CHAPTER I. The birds were singing their best one spring morning, and that means a great deal, for they can sing down in the New Forest on a sunny morning in May, and there was quite a chorus of joy to welcome the Skipper and Dot as they went out through the iron gate at the bottom of the garden. The Skipper had on his last new suit of white duck, bound with blue, and his straw hat with the dark band... more...

Chapter One. There was a loud rattling noise, as if money was being shaken up in a box. A loud crashing bang, as if someone had banged the box down on a table. A rap, as if a knife had been dropped. Then somebody, in a petulant voice full of vexation and irritability, roared out: “Bother!” And that’s exactly how it was, leaving Aleck Donne, who looked about sixteen or seventeen, scratching... more...

The Curate Grows Suspicious; and Takes his Stick. “Do what, miss?” said Dally Watlock. “That! There, you did it again.” “La, miss; I on’y thought my face might be a bit smudgy, and I wiped it.” “Don’t tell me a falsehood, Dally. I know what it means. You felt guilty, and your face burned.” “La, miss; I don’t know what you mean.” “Then I’ll tell you, Dally. You are growing... more...

His House. Early morning at Saltinville, with the tide down, and the calm sea shimmering like damasked and deadened silver in the sunshine. Here and there a lugger was ashore, delivering its take of iris-hued mackerel to cart and basket, as a busy throng stood round, some upon the sands, some knee-deep in water, and all eager to obtain a portion of the fresh fish that fetched so good a price amongst... more...

A Rough Suitor. “Be quiet! What a silly little fluttering dove it is, struggling like this, ruffling all your plumes, and making your face so red. But how it becomes you!” “Mr Saul Harrington, how dare you!” “Because I love you so, you little beauty. There—and there—and there!” The kisses were given in spite of the frightened looks and struggles; but at each kiss... more...

Chapter One. The First Morning. “Remember, Hazel,” said Mrs Thorne, “remember this—we may be reduced in circumstances; we may have been compelled by misfortune to come down into this wretched little town, and to live in this miserable, squeezy, poorly-furnished house or cottage, with the light kept out by the yellow glass, and scarcely a chimney that does not smoke; we may be compelled to dress... more...

Rodd the Pickle. “Here’s another, uncle.” This was shouted cheerily, and the reply thereto was a low muttering, ending with a grunt. It was a glorious day on Dartmoor, high up in the wildest part amongst the rugged tors, where a bright little river came flashing and sparkling along, and sending the bright beams of the sun in every direction from the disturbed water, as an eager-looking boy busily... more...

Pleasant Receptions. “Ax.” “I was asking, or axing, as you call it, my man. I said, Is that Dumford, down there in the valley?” “And I said axe, or arks, as you call it, my man,” was the surly, defiant reply. The last speaker looked up savagely from the block of stone on which he was seated, and the questioner looked down from where he stood on the rough track. There was a quiet,... more...

Chapter One. The Western Paradise. “Well, boys, where have you been?” The speaker, a sturdy-looking, sun-tanned man, seated upon a home-made stool at a rough home-made table in a home-made house of rugged, coarsely-sawn boards, with an open roof covered in with what one of the boys had called wooden slates, had looked up from his writing, and as he spoke carefully wiped his pen—for pens were... more...

Head First. Two rooks flew over the Cathedral Close, and as they neared the old square Norman tower they cawed in a sneering way. That was enough. Out like magic came the jackdaws from hole and corner—snapping, snarling, and barking birdily—to join in a hue and cry as they formed a pack to drive away the bucolic intruders who dared to invade the precincts sacred to daws from the beginning of... more...