[THE HARMSWORTH MAGAZINE]
Vol. 1—No. 6

[TABLE OF CONTENTS]

GREEK GIRLS PLAYING AT BALL.
From the Painting by the late Lord Leighton, P.R.A.
By Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., Bond Street. W.

["CHRYSANTHEMUMS CURLED HERE."]

A CHAT WITH A FLORAL BARBER.
By Alfred Arkas.

The chrysanthemum is the spoiled and petted darling of the floral world. She is as vain as any society beauty, and quite as much time is spent on her toilet and personal appearance. Though beautiful by nature, she scorns to show herself to her circle of admirers until the arts of the hairdresser and masseur have enhanced her loveliness.

Toilet goes a long way in this world, and many a social star owes half her triumphs to it. Particularly is this true of My Lady Chrysanthemum; for she well repays for any trouble that may be spent upon her.

You cannot paint the lily with any prospect of success, but the number of curls and frills and furbelows you may add to the dainty chrysanthemum bloom, and still leave room for the touch of a titivating hand, is endless.

There are tricks in every trade, and the same is true of most hobbies. Chrysanthemum showing and growing form no exception to the rule. You may have mastered the many little secrets of growing these glorious flowers to the best advantage, and yet be as far from inclusion in the coveted show prize list as though you were but a mere tyro.

LADY CHRYSANTHEMUM AT HER TOILET.
1. The flower is cut.
2. A part of the seedy eye is taken out.
3. Deformed and misshapen petals are removed.
4. The petals are then curled.
5. The bloom is finally brushed up.

As a matter of fact the best bloom that ever grew is one thing on the stalk and altogether another in the show box. If you saw some of the magnificent prize-winning and highly commended blossoms which are the feature of the great annual shows before they had been through the deft hands of the floral barber you would fail to recognise them. Glorious they are in their natural state; but, like a beautiful woman, their beauty is only set off the more by a fitting toilet.

How art may assist nature is admirably shown in the accompanying photographs illustrating My Lady Chrysanthemum in her natural state, and the same bloom dressed and cupped for show purposes. It will probably never have occurred to the majority of people that such dressing is a most important matter in preparing blossoms for exhibition, and it will be news to them that the preparation of this toilet is a matter requiring the greatest skill, and is only to be undertaken with complete success by the horticulturist who has made a special study of chrysanthemum growing and showing.

Such a one is Mr. Southard, who is at present growing prize blooms of all kinds for Mr. Kenyon, of Sutton, Surrey. Mr. Southard is one of the most successful growers in this country of the Japanese national flower. He is an exhibitor whose triumphs in the past are represented by innumerable first, second, and special prizes. And he is generally recognised as one of the most expert chrysanthemum dressers to be found in a long day's march.

To him we are indebted for our knowledge of the secrets of floral barbering.

What a science this is may be more readily realised by a glance at our photograph of a set of instruments used for the purpose. These are specially made, and each has a special part to play in dressing the perfect specimen bloom.

A "RAGGED AND UNKEMPT CHRYSANTHEMUM"—WHICH BECAME NEAT AND CHARMING UNDER CAREFUL TREATMENT.

There are twenty-four varieties of chrysanthemums, but two in particular, the reflex and the incurved, are the subjects of artificial treatment. The accompanying series of photographs show the making of an incurved bloom's toilet from first to last. The first picture illustrates the cutting. To the uninitiated there would not appear to be anything particular about this; but mark one thing. The bloom is cut with a long stalk. This is an important matter: the reason will appear later on. The second photograph of the series illustrates the taking out of a portion of the seedy eye. This is a particularly telling part of the toilet, and goes a long way towards making the bloom show its best.

In the exhibition specimen the petals uniformly cover the flower, but as it appears on the plant it will probably show a considerable amount of centre; unless this is removed it causes an untidy hollow in the middle of the bloom. Portions of the seedy eye are generally removed while the flower is yet on the plant, and the petals then grow naturally towards the centre, and cover the cavity. However, in dressing the bloom it is usual to extract further portions, an operation performed by means of the special instrument shown in the photograph.

The next process is the removing of deformed and misshapen petals. Although not, perhaps, visible to the eye, there are sure to be a few of these lurking beneath the more perfect specimens. They must come out. If visible, they are an eyesore; if invisible, they prevent the others from falling into their natural positions, and so upset the harmony of the whole.

There is a steel forceps provided for this operation. However, the skill is not in using the instrument. Anyone can despoil the plumage of a fine bloom. The art lies in extracting the right petals, so as to give the exterior the best possible shape when finally dressed.

These various processes have taken a great deal of time, yet the bloom looks, if anything, less like a show specimen than it did when on the plant.

However, they are but a means to an end, and their use is soon apparent now that we come to the principal operation of dressing. In this, order is evolved out of chaos, and in the hands of an expert the bloom immediately begins to assume an altogether different appearance.

THREE SPECIMEN BLOOMS.

THIS "EDWARD MOLYNEUX" WAS NINE INCHES ACROSS.

THE BLOOM HERE PHOTOGRAPHED—"MUTUAL FRIEND"—WAS TEN INCHES IN DIAMETER.

First it undergoes the operation of cupping. The cups are made of zinc, and vary in design according to the shape of the flower. The upper part closely resembles the socket of a candlestick. The outside is threaded, and screws into a cylindrical case containing water.

Now the reason of the long stalk is apparent. It is passed through the hollow till the lower petals of the bloom are pressed firmly on the plate, then the outer case is screwed on, and the flower is held as rigidly as though in a vice. The screw cup performs three functions: It waters the bloom, keeps it in position, and by pressing the under petals upwards accentuates its shape and size. The operation of dressing brings another instrument into use. It seems a simple matter to take hold of a ragged bloom and pat and stroke it into shape, curling a petal here, twisting another there. In reality it is a matter of great delicacy, and some years of experience are required before one may hope to obtain the best possible results, and even then some three hours may easily be spent in dressing a bloom.

MY LADY CHRYSANTHEMUM'S TOILET TABLE.

The imperfect petals underneath having gone, those outside readily respond to the touch of the instrument and spring into regular formation, while those at the top of the bloom are carefully curled to a common centre and effectively conceal all that was left of the seedy eye.

Under the deft touches of the master hand, the ragged bloom rapidly develops into a thing of greatest beauty. Each curl marks a great improvement, and when it is finished one readily realises how much there is in this as in other things for the amateur to learn.

A final brush up is now all that is necessary. A specially made camel-hair brush accompanies the set of instruments; with this the grower gently brushes the leaves till no speck dims their fair loveliness.

SOME USEFUL ARTICLES ON HER DRESSING-TABLE.

My lady's toilet is now completed, and she is forthwith placed in the show box, which is designed to hold six cupped blooms. This box consists of a slanting platform containing six holes, in which the cups are placed. The two at the top are partially unscrewed, the middle pair not quite so much so, while those at the bottom are screwed in tightly. This is called setting-up, and is an art of itself. It arranges the flowers in tiers, so that those in front do not hide the blooms behind.

Skilled setting-up is worth several points, as it enables the blooms to show themselves off to the best possible effect, and at the same time favourably impresses the judge's eye.

The blooms are shown in specified numbers; generally, thirty-six, twenty-four, or twelve are required from each exhibitor. Nowadays, chrysanthemum blooms attain enormous sizes. We show two specimen blossoms. That known as "Mutual Friend," shown on the previous page, is ten inches in diameter; the other, "Edward Molyneux," at the left hand foot of the same page, is nine inches across. This is about the diameter of an ordinary plate.

Notable sizes are also attained in the plants themselves, and in preparing these for show there are divers little secrets.

In the illustration below Mr. Southard is standing between two specimen plants. Notice the difference in the general appearance of the twain. That on the left is ragged and unkempt, though it is in every way a show specimen. Compare it with the neat, charming effect of the plant to the right of the picture. Here is an instance of what a little show preparation will do for the plant itself. In the latter case, each bloom and stalk is trained up to a stick, and as a consequence perfect harmony is gained, and the plant shows at its best. In many cases these stalks have to be trained round corners, and describe wonderful curves in order to take up the places assigned to them. The space under the blooms and foliage is a forest of sticks, all engaged in carrying the long, pliable stalks to their rightful places.

THE FLORAL BARBER AT HIS WORK. CONTRAST THE TWO PLANTS.

The untied plant on the left is a wonderful specimen. It measures over four feet across the top, grows from one stalk, and yet only occupies a twelve-inch pot.

Blooms from some of the choice plants are worth from three to five shillings apiece, while even cuttings will fetch the latter figure.

One of the great fascinations of show-chrysanthemum growing is the possibility of producing new blooms. Out of twelve exhibited flowers shown me at a recent show, nine were entirely new specimens. Like the orchid grower, the chrysanthemum lover is ever seeking floral novelties. In the ordinary way it takes some years to produce and fix a new flower. Endless patience, experiment, and knowledge are necessary to success; but here, as in most branches of floriculture, there is a strong element of luck, and the raw amateur sometimes purchases a cutting which turns out to be an extraordinarily fine specimen of a new variety.

This element of uncertainty undoubtedly constitutes one of the great charms of horticulture.

["OFF TO KLONDYKE."]

A STORY TO BE READ TO CHILDREN.
By Geo. A. Best.
Illustrated with novel Photographs from life by Arthur Ullyett, Ilford.

"Wake up, Lessels!" said Stanley, in a hoarse whisper, shaking his younger brother as he spoke. "I've got a grand idea!"

"'WAKE UP, LESSELS! I'VE GOT A GRAND IDEA!'"

"'I'M OFF TO KLONDYKE, AND YOU'VE GOT TO BE MY PARD.'"

"Gimme a little bit then," answered Lessels, drowsily. "You had some of my chocolate cweam last night."

"You goose! Don't you know what an idea is?" retorted the elder boy, disdainfully. "It isn't anything to eat. It's a notion."

"Then you can have it all yourself," remarked Lessels, indifferently.

"Would you like a thousand pounds to spend on caramels and chocolate?" asked Stanley. "And a golden guinea to put in the bank till you are a man?"

"I'd like the chocolate," answered Lessels, with some show on interest. "An' I'd like a boxful of caramels; an' a barley-sugar lion; an' a real engine which would go by itself an' wun into things. An' I'd like a toy fire-engine, so that I could set fire to Madge's dolls' house an' put it out; an' a bucketful of ice cream, an'——"

"Don't speak so loud, you little duffer, or you'll get nothing at all!" interrupted the elder boy. "Just get out of bed at once, and dress yourself without dropping anything. We're off to Klondyke!"

"Off to what?"

"Klondyke—a place where you dig money out of the ground like coals. Big lumps of solid gold, what'll buy a whole shopful of toys, and tons of best London mixture and marzipan. See?"

"What about washin' our faces an' bweakfast?"

"Miners never wash themselves, silly; and they don't have proper breakfasts till they've made their pile."

"What's a miner, an' who's a pile?" asked Lessels, chasing himself across the room backwards to attach his braces to a rear button which was apparently running away.

"A miner's a man who digs gold up and washes it in a cinder-sifter," explained Stanley. "And he shoots everybody who comes near him except his pard. I'm off to Klondyke to be a miner before dada awakes, and you've got to be my pard."

"Who'll I shoot?" asked Lessels, with a defiant glare.

"Everybody but me," answered Stanley, condescendingly. "We'll want my best sixpence-ha'penny gun; several sticks of lead pencil to shoot; two spades; a cinder-sifter; an umberrellar to sleep under; our nightshirts; a loaf of bread, and a big knife."

"Shall we take Desmond in the mail cart?" asked the four-year-old "pard," innocently. "Desmond, an' a packet of sherbet, an' my toy engine, an' a chair to sit on, an' the kitchen lamp, an' our bed, an' a few other fings to eat?"

"Babies and toys must be left at home," snapped the miner. "And how do you think we can carry a bed along? We must hunt for crabs to eat with our bread, and shoot birds and catch fish. Our Klondyke is really the beach, for I heard dada say last night that Southend was a regular Klondyke, as gold had been found on the sands. What a good job we live close to Southend, isn't it?"

"Hadn't we better tell dad we're going, an' get a penny to spend?" suggested the long-headed Lessels, ignoring his brother's question.

"A penny to spend!" echoed the elder boy, scornfully. "We'll have fifty thousand golden sovereigns to spend before this day week; and dad will forget to whack us when we buy him a new house, and a carriage with two horses and a footman, and an ounce of tobacco. And mamma shall have four splendid servants, and a sealskin jacket, and a bottle of scent, and a bicycle, and a new box of hairpins! I'm quite ready now, are you?"

Lessels answered with a somewhat doubtful nod, and the children crept silently downstairs. The kitchen door was successfully unbolted after a table and chair had been mounted by the intrepid Stanley, and the necessary materials for the outfit were rapidly collected from the neighbourhood of the washhouse.

STANLEY AND LESSELS START FOR KLONDYKE.

"I'll carry the umberellar, gun, and knife," whispered Stanley. "You can fetch along the cinder-sifter and the other things."

"I don't like to touch the shinder-sifter: it's got nasty worms and snails on," protested Lessels, whimpering. "An' if I can't carry the gun I shan't go, so there!"

"I've a great mind to put a lead pencil through you, you great baby!" hissed the miner, furiously. "You're a nice pard for a man to have, to be sure! Don't forget that my gun is loaded, and I'm not going to stand any nonsense, so just do as you're told. If you're afraid of a worm, what are you going to do when conger eels, sea serpents, and octopussys attack us?"

"Fight 'em to deaf!" answered the "pard," growing suddenly cheerful at the prospect of encountering large game. "Is the octopussy like other cats?"

THEY MARCH THROUGH A DENSE JUNGLE.

"It isn't a cat at all; it's a fish like a large spring onion with eyes in, and hundreds of roots which are all alive," explained Stanley, as the expedition moved slowly across the first field.

After a long and painful march over a plain covered with thistles and long grass, succeeded by a dense jungle, the heavily laden "prospectors" reached the beach at a lonely spot some miles to the westward of Southend pier. Here the umbrella tent was erected, the gun reloaded, and the mining utensils carefully unpacked. The loaf was thoughtfully wrapped up in a nightshirt to preserve it from the effect of sun and salt water.

"We must stake out our claim at once," said Stanley, producing four clothes pegs from his pocket, and sticking one at each corner of a four-sided diagram hastily scratched on the sand with a spade. "All miners have to do this before they've been in Klondyke five minutes. And we must put up a notice that this claim belongs to us, so as to keep other gold hunters off. See?"

"Then we shan't have nobody to shoot," protested Lessels, in a disappointed tone.

"Dig up some sand, pard, and fling it into the cinder-sifter while I write out the caution in blue pencil," said Stanley. "And when all the sand has run through call me to pick out the gold."

And after seeing the first spadeful of sand fall into the sieve, the elder miner rapidly produced a notice worded as follows:—

"This is our clame. Tresspasers will be persecuted and shot. Vissitors are requested not to tuch the nugets."

"Anybody reading that warning won't dare to come within a mile of us," remarked the author, proudly, as he attached the notice to the ferrule of his "tent." "Any luck, pard?"

"Any what, Stan?"

"Luck—I mean have you found anything?"

"I've got a kwab, an' a cockle shell, an' an old shoe, an' a ginger-beer bottle," replied Lessels, with a yawn. "The bottle's got some beer left in, an' I'm very thirsty. Shall we have a dwop?"

"That isn't ginger-beer, it's sea water!" cried Stanley, warningly. "If you drink ever so little you'll go mad, and smash things and shoot yourself! Then I shall have to bury you in the sand, and put a wooden cross over your head, so that I can show dada where I left you."

"My head aches, an' I'm getting thirsty," protested the hard-working pard.

THEY DIG FOR GOLD, AND FLING THE SAND INTO THE CINDER-SIFTER.

A BIG NUGGET IS DISCOVERED.

"You 'ave got gold fever, that's all!" said Stanley, impatiently. "All miners suffer from gold fever, but it doesn't often kill 'em. If we both work hard for a few minutes p'r'aps we'll find a tiny nugget that we can change for real ginger-beer and buns at the store. We'll have a splendid evening at the store after our day's work is done. All the boys will be there, and we'll drink more than is good for us, and fight and play poker."

"We haven't got any pokers to play with," argued the matter-of-fact Lessels. "An' there isn't any boys but us about; an' there's no store where we can spend our nuggets, an' fight in. If you tell stories like that, Stan, you'll never get to——"

"The worst of you is you're so silly!" interrupted the elder boy, shaking the cinder-sifter vigorously as he spoke. "You never think anything's real that you can't see. When people get to know that there's millions of pounds under these sands there'll be cheap two-and-sixpenny excursion trains, full of wild miners, arriving here every few minutes."

"Will there be anything to eat an' dwink?" demanded the hot and thirsty pard, anxiously.

"Tons of it!" answered the senior digger, enthusiastically. "We shall use sweets an' sugar sticks for bullets, an' wash ourselves in real ginger beer. Miners always spend their money like that. They waste what they can't eat, and wash their faces in drink when they've had more than is good for them. It's a splendid life, isn't it, Lessels?"

"Which?" asked the pard, doubtfully.

"What's the use of explaining things to a fellow like you?" snapped Stanley. "Haven't I told you all about it?"

Lessels retired to the shelter of the tent without attempting to reply to either of these questions, and slowly divested himself of his shoes and socks.

"Now what are you going to do?" demanded the miner, angrily.

"Paggle," replied Lessels, pointing to the incoming tide, which was rapidly approaching the camp.

"Paddle!" echoed Stanley. "What sense is there in paddling before we've found a single ha'porth of gold? Hallo! Come here, quick!" he continued, excitedly, as something large and hard rolled from side to side of the sieve. "Oh, Lessels! I've found a monster nugget! Come and help me lift it out. Hurrah!"

"'KEEP THE GUN LOADED; WE'LL HAVE ROBBERS ALONG PRESENTLY.'"

"Wait till I get my sock off," replied Lessels, indifferently. "Is it weal gold?"

"Of course it is, you little duffer! Never mind your sock!" roared the excited miner. "It's a large, square nugget—yellow, and broken in two. I wonder who's stole the other half."

"Looks like a bwick," remarked the pard, suspiciously, after carefully surveying the find. "An' it isn't clean an' bwight like weal money."

"I tell you it's a nugget," replied the lucky miner, in a tone which was intended to put an end to all argument on the subject. "Keep the gun loaded; I guess we'll have some robbers along presently."

"Where can we spend it?" asked Lessels, anxiously.

"There's a stall where they sell ginger-beer and ice-cream, about half a mile along the beach," replied Stanley; "you can just see it in the distance. If you like, you can walk over there and bring back half a dozen of beer, three gipsy cakes, and about twenty sovereigns' worth of change. But don't let the storekeeper cheat you."

"I'll go!" declared Lessels, delighted by the prospect of obtaining some very necessary refreshment. "I'll go, Stan, and you can dig out plenty big nuggets, an' save 'em up till I come back. I'd better take the gun, so's I can shoot the man if he tries to cheat me."

"Don't forget the change!" cried Stanley, as he watched his little brother run rapidly away in the direction of the stall.

In ten minutes' time, a flushed and weary-looking little miner, hugging a piece of wave-worn brick, presented himself to the storekeeper, who was just in the act of taking down the shutters of his timber-built shop.

"Well, my little man, what can I do for you?" asked the shopkeeper, cheerily.

"Half a dozen of ginger-beer, three gipsy cakes, and twenty sovereigns in change!" demanded the miner, breathlessly.

LESSELS TRIES TO CASH HIS NUGGET.

"Twenty sovereigns change!" echoed the man. "What do you mean, little one? Where's your money?"

"Here it is!" replied Lessels, boldly, laying the precious "nugget" on a plate of puff pastry, and assuming an attitude of defence. "Half a dozen of ginger cakes, three bottles of gipsy——"

"I can't give you all that for a brick," interrupted the shopkeeper, shaking his head. "You'd better run away and play."

"It isn't a bwick—it's a weal nugget," said the miner, with a scowl. "An' if you try to cheat me, Stanley said I must shoot you dead!"

"Here's a bottle of pop and your nugget for nothing," said the kind-hearted shopkeeper, with a laugh. "But don't bring any more brick ends or rubbish over here. Where are you going to take it to?"

"The camp."

"Where's the camp?"

"In Klondyke."

"Where's Klondyke?"

"On the beach, wight over there where Stanley is."

"Who's Stanley?"

"Stan's a miner, an' I'm his pard. We're diggin' up nuggets to spend in sweets, an' carriages, an' other fings for dada and mamma."

The tide had nearly reached the camp when Lessels returned.

"I haven't found any more nuggets, Lessels," said Stanley, despondingly. "Did you get the change all right?"

"No: I brought the gold back with me, 'cos the man said it was only a bwick!"

"Only a brick!" echoed Stan, with a dry sob. "I'm so thirsty and tired, Les."

"You've got gold fever, like I had," said Lessels, sympathetically. "Lie down an' west a bit while I dwink up the ginger-beer which the man gave me for nothing."

"All right, greedy!"

"I'm not gweedy, Stan, only thirsty. You can have a little dwop when I've cut the string an' shot the cork off. Then we'll go home to bweakfast, won't we?"

"It's nearly dinner time now, Lessels," said Stanley, sadly. "And we can't go home without a single nugget to buy presents with, or dada'll be sure to whack us."

"'I DON'T LIKE KLONDYKE.'"

"I don't like Klondyke! I don't like Klondyke!" sobbed poor Lessels, a moment afterwards when the ginger-beer cork flew skywards with a loud report, causing the bold miner to drop the bottle in dismay.

"You're a pretty pard to send on an errand!" cried the disappointed Stanley, as the greedy sand quickly absorbed the contents of the bottle. "Frightened of a ginger-beer cork! I wouldn't be such a cowardy custard! Here I am nearly dying of gold fever, and there's nothing to drink or eat but sea-water and dry bread."

"Poor old Stan!" said Lessels, with genuine concern. "Don't die an' leave me to find my way home all by myself. Let's lie down an' go to sleep a bit. Then we'll forget how hungwy an' thirsty we are, an' how dada'll whack us when we get home!"

"Dear old pard!" said Stanley, sleepily. "It was my fault bringing you here, and I ought to have all dada's smacks."

"Not all; nearly all," answered the loyal pard, with sublime condescension. "You can have all the biggest ones. I'm not gweedy! S'pose the tide comes up an' drownds us, what'll mamma say?"

"It serves us right," was the drowsy reply.

"An' dada?"

"Dada'll say he'll teach us to get drownded again!"

"An' baby Desmond?"

"Desmond'll say 'cuckoo'—he doesn't know any other words."

"An' the dog?"

The last question remained unanswered.

"Poor old Stanny's asleep," soliloquised Lessels. "I'll just cover him over with the nightshirts, an' the nugget bag what hasn't any nuggets in, so's he won't catch a cough an' keep me awake at nights. Then I'll lie down close to him, as I do in bed, an' have a west. I wish mamma was here to kiss me, an' I hope dad won't beat me harder than he can help!"

And in another moment absolute silence reigned in the camp, while the tide crept noiselessly and stealthily around the higher bank of sand which formed the children's Klondyke. The summer sun shone lovingly on a pair of still forms; and the warning to trespassers fluttered gently in the warm breeze.

THE MINERS' DREAM OF HOME.

When a wave, bolder than the rest, broke against the bare feet of the younger miner, he awoke with a cry of alarm.

"Wake up, Stan! We're both drownded!"

"What's the matter?" demanded Stanley, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"We're in the miggle of the sea!" was the startling answer. "Our camp's all wet an' miserable, an' we can't shwim home, an' it's no use shoutin', cos there's nobody on the beach!"

"Lessels, we shall have to leave dada's umberellar, and the gold, and everything else, and fly for our lives," said Stanley, impressively, glancing anxiously towards the distant beach as he spoke.

"I can't fly," whimpered Lessels. "Let's call dada."

"He wouldn't hear us!"

"Dad heard me shout when I fell in a bucket of water at home," argued Lessels.

"This isn't a bucket of water, and we're not home now," replied the elder boy, irritably. "I believe I could swim all the distance to the beach—with one foot on the bottom. Then I could walk to the village and get a boat to bring you off; or run home and get dada and the clothes line; or fetch one of the life-buoys from the end of Southend pier."

"I'll come and get a live boy, too!" exclaimed Lessels, clinging frantically to his brother, as a wave broke over his knees. "Don't leave me, Stanny; I'se so frightened!"

"I can't swim if you hold me like that!" said Stanley, rolling up his shirt sleeves with sudden determination. "You'll have to let me tow you to land by the hair of your head. Drowning people have to stun each other sometimes to keep one another quiet while they are rescued," he added, darkly.

THE RESCUE OF THE MINERS.

At this distressing moment a well-known form appeared on the beach, and the terrified miners shouted and waved their caps simultaneously.

"It's dada!" shrieked Lessels; "I knew he'd come. Look! he's walking in the sea, with all his clothes on; an' he's laughing; an' he hasn't got a shtick after all."

"What is all this about, boys?" asked the welcome visitor, pointing, as he spoke, to the fast disappearing camp.

"It's Klondyke, dada, that's all!" answered Lessels. "We digged for gold all day to buy you a lot of horses and tobacco, but we haven't found anything at all 'cept a bad nugget!"

"You're not the first miner who has done that, Lessels," was the comforting reply.

"I had a horrid dream about you, dad, when I was tired and fell asleep on the sand," said Stanley. "Guess what it was."

"Perhaps I was injured by one of the fine horses you were going to buy?"

"No, dad, it was much worse than that," was the earnest reply. "In my dream you were looking for us with a great stick in your hand."

"Dear old dad!" whispered Stanley, as he was being carried into safety, upside down, a few minutes later. "Dear old dad! You aren't very cross because we have lost your umberellar, and haven't got any nuggets, are you? And you won't turn nasty and spank us after we've made you laugh so?"

THE LAST OF THE CAMP.

"Please don't, dada!" added Lessels, brokenly.

And dada only kissed the weary little faces of the supplicants, and laughed again until the tears ran down his cheeks.

"I believe dad's crying," said Lessels, in a stage whisper—"cryin' inside, an' laughin' outside!"

"Keep quiet, you little muff!" whispered Stanley, hoarsely. "Father looked like that when the doctor told him that I wasn't likely to die of fever after all. It's a laugh that stops crying."

"And one which is worth more than all the ordinary laughs of a lifetime, my boys," added the listener, quietly.

[LITTLE ROYALTIES.]

OUR FUTURE KING. | HIS BROTHER ALBERT.

Illustrated with Special Photographs
taken by F. & R. Speaight.

Even in the days when the Queen's children formed a charming group of young people, high-spirited, intelligent, and enjoying, according to many passages in the late Princess Alice's letters, an ideally happy childhood, British Royal Nurseries were not better filled than they are at present, for in the immediate Court circle there are many young people, not one of whom can be considered in any sense grown up.

PRINCESS VICTORIA OF YORK, HIS SISTER.

Prince Arthur of Connaught and his two sisters form the eldest group, being severally fifteen, sixteen, and twelve. The three children of the Duke of Connaught, though they are half German, for their mother was the daughter of the Red Prince, have received an entirely English form of education, Prince Arthur having been the first British Prince sent to Eton, and the two Princesses, Margaret and Louise, being educated at home, partly under their parents and partly under the Queen's supervision, for during the Duke and Duchess' stay in India their children remained in England, and so their short lives have been divided between Aldershot, Bagshot Park, and Windsor Castle.

To the same group of the Queen's British grandchildren may be said to belong the children of the late Duke of Albany and of Princess Henry of Battenberg. In each case they are much younger than Her Majesty's other grandchildren.

There is something very pathetic in the position of the Duchess of Albany: left a widow within two years of her marriage, and obliged, by the circumstances of her position, to remain in a foreign country, finding her only solace and interest in her two children, to whom she has proved a model mother. Till last year, when the Prince entered Mr. Benson's popular house at Eton, Princess Alice and her young brother had never been separated for a single day. In this connection it may be stated that the Royal Princes when at school lead exactly the same lives as do other Eton boys. They are addressed by their masters and by their school-fellows as "Connaught" and "Albany," and though, as is natural, they generally spend any half-holidays at Windsor Castle, the Queen is most particular never to ask them out of hours, or to treat them in a way calculated to make them feel themselves favoured above the other boys.

[PRINCESS MARGARET OF CONNAUGHT].
[PRINCE ARTHUR OF CONNAUGHT.]
[LADIES ALEXANDRA AND MAUD DUFF.]
[PRINCESS LOUISE OF CONNAUGHT.]
[PRINCESS ALICE OF ALBANY.]
[THE DUKE OF ALBANY.]

The portraits of the Prince and Princesses of Connaught were specially taken by Mr. R. Speaight for this article, and most of the others taken by the same photographer are published by special permission of the Royal parents.

Princess Alice of Albany's great friend is her first cousin, the young Queen of Holland, and this in spite of the fact that she is three years younger than the girl-monarch. The Duchess of Albany has remained on very intimate terms with her sister, the Queen-mother of the Netherlands, and there has always been a constant interchange of visits between Claremont and the Dutch Court; indeed, the Duke and Princess Alice of Albany are the only members of the British Royal Family who can speak Dutch fluently, that language having been taught them by their Queen-cousin.

The four children of Princess Henry of Battenberg have had their childhood sadly shadowed by the death of their father, to whom they were all devotedly attached. In one matter their position differs very much from that of the other Royal children: that is, they have been thrown into peculiarly close relations with their venerable grandmother, and it is perhaps owing to this fact that the only girl among them, Princess Victoria Eugénie, is, although only eleven years old, said to be exceptionally intelligent and grown-up for her age.

Of Princess Beatrice's three sons, the eldest, Prince Alexander Albert, who is just twelve years old, is at school at Lyndhurst, but next year he will join the Britannia, for, like his uncle Prince Louis of Battenberg, he is very fond of the sea and wishes to enter the British Navy. Prince Leopold and Prince Maurice are too young for it to have been yet decided what career they will follow, but they will each enter a profession, for their position is a somewhat peculiar one. Unlike the young Duke of Albany, who was a peer from the moment of his birth, the children of Princess Beatrice have no legal rank, and their father, the late Prince Henry, was even desirous that they should not be habitually given the title of "Prince" or "Princess."

PRINCE GEORGE OF TECK.

In this matter, however, the Queen overruled his objection, though, curiously enough, Her Majesty did not seem desirous of doing so in the case of the children of the Duke and Duchess of Fife, notwithstanding the fact that when the elder, Lady Alexandra, was born she was considerably nearer the throne than had been Queen Victoria herself at the moment of her birth. The question of whether the eldest grandchild of the Prince and Princess of Wales should or should not be given the title of "Royal Highness" was actually discussed at some length, but as both the Duke and Duchess of Fife were very anxious that their child should only bear the title and have the precedence accorded to a Duke's daughter, the matter was arranged that way. Subsequent events—that is, the birth of the Duke and Duchess of York's three children—have proved how wisely the parents of Lady Alexandra Duff acted in this matter. As it is, the Ladies Alexandra and Maud Duff are in the happy position of having all the privileges and none of the responsibility of Royal birth. They are so far the only younger members of the Royal Family who have never been out of the United Kingdom, their lives having been spent between London, Norfolk, and Scotland. They are being brought up in the very simplest fashion compatible with their rank; indeed, the only public appearance, since her birth, made by Lady Alexandra was when she acted as bridesmaid to her aunt Princess Maud of Wales.

Of course, from many points of view, by far the most important group of Royal children is that composed of the two little sons and of the baby daughter of the heir-presumptive. Owing to the sad death of the Duke of Clarence there are only three lives between little Prince Edward of York and the throne, and far more care has been bestowed upon his education and general upbringing than is generally the case even with Royal children of so tender an age, for our King to be will not be five years old until the 23rd of next June.

THE BATTENBERGS.
[PRINCESS VICTORIA.]
[PRINCE ALEXANDER.]
[PRINCE LEOPOLD.]
[PRINCE MAURICE.]

As his names, Edward, Andrew, Patrick, and David, indicate, his grandparents and parents were anxious that the Prince should, from his birth, belong rather to the nation than to his family. It was seriously proposed that he should share the Queen's carriage on Diamond Jubilee Day, but the idea was given up when it was realised that the long slow drive through the streets of London would be a terrible ordeal for a three-year-old baby; thus, although little Prince Edward's Jubilee clothes were actually prepared, he only wore them at home, to the disappointment of his young mother, who would have liked her son to have gone down in history as having taken part in so great and noteworthy a pageant.

The Duke of York's second son, Prince Albert Frederick Arthur George, was born on the anniversary of the deaths of the Prince Consort and of Princess Alice, and so was three years old on the 14th of last December. Two years younger is Princess Victoria Alexandra Alice Mary, the youngest but not the least of Her Majesty's British great-grandchildren.

The child of Prince Adolphus of Teck—whose wife, it will be remembered, was Lady Margaret Grosvenor, a daughter of the Duke of Westminster—is Royal in the same sense as are the Ladies Alexandra and Maud Duff, and it is rather interesting to note that the three children all stand in the same intimate relationship to the future King of England, though even Prince Edward of York was not legally entitled to the name of "Royal Highness" until a special decree was passed in favour of all the children of the Duke of York.

A word on Royal children from the photographer's point of view.

Mr. Richard Speaight of Regent Street, who took all our photographs except those of the Duke of Albany and his sister Princess Alice of Albany, which were taken by Messrs. Gunn and Stuart of Richmond, speaks enthusiastically of them—and he is now quite a connoisseur of children.

He says he is always struck by the natural and careful way in which the children are brought up. The younger ones are always most obedient to their nurses, and they, on the other hand, are very jealous in guarding their Royal charges. They do not even allow them to sit to be photographed without hiding behind to hold them in case they should fall.

The photographs of the Duke of York's children were taken at Sandringham. They took great delight in the musical and clockwork toys which Mr. Speaight took with him; and when the operation was finished, Prince Edward, shaking hands with his photographer, thanked him for the trouble he had taken.

THE COVER FOR BINDING OUR FIRST VOLUME.
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Here is a small facsimile of the charming cover which has been designed for binding the first volume of The Harmsworth Magazine, which is completed with the issue of this number.

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The design is copyright, and any local bookbinder infringing it will be prosecuted. The initials of Harmsworth Bros., "H. B.," will be found on the back and side of every genuine cover, and none should be accepted without them.

THIS IS A SKETCH OF THE PRETTY COVER FOR BINDING OUR FIRST VOLUME.

This cover can be obtained from any bookseller or newsman, price 1s. 3d., or it will be sent, post free, on receipt of 1s. 6d., on application to the Publisher, Harmsworth Bros., Ltd., 24, Tudor Street, E.C.

An Index to the volume is also now ready, price threepence.

Everyone should bind the six numbers of The Harmsworth Magazine, for they make a most delightful, attractive, and interesting volume.

[LONDON'S LATEST LION.]

AN EMPIRE MAKER'S LOVE STORY.
By Gilbert Dayle.
Illustrated by Fred Pegram.

It was dusk on a summer evening, as a tall broad-shouldered man made his way down a path that led through the Vicarage garden at Winchmere.

Reaching the roadway, he turned and, with one arm resting on the gate, gazed at the rambling house with its clustering ivy and old-fashioned windows.

"To all appearances just the same," he said, musingly, "yet how different it is—strange faces, strange voices! A short eight years, and I return to find my old friend dead, almost forgotten, and She vanished—swallowed up by the world!"

He sighed heavily, then turned and set out down the country road in the direction of the railway station.

"It's the bitterest disappointment I could have met with!" he went on; "but—I shall find her. Yes, I shall find her!" And as he spoke the step of the tall bronzed man quickened into a resolute stride.

Halton Towers, the country residence of Earl Kenwell, was a magnificent place, situated in the heart of Berkshire. On a certain morning in July, a governess and her two charges were sitting at a table in the schoolroom. The governess, a pretty girl of about twenty-four, was attempting to instil some elementary ideas of geography into the head of her eldest pupil, a boy some six years old.

Presently the door opened, and a party of people trooped into the room. Their leader, Lady Dorothy Kenwell, looked smilingly at the governess. She was young, and considered to be one of the most beautiful women in the country.

"You don't mind us coming in just for a minute, Miss Grahame?" she asked. "These absurd people declared that nothing would satisfy them but seeing the children."

Lord Scaife (to his intimates he was known as "Bobbie") stepped forward and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder, whilst his cousin, Miss Julia Crofton, put her arm round the little girl's neck and kissed her impulsively. A few feet away in the background stood the remaining member of the party, Count Morlot. He was a slimly built man of foreign appearance. A slight smile hovered round his lips as he watched the scene.

"'NOTHING WOULD SATISFY THESE ABSURD PEOPLE BUT SEEING THE CHILDREN,' SAID LADY DOROTHY."

"Well, Jim, my lad," began Lord Bobbie, cheerfully, "what has Miss Grahame been driving into your precious young head this morning?"

"Jogruffy," replied Master Jim.

Lord Bobbie bent down over the atlas that was open on the table.

"Africa, eh? Well, it's a great country, particularly the southern part of it. It's where the millionaires come from."

Lady Dorothy took hold of Jim's hand and guided it to a certain part of the map.

"Look, Jim, dear, this map is not up to date, and this piece I'm showing you should be coloured red—British, you know. The country is now——"

"British Kafangaland!" put in little Jim, eagerly.

"Bravo, youngster! Who told you that?" asked Bobbie.

"Miss Grahame," answered Jim, "and she said that it had nearly all been done by one man—a very good man."

Lady Dorothy shot a smile at Miss Grahame, then bent over her little cousin again.

"Yes, Jim, and he is coming here, this very morning. What do you think of that?"

Jim turned open-mouthed in his chair.

"Shall I see him," he gasped, "the man who has turned this big patch red?"

"Yes, my boy," laughed Lord Bobbie, "you'll see him, our most modern Empire-maker, the uncrowned King of British Kafangaland—London's latest lion——" He paused.

"Anything more, Bobbie?" queried Julia Crofton.

"No, I don't think so. I was wondering what qualities he possessed to have put him so far ahead of the other pioneers out there."

Count Morlot drew a little nearer to the group.

"In buccaneering circles," he remarked, with a smile, "the man who is most unscrupulous is the man who wins. Probably this fact accounts for Mr. Winn's marvellous successes."

Lady Dorothy drew herself up, and, swinging round, faced the Count. There was a touch of crimson on her cheeks.

"You have evidently never met Alan Winn, Count Morlot," she said, with flashing eyes. "He is the soul of honesty—and a true man!"

Without waiting for any reply, she moved quickly towards the door, and swept out of the room. There was a dead silence. All eyes were fixed on the Count. He gave a barely perceptible shrug of the shoulders, as he glanced at the door through which Lady Dorothy had made her retreat.

Julia Crofton was the first to speak.

"Come along, Bobbie," she said, "you promised to take me to see the fruit-garden."

"Certainly," replied Lord Bobbie, with alacrity. He crossed the room and opened the door.

"See you presently, Count," he said. "Good morning, Miss Grahame; ta-ta, Jim, don't be too much of a nuisance."

The Count waited a few seconds after the couple had disappeared, then bowed to the governess and took his departure.

Olive Grahame did not immediately return to the children. She stood staring absently into the middle of the room. There was still a picture before her, of a woman supremely beautiful, standing with lifted head, her glorious eyes flashing indignantly, as she defended the character of Alan Winn. She sighed softly.

"He cannot help loving her!" she whispered to herself. "It is better for him not to see me!"

She was roused from her reflections by a touch on the hand. Master Jim had slipped down from his seat and crossed to her.

"Miss Grahame," he said, pleadingly, "may I get my paint-box and put in that piece of red on the map. I shouldn't like the man who did it all to see my atlas, and then find it not there. May I?"

Olive Grahame bent down and kissed the eager young face.

"Yes, dear," she said, softly.

Meanwhile Julia Crofton and Lord Bobbie had found a pleasant seat in the garden. They were two young people who found enjoyment in discussing together the affairs of others, and incidentally their own. They did not love one another, and had not the slightest intention of doing so. They were simply, as Julia put it, "good pals." Lord Bobbie described his cousin, who was sportively inclined, not at all pretty, and addicted to the occasional use of slang, as a "brick"; and Julia returned the compliment by declaring that Bobbie was an "awfully good sort, with no nonsense to speak of about him."

Lord Bobbie lighted a cigarette.

"I'm hanged if I like that Frenchman!" he exclaimed. "Who is he, and how on earth did he get into Kenwell's house?"

"He is a protégé of old Lady Steele, and she had him invited here. She says that he has such charming manners, and she trots him about everywhere with her."

"Wouldn't mind betting he's an adventurer," growled Bobbie. "He has got the cut of a Monte Carlo sharp. Didn't Dolly look fine as she snubbed him? If ever there was a case of a woman openly showing her admiration for a man, this is one. She positively adores Winn. Confound him!" he added, with an air of disgust.