BIRTHDAY EVE.

In spite of my English name--Jack Crawford--and my English blood, I
have never set foot on that famous little island in the North Sea, and
now it is quite unlikely that I ever shall do so.

I was born in Peru, on the outskirts of beautiful Lima, where, until
the year 1819, on the very eve of my fourteenth birthday, the days of
my childhood were passed.

I expect you know that in ancient days Peru was called the "Land of the
Sun," because the sun was worshipped by the natives. Their great city
was Cuzco, built, it is said, in 1043 A.D., by Manco Capac, the first
of the Incas, or Emperors of Peru.

The natives believed Manco to be a child of the sun; but I have heard
an old story that his father was a shipwrecked Englishman, who married
the daughter of a Peruvian chief. I do not think this tale correct,
but it is full of interest.

Most of the Incas ruled very wisely, and the remains of palaces,
temples, and aqueducts show that the people were highly civilized; but
in 1534 the Spaniards, under Pizarro, invaded the country, and swept
away the glorious empire of the Incas.

After that Peru became a part of Spanish America, and Pizarro founded
the city of Lima, which he made the capital.

My father, who settled in the country when quite a young man, married a
Peruvian lady of wealthy and influential family. The estate near Lima
formed part of her marriage portion, and a beautiful place it was, with
a fine park, and a lake which served me both for boating and bathing.
I had several friends, chiefly Spaniards, but two English boys, whose
fathers were merchants in Callao, often visited me, and many a pleasant
game we had together.

At this time Peru was a Spanish colony, but some people, among whom was
my father, wanted to make it an independent country, having its own
ruler. Being still a boy, I did not hear much of these things, though,
from certain talk, I understood that the country was in a most
unsettled state, and that the Spanish governor had thrown many good men
into prison for urging the people to free themselves.

One evening, in March 1819, I was busy in my workshop painting a small
boat. My father had been absent for nearly a week, but he had promised
to return for my birthday, and every moment I expected to see him
crossing the courtyard.

Presently, hearing old Antonio unfasten the wicket-gate, I put down my
brush, wiped my hands, and ran out joyously.

The happy welcome died on