89f6f7416cec
ca0257b0f98929e0398e9372be46202feb3dd4a0
describe
'509482' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEX' 'sip-files00082.jp2'
e45c951588d226d9fa41e65723cc42c3
0570963761b0ebdae53c7e4d475ed1d2dec39d2c
describe
'509478' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEY' 'sip-files00084.jp2'
8f67e76c7242a3eea1d73b1a9777d2a9
1522d13bc924de636f604cc06d894ac721e9c3b7
'2012-05-18T11:56:49-04:00'
describe
'509261' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXEZ' 'sip-files00085.jp2'
702fcdf02860f63c2edbb3dcbfe886b0
7e0b351ff8e5cbdf5e3e4d37911a78748bac5961
describe
'4288008' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFA' 'sip-files00007.tif'
362062f535b61e5d5f72c362ece2f21e
b670afc578ab8d055670cddffc1332c78a01a7d4
'2012-05-18T11:56:18-04:00'
describe
'4075260' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFB' 'sip-files00019.tif'
f57ce5f4899772866a04540945967143
ee9d28d305e9beecefd8aa8e13ed0b806a0e7d48
describe
'4109132' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFC' 'sip-files00021.tif'
d80f57322cec814a7d6ce471079e4f67
4164524b4fbc1b8aa372f6b1298c77c264f0c403
describe
'4199028' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFD' 'sip-files00022.tif'
ceeb671c167bdcac80589b0cfe37ff16
6f0b2199170c56c2a0f131756d146146352d9fb5
describe
'4139068' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFE' 'sip-files00025.tif'
43fd71aaac1d127861a0f3467b000dfc
122175f30ca6dfa5705b06a0be78c46064cb9043
describe
'4098100' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFF' 'sip-files00032.tif'
c12df948f8b091694e9cce337482b5b2
28eb32db0255b4d49c4fc2f5b9ed3ad560cea067
'2012-05-18T11:58:12-04:00'
describe
'4098428' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFG' 'sip-files00036.tif'
fc631b2dd68e1e34ddf78ec7e3122a69
8ad156d441b3f87bf3fe271a7bdfcf9dde0a3a2e
'2012-05-18T11:54:29-04:00'
describe
'4097720' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFH' 'sip-files00045.tif'
4dc8a1efb2afc3377cc8a1af943c64fb
d5df348547d711f339cdb79c3291fa37a4e3d12e
describe
'4098448' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFI' 'sip-files00047.tif'
5e1b420f7071a254a1d1f93bf9a7eb60
ba7384dcc33e690e75ad7f9942849b08d82e3949
'2012-05-18T11:55:48-04:00'
describe
'4098284' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFJ' 'sip-files00048.tif'
5654017edfba349e28dac648a542dc4c
db9c042222db0cfffb302c4ff264a55374021280
describe
'4098424' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFK' 'sip-files00049.tif'
017a0434ca80f7cf4c9f90f4fd240a1e
9505c908e3956660fb8dc5d91c31beb68bdf3ad7
'2012-05-18T11:54:11-04:00'
describe
'4098340' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFL' 'sip-files00051.tif'
dc398cce36bc60de9b8daa2d409ced3c
c4333f8c694222bb7e7e336b2ee1c459165dbefe
describe
'4097968' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFM' 'sip-files00052.tif'
9f18452ec357d7ca88ed1ca0685a60f2
52b90dbfc40e66068c35393a1532212fdd812cb3
'2012-05-18T11:55:15-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFN' 'sip-files00057.tif'
adabc3cc0000667560c066b0360f88ae
0bdfc6dc8907073e5ce1ba550d0e1cdff4273ec6
describe
'4098248' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFO' 'sip-files00058.tif'
294bc80d591451cf0e90ff175190a23e
0cfdb70a24ae17a068e554790f1ae9d37ab612e6
'2012-05-18T11:57:27-04:00'
describe
'4097828' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFP' 'sip-files00060.tif'
c6f16eb20630a15ef999eee6662fca88
edce55721e78f25a05657c04ad191b7be8d20a14
describe
'4098088' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFQ' 'sip-files00062.tif'
8e4ebce6acba8d1c5aa026696316bd80
af17815f6dac86320ddcf504cf28377da7eaac65
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFR' 'sip-files00066.tif'
5b70f211d58159b4ff66324eaab03443
3ec577e1825c168bbc06e13286a46dc6e9bc275f
describe
'4098564' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFS' 'sip-files00069.tif'
68c09d5724ef6c150f053c5f766e0302
7d0ed6f4523bc82d502fb1155a9b835197ac4251
'2012-05-18T11:54:46-04:00'
describe
'4097880' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFT' 'sip-files00070.tif'
4efff7e03657d9d15bf8bafcc6d4c379
4012581d41d8e4e4335cc662b2eecfae2d9d4c40
describe
'4097548' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFU' 'sip-files00071.tif'
e0d709d718fcd7fbcaad2a711f2c017e
3d64952ccd4cf30c887cc7f4701b28d3d1201689
describe
'4098076' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFV' 'sip-files00073.tif'
4576030d39c3964679dae19baa3a45e0
7cb7d44929e12a9861d4ebf2da2daf6a9e104ee4
'2012-05-18T11:55:45-04:00'
describe
'4097776' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFW' 'sip-files00076.tif'
6673d101c71ba80ffd9b73837bab21f2
6076f67b0383ed51fe59193a0e4df9661aeec707
'2012-05-18T11:58:23-04:00'
describe
'4097404' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFX' 'sip-files00077.tif'
f84d9b9763188d3793634af84321782a
3f2e70e15b703a960d80f80cbe7dcb4f2b98ea05
'2012-05-18T11:53:40-04:00'
describe
'4097808' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFY' 'sip-files00078.tif'
9e81f05ec1768832cdc1a48401c336da
98ab87aabc17c88734ea57662b7987a09bf6eccd
describe
'4098276' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXFZ' 'sip-files00079.tif'
4ed26b72defcf3c9ed9613c71f92f389
3d31cf8b915ba6fd1f41837c5fb6210796e5aedb
describe
'4098136' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGA' 'sip-files00081.tif'
315b0504e8c815f7c31506609c6db8ee
a42fe746350969e53e6edcce094c48875311390f
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGB' 'sip-files00082.tif'
f3ff4bd0a4e3f96262d4b87d86f19593
8ba827ed5b725ef1a1b818b00dc7aa450e5c7dcd
describe
'4095900' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGC' 'sip-files00085.tif'
044a607982e560c8270912a309a89535
6e267b080135949844f8d42c29e916da8c086d72
'2012-05-18T11:57:46-04:00'
describe
'49898' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGD' 'sip-files00011.pro'
69d671b39deaf874a70ba7e580b88ebc
a359d84dfbda443d8caea0ebe4fdc22de9ec697e
describe
'60708' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGE' 'sip-files00013.pro'
14a82bbc3fea076886cab8f45ef97b26
78ed93f860c0454883f98895e1cc9076df7cf60c
describe
'63034' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGF' 'sip-files00014.pro'
0fa4d39f57c8dcb5a6f3440c68c557af
cfd2c5308c442c9485db6d524c1230565792f1c0
'2012-05-18T11:56:08-04:00'
describe
'52972' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGG' 'sip-files00018.pro'
821dded55b90b883906aa43f98bb8294
3c950ca792f961829566ac7e37fcb5fc431bf6b0
describe
'30852' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGH' 'sip-files00019.pro'
397ed04a2d537c48cb4888b6aa76b44a
2140859855b871d26246a518dbb8493ed986c3f2
describe
'66170' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGI' 'sip-files00036.pro'
0d504032dd5f1afa2e1b257847a549a9
adfc85fe82dbac2f02aaf56a5ef7e4a784ced2fb
describe
'60504' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGJ' 'sip-files00038.pro'
e01ca3aae54c2fc3384b65860af190ff
3cec459dd3a4d1e8614b28bdbf89a0ca2e3fa623
describe
'65574' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGK' 'sip-files00039.pro'
631b20a400dd0df25f5ba585cff3e3c0
dc8c6b0e94ee44d4f8597d25291419a85111c09f
describe
'53302' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGL' 'sip-files00043.pro'
0de3c95dd3b8351fb82592b3ef2a0f01
635f926b25c9a2f307bb0c90119e4fdbde235779
describe
'38284' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGM' 'sip-files00045.pro'
a81547b7e6d3815bbf84bf1b19516d66
4810f5ba56ca084999377c23ac5e610e6f908d55
'2012-05-18T11:57:59-04:00'
describe
'60715' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGN' 'sip-files00047.pro'
f257f6316e1978d441f017039783d796
a8bf4dcbe8bd65478f0c023272e2a1f7ed89e821
describe
'58710' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGO' 'sip-files00049.pro'
b621156877cef66dbf7b2e68e7362ae3
304ec32e5e4d8add61bc5c609bde0855f162ac77
'2012-05-18T11:56:14-04:00'
describe
'54412' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGP' 'sip-files00052.pro'
41bacb02e78dbef4de1780e02922a02e
257bb9a91b0b1998cc2c7819575a15ad4a28f2f6
describe
'52272' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGQ' 'sip-files00054.pro'
8d696ec421412a5d506200cf9b28c2f7
9d72d64245fc9d5f74392b4d30bb18e7f37bfa0b
describe
'44784' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGR' 'sip-files00055.pro'
92f354f3eadf54f858aab0a81f2dc35a
59e149f51dbca5ccb10d597ea153169810fb05bb
describe
'56233' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGS' 'sip-files00057.pro'
14f848f56653488ba3f4fe1b3835d751
62f0daa90ec26375adf62228134bd7da1e0e8cfe
describe
'45522' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGT' 'sip-files00059.pro'
f4123db2ea88c2628378a899178b583b
a2a4ad58d787e5304dd379be3136a8ace5356ccb
describe
'60869' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGU' 'sip-files00061.pro'
bf5e27c67dd38357268b364b5edaf2b7
73c92e03f66cefc5c93b5a78beedb755eed5c9c3
describe
'3120' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGV' 'sip-files00070.pro'
6abc6d5a6267ef8bc18670e55e069744
6ed46fb0732ac206052fb79a3de134d0e37e3e98
describe
'58245' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGW' 'sip-files00074.pro'
b49b7cf6b503bbc889a1eea0abae6575
880626272bdb7723b5d18d558eb15cedb59f129e
'2012-05-18T11:58:17-04:00'
describe
'51817' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGX' 'sip-files00076.pro'
fdde66d328a37b90a0ad4f59e0a2d2b2
d7a017933e439ba061a0a56875bd665b0dadae2a
describe
'45797' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGY' 'sip-files00077.pro'
d57cb873c872ca14a2d21778a828d777
7821111214f6e4b50a0f0e1d67f276245bbdccae
describe
'58991' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXGZ' 'sip-files00081.pro'
7eb0e5a6c47b0f29f1f37867c247aab2
fca4acbe7f70794aacf43dc1c227be6a66728c8b
'2012-05-18T11:57:02-04:00'
describe
'92' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHA' 'sip-files00003.txt'
d2e565c8165d2982432567ae90b4fd1f
98175ba6562fbd862c9f79c91bf636766cc16ed1
describe
'75' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHB' 'sip-files00004.txt'
80f808d09ee54d75887563fd062f9541
2f42689e12e512f55f5c7064f88a8c441e758a40
describe
'524' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHC' 'sip-files00005.txt'
aa59eaca31dd6e6744bfcd64dd3197ed
d2c9d627110bb8b16473310930039fbedecca592
describe
'859' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHD' 'sip-files00007.txt'
061fc44e9fdd2823503870208d0f69ed
62084fd12f00c2ac932563554cba4f4993a03a3a
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHE' 'sip-files00013.txt'
a72b3a24a2b72dc33ab4a2d7969b62c4
738c70c136c9bcc49687712c2f323a7ca9fb6ed8
describe
'2647' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHF' 'sip-files00014.txt'
7a08b0160740cc5b867f10c550c2d6cc
cbcf8bf856c5e36cda132895549d2ceaeabe50ea
describe
'2353' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHG' 'sip-files00015.txt'
837516cc04ed6fd7ec528ae6e4e61a2b
ad9a57421e9e4a7fa45db9c9f45f85cb46ec7090
'2012-05-18T11:56:16-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHH' 'sip-files00019.txt'
762c3de18292eebd2ff74e7c6f6e6761
4256c98ab0f86e18a91537d68461e4b3913739f7
describe
'2493' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHI' 'sip-files00021.txt'
6990ce6806512f666812bc2c3e6bb01f
8d171b5d1381a53c00a4e082733705af017eadb1
describe
'1517' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHJ' 'sip-files00023.txt'
88555aece2a3d310f355caad9af50b76
67ea392ac3c73fd267972f5b2c3e4ada67737147
describe
'2519' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHK' 'sip-files00029.txt'
36881cf2715e05d879b2e3794f1ed439
62601ea25415b35d1fd28a3003ef593b6d6300b5
describe
'2808' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHL' 'sip-files00031.txt'
01cb0d21d8158bcdf768ac74332b89de
9f7a4243ad087c1ddf3bfd4fdf74b9c6564ee9a2
describe
'2697' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHM' 'sip-files00033.txt'
18c0187e5a8e04c81686ab6d6eec13a1
1b97560dbb8ea688ed9425949f2b2e760a1221f0
describe
'2497' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHN' 'sip-files00034.txt'
0975f428825f00b0c81180239672c1c8
1cb88a5cf4c151857da02cc11d58abb3136e25cb
describe
'442' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHO' 'sip-files00037.txt'
39114d265d4aadd7e3192a5562ae4cc5
2b2349a1b8ccc6e6989e59a203180cff8d39db0f
'2012-05-18T11:56:07-04:00'
describe
'2696' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHP' 'sip-files00039.txt'
0b77e1ff0b1fba333215b341c89689bf
576e7f7b837335b9497dc98f7ad369ad018eaba1
describe
'2575' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHQ' 'sip-files00042.txt'
f6c3c34beded218deda3c81430a4b299
ea0fc9523a46b8abf6f2c072b59444e7cb852c65
describe
'2640' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHR' 'sip-files00048.txt'
29b1808b1eaac28f862c48ce11f36e08
74ea64ed285d2a5b70d94424b3d7bbe71bd50f8d
describe
'2438' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHS' 'sip-files00049.txt'
03291ff3f0ac5e8b81402fd7fff8b720
a33b27fee74837bdf0fe5ccfa731c916f4a66e9b
describe
'432' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHT' 'sip-files00053.txt'
66496b355b767a64604fbe31df551f26
bef9438c32574657661ba5141ffb419d314216ca
'2012-05-18T11:55:56-04:00'
describe
'2223' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHU' 'sip-files00054.txt'
512f4958d2a8d55006a9c89d9a473107
3b9faa40aab586960c16c7465fef776b0fdcc26c
describe
'2800' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHV' 'sip-files00056.txt'
93ba4b27c066e4802ade7c3a21c96b50
b534f5aa5687fe7d8975db4a47e18774fc271c12
describe
Invalid character
'2363' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHW' 'sip-files00057.txt'
811b169a46f6b1fab1ae1c03b1601973
2d7e155a6a5416e9e8ea0be6bdbb09bab1f17017
describe
'2186' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHX' 'sip-files00060.txt'
9ef9b78e80cefef834bd670abfbe2138
375e74d6432d22c9e5fae3704ca40aacfa41c6e5
describe
'3341' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHY' 'sip-files00064.txt'
c353cea6cd0a1a99807c75b967c288e4
29eb04b5ad311af8284e21fbb72e5a7aa3d5abd2
describe
'3547' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXHZ' 'sip-files00067.txt'
5eebc918816c6f5e4ee601820bc3d950
89f9e1c0c0e5e605887b5ec726308a4846034d33
describe
'3417' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIA' 'sip-files00068.txt'
81381ff6aaad814f824f7bccad22bbda
f2f0379ff688a32c93e22290d5d7b459844f4f26
'2012-05-18T11:56:34-04:00'
describe
'3073' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIB' 'sip-files00071.txt'
4a89932d6745a2971df80366825d867f
627bfe5767a8525dbd707cece5b1434d3ca31701
describe
'2235' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIC' 'sip-files00072.txt'
07b5693205b5c6db11820c5b310d4463
f2ff547187dc5ad414b9da4540c666db2253c65f
'2012-05-18T11:56:11-04:00'
describe
'2495' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXID' 'sip-files00073.txt'
0d4f7111f983bf54f06abc42740a56fc
983515c49d6187a9fadf97505efa3647255f34a0
describe
'2208' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIE' 'sip-files00075.txt'
b3f7cf41c24f38beca7841c26b69d774
43568f11bbeb0436580e73bb6f7f36142dac02be
'2012-05-18T11:56:50-04:00'
describe
'2484' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIF' 'sip-files00081.txt'
bee0efab47bc140be3b19d26e1ec83eb
3397bd6c1bc0c970df16d3795456b905ca9dd069
describe
'2535' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIG' 'sip-files00082.txt'
b77a9310394dcd678737cb7816da8eb6
e970e567f52f96c46ba7490bfb810aac91d36091
describe
'2675' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIH' 'sip-files00084.txt'
bb1a023322e1fe92919820cf749251da
98271302f7a33170efb984f3e37134ee53129e79
describe
'17' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXII' 'sip-files00087.txt'
711b3454cbbc77527aafc69441d2aec7
f02079e0b7275e24f2e5bf80f65683d506198207
describe
'84335' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIJ' 'sip-files00003.QC.jpg'
79041c9dfccd4f1c7d91f337410a05d6
5a89fb0cfd66f98c50e11b41bf108322d167c746
'2012-05-18T11:56:47-04:00'
describe
'35057' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIK' 'sip-files00003thm.jpg'
0dbcf8289b55ec3a9a3c0aec95fd3380
40a08873009fb0b5d9e8a076aeef10e1984ffe72
describe
'81431' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIL' 'sip-files00004.QC.jpg'
bf98920cbcddb8b8e8fd268d1345c0c6
786425e4a8afb2e66379586e7f1782956cb506db
describe
'106266' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIM' 'sip-files00006.QC.jpg'
989359325558137302157855b0a3fbc8
6a78e4cdc701491f1df63e668f69e65f55eade6e
describe
'93750' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIN' 'sip-files00007.QC.jpg'
74842695cfd3687f0d21fa3d959213f7
ca284ec785c085c7ad48cc5182dd5c4e00dfff1e
'2012-05-18T11:55:53-04:00'
describe
'139054' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIO' 'sip-files00012.QC.jpg'
aafe1334b0488d4fba7f14dca5560920
02cd72073637741038b5aa13cbdd0283c6482029
describe
'148418' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIP' 'sip-files00014.QC.jpg'
7306c653a89cdec05ab22ca16ed5876a
f7de4dc68125dcf0bb60a4b1c136c9cbb125a8d8
'2012-05-18T11:57:56-04:00'
describe
'53270' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIQ' 'sip-files00015thm.jpg'
4c08fd2f65b5cba80e1d979f6feb36a7
e24ec6e4fcca97fdc4a3629c01b24cf561cca9fb
'2012-05-18T11:53:37-04:00'
describe
'54236' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIR' 'sip-files00016thm.jpg'
890ffeab67c25dd800e54a1cd2f3398f
3e69a34eb475f919b1b605ea1aaf71a57f0228ec
describe
'53260' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIS' 'sip-files00017thm.jpg'
e5d9b0fdb77f3317c961227cec7bb979
ebdf045b44bcda214880195d76e79066cfa5d3a9
describe
'46631' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIT' 'sip-files00019thm.jpg'
454fb8f2917569e904349ec0c8bed349
22b27e79f6ceed73a37622c00e9dbf7e661abe0f
describe
'150839' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIU' 'sip-files00020.QC.jpg'
bcf9ff4d3163a88cb1bab632b1c82a6f
43dddf87e7e1e69c4e9df0044a323defac0d9a71
describe
'154108' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIV' 'sip-files00021.QC.jpg'
05bba70f97608d23ebf58185d1efee42
b9a3d852ea3ded6a7560a3dd8827b93c7b43d503
describe
'54551' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIW' 'sip-files00021thm.jpg'
117812fe788f0dee040460e7cc587f6e
c1c82e257a9a0cf9fafad4605b733bb0a41c8ce1
'2012-05-18T11:55:43-04:00'
describe
'44341' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIX' 'sip-files00023thm.jpg'
78764783d3f66bd9dc6f93adf6eafd73
b12ce941f471bc2d912a4b12afeb34755becec48
'2012-05-18T11:56:01-04:00'
describe
'129394' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIY' 'sip-files00024.QC.jpg'
8dbdf86afd03b5beca01740e89ac214f
2de261589034806dd60b475f76b01761a535257e
'2012-05-18T11:55:24-04:00'
describe
'53775' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXIZ' 'sip-files00025thm.jpg'
4208bd4227b5a9edd7d57a86c85c67cb
53343aa85285091a568848dc06e5ee15868d5ace
describe
'54543' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJA' 'sip-files00026thm.jpg'
70e891dd8fb180e28ec60f47c69cf5f4
55642bde408a405d7cc270a7a4643e4a88b9a55a
'2012-05-18T11:56:46-04:00'
describe
'55437' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJB' 'sip-files00027thm.jpg'
a9dc84d5dae3e7d43d922aeb86ce094a
68558b5d0fdc1dd8ff8338a19aadd7f252b6fc26
describe
'53711' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJC' 'sip-files00029thm.jpg'
8e455ba105e1d78416b8691eb5d091a3
4fa3c81d38183ab47d58ff7ecf5a64dcbe889137
describe
'47383' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJD' 'sip-files00030thm.jpg'
259f01f1644b6d5e2cc19464b109aad4
9a88691f9aa3cf076b890ea5c97ec17c43c5e851
describe
'55718' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJE' 'sip-files00032thm.jpg'
867019612e75934d355b594cacd873a8
654e4d9856057bed241a1b032fd5a248bd7c6883
'2012-05-18T11:58:03-04:00'
describe
'159326' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJF' 'sip-files00033.QC.jpg'
6d8d689e0e490cbd10a9d4e1cd060d04
e1872a6b5c4b48d8fcb5ab4cbee2850ae2e6a64a
describe
'138276' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJG' 'sip-files00037.QC.jpg'
36a62f769361852d946c1e0bfaa613c0
2565484a33400ca622e1b5a7a3a860186e4664cb
describe
'151706' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJH' 'sip-files00038.QC.jpg'
20456745f8f38f41de64e3a19e46894f
5142f2ee3de4f8b1b0bcc933cee38bac4cf89bdb
describe
'161190' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJI' 'sip-files00039.QC.jpg'
c12c2df6efd6d219d48414288e115ec1
1ee9f90a1789b6320a26aca2c60e07ba2c8e98d1
describe
'137480' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJJ' 'sip-files00041.QC.jpg'
2696b90543f054ebfb643574197acf5c
cc49849e7870f16b724fd04e3e6598378cff77b2
'2012-05-18T11:56:45-04:00'
describe
'50297' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJK' 'sip-files00041thm.jpg'
6bd46a946c9d624e35485505c42df338
6bb60e65bb3bd21fe6a3e345c171087fcfdd0aa6
describe
'147059' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJL' 'sip-files00043.QC.jpg'
2bdbdafa7cf1f0848a00e4c4615b6d3c
e7728a88e5ca033359b6659a4630885f60dec2c2
describe
'52921' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJM' 'sip-files00044thm.jpg'
d270de415e86c4a29d68772fde0a355e
8fe858b67ab9f7c879519abc6e7b53c5989355db
describe
'52387' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJN' 'sip-files00045thm.jpg'
aa912a8a3a0836eec626abc8e9391d56
e5ec546c9272d9d404d665cfd8d3115ce4336495
describe
'55338' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJO' 'sip-files00047thm.jpg'
fa5080e18ec4d4081e452d42f140724a
01da526d9b65af1e3efb1b49673293bf04ec88f2
describe
'56024' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJP' 'sip-files00048thm.jpg'
353b278343062d3bea5903fbe2fe9f6c
2d4333c3e446bcdece1961d25105bf799b743941
describe
'157620' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJQ' 'sip-files00051.QC.jpg'
a9588cb1333c7932a05c57982be40d14
386ae8d022ee9c42eae800f88b87b9b5bfec0e70
describe
'56598' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJR' 'sip-files00051thm.jpg'
8f3202e95cf26edc04bc7843f1a969ca
886c00e5ff68e3dea9bdec68aae3fdbc555739f9
describe
'146403' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJS' 'sip-files00052.QC.jpg'
3373058c10d2f5abc90b6344f3d8cedc
e6971259c937f67583c78ac72c99412078803b38
describe
'53108' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJT' 'sip-files00052thm.jpg'
722f405808c2d2536d1a40b22473c13b
dfcd00452364e822aa325ac3c83c1ea14c877268
describe
'137825' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJU' 'sip-files00053.QC.jpg'
d6467cc6c3af6a0c46e7943b2571f4e5
b52b8bf048cf8ef78b9958fd05b9144ba92ae238
'2012-05-18T11:56:03-04:00'
describe
'51144' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJV' 'sip-files00055thm.jpg'
2fce10578ce376c3f19e54a952f8d0ae
d223c76f307ff0b381c172ff3a82bcc85bf8b283
describe
'54393' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJW' 'sip-files00057thm.jpg'
b3fb686fac85193113dea34d6fb1ff94
9b2b53c52e97db83c72f8648fab29f10d1bbf624
describe
'132237' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJX' 'sip-files00059.QC.jpg'
b5561f779d1cbc6ec2354adb1e17f03a
8e47a7f2cbe1a0f39fa70bfc57a9df8f0d7d22d1
'2012-05-18T11:58:18-04:00'
describe
'49140' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJY' 'sip-files00059thm.jpg'
72826419532933082117fbbc77a0f762
8ef2bc5405e102af500311b7744f61ac5de433c3
describe
'135581' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXJZ' 'sip-files00060.QC.jpg'
f03e0370e9936383dd7d67f1a870d77a
e8cd6de5eb5f76d891c1201c3704ac7e4f48aed0
'2012-05-18T11:56:36-04:00'
describe
'149350' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKA' 'sip-files00064.QC.jpg'
4dce8502f3c02d0dce0443e00ba7be75
f81402d5883bed69c9842d703214b81f35476353
describe
'56505' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKB' 'sip-files00067thm.jpg'
67700603c6f253f5360f67975771815b
89a2fc1475e05471a8d91aad51ffaa667de0cd0f
describe
'147844' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKC' 'sip-files00068.QC.jpg'
136b9c76b22ac61f6c909fdb46ed6e27
23c90879c425ae88bdf5f795d47b688f23230102
'2012-05-18T11:58:01-04:00'
describe
'164866' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKD' 'sip-files00069.QC.jpg'
d35debf78473eb14044b69cbea43e808
2ce7c3c9bffcc5455213f200d693d3399b320a24
describe
'134560' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKE' 'sip-files00070.QC.jpg'
cf6eac2f18cad96e1727bb05f826f051
e77cc70becf1f97b069af33e19f6f52e4ce4102c
'2012-05-18T11:56:39-04:00'
describe
'140734' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKF' 'sip-files00071.QC.jpg'
05def39a50380f9f5453ea187fdb0324
1858dff7d63137df38861caa2126f3e8e06a20c7
describe
'51269' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKG' 'sip-files00071thm.jpg'
a770b8dee7a4c0cd9f64c1924da817c4
decb241addc91ba05c8a7e92b3e7929fa116a631
describe
'151033' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKH' 'sip-files00073.QC.jpg'
5e638f73ea9f9e76c56788099aca8300
1a511b7e3466db66788a488376199dd16fe26f73
describe
'146235' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKI' 'sip-files00075.QC.jpg'
6f4a51dd261db6b53b2be268c12eb123
22c8bf0ea81966a9d871460879ffa62973003738
describe
'131393' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKJ' 'sip-files00077.QC.jpg'
81490f4f033bef6b09a90ea78e0630ff
3d0cc8104c8ad748e02825bee46f9096e056044c
'2012-05-18T11:58:04-04:00'
describe
'157087' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKK' 'sip-files00079.QC.jpg'
a4334abdbdaf0cc401ca3a0ef770efa5
cede61601971370d1848975c9e68b095f3f025fb
describe
'55336' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKL' 'sip-files00079thm.jpg'
7973f14eba63266830d39cc222e12316
0f269e9b4c3dc55b63364646b1a1980206bc178f
describe
'56198' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKM' 'sip-files00080thm.jpg'
5bb50148df9f16278164ae76e99124c5
29e7ae94f798178a90fcb7282f4bb00775132798
'2012-05-18T11:53:46-04:00'
describe
'54492' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKN' 'sip-files00081thm.jpg'
50a08c1872028765402ab7edbd1af1d7
bb59b72fd1ab55165893a37e99aaa8e45c0869c9
describe
'152698' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKO' 'sip-files00082.QC.jpg'
53c8184e91236351fb9e902c10267d7f
14be40b833704bd2add5ebb217a42d2b713bca19
describe
'154618' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKP' 'sip-files00083.QC.jpg'
11f67828b9d82c6d6f7ce8decd796c27
2b75fc00e527471d4cb4d10df9e6b108d78fa72b
describe
'55762' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKQ' 'sip-files00084thm.jpg'
1b2c06319e8927ad83b373b0e4b531bd
5ff5de973a3026518df9442595830aec875052bf
describe
'42922' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKR' 'sip-files00085thm.jpg'
267423922d48cc3b5bdc7730b1988a08
219df3057a850796dee0c0244994d589d4f5a330
describe
'121602' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKS' 'sip-files00087.QC.jpg'
6b5dd01f6e989010838e5a62fb4a1d66
36a01e1e10e7216873cf18779833a20390c63593
describe
'44997' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKT' 'sip-files00087thm.jpg'
e744f8dc8007b4d5825db5f222dc07ef
5946db1a57f99c766b55ed28cfdea9bbc47c0b8f
describe
'68984' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKU' 'sip-files00088thm.jpg'
d25235c67251aa8449bbcfc0f1957568
5ea7ffb067601c6f5c0c94b8feae552d736005bf
'2012-05-18T11:55:39-04:00'
describe
'107935' 'info:fdaE20100129_AAAAGAfileF20100129_AABXKV' 'sip-filesUF00054267_00001.mets'
efcac128c0eec67a7c7ae762147085bf
6a31490aa04209cbd900983ee65fb1dfd13f867c
describe
TargetNamespace.1: Expecting namespace 'http://www.uflib.ufl.edu/digital/metadata/ufdc2/', but the target namespace of the schema document is 'http://digital.uflib.ufl.edu/metadata/ufdc2/'.
'2013-12-10T15:35:03-05:00'
xml resolution
http://www.uflib.ufl.edu/digital/metadata/ufdc2/ufdc2.xsdhttp://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema
http://www.uflib.ufl.edu/digital/metadata/ufdc2/ufdc2.xsd
http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema
The element type "div" must be terminated by the matching end-tag "".
TargetNamespace.1: Expecting namespace 'http://www.uflib.ufl.edu/digital/metadata/ufdc2/', but the target namespace of the schema document is 'http://digital.uflib.ufl.edu/metadata/ufdc2/'.