and yet so far. How little does the narrow streak, poetically described as silver, which has been spanned in almost every conceivable way, measure the moral gulf between the two nations whom it divides! Language, character, manners, modes of living, all as distinct as though they belonged to different planets. No wonder their histories have been chronicles of antagonism. On the Sabbath, especially, the contrast is most suggestive. While in Dover it is being kept "de rigueur," as regards external indications of reverence, no secular sounds being heard save those proceeding from military bands, playing their regiments to church, on the other side of the "street" the people are plunged in a vortex of pleasure, and everything wears the aspect of a fair. So close is the juxtaposition that one may literally, in the short space of an hour, "look on this picture and on that." The people of Calais are said to detest the Dover Sabbath, and cannot, in fact, be induced by cheap fares to visit it in any considerable numbers on that day. The closed shops, the absence of amusements, the general air of gloom, and repellent aspect of the inhabitants at the slightest exhibition of hilarity, fill them with amazement and disgust. One of them remarked to me. "You call this your day of rest, to me it looks like a day of mourning." Dover is perhaps an exceptionally austere town, an obligation assumed in virtue of its proud and time-honoured position as guardian of the Straits. The curious part of the circumstance is that we regard it as proof of our superior civilisation, and the French as evidence of our barbarism. Which is right? Of the two towns, Calais is the more enterprising and populous, having much more to show in the way of industries and shipping; Dover the more attractive and agreeable as a place of residence. It is, indeed, suggestive of comment, that Dover, though well situated and adapted to be a great port, is really very badly provided, and far inferior in the volume of its trade to Calais, which has fewer natural advantages. Even as regards the industry of fishing, our Gallic neighbours would appear to be much more enterprising, the number of boats engaged in the trade from Calais, Dunkerque, and Boulogne, far exceeding that from the opposite English ports of Dover, Ramsgate, and Folkestone. I am afraid it must be added, in view of the constantly recurring complaints, that the Frenchmen are much less scrupulous as to the legal limits and moral obligations involved; the charges being invariably made against, not by, them. This state of things is not quite in keeping with our general character for maritime supremacy, and we might reasonably expect the South Coast ports, and the premier Cinque Port of Dover in particular, whose fishing fleet is comparatively insignificant, to do better. It is not creditable in these hard times, that the harvest of the sea in the neighbourhood of the Straits should mainly be reaped by Frenchmen, and that the port of Dover should practically serve their interests more than that of our own countrymen. That this is so is abundantly evident during the prevalence of stormy weather, when Dover Harbour is crowded with French fishing smacks, which have been unable to make their own ports. From the picturesque point of view, the advantage is all on the side of Dover. There is nothing on the other side to compare with the stately aspect of Shakespeare's Cliff, whose tall, white front glistens in the sunshine like some Alpine's snowy crest; the wild beauty of the Warren; or the imposing boldness of the fortified heights, crowned by the proud Castle, whose gray battlements have looked down upon so many moving incidents in the history of the past. What a world of emotions those objects have inspired among successive generations of travellers, who, satiated with the gaiety and splendour of foreign scenes, have burned with impatience to reach that "Dear Old England," absence from which had served only to make the heart grow fonder! POOR FOLK. A STORY IN SEVEN CHAPTERS. By the Author of "David Ward," "The Story of a Sorrow," "A Dreadful Mésalliance," etc. etc. CHAPTER VI GET out the ploughs? What did Taylor mean? Gordon had not time to deliberate, or did not allow himself time, with that red glow steadily broadening in the east. He had now been long enough in the colony to realise what a Bush fire meant, with the flames swinging themselves from tree to tree, and their hungry tongues licking the short stubble left from the harvest or the ripened crop which was ready for the sickle, clasping the dwelling house, too, perhaps in its fiery embrace, and leaving it a blackened heap of ashes. And a Bush fire was nearing them now, bearing possible ruin on its wings for master. But not if Gordon could help it! His heart pulsated as though it would leap from his breast; and he burst like an avalanche into the room where Smith and Jenkins were asleep. "The Bush is on fire," he cried, shaking them alternately, "and master says we are to get out the ploughs." Smith sat up in bed, his mouth wide open, his eyes starting. Jenkins rubbed his face sleepily. "The ploughs!" he said; "ay, to plough down the grass and stubble." After his first moment of bewilderment, Smith rolled himself slowly to the floor and began to dress. "What must I do first? Shall I loose the cattle?" "What would you loose the cattle for?" he answered surlily. "We'll save the place and the cattle too." He had looked out on the broadening sheet of flame and saw that the fire was still some miles off; but, as a wind had risen, and was blowing steadily from the region of the fire, he recognised the greatness of the danger. "If you want to do something, go and yoke the horses to the ploughs," he said after a pause. When Gordon came out to the yard again Taylor was there, his hands in his pockets, his white face warmed a little by the glow in the sky. "It is ruin," he said in a shaken voice, turning to the boy. "No, it isn't," Gordon answered cheerily, "not if we can hinder it. Will you help me to yoke the ploughs?" "I don't think it's much use," he answered apathetically. "We shall see." "What shall I do now?" Gordon asked, as the three teams stood ready. "There is nothing you can do," Taylor answered slowly; then, with a glance towards the river in the distance, "I don't think we need fear for our lives, the river can be reached at the worst; but as to all I have in the world, I consider that quite lost." "Where shall we put in the ploughs?" Smith asked, his voice shaking a little. "Make a small circle round the house; we shall not have time to compass much before the fire is on us." "I don't mean to lose the hay," Jenkins answered doggedly, and headed the horses away to a distance beyond it. The hay was worth many hundred pounds, and stood in half-a-dozen magnificent pikes on the windward side of the house. That gave Gordon an idea. Aided by the terrified black fellows, who kept casting wild glances towards the river, he collected every bucket and tub about the place and filled them with water from the pump; then he gathered all the rugs, blankets, horse-cloths, and sheets of tarpaulin that could be found and saturated them thoroughly. "What dat for?" one of the blacks asked, with a ghastly grin composed of terror and amusement. "You'll see. Fetch me the long ladder." As Black Davy did not very well know where the long ladder was to be found, Gordon got it himself, and resting it against the roof, saturated the building, which was dry as tinder, with the buckets of water that were handed up to him. Douche, douche, douche! went torrents everywhere, while Black Johnnie toiled at the pump, and Davy passed the water up to Gordon. Never, even in a hurricane time, had the whole premises been so drenched. dawn. "Now for the hay," Gordon said, when There were two ploughs in good con- stables, granary, and cowhouses stood dedition on the place, and one that had re-jectedly dripping in the grey light of ceived an injury and been temporarily laid aside; but this, too, was pressed into service. The oxen could draw it somehow or other, and work for Taylor was imperatively necessary. The principal farm-work for the year was over; but a couple of black fellows still loitered about the place, and these had joined the others, and were watching the spreading flame with wild eyes, like restive horses ready to bolt. "Water spoil hay," one of the black fellows suggested, dubiously scratching his curly head. "I'm not going to soak it," Gordon answered with a nervous laugh, born of his excitement; "I'm only going to cover it with wet blankets on the side nearest the fire, so that, if any bits of burning stuff should touch them, they may still have a chance." "White fellow berry smart fellow," the black said admiringly. The hay was covered as far as the cloths extended, more water was dashed over the houses, and then, providing himself and each of the blacks with a long hay-fork, Gordon took his stand on the side nearest the fire, and not a moment too soon, for the flames were approaching with giant strides. Miles of timber had been rung the previous year for burning, and was now as dry as tinder, and the fierce wind blew the light messmate bark long distances ahead, so that showers of burning wood had already fired fences, crops, and houses that would have been safe in an ordinary brushwood fire. "Black fellows run berry soon," the two natives said, as they looked at each other with dismal countenances. Taylor had seated himself apathetically on the doorstep, with his haggard eyes dully fixed on the approaching enemy. Overhead the forest birds were screaming wildly as they flew in thousands towards the river, while savage woodland creatures ventured timidly within the charmed circle traced by the ploughs. Under the paralysing influence of terror, the very polecats had grown tame. And still Gordon and the two black fellows stood their ground, while the hot embers fell in showers around them, and the air that breathed over them was like blasts from a furnace-fire. Smith and Jenkins had seated themselves despairingly beside their master. There was nothing more for them to do, and that made endurance worse. But when, in spite of Gordon's efforts, one of the hay pikes caught fire, then both master and men were galvanised into life. Now was seen the utility of Gordon's precautions. As the burning bark was carried over the rapidly widening circle There is nothing that burns so resolutely which the ploughs were tracing to be flung as hay, nothing that catches fire so easily. on the hay or the house-tops, Gordon dis- Perhaps Gordon had abated his watchfullodged it from the wet cloths or the smok-ness a little, for the flames were to right ing roofs with his long fork, and stamped the life out of it under his thick boots. And the blacks, when they saw his meaning, stood to him manfully, detecting with their keen eyes a flying scout and its destination long before it had alighted, and attacking it with the glee of children. Meantime the solid wall of flame had neared the barrier of upturned earth, a barrier now about twenty-five feet wide, and the sight it offered was magnificent. and left of them now, and outside the charmed circle, and the burning bark was being borne further afield, when suddenly a solid wedge of flame dropped on the hay itself, a foot or so beyond the wet covering. Instantaneously the black fellows flung away their forks, and fled with cries of dismay. For an instant no one knew what to do. Taylor stood at a distance wringing his hands. His wheat and oats were lost already, must his hay and the homestead go next? In front the flames were like the solid phalanx of a demon army, moving forward To a farmer, his crops and cattle are with swift and deadly malignity, and al- part of his very life: money will not reready raising a chorus of triumph to the place them, and the farm goes to ruin withdark sky. In the distance the wild devas-out them. To most men, the cattle in the tation had abated a little but the incandescent landscape glowed with the sullen triumph of accomplished ruin, while the dome of the sky reflected it. Many a devastated homestead marked its riotous course; many an impoverished family had given their little all to speed its progress. "Now we have done all in our power," Taylor said, as he led back the steaming oxen into the farm-yard, and having unhitched them, mechanically conducted them to their stalls; but he did not fasten them up-they, too, should have a chance for life if the worst came to the worst. The cattle in the sheds, the pigs in the styes, were giving voice to their terror, and that seemed to accentuate the anguish of the hour. stalls, the grain in the fields or on the threshing floor, represent the toil and economy, and hopes of an entire year. To Taylor Wonga Farm represented the labour of his lifetime. What mattered the money in the bank? Would it keep him from breaking his heart, if everything that was close at hand, and personal, and vital were lost? But Gordon had all his wits about him. For a moment the disaster, against which he had thought himself secure, staggered him, but he had a quick brain to think. The burning hay could not be saved, that was certain; for the side of the pike was already a glowing solid mass of fire. to prevent it spreading was the one essential. With pitchfork and gigantic hay knives the men tore and cut at the un But touched side of the pike, carrying the rescued hay bodily to a distance; about one-half they left to burn, while they stood over it shepherding it. And by-andby the danger passed. The flames died down into a heap of shining, silky dust, while the forest fire swept onward towards the river, and extinguished itself there. "I shall never forget how true you have all shown yourselves," Taylor said in a choked voice; "but," turning to Gordon," it is to you that I owe everything that is left." And for once, Smith and Jenkins did not protest, even to their own hearts. Taylor went to his room and closed himself in there. He felt prostrated, and he wanted to be alone; while the three he left behind him sat on the doorstep discussing the past danger in all its bearings. "You're a plucky one, I will say that for you," Smith said to Gordon approvingly; while Jenkins, induced thereto by Smith's warmth, shook hands with him silently. The two men made an unspoken truce with the boy there and then, and kept it thenceforward as well as they could. In that supreme trial they knew they had acquitted themselves heroically, and so were ready to treat generously a greater than themselves. But commonplace duties have to be performed even after great labours, and Gordon was the first to remember that the cattle in the stalls needed seeing after, and that they were themselves hungry as well as very weary. When the breakfast was cooked and eaten, the animals fed, and other morning duties performed, then for the first time the boy's nervous tension relaxed, and, throwing himself on his hard stretcher, he fell into the deep sleep of utter exhaustion, while the midday sun looked down on the marred and devastated landscape, through the veil of smoke left by the fire. winter; but what of the stock in the remote meadows? What of the hundreds of sheep that in themselves had been worth a little fortune but a day ago? The piece of ground that had been rescued was like an oasis in a black desert of ashes. When Taylor looked forth on the horrible waste, extending for miles around, he felt as if the desolation would kill him. Of course things had been as bad, though in another way, once, before even the bit of soil he stood on had been reclaimed from the Bush; but he had been young then and full of strength and energy, with only Nature to contend against; now it was against something worse, against something unnatural and monstrousagainst the fire fiend which had broken loose and overwhelmed him. He moved aimlessly and restlessly about the house all day, speaking to no one. In the evening he wandered forth, taking his way aimlessly across the blackened stretch of ground extending between the farmhouse and the river. Desolation everywhere, not a living thing but himself stirring in earth or sky. Along the bank of the river carcases of cattle lay strewn-cattle marked with his own and other brands; in the water, mingled with charred wood and other débris, dead sheep floated, their thick wool matted with blackened embers. "The poor, innocent beasties ! he thought, his throat swelling. He was not thankful for his saved life, nor for the possessions still left to him, he was rebellious because of all he had lost. Waste everywhere-before, behind, and around him; desolation so dead that not a wombat nor an opossum stirred, nor a sound, save the sullen rushing of the river, broke the silence. He looked round him despairingly, and hot, bitter tears rose in his eyes. After a long, laborious lifetime, after all his efforts and patience, this was hard. "Better to have been idle and wasteful, than to have toiled and saved for this," he thought. And then, suddenly, a shrill cry pierced the stillness, and a little child sped towards him along the bank of the rivera girl of five or six, with her clothes almost burned from her person, and her fair hair singed off close to her head. "Oh, sir," she cried, running to Taylor and clutching him. "What is it, dear?" looking down on the pretty face that was blurred and marred with weeping. "It is father; he is lying over there, so ill," pointing into the distance. "I don't see him, dear," Taylor answered, puzzled. "But he is there," impatiently, "a black heap on the other black heaps; don't you see?" "You had better take me to him," he said, offering her his hand. "We were burned out," she told him with a sob, as they moved forward. "We ran half the night, to get away from the fire, and we could not bring anything with us, not mother's picture, nor my best frock, nor anything; and, when the flames were coming nearer and nearer to us, father set fire to the wood in front. Oh, it was terrible, as if he wanted to make things worse; but he said no, because his fire might clear enough ground for us to stand on, before the big fire overtook us. And so it did, and we got in among the dying embers just where the big fire shut us in, as if we were in a cage. The hot cinders burned my feet, and then father lifted me to his shoulder. I asked him if they did not burn him, too; but he said his boots were thick. That was to keep me from worrying, you know," looking up at Taylor, while the tears rolled over her round, baby cheeks, "for I know now he was being burned all the time. He wanted to get to a place called Wonga Farm; but it was twenty miles away, and, when the fire ran so fast, he thought Wonga Farm would be burned up too. As soon as the cinders cooled a little, we sat down, and then I fell asleep. I could not help it, I was so tired, and when I awoke I was so hot and thirsty I felt as if I should die. Father looked dreadful ill; but he said it didn't matter, we must get to the river. I would not let him carry me any more, and we got along somehow. When I had had a drink I felt better, but he grew worse, and-but you shall see." She darted forward to what looked like a charred, twisted log lying on the sand of the river, and flung her arms round it. The stranger had been lying on his face, he turned now, laboriously, on his side, and looked at Taylor. His face was horribly burned and seamed, and his scorched clothing permitted glimpses of the reddened skin on his chest and arms. "I am afraid you are in great pain," Taylor said kindly. "Ay, burned up, as well as burned out; look at my feet!" Taylor did so, and shuddered. The man had endeavoured to take off his boots, and the skin and flesh had come with them in several places, leaving the muscles visible. "Oh, poor fellow!" Taylor cried with intense sympathy. "Ay, it is pretty bad; but I don't mind so much since I have found some one to look after the little 'un." Then, apathetically, as though his pain were of no consequence. "Did you lose much by the fire?" An hour before, Taylor would have answered in despair: "I have lost almost everything"; but looking at the wreck before him, he could not help feeling that he had been mercifully dealt with. "I have lost a good deal," he answered, "but I am not ruined." "I am glad of that. I hadn't much, but I lost it all; had to leave even the trifle of money hidden in the floor of the shanty, and haven't saved my life neither, nor anything but the little 'un." "You must not lose heart," Taylor said hopefully. "I shall have you carried to my house, and you will be well looked after there." "'Tisn't any good, stranger, though I shall be glad of a roof to die under. Standing an hour in a furnace, while the flesh is roasting off your bones, and then walking miles and miles with feet like that, don't help a man; but I don't complain a bit, since you have turned up to look after the little 'un." Then after a pause, languidly, "You will want a name to call her by. I am Dick Rayne, and she's my daughter Janet." Now Ready, price Sixpence. The Right of Translating Articles from ALL THE YEAR ROUND is reserved by the Authors. published at the Office, 26, Wellington Street, Strand. 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