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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.—NO. 1025.]       AUGUST 19, 1899.       [PRICE ONE PENNY.]




LONDON’S FUTURE HOUSEWIVES AND THEIR TEACHERS.

[Illustration: A HOUSEWIFERY CLASS AT BATTERSEA POLYTECHNIC.]

_All rights reserved._]


If one stands at the entrance of a large Board school either at dinner
or tea-time and watches the pupils trooping out, one often wonders
what will become of all these lively children in a few years’ time,
what they will make of their lives, and how enough work is to be found
for them all. Has it ever struck any of my readers that, whatever the
boys may do in the way of work, sooner or later that of the girls is
certain? They are going to be the wives or housekeepers of these or
other boys. They will be dressmakers, tailoresses, servants, factory
girls or what not for a time, but their final business will be
housekeeping, and housekeeping too on small means, so that a great deal
of skill, care and knowledge will be needed if they are to do it well.

How are the girls to be trained for this very important work of theirs?
Their school life is very short; the time they will have to spare
after leaving school will be very little, their leisure hours in the
evening being wanted for rest and recreation as well as for learning;
it will be small wonder if many of them marry without any knowledge of
household management and if the comfort and happiness of their home is
ruined in consequence.

The question is so serious that people interested in education have
given it a great deal of thought. There is little doubt that, if it
were possible, the best plan would be to give a year’s training in
housekeeping to every girl when she leaves school; but alas! since
most girls from elementary schools are obliged to earn money as early
as possible, this plan cannot be carried out. The only thing that can
be done by the managers of elementary schools is to proceed on the
principle that “half a loaf is better than no bread,” to give the
girls, while still at school, weekly lessons for a certain number
of weeks each year, in cookery and laundry-work, and sometimes in
housewifery generally, and to encourage them to attend evening classes
after they have left school. A great deal of good has been done in this
way, but the children are so young and the lessons necessarily so few,
so far between and so fragmentary, that the result is very far from
being all that could be wished.

Seeing this, the Technical Education Board of the London County Council
five years ago began to establish, one after another, Schools of
Domestic Economy to which girls should go for five months at a time
after leaving the ordinary schools, and where they should be occupied
for the whole school hours five days a week in household work, thus
giving them an opportunity of really understanding their future
duties as housewives. The question of enabling poor people to afford
this five months’ extra teaching for their girls was a difficult one
to meet, but as far as it could be done it has been done by giving
free scholarships at these schools and by providing the scholars with
their dinner and tea free of cost, and providing also the material
required by each girl for making herself a dress, an apron and some
under-garment during her time at the school. With only two exceptions,
these schools, which are nine in number, are held in the polytechnics
or in technical institutes, a capital arrangement whereby the rooms
needed for evening classes for adults are used also during the day-time.

Let us look in at one of the schools and see of what a day’s work
consists. We will choose the school at the Battersea Polytechnic,
because a Training School for Teachers is held there as well as a
school for girls, and we shall have a double interest in the work.
The Polytechnic is a great building standing back from Battersea Park
Road, and at about nine o’clock in the morning we shall find a stream
of teachers and pupils hurrying into it, masters and mistresses of the
Science School, the Domestic Economy School, and the Training School
for Teachers of Domestic Economy; boys and girls of the Science School;
girls and women students of the two Domestic Economy Schools; and a
few minutes later we shall find these all gathered in a large hall
for “call over” and prayers, and then filing off to their separate
departments.

Let us ask Miss Mitchell, the head of the Domestic Economy Schools, to
spare us a little of her time and explain the work to us. We follow the
women and girls to a separate wing of the building, and as they divide
off into the different class-rooms we enter the large cookery school
and watch the students in training settling down to their morning’s
work, fetching their pots and pans from cupboards and shelves, looking
up the list of their work on the blackboard, weighing out ingredients,
and so on. We look round the room, a little confused at first with
all the movement, and see that it is large and well lighted with
coal-stoves at one end and gas-stoves fixed into two large tables in
the centre, with a lift, up which provisions for the day are still
being sent, and down which, as we find later, the dinner is to go to
the dining-room punctually at one o’clock; large sinks and plate-racks
are fitted in one corner, low cupboards with shelves over them run far
along the walls, and at the end of the room opposite the stoves is a
stepped gallery, where forty or fifty pupils can sit for demonstration
lessons. The head cookery teacher is busily engaged inspecting the
food materials bought in by the student-housekeeper, criticising the
quality and hearing the prices given, and Miss Mitchell explains to
us that the students take it in turns to be housekeepers, and have to
buy in materials for dinners for some sixty people every day; they
are given lists of what will be wanted by the teachers, but the whole
responsibility of choosing and buying the food rests with them, and so
out they go every day into the neighbouring streets, taking with them
two or three girls from the Domestic Economy School, to choose fish,
meat and vegetables from the shops and stalls of the neighbourhood, for
they are to learn how to choose and make the best of such provisions
as the working people of the neighbourhood are accustomed to buy, and
capital training this is for them.

“Do the students here cook dinners for sixty people?” we ask in wonder;
and in answer, Miss Mitchell takes us next door into a smaller cookery
room, where fifteen girls are at work under the charge of a teacher and
a student, also busy on dishes which are to be ready by dinner-time.
Everything left from one day’s dinner, we are told, is brought up to
the cookery schools again by the “housekeeper” to be re-cooked and made
into dainty dishes—no waste of any kind is allowed.

Crossing the corridor we find two rooms given up to dressmaking and
needlework; here again both students-in-training and girls are working
in separate classes. One of the students, who has nearly completed
her course of training, is helping a teacher with a class of girls
(fifteen in number again we notice), and the other students, under
the head dressmaking teacher, are busy on their own work—this morning
they are drafting bodice patterns for various types of figures, but
that their work is not confined to pattern-making is evident when the
cupboards are opened and dresses taken out for our inspection—dresses
made by each student to fit herself, funds being provided as in the
case of the girls by the Technical Education Board. Very neatly made
the dresses are, and proud the students seem to be of them, though
their pride is tempered by anxiety as to what the examiner’s opinion
of them may be when the time of examination for their diplomas comes.
Each student has to make two dresses, that is, sample garments to show
her plain needlework, and to learn to patch and mend old dresses and
under-garments, her pride culminating in a sampler of patches, darns,
and drawnthread work, such as that hanging in a show cupboard on the
wall. The girls, we are told, in their shorter course make themselves
one dress, one apron, and an under-garment each, and spend one lesson
of two hours each week in practical mending of worn garments.

We ask why it is that every class we have seen consists of fifteen
pupils only, and are told that in all classes for practical work for
which funds are supplied by the Technical Education Board the number of
pupils is limited to fifteen, so that the teacher may be able to attend
thoroughly to the practical work of each pupil, instead of having to
teach her class somewhat in the manner of a drill sergeant, as must
inevitably be the case when dealing with large numbers.

But the morning is getting on, and we hurry downstairs to the laundry,
perhaps the most striking of all the class-rooms, a glass partition
shutting off the washing-room, with its large teak troughs where a busy
set of girls are at work, from the ironing-room, fitted with long solid
tables on which blouses of many shapes and colours are being ironed
into crisp freshness. A special feature of the room is the white-tiled
screen keeping the heat of the ironing stove, with its dozens of irons,
from the rest of the room, while the height and good ventilation keep
the room fresh and pleasant even in hot weather. We turn away from this
vision of dainty whiteness to be in time to see the last class we are
to visit this morning, the “housewifery” class, which is conducting a
“spring-cleaning” in one of the social rooms of the polytechnic, which
lends itself admirably for the purpose of teaching the girls how to
turn out a well-furnished sitting-room. The housewifery lessons are a
great feature of the Domestic Economy Schools, we hear, and include
the whole routine of household work apart from actual cooking, washing,
and dressmaking, these being, as we have seen, taught separately,
so that girls who have gone through the course ought not to find
themselves at a loss in any department of housekeeping, the whole
series of lessons in each department being made to dovetail one into
the other.

It is nearly one o’clock now, and Miss Mitchell asks us to come into
the dining-room, where the tables are just laid for dinner, and we find
the housekeeping-student in charge, lifting dishes on to “hot-plates”
as they come down from the cookery schools, with the group of girls
who are told off to help her giving final touches to the tables,
these being laid with pretty blue and white crockery, and with here
and there bunches of flowers which have been brought by one or other
of the pupils. The teachers aim at having the tables laid as nicely
as possible and at giving the girls a high standard of neatness and
daintiness to take back with them to their own homes.

Presently a bell rings and the girls file in and take their places at
three long tables, with a teacher and a student at the head and foot of
each, the other students-in-training having a table to themselves. We
feel rather intrusive as we watch them take their places, and, turning
out of the room, ask Miss Mitchell to spare us yet a few minutes to
answer some of the questions that are in our minds.

“How many of such schools are there? Where are the others, and how do
the girls get their scholarships? Can we help girls we know to get such
a chance, and specially how are the scholarships for training teachers
to be obtained, and what chance is there for these teachers at the end
of their two years’ training?” Miss Mitchell tells us laughingly that
to answer all this fully would take much more than a few minutes, but
this much she can say: that at present, though the number of schools
is far from enough to give as many scholarships as are needed for
all London, they are steadily increasing in number; there are such
schools at the Borough, Chelsea, Woolwich, Clerkenwell, St. John’s
Wood, Bloomsbury, Wandsworth and Norwood, while others will be opened
in Holloway, at Globe Road, Bow, and at Deptford next term: that the
girls’ scholarships are given on their being nominated by their school
mistresses for the approval of the Technical Education Board, and that
therefore anyone interested in getting such a scholarship for a working
girl should write to the offices of the Technical Education Board of
the London County Council for information, and then get the girl to
apply to her mistress for a nomination for next term. As regards the
training scholarships, they have to be won by passing an examination,
not in itself very stiff, but sufficient to ensure that the teachers
of domestic economy trained in the school shall possess a fairly good
general education. All particulars can be obtained from the offices
of the Technical Education Board. As to the chance of employment,
the experience of teachers holding good diplomas from the Battersea
Training School has been very happy, few of them having had to wait
long for work. And so she wishes us good-bye, and we leave the building
feeling that we have had a glance into a new world, one full of energy
and hopefulness, and giving promise of happier conditions of life for
future generations of citizens in our great city.

[Illustration: A NEEDLEWORK CLASS, BATTERSEA POLYTECHNIC.]

[Illustration]




THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object
in Life,” etc.


CHAPTER XXI.

THE TELEGRAM FROM THE NORTH.

The days went on: the mysterious “knocks” did not recur, and as the
police inspector made no more inquiries, and the Marvels attempted no
further intercourse with the little house with the verandah, the very
memory of them readily faded from the minds of the little household
there, and especially from that of its mistress, ever becoming more
pre-occupied with the prolonged delay of letters from Charlie, or
indeed of any news from the _Slains Castle_.

Lucy’s brother-in-law, Mr. Brand, went down to Bath to attend Mr.
Bray’s funeral, and his wife Florence accompanied him “to be with the
dear old lady in her sorrow.” Indeed, Mr. Brand left his wife with the
widow while he went to and fro between Bath and London, looking after
his own business and winding up Mr. Bray’s affairs. Lucy would have
liked to visit the old lady in the early days of bereavement, but, of
course, in her circumstances any such expression of sympathy was out of
the question. Still, every evening, no matter how tired and despondent
she felt she wrote a loving little note to her mother’s old friend,
so that every morning she might find it on her breakfast-table. Also,
Lucy copied a little picture of the Surrey village where she knew Mrs.
Bray had first met her dead husband, and she sent it to the widow as
a tender sign of sympathy. Lucy did not wonder that Mrs. Bray herself
never acknowledged these tokens of love, for she knew the lady was old
and feeble, and that deep grief is sometimes very silent. She knew that
Mrs. Bray received all her remembrances, for Florence wrote delivering
the old lady’s “thanks for all kindnesses,” and adding how grateful she
also was for Florence’s companionship, and for all the arrangements
“Jem” was making for her welfare.

“There is not so much property left as one might have supposed,
considering that Mr. Bray has earned such a large income for so many
years,” wrote Florence. “But then the Brays have always lived among
people of rank and wealth, and naturally they got into the habit of
spending as their friends did.”

“Ah,” said Miss Latimer, as Lucy read the letter to her. “In that way,
earned incomes, however big, soon break up and vanish, as did the clay
jar in the fable, when it raced with the iron pot!”

Lucy resumed her reading. “Florence goes on: ‘Never mind; they have both
enjoyed the best of everything, and have had many advantages which they
might not have had, if people had not believed them to be rich. Jem is
always saying that there’s nothing so expensive as poverty. Therefore,
though there is not much property left, it won’t matter much, for
in many ways Mrs. Bray’s spending days are necessarily over. Jem is
managing so cleverly that she will scarcely know she is poorer than she
used to be. She will even be able to afford to go on living in the same
house, when she returns to London. It would be a great trial to her
if she could not hope to do that—and it can be managed, for, you see,
she is old and can’t live long. She trusts Jem implicitly and leaves
everything to him. She always says, “I don’t want to know anything
about money matters; I never have known and I don’t wish to begin now.
I ask for nothing but my little comforts and Rachel to look after me.”
And then Jem assures her that is quite easy, and so she is satisfied. I
can’t think what Mrs. Bray would do without Rachel. She is more devoted
to her mistress than ninety-nine daughters out of a hundred are to
their mothers. I don’t anticipate that my girls will be half so kind to
me when my dismal days come—and of course, I hope they’ll be married
and gone off long before I’m an old woman. I should not like to be the
mother of ungathered wall-flowers! But where am I likely to find a
Rachel? I’ll just have to go and stay at an “hydropathic” when I’m an
old woman. But old age is a long way off yet—and I devoutly trust that
I’ll be dead before it comes.’”

Those last words struck Lucy. She had heard them before—the very same
words—spoken by a humble working woman, whose strenuous labours could
not provide for more than the wants of each day.

All that woman’s year’s work for a certain company had actually brought
her in less than Jem Brand got as annual dividend upon each hundred
pounds he had invested in its shares. Lucy had heard that woman say,
“I’ve only one chance to escape the workhouse. I hope I’ll die before I
am old.”

The poor overworked woman had felt thus for one reason, and now the
wealthy idle woman felt so for another. What did it all mean? Where had
life gone wrong? Of these two women, one had all that the other lacked,
yet it did not suffice to save her from the worst bitterness of that
other life. Lucy remembered having read somewhere that Lazarus does not
perish for lack of aught that is good for Dives, but for lack of that
excess by which Dives destroys himself.

But in these days Lucy did not think over theories and practices as she
had been wont to do. She hardly dared to think at all, for the moment
thought got a-working, it seized on the terrible reality that still
neither word nor sign came from Charlie!

A delay so prolonged must mean something. If it meant some
rearrangement of plan, or unexpected detention at the port of some
Pacific Island, then surely a letter would have come. Nay, Lucy felt
certain that if Charlie knew that any suspense were likely to arise,
then a telegram would have arrived. Charlie and she had made their
thrifty little pre-arrangements on that score. His firm had a code
name, and they had agreed that this, with the name “Challoner”—the word
“saw” to stand for “safe and well”—was to suffice for Lucy in case of
any unforeseen contingencies.

But no letter came and no such telegram came!

Alarm had now a wider basis than anxiety for Charlie’s health. An
inquiry sent to Mrs. Grant in Peterhead promptly brought back a quite
remarkably brief answer that she too had heard nothing. Inquiries made
at the London office of the shipping firm concerned with the _Slains
Castle_ elicited that they too had no tidings, though they made light
of the fact, and dwelt on the many delays to which sailing-vessels were
subject.

Lucy’s anxiety swamped all her other worries, though unconsciously to
herself those worries might still prey on the nerve and fortitude which
endurance of the great trial demanded.

What did it matter now when the little china tea-set which had been one
of her birthday gifts to Charlie was dashed to the ground and almost
every piece of it shivered to fragments? It grieved her once; now it
did not affect her at all, save as a type of the general wreckage into
which life seemed breaking up.

She did not give much attention to Clementina’s eagerly-tendered
defence concerning the accident, given thus—

“I had nothing to do with it, ma’am. I was in the back kitchen at the
time, and I’d left it sitting safely on the dresser. Then all of a
sudden I heard the crash, and when I looked in, there it was—all in
fragments on the floor.”

“You must have placed it too near the edge of the dresser, Clementina,”
urged Miss Latimer, “and the slight oscillation caused by some heavy
vehicle passing by must have caused it to tilt over.”

It was strange that Clementina repudiated this explanation.

“I didn’t hear any heavy traffic,” she answered. “There’s never much of
it near here, anyway. No, ma’am, such things will happen sometimes, and
there’s no accounting for them and there’s no use in trying to do it.”

If Lucy’s attention could have been directed towards anything but the
terrible fear which absorbed all her soul, she might have noticed
that at this time Miss Latimer became rather anxious and observant
concerning Clementina. The old lady was aware that the servant was
growing restless and uneasy. Her superstitions seemed all astir. She
began to see omens on every side. The tense atmosphere of the household
mind evidently affected her very much. Miss Latimer could only hope
that it would not affect her so much as to cause her to “give notice.”
For in many ways the old lady’s experience told her that Clementina
was a treasure not to be found every day, since she was scrupulously
honest, clean and industrious, and the very last person likely to have
questionable “followers.”

So the dreary days went on in the shadow of the storm-cloud, now so
lowering that it became too much to hope that it would pass over
harmlessly.

The monotony was broken at last by a telegram which came in late one
evening. But it did not come to end Lucy’s agony of suspense, either by
joy or sorrow. It was simply a telegram from Mrs. Grant of Peterhead,
announcing that by the time it reached Lucy she would be on her way
to London, as she had despatched the message just as her train was
starting. She might be expected by the first train reaching London in
the morning.

“What does this mean?” asked Lucy with white lips.

Miss Latimer and Tom strove to soothe her by assuring her that
naturally Mrs. Grant was as anxious as herself. Perhaps she wanted to
seek further information about the _Slains Castle_, or possibly to
consult with Lucy as to whether there were joint steps that they might
take in search of news. Lucy was not readily pacified. Her first fear
had been that Mrs. Grant had had private word of the loss of the ship
and her passenger and crew, and that she kindly wished to communicate
this news to Lucy personally. It was comparatively easy to persuade
her that this was most unlikely. Her next misgiving was more difficult
to dislodge. It was that Mrs. Grant had at last heard from her husband
with some bad news of Charlie—a private matter with which, of course,
owners and underwriters could have nothing to do. This foreboding could
only be allayed by Mrs. Grant herself.

The north train arrived so early at the terminus not far from Pelham
Street that Mrs. Challoner and Tom were able to go and meet the
traveller before they were respectively due at the Institute and the
office. They had breakfast (as indeed they often did) by gaslight, and
then hurried off, Lucy taking Hugh with them. Lucy could not bear him
to be out of her sight now for one moment more than was necessary,
and Hugh himself begged to be taken. Miss Latimer had not yet come
downstairs when they departed, but Clementina protested that “the
precious darling” might well be left with her—her work was so well in
hand that she need do nothing but amuse him—it was a pity he had even
been roused up when he might have had another hour’s sweet sleep, and
she wondered his ma wasn’t afraid to take him out when the morning was
so dull and raw, an argument which would have overcome Lucy but for
Hugh’s plucking at her gown and pleading, “Take me with you, mamma,
take me with you.”

It was no distracted weeping woman who descended from the through
train. Mrs. Grant came out briskly, and looking round at once
recognised the group awaiting her, though she had never before seen
more of them than a photograph of Lucy. The worthy lady had travelled
with plenty of comfortable wraps and a hamper of home-made food.
It gave Lucy some reassurance to note this practical attention to
creature necessities. She could scarcely realise that the sailor’s
wife, a resident in a seaport town, had already stood so often, for
herself and for others, in catastrophes of life and death, hope and
despair, that she had learned that our bodies require adequate support
and consolation if they are, ably and long, to serve and second our
spiritual nature, above all our powers of endurance and initiative.

“I’ve got no news for you, neither good nor bad,” she said promptly.
“If aught has happened to your husband it has happened to my good man
too. But it’s my private belief that the office folks here know a
little more than they will admit. I got a letter from them yesterday
afternoon saying that they know nothing at all, and I disbelieve that
so much that it was this very letter which made me start off here
straightway. If they do know anything I’ll manage to get it out of them.

“I don’t imagine they know much,” she hurried on, noting the whiteness
of Lucy’s face. “If they knew much we should hear fast enough, never
you fear. But whatever they know, little or much, I’ll know too, before
I go home!”

As she spoke, the cab drew up at the Challoners’ house. In the
dining-room the lamps were still alight, revealing the bounteous
breakfast-table which Clementina had spread after removing the
impromptu cups of tea which Lucy and Tom had hastily snatched before
going out. But as Tom opened the hall door with his latchkey he was met
by a pungent odour not given off by toast and ham.

“An escape of gas!” he cried.

(_To be continued._)




CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.

BY MARGARET INNES.


CHAPTER XI.

    HARD WORK FOR THE MEN—HARDER WORK STILL FOR THE WOMEN—THE
    CISTERN—RATTLESNAKES—THE GARDEN—HOMESICKNESS—PIPE-LAYING.

The ordinary business man at home in England would think it rather a
mad suggestion if his friend were to prophesy that some day he would
have to set to and make his own roads, the drive up to his house, lay
his own water-pipes from the main, build his own rain-water cistern and
cesspool, dig and plant his own garden, and fence that in too.

I think he would be equally surprised if he could realise how quickly
and easily he would adapt himself to such unaccustomed work, and how
well he could accomplish it.

To the man who loves an outdoor life, and is clever with his hands,
and has ingenuity, too, and some skill in creating something out of
nothing, “making history,” there is much zest and enjoyment in all
this. But, of course, it is very hard work; and when the sun is fierce
(which it usually is), the glare and heat are most trying, out on the
perfectly shadeless stretches of land.

The body does not accustom itself easily to these new labours, and the
new burden must not be laid upon it too heavily; all the health-giving
power of ranch life depends largely upon this precaution. Therefore the
question of being able to pay for necessary help is a very important
one. It is pitiful to see the weary, broken struggles of men untrained
and unaccustomed to the heavy physical work of a ranch, and unable to
pay for help. A breakdown, more or less serious, is almost certain,
when the work all falls behind, and things become more and more
hopeless. It is a great mistake for a delicate man, who has broken
down at his office work at home in England, to come out here to ranch,
thinking to recover his health in the open-air life, but not having at
the same time the means to pay for help, nor the capital to be able to
wait the necessary years till his ranch can yield an income.

Of course, I am not speaking of the man born and bred to such work at
home; he will find a true land of promise here; the pay he can command
(one dollar a day and his board), will soon enable him, if he is a
thrifty fellow, to buy a bit of land and build a home of his own, such
as he could not dream of in the old country; and the work is what he
has always been accustomed to, and for which his body has been trained
for generations.

But for the man of gentle birth and breeding it is a very different
story. He would be better shut up in an office at home.

The life is splendidly healthy so long as one is not overdriven; the
physical exercise of the different occupations, and all in the open
air, is like the training of an athlete. Hoeing round the lemon trees
is as good for the chest and arms of the labourer as for the roots
of the lemon trees; but only always if the worker be not overtaxed.
Indeed, from our experience it is only by carrying on sure regular
active work in the open air that one gets the real benefit from this
climate.

With thirty-one acres planted, we have found the help of one ranchman
with Larry, our eldest son, and his father to be sufficient; so all
our digging and piping and road-making went forward without too heavy
a strain. The accepted theory is that one man can manage ten acres of
planted land, and do justice to it; and a ranchman costs from twenty to
thirty dollars a month, and his keep.

If the rough work and life are hard for men to accustom themselves
to, it is much harder still for the women, especially, of course,
for delicate women, who are supposed to have been brought out “for
their health.” And here is the place to point out what a farce it is
to suppose that any frail woman could possibly get any benefit out of
the finest climate in the world if, in addition to the burden of her
illness, she has to take upon herself the onerous duties of cook and
housemaid and charwoman, and everything combined. Again the important
question is whether the rancher has money enough to pay the very high
wage demanded for even the simplest household help during at least
five years, while he is waiting for his ranch to yield an income. Even
then the wife must be prepared to work much harder than she was ever
accustomed to at home, since one pair of hands, even if they are the
most talented Chinese hands, necessarily leave a very great deal to
be done. In our case, for instance, the Chinaman never touches the
bedrooms or drawing-room, except to turn them out once a fortnight,
when he leaves them fairly clean, but all topsy-turvy.

But this is as nothing, when one sees so many ranchers’ wives doing
without any help at all. That is a cruel life for any man to bring his
wife to, unless he has absolutely no other choice; it is to my mind
quite unforgivable. Let such men come without womenfolk.

We had a wearisome long piece of work—building the rain-water cistern
and the cesspool, for they had to be dug out of the hard granite. The
cistern was finished, however, in time to catch part of the winter’s
rain, and though we feared it would become stagnant, this danger was
quite overcome by the simple little pump used, which is made almost
exactly after the pattern of the old Egyptian pumps, and consists of
a chain of small buckets, which revolves, and as one half come up and
empty themselves through the pump spout, the other half go down into
the water full of air; and thus the contents of the cistern are in this
way constantly revitalised.

We have never done congratulating ourselves on possessing this cistern,
for the water is always cool and sweet, and as our roof is very large,
it soon fills the cistern, which holds three hundred barrels, and lasts
all the year. The flume water, which we use in irrigation, and which
is also laid on in the house for the boiler, etc., comes from the
mountains in an open aqueduct or flume. It is at times full of moss and
impurities, and is besides quite tepid in the summer.

We had many discussions, standing on our front verandah, and looking
down the rough hill slope, as to how the drive should be laid out. We
meant to have an avenue of pepper trees on each side, and once these
were planted, the road could not well be altered. Meanwhile, sixteen
more acres had been cleared of roots and brush, ploughed and harrowed
for more lemon trees. In the spring we planted seven hundred young
trees, which made in all one thousand five hundred.

The kitchen garden was set in order, and fenced in to keep out the
squirrels and rabbits. They were a great nuisance that first year, but
have now retired to their own wild part of the land, which certainly is
roomy enough. The rattlesnakes, too, though we were constantly coming
across them in the beginning, have now quietly withdrawn to the stony
mountain tops.

That first year I was haunted with the fear of those hideous creatures,
and the dread of an accident to one of my dear ranchers.

But all the same, it was a thrilling excitement when each one was
caught and brought down to the barn to be gloated over; and though it
was dead, it would still wriggle its ugly body, and snap its terrible
jaws at anything that might touch it, and with the power still of
deadly effect.

One of the boys brought down from the hill a particularly large fellow,
hanging on a forked stick, its frightful mouth gaping so wide open that
the whole head seemed split in two, and big amber-coloured drops of the
terrible poison hanging to its fangs.

One certainly gets accustomed to anything; and here even the little
children think nothing of killing a rattlesnake on their way to school.
It is true they are easily killed, and are always in a hurry to get
away. The danger is, of course, that one may tread on them unawares,
for their skin is so like the colour of the ground. But on the road
they are easily seen, and in walking through the brush one keeps a
sharp look-out.

The house looked terribly bare, perched on the hill-top, without a
touch of green about it and no single patch of shade far or near, so
we were in a great hurry to make the garden, which was to surround the
house, but was only to be a small one, as when once we had made it,
we should, of course, have to keep it in order ourselves. When it was
finished, we could not but laugh at our cypress hedge of baby trees
about ten inches high, standing round so valiantly, and through which
the smallest chicken walked with easy dignity. However, now it is a
thick green wall, six or eight feet high, and there is a fence as well
to keep out barn-yard intruders.

Shade trees were planted, perhaps too profusely, in our eagerness for
the shade and the dear green for which our eyes so hungered.

Among the many different pangs of homesickness, a longing for the
trees, and the beautiful green of England, is almost as painful as the
_sehnsucht_ that pinches one so surely at times, for the sight of an
old friend’s face.

We are unusually fortunate in having within reach exceptionally
charming cultivated people; and their kindliness to the newcomers, has
made all the difference to us in the happiness of our social life.

But old friends grow ever dearer to the exiled ones, and I often think
that if those at home who have friends in “foreign parts” knew with
what joy and gratitude each simple sign is received, which proves that
still they are remembered, then, indeed, many an odd paper, or little
book, would be dropped into the post, when time or inclination for
letter-writing failed. The paper has tenfold its value, because of the
unwritten message it conveys from friend to friend.

After the garden was finished, we cleared a piece of land on the
hilltop, at the back of the ranch, about one acre in size, and made a
small plantation there of eucalyptus, for firewood; it grows very fast
and needs little attention. Also six acres on the hill-slopes, that
lay too high for irrigation, and therefore would not do for lemons, we
cleared, and planted with peaches.

In April we worked hard, laying more piping. Pipe-laying is the
pain and crucifixion of a rancher’s life. No part of the work is so
detested; it is very back-breaking work to begin with, and there are
frantic half hours spent over screws that will not screw, where the
thread of the pipe has been broken or injured in the transit, or
faultily made; and there are the bends in the land, which the pipe has
to be coaxed round, and there are “elbows,” and “tees,” and “unions,”
and “crosses,” and “hydrants,” each of which has its own separate way
of being exasperating.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]




DIET IN REASON AND IN MODERATION.

BY “THE NEW DOCTOR.”


PART II.

THE MIDDAY MEAL.

Englishmen fall into two classes as regards their diet; those that take
a small lunch and their chief meal in the evening, and those who make
the midday meal the chief and take a small supper before retiring.

Social position is the chief agent which determines to which class an
individual belongs. The working classes usually dine in the middle of
the day, and the professional and upper classes dine in the evening.

We will continue our remarks on the diet of the richer classes, not
because it is better or more suitable than the plainer diet of the
working classes, but because the rich naturally keep a more varied
table, and so will give us more material to criticise.

Luncheon is a desultory sort of meal, and though most people eat
something, many do so only because they think that it is the thing to
do, and not because they are really hungry.

If you will accompany us, we will go to see the luncheon given by Lord
X. at his Surrey home. But we cannot go as guests, for not only have we
not been invited, but we are going to criticise many things about the
table and the meal. We must, therefore, remain invisible and inaudible,
for it is unpardonable to make remarks at the table, even if those
remarks would save a whole company from indigestion and a sleepless
night.

Before the meal is served, our eyes are offended by something on the
sideboard which is sufficient to destroy the appetite of any extra
delicately-minded person if she only knew its secrets.

The object is nothing less than a cold pheasant pie ornamented by
the head or feathers of the bird whose flesh the pie is supposed to
contain. We want you to examine that ornament, and we feel pretty
certain that if you do, you will never again eat meat pies.

In order that the carcases of dead animals should not encumber the
earth, it has been ordained that when an animal dies, its body rapidly
decomposes and becomes dissolved into simple gases. The agents that
bring about the dissolution of the body are various. The chief agents
which cause the decomposition of organic matter are microbes. The
majority of these do not produce diseases in man, but some of them do,
and some of these you might find on that pheasant pie if you could see
it through a microscope.

Similarly offensive, but to a less degree, is the practice of putting
pigeons’ feet sticking outside a steak pie to suggest that the
remainder of the birds is inside, and putting feathers into the tails
of roast pheasants.

One of the chief values of cooking is to sterilise food, so why foul
the food you have so carefully sterilised by sticking decaying matter
into it?

The first item of the luncheon consists of oysters, and we notice that
only three out of the company of twelve partake of them. As nearly
everybody who can afford them likes oysters, there is probably some
special reason why nine out of twelve persons refuse them. Doubtless it
is the typhoid scare, and we are much pleased to see that some persons,
at all events, do occasionally give a side thought to preventive
medicine.

The question of the causation of typhoid fever by oysters is one
of great importance, and one that should be clearly understood by
everyone. That oysters are one of the means by which some recent
epidemics of typhoid fever have been spread is undoubted, but the exact
part that they have played is not so easy to understand, for the latest
commission upon the question found that the typhoid bacillus is killed
by immersion in sea-water, that it did not occur in any oysters that
they opened, and when it was injected into the oyster, it was promptly
killed.

This seems to say emphatically that oysters cannot harbour the typhoid
bacillus, and therefore cannot produce typhoid fever. But medicine is
not as easy as that. That the oysters they examined could not produce
typhoid fever is certain, but their remarks do not by any means prove
that typhoid is not spread by any oysters.

At one time there was very great excitement about this question, and a
tremendous lot of nonsense was talked about it. Some persons maintained
the typhoid bacillus only occurred in bad oysters. We suppose a bad
oyster is eaten occasionally, but Lord X.’s guests are not likely to be
troubled with bad oysters.

Oysters cannot cause typhoid fever unless they contain this bacillus,
and they only obtain it from sewers opening into the sea. Therefore it
is only those oysters which have come from places where sewers open
into the sea that can cause typhoid fever.

Of course, as soon as the oyster scare was started, everybody who
caught typhoid fever attributed it to oysters she had eaten the day,
the week, month, or year before. But the incubation period of typhoid
fever is from one to three weeks; that means that when the bacilli get
into the body they do not produce the disease till from one to three
weeks after infection. Therefore it is only oysters eaten from one to
three weeks before the onset of the fever that could possibly have
caused the disease. As a matter of fact, oysters are a real, but not
very common, method by which typhoid is spread.

We notice that one of the three guests who have taken oysters discards
one because it is green. He is quite right to do so, for though it
may be quite wholesome, it may be coloured with copper. Doubtless it
would do no harm, but he is quite right not to risk the possibility of
sickness for an oyster!

Amongst the other items of the luncheon we notice cold beef and salad.
These will furnish us with material for discussion, for there are
several very important medical points in connection with both.

Cold meat is a very good food in its way, but like all meat it is a
strong food, that is, it is readily digested and furnishes a very large
amount of nourishment. If you make a meal entirely of beef, you will
not suffer from indigestion, because beef is very digestible, but you
will eat too much, you will throw too much nourishment into the blood,
and you will give your organs, especially the liver and kidneys, great
trouble to dispose of the superfluous nourishment.

Although a cold joint of beef seems so much less rich and strong than
the same joint hot, it is really very much the same in the amount of
nourishment that it contains. People very rarely serve hot meat without
vegetables and surroundings, but it is the fashion to serve cold meat
by itself, with nothing but bread, and most persons eat very little
bread indeed with their meals.

Meat should never be served alone. Vegetables of some sort must be
served with both hot and cold meat, and far more vegetable and less
meat than is usually served should be your aim.

Salad is of course a vegetable or vegetables, and if properly prepared
and selected, it is not at all a bad form of food.

We do not suppose many of you know much of the mysteries of
agriculture, for if you did, such a thing as an unwashed salad would
never appear upon your tables. Salads are not washed half enough, and
an unwashed salad is a most dangerous article of food. All vegetables
are best when rapidly grown, and to grow vegetables rapidly it is
necessary to supply them with strong manures.

You must thoroughly wash and dry any vegetables that you eat raw, for,
excluding such harmless creatures as slugs and caterpillars, they may
contain germs of disease. Typhoid fever is frequently caused by eating
unwashed salads, especially watercress. This is a far more common
method of getting typhoid than is eating infected oysters. Another
disease almost invariably due to eating infected vegetables is hydatid
disease, a somewhat uncommon affection in England, but one of the most
formidable plagues in Iceland and Australia.

There are few salads which are not difficult to digest. Corn salad,
French lettuce, endive, beetroot, and watercresses, are the least
indigestible, then come in order, Cos lettuce, chicory, mustard and
cress, cucumber, and radishes. Spring onions usually agree with most
persons, but some people cannot stand onions in any form. Onions always
produce the peculiar and decidedly unpleasant odour of the breath, and
not, as is usually supposed, only in those who cannot digest them. For
the smell is due to the excretion of the volatile oil of onions by the
breath.

Two excellent salads are potato salad and cold vegetable salad. This
morning we read a recipe for the latter in one of the back numbers
of this paper, and it struck us as being a particularly inviting and
desirable addition to a dinner of cold meat.

The lunch is finished off with a savoury of herrings’ roes on toast.
These were probably tinned roes, or we will presume they were, so as to
introduce the discussion of the values and dangers of tinned meat.

The dangers of eating tinned meats have been grossly exaggerated, and
if you pay a reasonable price for tinned provisions, it is extremely
unlikely that they will do you any harm. Unfortunately, many thousands
of “blown” tins of putrid provisions are still sold in London yearly
in spite of the care and close scrutiny of the law. But if you pay
a reasonable sum for your tinned provisions, you will not get these
bad tins. Of course, if you pay fourpence a dozen for tins of milk or
sardines, you cannot expect to get good stuff, and you should always
avoid tins reduced in price, for it usually means that they are very
stale.

There are two ways in which tinned things may become poisonous, either
the contents may become contaminated with the metal of the cans, or the
meats themselves may undergo alkaloidal degeneration. The former, the
lesser evil, can only occur in tinned meats. The latter, by far the
greater evil, may occur in any preserved provisions, and is perhaps
more common in stores preserved in skins or glasses than in those in
tins.

Nowadays meats do not often become poisoned by the tins in which they
have been kept. It used to be not uncommon for the solder of the tin
to be dissolved by acid juices in the contents. This was especially
frequent with tinned Morella cherries and other acid tart-fruits. But
now acid fruits are nearly always sold in bottles, and only fruits
which are sweet and not acid are sold in tins.

The tinned fruits that we get from California are most excellent, and
we have never heard of ill-effects of any kind following their use. The
canning is carried on entirely by girls on the Californian ranches. The
tins are rather dear, but they are much the best things of the kind
that have come beneath our notice.

The second method by which tinned meats may become poisoned is a
degeneration, or decomposition if you like, by which the wholesome
albumen of the contents is changed into intensely poisonous animal
alkaloids. Alkaloids are very powerful bodies, and the vegetable
alkaloids, such as strychnine, quinine, and morphine, are much used in
medicine.

But these animal alkaloids are far more powerful for harm than even
the most deadly of the vegetable poisons. So powerful are they that a
quantity of one of them found in canned fish, which killed two adults
who had partaken of it, was insufficient to demonstrate by our most
delicate chemical tests. If these drugs are so powerful for harm, is
it not possible that they may be equally powerful for good, when their
actions and doses are worked out?

What causes this curious decomposition of preserved provisions is
not known. In tinned meats, at all events, it cannot be ordinary
putrefaction, for this cannot occur without air, and the tins are
air-tight. It is probably due to organisms, but this is uncertain.

This form of decomposition of meat cannot be told by the flavour of the
provisions; and its deleterious effects cannot be destroyed by boiling.
There is no way to prevent it save by buying preserved provisions which
have not been kept for long.




AN AFTERNOON “BOOK PARTY.”


Though book parties are not very new, they are not, I think, so general
but that the idea may be a new one to some readers of THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER, and if they have not yet been at one, they may be glad to
have some suggestions on the subject. I think these book afternoons
certainly give a good deal of amusement to the participants without
trouble or appreciable expense to the giver. For the benefit of such as
may feel inclined to entertain their friends in this way, here is the
account of an afternoon party to which I was invited a few weeks back.
These gatherings are, I might say, most suitable for young people; but
though it is a long time since I could class myself amongst the young,
I really enjoyed the merry afternoon we had. Our invitations were for
afternoon tea at 4.30, but in the corner was written, “Book Party.” By
this it was understood that every guest should symbolise some book, not
necessarily by dress, but by wearing some emblem or motto that would
give the name of the book selected.

The hostess provided as many cards and pencils as there were guests.
These were plain correspondence cards which had been decorated with
pretty or comic designs at the top by the daughter of the house. Each
visitor had a card with pencil given to him or to her on arrival which
was to have the titles and names of the other “books” present written
on it. It need hardly be said that many mistakes are always made,
while in some cases the emblems chosen are so remote that it is hardly
possible to divine the meaning.

A few of the books represented, and the symbols used, will best explain
this, and may also help any girls who are inclined to inaugurate an
entertainment of this kind.

On the occasion of which I am writing the host and hostess said they,
together, named a book, though they wore no badge or mark. Of course,
nearly all guessed that they were Wilkie Collins’s _Man and Wife_. A
young lady came in white to represent _The Woman in White_, while a
lady in a silk dress and hat was meant for Black’s _In Silk Attire_.
Then a gentleman wore the hostess’s visiting-card for _Our Mutual
Friend_. A lady wore the sign “Gemini” in her hat for Sarah Grand’s
_Heavenly Twins_. A lucky penny fastened on the shoulder showing the
head with “I win” below it, and a second penny showing the reverse
side, and under that “you lose,” stood for _Bound to Win_. Then
1 o 0 n 0 e 0, written on a card, and worn in a hat, was to be read
_One in a Thousand_, while some coins on a string signified _Hard
Cash_. A bow of orange and green ribbon gave Henty’s book _Orange and
Green_. A neat-looking girl wore a cravat with a piece of the lace
hanging from it for _Never too Late to Mend_, while another young
girl had the word “stood” stuck in her hat for _Misunderstood_. Some
large white wings in a hat gave Black’s novel of that name. A little
sketch of a child with eyes shut and mouth wide open was for _Great
Expectations_. A lad with N & S on the side of his jacket meant to
represent _A Tale of Two Cities_. The word wedding, written in red
ink, was for Jephson’s _Pink Wedding_, and the musical notation of a
chime stood for _The Lay of the Bell_. The queen of hearts out of a
pack of cards was worn by a gentleman to represent Wilkie Collins’s
novel of that name, while “no credit,” stuck in a hat, was meant for
James Payn’s _For Cash Only_. A girl wore her mother’s photograph for
Grace Aguilar’s _Home Influence_. Heartsease, yellow aster, and other
flowers that name books, also small pictures of “Pair of Blue Eyes,”
“Windsor Castle,” “Old St. Paul’s,” and others. There were also some
books of more serious character, such as the _Times Encyclopædia_; the
twenty-five volumes were marked on a belt. Sir J. Lubbock’s _Ants,
Bees, and Wasps_ also found a representative. It is easy to find an
endless variety of book names that one can symbolise in one way or
another, but works of fiction lend themselves the most easily.

On the particular afternoon of which I am writing we were all
occupied with our cards while tea was being handed. When all seemed
to have finished writing, the hostess took all the cards, and amidst
much laughter the names of the books were read out from each card,
and a prize awarded to the owner of the card with the most correct
guesses on it, and a second prize was given to the one who was least
successful—the “duffer’s prize” it was called. This was a wooden spoon,
which, however, was received with great good humour, the recipient
declaring he had never in his life guessed anything!

The first prize was a box of sweets, which the winner handed round to
the unsuccessful competitors.




TO NIGHT.


    Come, solemn Night, and spread thy pall
      Wide o’er the slumbering shore and sea,
    And hang along thy vaulted hall
      The star-lights of eternity;
    Thy beacons, beautiful and bright—
      Isles in the ocean of the blest—
    That guide the parted spirit’s flight
      Unto the land of rest.

    Come—for the evening glories fade,
      Quenched in the ocean’s depths profound;
    Come with thy solitude and shade,
      Thy silence and thy sound;
    Awake the deep and lonely lay
      From wood and stream, of saddening tone;
    The harmonies unheard by day,
      The music all thine own!

    And with thy starry eyes that weep
      Their silent dews on flower and tree,
    My heart shall solemn vigils keep—
      My thoughts converse with thee;
    Upon whose glowing page expand
      The revelations of the sky;
    Which knowledge teach to every land,
      Of man’s high destiny.

    For while the mighty orbs of fire
      (So “wildly bright” they seem to live)
    Feel not the beauty they inspire,
      Nor see the light they give;
    Even I, an atom of the earth—
      Itself an atom ’midst the frame
    Of nature—can inquire their birth,
      And ask them whence they came.




OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

BY CHARLES PETERS.


There are but few lilies left for us to describe, and these are of very
little importance to the flower-grower.

[Illustration: _Lilium Auratum._]

_Lilium Concolor_ and _Lilium Davidii_ are usually considered under the
Isolirion group, but they present such numerous deviations from that
group of lilies that we have decided to make a group of them alone.

_Lilium Concolor_ is a pretty, little, very variable lily. It is more
suitable for a button-hole decoration than for anything else, but it
has a pleasing effect when grown in great masses. This species has
a very small bulb with few, acute, oblong scales. The plant grows to
about a foot high, and bears from one to three flowers about an inch
and a half across, and of a deep crimson colour spotted with black. The
flowers open very wide, and the filaments are shorter than in any other
lily. Of the great number of varieties of this lily we will describe
two. The first, named _Buschianum_, or _Sinicum_, grows taller, has
larger leaves, and larger and more numerous blossoms, which are of a
fine crimson.

The second variety, _Coridion_, is by far the handsomest of the group,
bearing large flowers of a bright yellow spotted with brown. _Concolor_
is a native of Western Asia. Its culture is very simple, and it is
perfectly hardy.

Of _Lilium Davidii_, we only know that it was discovered by David in
Thibet; that it grows about two feet high, and bears bright yellow
flowers spotted with brown. We also know that there is a plate of this
species in Elwes’s Monograph. The plant is practically unknown to
everybody.

The last group of lilies, Notholirion, contains two or, as we
have it, three species which are not very well known, and it is a
little doubtful whether they are lilies at all. Formerly they were
considered to be fritillaries, and certainly they bear more superficial
resemblance to those plants than they do to the lilies.

Most authors include _Lilium Oxypetalum_ among the Archelirions,
because its flowers are widely expanded. But as in every other
particular it differs completely from that group of lilies, we have
separated it from _L. Auratum_ and _L. Speciosum_, and placed it among
the Notholirions, to which it bears considerable resemblance.

This little-known lily was formerly called Fritillaria oxypetala, and
bears more resemblance to the fritillaries than it does to the lilies.
The bulb is oblong, with but few lance-shaped scales. The stem grows to
the height of about fifteen inches, and bears about twenty or thirty
leaves, resembling those of our native snake’s-head fritillary in
every particular. One or two blossoms are borne on each stem. They
are pale lilac, star-like blossoms, with numerous little hairs on the
bases of the segments. The petals are acutely pointed. The anthers are
scarlet.

This plant is a native of the Western Himalayas. It is very uncommon in
gardens. We have never possessed it, and know nothing of its culture.

The two lilies _Lilium Roseum_ and _Lilium Hookeri_ are now included in
this genus, but they have been referred first to the lilies, then to
the fritillaries, then back again to the lilies, and so on. And it is
very doubtful if they are even now in their last resting-place.

The bulbs of these lilies are invested in dense membranous tunics like
those of the daffodil. _Lilium Roseum_ grows to about two feet high;
_L. Hookeri_ rarely reaches half this height. The leaves are said to
bear bulblets in their axils. Six to thirty little nodding bell-like
blossoms of a deep lilac colour are produced by _L. Roseum_, but _L.
Hookeri_ rarely produces more than eight blossoms. But little is known
of these lilies. They are both natives of the Himalayas, and are said
to be somewhat tender. They may be grown in a mixture of rubble, old
bricks, sand, and leaf mould.

We have never grown them ourselves, as it is practically impossible
to obtain bulbs. We have seen _L. Roseum_ in blossom, and were not
particularly impressed by it.

Had we been describing roses, chrysanthemums, hyacinths, or any other
flowers which are highly cultivated, we would have dismissed the
natural species with a very brief description, and turned our chief
attention to the artificial varieties and hybrids.

But with lilies it is different. As we have seen, there are very many
natural species. Indeed, the species almost outnumber the varieties,
and these latter are rarely very different from the parent species. As
regards double-flowered varieties, we have seen that only four lilies
bear them, whereas nine-tenths of the cultivated varieties of roses and
chrysanthemums are double.

[Illustration: NIGHT.

(_From the painting by Gabriel Max._)

    [_Photo by F. Hanfstaengl._]

And when we pass on to consider the hybrid lilies, we are likewise
astonished at their paucity. Why are hybrid lilies so uncommon? Let us
see if we can fathom the mystery.

One reason is that the majority of lilies never bear seed in England.
Many, even in their native climes, bear seed but rarely, the natural
method of increase being by bulblets. Another reason with us is the
exceeding difficulty of raising lily-seed. They take so long to
germinate that most seeds are destroyed before they show any sign of
life.

Still, we believe that there is a great future for the hybridisation
on lilies. Perhaps you would like to try it yourself. Then proceed as
follows.

Let us cross _Lilium Auratum_ with _Lilium Speciosum_. Choose
well-grown specimens of each lily. Let the buds develop till they begin
to change colour. Then remove every bud except one—the best—from each
plant. The remaining bud of the _L. Auratum_ must then be slipped open,
and the anthers removed. It may then be allowed to open naturally, but
it must be carefully protected from insects of any kind, lest one of
these should bring to it a pollen grain from another blossom of its own
species. When the _L. Speciosum_ has matured its pollen, cut off the
anthers, and rub the pollen upon the style of the _L. Auratum_.

Three things may now happen. The first, the most likely, is that the
flower will die, and will not produce seed. The second is that the
plant will produce seed, but these, when they have been grown into
flowering bulbs, will reproduce unaltered _L. Auratum_. The third—last
and least likely possibility—is that the plant will produce seed which,
when grown and flowered, will produce blossoms which partake of the
characters of its two parents. In other words, these last are genuine
hybrids.

It is extremely unlikely that more than one per cent. of the seeds will
produce a blossom which bears the marks of both parents. The majority
will either die, or else be simple _L. Auratum_, without anything to
show that they are hybrids.

Even with those rare plants which definitely show their hybrid origin,
a great diversity of colouring may be observed. But the colour of the
parents is very variable, and after a few years the hybrid lily looses
the characteristics of the _L. Speciosum_ and becomes merely a reddish
variety of _L. Auratum_.

But there are two hybrid lilies which are quite constant, and as they
are two of the finest of the whole group, they are well worth growing.

_Lilium Alexandræ_, the Japanese “Uki Ure” or “Hill Lily,” is in all
probability a hybrid between _Lilium Auratum_ and _Lilium Longiflorum_.
We say “in all probability,” for we are not quite certain that it is
not a true species.

There are some persons who think that one white lily is much like
another. But put side by side _L. Alexandræ_, _L. Longiflorum_, and _L.
Candidum_. Are they alike? Could anyone mistake one for another? Surely
not! They differ in every detail—even in colour. The long trumpet of
_L. Longiflorum_ is delicate greenish-white. The Madonna lily is like
porcelain; and the hill lily possesses a rich milky hue, somewhat
resembling the colour of _L. Brownii_, which we so much admired.

And in shape how different they are. One is a long and regular trumpet,
another is a shallow cup, and the lily we are specially considering
is widely opened with its segments slightly curved, the whole blossom
resembling a gigantic white star.

_Lilium Alexandræ_ is not a big lily. It grows about two feet high and
bears from one to four blossoms. These blossoms are very large, of a
rich milky white, resembling in shape those of _L. Auratum_. The pollen
is chocolate colour. The fragrance of this lily is very great. On the
evening of a hot day in the middle of August last year we could detect
the scent of a bed of these lilies, then in full bloom, at the distance
of over one hundred yards. Its scent is rich and full, something
between that of jasmine and vanilla.

The culture of this hybrid is not difficult. It is best grown in pots,
for it is very sensitive to rain at its flowering period. In rigorous
districts this lily should be grown in a cool greenhouse, but in the
south of England it will grow to perfection out of doors. The soil
should consist of equal parts of peat, very finely broken, leaf-mould,
and sharp sand. It wants a very large quantity of water.

Few lilies have given us greater pleasure than _L. Alexandræ_. It is
one of those plants which are so striking that it is impossible to
forget them when you have once seen them. It is so very delicate, so
pure and so fragrant.

Doubtless most of our readers are acquainted with the old Nankeen lily.
This is a very old favourite, and is usually thought to be a true
species, but for all that it is almost for certain a hybrid between _L.
Candidum_ and _L. Chalcedoniam_. This plant rejoices in a goodly number
of names, of which _L. Testaceum_, _L. Isabellinum_, and _L. Excelsum_
are the commonest.

This lily is unknown in the wild state, and its origin is very obscure.
It is an English garden hybrid, but who first raised it or possessed it
is unknown.

Yet it is a very striking lily, growing to the height of four or five
feet and producing a great cluster of buff-coloured blossoms. In
general features it resembles its parent _L. Candidum_, but the flower
shows a distinct connection with the Martagons. Its colour certainly
is not derived from either of its parents. A mixture of scarlet and
pure white should give pink; but _L. Testaceum_ is of a yellowish-buff
colour. The lily which it most nearly resembles is _L. Monodelphum_;
but though very fine, it is nothing like so splendid as that queen of
the Martagons.

This lily is distinctly a cottage-garden flower. Except in that
situation it is never seen. Yet it is common enough in old
cottage-gardens, and a more befitting flower can scarcely be imagined.
It looks old—in keeping with the place which it enhances by its
presence.

The cultivation of this lily is the same as that of _L. Candidum_. It
does not do well until it is well established, and it has a particular
objection to growing in modern gardens.

_Lilium Parkmanni_ is the hybrid between _L. Auratum_ and _L.
Speciosum_. Genuine specimens bear blossoms somewhat intermediate
between the parent species.

There is also a hybrid between _L. Hansoni_ and _L. Martagon
Dalmaticum_, called _Lilium Dalhansoni_.

These four hybrids are the only ones which deserve to be mentioned, and
of these only the first two are worth a place in the flower-garden.

(_To be concluded._)




CHOCOLATE DATES.


Have you ever tasted chocolate dates? If so, these directions will be
almost needless to you, for I fancy that you will not have stopped at
a taste, but will have tried and found out a way to manufacture them
for yourself. But so far as I know, these dates are, as yet, quite a
home-made sweet, and they are so delicious and so wholesome that they
ought to be more widely known. Here then is the recipe. Any sort of
dates and any sort of chocolate may be used, but the best results are
got from the best materials in confectionary even more than in other
work. Take then a pound of Tunis dates, either bought in the familiar
oblong boxes or by the pound. Leave out any which are not perfectly
ripe; the soapy taste of one of these paler, firmer dates is enough to
disgust anyone with dates for ever. Wipe the others very gently with a
damp cloth (dates are not gathered by the Dutch!), slit them lengthwise
with a silver knife, but only so far as to enable you to extract the
kernel without bruising the fruit. Then prepare the chocolate. Grate a
quarter of a pound of best French chocolate, add an equal weight of
fresh icing sugar, two tablespoonfuls of boiling water, and mix in a
small brass or earthenware saucepan over the fire until quite smooth,
only it must _not_ boil; last of all add a few drops of vanilla.

Then put your small saucepan inside a larger one half filled with
boiling water, just to keep the chocolate fluid until all the dates
are filled. Take up a little of the mixture in a teaspoon, press open
the date, and pour it neatly in. There must be no smears or threads of
chocolate if your confectionary is to look dainty. When about a dozen
are filled, gently press the sides together, and the chocolate should
just show a shiny brown ridge in the middle of the date. Place on a
board in a cool place to harden; they may be packed up next day.

Almost as nice as chocolate dates are nougat dates. The foundation
for the nougat is the same as for American candies: the white of one
egg and an equal quantity of cold water to half a pound of sifted
icing sugar, all mixed perfectly smoothly together. Then chop equal
quantities of blanched walnuts, almonds, Brazils, and hazel nuts
together, mix with the sugar in the proportion of two thirds of nut to
one of the sugar mixture, and leave until next day in the cellar. By
that time the nougat will be firm enough to form into kernels by gently
rolling between the hands; if it sticks, your hands are too warm. It is
best to do this part of the work in the cellar. Having stoned and first
wiped your dates, put in the nougat kernels, gently pressing the sides
together; they will harden in a short time, and very pretty they look
packed alternately with the chocolate dates in fancy boxes. Tunis dates
do not keep good much longer than two months, the grocer tells me; we
have never been able to keep them half that time to try! Of course, you
can use the commoner dates, which are very good to eat, but hardly so
nice to look at as the others, because on account of their more sugary
consistency it is impossible to fill them so neatly as the moister
Tunis dates. Tafilat dates are somehow too dry and solid to combine
well either with nuts or chocolate.




HOW WE MANAGED WITHOUT SERVANTS.

BY MRS. FRANK W. W. TOPHAM, Author of “The Alibi,” “The Fateful
Number,” etc.


CHAPTER III.

The hot July days brought us such good news from Cannes that our hearts
were all light with the hope of soon welcoming our parents back, and
Cecilly was especially happy at being promised several more pupils
after the summer holidays were over. Mrs. Moore, the old lady to whom I
read, had hinted that she might require more of my time in the autumn,
so we had every reason to be light-hearted and to forget the hardness
of our work with so much to be thankful for. Only poor old Jack looked
graver as the days went by, and my heart ached for him with his secret
trouble.

It was nearly the end of July that one morning Cynthia came tapping at
the kitchen door, where I was surrounded with materials for dinner.

“Where is Cecilly?” she asked, and on my telling her Cecilly was out,
giving music lessons, she told me she had tickets for a concert that
afternoon, and she knew how much she would like to go.

I knew so too, and at once said I would leave my cooking till the
afternoon and finish a smart blouse Cecilly had been making for herself.

“Do let me do the cooking while you sew,” Cynthia asked, but I said she
had better not as the dinner was to be what the boys called a triumph
of “mind over matter,” meaning a dinner was to be made out of scraps,
which was always tiring work. But Cynthia insisted on being cook.

I had already sent Beatrice Ethel, the little boot-girl, out for a
quart of skimmed or separated milk which Cecilly made into _Sago Soup_:
Take three or four onions and boil them in the milk till soft enough to
run through a sieve. Boil six large potatoes and rub through sieve. Put
all back into milk with pepper and salt. Add a teacup of sago, tapioca,
rice, or some macaroni. But sago is best. Send up fried bread with this.

Our meat course was to be breakfast pies, and as there were some
scraps over, Cynthia made a mulligatawny pâté, which would come in for
breakfast.

Our pudding was a _German Pudding_: 1 lb. flour, 1 teaspoonful of
carbonate of soda rubbed into the flour, 6 oz. of scraped fat, ½ lb.
treacle melted in milk. To be boiled for three hours. This would have
been sufficient for our dinner, but Cynthia begged to make a few jam
tarts, as she “loved making pastry.” Whey they were finished, she had
a piece of pastry over, which she turned into _Cheese Puffs_. She
rolled out her paste, sprinkled it thickly with cheese and “Paisley
Flour,” repeating the process several times. She brushed them over with
a little egg, and baked them at once. I suggested, as we were well
off for milk, she might make a custard to eat with our pudding, with
“Bird’s Custard Powder,” but only on condition that she asked leave to
come back with Cecilly to help us eat such a grand dinner. Lately I had
noticed that she had been allowed to accept our invitations for the
evening, and although it seemed a mistake for Jack to be in her company
too often, it was such a delight for him to find her with us when he
returned home, I could not resist asking her.

Cecilly had of course accepted Cynthia’s invitation to the concert with
much delight, and I, having locked up the house, had spent a pleasant
afternoon with dear Aunt Jane, who had given me a great bunch of
beautiful white lilies, and a basket of gooseberries for the boys.

I was only just back when I heard Cecilly’s knock, and finding her
alone I asked if Cynthia were not coming to dinner.

“Yes, indeed she is,” answered Cecilly, “and what do you think? Mr.
Marriott has invited himself also!”

“Oh, Cecilly,” I cried. “You must go at once and get some fish and some
fruit,” but Cecilly interrupted me, saying—

“No, he stipulates that we make no change. He is coming to eat
Cynthia’s cooking, and I promised him we would have nothing extra,
except some coffee.”

Of course I brought out our best table linen and china, rubbed up
our silver and glass, and with Aunt Jane’s lilies for decoration our
dinner-table looked as nice as possible. Cecilly ran up the road to
meet Jack to tell him the news as soon as she saw him, and we had to be
quite determined not to be over-ruled, so anxious was he for various
additions to our meal.

“Could you not run to Aunt Jane and ask her to lend us her maid,” he
asked, but I insisted on no change being made.

“Mr. Marriott is coming to see how clever Cynthia is, and not to
quiz us,” I replied, so Jack had to be content. The soup was a great
success. We turned the Mulligatawny pie into an _entrée_, and added the
jam tarts to the pudding course. Cecilly and Bob fetched and carried
the dishes, though I slipped out during the cheese course to make the
coffee for dessert.

We were a very merry party at dinner, and Cynthia had many
congratulations from us all. Jack and Mr. Marriott were a long time
before they joined us in the drawing-room, but when they came the
evening was one of the pleasantest we had spent since dear father’s
illness. Jack was so much more like his old self, and Mr. Marriott so
positive of father’s recovery that every doubt and perplexity of life
fled, and it seemed to me that all the pain of separation and the grave
anxieties of the past were now fled for ever. Cecilly and the boys had
gone up to bed while I waited for Jack to return from walking back with
Cynthia and her father, and when he came in I saw at once he had good
news for me.

“Oh, Kitty,” he cried, in his old boyish manner, “you can never guess
what Mr. Marriott has said to me this evening. He said he always knew
a good son would make a good husband, but that he felt his little girl
would never make a good wife for a poor man. But, Kitty Mavourneen,
he says you and Cecilly have shown her the way, and if, when she is
twenty-one, I like to ask her to be my wife, he won’t send me away.”

I was obliged to run upstairs to call Cecilly to hear these good
tidings, and Cecilly in her dressing-gown, with her hair streaming down
her back, rushed down the stairs at a bound to hug Jack in a way she
had not dared to do since he had grown “so cross and old.”

It was but a few weeks afterwards that we were welcoming father and
mother back once more—father, older-looking certainly than before his
illness, but no longer an invalid, while mother looked stronger and
rosier than any of us could remember her. They were both surprised to
find how well we could manage the housework, though father insisted on
our keeping Beatrice Ethel all day to do the heaviest work.

“As soon as I am in work again,” he said, “we must find a strong
servant once more,” and on our protesting he answered, “My darlings,
you were perfectly right in doing without servants as you have done.
Now there is really no necessity, and it is wiser for Cecilly to spend
her time over her music, to enable her to teach others. You, dear
Kitty, we will gladly spare to Mrs. Moore, knowing you can help her
in her infirmity. This work you are both fitted to undertake, and you
can then conscientiously leave the housework to those other girls,
who, not having had the education God has permitted you to have, can
only labour with their hands and hearts. Your experience will make you
better mistresses, I am convinced. You will be more competent to teach
and more sympathetic over failures and shortcomings, and will never in
all your life regret that all these months you have managed without
servants.”




VARIETIES.


SOME GAELIC PROVERBS.

Most shallow—most noisy.

The eye of a friend is an unerring mirror.

Oft has the wise advice proceeded from the mouth of folly.

As a man’s own life, so is his judgment of the lives of others.

God cometh in the time of distress, and it is no longer distress when
He comes.

The fortunate man awaits and he shall arrive in peace; the unlucky
hastens and evil shall be his fate.


LIFE AND DEATH.

    I live, and yet I know not why,
    Unless it be I live to die:
    I die—and dying live in vain,
    Unless I die to live again.


AN ABSOLUTE CERTAINTY.—Amid the mysteries which become the more
mysterious the more they are thought about, there will remain the one
absolute certainty that man is ever in presence of an Infinite and
Eternal Energy from which all things proceed.


PASSING AN EXAMINATION.

Here is how Professor William James of Harvard, in his student days,
passed an examination before the late Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes.

The first question put to him was as to the nerves at the base of the
brain. It so happened that Mr. James was well up in the subject, and he
promptly gave an exhaustive reply.

“Oh, well, if you know that you know everything,” said Dr. Holmes
cheerfully. “Let’s talk about something else. How are all your people
at home?”




SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen
Sisters,” etc.


CHAPTER XX.

THE STORM BREAKS.

“It is simply disgraceful. You have made yourself the talk of the
hotel. I am ashamed that you belong to my party; and you shall go home
on Monday in the mail. I will not have the responsibility any longer of
a girl who has no sense of obedience or of the fitness of things. Back
you shall go at once. Your uncle will telegraph, and somebody shall
meet you at the other end. But stay here any longer to behave in this
way you most certainly shall not!”

Sheila stood white-faced and almost terrified before her aunt. She was
still in her riding-habit. She had come in so happily from her scramble
with Ronald down by the shore; and with never a misgiving had run
upstairs and entered the sitting-room before going to dress for dinner.

There she found her aunt alone, waiting for her as it now seemed; and
without warning the tempest had broken over her head. She scarcely
knew even now of what she stood accused. It seemed as though every sin
of every sort had been laid at her door. She could at first scarcely
get at the gist of what her angry aunt could mean; but as Mrs. Cossart
proceeded it gradually dawned upon Sheila that she was being accused of
having carried on a bare-faced flirtation with Ronald Dumaresq, and of
having made herself the talk of the hotel in so doing.

It was like a stinging blow in the face to the sensitive girl. She was
almost stunned by the rush of feeling that came over her. A few weeks
ago she could have borne it better—she would have been more angry, but
less overwhelmed with pain and shame.

The wakening womanhood within her made the accusation almost
intolerable. The very looks and words which had passed between them
that day seemed to rise up before her in a bewildering mist. Could
it possibly be true what her aunt was saying? Had she been forward,
unwomanly, fast? Had she made people remark upon her—got herself talked
of as a flirt?—hateful title that Sheila recoiled from as from a
blow. She had liked to be with Ronald, she had thought he liked being
with her. But her aunt had said it was she who was always entrapping
him—those were the very words. Oh, how cruel, how cruel and unjust! But
it was not true, no, it was not! Only if such things were being said,
she could never, never, never see Ronald again all her life!

A wave of sudden desolation seemed to sweep over Sheila. A rush of hot
tears flooded her eyes. She burst into sobs and flung herself down on
the sofa, crying—

“Oh, how can you say such cruel things? How can you?”

“I say them for your good—because they are true,” answered Mrs.
Cossart, her anger in no way appeased by the sight of Sheila’s grief;
“and there is the less excuse for you, because you have always had
Effie’s example before you. You will never find her lowering herself by
running after young men as you have been doing; and I tell you, Sheila,
that nothing so disgusts those very young men as seeing girls do this.
They humour them at the time for their amusement, and because their
vanity is flattered; but in the end they despise them. Mr. Dumaresq has
been very kind to you, but he must know perfectly well that you are
trying to get him for a husband.”

Sheila suddenly started up, her face suddenly grown white.

“Aunt Cossart, you shall not say that again! I will not bear it from
you. Yes, I will go away. I would not stay after this. Where is my
uncle? Let me talk to him, but please do not say another word. I cannot
bear it!”

There was something in the girl’s sudden change of manner that half
frightened Mrs. Cossart. She did not particularly want Sheila and her
uncle to meet just now.

“Your uncle has gone downstairs,” she answered uneasily, “you can see
him after dinner.”

“I shall not go down to dinner,” said Sheila, putting up her hand to
her head in a dazed way. “My head aches. I shall go to bed. If I am
going away on Monday, I think I won’t come down to meals any more.”

“Well, I think you had better go to bed,” said Mrs. Cossart. “You
have had a tiring day, and you don’t look yourself. I don’t mean to
be unkind, Sheila, but you have no mother, and it is my duty to speak
plainly sometimes.”

“Then I am sure you have done your duty, Aunt Cossart,” said Sheila,
giving one direct look at her aunt, and then the wave of bitterness
surged over her once more. The tears rushed to her eyes; she felt as
though she were choking, and in a blind sort of way she darted from the
room, dashed into the one she shared with Effie, and flinging herself
upon her bed broke into wild weeping.

Effie had just finished her toilet, her face was rather flushed, and
she looked uncomfortable and displeased. The maid was putting the room
to rights, and cast a compassionate glance at the prone figure on the
bed. She had received orders to pack up Sheila’s things in readiness
for the mail on Monday, and as this was Saturday evening and no word
had been spoken previously of such a thing, she divined that there had
been a “row.” Probably she had a shrewd guess as to the cause, but of
course she made no remark, finished her task and went away.

Effie came and stood by Sheila.

“Don’t cry so,” she said. “It’s a pity it has happened, but nobody will
remember anything about it when you are gone. The Barretts are going
in the mail on Monday. They will take care of you, and be pleased to
have you. You always get on with people. And it’s better to go than to
have bothers all the time.”

Effie was half glad, half sorry to be rid of Sheila. In a way she was
fond of her cousin, but she had become rather jealous of her too. And
then her foolish mother had fostered in her the belief that Ronald
Dumaresq would certainly pay his addresses to her if only Sheila would
let him alone, and not be perpetually attracting him off to herself.
Effie had been taken by Ronald from the first, and was flattered at
being told of his preference. She had begun to fancy herself more or
less in love with him, as girls with nothing better to think about are
rather disposed to do. She liked to picture herself the mistress of an
establishment, with a handsome young husband to take her about. If it
were true that Ronald admired her, it was a thousand pities he should
not have a fair field. Effie did not pause to consider that he had an
excellent opportunity as it was for prosecuting his wooing, and that if
he let himself be turned from his purpose by Sheila’s “machinations”—as
her mother called it—his love could not be very deep or true. She was
accustomed to be led by her mother’s opinions; and she had become very
jealous of the way in which people “took up” Sheila, and left her out
in the cold.

As Sheila made no answer, Effie moved away, and joining her mother in
the next room remarked—

“You have upset her very much, but I suppose she will get over it.
I think she won’t come down to-night, her face will be all red and
swollen. What shall we say to people? Shall you tell them she is going
to be sent home?”

Mrs. Cossart looked a little taken aback. She had overlooked the fact
that some explanation would have to be given of this exceedingly sudden
arrangement. She looked at her daughter, and then said slowly—

“Well, we won’t say anything to-night, only that Sheila has a headache
and cannot come down. You will have a chance of talking to Mr. Dumaresq
at table now, Effie. I am quite tired of the sound of Sheila’s laugh,
and her way of getting his notice all for herself.”

But Effie found Ronald rather abstracted, and she did not make much way
with him. After he heard that Sheila was not coming down he seemed to
go off into a brown study; and it was only when Mr. Cossart suddenly
seemed to drop a bomb in their midst that he took note of what was
passing.

“Yes, she is to go home on Monday, my wife has decided,” Mr. Cossart
remarked to Miss Adene, all unconscious of his wife’s warning looks.
“We brought her out for a little holiday and amusement; and now she
will go back home to another uncle of hers. Oh, yes, we shall all miss
her. She is a merry little puss. But we think she has been here long
enough. Mrs. Barrett has kindly promised to take care of her on the
voyage home.”

Ronald’s eyes had fixed themselves upon Mr. Cossart’s face.

“Are you speaking of Miss Cholmondeley? Surely it has been arranged
rather suddenly?”

“Well, we have talked of it often,” said Mrs. Cossart interposing.
“Sheila only came out for a time, not for the whole season. It is the
chance of sending her back with such a good escort that has settled the
matter. She will be very happy with the Barretts. They have made such
friends, she and the girls.”

“It is strange she said nothing all day, when we were making all sorts
of plans for the future,” said Ronald; and both Mr. and Mrs. Cossart
looked so uncomfortable that Lady Dumaresq changed the subject.

There was no walking up and down the corridor or verandah with Ronald
that evening, for he followed his party direct into their private
sitting-room at the end of the ground-floor passage, and appeared no
more that night.

“What does it mean?” he asked, with a note of indignation in his voice.

Miss Adene and Lady Dumaresq exchanged glances. They had seen perfectly
through the clumsy manœuvre. Their eyes had been observing the turn
affairs were taking for some while. They were not altogether unprepared
for some such development.

“Now, Ronald,” said Lady Dumaresq quietly, “it is no use your putting
yourself into a fume and fret about this. It is very evident that Mrs.
Cossart is jealous of Sheila, because she so entirely eclipses Effie.
It is not a very surprising thing that it should be so. We must allow
for a mother’s weakness. Perhaps you have yourself helped to bring
about the crisis by a rather too visible admiration for the little
girl. You were not quite wise to-day, for instance; and she is too much
the child to be on her guard; and if people do talk——”

“Let them,” answered Ronald rather proudly. “I am not afraid of having
my name coupled with that of the girl I intend to make my wife!”

They all smiled at him. They were all in sympathy with his bold
declaration. Lady Dumaresq held out her hand, and Sir Guy laid an
affectionate arm over his shoulder.

“So it has come to that, has it, Ronald? Well, I am glad to hear it.
But a little patience will not hurt either of you; and you will know
better after a separation whether she cares for you in the way you
wish.”

“After a separation!” repeated Ronald rather blankly. “But I mean to
come to an understanding before they send her away. I may even be able
to stop it if she is my——”

But Lady Dumaresq laid a gentle hand upon his lips.

“Ronald,” she said, “that would not be wise. Indeed it would scarcely
be fair and right to her.”

“What do you mean?” he questioned quickly.

“I mean that the question you have to ask Sheila is too solemn and
serious a one to be put when she is in a mist of bewilderment, sorrow,
and indignation, which is sure to be the case. You would come to her
then as a sort of champion and deliverer, and she would very likely
accept you in that impulse of gratitude, whether or no her heart be
deeply stirred. Do not win her in that impetuous way, Ronald. It will
not hurt either of you to bear the yoke for awhile—to learn what
patience has to teach. Her character will develop in the school of
life’s discipline, as it has not done when all has been sunshine. Let
her go now, Ronald. Prove your own heart first, then if you find it
unchanged, seek her out later, and win her if you can. Believe me, it
will be best so. I do not know what has passed between Sheila and her
aunt, but whatever it is, I would not have you seek an interview now.”

And indeed, had Ronald desired it, it is doubtful if he could have
obtained sight of Sheila. She remained in bed most of Sunday with a
violent headache. Miss Adene and Lady Dumaresq stole up to see her, to
whisper a few kind words and then retire. And when Monday came she was
nothing but a little white-faced, woe-begone creature, so unlike the
Sheila of the past weeks that her friends would scarcely have known her.

She would not say good-bye to anybody. She shrank from the thought of
what they might have been told as to her sudden departure. Every nerve
was tingling with pain, and shame, and misery.

The boat was in early, and whilst the rest of the people were at
lunch, Sheila got her uncle to take her down to the quay and see her on
board, for she felt she would sink into the ground if Ronald were to
come out and see her, and say good-bye before the rest of the people.

“Well, I am thankful she went off so quietly,” said Mrs. Cossart, as
they discussed the matter together before descending to dinner. “I was
afraid there might be a scene, but there is no accounting for Sheila.
She did not even want to say good-bye to the Dumaresq party, and if
some of them hadn’t come up here, she would have gone off without even
that. Girls are the queerest, most capricious creatures! Well, it’s all
happily over; and, Effie, you will have Sheila’s place now at table,
and nobody to interfere with you. Mr. Dumaresq——”

But Effie tossed her head rather defiantly. She had not got much change
out of Mr. Dumaresq these last few _table d’hôte_ meals.

“I don’t care for Mr. Dumaresq so mighty much. I’m not going to put
myself out of the way for him. I don’t think I care so particularly
for fashionable young men. I don’t mind him, but I’m not going to
put myself out of the way just to amuse him. I think he’s very dull
sometimes. I don’t know what you all see in him to make such a fuss!”

Mrs. Cossart rather felt as though she had taken an infinity of trouble
for a chimera of her own brain, and when she reached the dining-room
her jaw almost dropped. She had pictured the amalgamation which would
take place between Effie and the Dumaresqs now that Sheila had gone;
but what did she see?

The whole Dumaresq party had moved bodily to the side table, hitherto
occupied by the Barretts, who had left to-day. Some new arrivals from
the Cape had been given the seats next to the Cossarts—loud-voiced
colonials with rather bad manners, who talked amongst themselves and
seemed not to desire the acquaintance of their neighbours.

Mrs. Cossart sat in dismayed silence through the meal, and when she
went into the drawing-room afterwards, she fancied that all the people
looked coldly at her. Nobody spoke either to her or to Effie, and they
soon retired to their own rooms.

Was this a sample of what would result from her laborious attempt to
promote her daughter’s popularity?

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]




THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.

BY LA MÉNAGERE.


September, the hunter’s moon, brings us such an abundance in our
markets that it is difficult to say just what is peculiar to the month.
Undoubtedly the most prominent feature is moor game, and now is the
time when even moderate purses may safely indulge in this. Hares,
rabbits, grouse, partridges, and wild duck give an excellent choice,
and poultry also is prime and not dear.

Fresh-water fish come in this month, and are often most useful to
country hostesses, as well as affording sport to her guests. The
orchards are laden now with fast-ripening fruit, and if this harvest
is a fairly plentiful one we may indeed be glad. Nuts will find an
excuse for many delightful nutting parties among the children, and
the storing of fruits and vegetables from the garden will keep the
housekeeper busy. Damsons should be plentiful towards the end of this
month, and will want making into jam and cheese, and we expect also to
gather blackberries—another excuse for picnicking—nor must we leave
mushrooms out of the list. Indeed, September is the harvest-month in
many senses, for we have the wild crops ready for garnering, as well as
the cultivated ones of garden and field.

The poorest country-dweller may make a profit now who has the wit and
the energy to seek for nature’s bounty, as these wild things invariably
meet with a ready sale in towns.

Besides these we have other things provided by a bountiful providence
which we ought to appreciate better than we do. See the glorious
colouring that the leaves of the hedgerow trees take on; note the
rushes swaying in the brook, the berries of the mountain-ash, as well
as of the dog-rose; all these are profitable to town florists, who will
generally pay a fair price for such things. To the home decorator all
these are very valuable—or will be in the days that will come all too
soon, when no flowers are to be had for the table. If slightly dried
and brushed over with a very weak solution of gum arabic, then dried
again, these will keep for a long time without losing their colour.
Some of the very prettiest table decorations ever seen have been made
with coloured leaves and berries. For tall jars in the corners of
rooms, purple thistles, white honesty, brown bulrushes, copper beech
boughs, and scarlet ash-berries combined, make a truly lovely show.

In the garden we have dahlias and sunflowers defying the wane that
seems to make everything else look dreary, and by and by we shall
have chrysanthemums in all their brave glory to brighten house and
greenhouse. What a glory do these give to the last days of the dying
year.

But the year is far from ending in September; we have many things yet
to enjoy, and possibly many guests to entertain, and always much to see
to, as prudent housewives.

A plentiful crop of wild mushrooms proves a great help to us now, and
we are glad to remind ourselves of different ways of using them. For
instance, with bacon or eggs at breakfast, _au gratin_ at dinner, on
toast at all times, they are acceptable. With field mushrooms we have
need to be very careful lest we inadvertently give ourselves some that
are poisonous and unfit for food. Dr. Badham, author of the _Esculent
Funguses of England_, enumerates no less than forty-eight species
of edible fungi, all of which are good to eat. According to him the
majority of fungi are harmless, but his account of the effects of the
poisonous minority is enough to alarm the most trustful.

The easiest way to detect whether fungi are wholesome or not is to
insert a silver spoon into the stew in which they are present, and if
poisonous it will quickly turn black; a peeled onion will also turn
blue or bluish-black, and is an even easier test. If either of these on
being withdrawn shows their own natural colour, the mushrooms may be
regarded as harmless.

Mushroom ketchup is regarded by all housewives as one of the treasures
of the store-cupboard, and that which is home-made is generally better
than any that can be bought.

It is best when made of the large flap mushrooms, fresh, but fully
ripe. They must be gathered during very dry weather, if the ketchup
is to keep properly. Do not wash or peel them but wipe them clean,
and remove all decayed pieces and part of the stalks. Put them into a
gallon stone jar, and strew salt liberally over them. Let them remain
a night, and the next day stir them up, and repeat this for two or
three days. At the end of the third day put the jar into the oven and
let them stew a short time, then gently pour off the liquid, but do
not squeeze them at all. To every quart put an ounce of Jamaica and
black peppercorns, two or three pieces of rase ginger, and a blade of
mace. Boil again for perhaps half an hour, let it stand aside until
cold, then put into dry bottles, and cork it up tightly. It is well to
use small bottles, so that when one has been opened it may be used up
before it has time to lose its virtues.


MENU FOR SEPTEMBER.

    Rabbit Pie.
    Cold Roast Goose.
    Salmi of Partridges (hot).
    Fillets of Beef with Mushrooms (also hot).
    Cold Pressed Beef.
    Potato, Beetroot, Tomato and Endive Salads.
    Hot Potatoes.
    Quince Jelly. Damson Cheese.
    Apple and Blackberry Tart. Cream.
    Cheddar and Gorgonzola Cheese.
    Oatcake and Butter.

Our menu this month might be one suited for a luncheon party, where the
chief dishes would be required cold, with two or three hot ones as a
set-off, and all others placed on the table at the same time. Luncheon
parties are generally very common during this month in the country, and
the guests who come to partake of them are not noted for their small
appetites.

_Salmi of Partridges._—Put the birds into the oven as for roasting, and
partially cook them. When about half done cut them into neat pieces,
and remove the skin and sinews, and place them in a clean saucepan. In
another pan put a quarter of a pound of uncooked ham minced finely,
with a good piece of butter; add a dozen small mushrooms, three or four
minced shallots, a grated carrot, a spoonful of chopped parsley, a few
sprigs of savoury herbs and some pepper and salt. Cover closely and let
them cook on the top of the stove, shaking the pan to prevent burning;
when cooked dredge a little flour over them, let it brown a little,
and pour in about a pint of good brown stock. Add also a glassful of
sherry. Stir until the gravy has thickened nicely, then put in the
pieces of the birds, and let them slowly simmer, but not boil, for at
least half an hour. Dish the game in a pile on a hot dish, strain the
sauce, and see that it is well seasoned and of a nice brown colour,
then pour over all. Garnish with fried sippets of bread.

_Fillets of Beef with Mushrooms._—These should be cut from the undercut
or fillet of beef, and be neatly shaped. Fry them quickly on both
sides, but only enough to slightly brown them, then place in a stewpan
and cover with peeled mushrooms, one or two shallots, some pepper and
a glassful of red wine with also a small lump of butter. Stew these
for quite an hour in a rather slow oven, then lift out the meat and
the mushrooms, and thicken the gravy with fécule, also add salt and a
tablespoonful of sharp sauce, then pour boiling hot over the dish.

_Quince Jelly_ and _Damson Cheese_ are both preserves that should be
found in readiness in the store cupboard. For the first, take a quart
of quince juice obtained by boiling the fruit with a very little water
and then straining it through a bag; add a pound of lump sugar to every
quart, and then an ounce of gum arabic previously soaked in water. Boil
well for quite half an hour, then put into moulds.

_Damson Cheese._—Put several pounds of freshly-gathered damsons into
a stone jar with a very little water. Stand this on the top of the
stove to stew gently for some hours, or until the fruit is perfectly
soft. While still warm turn out the damsons into a wide-meshed sieve
or colander, rub until nothing but skins and stones are left. Put half
a pound of loaf sugar to every pound of pulp, and boil together into a
stiff paste. Some of the stones should be cracked and the kernels taken
out, as these give a very pleasant flavour to the cheese. Put into
shallow dishes or moulds, and cover with brandied papers. This cheese
is usually cut into fancy shapes and put into glass dishes to serve at
dessert.




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


STUDY AND STUDIO.

IRENE FOY, 32, Osborne Terrace, Clapham Road, wishes to sell “ONYX” a
Greek grammar, written by IRENE’S father in English and Greek. Will
“ONYX” please write?

LEM.—You will find the poem from which you quote an extract in _Ezekiel
and Other Poems_, by B. M. (Nelson and Sons). It is there entitled “The
Sea of Sorrow.”

CONSTANCE.—1. “Auf Wiedersehn,” means “till we meet again,” like the
French “Au revoir.”—2. We always recommend Dr. Lemmi’s Italian Grammar,
published at 5s. by Messrs. Oliver & Boyd, Edinburgh; and Messrs.
Simpkin, Marshall & Co., London. It is quite simple enough to be
studied alone.

SOROR.—We are sorry you have had to wait so long for a reply, but
owing to the time at which we go to press, we cannot promise an answer
speedily.

NURSE PETRA.—_The Jugend-Gartenlaube_, 5s. a year, might suit you;
but we advise you to write for a full list of German periodicals to
Hachette & Co., 18, King William Street, Charing Cross, London.

F. E. BARTRAM.—Books on entomology appear rather costly; but you might
begin with _British Butterflies, Moths and Beetles_, by W. F. Kirby,
published at 1s.; or Sir John Lubbock’s _Origin and Metamorphoses of
Insects_, 3s. 6d. Order at any bookseller’s.

NYDIA.—It is not wonderful that a “first attempt,” especially as you
have “never learnt how to set down music,” and are only sixteen, should
be full of mistakes, too many to specify. It is absolutely impossible
for you to hope to succeed without seriously studying the rules of
harmony. At the same time we should judge from your pleasant and modest
letter that such study would be by no means thrown away.

A correspondent directs our attention to the fact that “foolscap,”
concerning which a question was lately answered in “Study and Studio,”
is a corruption of the Italian _foglio-capo_, a folio-sized sheet. The
error is an ancient one, for from the thirteenth to the seventeenth
century the water mark of this size paper was a fool’s head with cap
and bells.

B. E. M.—1. We are constantly mentioning Reading Societies in this
column. Try the National Home Reading Union, Surrey House, Victoria
Embankment, London, or write to Mrs. Walker, Litlington Rectory,
Berwick, Sussex.—2. Do not try or wish to “become pale.” Sufficient
exercise, and strict attention to clothing and diet, are the best cure
for a faulty circulation.

A LINCOLNSHIRE GIRL.—1. The lines you quote,

    “Howe’er it be, it seems to me
      ’Tis only noble to be good,”

are certainly by Tennyson, from the poem “Lady Clara Vere de Vere.”—2.
The allusion,

    “Her who clasped in her last trance
      Her murdered father’s head,”

is to Margaret Roper, the daughter of Sir Thomas More. This devoted
daughter obtained possession of her father’s head after his execution,
kept it in a leaden casket, and left directions that it should be
buried with her. For the whole story, see THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER for
February, 1898, where we answered the question at length.

BLUEBOTTLE.—The reference you quote is probably Professor E. Curtius, a
distinguished German authority on etymology.

A. N. D.—1. The lines (which you misquote) are as follows—

    “Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us
    To see oursel’s as others see us!
    It wad frae monie a blunder free us
        And foolish notion.”

They are by Robert Burns, and you will find them in any edition of his
poems.—2. Write to the office of THE BOY’S OWN PAPER, in which magazine
“The Bishop and the Caterpiller” first appeared.


INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

FLORENCE is very sorry, but circumstances have occurred which
unfortunately prevent her from opening a correspondence with a little
girl reader of the “G. O. P.” as she wished. Among the many readers of
our paper, perhaps someone else will kindly volunteer.

“MADGE,” who lives in the country, and works with her hands, would
very much like to correspond with “NELLIE,” so would ROBINA J. GIBSON,
Ferneycleuch, Lochmaben, Dumfriesshire (a farmer’s daughter), and
B. E. M., The Rectory, Barnow, Co. Wexford.

M. D. LEWIS, Sabia, near Smyrna, Asia Minor, would be very glad to
write to any of our readers who would like to hear a little about
the remote and uncivilised region where she lives, and the curious
superstitions and customs that prevail. She adds, “If any of your
readers wish to correspond with me in Greek, I shall be very much
pleased.”

MISS FRANCES WHITE, Yaverland Manor, Brading, Isle of Wight, would
be pleased to exchange stamps with girls living abroad; she would
send twenty British stamps in exchange for the same number of the
nationality of her correspondent.

MAUD M. BAUGHAN, Vernon Villa, James Street, Oxford, would like to
correspond in English with MISS RUBY TIZAREL and MISS NELLY POLLAK. As
MISS BAUGHAN is a teacher, she would also like to correspond with any
teachers across the sea.

MISS R. M. COOKE, Oxford Villa, Gordon Road, Southend-on-Sea, wishes to
correspond with some girls of her own age (20) living abroad. She is an
enthusiastic collector of view post-cards, and would like to exchange
English cards for those of other countries.

Will O MIMOSA SAN exchange illustrated post-cards with MADAME GASTON
CANTIN, Rue de Saujon, La Tremblade, Charente Inférieure, France,
whom we thank for her pleasant words, describing the delight of her
correspondence with an English reader of the “G. O. P.”

“BERTRAM,” a girl fond of out-door exercise, would like to correspond
with a French girl about sixteen years of age.

MISS SOFIE ABELSBERG, Budapesth, Hungary (11, Nagy János Street),
wishes for a well-educated English or American girl correspondent of
her own age (18) who would write in German or English, Miss Abelsberg
in English.

FLORIDA would like to correspond with a Spanish, Dutch, Norwegian,
Swedish or Russian girl of good family about 20 years of age. She would
help them in English if they would help her in their languages. Will
any girls of these nationalities send addresses here?


GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

A FARMER’S DAUGHTER (_Choice of Employment_).—Are there not rather
many kinds of work which you dislike? You “would not think of entering
into domestic service at all.” You “would not care for shop business
either.” You think, however, that you might like to act as a clerk, or
a lady’s companion. Now, we are obliged to tell you that companions are
very little wanted, and that clerks, if they are to receive moderately
good salaries, must be well educated. You tell us, however, that
your parents would not be disposed to spend anything further on your
education or training. This makes the position somewhat difficult. It
compels you to regard home as your school. But there are many useful
things that a girl can learn on a farm. You might learn dairy-work
thoroughly and earn something by the sale of butter. Later, if you
could master the newest methods, from studying the appliances used
by your most successful farming friends, you could seek a position
as superintendent of some gentleman’s private dairy. People who can
make butter and cheese well never go a-begging. Then you should also
study the best and most remunerative methods of rearing poultry and of
marketing eggs. Something, even, might be earned from your garden, if
you have one, and the soil is favourable for bulbs—as in many parts of
Ireland it is. The secret of comfort in farmers’ households is for the
family to remain together, and for each member—father and mother, sons
and daughters, to contribute their share of work. But where families
break up, the trouble comes, for each person then wants a separate
house, and consequently larger earnings.

TWENTIETH VOLUME (_Art Teachership_).—Your friends have unfortunately
been only too well acquainted with the facts, when they told you that
it would be extremely difficult to obtain a situation as teacher of art
in a school. Drawing is taught in a good many girls’ schools, but by
no means in all. The head-mistresses of many High Schools are disposed
to give most of the time allowed to general English subjects and
languages, which count in examinations, and to leave girls of artistic
tastes to study drawing later at a regular school of art. Evidently you
draw well, or you could not have obtained so much success in the South
Kensington examinations. But the question arises, can you not earn
something by your own drawings? Could you not draw illustrations for
stories, or make designs for some commercial or advertising purpose?
In all directions of this kind there is much work to be done and money
to be earned. Or have you thought of trying some handicraft such as
lace-making, silk-weaving, or cane basket-making? Perhaps, as you live
in the Midlands, you could some day visit the Birmingham Municipal
School of Arts and Crafts and observe the many kinds of beautiful work
done by girls there. Such a visit might give you useful ideas. In
chromo-lithography, too, there is constantly a demand for good designs.
There are some large chromo-lithographic firms in Birmingham. The other
matter you speak of is not one in which we can help directly, but you
might make the cottage known to the railway authorities so that they
could include it in the lists of country lodgings which they publish.

F. W. G. (_Hospital Nurse_).—You would not be required to know much
arithmetic in order to be admitted to a hospital; but at the same time
you ought to know something of the subject, otherwise your notions of
the portions of drugs to administer, and other such matters in which
an accurate mind is essential, will be very hazy. During the period
which must yet elapse before your admission you had better be trying to
improve your arithmetic. Your writing, about which you ask our opinion,
is sufficiently legible and clear, but it would be improved with
practice. There is a slight disposition to make the letters slope too
much.

INDEPENDENCE (_Nurse-Companion, etc._).—A nurse-companion is usually
expected to have been trained at a hospital. The training need not have
been sufficient to qualify a woman for regular hospital employment,
but it ought to have covered a period of six months at all events. You
do not mention that you have been in any hospital, and we therefore
think you had better give up the idea of becoming a nurse-companion.
Perhaps, as music appears to be your best accomplishment, you would
do most wisely to seek employment as nursery governess. Your general
education we judge by your letter to be fairly good. But try to improve
yourself by every means within your power, as you cannot long remain a
nursery governess; and you must either advance so as to become a fully
qualified governess, when you are older, or devote your attention to
the practical duties of looking after young children. In the latter
case you would, of course, term yourself a children’s nurse. It is
possible that you might be well advised to advertise yourself as
a children’s nurse from the first, seeking a subordinate position
to begin with, in order to gain experience. Your handwriting is
satisfactory.

A CLYDESDALE LASSIE (_Hospital Nursing_).—Paying probationers are
received commonly for a period of three months at a time, for which
thirteen guineas is paid in advance. You could not enter a general
hospital on these terms just at present. Twenty-two is customarily the
lowest age for admission.

WEE WIFIE (_Fancy Work_).—It is almost impossible to obtain a sale for
fancy articles which are only made at home and in small quantities.
Little novelties which can be produced cheaply and in large numbers
may often be sold direct to wholesale and retail dealers in bazaar and
fancy articles. We should recommend a lady who must live at home either
to do work on these lines and treat her home as a small manufactory,
or else devote her time to the making of fine underclothing, which she
could sell to the drapers and outfitters. Shops where embroidery is
sold usually keep their own workers on the premises, for the simple
reason that orders have to be executed promptly and in exact obedience
to the demand of the moment. It is not possible for work of this kind
to be sent to workers who can only be reached by correspondence.


MISCELLANEOUS.

FRUIT FARMER.—No, strawberries are not indigenous to England, according
to Haydn, in his _Dictionary of Dates_, where he says that they were
brought to this country from Flanders in 1530. Against this date, we
refer to Shakespeare’s _Richard III._, in which we find them spoken of
as growing in the Bishop of Ely’s garden in Holborn, which shows it
was cultivated as early as the latter part of the fifteenth century. A
hundred years subsequently four kinds of this fruit were cultivated in
the garden of a barber-surgeon, Gerard by name, also in Holborn.

DEAF.—Had you not better consult some missionary, or the friend whom
you have out in China, so as to find out what the children in China
may be likely to want? Have you seen the small scrap-books made of old
post-cards, or of cards the same size, and tied together at the side,
so as to form a small long book? Pictures are pasted on the back and
front of each card. Perhaps you could make these; but we think you will
do well to inquire about it.

W. M. B. D., HEATHER, LAURIA, etc.—We have seen several copies of
this snow-ball letter from New South Wales. The addresses in each
are rather different, and we, like you, cannot imagine what the
philanthropist wants with so many stamps, nor do we understand why the
Government should give an endorsement. We should let it alone, and
return the letters. The address seems insufficient, and we have failed
to find any one of the places mentioned in the most recent Gazetteer.
These philanthropic people who require a million of stamps are often
difficult to find; and they might as well give the money at once.

C. BROWN.—To fix prints upon wood, and remove the paper, care must be
taken that the surface of the latter be perfectly smooth. Then moisten
a piece of thick drawing-paper, and apply a layer of thin glue on its
surface; leave it to dry; give it two or three more coats, leaving each
to dry separately. Coat the paper then with several layers of spirit
varnish, and prepare the wood in the same way; and then apply the
print. We should have said that the wood must be previously prepared
by a slight coat of glue, and when dry, rubbed with glass-paper, and
a white alcoholic varnish applied. When dry, about five or six more
coats of the same will be required. Cut the edge of the print closely
round, lay it on a table face downwards, and moisten the back with a
wet sponge, and then place between two leaves of blotting-paper. Apply
another coat of varnish to the wood, and, before it is dry, lay the
face of the print down upon it, wiping the back in such a way as to
drive out the air so as to form no blisters. Lay a sheet of dry paper
upon it, and pass a soft linen cloth over it to press it firmly down.
Then leave it to dry, and when thoroughly so, moisten it with a sponge,
and roll off the paper with your fingers. Great care must be taken
in this process not to remove any part of the paper upon which the
impression is taken. After this rubbing it must be left to dry. When
dry, one more coat of varnish must be given over the delicate film of
paper left, and it will be left perfectly transparent. When quite dry,
polish with Dutch rushes, steeped for three or four days in olive oil,
which latter must be removed with a fine linen cloth, and then sprinkle
with starch or hair-powder. Rub this off with the hand, and apply three
or four more coats of varnish, leaving each to dry as before, and in
three or four days polish with a fine woollen cloth with whiting of the
finest kind.

MERCY B.—The names of the hospitals for which you ask are as
follows:—Newcastle Hospital, Hull Royal Infirmary, Leeds General
Infirmary, Leeds Fever Hospital, and Lincoln County Hospital. For the
last-named, over four hundred applications are refused yearly, and
about fourteen are accepted. Address the matron in all cases. We could
not give any idea of the time you would have to wait, of course.

UNHAPPY MAUDE.—We think you will be really unhappy if you do not take
your father’s and brother’s advice, and give up a foolish attachment.
Do you think that any man who drinks could love you dearly and
devotedly? Would he not love drink far better? Gather all your strength
together and go away for a change, and try to turn your thoughts to
some other subject. If you managed to break off with your lover once,
you can do so again, and at twenty-one you will soon forget.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE LAUNDRY, BATTERSEA POLYTECHNIC.]

[Illustration: THE COOKERY SCHOOL, POLYTECHNIC. STUDENTS AT WORK.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 750: flower to flour—“dredge a little flour”.]