and often grows wild in the neglected recesses of the garden. The woody nightshade gains its name of bitter

DEADLY NIGHTSHADE-Atropa belladonna.

sweet from the flavour of the root, which tastes first bitter, and afterwards sweet. Its oval, brilliant scarlet

berries which, during winter, hang in glistening clusters from the leafless boughs, often tempt, by their beauty, young children to partake of their fatal poisonous juices. Its flowers are composed of a yellow cone and purple petals, and, you will observe, greatly resemble the potato blossom, which, in its botanical character, is closely allied to all the various species of poisonous nightshade; but all narcotic and unwholesome effects are removed by the cooking the potato undergoes when prepared for food. 'The poor man's bread, the rich man's luxury,' the potato, was brought from America by Sir Walter Raleigh, who first planted it in his garden at Youghall, near Cork. The Spaniards called it battata, which we corrupted into potato.

The deadly nightshade-Atropa belladonna-is a very different plant, much less common, but which also commences to flower in June. It may be found in the hedge-side, but more likely by some old ruin, or quarry edge, where its branching stems will often reach four or five feet high. It bears handsome purple flowers, drooping and bell-shaped, which grow in pairs, close to the large, dark-green leaves. Its berries, which from green become a beautiful glossy black, and are nearly as large as a cherry, are highly poisonous, and it is said half of one is sufficient to prove fatal. History relates how the army of Sweno the Dane, when he invaded Scotland, fell victims to the faithless Scots, who, during a truce, mixed the berries in the drink of the Danes, and then murdered them when under the influence of the stupefying sleep it produced.

Its botanical name of Atropa belladonna is a somewhat incongruous and strange on. That of Atropa has doubtless been bestowed on account of its poisonous properties, and is taken from Atropos, a powerful goddess, one of the Fates, or Parcæ, three sisters whom the ancients supposed to preside over the birth and life of mankind. Atropos was the eldest, and believed to cut the thread of human life with a pair of scissors. The other name of

Belladonna, or fine lady, is given in consequence of the use made of the plant by Italian ladies to remove pimples from the skin; and many in our own land use a wash made from it for beautifying their faces. As a remedy in some cases of diseases in the eye it is most valuable, and has the power, when rubbed on the eyelid, of enlarging the pupil. Therefore it has been named

'The herb that expands man's eye to the light,

The fair lady who leads to the shades of night.'

The nightshades are all dangerous, and I would not have my young friends interfere much with them, and, above all, never raise a berry to their lips. It is unsafe to taste any of the many wild-berries we may gather in a ramble, however tempting their appearance may be, for many a fatal poison lurks beneath their beauty, and a long acquaintance is needed before we can recognise the deadly from the innocent. Many a young life has been sacrificed by the foolish and too common habit which children have, of 'just tasting' the attractive bright red or jet black fruits of many of the wild plants that adorn our commonest waysides. My little friends, be

ye wiser. L. P.

UNCLE GODFREY'S STORIES OF
LIFE IN THE BUSH.

HOW WE WERE 'STUCK UP' BY THE BUSHRANGERS.

KNOW a secret! a secret!' said little Lydia St. Clair, jumping about the playroom in Arundel Manor, in which her two brothers, Ronald and Lewis, were standing gazing disconsolately out of the window, watching the fast falling snow.

'Well, what is it, then, Pussy?' said Ronald. 'A pleasant one, surely, to make you look so bright on an afternoon like this."

B

6 Oh

yes; such a delightful one, Ronald! Mamma told me that somebody is coming!-guess who.'

'Not Mr. Murray, surely, Lydia? We don't want him; he's as cross as can be.'

'No, no. Guess again.'

'Well, let's see. Is it Miss Wilmot? She's well enough; but she's no fun.'

'No, 'tis not Miss Wilmot, though I think she is very nice. But it is somebody we all like-oh, so very much! -next best to papa and mamma;' and Lydia jumped for joy as she spoke.

Suddenly both boys wheeled round from the window. 'You don't mean to say 'tis Uncle Godfrey, Lydia ?' they said in one breath.

Lydia clapped her hands.

'You've guessed! you've guessed!' she said. 'Uncle Godfrey's coming this afternoon; mamma told me so. Isn't it nice?'

'Uncle Godfrey's coming!' shouted the boys. That's jolly news. Won't we have a famous story to-night about life in the Bush! You know he promised to tell us one the next time he came to the manor, and he is not one to break his word. Hurrah! hurrah!'

That Godfrey St. Clair's visits were looked forward to with pleasure by his young nephews and niece at the manor was not to be wondered at; for a better-informed, kinder-hearted Christian gentleman could not be found in all England. And, moreover, Uncle Godfrey having spent several years of his life in Australia, had a ready stock of true adventures, which he willingly related to his young friends, who declared that Uncle Godfrey's stories were the best that ever were told. No wonder, then, that the disclosure of Lydia's secret produced shouts of delight from the youngsters.

Scarcely had Uncle Godfrey got comfortably settled at the fireside that snowy night, when he was assailed by a more than ordinarily urgent request for a story—a real true one-of life in the Bush. Uncle Godfrey, nothing

loth to please, taking little Lydia on his knee, with a boy standing on each side of him, began the story of 'How we were stuck up by the Bushrangers.'

'Bushrangers!' said Lydia;

what are they, uncle?' 'Well, Lydia, I think if I were to describe them as a set of the worst robbers in the world, I would not be far wrong. In fact, they are, in many instances, runaway convicts, that is, men who have been sent out of this country for crimes committed. They are obliged to work hard, under close superintendence, for a certain number of years; but in many cases they escape, and, making for the wilds of Australia called the Bush, gain their livelihood by attacking and plundering peaceable persons-"sticking them up," as the phrase is-with a revolver at each ear, ready to fire off in the case of resistance. Bushranging is now become a regular institution in New South Wales, in spite of all that can be done to put it down. But at the time the story I am going to tell you of took place, "sticking up" was still in its infancy.

'In the year 1863, Uncle Wilfred and I were travelling from a place called Young to one many miles distant, called the Lachlan. We travelled in two drays, which we had stored with a variety of things, such as butter, eggs, oats, etc., and, what you children will wonder at, a large quantity of calico. But, you see, in these places we knew we would easily dispose of anything of that kind, and at good prices too. Our way of life was very pleasant. We had glorious weather; and at night we hobbled 1 the horses, and lay down to sleep under the dray, calmly trusting ourselves to the care of our heavenly Father, who slumbers not nor sleeps. Then as to our meals, we cooked and ate them as we required.'

'What a famous life!' said the boys. Just like the gipsies.'

1

'Well, it was pleasant enough to begin with; and for

1 The fore-legs of the horse are fastened together with a rope or thong, so as to prevent them straying far away from the encampment. This is called 'hobbling.'