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[Illustration: THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.--NO. 981.]      OCTOBER 15, 1898.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.]




OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;

OR,

VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.


[Illustration: COTTAGES AND MILL AT AMERSHAM.]

_All rights reserved._]

As our papers upon "The Characteristic Church Towers of English
Counties" appear to have interested our readers, it is possible they
may be willing to peruse these remarks upon the old dwellings, and some
other objects which surround country churches.

We fear there can be no doubt that our village architecture has
deteriorated, and that the cottage of to-day is scarcely, if ever, as
beautiful as that of former times.

Nor is this our only cause for regret, for, unfortunately, our
beautiful old village architecture is disappearing so rapidly, that it
is to be feared there will be nothing left to convey to the minds of
those who come after us any idea of its charm.

When one speaks of "English villages," it is advisable to point out
that those small country towns which are erected after the same manner
and method are included; that is to say, those which are contained
in one single parish, and which possess houses of small scale with
rustic adjuncts, gardens, orchards, farm-buildings, etc. There is
architecturally no difference between a village and a town of this
description. It makes no difference whether the houses are built in
rows or are detached. The beautiful village of Ayot St. Lawrence,
in Hertfordshire, has houses arranged in rows, and so had Eaton, in
Norfolk, before its rebuilding some years back. The notion that country
houses should always be detached, or semi-detached, has led to much
injudicious arrangement in suburban building estates. If there is land
to spare, isolate your houses, but if not, no good end is answered by
detaching them so as to leave wretched narrow passages between them,
which are always damp, gloomy, and too frequently become receptacles
for disused and broken articles, which would be far better put on the
fire or given to the dustman. If houses are detached, or semi-detached,
there should always be a space twelve or fifteen feet between them
(unless, of course, the houses are very low), otherwise the rooms
bordering upon the opening are damp and cold.

[Illustration: At Fordwich.]

English country towns differ completely from continental ones chiefly
for this reason. On the Continent, towns were nearly always fortified
and surrounded by walls, though often their population was that of
a mere village. These little fortified places are in Germany called
"dwarf cities," to distinguish them from the "dorf," or "village." In
England, however, small towns were rarely fortified or walled, except
when they were situated upon the sea-coast, where they had to be ready
to resist the landing of some foreign enemy. Lyme-Regis, Dorsetshire,
is an example of a small English fortified town, and it is quite
strange how much the place (of course we refer to the old portions of
it) impresses one with its continental aspect, because directly a town
is "circumvallated," every building within it has to be erected upon a
contracted space, and the houses are consequently developed in height,
so that they in no way differ from those of a city; in fact, the small
town might, architecturally, be a piece of some large city.

Such English towns as Amersham, Lavenham, Clare, Wheathamstead, etc.,
are, architecturally, large villages, and probably originated in the
same manner--_i.e._, they were dependencies upon some lordship or
monastery.

The English word "village" is derived from the Roman word "villa." The
villa was the castle or manorial house of the proprietor of the land
surrounded by a series of humble structures inhabited by his labourers
and "serfs." This was the "village" or dependency of the villa, and
hence its inhabitants were called "villains" (villani). Now we are
aware that some modern writers attempt to derive these words from the
German "wealh" (a welchman), yet the old and usually received idea
seems so obvious that we accept it.

How the meaning of the words "villa" and "villain" have been changed,
and yet how singularly the old word "village" has retained its meaning!

The modern stucco, semi-detached "desirable residence," with its four
or six rooms, with its "rustic porch" and gritty front garden, is a
strange parody upon the stately villa of old, and the good, honest
villager is neither a "villain" nor "a Welshman." He may sometimes be
the latter, and justly proud of his origin, but, in any case, he is
very unlike our conception of a villain. If recent newspaper reports
can be trusted, that character is rather personified by the London
"loafer" and his most modern representative "the Hooligan."

When the villages increased in size and became important, usually
in the 13th century, many of them claimed municipal privileges,
were called towns, and erected "town halls," which are often
highly-picturesque structures. That at Ledbury, Herefordshire, is an
interesting example which probably dates from the 16th century. They
are generally supported upon pillars so as to leave the ground-floor an
open, covered space which served as a market.

Very charming are these villages and small country towns with their
quaint old cottages and picturesque little houses bordering the wide
street. Great elms shade the foot-path, and sweet gardens are at
the side or back of each dwelling. Perhaps a clear river winds its
way amidst the ruddy buildings, its banks converted into diminutive
kitchen-gardens, and crossed here and there by bridges. The long low
building of a water-mill seems to block the way altogether, but in
reality it simply utilises the water to turn its wheels, and we shall
find the river on the opposite side with its waters banked up some
six or eight feet higher, changed in character, looking more still
and deep, reflecting the surrounding objects in a still, silent pool,
shaded by lofty trees, its banks clothed with deep grass plantains,
huge docks and marsh mallows, a spot where, on a sunny day, an
irresistible inclination seizes one to lie down on the cool earth. The
clinging foliage seems to second the invitation, and one throws oneself
down upon this sweet verdant couch to "dream with one's eyes open," for
who could close them in such an enchanting spot? But somehow or other,
whether it is the "whirr" of the water-wheel, the fragrant scents of
the plants we are crushing, or the peace surrounding one, time seems to
glide away, and, upon consulting our watch, we discover the mysterious
fact that the day has become two hours shorter! Of course we have not
been to sleep!

Such village scenes and sensations are to be witnessed at Amersham,
Cringleford, and many other spots in England which have still retained
their old village surroundings.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration: TOWN HALL, LEDBURY.]




HOUSEHOLD HINTS.


A GOOD black straw hat and bonnet, changed at the seasons with
suitable blossoms, is the most economical and ladylike fashion, but
the artificial flowers should be very good of their kind--those with
silk or velvet petals look the best and most natural, and can be used a
second season if carefully brushed and put away.

THOSE who have to wear spectacles and eyeglasses should be very careful
that the centre of the glass is exactly opposite the centre of the eye.
If not, they should be altered to make them so.

IF hair is washed with soap it is apt to make it brittle, so it should
be afterwards rinsed with a little borax in water.

A LITTLE ammonia in the water in which china is washed makes it
glossier and nicer in appearance.

A DRESS well made and of good material outlives several that are not,
and gives more satisfaction to the wearer, but it should be carefully
chosen as to colour, and not be too aggressive in pattern or tint.

[Illustration]




"OUR HERO."

BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of "Sun, Moon and Stars," "The Girl at the
Dower House," etc.


CHAPTER III.

IN THE YEAR 1803.

"A letter from Paris! Grandmamma, a letter from Paris!" cried Molly, as
she rushed into the dining-room of Mrs. Fairbank's Bath house, situated
not far from the renowned Pump-room. "Look! And it will be about Roy!
And it is in my papa's handwriting."

Polly followed close in rear of the eager child, hardly less eager
herself. She might at least hope for a message from Denham, perhaps to
say that a letter was coming.

Mrs. Fairbank, a comely elderly lady--in these days, with the
same weight of years, she would be no more than cheerfully
middle-aged--adjusted her horn spectacles, laid the letter on her knee,
tied her loosened cap-strings, and scrutinised Molly's excited face.

"You make too much of things, child," she remarked. "Whatever may
befall, it is never worth while to discompose yourself."

Then she lifted the letter, examined it, weighed it in either hand,
laid it down anew, and resumed her knitting. Molly's agony of suspense
and Polly's wistful eyes alike failed to touch her. Young folks, if
well brought up, were expected to submit without question to the
will of their elders, and Mrs. Fairbank had always been an excellent
disciplinarian. This was, in her eyes, much too good an opportunity for
a lesson in self-control to be neglected.

Molly stood, squeezing her hands together, wondering if the slow
moments would ever pass. Mrs. Fairbank serenely knitted, stopped to
count, and knitted again.

"I met Mrs. Peirce and Will in Milsom Street after breakfast," she
observed. "Mrs. Peirce informed me that the Admiral had a letter
yestere'en from his nephew, Mr. Albert Peirce."

Mrs. Fairbank's eyes wandered round the room in quest of something else
to remark upon.

"My dear Polly, you must surely have forgot! That piece of knitting
which was to have been done to-day----"

"I'll set to work upon it, ma'am. It won't take me but a very short
time. O Jack!"--and a note of relief could be heard.

"Jack!" gasped Molly, under her breath.

"My dear Jack!" and Mrs. Fairbank suspended her knitting to glance up
in pleased surprise.

The young man who walked in--he was hardly more than a boy in
years--bore small resemblance to Polly, though he was her brother. He
was of squarer build, slightly under medium height, and muscular in
make; his features were irregular, and the eyes were light blue instead
of brown. Beyond those good-humoured blue eyes and a fresh complexion,
Jack Keene had no pretensions to good looks; but many people, beside
his grandmother, counted him a very pleasant young fellow. Mrs.
Fairbank, after the manner of old ladies, simply doted on her grandson.
In her view he could almost do no wrong.

"Jack, Jack, there's a letter," whispered Molly, clutching at him.
"And, oh! she won't open it. She won't tell us how they are!"

"All right," murmured Jack. He understood Molly's whisper and the look
in Polly's face; and as he kissed his grandmother he took up the letter
which reposed upon her knee. No human being except Jack might have
ventured on such a liberty, but he was a privileged being. "Ah, from
France!" quoth Jack, with composure. "Will you allow me to open it,
ma'am? You are busy, and news of any sort or kind from France in these
days is to be welcomed."

Mrs. Fairbank took the letter from him with as near an approach to
displeasure in her manner as she ever showed towards Jack.

"You are pleased to be impatient," she remarked, with a sound of
reproof.

"Exceedingly, ma'am." Jack was always extra polite when bent upon his
own way.

Mrs. Fairbank examined the foreign missive afresh, studied the stamp,
and at length broke the seal, taking out a tiny enclosure, which was
addressed to Molly.

"From Roy," she said. "I think"--and there was a dubious pause--"I
think I may permit you to read this to yourself, child. Doubtless your
mamma has already seen it."

Molly fled to the window-seat, curled herself up there, and plunged
into the delights of Roy's epistle, seeing and hearing nothing
else. Mrs. Fairbank's face of growing concern failed to reach her
perceptions, and a murmured consultation which took place might have
gone on in China for all the impression that it made upon Molly. Roy's
prim round handwriting spoke to her as follows:--

    "MY DEAR MOLLY,--We got here yesterday all right, and it pours
    with rain to-day, so I am going to write to you. It is great
    fun being abroad, and all the children jabber away in French
    lingo, and don't know one word of English. I tried to speak to
    one man in French, but he didn't know what I meant any better
    than when I talked English, so I think they must be rather
    stupid, don't you?

    "We had such a voyage. It took ten whole hours getting from
    Dover to Calais, and I was dreadfully ill, and I haven't got
    right yet. My back aches like anything, but I don't mean to
    make a fuss, because that wouldn't be like a soldier.

    "We had to stop a night in Calais; they do fidget so about
    papers and things, there was no getting on sooner. And then
    we had a _chaise de poste_, with three horses side by side,
    and the horses were harnessed with ropes, not like our English
    harness. The ropes broke twice, and the postillions jumped off,
    just like monkeys, to put things right. They didn't seem to
    mind the ropes breaking one bit, and Den says he supposes they
    are used to it. But we hadn't got used to it.

    "We slept one night at Montreuil, and another at Amiens, and
    then we got to Chantilly. And the roads were most horribly bad,
    and so they are here in Paris, and when it rains hard, like
    to-day, the streets are flooded, and it smells so, and nobody
    can walk along without wading, at least in some parts.

    "We saw such a lot of ruined houses on our way to Paris,
    called _chateaux_. They used to be so pretty, Den says, and
    people lived in them, ladies and gentlemen, just as they do
    in country houses in England. And then they had their heads
    cut off in the Revolution, and the chateaux were left to go
    to wrack and ruin. I heard a lady say so yesterday. She is
    English, and she said it was very horrid, such a lot of people
    being killed, only just because they belonged to the nobility.
    Some of the chateaux that we saw had only poor people in them,
    and the windows were broken and the roofs were gone from the
    summer-houses, and the gardens were all wild and untidy. It is
    thirteen or fourteen years since the Revolution began, and when
    I get home I mean to read about it all with you.

    "I do wish you were here too, for there are heaps of things
    that I want to tell you. Everything is so different from
    England. It is nice to see, but I don't want to live in France.
    I like old England much much the best.

    "I have not been out to-day yet. Mamma thinks I have caught a
    bad cold. I wish people didn't take colds; they are such stupid
    silly things. Perhaps I shall be all right to-morrow, and then
    Den will take me all about everywhere. O dear me, I don't think
    I can write any more; I feel so sea-sick and funny. And Papa
    says----"

There was no ending to the letter, and Molly read it through a second
time. Then she hugged and kissed it tenderly, and at length carried it
across to the others.

"Roy has forgot to sign his name," she said. "I suppose he went out to
see the sights, and did not remember. My mamma thinks he has caught a
cold."

"Roy is far from well, my dear," Mrs. Fairbank observed solemnly. "He
was taken ill with a most unexpected disorder while writing to you, and
could not conclude. It is truly unfortunate."

"Roy--ill!"

"'Tis not good manners to repeat other people's words, Molly. Yes; Roy
has the small-pox. Doubtless he took it into his constitution before
ever he left England. He must have caught the infection from one of his
school-fellows."

Polly wound her kind arms round the image of childish woe.

"But numbers and numbers of people have the small-pox, Molly," she
said. "'Tis truly but a few who altogether escape, you know. And many
get over the complaint. Doubtless Roy will soon be well again--in a
few weeks." This was lame comfort, but what better could Polly say, in
those days of the awful unchecked scourge.

"Will his face be all marked?" sadly asked Molly, thinking of the
innumerable seamed and disfigured faces which she knew. "Will he become
like to Mr. Bryce?"

"Oh, I hope not, indeed. All who have it are not scarred. Captain Ivor
is not, yet he has had it." Polly's lips trembled, and she set them
firmly. "Think, Molly, is not Captain Ivor a dear brave man? He has
taken Roy into another house, and he will not let your father or mother
go near to Roy, or anyone that has not had the disorder. They never
have, as you know. And they were never inoculated, so they might catch
it. And he is nursing Roy himself. The people in the hotel would not
keep Roy, so soon as they knew that he had the small-pox, but a room
has been found, and Captain Ivor is there with him. And they hope it
will not be a severe attack. So in a little while I do think we shall
hear that he is better."

Molly was hard to comfort, and what wonder? Polly would have liked to
keep the ill news from her for some days, till perhaps better accounts
should arrive, but Mrs. Fairbank viewed the matter differently. "Worse
news might come, instead of better," she said.

No doubt that was true. Still, Molly might have been spared many weary
days of suspense. All her spirit went out of her, and she seemed to
care for nothing, except clinging to Polly and being told over and over
again that Roy would probably soon be well. Letters then were not, as
now, an everyday affair. Posts were slow and uncertain, and postage
was expensive, and people thought twice before putting pen to paper.
Roy's father promised to write again speedily, yet he waited till there
should be something definite to tell.

So day passed after day, and no further tidings arrived. The suspense
was almost as hard for Polly as for Molly; harder, perhaps, in some
respects, only as Ivor had had the disease, and had nursed a friend
through it two years earlier without being affected, he might be
counted personally safe. Nursing in those days was not a science;
trained nurses were unknown; and Roy could hardly have been in better
hands than those of the young Grenadier officer. But Polly knew that
his stay in Paris was likely to be much lengthened. Weeks might pass
before Roy would be well enough to travel, and before it would be safe
for either of them to go freely among other people. Ideas as to the
nature and extent of infection were vague, but small-pox was the terror
of everybody, and while there was little system in avoidance of the
danger, there was any amount of scare.

In all probability Denham would spend the whole of his leave in
attendance upon the boy, and when he returned he would have no time
to spare for Bath. Polly would have no chance of showing off her
tall Grenadier among friends and acquaintances. At present her fears
extended no further.

Meanwhile public events marched on with strides, and that month of May,
1803, was astir with events. The maintenance of peace between England
and France became daily more and more precarious. The feverish ambition
of Napoleon could know no rest, so long as he was fearlessly confronted
by a single nation in Europe.

One chief bone of contention was Malta. Napoleon had set his heart upon
getting Malta for himself, and England was equally bent on keeping
him out of Malta. By the treaty of the preceding year, England had
undertaken to evacuate the island, and to restore it to the knights of
St. John. But the withdrawal of English troops had been of necessity
delayed, until some means could be devised to save it from the grip of
Buonaparte; and the First Consul, by deliberately breaking some of his
own undertakings in the treaty, set England free as to her undertakings
also. Therefore Malta still remained in the hands of England, as did
Egypt and the Cape of Good Hope, each a source of jealous longing on
the part of the First Consul.

This state of tension steadily increased, until the breaking out of war
became merely a question of days. Large numbers of English had seized
the rare opportunity of a year free from fighting to travel in France;
and at this time there were something like eight or ten thousand
English, mainly of the upper classes, in that country.

It was unknown to them that, pending negotiations, the First Consul
caused careful returns to be sent to himself of the names and addresses
of all English people then within French borders. This bears a
suspicious look, when read in the light of his after act, and possibly
he already had in his mind the step which was soon to scandalise all
Christendom. The French papers heartily assured English travellers of
their absolute safety, even supposing that war should break out, and
doubtless the editors of those papers meant what they said. Few men, if
any, French or English, could have foreseen what was coming.

A homeward stampede took place, and the thousands were, by some
accounts, rapidly reduced to hundreds. A good many lingered, however,
not all detained, as were the Barons, by illness. War-clouds might
threaten, but that private travellers should be affected by a
declaration of war was a thing unheard of.

In May, suddenly at the last, though the step had been expected, the
English Ambassador was recalled from Paris, and immediately the French
Ambassador was recalled from London. Meanwhile, as a second step, the
English Government, issuing letters of marque, seized a number of
French vessels, which happened then to be lying in English ports. This,
it was said, actually took place before the Declaration of War could
reach Paris. If so, even though the deed was within English rights,
being sanctioned by previous centuries of custom, one must regret its
extreme haste. But no excuse can be found for Napoleon's illegal and
cruel act of reprisal, which indeed appeared to have been planned
beforehand.

Like a thundercrash came the order, before the close of May, arresting
all peaceable English travellers or residents in France, and rendering
them "Prisoners of War," or "Détenus," to be confined in France during
the pleasure of the First Consul.

Here is the shortened form of that direful order, as it was printed in
English newspapers, spreading dismay through hundreds of English homes,
and awakening a burst of anger against the man who had dealt the blow.

"The Government of the Republic, having heard read by the Minister
of Marines and Colonies a despatch from the Marine Prefect at Brest,
dated this day, announcing that two English frigates had taken two
French merchant vessels in the Bay of Audierne, without any previous
declaration of war, and in manifest violation of the laws of nations;

"First: It is prescribed to all commanders of squadrons or naval
divisions of the Republic, captains of its ships and other vessels of
war, to chase those of the King of England, as well as those vessels
belonging to his subjects, and to attack, capture, and conduct them
into the ports of the Republic;

"Secondly: Commissions will be delivered in course to those French
privateers for which they are demanded;

"Thirdly: All the English, from the age of eighteen to sixty, or
holding any commission from His Britannic Majesty, who are at present
in France, shall immediately be constituted Prisoners of War, to answer
for those citizens of the Republic who may have been arrested and made
prisoners by the vessels or subjects of His Britannic Majesty, previous
to any declaration of war.

    "The First Consul,
      "(Signed) BUONAPARTE."

(_To be continued._)




LESSONS FROM NATURE.

BY JEAN A. OWEN, Author of "Forest, Field and Fell," etc.


CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTORY.

Christ, the divine teacher, has taught us to go to nature for moral and
spiritual lessons. "Consider the lilies of the field," He says to those
who are anxious about, and careworn with the things of this life: and
that old triangle of a problem with its hard points: "What shall we
eat? what shall we drink? and wherewithal shall we be clothed?" does
press heavily on many even of those who read our GIRL'S OWN PAPER.
The fall of the sparrow, too, He tells us, is noted by His Father and
ours. He bids those who are neglectful of the talents given to them,
learn a lesson of the barren fig-tree. Again the rapid and marvellous
development of the mustard-tree, in the mouth of the great teacher,
becomes an image of the faith that He bids us have. And even when
speaking of the yearning love He had for souls, He did not disdain to
use the simile: "As a hen gathereth her young." And so, if the eyes
are quick to note all that surrounds us, all the wonderful life, "the
infinitely small" as well as "the infinitely great," and the heart
makes room for love, it will be possible to learn, from the first year
of our lives, until the day of our death here, lessons from nature
which no man or woman has ever yet exhausted, nor ever will.

One of my earliest memories is of an old-world garden where our mother,
who was an ardent lover of the beautiful, would direct the attention of
my sisters and myself to the pencilling on the petal of this and that
flower. God's finger painted the velvety face of the pansy, she told
us. And how often I pondered over this expression and wondered if that
finger did its work in the garden when we were asleep.

Our dear mother gave us a love for nature which has been our resource
and consolation in many a sorrow, and which has filled the void of what
would otherwise have been weary, monotonous hours.

Ruskin said, "Despise the earth or slander it, fix your eyes on its
gloom and forget its loveliness, and we do not thank you for your
languid or despairing perception of brightness in Heaven. But rise up
actively on the earth, learn what there is in it, and when, after that,
you say 'Heaven is bright,' it will be a precious truth." Lord Bacon
spoke fitly of the "_respondences_ of nature," and he with many other
great minds has dwelt on the marvellous analogies of nature. These
analogies are indeed evidences of the unity of creation. And there
are prefigurations which we may note in the animal kingdom, in the
various habits of the creatures, their works, economies and instincts.
Human art is prefigured in the work of the bee, the wasp, and the
beaver. Democritus averred that men learned weaving from spiders and
architecture from birds. Virgil said that the bees had in them a
portion of the divine mind.

The Psalmist likened a good man to a tree planted by a river;
Wordsworth writes constantly in a strain which bears witness to his
belief that between man and the flowers of the field there is the
closest affinity; in quaint George Herbert's poems we note also the
same teaching. Look them up, if you do not remember them, especially
that dear one called "The Flower."

How many great men have been influenced in their careers, careers which
have been great factors in the world's growth, by the sight of what to
many an unobservant or unthinking mind would seem too insignificant an
object for notice.

There was the great traveller and explorer, Mungo Park, who was
employed by the so-called African association to explore the interior
regions of Africa. Once, weary, disappointed, and baffled, he was on
the point of giving way to despair, when he suddenly came on a little
plant the sight of which, and the thoughts which its beauty suggested,
revived his courage and probably saved his life.

Most of you will remember also that beautiful story of Picciola, the
prison flower, the seed of which had fallen on the paved yard of a
prison where a noble Italian was confined. When he was in the lowest
state of despondency, and in danger perhaps of madness, the tiny
plant awakened interest, and daily delighted the poor prisoner as its
beauties unfolded, opening a little world of interest to the starved
heart and mind. When at last he was set at liberty he caused his
wall-flower to be transplanted and placed it in a border, in a place of
honour in his castle grounds. It had been made the instrument of his
salvation.

Some persons talk of things being insignificant or too small to notice.
Perhaps it will surprise some of our readers to hear that a common
house-fly is said to occupy the middle place in creation as regards the
size of known creatures. Most people can see big things, but the gift
of seeing tiny objects belongs rather to the few, and yet it may be
cultivated, and great enjoyment may be found in observing things which
seem to common minds to be unworthy of note--the simple, homely, and
smaller life that surrounds us. Mr. Leo Grindon, a great student of
life and a noted botanist, says very truly--

"To learn how to see and delight in little things, as well as in large,
is, in fact, to make no slight progress both in true intelligence and
in aptitude for genuine pleasure. Many laugh at the idea of being
pleased with little things, which, they say, 'please little minds.'
They should remember that the great mass of the population of our
planet consists of the merest pigmies, diminutive birds and fishes,
tiny insects, animalcules, only visible through a microscope, so
that to turn away from little things is to be indifferent to almost
everything the world contains. Besides, with Uranus eighty times
greater than the whole earth, Neptune a hundred and fifty times
greater, Saturn more than seven hundred times, and Jupiter more than
fourteen hundred, it is rather inconsistent to talk about littleness in
the objects of a world itself (comparatively) so puny."

"Our spring is in our lightsome girlish days."

Spring is the season of growth. Let us try to promote a healthy mental
growth by studying together in the wonderful book of nature and
appropriating some of those helpful lessons which she has to teach us.


THE PROVIDENT ANT.

The wise man, in the Book of Proverbs, speaks of the ant as one of
"four things which are little upon the earth," and yet are "exceeding
wise." He says that the ants are "a people not strong, yet they prepare
their meat in the summer." That is, when all in nature is at its
richest, when food abounds, they use forethought and gather in enough
to sustain themselves before the winter draws near, and the usual food
supplies have failed.

The Book of Job, that Eastern drama which is so wonderful in its
lessons suited to human experiences in all time, is marvellously
comprehensive in its illustrations drawn from the natural world. We are
taken there into the regions of ice and snow, and again we pass through
the rich verdure of the tropics. We try to sound the frozen deeps, and
anon survey the hot desert plains; we wander where the lion seeks his
prey, and through dense forests where behemoth, or the elephant, feeds.
The coral and the pearls are there, so are the gold ore, the iron, and
the brass. The Author shows us the ostrich "that scorneth the horse and
its rider, the hawk that stretched her wings towards the south like our
peregrine, the wander falke"--the eagle that makes her nest on high yet
"is with the slain on the earth beneath." And this great observer says,
"Ask now the beasts and they shall teach thee, and the fowls and they
shall tell thee, or speak to the earth and it shall teach thee, and the
fishes of the sea shall declare unto thee."

[Illustration: THE WOOD ANT (_Formica rufa_).

(_a_) Male; (_b_) female; (_c_) worker.]

The lessons to be learned from the ant are, of course, diligence and
a careful or prudent forethought for the future. Solomon says that
the ant "has no guide, overseer, or ruler," yet she provides, having
gathered in during the summer and the harvest time. How many of us
there are who seem to need tutors and governors to urge us on through
the duties of life, not only in childhood, but far on into man and
womanhood. Compulsory pressure from without alone rouses some of us to
action. Man thinks himself the lord of creation, and is yet far outdone
by a weak insect, not only in energy and persistent work, but often
positively in intelligence.

Perhaps you have, many of you, read of the so-called warrior ants, the
_Termites bellicosi_ of the more tropical regions. They do not belong
to the same order of insects as our own ants, and we are happily not
subjected to the havoc which their building and devouring works. Two
species of termites have, however, got established in France, notably
in Rochefort, La Rochelle, and Aix, and there they have undermined and
utterly ruined a number of houses. In one town they gnawed away the
supports of a dining-room before their ravages were detected, and the
floor gave way during a party, the host and his guests suddenly falling
through together.

Artillery charged with grapeshot has been employed to destroy great
fortresses that these ants have made in a tropical country. In South
Africa the termites work enormous havoc. They live in a social republic
of their own. Some of them, the males, have wings; the workmen, the
soldiers, and the queens however have none. The workmen construct their
buildings, the soldiers defend the colony and keep order, and the
females, or queens, are worshipped by all the others. These become in
point of fact mere egg-laying machines, which have at last to remain
tied to one spot.

Twenty feet high their nesting-homes often are, and pyramidal in shape.
Wild cattle can climb upon them with impunity without crushing them,
the walls are so solid. A dozen men can find shelter in some of their
chambers, and native hunters do often lie in wait inside them when
out after wild animals. They construct galleries also which are as
wide as the bore of a large cannon, and which run three and four feet
underground. The nests are said to be five hundred times as high as the
ant's body, and it has been estimated that if we built our houses as
high, proportionately, they would be four or five times as high as the
pyramids of Egypt, on which we look with such wonder and awe.

In speaking of the havoc some ants make, let us also remember some good
service rendered. In the West Indies there is a red cockroach which is
four times as large as the English one. It smells horridly, and scents
everything that it touches, is far more destructive than the ant, and
quite omnivorous. Now, although one cockroach in bulk outweighs two
hundred ants, the latter little creatures kill and devour innumerable
cockroaches. Whenever an ant comes upon a cockroach that is at rest,
eating, or in its hole, suddenly myriads appear, swarm round it, as if
by magic, surround it completely, and then, with one consent, rush all
over it, and as it is dragged away, you see only a mass of ants moving
along. All the time they carry they are busily devouring it, until only
its shell is left.

We read also that in forests in Switzerland and Sweden the ants form
lofty hillocks which serve as a compass to travellers who have lost
their way by night or in a fog. The nests being always made from east
to west, their peak is at the east end, which is steep, the ridge
sloping, however, gently down to the nest. So the wanderer can tell
from these ant-hills in which direction he ought to go.

Tamerlane, the great Tartar prince, learned a helpful lesson from
an ant once, when he had taken refuge from the pursuing enemy in a
ruined building. Having to stay there for hours, at the end of his
resources, ready to give way to despair, his attention was attracted
by an ant which was carrying something larger than itself up a high
wall. Noticing that it often let its burden drop, he began to count
the number of times that it began the ascent again, and he found that
sixty-nine times it failed, its burden falling to the ground. The
seventieth time was a success. "This sight," he said, "gave me courage
at the moment, and I have never forgotten the lesson it taught me."

Our own ants afford a marvellous study for those who can and will
give a little time to--as Solomon says--the considering of their
ways. Ants are said to stand higher than any other insects in
intelligence--so-called instinct. And insects in general have more of
this faculty developed in them than have any other creatures. They
are watchful, unwearying nurses; they take the eggs out on fine warm
days so as to warm and strengthen the coming ants, and they will wait,
to be cut in bits, rather than forsake their charge. When the eggs
are hatched, the nurses clean and brush their young, and even shampoo
the thin skin which cover their limbs, so that they can go free. Each
grown ant knows its own business and can, when necessary, fight its own
battles, and yet there is always a community; they have all things in
common and work for the general good. They are enduring, persevering,
faithful in friendships, and most industrious. One writer has said, in
describing an ant-hill, that whilst there was a twittering of birds,
and a buzz and hum of insect life around, the ants were all silent,
only "the sort of low hiss which arose from the collected workers,
resembled the noise of a London street more than any form of speech."

Their power of self-sacrifice is a marvellous fact. A man once saw a
line of ants, on travel, trying to pass a little rapid stream. They
hooked themselves on to each other so as to form a chain which was
carried in a slanting direction by the current to the opposite shore.
Many of this chain were drowned, dropping off in the forming process;
those in front were often baffled and overwhelmed in the rushing
current. At last the bridge was completed and the main body of the army
of ants marched across the stream in safety upon the massed bodies of
their self-sacrificing companions.

Milton has written of "the parsimonious emmet, provident of the
future...." "In small room, large heart enclosed." A writer has stated
that a son of Mr. Darwin dissected the head and brain of an ant, which
latter the great scientist declared to be "one of the most marvellous
atoms of matter in the world," more marvellous even than the brain of
man. Speaking of the brain of ants, Sir John Lubbock says, "The head
bears the principal organs of sense, and contains the brain, as the
anterior portion of the nervous system may fairly be called."

Forethought is at the root of all thrift, and thrift underlies all
civilisation as well as personal well-being. We seem at times, some
of us, rather to despise a saving disposition, as if this necessarily
implied meanness in its subject. Yet the greatest benefactors of our
race have been nearly all great savers at some period of their lives.
And there is little true generosity in the soul of the woman who spends
all she gets, even if her means go largely to others, if, through
failing to lay by something for a rainy day, during the winter of life
she is thrown on the charity of her fellows for her support. As someone
says, nothing should be left at loose ends. It is only the few who
become rich through large undertakings, the majority of mankind prosper
by means of carefulness and the practice of the details of thrift.
"Thrift is the best means of thriving."

Let us end this little study by reminding ourselves of that thoughtful
dictum of Ruskin's, "Economy, whether public or private, means the
wise management of labour ... first applying your labour rationally;
secondly, preserving its produce carefully; lastly, distributing its
produce seasonably."

(_To be continued._)




ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of "A Girl in
Springtime," "Sisters Three," etc.


CHAPTER II.

The school-room was a long, bare apartment running along one side of
the house, and boasting three tall windows, through which the sun
poured in on a shabby carpet and ink-stained tables. Everything looked
well worn and, to a certain extent, dilapidated, yet there was an air
of cheerful comfort about the whole which is not often found in rooms
of the kind. Mrs. Asplin revelled in beautiful colours, and would
tolerate no drab and saffron papers in her house; so the walls were
covered with a rich soft blue; the cushions on the wicker chairs rang
the changes from rose to yellow. A brilliant Japanese screen stood in
one corner, and a wire stand before the open grate held a number of
flowering plants. A young fellow of seventeen or eighteen was seated
at one end of the table employed in arranging a selection of foreign
stamps. This was Maxwell, the Vicar's eldest surviving son, who was
to go up to Oxford at the beginning of the year, and was at present
reading under his father's supervision. His sister Mellicent, was
perched on the table itself, watching his movements, and vouchsafing
scraps of advice. Her suggestions were received with sniffs of scornful
superiority, but Mellicent prattled on unperturbed, being a plump,
placid person, with flaxen hair, blue eyes, and somewhat obtuse
sensibilities. The elder girl was sitting reading by the window,
leaning her head on her hand, and showing a long, thin face, comically
like her father's, with the same deep, straight lines running down her
cheeks. She was neither so pretty nor so even-tempered as her sister,
but she had twice the character, and was a young person who made her
individuality felt in the house, while Maxwell was the beauty of the
family, with his mother's crisp, dark locks, grey eyes, and rich
brunette colouring.

These three young people were the Vicar's only surviving children, but
there were two more occupants of the room, the two lads who were being
coached to enter the University at the same time as his own son. Number
one was a fair, dandified-looking youth, who sat astride a cane deck
chair, with his trousers hitched up so as to display long, narrow feet,
shod in scarlet silk socks and patent leather slippers. He had fair
hair, curling over his forehead; large, bold, blue eyes, an aquiline
nose, and an air of being very well satisfied with the world in general
and himself in particular. This was Oswald Elliston, the son of a
country squire, who had heard of the successes of Mr. Asplin's pupils,
and was storing up disappointment for himself in expecting similar
exploits from his own handsome, but by no means over-brilliant son. The
second pupil had a small microscope in his hand, and was pouring over a
collection of "specimens," with his shoulders hitched up to his ears,
in a position the reverse of elegant. Every now and then he would bend
his head to write down a few notes on the paper beside him, showing a
square-chinned face, with heavy eyebrows and strong, roughly-marked
features. His clothes were well-worn, his cuffs invisible, and his hair
ruffled into wild confusion by the unconscious rubbings of his hands,
and this was the Honourable Robert Darcy, third son of Lord Darcy, a
member of the Cabinet, and a politician of world-wide fame.

The servants at the vicarage were fond of remarking, apropos of the
Honourable Robert, that he "didn't look it," which remark would have
been a subject of sincere gratification to the lad himself had it been
overheard, for there was no surer way of annoying him than by referring
to his position, or giving him the prefix to which he was entitled.

The young folks looked up inquiringly as Mr. and Mrs. Asplin entered
the room, for the hour after tea was set apart for recreation, and the
elders were usually only too glad to remain in their own quiet little
sanctum. Oswald, the gallant, sprang to his feet and brought forward a
chair for Mrs. Asplin, but she waved him aside, and broke impetuously
into words.

"Children! we have news for you. You are going to have a new companion.
Father has had a letter this afternoon about another pupil----"

Mellicent yawned, and Esther looked calmly uninterested, but the three
lads were full of interest. Their faces turned towards the Vicar with
expressions of eager curiosity.

"A new fellow! This term! From what school, sir?"

"A ladies' boarding-school at Brighton!" Mrs. Asplin spoke rapidly,
so as to be beforehand with her husband, and her eyes danced with
mischievous enjoyment as she saw the dismay depicted on the three
watching faces. A ladies' school! Maxwell, Oswald, and Robert had a
vision of a pampered pet in curls, and round jacket, and their backs
stiffened in horrified indignation at the idea that grown men of
seventeen and eighteen should be expected to associate with a "kid"
from a ladies' school!

The Vicar could not restrain a smile, but he hastened to correct the
mistake. "It's not a 'fellow' at all, this time. It's a girl! We have
had a letter from Arthur Saville's mother asking us to look after her
daughter while she is in India. She will come to us very soon and stay,
I suppose, for three or four years, sharing your lessons, my dears, and
studying with you----"

"A girl! Good gracious! Where will she sleep?" cried Mellicent, with
characteristic, matter-of-fact curiosity, while Esther chimed in with
further eager inquiries.

"What is her name? How old is she? What is she like? When will she
come? Why is she leaving school?"

"Not very happy. Peggy. In the little box room over the study. About
fifteen, I believe. Haven't the least idea. In a few weeks from now,"
said Mrs. Asplin, answering all the questions at once in her impulsive
fashion, while she walked round the table, stroked Maxwell's dark
curls, bent an interested glance at Robert's collection, and laid a
hand on Esther's back to straighten bowed shoulders. "She is Arthur's
sister, so she is sure to be nice, and both her parents will be in
India, so you must all be kind to the poor little soul, and give her a
hearty welcome."

Silence! Nobody had a word to say in response to this remark, but the
eyes of the young people met furtively across the table, and Mr. Asplin
felt that they were only waiting until their seniors should withdraw,
before bursting into eager conversation.

"Better leave them to have it out by themselves," he whispered
significantly to his wife, then added aloud, "Well, we won't interrupt
you any longer. Don't turn the play-hour into work, Rob! You will study
all the better for a little relaxation. You have proved the truth of
that axiom, Oswald--eh?" and he went laughing out of the room, while
Oswald held the door open for his wife, smiling assent in his lazy
fashion.

"Another girl!" he exclaimed, as he reseated himself on his chair, and
looked with satisfaction at his well-shod feet. "This is an unexpected
blow! A sister of the redoubtable Saville! From all I have heard of him
I should imagine a female edition would be rather a terror in a quiet
household. I never saw Saville; what sort of a fellow was he to look
at, don't you know?"

Millicent reflected.

"He had a nose," she said solemnly. Then, as the others burst into
hilarious laughter, "Oh, it's no use shrieking at me; I mean what I
say," she insisted. "A big nose--like Wellington's. When people are
very clever they always have big noses. I imagine Peggy small, with a
little, thin face, because she was born in India, and lived there until
she was six years old, and a great big nose in the middle."

"Sounds appetising," said Maxwell shortly. "I don't! I imagine Peggy
like her mother, with blue eyes and brown hair. Mrs. Saville is awfully
pretty. I have seen her often, and if her daughter is like her----"

"I don't care in the least how she looks," said Esther, severely. "It's
her character that matters. Indian children are generally spoiled, and
if she has been to a boarding-school she may give herself airs. Then we
shall quarrel. I am not going to be patronised by a girl of fourteen. I
expect she will be Mellicent's friend, not mine."

"I wonder what sums she is in," said Mellicent, dreamily. "Rob! what do
you think about it? Are you glad or sorry? You haven't said anything
yet."

Robert raised his eyes from his microscope, and looked her up and down
very much as a big Newfoundland dog looks at the terrier which disturbs
its slumber.

"It's nothing to me," he said loftily. "She may come if she likes."
Then, with sudden recollection, "Does she learn the violin? Because we
have one girl in this house who is learning the violin, and life won't
be worth living if there is a second."

He tucked his big note-book under his chin as he spoke, and began
sawing across it with a pencil, wagging his head and rolling his eyes
in imitation of Mellicent's own manner of practising, and producing at
the same time such long-drawn, cat-like wails from between his closed
lips as made the listeners shriek with laughter. Mellicent, however,
felt bound to expostulate.

"It's not the tune at all," she said loudly. "Not like any of my
pieces; and if I do roll my eyes, I don't tumble up my hair and pull
faces at the ceiling, as some people do, and I know who they are, but I
am too polite to say so. I hope Peggy will be my friend, because then
there will be two of us, and you won't dare to tease me any more. When
Arthur was here, a boy pulled my hair, and he carried him upstairs and
held his head underneath the shower-bath."

"I'll pull it again, and see if Peggy will do the same," said Rob
pleasantly; and poor Mellicent stared from one smiling face to another,
conscious that she was being laughed at, but unable to see the point of
the joke.

"When Peggy comes," she said, in an injured tone, "I hope she will be
sympathetic. I'm the youngest, and I think you ought all to do what I
want, instead of which you make fun, and laugh among yourselves, and
send me all the messages. For instance, when Max wanted his stamps
brought down----"

Maxwell passed his big hand over her hair and face, and reversing the
direction, rubbed up the point of the little snub nose.

"Never mind, chubby, your day is over! We will make Peggy the
message-boy now. Peggy will be a nice, meek little girl, who will like
to run messages for her betters. She shall be my fag, and attend to me.
I'll give her my stamps to sort."

"I rather thought of having her for fag myself; we can't admit a girl
to our study unless she makes herself useful," said Oswald languidly;
whereupon Rob banged the note-book on the table with clanging decision.

"Peggy belongs to me," he announced firmly. "It's no use you two
fellows quarrelling. That matter is settled once for all. Peggy will be
my fag; I've barleyed her for myself, and you have nothing to say in
the matter."

But Esther tossed her head with an air of superior wisdom.

"Wait till she comes," she said sagely. "If Peggy is anything like her
brother, you may spare yourself the trouble of planning as to what she
must or must not do. It is waste of time. Peggy will be mistress over
us all."

(_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A PEACEFUL HOUR.]

       *       *       *       *       *




HAWKWEED.

BY LIZZIE DEAS.


    Somehow these flowers that late in autumn show,
          So very rich a glow,
    In summer seem to make but poor display,
    There are so many flowers more beautiful than they.

    I can but think that through the sunlit hours,
          These golden-petaled flowers,
    With no attempt to shine while earth is bright,
    Are yet at work for us absorbing warmth and light.

    Of this I'm sure, they do but hide their store
          Till we shall need it more;
    For see, as summer wanes, what beauty lies--
    What consolation, too, within their sun-filled eyes.

    Some lovely souls there are that, like these flowers,
          Shine least in brightest hours;
    Only when shadows fall we learn to know
    The beauty they possess, the sunshine they bestow.

[Illustration]




IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.

THIRD SERIES.

BY RUTH LAMB.


PART I.

THE PRECIOUSNESS OF TIME.

    "So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts
    unto wisdom" (Psalm xc. 12).

Once more you, my dear girl friends, and I meet to hold pleasant
converse with each other.

I feel that something specially pleasant would be missing from my own
life were our twilight talks to cease. It is with a sense alike of
happiness and thankfulness that I look forward to your companionship
for yet another year. God grant that, as in the past, so in the future,
we may be very helpful to each other in crossing the rough places that
have to be encountered on the path of life.

I feel that a song of thanksgiving should go up from us all for
mercies already bestowed, and an earnest united prayer to God for an
ever-increasing blessing upon our meetings.

One thought must come to us all this evening. Two years have passed
since we first came together, hence we feel that so much of our lives
has gone, and we have two years less in which to work for God.

It will be good for each of us to ask ourselves, "What have I done for
Him during the time? What progress have I made in my spiritual life?
Have I grown, as Jesus grew, 'in favour with God and man' during these
years?"

Conscience will answer and can tell only the truth.

Such communings with your own hearts are, however, for the quiet of
your own chamber, when you have shut out the world and are alone
with God. Still, it may be well for us all to have a talk about the
preciousness of some things of which we are too apt to take little
account.

I wonder if you and I are in the habit of frittering away two
invaluable gifts for which we have to give a strict account to our
Father in heaven. These are, time and opportunity.

I think I hear you ask, "What do you mean by frittering? The dictionary
tells us that 'to fritter' is to diminish or pare off."

I acknowledge that here we do not get quite the full meaning of the
word "fritter" as we often use it in conversation. We rather understand
by it the diminution of something by almost imperceptible degrees, of
which no notice need be taken, because they are so small, and through
the waste of which little loss is sustained by ourselves or others.

There are things in this world which are of small value in certain
places, because they are so abundant; yet, in another neighbourhood,
their scarcity makes them of vital importance. For instance, if we have
unfailing springs of pure water to draw upon, and all our neighbours
are equally well supplied, what matters it if the pail overflows, or
the tap is left running? But in another place where water is scarce,
the waste of it would be sinful and cruel, especially if we were well
supplied and our neighbours compelled to economise every drop.

The child on the sea-shore flings the sand about with reckless hands,
gathers shells and leaves them behind, or throws pebbles into the
water, caring nothing what becomes of them.

There is no need for care in such cases. The sea gathers the shells
and pebbles and flings them back in orderly ridges on the shore. The
embankments, laboriously raised by many small hands, and the trenches
dug around them, are quickly equalised again. The mighty ocean sweeps
all before it. Wave follows wave, and the grains of sand are hurried
onward. Castles are levelled, trenches filled, and the retreating
waters leave the beach smooth again and ready for the morrow's toilers.

The last murmur of the waters seems to say, "You can fritter away
nothing over which we flow. We gather your scattered fragments
together, and not one grain is finally lost."

You and I, dear girl companions, have certain great trusts committed
to us, which are neither visible nor tangible. We hold them in common
with our neighbours, though they are not given to all in the same
proportion. They are made up of littles, and yet, if we fritter them
away, they are gone past recovery. We can no more regain the smallest
portion than we can bring back the rain-drops which have fallen into
the stream and are helping to hurry it seaward, or collect the grains
of dust which the wind has whirled across the plain.

Time is one of these all-important trusts. Perhaps I should say the
most important, for time and our natural life virtually mean the same
thing. Do they not begin and end together, so far as we are concerned?
Our first breath ushers us into the realm of time, and with our last we
close our eyes on it for ever.

Does it not seem strange that any human being can be found who is
careless about or forgetful of the preciousness of time? People
hesitate to part with a penny unless they can be sure of receiving
something of equal value in exchange. Yet the same persons think
nothing of frittering away, without return, that which the wealth of
the whole world cannot buy back for them.

It seems natural for the very young to think lightly of the flight of
time. The world--in other words, time and life--is all before them. A
day flies so quickly; an hour is a mere nothing. As to the minutes and
moments! What are they more than the drops that make up the ocean, or
the grains of sand that form its boundary wall? Who can exhaust these?

Time, to the child, is an inexhaustible ocean into which he cannot dip
too freely. What if the tide recedes? It is sure to flow again, and is,
indeed, ever flowing.

You and I have surely learned lessons as to the value of time to which
the child would not care to listen even. Let us think together of the
value of moments. They follow each other, and are swallowed in the
ocean of eternity, but there is no reflux. Not one comes a second time.
If an hour has been frittered away and we can show nothing for it, all
that remains for us is to make the best possible use of its successors.

Very lately I heard a great preacher say, "We should be misers in
the use of time and opportunity." Do we not value too highly what we
call the riches of this world? We are sparing of our gold, or our
silver--even of our pence--and yet we do not pause to take account of
what is beyond all price.

Have you ever thought, dear girls, that you are threefold debtors as
regards the use you make of this great trust, time? We are all debtors,
in the first place, to God, and must account for the use or abuse of
time to the great Giver of it. We are told to "redeem the time because
the days are evil."

I have in my mind the words of an old writer and profound student of
the Bible who says about the text I have just quoted, "Buying up those
moments which others seem to throw away; steadily improving every
present moment." "Time is that on which eternity depends. In time you
are to get a preparation for the kingdom of God." "Perhaps the apostle
means in general, embrace every opportunity to glorify God, benefit
your own souls, and do good to men."

These words carry out the idea I have suggested as to our threefold
debt in relation to the use of our time. We should be misers of it,
that we may the more fully carry out our divine Master's will, follow
His example, obey His commandment to love our neighbour as ourselves,
and, in so doing, promote our own eternal welfare.

You and I can understand the need for us to echo the prayer of the
Psalmist, "So teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts
unto wisdom."

How much teaching we need! What heedless and forgetful scholars we are!
How constantly we need to be reminded of the value of that which we
treat so lightly, waste so often, and lose with so little regret!

All other losses cause us trouble and generally sorrow. If the child,
in hurrying to spend a halfpenny, loses its one precious coin, there is
eager searching with the help of companions. Joy follows its recovery,
or bitter tears are shed if it is not found.

The lost purse, or the jewel that has escaped from its setting, is
neither forgotten nor deemed of slight consequence. It is sought,
advertised for, and, if finally lost, is remembered with regret; the
more so if it has been the gift of a friend.

The merchant will risk large sums in the hope of doubling them. If
unsuccessful, he can hardly forgive himself for having thrown away that
which he had. Losses of these kinds are thought of again and again in
after days, and the face clouds over at the memory of them.

How few amongst those who have recklessly wasted moments, hours, and
days, pause to take themselves to task, mourn over an irretrievable
loss, and resolve, by God's help, to redeem the time that is left. As
regards the season for making the new beginning, there is only one
word to express the right one: now. Not a week hence. Not to-morrow.
Not even an hour after the resolution has been come to; for time is
flying always, and its redemption must begin with the moment which has
revealed to us its infinite value. Henceforth we must be "misers in the
use of time."

Time is often unwittingly wasted by thrifty people for want of due
thought and calculation. How well I remember, in the earlier days of
railway travelling, what anxiety to be in time for a train was evinced
by old-fashioned people!

I used to stay in a country house which was several miles from a
station, and my kindly host was so fearful of my missing the train,
that he used to insist on my starting early enough to spend nearly an
hour in waiting for it.

It was very difficult to turn that waiting time to any useful account,
especially in the dim light of a wintry morning, for I had to catch the
first train. I smile as I picture the little bare waiting-room and the
scarcely-lighted fire, by which I sat and shivered and tried to cherish
bright thoughts amidst dull surroundings.

Those who value their own time lightly are seldom scrupulous about
wasting that of their neighbour. Have we not all been lectured, again
and again, on the sin of unpunctuality?

I think I hear you ask whether unpunctuality deserves to be ranked as a
sin? Let us consider the question, then decide for yourselves.

Neither you nor I would like to steal our neighbour's purse, or
even help ourselves to a solitary sixpence. But if, by our neglect,
carelessness or wilful selfishness, we rob him of that on which his
income depends, are we not equally guilty, though the law cannot reach
us for this offence? Time is money to the toiler in every branch of
work, whether mental or physical, and we have no right to waste our
neighbour's capital which money cannot restore to him.

So many people, old as well as young, seem unable to understand
what punctuality means. Those who allow their own time to slip away
unheeded, cannot see that it matters whether they are a few minutes
too soon or too late for an appointment. If by some chance--a rare
one--they are too soon, they plume themselves on this, and are perhaps
inclined to be indignant if they are kept waiting and their time is
wasted.

Dear girls, do think of this! If you make an appointment try and keep
it to the minute. Be neither before nor after the time fixed, but by
your punctuality redeem your own time and avoid the sin of wasting what
is not your own.

Indolence is a terrible and stealthy thief that ought to be battled
against, with a prayerful sense of our own weakness to resist its
encroachments. Indolent people are like unpunctual ones--very prone to
steal the time which their neighbour values and turns to good account.

How many busy men and women have had to work when they ought to have
been resting after a finished task, because an idler has interrupted
it by dropping in at the office or the home during working hours? The
one object of such visitors is to while away the time which hangs
heavily on their useless hands, regardless of consequences to those on
whom they intrude, or too selfish to care, so long as their own end is
served.

Unfortunately the sufferers have not always a remedy. Circumstances may
render it unwise to complain, or politeness restrains them from doing
so, even when they are inwardly chafing under the infliction. They do
not like to deny themselves to these thieves of time, for whom perhaps
they feel a very real affection; or it may be they cannot afford to
risk giving offence on account of their relative positions. Hence they
suffer in silence.

There are hard-working girls as well as older folk who suffer in like
manner, through other girls who place no value on their own time and
have no qualms of conscience about wasting that of their neighbours.

Take the lesson to heart, dear ones. Ask that you may realise the full
value of your own time, and abstain from robbing another of what she
esteems a precious trust from God.

There are unsuspected ways of wasting time which those who "use it
as misers" are apt to overlook. The more eager the worker, the more
interested she is in her occupation, the more likely she is to be
guilty of this kind of waste in these high-pressure days.

I have no doubt there are many of these too-hard workers amongst you,
my dear girl friends, who grudge the time spent in rest, who hurry over
your meals, who regard innocent recreation as almost sinful, because it
interrupts your labours and defers the completion of some task you have
set yourselves.

Believe me, time is never more truly wasted than it is by those who
work too long, without pausing to refresh the weary mind and body. Time
is saved if, when nature cries aloud for rest, we put aside the work we
love and do absolutely nothing until we can return to it with a sense
of fitness and freshness.

"Do nothing!" you exclaim. "Why, that would be the hardest task of all.
We may compel our hands to be idle or our tired limbs to rest, but
thought will still be busy. The mind cannot be coerced."

Perhaps not in a sense, but if we wish it, we can turn our thoughts
into a restful channel. What can be more restful and delightful than
to sit with closed eyes and folded hands whilst we think over God's
gracious dealings with us and make a mental catalogue of a single
day's blessings? What can so renew our strength to work, as a little
season spent in thanking God for the power to labour? What will be
more helpful to us than a quiet time with Him whilst the world, its
cares and its business are shut out, and we, alone with our Father, ask
for wisdom to use without abusing our time and all the powers He has
entrusted to us?

Cultivate the habit of leaving off work when nature craves for rest,
and you will find it, both for soul and body, by fixing your minds on
God.

You need not utter either prayer or thanksgiving, but your thoughts may
overflow with both, and He who can read them will accept your heartfelt
thanks and answer your unuttered prayers by giving you a sweet sense of
peace and renewed power to work for Him.

Oh, it is lovely just to get away from the world and its bustle and
toil for a little while and spend it in thinking of the goodness and
love of God in Christ Jesus! Our work may well wait in the meantime.

I was with some dear friends who were sight-seeing in town, and who,
accustomed to the quiet of a country place, were almost bewildered with
the din of the great city. We were near St. Paul's, and how glad we all
were to enter the great church and to rest there in a quiet corner,
unconscious of all the noise and traffic which still went on around it.

My friends' stay in town was to be a short one, and they were all eager
to see as many of its sights as possible. Did they grudge the little
time spent in peaceful communion with God, or deem it wasted when there
was so much to attract them in the great city? Ah, no!

Often afterwards, when other incidents had faded from their memories,
they spoke of its sweet restfulness, and thanked God for the open door
of that grand cathedral, which offered to weary wayfarers a chance of
refreshment for soul and body.

Dear ones, learn a lesson from this little incident. Do not deem the
time lost which is taken from the work you love for the rest you need.
You will redeem it in the best way if you turn your thoughts from earth
to heaven, from the world around you to its great Creator.

Unfortunately those who under-value time are more numerous than those
who realise its preciousness. We often hear the expression, "I am only
giving my time." As though money and goods were of infinitely greater
worth. It is when health fails and life is drawing near its close
that the preciousness of every moment is understood. I beg of you to
remember now, that the right use of your time is your evidence to those
around you of your union with Christ.

Let us finish our talk this evening by repeating two or three reasons
why we should be misers in the use of time. Time and life mean the same
thing to us all. Time is a debt we owe to God. All our work must be
done in time. Eternity depends on the use we make of time. Time comes
only once, and the present is all we can call ours.

Let us ask God to impress these great truths on our minds and to give
us the will and the power to use time well.

(_To be continued._)




QUEENS AS NEEDLEWOMEN.


CHAPTER I.

    "The use of sewing is exceedingly old,
    As in the sacred text it is enrolled;
    Our parents first in Paradise began."

        _John Taylor._

Needlework has been a favourite method of employing time, both in
courts and cottages, from very early days; and one is not surprised at
this, seeing that it is not only necessary for the comfort of daily
life, but a very attractive occupation, one capable of great variety
and of being practised without fatigue.

The history of needlework was almost unknown until Miss Lambert and the
Countess of Wilton devoted their time and talents to the collection and
classification of facts concerning it.

The first piece of needlework we know of is that of our first parents
in the Garden of Eden, who, with a thorn, probably, for a needle,
"sewed fig-leaves together to make themselves aprons."[1]

Milton refers to it thus:--

                          "Those leaves
    They gathered, broad as Amazonian targe,
    And, with what skill they had, together sewed,
              To gird their waist."

From all records of early ages we learn that the women used first a
thorn and then a fish-bone sharpened at one end as a needle, to sew the
skins of animals or other material together. Most of our queens have
recognised the advantages of being good needlewomen, and several have
left behind them beautiful specimens of work, so that we have an almost
unbroken record of their achievements with the needle.

The inducements to royal ladies to become proficient in the art of
needlework have been many and varied; for example, some have been
influenced by the desire to set a good example to their subjects;
others in order to lighten the weariness of solitary hours; others that
they might record the deeds of valour and daring performed by their
husbands; some because they were thrown on their own resources through
lack of outdoor amusements and the absence of good roads; others for
real love of it; while other few practised it from pious motives that
they might contribute to the beauty of churches. Indeed, church, court,
camp and state have all more or less influenced royal ladies to become
good needlewomen.

Nothing creates a stronger bond of union between classes than like
tastes and occupations, and it holds good specially between sovereigns
and peoples. To know that probably the Queen and princesses of the
royal house are occupied in the same way as the poorest cottager,
either in sewing a seam, making a dress, trimming a bonnet, or
embroidering a tray-cloth, creates a kindly feeling between one and the
other, and bridges over the distance between them.

I remember when our Princess of Wales came over to dwell among us,
it was stated that she begged to retrim the Queen's bonnets and make
them pretty and fashionable, as she had always trimmed her own and her
mother's. When some of the London poor heard it they were delighted,
and said, "Bless her now; do you really think a laidy sich as her would
a' done it?"

Nothing that has been told of Princess Henry of Battenberg has brought
her so near to the hearts of the poor as the piece of news that "when
she is in sorrow or perplexity she is greatly soothed by sitting down
and sewing a long seam." It is something they can understand and
appreciate, for it is most likely the very thing they themselves would
do in like circumstances.

It has been of no slight benefit to us women and girls that our queens
and princesses should have been good needlewomen, for we are, to a
great extent, influenced by the daily life of those in high places;
indeed, the influence of queens upon their women subjects has always
been noticeable; their personal and private character, their passions
and prejudices, are always more or less reflected in the women of the
kingdom.

Proficiency in the art of needlework is by no means confined to the
great ladies of our nation, for we hear that the princesses in the
Court of Charlemagne were splendid needlewomen, and the work of Bertha,
wife of Rudolph the Second of Burgundy, has a world-wide fame. She is
represented on seals and monuments of her time as sitting on the throne
spinning, and even when out riding continuing her work. In the old town
of Payerne Canton de Freiburg, a residence of the kings of Burgundy,
her bones, together with those of her husband and son, Conrad, were
discovered in 1817 below the tower of the old church which she herself
had built, and they were buried in the parish church, where the
Queen's saddle is shown with a hole for her distaff. To this day the
expression is used, as a regretful allusion to the good old times, "_ce
n'est pas le temps où Berthe filait_."

Gisela, also, the wife of St. Stephen, king of Hungary, was a splendid
needlewoman, and organised embroidery work-rooms near her palace.

The mother of Charles the Bold and Adelaide the Consort of Hugh Capet
were also celebrated needlewomen.

Even nations far removed from civilisation have not been ignorant of
needlework, as the discovery of gold needles, etc., in the Scandinavian
tumuli testify.

To come back to our own country, the palm is certainly accorded to the
Anglo-Saxon ladies for excellence in this womanly accomplishment. We
have proof that those of rank and royal blood were skilled not only in
the use of the needle for necessary purposes but also in elegant and
intricate embroidery.

The fleece which was brought home by the Anglo-Saxon men in summer was
spun into clothing by the female part of each family during the winter.

Alfred the Great in his will calls the women-part of his family the
spindle side, and it was understood by our forefathers that no young
woman was fit to be a wife till she had spun for herself a set of body,
table and bed linen; this is why the maiden was called a spinner or
spinster, and the married woman a wife or one who has been a spinner
(from Anglo-Saxon wif, the verb being wyfan or wifan, to weave).
Perhaps you have noticed that the armorial bearings of women are
not painted on a shield like those of men but on a spindle called a
lozenge. The spindle half is a Saxon term for the female line, while
the spear half is the male side.

Among the Anglo-Saxon ladies Adelfleda and her three sisters, daughters
of Edward the Elder, stand out as famous for their skill in all kinds
of needlework, and are known in history as cunning workers.

William of Malmesbury says, "their father caused them in childhood to
give their whole attention to letters and afterwards employed them in
the labour of the distaff[2] and the needle."

The same authority says that Edgitha or Editha, the Queen of Edward
the Confessor, was "perfect mistress of her needle," while the Saxon
historian, Ingulphus, a scholar at Westminster Monastery, near to
Edgitha's palace, relates of her that "she was skilful in the works of
the needle, and that with her own hands she embroidered the garments of
her royal husband."

As a proof of the high value set on good needlework the Anglo-Saxon
Gudric gave Alcina a piece of land on condition that she instructed his
daughters in embroidery and needlework.

It was the custom in feudal times for high families to send their
daughters to the castles of their lords there to be taught spinning,
weaving and needlework under the eye of the lady chatelaine.

It was also a practice for great ladies and their attendants to pass
their mornings at needlework, singing and relating stories meanwhile.

It seems that William the Conqueror on his first appearance in public
after the Battle of Hastings wore a richly worked cloak of Anglo-Saxon
embroidery. It may have been this fact which roused his wife Matilda to
produce a piece of work which was to live for long ages as a specimen
of her industry and skill with the needle. She was a jealous woman
and might not have been pleased at other hands than her own working
her husband's apparel. It is difficult to understand the working of a
woman's mind.

There is no doubt that the work she left behind, and which is still
preserved in the Cathedral of Bayeux, is perfectly marvellous, or as
Dibdin says "it is an exceedingly curious document."

It is a piece of canvas or coarse linen cloth two hundred and
twenty-seven feet long and twenty inches wide; on it she has wrought
with woollen thread of eight different colours a picture of her
husband's exploits, from Harold's first landing in Normandy to his fall
at Hastings.

It is a most important record of the history of the period, because the
events, costumes, and warlike instruments are faithfully portrayed.

The canvas contains many hundreds of men, horses, trees, houses,
castles, ships and churches, with names and descriptions over them to
make the story clear; strangely enough there are only three women in
the whole picture. Taken as a whole it affords a curious insight into
the manners and customs of the Norman Period.

The figures and designs for tapestry work were always prepared by some
skilful artist who traced them out in the colours that were to be used
by the worker either in wool or silk.

Matilda seems to have employed the dwarf artist Turold to prepare her
work and illuminate the canvas: he was a dependent of Odo, Bishop of
Bayeux. The parts intended to represent flesh in the picture are left
untouched by the needle.

It is supposed that not only was Matilda assisted in her great work by
the ladies of her court but by some of the beautiful workers among the
Anglo-Saxon ladies. She was a woman who would not study the feelings
of those around her, nor would she consider their sorrow in having by
their needle to perpetuate their sufferings and defeat.

The work which is now in Bayeux is coiled round a machine like that
which lets down buckets into a well, and a woman is appointed to unroll
it for visitors and explain it.

A full-sized coloured photograph of it may be seen in the South
Kensington Museum, and the Society of Antiquaries have engraved the
whole of the Bayeux tapestry and have coloured it like the original.

We are told in the life of St. Dunstan that he was originally in an
obscure station of life, and crept into notice by means of his taste
and skill in delineating sacerdotal vestments and tapestry work for
great ladies. He must have had a great love of such work as well as
genius, for even when he came to high estate he did not disdain making
sketches for queens to work from.

We now pass on to Adelicia of Louvaine, the queen of Henry I., who was
distinguished for her great beauty and talents, but especially for her
proficiency in feminine accomplishments.

A standard which she embroidered in silk and gold for her father when
he was engaged in recovering his patrimony was celebrated throughout
Europe for the exquisite taste and skill displayed in its design and
execution. For centuries it was carried in procession on Rogation days
through the streets of the city of Liège, for it had been captured by
the bishop of that town in 1129.

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] There is an ancient engraving, in which Eve is stitching away at
the fig-leaves in a very edifying manner, while Adam, far from trying
to put in a stitch for himself, is gazing upon her in utter amazement.
And while she continues her task, as if she had been born to sewing,
his eyes follow her nimble fingers.

[2] _Distaff_--a woman. This explains the phrase and fact that "the
crown of France never falls to the _distaff_."




WHERE SWALLOWS BUILD.

BY SARAH DOUDNEY.


CHAPTER I.

"It is my last day in London," said Alice Harper to herself.

The "last day" was a Sunday at the end of July, and Alice's box was
packed, and ready for travelling. She had attended service that morning
in a beautiful church, where she had often gained strength and comfort
in her weariness; and the music was still echoing in her ears when she
turned into Bruton Street. Wherever she went, she knew that she should
hear that music still.

The smart people were all hurrying out of town as fast as they could
go. But Miss de Vigny was a very dignified little lady who never cared
to hurry herself in the least. She always went away on the first of
August, and could not be moved sooner or later. So that when Alice went
into her house, she found her friend sitting in her old chair near the
window with an open book on her lap.

Miss de Vigny had always liked Alice Harper. She had watched the girl
through the season that preceded the sudden change in her lot, and had
thought her distinctly genuine and courageous. She did not guess how
soon that quality of courage would be called into play; but when the
crash came, she was not surprised that Alice bore up bravely under the
blow.

One morning the daily papers announced the suicide of Mr. Harper, the
well-known promoter of companies. His daughter, left quite alone in the
world, gathered together her few possessions, and quietly vanished from
the eyes of society. Only two or three persons knew what had become of
her, or what she was doing, and Miss de Vigny was one of them.

She had found out that Alice was going to be a dressmaker, and take
care of herself in future in her own way. Miss de Vigny met her one
day in a side street in the West-end, dressed in plain black, and
carrying a brown-paper parcel. She did not avoid the little maiden-lady
as she would have avoided some of her former friends. She stopped and
accepted the hand that was held out so readily.

"I shall be eighteen months in learning my business," she said. "After
that I must work six months longer as 'an improver.' And when I have
thoroughly mastered the art, or trade, or anything that you like to
call it, I mean to go away, and set up in the country."

"Quite in the country?" Miss de Vigny asked.

"Quite in the country," Alice replied. "I shall learn what London can
teach me, and leave it with a glad heart. Mind, I am sure that I could
not learn properly anywhere else. But I shall rejoice when I am free to
go."

"When the time comes, perhaps I can help you," Mary de Vigny said.
"Meanwhile, let me see you sometimes. Come and spend next Sunday with
me in Bruton Street."

"But I do not want to meet people," said Alice, flushing deeply.

"My dear, I do not want you to meet people. It will do me good to have
you all to myself. I have never been a society woman; the smart people
don't find me at all amusing, I believe. I am dowdy, and I do not know
any good stories. Pray come."

So Alice went. Miss de Vigny was rather dowdy, and she did not know any
good stories; but she knew other things that are better worth knowing.
She knew how to guide a sad soul into the true way of peace. She was
neither a rich woman, nor a smart woman; but she lived a life worthy of
her faith, and was a light to direct others to the road that led to
rest.

From Mary de Vigny's house, Alice went to Mary de Vigny's church close
by. And so the two toilsome years in London were sweetened and cheered;
and if her outer life was hard and painful, her inner life became
peaceful and fair. The time of release had come at last, and it was
Mary who had found her a new home in the country.

Miss de Vigny's room was cooler than most rooms in London, and when you
went in you felt you had entered into an atmosphere of contentment.
There were always flowers here; to-day Alice's eyes rested gratefully
on a big bunch of mignonette and some graceful feathery grasses. Mary
greeted her with genuine affection, and pointed to the nosegay.

"Only think what it will be," said she, "to have your fill of flowers!"

"Oh, I have been trying to realise the delight in store for me!" Alice
cried. "My poor father never cared for the country in the very least.
He always bustled me about to fashionable watering-places in the
summer. If my mother had lived, life would have been different for him
and for me."

She sighed; but Mary spoke cheerfully.

"We must let all the 'ifs' alone, Alice," she said. "It is better to
leave 'ifs' and 'might-have-beens' lying by the wayside if we want to
get on upon our journey. I know how prone we are to stop, and pick up
useless regrets; it has been an old folly of my own."

They had tea together, with the mignonette on the table between them.
Miss de Vigny said it was like a festival, but she thought Alice
looking tired and worn.

"I don't think you could have toiled on much longer," she remarked.
"It has been a weary time, my child."

"You have brightened it," said Alice gratefully. "Everybody else has
forgotten me, and you know I wished to be forgotten."

"Here and there one remembers you," said Mary, looking at her with
observant eyes. "Only yesterday, in this very street, I met someone who
asked what had become of you."

"I hope you did not tell!" Alice cried.

"I told very little. I merely said that you were living, and working
for yourself. It was Mr. Cardigan who asked for you."

Alice's mouth took a scornful curve.

"I do not like him," said she. "I detest rich men."

Miss de Vigny shook her head in reproof.

"That is rather a hard saying, my dear. For my own part, I think well
of Robert Cardigan. He is natural--refreshingly natural, and I fancy he
wants to know what to do with his money. After all, that money came to
him in an honest way from a relation who died abroad; I do not see why
it should not wear well."

"Perhaps I am prejudiced," said Alice colouring. "I have not liked
what I have seen of rich men. Most of them always wanted to be richer
still, and hovered round my father to be instructed in investments. Mr.
Cardigan only came into his fortune just before the blow fell upon me.
But I thought he was like all the rest."

Miss de Vigny dropped the subject. She was not a woman of many words,
and generally knew when to hold her peace.

Alice walked to church with her a little later, looking very stately
and erect beside her small companion. People had always regarded Alice
Harper as a proud girl; and there was something in her bearing which
certainly suggested pride. Plain clothes only accentuated her air of
distinction. And this evening, although she was very pale, and there
were dark shadows beneath her grey eyes, she was more beautiful than
she had ever been in the days of prosperity.

Adversity either disfigures or beautifies. There are certain full-fed,
insolently-prosperous girls who would be enormously improved by sorrow.
Many a plain face has been made lovely by the chastening of the spirit;
and Miss de Vigny, who did not possess a single good feature, had a
countenance on which, at the first glance, you could read the sweet
record of inward peace. She had suffered meekly, and had come out of
the strife into the rest.

Afterwards, when they parted at the door in Bruton Street, Mary said
"good-bye" very tenderly to her friend. She knew that she would miss
Alice when she came back to town in the autumn. But above all things
she desired that the girl might have peace after the weary struggle to
learn her business. One had only to look at Alice to see that she was a
woman who would do what she meant to do. But these resolute people do
not succeed without paying the cost of their success.

"I know you will be happy at Swallow's Nest," Mary said confidently. "I
have often told you how long Mrs. Bower lived with my mother, and how
good and faithful she was. Some day I shall run down to the farm and
see you all. You will write soon, dear, will you not?"

Alice did not find it very easy to answer. Her grey eyes were full of
tears. She looked earnestly at Miss de Vigny for a moment, and went her
way.

There was something dream-like about the London streets in the evening
light. And Alice, walking back to the home which had sheltered her for
two years, felt as if she, herself, were someone who had been living in
a dream.

She thought of the only child of the rich man, brought up in a
luxurious home, but always pining for the mother who had been early
lost. She saw again those sunny heights of womanhood which the child's
eyes had seen afar off. How bright they were then! Something of the
old splendour lingered about that cloudland still, although the girl
had become a sorrowful, hardworking woman. She smiled pityingly at the
child who had always dreamed of doing beautiful things, and making
everybody happy when she grew up! And yet, perhaps the pity was
wasted after all. There are the elements of true happiness in many an
unselfish dream. We cannot tell how much we have helped others by the
loving desires that we could not shape into deeds. We do not see what
our good angels are doing, even with the thoughts of our hearts, when
they are sweet and true.

And then came a sudden remembrance of the men who had come to her
father's house in Park Lane--men who had shown by their faces and by
their words that they existed only for self-pleasing. The quiet girl,
with her own aims and ideals, had inwardly despised them all. Robert
Cardigan had been, perhaps, a little better than the rest. She could
recall certain looks and tones of his that had seemed real. He had even
listened, with some interest, to those schemes for helping humanity
which she had spoken of, once or twice, in his hearing. Well, the power
that she had longed for had come to him; but it was doubtful if he
would use it as she would have done.

The child and the girl had both passed away; Alice Harper, dressmaker,
was walking through these West End streets to the home for working
women which had been her refuge for two long years. And Alice Harper,
dressmaker, was going to leave London to-morrow to live in the country.

She had never seen Mrs. Bower, but she knew her perfectly by
description. Mrs. Bower was the wife of a farmer; they had two
daughters who wanted to learn dressmaking; and there was a good opening
for business in their neighbourhood. Miss de Vigny had advised Alice to
go to Swallow's Nest.

"If you get tired of the country you can leave it," she had said. "But
you have an instinctive longing for woods and fields and fresh air, and
you are sorely in need of all these blessings."

The big house was generally quiet on a Sunday evening. It was sultry
weather, and all the windows were opened wide. Alice caught a glimpse
of the new moon above the house-tops as she ran upstairs. It hung faint
and golden over the crowded roofs, in a sky touched with pale crimson,
and dim with mist.

"I shall see it to-morrow above the woods," she thought with a sudden
gladness.

She took off her hat and coat in her cubicle, and ran down to supper
in her muslin blouse and tweed skirt. Not a single person in that full
house was acquainted with her real history. She had never talked of
bygone days and lamented her vanished prosperity. She wore no jewels;
her watch was the sole relic of the past that could ever be seen. One
or two had remarked that it was a very beautiful watch, and she had
simply said that it was a gift from someone who was dead.

But in spite of a strong natural reserve she had made many friends.
Living here, a poor woman among the poor, she had learnt that one must
give love if one cannot give money.

"So you are going to leave us, Miss Harper," said a young girl who sat
beside her at supper. "You will be missed for many a day. There are
kindnesses that we never forget."

"Ah, if only I could have been more helpful," Alice sighed.

"You don't know how much you have helped," the other answered. "People
may give gold, and it may go just as far as gold can. That is a long
way, some will say. Well, so it is, but even the long way has a limit.
There is only one thing that is not hindered by any limit at all. It
flies on, far, far beyond Time, and right into Eternity. It is Love."

[Illustration: "MISS DE VIGNY HAD ALWAYS LIKED ALICE HARPER."]

Alice looked attentively at the girl for a moment. She was a puny young
woman with round shoulders and a narrow chest. Her skin was very fair,
and she had the large luminous eyes which often indicate consumption.

"How did you learn so much, Miss Dayne?" asked she with a smile.

"Just by watching life," was the reply. "I do not think that we shall
ever meet here again. I am going a longer journey than you are. And
yet, who knows? Perhaps it may not be so very far."

Alice had arranged to start on Monday by a very early train. She left
the house before any of the other women had come downstairs. Her box
was in the hall; she had supplied herself with some sandwiches, and
could have a cup of tea at the station. So she was driven through the
streets before the shops were open, or London had shaken off such
sleep as it can get. She reached Waterloo in time to drink her tea, and
secure a comfortable corner in a third-class carriage.

When the train began to move out of the station she was still thinking
of herself as Alice Harper, the dressmaker, going to start afresh in a
new sphere. The former Alice was merely the girl of the dream.

She smiled, rather a forlorn little smile, when she called up a vision
of the dream--Alice, travelling first-class, and wearing a lovely, grey
costume, as costly and as daintily simple as it could possibly be. The
dressmaker was arrayed in a coat and skirt of pepper-and-salt tweed
which would stand any amount of wear and tear, and a pink calico shirt.
Her gloves were carefully mended; a very serviceable umbrella and
sunshade were strapped up with a plain waterproof cloak; she had none
of those charming superfluities which a well-to-do woman seldom goes
without. And yet it was a peaceful face that was shaded by the sailor
hat; and as the train rushed on into the sweet, green country her eyes
grew very bright.

"I am going where I shall get lots of pleasant things without paying
for them," she said to herself. "In London you must pay your penny for
the simplest flower that grows. Ah, the good God must have thought of
the poor when He purpled the wild land with the glory of heather!"

(_To be continued._)




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


MEDICAL.

BERNICE.--Beyond taking plenty of exercise, feeding as well as you
can, and attending to the general laws of health, we cannot tell you
of any other means of obtaining what you desire. A diet with plenty of
farinaceous food, milk puddings, etc., would suit you best.

MARY CARMICHAEL.--The public has been completely fogged over the
subject of tinned meats for years past. Some persons have tried to
prove that tinned articles are better than fresh ones; whilst others
have decided that all preserved foods are poisonous, and that those
who partake of them do so at the risk of their lives. As is usual in
such arguments, the truth lies somewhere between these extreme points,
and we will endeavour to explain what are the various good and bad
qualities of tinned foods. In the first place, we must notice that
tinned eatables are very much better now than they were some years ago.
This is particularly the case with the tinned fruits from California
(the preparation of which is, we believe, entirely carried on by
girls). For some years back we have been able to get tinned pears,
peaches, apricots, etc., from California, and, as far as we can find
out, no case of poisoning has occurred from their consumption. It may
be said that all the tinned articles which are allowed to come into
London are perfectly wholesome while they are fresh; it is only after
they have been kept some time that they become injurious. Again, it
must be remembered that tinned goods will not keep when once the tin
has been opened. A large number of deaths have occurred from eating
tinned meats which have been opened several days previously. It is
of great importance to recognise what the poison in tinned meats is,
and where it comes from. There is a popular notion, which is a very
great fallacy, that the poison is derived from the tins, and that
therefore there is no danger in meats preserved in jars or barrels.
This is a great mistake, for although tinned goods do sometimes become
contaminated with the metal of the tins, this is only very seldom the
case. When the poison is derived from the tins, as it was in some cases
of poisoning from tinned cherries, death is not very common. Whence
comes the poison, of which we all read cases, of whole families being
killed from partaking from a tin of salmon or sardines? It is developed
in the food itself. This is not a case of organic matter going bad
from decay. Articles sealed up in airtight tins will never undergo
putrefaction. This development of poisons in tinned meats is a totally
different phenomenon from putrefaction. It appears that if organic
substances are kept for a long time, whether in the air or in airtight
cases, extraordinary and little-understood changes occur in their
composition, whereby, amongst other things, are developed definite
chemical compounds known as "animal alkaloids." These are the poisonous
agents in tinned goods. These alkaloids are allied, chemically, to
strychnine, morphine, etc., but some of them are immeasurably more
poisonous than any known vegetable or mineral production. A quantity of
one of these alkaloids (occasionally found in tinned sardines), which
is so small as to be almost impossible to demonstrate, has killed a
whole family in twenty-four hours. Bottled fruits occasionally become
poisoned by the use of preservatives such as boracic or salicylic acid.

M. H. B.--Yours is a history which has been only too common after
influenza. You would probably derive benefit from a change of air. We
should advise a short stay at the north or east coast of Kent. Margate
would perhaps be too severe for you, but we think that you could
scarcely do better than go to Folkestone or its neighbourhood. The
medicine that you are taking is about as good as any other for your
trouble. Eat well.

A. E. ROBINSON.--It is of great importance to keep false teeth
scrupulously clean, and it is the lack of this precaution which is
the cause of most of the troubles due to false teeth. The artificial
palate is perhaps more difficult to keep clean when made of vulcanite
than when made of metal, but otherwise one substance is as good as the
other. You should never sleep with your false teeth in your mouth. We
have lately heard of a lady who was suffocated from her false teeth
having slipped out of place during sleep. False teeth should be taken
out every evening and placed in water, or, better still, solution of
boracic acid, through the night. They should be carefully cleaned every
night. Some people leave their false teeth in their mouths for weeks
at a time. Particles of food get between the false palate and the roof
of the mouth, decompose, and cause very many unpleasant, and sometimes
serious results.

BEATTIE.--1. We cannot tell you the cause of your complaint. It is
probably a slight error of development.--2. Certainly there is no
reason why you should not marry a man who has got a stiff hip from
rheumatism.

DAISY.--See the answer to "Maud" in the May Part of THE GIRL'S OWN
PAPER.

IVY.--1. Yes: scurf on the head is seborrhœa. You should wash your head
every week in borax and warm water, and apply the sulphur ointment
afterwards to the roots of the hair only. This condition of seborrhœa
is most difficult to eradicate. As a rule, the best that can be done
by treatment is to keep it in check and prevent it from spreading to
the face.--2. Cocaine will remove most of the pain of having a tooth
extracted.


STUDY AND STUDIO.

SUNFLOWER.--We have read your letter and verses with interest. The poem
beginning, "There is no Death," suffers from a lack of attention to the
laws of metre. It is begun in ten-syllable lines, which occasionally
become twelve- and even fourteen-syllable lines. This is quite
inadmissible. The other two poems are better. The metre and the rhymes
are correct. There is some poetic feeling in "Twilight," and we like
your description of the "Friend" you long to have:--

    "Gentle, and strong, and wise,
      Loving, and tender and true,
    Loyal to serve and to save,
      Steadfast to dare and to do."

We shall be pleased to hear from you again.

BROWN EYES.--You should have written direct to the Comtesse Blanche de
Forestier, whose address we gave. She informs us that she has already
found a correspondent. You ask us to tell you of any faults we find
in your interesting letter. Your writing is rather large and untidy,
and inclined to sprawl down-hill, and the expression "a lot" is too
colloquial. Also the sentence beginning, "Deeply interested" needs "I
am" to make it grammatically correct. It is rather thankless work thus
to pull your letter to pieces, as we have read it with much pleasure,
and are glad your grandfather has lately given you a beautiful bicycle.
_O si sic omnes!_

VIOLET RENE GORDON.--We have always understood that the authoress in
question was unmarried, but as we do not know her personally we cannot
vouch for the fact. If anyone who does know her intimately tells you
so, you may of course believe it; but information that has filtered
through various channels is apt to be inaccurate.

ERIN and A LADY READER kindly send the words of "Pestal" by W. H.
Bellamy; and "Erin" informs "Pansy" that it is published as a solo by
Hutchings and Romer, arranged by C. E. Horn. "Erin" does not know if it
is to be had as a duet.

I. M. H.--Many years ago, Lytton Bulwer (afterwards Sir Bulwer Lytton)
wrote contemptuously of Tennyson, calling him "Miss Alfred." Tennyson
retorted by a most stinging satire on Bulwer, which, we believe, is to
be found in some early volume of _Punch_, but is not republished in
Tennyson's works. The extract you quote, containing the line:--

    "And half the little soul is dirt"

comes from this satire. As it is suppressed, you may have difficulty in
finding it.

FIDELIA.--The verse you quote is from a poem of Christina Rossetti's
entitled "He and She." As the whole poem is very short we transcribe it
for you:--

    "Should one of us remember,
      And one of us forget,
    I wish I knew what each will do--
      But who can tell as yet?"

    "Should one of us remember,
      And one of us forget,
    I promise you what I will do--
    And I'm content to wait for you,
      And not be sure as yet."

You will find it on page 328 of Messrs. Macmillan's 1892 edition of
"Poems: Christina G. Rossetti."

THE LILAC SUNBONNET.--You should try to obtain a situation "au pair"
in a Continental School, where you could teach English in return for
learning French. No premium or certificate is required. The only way
we know of obtaining such a position is to advertise in the provincial
journal of any town where you would like to go. See our former answers
to similar queries, when we have mentioned such papers as the _Gazette
de Lausanne_, _Journal de Génève_, _Feuille d'avis de Vevey_, etc.

MOTHER'S GIRL.--Your story is very well composed and neatly written.
The incident you describe is naturally told, with a good deal of right
feeling. We can honestly praise your work. It is very wise of young
writers only to undertake simple subjects with which they are familiar,
and a good schoolgirl story is worth any amount of sentimental nonsense.

A SEEKER.--1. Your friend's verses fail in metre: _e.g._, "Death makes
clearer the soul's view," is a halting line. The thought expressed
throughout is a solemn one, but the mode of expression is open to
criticism.--2. The difficulty you place before us is one in which we
have very great sympathy. If you have been sent to an Art School it is
certainly your duty to work hard there. But a change of occupation is
by no means always prejudicial to success; in fact, it is often helpful
even to the occupation which is laid aside for a time. For example, a
girl is likely to become no better a musician because she practises
every hour of the day, and neglects all besides. There comes a point
beyond which work is useless, and four or five hours well spent are
better than twelve. So with your drawing or painting; you will do it
no harm by laying it aside for awhile and lending a hand to household
tasks. There is often a tendency in eager students to overwork, and
see things out of their due proportion. You must try to keep the
balance true and not sacrifice character to ambition. You will do the
ambition itself no good by it. We may suggest that artistic talent is
very useful in millinery, and that, if need be, you should not despise
turning your gifts to account in designing some article of dress. There
is a wide field open to really artistic dressmakers; but, of course, on
this, we cannot advise you without further knowledge.

AN ARDENT READER, ROSY NELL.--We are glad to hear all you tell us, and
hope you may succeed in the needlework competition. We do not know the
comic ballad you mention on "A Snarling Wife," beginning, "O do be
still!" Are you sure it is worth hunting for? Would it not do you more
good to learn some poem of real beauty or interest?


GIRLS' EMPLOYMENTS.

AGNES (_Training for Children's Nurse_).--Your daughter is certainly
wise in deciding to become a children's nurse rather than a nursery
governess. Her gentle birth and education will be to her advantage in
seeking such a position; at the same time it is a pity that a regular
training cannot be afforded. Under the circumstances we would suggest
that your daughter should seek a situation under a lady nurse, who
would train her in the necessary duties. Such a situation is not
often to be heard of; nevertheless we think you might find one after
careful inquiry. For such purposes it would be better to apply to an
employment agency than to advertise. Through such public organisations
as the Central Bureau for the Employment of Women, 60, Chancery Lane,
W.C., and the Society for Promoting the Employment of Women, 22,
Berners Street, W., you might hear of a suitable vacancy. If you wish
to have the addresses of thoroughly trustworthy private, as well as
public registries, you cannot do better than order one of the lists
of registries from the Hon. Secretary of the Associated Guild of
Registries, 39, Victoria Street, S.W., enclosing three half-pence for
cost and postage. These lists have recently been issued for the first
time, and will gradually be extended. They promise to be of great
utility to parents and guardians as well as to young women who are
seeking employment. For registries vary much in character, and there
are some which experienced advisers would not at all recommend. We do
not answer privately, our answers being intended for the benefit of
readers of The "G. O. P." generally.

AMICUS (_Home Employment_).--We know of no society that exists for the
purpose of providing ladies with work to do at home, nor do we know of
any firm of cigarette manufacturers who give out work. Quite possibly
cigarette-making is undertaken by home-workers living in the immediate
neighbourhood of a manufactory; but manufacturers would hardly care to
send tobacco and paper a hundred miles away from their establishment.
We would suggest that you should learn typewriting and shorthand, and
then seek a situation as clerk in one of the manufactories in your own
city.

IVY and LORA (_Training for a Hospital Nurse_).--It is true that we
have repeatedly answered questions similar to yours. Nevertheless as
you have failed to observe these replies, we gladly respond to your
query. There is hardly any hospital to which you could be admitted
before the age of twenty-one--twenty-three or twenty-four is preferred
by most institutions. In general a probationer can enter either by
payment of a fee or by giving services free, or in return for only
a small salary the first year. You could apply to the matron of any
general hospital for rules of admission for nurses, if you enclosed
stamps for postage. Among the best training schools for nurses in
London are the London Hospital, St. Thomas's, St. Bartholomew's, King's
College, St. Mary's, and University College Hospitals.

ALPEDIAN, although a boy, takes great pleasure in reading THE GIRL'S
OWN PAPER. We are very glad to hear it, ALPEDIAN. Nevertheless we
cannot undertake to advise boys as well as girls in these columns.
However, in reply to your special questions, we may say that a boy must
be articled to a firm of solicitors for some years, and the fee is
usually a high one. Afterwards your prospects of success would depend
partly on yourself and partly on any connection you might possess among
barristers. A solicitor with no legal connection is apt to have an
uphill fight for work.

ANN (_Missionary Work_).--Missionary societies do not always insist
on candidates passing any examination, but they would only accept the
services of a young woman who had received a good general education.
Candidates for work in missions generally spend a period of probation
in some of the training schools. Further particulars could be obtained
from the Secretary of the Society for Promoting Female Education in the
East, 267, Vauxhall Bridge Road, S.W. To judge from your handwriting,
you are at present rather young to enter on such work as this. There is
always, however, plenty of useful work that girls may do among the poor
at home. Girls' Clubs, for instance, often require helpers.


MISCELLANEOUS.

LILY.--Your brother certainly shows great promise. He should, however,
try to perfect himself in mathematics, as architectural construction
depends greatly upon this science, and especially upon mechanics. He
should also sketch buildings from nature, and make measured drawings
of some building, a church or house or such like, and carefully read
works upon architecture, such, for instance as _The Glossary of
Architecture_, Fergusson's _Architectural Handbook_, Rosengarten's
_Handbook of Architectural Styles_ (translated by W. Collett-Sanders).
He would also gain some information from "Architecture, or the Art of
Buildings," published in THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, October 24, 1885, to May
22, 1886, and contained in _The Girl's Own Annual_, commencing October
3, 1885. Although against our rules we return the drawings to you as
you requested for which you sent stamps, but you give a very meagre
address.

JESSIE.--The Egyptian-looking obelisk of which you speak, near
Forres, in Elginshire, called "Sueno's Stone," has puzzled many an
antiquary, and the opinions they have severally formed do not seem
at all unanimous as to its origin. It is a very remarkable one--the
broken remains standing 25 feet in height, and cut out of a block
of the hardest granite to be found in Scotland. The opinion of the
Rev. C. Cordiner (a distinguished antiquary of the last century)
was, that it was raised to commemorate the victory of the Scots over
the Scandinavian invaders, who had established themselves on the
neighbouring promontory of Burghead, in the 9th century. The monument
is covered with figures of armed men, some equestrian, with bows,
swords and spears, as well as a cross on the obverse side and sundry
other objects.

TOOTING GRAVENEY.--To water plants, such as rose trees, with tobacco
water is said to destroy blight.

LOTTIE.--We could not recommend anything for removing stains of
paraffin oil from a light-coloured dress. First, you do not name the
material; but, in any case, we always recommend the employment of some
trimming to cover the stain, or else the substitution of a new breadth.
Possibly a rearrangement of folds or pleats might conceal it.

AU DÉSESPOIR.--It is, as we have frequently told our readers, quite
impossible to teach French pronunciation otherwise than orally, as
their alphabet and ours are dissimilar in sound. In Latin it is
otherwise. Of the terms you name, however, we may give the sound with
our own letters. "Monsieur" is pronounced "Mus-yeu," not "Mus-you"; and
"Mademoiselle" as "Mad-moy-zelle." The syllable "ieur" is pronounced as
the word for "eyes" in French, viz., "yeux." Perhaps you know how to
pronounce that word. We are not acquainted with any other book on the
subject of phonetic pronunciation.

FATIMA (Smyrna).--1. There is no periodical with which we are
acquainted that is specially devoted to the question of hair-dressing.
Those on fashions in dress very usually add some remarks on any changes
with reference to the _coiffeur_. In THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER.--2. As to
the dangerous attempt to give additional brightness to the eyes by
artificial means, we greatly object to them. Some foolish, vain women,
employ belladonna--a drug that extends the pupil and injures the
eye. It should only be medically applied under a doctor's advice and
direction for certain complaints, not for the purpose of temporarily
enlarging the pupil. The eye is so delicate an organ, and sight so
exceedingly precious, that no experiments by amateurs should be
practised on it, especially for mere vanity' sake. We are always glad
to hear from our foreign friends, even if not subscribers. Your English
is excellent.

JOICE M. (second letter).--The several precious stones that are said by
the Poles to influence the twelve months of the year, respectively, are
as follows:--Jan., a garnet, representing constancy; Feb., an amethyst,
sincerity; March, jasper (or bloodstone), courage; April, a diamond,
innocence; May, an emerald, success in love; June, agate, health
and longevity; July, cornelian, content; August, sardony, conjugal
felicity; Sept., chrysolite, antidote to insanity; Oct., opal, hope;
Nov., topaz, fidelity; Dec., turquoise, prosperity. For this Polish
rendering of the question we have the authority of Dr. Brewer.

JUDIC.--The jewellery distinguished as "rococo," is usually made up
of several varieties of gems. Moorish decorations, and Watteau's
paintings, are in this style; also in furniture, that of Louis XIV.,
which is highly gilded; and ormolu, are called "rococo." The term is
of uncertain etymology. It prevailed more especially in France at the
close of the 18th and beginning of the 19th centuries, and was extended
to architecture and landscape-gardening. In the former it is a debased
style, which succeeded the revival of the Italian, and was very much in
vogue in Germany.

S. E. H.--1. Yes, Charles Dickens did write a History of England
designed for children.--2. Your handwriting is fairly good and very
legible, though scarcely yet a "running hand."

LULU.--There are classes held at least in three places in town for
instruction in book-keeping, amongst other things, namely, at the
College for Men and Women, 29, Queen Square, Bloomsbury, W.C.; apply to
the secretary at the College for Working Women, 7, Fitzroy Street, W.;
and at Birkbeck Literary and Scientific Institution, Bream's Buildings,
Chancery Lane and Fetter Lane, E.C. Address the secretary. You might
inquire respecting any book written on the subject at any of these
places.

MISS M. BANNERMAN.--There is a Ladies' Art Work Depôt at 251, Brompton
Road, S.W., address Lady Eden. There is another Work Society at 31,
Sloane Street, President, H.R.H. the Princess Louise; and a third,
Ladies' Work Society, of which the depôt is at 185, High Street,
Kensington, Hon. Sec. Miss K. Ford, Rock Moor, Yelverton, R.S.O., Devon.

M. ORME and M. E. MORRIS.--There are certain questions that do not come
within our province to answer. We regret we are unable to give you the
answers you desire.

MISERABLE.--Pray for divine help to break off your acquaintance with
such bad companions, and go to your clergyman (to the vestry of the
church), or to your minister, tell him your trouble and ask him to give
you his advice and follow it.




THE GIRL'S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS COMPETITION.

_For particulars as to this interesting Competition, in which every
reader will find it for her advantage to take part, see page 14 (No.
979)._


Questions 13-24.

13. When did the pianoforte first come into use?

       *       *       *       *       *

14. What is the most polite nation in the world?

       *       *       *       *       *

15. What is the nearest star to the earth?

       *       *       *       *       *

16. What philosopher of antiquity married a shrew?

       *       *       *       *       *

17. What flower, in the middle of the seventeenth century, became the
subject of a popular mania?

       *       *       *       *       *

18. What is the best soil on which to build a house?

       *       *       *       *       *

19. Did anyone ever swim across the Channel from England to France?

       *       *       *       *       *

20. What great lady once in a temper cut off her long and beautiful
hair and flung it in her husband's face?

       *       *       *       *       *

21. What is the origin of the name foolscap as applied to paper of a
certain size?

       *       *       *       *       *

22. Have flowers ever been used as time-keepers?

       *       *       *       *       *

23. What famous relic of antiquity on its way to this country nearly
found its last resting-place at the bottom of the sea?

       *       *       *       *       *

24. Who was the famous carrier who gave rise to a proverb by always
making his customers take the horse nearest the stable door?

THE ANSWERS TO THESE QUESTIONS, Nos. 13-24, together with the answers
to questions 1-12, which have already appeared, must be sent in on or
before the 30th of December, 1898.




ENTHUSIASM: AN ADDRESS TO SCHOOL-GIRLS.

BY ELIZABETH A. S. DAWES, M.A., D.Lit.

    "Let a man contend to the uttermost
    For his life's prize, be it what it will."

        _Browning._

    "Strive for the truth unto death" (Eccles. iv. 28).

    "Ye have not resisted unto blood, striving against sin" (Hebr.
    xii. 4).


I propose to address to the readers of this magazine a few words on
the subject of "enthusiasm in a good cause;" for undoubtedly a lack of
hearty, honest enthusiasm, a general "slackness," both in character
and conduct, is a sad characteristic of too many of the present-day
girls and young women. For this reason, therefore, I have chosen for
you three quotations, all of which speak of the duty of enthusiasm
in a good cause, or, in other words, of striving with all our might
to accomplish our life's purpose, or for the truth, or in the battle
against sin.

Now I can imagine someone asking, "Why should we be enthusiastic? What
is the good of it?" and to this question I would reply by giving as
the three chief reasons: firstly, that nothing great or good can be
accomplished without enthusiasm; secondly, enthusiasm in a good cause
is one of the chief means of forming and ennobling the character; and
thirdly, that it is commanded and commended by Christ.

To prove the truth of my first reason, you need only turn your thoughts
to the world's history, and recall to your memory the many enthusiastic
workers and fighters--"fanatics," as the world often mockingly calls
them--who have striven, often literally unto death, to promote some
good cause or establish some truth, and then ask yourselves, "Would
they have accomplished what they did if they had been lukewarm, and
half-hearted in their work, and daunted by every fresh obstacle that
beset their path?" No, they would not; for, as you all know, obstacles
there are in plenty, and, as a Greek writer says, "It is only true
enthusiasm which can overcome all obstacles; it is not the power, but
the will and the desire which are often wanting in us."

As illustrations of enthusiasts think of St. Paul with his tremendous
missionary energy, Socrates, Wilberforce, John Howard, and, in our
days, of the women, the "pioneers," who fought against apparently
insuperable difficulties for the opening of the medical profession and
a university career for themselves and other women.

Secondly, enthusiasm in a good cause forms and moulds the mind by
giving it some definite object of pursuit, which prevents aimlessness
of purpose, waste of time and capabilities, and selfishness; it
ennobles it by raising it above trivial or low thoughts, by attuning
it to higher melodies than those of this earth, and by breeding in
it single-mindedness and fostering sincerity, "which is the first
characteristic of all men in any way heroic" (Carlyle). Browning and
Michael Angelo, two powerful workers themselves, bear testimony to this
ennobling influence of enthusiasm, for the former in his _Saul_ writes--

    "'Tis not what man does which exalts him,
    But what man would do,"

and the latter, "Nothing makes the soul so pure, so religious, as the
endeavour to create something perfect; for God is perfection, and
whoever strives for perfection strives for something that is God-like."

My third reason scarcely needs comment, for all will instantly recall
the command that "men should always pray and not faint," His parable
of the importunate widow, and His commendation of Mary because "she
hath done what she could" and had brought her best to her Lord. But
apart from what He said, ought not the whole life of "the Perfect Head
and Pattern of Mankind" to be a direct incentive to enthusiasm?

Next, I would suggest some subjects for enthusiasm.

One which should throw its glamour over us all, and should spur us
ever onward and upward, is "the great thought of our immortality," or,
as a writer puts it, "We must shape our life under the government of
the life to come," however many difficulties there may be in trying to
do so. And, if we are brought under the spell of this great thought,
it creates enthusiasm, for "to keep before us the real outlook of the
soul is to refuse persistently to drift with the stream. We have to
take care to watch wisely and sternly over our wills, to keep our eye
on the spring of our actions, to be careful about the decisions we
make, and to be earnest in watching against mere slackness of will in
carrying out those decisions which we know to be right." And if this
thought--which yet was to them no definite thought, but only a misty
conception and the vaguest of hopes--exercised such domination over
the souls of some of the ancient heathens as to cause them to lead
spotless, blameless lives, what should its effect be on us now, who
know that it is no idle fancy, but a thing to hold and live by?

Further, I like to see people enthusiastic about their family and home,
about the ordinary duties that lie to hand, about the place in which
they live, and so on. For assuredly nothing is more hateful--the word
is strong, but it is the right one--nothing, I repeat, is more hateful
than to hear girls disparaging their mothers with remarks such as, "Oh,
mother does not understand us modern girls, she is so old-fashioned,
you know; I never ask her opinion about anything," or to hear them
complain that there is no scope for their energies in their own homes.
Such as these should remember Archbishop Trench's sonnet beginning--

    "Thou cam'st not to thy place by accident;
    It is the very place God meant for thee;
    And should'st thou there small scope of action see
    Do not for this give room to discontent."

While at school be enthusiastic for it and its customs, and, if you
think it not all it should be, work your hardest at rendering it more
worthy of your enthusiasm, and while there set the example of doing the
lessons and playing at the games with enthusiasm.

But the crucial moment comes when you leave school and become more
or less your own mistress--for while you are at school your time is
apportioned out to various duties, and the development of individual
bents and tendencies can necessarily not be allowed such free play as
they can revel in when school-days are over--and then it is for you to
show whether you mean to pass your days in "doing nothing much" either
at home or outside, or whether you recognise your own greatness as an
immortal, and intend to do at least something or other in this world
well.

And here a word of caution must be inserted against allowing enthusiasm
for one pursuit to lead to the neglect of other duties. "There is
the story of a friar who set to work to illuminate the pages of the
Apocalypse in his zeal and love for God. He became so absorbed in
this work that he neglected the poor and sick, who were suffering and
dying in the plague. He came at last to the painting of the face of
his Lord, but his hand lost its skill. He wondered why, and realised
that it was because, in his eagerness to paint his pictures, he had
neglected his poor. Humiliated by this discovery, he laid aside his
brushes and went down to minister to the sick and dying. He wrought on
untiringly till he himself was smitten down. Then he tottered back to
his cell to finish his loved work before he died. He knelt in prayer
to ask help, when lo! he saw that an angel's hand had completed the
picture of the Lord in a manner far surpassing human skill." It is only
a legend, but its lesson is well worthy your serious thought.

Again, contemplate the effect your enthusiasm will have on those around
you. One great and vital element in enthusiasm is hope--hope which
endures under rebuffs, derision, and in spite of apparent failure. Now
hope is most infectious, and when others, whose spirits are perchance
drooping, and hearts failing for the heaviness of their duties and
the weight of their troubles, see that you always maintain an ardent
determination to accomplish your purpose, a cheerful spirit, and
a smiling, hopeful face, they will feel their courage renewed and
will resume their burden with re-invigorated strength. This idea is
beautifully expressed by Mrs. Browning in the lines on "Work"--

                      "Then others shall
    Take patience, labour to their heart and hand,
    From thy heart and thy hand and thy brave cheer."

I will conclude by reminding you that, alongside of enthusiasm on one
and several other points, you must, be you strong or weak, rich or
poor, cherish undying enthusiasm for "friendship's ministry," which
is the half of your solemn duty of service to God. So many people
forget that it is not enough to feel love or affection for others
unless they also show it and thus give pleasure and comfort, and
ofttimes strengthening, to their friend. A word of sympathy does so
much. Once after the death of a good clergyman whose labours had been
very blessed, his friends expressed to his widow their appreciation
of his noble life and work, and she, after thanking them for their
kindly words, asked, amid her tears: "But why did you never tell him
these things while he was living?" Yes, why not? Dr. Miller says:
"Too many wait until those they love are dead, and then bring their
alabaster boxes of affection and break them. They keep silent about
their love when words would mean so much, would give such cheer,
encouragement; and then, when the friend lies in the coffin, their lips
are unsealed.... Let us not reserve all the flowers for coffin-lids....
Let us show kindness when kindness will do good. All about us move
those who would be strengthened and comforted by the good cheer which
we could give. It will make sorrow all the harder if we ever have to
say beside the dead: "I might have brightened the way a little if only
I had been kinder.""

Never then, I beg of you, forget to be enthusiastic in this ministry
of friendship, and if, combined with that, you entertain enthusiasm
for other noble, worthy things, and try to kindle a like enthusiasm in
others, you may, perhaps, at the end of your life be allowed to feel
that you have, though perhaps but in a slight degree,

    "Made the world within your reach
    Somewhat the better for your living
    And gladder for your human speech."

        _Whittier._

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Transcriber's note--the following changes have been made to this text:

Page 37: prefiguratious changed to prefigurations.