[Pg 17]

[Transcriber’s Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]

CALLED AWAY.
THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY: Chapter 2.
DINNERS FOR TWO.
A DREAM OF QUEEN’S GARDENS: Part 1.
THE WEATHER AND HEALTH.
GIRLS’ FRIENDSHIPS: Chapter 1.
MERLE’S CRUSADE: Chapter 2.
THE CONTENTS OF MY WORK-BOX.
BITS ABOUT ANIMALS.
VARIETIES
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

CALLED AWAY.

“AND CLUNG TO HER NECK WITH A SMOTHERED CRY.”

E. A. V.

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY

A PASTORALE.


By DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.

CHAPTER II.

p the old oak
staircase three
or four stairs at
a time sprang
the baron; then
he walked
quickly with
beating heart
down the long
corridor to the
west wing, where the nursery was, and
pausing at the top of a spiral staircase
which led to the side door he intended
to go out by, he shouted impatiently
to the housemaid who was left in charge
of the baby.

“Marie! Marie! Vite, vite. Where
is Monsieur Léon’s malacca cane? It
was in my dressing-room this morning.
Fetch it directly.”

The girl came running to do her
master’s bidding, and no sooner had the
white streamers of her cap disappeared
down the corridor than the baron darted
into the nursery. A lamp was burning
on a table at one end of the room, and
at the other, carefully guarded from
any draught by a folding-screen, stood
a swinging-cradle, on pedestals of silver.
The framework, the baron knew,
was an old family relic, but the cradle
itself was a new and wonderful creation
of white swansdown and blue satin,
lined with lace and trimmed with pale
blue ribbons. In this mass of satin and
lace lay the baron’s tiny daughter, fast
asleep, her small fingers grasping a
lovely toy of pink coral with golden bells,
which was fastened round her waist with
pale blue ribbon. For one moment the
baron hesitated. To tear the little creature
from her luxurious home, and trust her
to the tender mercies of some rough
sailors for a day or two, and then leave
her in the hands of strangers, who might
or might not be kind to her, seemed hard
even to the baron, whose mind was
warped by jealousy; but then came the
thought that all this luxury with which
the child was so extravagantly surrounded
was bad for her; if Mathilde persisted
in pampering her in this way,
she would grow up weak and delicate.
The life he had chosen for her was far
more healthy; and if she were inured to
a harder life in her infancy, she was
much more likely to develop into a strong,
healthy girl; and as he quieted his conscience
with these thoughts his hesitation
vanished, and he stooped to pick
her up.

But hark! there was a footstep.
Was it Marie returning? What would
she think to find him in the nursery, into
whose precincts he had never before intruded,
as the servants all knew well
enough? No, it was a false alarm, no
one was coming; and seeing that now or
never was the time for him to carry out
his plan, he picked up the baby, folded
the quilted satin coverlet and the fine
cambric sheet round it, and covered its
face with a lace handkerchief that lay
on the pillow; then, feeling that the
swansdown quilt might not be warm
enough on board the yacht, he glanced
round the room, and seeing an Indian
shawl which Mathilde often wore lying
on a rocking-chair, he wrapped his
burden entirely up in this, and then
dreading every moment the child should
cry and betray him, he stole out of the
nursery to the spiral staircase. Here he
paused for a moment to listen, but all
he heard was Marie’s voice far off entreating
another servant to come and
help her to look for the cane, as Monsieur
le Baron was waiting for it.

“Be quick, Marie, I can’t wait much
longer,” shouted the baron, and then,
quick as thought, he dived down the
spiral staircase, in his haste nearly precipitating
himself and his little daughter,
who still slept peacefully, to the bottom.

To let himself out at the side door was
the work of a moment; and now, unless
surprised by any of the servants who
might be loitering about in the shrubberies
with their lovers, he was safe. He
had only to run down a winding path of
about two hundred yards across the
grounds to the gate where Léon was
awaiting him. Once the baron started
like a robber at a rustling in the bushes
as he passed, but it was only a cat, and
once again he breathed freely, and in
less than five minutes from the time he
entered the nursery he stood on the road
by the side of the dogcart.

“Is it you, Arnaut?” asked Léon,
anxiously peering through the twilight
at his brother.

“Yes, yes, it is all right; here it is,”
said the baron, holding the bundle up
to Léon.

“How on earth am I to take it?
Where is its head? Can’t you nurse
it till we get to the yacht?” said Léon.

“No; how should I drive with this
thing in my arms? Here, give me the
reins, and take hold. This is its head.
Thank you,” said the baron, with an
immense sigh of relief as he handed the
baby to Léon.

Léon took the bundle so reluctantly,
and handled it as delicately as if it were
a piece of priceless china he was afraid
of breaking by a touch, that the baron,
who was not in the best of tempers, in
spite of his successful expedition, growled
out, “It won’t bite you; you needn’t be
afraid.”

“I am not, but my dear Arnaut you
might make allowances; I never had a[Pg 19]
baby in my arms before in my life. I
daresay I shall get used to it in time; use
is second nature, they say. But I say, I
don’t believe it ought to be bundled up
in this way; it can’t breathe; it will be
suffocated; I shall open this shawl a
little,” said Léon, proceeding to do so,
and being immediately rewarded by a
long, wailing cry from the infant.

“There,” said the baron, with an
impatient exclamation, “now you have
woke it. Why didn’t you leave it
alone?”

“My dear fellow, it would never have
woke again if I had; the poor little
creature was choking,” said Léon, sitting
the baby up on his knees, as if it
were a year old instead of a few months.

“It will cry the whole way now, and,
if we meet anyone, betray our secret,”
grumbled the baron.

“Well, I’d rather it cried than have
it suffocated, as it infallibly would have
been but for me. Baby, in future years
you may thank your uncle Léon for saving
your life. Perhaps if I whistle it
will stop howling. I’ll try,” said Léon,
whistling, in which art he was a great
adept.

But whistling had no effect on the
baby, unless it was to make it cry louder,
and Léon was in despair, and the baron
getting furious, until it suddenly occurred
to the former to jump the child up and
down, as he had seen Mathilde do. This
was successful; as long as Léon danced
it about it was quiet; the moment he
stopped it began to cry.

“I wish old Pierre joy if he has to
spend the next twenty-four hours in this
way. Drive on, Arnaut; my arms are
aching so I can’t keep this game up
much longer,” said Léon, as they entered
the village of Carolles, where,
luckily for them, all the inhabitants had
already gone to bed, and they met no
one till they reached the place where
the yacht was lying.

A boat was waiting to take Léon on
board with Pierre and the English carpenter,
to whom Léon spoke in English,
asking him if he were quite sure the
baby would be well looked after where
he proposed to place it, and on Smith’s
answering that he was certain it would,
Léon turned to the baron, who did not
understand a word of English, and told
him he need have no anxiety about the
child.

“All right; I don’t want to know
where you are going to take it; make
any arrangements you like. If you want
more money than I have given you, let
me know and you shall have it. When
do you expect to be back here, Léon?”

“Oh, not for a month at least; I shall
keep away till all the fuss Mathilde will
make about the baby is over; meanwhile,
if you change your mind and
want the baby back, write to me at my
agent’s and he will forward your letter.
Adieu.”

And Léon, who had handed the baby
to Pierre as soon as they met, now
kissed his brother on both cheeks and
then sprang into the boat. Smith
pushed her off and sculled them across
the moonlit sea to the yacht, the baron
watching them until they reached her
and the boat was drawn up to its davits,
when he turned and drove back to the
château, wondering greatly how the
baroness would bear the loss of her
baby, and fearing a very bad quarter of
an hour was in store for him when she
learnt what had become of it.

A stiff breeze was blowing, but with
wind and tide in her favour the yacht
sailed smoothly across the Channel, all
on board her, except the baby, being too
inured to the sea to feel ill, and, luckily,
the movement of the yacht seemed to
lull the child to sleep. When she woke
Pierre was always at hand with some
milk, so that she was scarcely heard to
cry during the whole passage, spending
the time in sleeping and eating, and
thereby enabling Pierre to earn for himself
the character of a first-rate nurse.

From time to time during the next day
Léon came into the cabin to look at his
tiny charge, for whom an impromptu
cradle had been made with some pillows
in an easy chair, and who seemed to
have the happy knack of adapting herself
to circumstances, for she slept
quietly on, with a smile on her little face,
all unconscious of the waves from which
a few planks divided her.

“Poor little mite; I hope they’ll be
kind to her, Smith, these friends of yours.
I am half sorry I brought her, though
the baron wished it,” said Léon, as he
left the cabin; but the next moment he
was whistling on deck as though no
such thing as the baby existed.

Towards evening they came in sight
of Brighton, whose long sea front, even
in those distant days, stretched for a
mile or two along the coast, and Léon,
who knew the town well, and considered
it one of the few English towns in which
he could spend a few days without dying
of ennui, was anxious to put in there,
but Smith dissuaded him.

“If we put in here, sir, they’ll be sure
to trace the child; it would be far
better to let me go ashore with it in the
gig, while you lay outside.”

“But where are we to put in then?
Having come to England, I mean to go
ashore for a day or two.”

“Why not run up to Yarmouth, sir; the
wind is fair; it is south-west now. You
have never been there, have you? And
there’ll be no fear of anyone tracing
the child there. If madame sees in the
paper that we touched at Yarmouth, she
may inquire all over that part of the
country without finding the baby down
in Sussex.”

Léon considered the matter for a few
minutes, and finally consented to this
arrangement; and about eight o’clock
that evening the gig was lowered, and
Pierre, who would not abandon his
charge till the last minute, went ashore
with John Smith and the baby.

They landed on a quiet spot between
Brighton and Rottingdean, and here
Smith insisted on Pierre’s remaining in
charge of the boat while he deposited
the baby with his friends. Pierre protested
against this; but the carpenter
was firm. It would not be safe, he
argued, to leave the boat alone for two
or three hours, and he might be gone as
long as that; and there could be no
danger in leaving Pierre there, for if
anyone did question him about his
business, he would not be able to understand
them, as he knew no English.

Pierre found it was useless to make
any further objections, so, reluctantly
handing the baby over to the carpenter,
he prepared to make himself as comfortable
as circumstances permitted
during Smith’s absence. It was a
beautiful warm midsummer evening, but
Pierre began to feel chilly and tired of
waiting long before Smith came back,
though he managed to get several naps,
curled up in the bottom of the boat. At
last, about eleven o’clock, just as Pierre
was getting very nervous, and dreading
every minute that one of the white ladies
of Normandy (those dames blanches
who are so cruel to the discourteous)
should appear to him, or a hobgoblin or
a ghost, in all of which he was, like
most Norman peasants, a firm believer,
to his intense relief he heard the carpenter
whistling in the distance, and a
minute or two later Smith arrived, hot
and tired, and by no means in a communicative
frame of mind, only vouchsafing
to tell the anxious Pierre that the
baby was safe.

To Léon he was bound to be less
reserved, and, according to his own
account, he had had no difficulty in
persuading his friend the shepherd to
take charge of the child. He had asked
no awkward questions, and was quite
satisfied with the sum of money Smith
had left with him. Léon carefully
entered the name and address of the
shepherd in his pocket-book, and then
dismissed the matter from his mind, and
gave himself up to enjoying his cruise.

A day or two later they put into Yarmouth,
and the arrival of the French
yacht, L’Hirondelle, owner M. Léon
de Thorens, was duly mentioned in the
shipping news of the daily papers.
Yarmouth was not a place after Léon’s
heart, and he would have left the next
day, but John Smith had gone ashore
and had not returned, so their departure
was delayed at first for a few hours; but
as Smith still did not appear, Léon
began to get anxious, and made inquiries
in the town for him, but in vain. At
last, after delaying several days, it
became evident the man had deserted,
and finally Léon set sail without him.
His intention on leaving Brighton was
to cruise round the coast of Great
Britain, visiting the principal seaports
on the way; but on finding Smith did
not return, his suspicions were awakened
as to the safety of the child, and he
determined to go back at once to
Brighton and see if the child had really
been left with the shepherd whose
address Smith had given him.

But that night a dense fog came on,
and a day or two later a paragraph in
the English papers announced a collision
had taken place off Harwich with an
English trading vessel and the French
yacht, L’Hirondelle, in which the latter
sunk at once with all hands, not a soul
remaining to tell the tale, but some life-belts
and spars of wood which were
picked up afterwards led to the identification
of the yacht, which was known to
have left Yarmouth the morning before
the collision took place.

(To be continued.)[Pg 20]

DINNERS FOR TWO.

any housekeepers complain
of the difficulty
of providing a change of dishes where the
family is small. Really, the number of things
that may be served for one or two people is
very great, but the serving is important. The
writer has endeavoured in the following
twenty-four dinners only to give such dishes
as with a little care and attention may easily
be cooked by a general servant with a rather
limited knowledge of cooking. They are also
chosen with due regard to expenditure. There
are not any extravagant dishes, no stock meat
is required for anything, nor is any pastry
included in any dinner.

In arranging dinners for a number it is easy
to give the weights of the different things that
will be required, as there will probably be an
average of appetites, but this is not possible
for one or two people; for where one person
will eat nearly a pound of meat, another will
only eat two ounces, so that of quantity the
housekeeper must be the best judge, as she
knows the appetites for which she has to
provide.

1. Mulligatawny soup; fillet steak with
mushroom ketchup; baked batter pudding.

2. Flounders water souchet; piece of best
end neck of mutton roasted; steamed semolina
pudding, lemon sauce.

3. Potato soup; steak and kidney pudding;
apples stewed in syrup.

4. Filleted plaice (dressed white); veal
cutlets, bacon, and baked tomatoes; cheese
fondu.

5. Lobster salad; stewed breast of mutton;
cake fritters.

6. Brown onion soup; roast fillet of beef;
Spanish rice.

7. Slices of cod fried; toad-in-the-hole;
Melbourne pudding.

8. Curried eggs; Irish stew; rice meringue.

9. Potiron; beef steak stewed with vegetables;
blancmange.

10. Baked haddock; calves’ heart roasted;
bread-and-jam pudding.

11. Shrimp toast; roast fillet of mutton;
strawberry cream.

12. Turnip soup; breast of veal stewed;
apple charlotte.

13. Fried mackerel; boiled rabbit and onion
sauce; cheese toast.

14. Brunoise; stewed mutton cutlets;
baked rice pudding.

15. Fried herrings, mustard sauce; rump-steak
aux fines herbes; jam roll.

16. Dressed crab; boiled knuckle of mutton
with caper sauce; bread-and-butter fritters.

17. Tomato soup; mutton cutlets with
onion purée; cocoanut pudding.

18. Fried smelts; a currie; boiled batter
pudding.

19. Vegetable soup; rump steak; macaroni
cheese.

20. Stewed fish; leg of mutton cutlet;
raspberry sponge.

21. Vegetable marrow soup; one rib of
beef (boned and rolled) roasted; tapioca
pudding.

22. Fried soles; pounded meat cutlets in
Italian paste with sauce; macaroni with tomato
sauce.

23. Fried whiting; boiled knuckle of veal
with parsley and butter, and grilled bacon;
baked currant pudding.

24. Semolina soup; part of loin of pork
roasted; Spanish soufflé.

Vegetables, though, of course, they are an
important part of dinner, are not given, as they
must vary according to the month of the
year. The recipes which follow are as little
complicated as possible.

Mulligatawny Soup (without meat).—Cut
two onions and a small carrot into thin slices,
put them into a stewpan with one ounce of
butter, turn them about until they are a nice
brown colour, but not burnt, then add a sprig
of parsley and half an apple, stir in three teaspoonfuls
of curry powder, add a pint and a
half of hot stock from bones, or of hot water
and a little piece of lean bacon, or a small
bacon bone if you have one; let the soup simmer
for an hour, skim the fat off, strain the soup, put
it back in the saucepan, add to it the juice of
half a lemon and a dessertspoonful of flour that
has been baked a very light brown and mixed
with a piece of butter the size of a pigeon’s
egg; salt to taste. Serve the soup very hot,
and hand rice as boiled for curry with it.

Fillet Steaks with Mushroom Ketchup.—Beat
the steaks with a beater or rolling-pin,
put a very small piece of butter in a stewpan,
place the steaks in it, and brown them slightly
on each side; add one tablespoonful of ketchup
and one tablespoonful of water, also a little
black pepper; salt is not generally wanted
with mushroom ketchup; cover the stewpan
closely, and keep the fillets hot for three-quarters
of an hour at the side of the stove;
serve with the gravy poured over them.

Flounders Water Souchet.—Wash the fish
and remove the heads. Put three-quarters of
a pint of cold water into a stewpan, well wash
two parsley roots and cut them in fine shreds,
put them in a stewpan with a little pepper
and salt, simmer a quarter of an hour, put in
the flounders with a tablespoonful of parsley
broken into small sprigs, not chopped, simmer
eight minutes, and serve with a plate of brown
bread and butter and a cut lemon.

Semolina Pudding.—Boil one and a half
ounces of semolina in three-quarters of a pint
of milk until it is cooked, take the saucepan
from the fire, add a little sugar and a very
small pinch of salt; then stir in two well-beaten
eggs; butter a small mould or basin
well, pour in the mixture, cover the top with
buttered paper, and steam the pudding for an
hour either by putting it into a steamer or
into a saucepan with boiling water half way
up the basin and keeping the water boiling.
Serve with lemon sauce over. Sauce:—Take
a quarter of a pint of cold water, mix a teaspoonful
of cornflour with it, add the juice of
half a lemon and a little white sugar; boil all
together, stirring all the time.

Potato Soup.—Take one pound of potatoes
weighed after they are peeled; cut them up
and put them in a stewpan, with a piece of
butter the size of a walnut, and an onion cut
in slices; cover the stewpan, and shake the
vegetables over the fire for five minutes; add
a pint of hot water; simmer for an hour. Pass
the whole through a sieve; put back in the
saucepan. Add nearly half a pint of milk, and
pepper and salt to taste. Cut a thin slice of
bread in small dice; fry it in butter; put it in
the bottom of the tureen, and pour the soup
over.

Stewed Apples.—Boil together a teacupful
of cold water, a teacupful of sugar, and a teaspoonful
of lemon-juice; peel and core six
small apples as soon as the syrup is clear. Put
the apples in and cook them over a slow fire
until they are tender. They must be turned
while cooking, but must not be broken. When
cold sprinkle a little chopped almond on each,
or else a small piece of red currant jelly can
be put on.

Fillets of Plaice.—Double the fillets, put
them on a buttered tin, with pepper, salt, and
a squeeze of lemon-juice over each; cover with
buttered paper, and bake for ten or fifteen
minutes; then put them on a dish, and serve
with following sauce round them:—Boil the
bones of the fish a quarter of an hour in a
quarter of a pint of milk and water; mix a
good teaspoonful of flour with a little butter,
cayenne, and salt; strain the liquor from the
fishbones to it, also the liquor out of the tin
in which the fish were baked; put into a
saucepan and boil for a minute or two, then,
pour round the fish.

Cheese Fondu.—Melt one ounce of butter
in a saucepan, stir one ounce of flour in; when
quite smooth, add a quarter of a pint of milk
and some cayenne pepper and salt. Stir the
mixture over the fire until it is quite smooth;
then add two ounces of cheese grated—Parmesan
is the best, but any other cheese that
is not blue and is dry enough to grate will do.
Turn the mixture into a basin, add two beaten
yolks of eggs, and, just before it is time to
put it in the oven, stir in the two whites of
the eggs, which must be beaten to a stiff
froth; then put the mixture into a buttered
tin large enough to hold double the quantity,
as it will rise; bake twenty minutes in a brisk
oven, and serve immediately.

Breast of Mutton Stewed.—Take a breast,
or, if too fat, a scrag of mutton, brown it in
a stewpan, add a sliced onion (which must also
be browned), then pour in enough hot water to
cover the meat. As soon as it simmers put
in one turnip and one carrot cut into small
dice, and a small head of celery cut fine, or a
shred lettuce, according to the season, some
black pepper, and some salt. Simmer for
about an hour and a half before serving; mix
a dessertspoonful of baked flour with a little
cold water, and add it to the gravy. Skim, if
too fat, before sending to table.

Cake Fritters.—Cut some thin slices from a
stale cake, cut them in shapes, dip them in
milk, then fry them in butter; spread jam or
marmalade on the top of each, and serve
them.

Brown Onion Soup.—Skin three onions,
cut them in small dice; make an ounce of
butter hot in a stewpan, and throw in the
onions, shaking them about over the fire until
they are golden brown (they must be coloured
very slowly, or some pieces will get too dark);
when they are brown, stir in a teaspoonful
of flour, and add a pint and a half of liquor
in which meat or poultry has been boiled, or
the same quantity of water. Simmer for an
hour, then rub through a sieve; put back in
the saucepan; add pepper and salt to taste,
and, if too thin, mix a little butter and flour
together, add to the soup, and boil for three
minutes before serving.

Spanish Rice.—Boil four ounces of rice,
wash it in cold water, then dry it before the
fire. Put half an ounce of butter in a frying-pan;
when quite hot throw in the rice, fry it a[Pg 21]
light colour, add a dessertspoonful of grated
cheese and a little cayenne and salt. A
dessertspoonful of plain tomato sauce may be
added or not. The rice must be served very
hot.

Toad in the Hole.—Trim some neck of
mutton cutlets nicely, or take some cold meat
or fowl and place in the bottom of a pie-dish
that you have first buttered. Then make a
batter thus: take four ounces of flour, mix
one egg with it, add half a pint of milk and a
little salt, put pepper and salt over the meat
in the dish, pour the batter in, and put in a
tolerably quick oven; it will take about three-quarters
of an hour to bake. Batter is best
mixed some hours before it is wanted, but it
must not be put in the dish with the meat
until you are going to bake it.

Melbourne Pudding.—Boil half a pint of
red currants with half a pound of loaf sugar for
half an hour, add half a pound of raspberries
and boil ten minutes. Butter a plain mould
or pudding basin and line it with slices from
a tin loaf or French roll, cut a quarter of an inch
thick; the top pieces must be cut into triangles
to make them fit neatly, while the side pieces
are half an inch wide; pour the fruit into the
bread while hot, cover the top with more
bread, put in a cool place until the next day,
then turn out and serve with custard or
cream.

Curried Eggs.—Make a sauce with a
quarter of a pint of milk, a teaspoonful of
curry powder, a teaspoonful of flour, and a
little salt; mix these ingredients together and
boil them three minutes. Boil three eggs
hard, remove the shells, put the sauce in a
dish, put the eggs in it, then cut each egg in
two and serve.

Rice Meringue.—Boil half a small teacupful
of rice in milk; when done put it in a pie-dish,
spread a layer of jam over the top of it, beat
the white of an egg to a stiff froth, put it over
the jam, sift about a tablespoonful of pounded
sugar over it; put it in the oven to set, and
serve hot.

Potiron.—Take one pound of pumpkin
without seeds or rind, cut it into small pieces,
put it in a stewpan with a quarter of a pint of
water, simmer it slowly for an hour and a
half; then rub it through a sieve with a wooden
spoon, put it back in the saucepan, add three
quarters of a pint of milk, a piece of butter the
size of a walnut, a saltspoonful of powdered
sugar and pepper and salt to taste, stir it
occasionally, and serve it as soon as it boils.

Baked Haddock.—Wash and dry the fish,
then mix a saltspoonful of salt with the juice
of half a lemon, and rub it all over the fish and
let it remain for three hours, then prepare
some bread-crumbs, mix with them a teaspoonful
of finely chopped parsley, a little
grated lemon peel, cayenne pepper, and salt;
next dry the fish and brush it over with egg, cover
it with the prepared crumbs, put it in a greased
baking dish with some small lumps of butter
on the top of it, bake it from 25 to 35 minutes,
according to the size of the fish. It must be
basted with the butter that runs into the tin.
When done put the fish on a dish, squeeze
the other half lemon into the baking tin,
pour it over the fish, and serve.

Bread and Jam Pudding.—Take a small
pudding basin or mould, grease it well with
butter; then shake brown sugar all over the
butter. Take four ounces bread-crumbs, three
ounces finely chopped suet, and three ounces
of any preserve. Put these ingredients in the
basin in layers, beginning with the bread-crumbs.
Just before putting the pudding in
the oven, mix an egg with rather less than
half a pint of milk, and add it to it. Bake
about three-quarters of an hour in a quick oven,
turn out and serve.

Shrimp Toast.—Trim and fry three slices of
bread in butter. Take two tablespoonfuls of
shelled shrimps, put them into a saucepan with
a dessertspoonful of milk, a lump of butter
the size of a pigeon’s egg, half a teaspoonful
of anchovy sauce, and a little cayenne pepper.
Shake in a dessertspoonful of flour, boil for two
minutes, stirring all the time; then put on the
fried bread, and serve very hot.

Roast Fillet of Mutton.—Procure the thick
end of a leg of mutton. Have it boned and
tied round. It may be stuffed where the bone
is taken out, or skewered up and roasted
plain.

Strawberry Cream without cream.—Take a
quarter of a pound of strawberry jam; rub it
through a sieve. Add two ounces of pounded
sugar to it, and beat it up with the whites of
two fresh eggs until it is all frothy (it will take
some time to beat); put it in a glass dish and
serve soon after it is made.

Turnip Soup can be made the same as
potiron, but a teaspoonful of flour should be
added with the butter.

Apple Charlotte.—Cut some strips of bread
from a tin loaf or French roll; dip them in
oiled butter, line a mould or pudding basin
with them. Peel and cut up a pound and a half
of apples; boil them with a little sugar. When
done, put them in the basin you have lined;
cover the top with bread dipped in butter;
bake half an hour, turn on to a dish, and
serve.

Cheese Toast.—Beat up an egg, add two
ounces of grated cheese, one dessertspoonful
of milk, cayenne, and salt to it, make it hot in
a saucepan, and pour it on to a round of hot
buttered toast; cut in pieces and serve immediately.

Brunoise.—Take two tablespoonfuls of
carrots, the same of turnips, onions, and
celery, all cut in very small dice. Put a piece
of butter (about an ounce) in a stewpan with
a small teaspoonful of powdered sugar, toss
the carrots in this until they begin to take
colour, then put in the celery, then the
turnips, then the onions; when all the vegetables
are coloured, put in a pint and a
quarter of hot water or liquor in which meat
or poultry has been boiled, let the soup
simmer two hours, skim, and serve with the
vegetables in it. The vegetables must not be
burnt at all, but only slightly browned.

Stewed Mutton Cutlets.—Cut two carrots,
two turnips, and two potatoes into dice, trim
some cutlets and toss them in butter in a
stewpan, with a sprinkling of pepper and salt,
till they begin to colour, then put in the
carrots and three-quarters of a pint of hot
water, a tablespoonful of tomato sauce, and a
small bunch of sweet herbs and parsley; stew
gently fifteen minutes, add the potatoes and
turnips, and simmer about an hour or until
tender; add a piece of butter rolled in flour, a
small piece of glaze, and pepper and salt to
taste. Remove the herbs and serve the
cutlets round the vegetables, with as much of
the gravy as is required.

Mustard Sauce.—Mix one teaspoonful of
flour with half a teaspoonful of mustard and
one ounce of butter, add half a teacupful of
water, boil for five minutes, add half a teaspoonful
of vinegar, and serve.

Rumpsteak aux Fines Herbes.—Mince equal
parts of tarragon, chervil, and garden cress with
half a shalot, mix them with a little butter,
pepper, and salt, broil the steak and place on it.

Dressed Crab.—Take all the meat from a
crab, cut it up as for salad, mix a tablespoonful
of bread-crumbs with it, mix together a saltspoonful
each of pepper, mustard and salt,
with a tablespoonful of vinegar and two tablespoonfuls
of salad oil, mix all with the crab,
put it back in the shell, cover it lightly with
bread-crumbs, put a little piece of butter on
the top, bake half an hour, and serve hot.

Bread and Butter Fritters.—Take some
rounds of bread and butter that you have
shaped with a pastry cutter, spread half of
them with jam, cover the jam with the
remaining pieces, dip them in batter and fry
them; serve with sifted sugar over them.

Tomato Soup.—Boil a tin of tomatoes until
well cooked, then press them through a sieve;
to a pint of tomatoes add half a teaspoonful
of carbonate of soda. Put a piece of butter
the size of a pigeon’s egg into a saucepan;
when it bubbles stir in a teaspoonful of flour,
cook it a few minutes; add half a pint of hot
milk, a little salt and cayenne; when it boils
add the tomatoes; make the soup quite hot
(but do not let it boil), and serve.

Cocoanut Pudding.—Butter a small dish,
cut a sponge cake in slices, place it in the dish,
mix the yolk of an egg with a teacupful of
milk, pour it over the cake, then strew two
ounces of grated cocoanut over it; next beat
the white of the egg to a froth, add a teaspoonful
of pounded sugar, and put over the
top of the pudding; bake in a moderate
oven.

Vegetable Soup without Meat.—Cut up
a plateful of all kinds of vegetables, viz.,
onions, carrots, potatoes, beans, parsnips,
celery, peas, parsley, leeks, turnip, cauliflower,
spinach, cabbage, lettuce, or as many of these
as you can procure. Put a large lump of
butter (as big as a large egg) into a saucepan;
when very hot, put in the onions, stir; when
light brown, stir in a dessertspoonful of flour,
fry until deep gold colour, stir in a pint of
boiling water, some pepper and salt, add all
the vegetables, let them simmer (adding more
water if necessary) for two hours; put the whole
through a sieve, make hot again, and serve.

Raspberry Sponge.—Dissolve half an ounce
of gelatine in half a pint of milk. Beat three
large tablespoonfuls of raspberry jam in another
half pint of milk, and rub it through a sieve;
add a teaspoonful of pounded sugar, a little
grated lemon peel, the white of an egg, and
the milk with the gelatine in it; whisk until
it is all frothy. If the gelatine does not entirely
dissolve in cold milk, it must be melted
over the fire before being added to the jam
and other ingredients.

Vegetable marrow soup is made like potiron.

Pounded Meat Cutlets in Italian Paste.—Take
half pound of cold mutton, all lean, three
ounces of cooked ham, one small shalot; chop
and pound all together; add pepper and salt,
one ounce of butter, and three tablespoonfuls
of gravy. For the paste, one yolk of egg,
three tablespoonfuls of cold water, with six
ounces of dried flour; knead well to strong
paste, roll out very thin, divide into six, put
some of the meat in each, form into six cutlets;
fry in boiling fat, and serve with sauce in a
tureen or plain with fried parsley round.

Macaroni with Tomato Sauce.—Boil two
ounces of macaroni in water, with a lump of
butter, and a little salt. When nearly done,
strain off the water; add three tablespoonfuls
of milk, and a little (one ounce) Parmesan or
other grated cheese and pepper to taste; stir
until it is rather thick. Then dish it up with
a little hot tomato sauce in the centre.

Semolina Soup.—Take a pint and a half of
liquor from boiled meat, or stock from bones in
which vegetables have been boiled. Add two
ounces of semolina, and season to taste; if
needed, a very small teaspoonful of Liebig
extract, or a small piece of glaze can be added.

Spanish Soufflé.—Cut two sponge cakes in
slices. Spread apricot or other jam on them.
Pile them on a dish, squeeze the juice of a
lemon over them. Whip three teaspoonfuls
of cream up with the white of one egg to a
froth; put it over the cakes; blanch and chop
four almonds; put them in the oven to colour,
then sprinkle over the whip, and serve.[Pg 22]

A DREAM OF QUEEN’S GARDENS.[1]
A STORY FOR GIRLS.—IN TWO PARTS.

By DANIEL DORMER, Author of “Out of the Mists.”

PART I.
A PRETTY QUEEN.

“Any letter for me this morning, Brightie?”

Hazel is leaning rather perilously over the
banisters, trying to catch a glimpse of the old
woman coming slowly up the stairs far below.

“Yes—one. Don’t come for it, I’m
coming up. And pray, child, don’t hang over
those rickety rails like that.”

Miss Bright, or “Brightie,” as Hazel
Deane had grown affectionately to call her, is
a heavy, strongly-made woman of sixty-three
years. She finds the stairs in this house in
Union-square, where she and Hazel lodge,
rather trying; they are many and steep, so
she pauses half-way to recover breath.
Looking up she sees Hazel, a white, dark-eyed
face, and a form so slender that even those
unsafe rails could hardly give way under so
slight a weight. “More than ever like one of
my Cape jasmine stars,” thinks old Brightie.
She has always mentally compared the girl to
one of those pure, white stars, which she used
so specially to love, shining on their invisible
stems, amidst the dark green leaf-sprays at her
sister’s home. Oh, how the poor, lonely old
woman’s heart had ached for that country
home of her younger days, as she sat wearily at
her business of plain sewing day after day in
her attic in Union-square!

And Hazel, looking down, saw her one
friend in the world. A ray of sunlight
streamed in through the narrow staircase
window on to Miss Bright. It makes the
black cap which covers her whole head, with
strings flying back over her shoulders, look
very rusty. It makes her old alpaca gown,
patched and repatched, and the little black
silk apron that she wears, look more than ever
shiny. It strikes upon the large, old-fashioned
white pearl buttons down the front of her
bodice, and upon the glasses of her spectacles,
till she looks like some strange, black creature
staring all over with big, round eyes. To
Hazel’s affectionate mind, however, there is
nothing in the least ludicrous in the sight.
She only notes the panting breath, and says,
with a touch of impatience in her anxiety—

“Why will you persist in toiling up and
down those horrid stairs, instead of sending
me, Brightie? It is really very unkind of you.”

When Brightie has delivered up Hazel’s
envelope, with its scrawled direction, she retires
into her own room, next door, and shuts herself
in. She is filled with an unwonted
excitement, for she holds a second letter in her
hand, and it is her own. The rarest thing it is
for her to have a letter, and the post-mark is
“Firdorf,” the very same beautiful country
place for which she had pined; there she and
Janie, her only sister, had lived together, and
Janie had died there. The hands, aged with
work and deprivation more than with time,
shake as they break the seal, the aged eyes
grow dim again and again as they read.

It is fully three parts of an hour before
Brightie has got through the letter—not that
the words are many or hard to understand;
but rather that the hindrances are many.
The glasses of the large spectacles grow so
misty from time to time that they require
polishing. Then, too, Miss Bright’s mind
exhibits foolish tendencies, refusing to grasp
the meaning of the words, and causing her
to explain that she must be dreaming; and
still further she is carried back in mind to days
long since vanished, and scenes long unvisited,
and these detain her long. But at last she
rouses herself—has at length fairly accepted
the astonishing good news her letter contains,
and, with it open in her hand, hastens off to
communicate the same to her young friend.

Hazel’s door is locked, and Miss Bright has
to wait a moment before it is unfastened.
Hazel has been crying, and the tears must
have been both plentiful and bitter, for unmistakable
traces exist, in spite of hurried
efforts to efface them. For once, though,
Brightie is thoroughly self-engrossed, and fails
to notice even Hazel’s face.

“I have such wonderful news, my dear!”
she exclaims, the moment she is admitted into
the room.

Hazel expresses her interest, and, with her
loving smile and tender way, ensconces her
friend in the one attempt at an easy chair her
room possesses, and then kneels beside her to
listen.

“Well, my dear, you have heard me speak
of my sister’s house at Firdorf?”

“Of course! Often. Where you used to
live, and the flowers were so lovely.”

“Yes! and where the sweet white jasmine
used to blossom, filling the air with its
delicious fragrance when we sat in the summer
evenings beneath the trellis work, in front of
the dear old home.”

As she speaks of the jasmine, old Miss
Bright’s hand is laid caressingly on Hazel’s
hair, and her eyes—happily not too keen
without her glasses, or they would detect the
tear marks—rest with softened look, full of
tender memories, on the girl’s sympathetic, upturned
face.

“There were always we three there—I, and
my sister and her boy. You have heard how
the home was broken up, how Tom ran away,
and how we lost our money, and how Janie’s
spirit broke down under it, till at length she
gave up praying for Tom’s return, and drooped
and died?”

Miss Bright is making a long pause. Her
large, rough face is heavy and sorrowful. She
has quite forgotten her good news for the
moment, has forgotten her friend kneeling
beside her, has forgotten all save the memory
of the sorrow which seemed to have terminated
all of joy the world held for her. Hazel steals
a gentle arm round the bowed neck, and kisses
the worn, absent face as softly and soothingly
as though it were some beautiful child’s. The
touch recalls the wandering thoughts, Brightie
clasps the hand that she is holding in her own
more tightly, and goes on:—

“Well, to be sure, and I haven’t told you
the news after all, dearie! It is that Tom
has come back. He has made a great deal of
money, and got quite reformed and come back.
And he has bought back the old house, and
now has just found out my address and wants
me to go down and live with him; wants me
to forgive him, he says, and let him be a
comfort to me. I have, of course, nothing to
forgive, except for Janie’s sake.”

“Oh, Brightie, what good, good news it is!
I am so very glad. You will at last have some
rest, and not be obliged to try your eyes over
that fine sewing, and be taken proper care of,
and have all sorts of nice things. I am so glad!
How soon can you go, dear?—to-morrow?
I should like you to go to-morrow.”

Hazel began very bravely, went on unsteadily,
and finally ended by laying her head
down on Brightie’s broad shoulder, fairly
sobbing.

“I should like you to go to-morrow! Why,
Hazel, Hazel, my tender-hearted little pet, are
you crying, then? Because you are sure I am
not going to-morrow? Neither to-morrow
nor any other time. Don’t you know I could
not leave you without a friend in this great,
careless world?”

Brightie’s words are news to herself as she speaks
them. She had not considered the
possibility of such a thing before. Here was
the longed-for home open to her, waiting to
receive her again. Her one relation, her own
nephew, the same merry-faced Tom of old,
dear days, writing to her begging her to show
her forgiveness and go to him to be cherished
all the days of her life. And all this must be
foregone—renounced. She must give it all up,
and when Tom comes in two days, as he said
he should, to fetch her, she must withstand his
pleading and send him back alone, and never
see the sweet garden and fresh sea again.

It is one of the cruellest days of bitter
March weather. Yet early in the day after
the talk with Brightie, Hazel goes out in spite
of the cutting east wind. Wearily she drags herself
about, making one more effort to
dispose of the manuscript of a story she has
written, which was ignominiously returned to
her as useless this morning. Hour after hour
she struggles on in a kind of desperation,
trying every possible chance of getting rid of
her laborious production. She is fully assured
in her own mind that she will have no opportunity
of getting out of doors, even to try
and dispose of it, after to-day for many days to
come. Her growing illness makes that
certain. But all efforts are worse than useless.
It is nearing seven o’clock, and growing quite
dark, when she reaches Union-square and
stumbles up those endless stairs at length.
For the first two flights the stairs are comparatively
broad and handsome, and they are
thickly carpeted; but above they grow narrow
and bare and steep. As she begins to ascend,
Hazel meets a lady in a rich dress. There are
preparations, too, in the lower rooms, which
betoken the commencement of some festivity.
Hazel is heartsick and footsore, and these
slight matters intensify her loneliness and
sadness, till as she enters her own dark,
desolate room her swelling heart finds vent in a
stifled sob. There has been no scarcity of
trouble in the five-and-twenty years of Hazel
Deane’s life.

And now the trouble that weighs upon her
this dreary night is the rejection all round of
the treasured writing, offered everywhere with
diffidence and hope, received back always with
mortification and despair. It is now finally
flung aside. Then there is the trouble of
losing her friend—her one friend, Miss Bright—for
Hazel’s delicate little body holds a
resolute mind and strong will, and she is determined
her friend shall not forego the so long needed
rest on her account.

The moon is looking in through the uncurtained
window, looking into the cold, bare
room, where only two or three cinders glow a
dull red in the grate. Beside it Hazel leans
back in her chair, musing bitterly on all the
gladness gone out of her life. “I am one of
those who have none to love them,” she
thinks, and the tears gather in her eyes again.

She is quoting from Mr. Ruskin’s “Queen’s
Gardens,” the book which enabled her to bear
patiently a long delay at one of the publishers
she had tried that day. She had found it
lying upon the table beside her as she waited,
and picking it up, had become engrossed in it.

“And I am a woman, and I suppose,
therefore, a queen—at least a possible
queen,” she muses—”a pretty queen!”

(To be concluded.)[Pg 23]

THE WEATHER AND HEALTH.

By MEDICUS.

e have all heard
tell of the “Clerk
of the Weather.”
What a poor, ill-used,
roundly-rated,
over-worked
individual he must
be! His whole
life must be spent
in an impossible
endeavour to please
everybody. We may imagine
the poor man going of a
morning towards his office
with languid steps and weary,
wondering all the while to
himself what sort of weather
he ought to give the public
to-day.

Arrived in front of his desk, he must stagger
back with dismay at the piles on piles of
letters heaped thereon. To read them all is
out of the question; so he sits down and
draws one forth, just as you would draw a card
from the hand of someone who pretended to
tell fortunes.

He opens the letter. It isn’t a pleasant
one by any means. There is a tone of growling
impatience in every line of it. How long,
the writer, who is an invalid, wants to know,
are these horrible east winds going to prevail
down in Devonshire? She has come here for
her health’s sake; she has been here for three
weeks, and all that time it has never ceased to
blow, and she has never ceased to cough and
ache.

The clerk throws this epistle into the
Balaam box and listlessly draws out another.
“Don’t you think,” the writer says, “that a
blink of sunshine would be a blessing—and
a drop or two of warm rain to bring the fruit
on, and the garden stuff? What is the good
of having a Clerk of the Weather at all if he
cannot attend better to his duties?”

That letter is also pitched into the Balaam
box, and a third drawn—a delightful little
cocked-hat of a letter, written on delicately-perfumed
paper, probably with a dove’s quill.
She—of course it is a she!—is going to a
garden-party on Tuesday week; would he, the
Clerk of the Weather, kindly see that not a
drop of rain falls on that day? Only bright
sunshine, and occasional cloudlets to act as
awnings and temper its heat.

The Clerk with a smile places that letter
aside for further consideration, and goes on
drawing. All and everyone of them either
demand impossibilities or merely write to
abuse the poor Clerk for some fancied dereliction
of duty. One wants rain, another growls
because there has been too much wet. This
one is grumbling at the fogs, this other at the
sunshine; this one suggests snow for a change,
and this other begs for a thunderstorm to clear
the atmosphere.

And so on and so forth. No wonder the
bewildered Clerk jumps up at last and over-turns
the table, letters and all, and audibly
expresses a desire to let all the winds loose
upon the world at once, to revel and tear and
do as they like, to bring blinding snow from
the far north and drenching rains from the
torrid zone, to order a select assortment of
thunderstorms from the Cape of Good Hope,
and a healthy tornado from the Indian Ocean.
But he thinks better of it, burns all the letters,
and goes quietly on with his day’s duty.

We see, then, that no matter what state of
body of mind we may be in, we cannot get
weather to order. We really commit an error,
if nothing worse, in asking for weather to
suit us.

We cannot alter our climate. December
and January will bring their frosts and snows
without asking our permission; easterly or
nor’-easterly winds will prevail in the spring
months; March will bluster, April will weep;
May will smile through her tears by day and
freeze us with her frosts at night, and July
will stupefy us with thunderstorms, and August
scorch us with heat one day and drench us to
the skin the next.

Now I am happy to say that a very large
percentage of the readers of The Girl’s
Own Paper are so healthy in lungs and in
nerves, and so stout-hearted and strong-limbed,
that it is, as a rule, a matter of entire
indifference to them how the wind blows or
how the weather is. But all are not so, and
it will seem a matter of surprise for the really
robust to be told that many girls are so delicately
constituted that they actually can tell
if the wind is from the east before they draw
the blind and look out. It is for this section
of our girls that I am writing to-day. They
may not be invalids, but may simply labour
under a great susceptibility to atmospheric
changes.

Such as these will be glad to be told that
there is every possibility of their growing out
of this disagreeable susceptibility, much depending
upon how they use and treat themselves
when young. Spring winds are very
hard upon those who are subject to chest or
throat irritation—in other words, to common
colds—and I must take this opportunity of
entreating girls of this class never to neglect
a cold. Why? Because one cold on top of
another, as the saying is, will certainly result
in the end in thickening of the delicate
mucous membrane that lines the lungs, and
if this takes place you may look forward to
being in time a confirmed invalid the greater
part of the year through winter cough.

It is not a very difficult thing to get clear
of a cold if taken in time. Confinement to
the house for a day, or even two, a lowered
diet, a mixture of the solution of acetate of
ammonia and spirits of sweet nitre the first
day, some aperient medicine and an ordinary
cough mixture the second or third day, warmer
clothing and avoidance of exposure to high
winds; this treatment will be found successful
in nine cases out of ten.

Sudden changes in temperature are apt to
induce illness in the delicate. Mild weather
may have prevailed for some days, when all at
once the wind veers round to the north-east
and at the same time it blows high. Exposure
to weather of this kind may induce whatsoever
kind of ailment an individual is subject
to.

Well, there is one way and only one, to avoid
it, and that is to dress in proportion to the
cold. No need for the clothing to be thick or
heavy. It should rather be the reverse, only
soft and warm. Heavy clothing is sure to
cause fatigue in walking, and also perspiration,
and both states of body lay open the pores for
trouble to enter.

No need, either, for even the delicate to
confine themselves to the house during the
cold spring weeks or days. Confinement to
the house means want of exercise, want of an
abundance of fresh air, and very often want of
appetite. Well, the strong may exist intact
for a long time without much exercise or
ozone, but, mind you, the delicate cannot.

On wet days a mackintosh may be worn,
though a good large umbrella is far better.
But if you will have a waterproof, let it be a
cloth one, one that will admit of ventilation,
and not an india-rubber article. This last is
only fit for a Scottish cabman, with muscles
of iron and sinews of steel.

Here is an extreme case by way of example.
A lady goes out to take a walk on a damp day
thus accoutred: An extraordinary bulk and
weight of clothes, and over all an india-rubber
mackintosh; on her feet are those abominations
called goloshes; over her mouth she has
stuck a respirator, and over her head and
shoulders she carries an enormous umbrella.
The windows and doors of this lady’s house
are always kept shut, and rendered hermetically
sealed by woollen sand-bags and other oxygen-banishing
contrivances. Is it any wonder that
she is pale and flabby in face, that her very
hands are sickly, soft, and puffy, and that she
is continually at war with the cook?

Be warned, dear reader; take all reasonable
precautions against catching cold, but do not
render your body unwholesome from over-clothing,
nor your lungs sickly for want of
the pure air of heaven that you can no more
live well without than a fish can survive in a
muddy stream. Sore throat and tic doloreux,
or face-ache, are very common complaints in
cold weather with high winds. But I really
think they are more easily prevented than
cured. Both may be produced in the same
way—namely, from exposure to cold. It is
a draught blowing directly on the face and
into the eyes or upon the neck that brings on
these distressing complaints. Beware of such
a draught, and beware of damp or wet feet.
Beware, also, when walking out, of having too
thick a muffle around the neck, for this is apt
to sweat it.

Whenever you feel the slightest touch of
sore throat, examine it at the glass, and if
there be any redness, do it over with your
camel’s-hair pencil dipped in a mixture of
glycerine two parts and tincture of iron one
part.

As for tic, you protect yourself against cold
and damp, but you ought also to take an
occasional tonic, and there is nothing I know
better than the citrate of iron and quinine.
If, however, this medicine should produce a
disagreeable feeling of fulness in the head, it
had better be avoided and some other tonic
substituted. Well, there is cod-liver oil in
conjunction with the extract of malt. This is
the only form in which cod-liver oil can be
taken by many.

I should mention that an occasional aperient
pill will do good, but that the habit of taking
medicine of this kind as a regular thing should
be avoided.

In cold weather the feet should be kept very
comfortable, but you must avoid sitting too
much by the fire. I have already said that
sudden atmospheric changes are dangerous,
but girls often manufacture these changes for
themselves, quite independent of the weather,
by keeping themselves too warm indoors and
hugging the fire too much.

In cold weather the food should be more
nourishing, and soups are good for the health.
Soups should be avoided when the weather
changes to warm.

Sugar, sweets, puddings, and fatty foods are
all good in cold, bleak weather, but in summer
these do harm, if used to any great extent, by
heating the blood.

The change in this country from cold with
high winds and perhaps frosts at night to
warmth and even scorching heat is often very
sudden. Even the delicate are then very apt[Pg 24]
to throw off their winter or spring clothing.
But to do so suddenly is highly injudicious.
Girls who are not strong should wear some
woollen material all the year round. This
should of course be of a lighter texture in
summer, but woollen it ought to be, without
doubt.

It is, I believe, a fact that there are fully as
many disagreeable colds caught in summer as
in winter, and this can only be owing to the
greater recklessness with which people expose
themselves to the influence of the weather.

During sultry and thundery weather, as it
is called, many of the delicate suffer from
languor, listlessness, and headache. These
symptoms usually go away suddenly when
the weather breaks or the storm comes on and
rolls over. Exertion in cases of this kind
should be avoided, as well as anything like
heavy meals. The sufferer is better out of
doors than in, and better reclining in a
hammock or easy-chair out of a draught than
standing or walking about.

Hot weather greatly depresses the vital
energy, because it usually comes on so
suddenly. On very warm days the delicate
should avoid the sunshine’s glare during the
heat of the day. But exercise must be taken
if health is to be retained, so in summer even
girls that are not strong should get out of bed
soon and take a tepid if not cold bath. About
half-an-hour after breakfast is the best time
for exercise, and again about an hour before
sunset, just when the day is cooling down, but
before the chill, night air has begun to blow.

I have no intention at present to take up
the subject of food in its relation to weather,
but I must be permitted to say that in our
country, as a rule, summer dinners are served
on mistaken principles. Why, they differ but
little, if at all, from the same meals as placed
before us in the winter season—soup, fish, and
great joints, pastry and cheese.

To the robust I have nothing to say. Let
them eat what they choose; in time they will
find out their mistake. But I do seriously
advise delicate girls to live rather abstemiously
and on light, easily digested dishes during the
hot weather. Salads (and fruit, if good and
ripe) may, however, be taken with great
benefit.

We constantly hear young folks complaining
of thirst during very warm weather. The
reason is not so much to be sought in the heat
itself as in the way they live. Overloading
the stomach with strong meats in the summer
season not only induces thirst but positively
enfeebles the body and hurts the digestion.

Ice and ices should be avoided as much as
possible; at the best their use is but a very
artificial way of cooling the overheated body.
A mixture of ice and stimulants is worse ten
times. A cup of good tea is one of the most
wholesome beverages one can take in warm
weather. It exhilarates, it cools, and while it
cools the body it calms the mind.

Lime or lemon juice and water make a
good drink. It should be sipped.

Ginger beer is somewhat too gassy for a
delicate stomach. Raspberry syrup in water,
acidulated to taste with a little citric acid, is
very refreshing, and the same may be said of
many other of the fruit syrups.

Raspberry vinegar is made by placing three
pounds of the picked fruit into a glass vessel
and pouring over them a pint and a half of
white wine vinegar. It should stand for a
fortnight and then be strained without pressure.

Buttermilk is as good for a drink in summer
as it is for the complexion. Whey is also
an excellent drink in summer, and I cannot
refrain from suggesting as a summer dish
curds and cream.

Ripe fruit may be eaten during hot weather
with great benefit, only it must be ripe and
not over ripe.

To conclude, I shall give a prescription for
a summer drink which is worth making a note
of. Take the thin peel and the juice of a
good-sized lemon and add a small teaspoonful
of citric acid and a wine-glassful of fruit
syrup, then pour on of boiling water one
quart. Let it stand till cold, and then strain.

GIRLS’ FRIENDSHIPS.

By the Author of “Flowering Thorns.”

CHAPTER I.
IDEAL FRIENDSHIPS.

don’t suppose there
are many girls between
the ages of
sixteen and twenty-three
who have not
a great friend—a
particular friend;
and if there are, it
is my opinion they
cannot be the best
kind of girls, because
unnatural.

Some one—I
think it is the author
of “John Halifax,
Gentleman”—has
called friendship
a “Foreshadowing
of love”;
and if it is natural
for a woman
to have a lover, it is no less natural for a
girl to have a great friend among her girl
associates.

How do girls make friends? and why do their
friendships last very often but a short time?
or, again, how is it they ever endure a long
time? are questions which people who have
forgotten their own early friendships, or, perhaps,
never gave much thought to them,
puzzle over in vain. And they may have
puzzled you too, my thoughtful girl-readers,
who want the ideal friend you have read of or
dreamed of in day-dreams, but neither possess
nor know how to acquire.

To begin with—What is friendship? and I
am inclined to define it as a bond of mutual
affection, sympathy, and help. If it is lacking
in any one of these particulars, just so far does
it fall short of ideal friendship.

Test your present so-called friendship by
these tests, and I think you will find that any
dissatisfaction you may feel in them can be
accounted for by a failure to pass one or other.

There is, perhaps, not much difficulty about
the first of these. Young people feel quickly
and strongly, and if girls did not honestly
love one another, or imagine—also honestly—that
they did, the friendship, if, indeed, it
could exist at all, would be shorn of half its
charm. But love must be fed, and will only
starve on a diet of respect and admiration,
without a very large admixture of sympathy.
Sympathy, fellow-feeling, mutual sensibility—call
it how we will—is a simple necessity
to our ideal friendship, and by no means
compels the two friends to unvarying likeness
either in character or tastes. But our
ideal friends—let us call them Alice and Maud—must
be united so wholly by this subtle
bond that the pleasure, pain, or interest of the
one touches, through her, the other, who
shares in what I may call this reflective way
the emotion originating with her friend.

Alice, who does not personally care for
music in the least, yet thoroughly enjoys a
concert, because she is feeling (reflectively) all
the time the keen delight with which Maud is
listening to every note; and Maud, for the
same reason, has true pleasure in reading that
rather dry volume of essays, because that scattered
throughout are sentiments and expressions
which she knows very well Alice will
greatly appreciate.

Mutual sympathy between friends is, of
course, the outcome of love; and yet it is surprising
how little sympathy sometimes exists
between girls who to all appearance are really
fond of one another.

This may arise from selfishness, unselfishness,
or unintelligence—that density of mental
vision which has never been educated to perceive
the subtle bonds which bind soul to
soul.

Now let us take Edith and Amy as examples
of an imperfect friendship, in contrary distinction
to the ideal or perfect. They are fond of
one another, but there is a lack of mutual
sympathy. Amy is full of ideas and projects,
which she sows broadcast during their long
confidentials, and which spring up in great
beauty (to her mind, at least) in the fertile soil
of Edith’s admiration. But all the giving is
on one side. Edith listens and wonders,
applauds or condoles, as her stronger-minded
friend may give her the cue, too unselfish, and
perhaps, also, too timid, to intrude her own
less thrilling interests and hopes upon Amy’s
self-absorption; so that when the latter comes
to an end of her confidences, and has leisure
and recollection enough to say, “And now,
Edith, what have you been doing?” she
hastily replies, “Oh, nothing particular,” glad
to be able to shield her insignificance in
silence.

Amy does not miss the return confidence
which makes friendship so sweet; she is too
full of her own affairs to be a listener. Edith
is her overflow, whom she leaves saying mentally,
“What a dear little sympathetic thing
she is! What should I do without her?”

But what is Edith to do? Where is her
overflow? This is a very one-sided friendship:
the companionship of giant and dwarf,
which sooner or later must come to an end or
be very uncomfortable for the dwarf. The
friends, as I said, need not be alike, need not
even be of equal capacity, intellectually or
practically, but the sympathy, rooted in affection,
must be mutual; it must be equal give
and take, or the friendship is miserably stunted
and incomplete.

And this brings me to speak of the third
ingredient in what I have defined as a perfect
friendship—mutual help, which, of course,
supposes the two friends to be somewhat
different, whether in character, tastes, or surroundings,
so that one can supply what the
other lacks.[Pg 25]

ALICE AND MAUD.

If two countries in friendly relations both[Pg 26]
produce one article abundantly, and are both
lacking in some other article, there can be no
commerce—which is the symbol of friendly
relations—between them. Both must apply
to a third country for that in which both are
deficient. And if Edith cannot get help from
Amy when she is in need of it, not necessarily
advice, but some new view of the situation
occasioned by Amy’s different character or
life, and which would enable Edith to face the
trouble or difficulty with more courage or
intelligence—if, I say, Edith cannot get this
help from Amy, before long she will find
Clara, and the friendship will be dissolved or
cooled; while undiscerning people will say,
“How fickle these girls are!”

Not at all. They obey a subtle, spiritual
law, which makes it impossible for friendship
long to exist on insufficient food, and when it
is said that women are unreasoning and
exacting in their friendships, it is simply
because people don’t see that it is the nature
which is in them crying out to be fed with
that without which it must die.

But if after, it may be, years of affectionate
intercourse, you still find that your friend
gives you absolutely nothing which you have
not already got—that she communicates no
thought or experience to you that will
stimulate your mind or aid you in the practical
work of life—do you not begin to lose interest
in her, strive as you will against the consciousness
of it? Does not the friend quit her
hold on you and slide down to the level of
those of whom an hour or a letter every few
weeks gives you enough? You may feel
affectionately towards such, but not friendship.

Our ideal friends, Alice and Maud, are very
different. Alice is studious and thoughtful,
leading a quiet, uneventful life; Maud is high-spirited,
devoted to art and music, and sees
considerably more of “the world,” as it is
called. But they are a constant source of
interest and assistance to each other. Alice’s
thoughtful mind finds the meaning to the
puzzles of Maud’s more superficial existence,
who in turn puts the light touches to Alice’s
grave conclusions, which often give them
reality. These two, as it were, sketch life’s
island from different points. One takes the
outline of cliff or shore, dashing in what I
may call the aggregated tints of forest and
hill; the other paints by turns each special
crag or ravine, with their colours in detail;
yet both are correct, and we want both if we
are to understand the island.

I can imagine Maud in difficulty thinking,
“I must go and see Alice, she will help me
out of my perplexity; she takes such different
views of things from those I do, and I have
really come to an end of my ideas.”

Or Alice, also in difficulty, though probably
of a very different character, exclaiming, “I
only wish Maud were here. She would know
just how to arrange this; and I cannot imagine
what to do.”

Emerson tells us that as soon as we come
up with a man’s (or woman’s) limitations it is
all over with us. Before that he might have
been infinitely alluring and attractive—”a
great hope—a sea to swim in”; but you discover
that he has a shore—that the sea is, in
fact, a pond—and you cease to care for it.

There is something in this to explain the
languidness or cessation of many girl friendships.
There is nothing more to be learned—nothing
more to teach. They have come to
an end of their resources; there is no more
help to be got, and the interest dwindles. A
long walk or talk with one another becomes
stale, each prefers her own society, and by
degrees the unfed affection cools, and they
find themselves unconsciously groping about
for souls whose limitations they have not yet
reached.

This is not fickleness; it is Nature; and
there is a natural remedy—progress. If day
by day your shores—to use Emerson’s simile—widen,
if you will not allow your mind to
remain at a standstill, like the stagnant pond,
but are constantly receiving and constantly
using varied stores of knowledge and experience,
you need not fear to crush your friend
by the discovery of your limitations. She will
have to progress too, if she is to come up
with that; and as there is no reasonable probability
that you will advance in precisely the
same direction, you will each find increasing
interest and help in the other’s society.

One thing more the ideal friendship needs,
but it is one most girls’ friendships, whether
ideal or not, possess. I mean confidence. It
is not till the twenties are well into that reserve
and reticence take their place in a
woman’s friendship; it is not till then that
she questions with herself how far she will
trust her friend with her hopes, fears, and
troubles. The younger we are, the more
generous, trusting, and unsuspicious we are;
which is, I suppose, the great reason why we
never make such particular friends when the
period of trust is past. If your friend is
worthy of the name, trust her wholly. How
can you sympathise with or help one another
if you only tell half your troubles and difficulties?
I do not mean that all should wear
their hearts upon their sleeves. Every girl
has, and should have, her private sanctuary
of thought, where none may enter; but in
the matters which are discussed between
friends let there be no half-confidences.

I have tried to sketch what I call an ideal
friendship. If they are rare, they are possible—most
possible if you only study their construction.

I think all thoughtful and imaginative girls
long for this ideal friendship; but I wonder if
they all reflect that the ideality does not all
depend on the friend, but on themselves. If
it takes two most emphatically to make a
quarrel, it needs two to make a friendship.
Do your best to make it ideal.

I have known such a friendship; I know
that it is possible; and I know that it is one
of the most perfect experiences our life can
give us.

You do not need to live exceptional lives
in order to love, sympathise, and help. Experience
is the best teacher, and gives lessons
to all. Use that intelligently as a means of
moral, mental, spiritual progress, remembering
that it does not come to you by chance,
but rather as the work of

(To be continued.)

MERLE’S CRUSADE.

By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.

CHAPTER II.
AN UNPREACHED SERMON.

uch an odd thing
happened a few minutes
afterwards. I
was sitting quite
quietly in my corner,
turning over in my
mind all the arguments
with which I
had assailed Aunt
Agatha that Sunday
afternoon, and
watching the pink
glow of the firelight
in contrast to the whiteness
of the snow outside,
when the door bell rang,
and almost the next moment
Uncle Keith came
into the room.

I suppose he must have overlooked
me entirely, for he went up to Aunt
Agatha and sat down beside her.

“Sweetheart,” he said, taking her
hand, and I should hardly have recognised
his voice, “I have been thinking
about you all the way home, and what
a pleasant sight my wife’s face would
be after my long walk through the snow
and——” But here Aunt Agatha must
have given him a warning look, for he
stopped rather abruptly, and said,
“Hir-rumph” twice over, and Aunt
Agatha blushed just as though she were
a girl.

I could not help laughing a little to
myself as I went out of the room to tell
Patience to bring in the tea, and yet
that sentence of Uncle Keith touched
me somehow. Were middle-aged people
capable of that sort of love? Did youth
linger so long in them? I had imagined
those two such a staid, matter-of-fact
couple; they had come together so late
in life, that one never dreamt of any possible
romance in such a courtship, and
yet he could call Aunt Agatha “Sweetheart”
in a voice that was not the least
drawling. At that moment one would
not have called him so plain and insignificant
with that kind look on his face.
I suppose he keeps that look for Aunt
Agatha, for I remember she once told
me that she had never seen such a good
face as Uncle Keith’s “not handsome,
Merle, but so thoroughly good.”

Patience was toasting the muffins in
her bright little kitchen, so I sat down
and watched her. I was rather partial
to Patience; she was a pretty, neat-looking
creature, and I always thought
it a great pity that she was engaged to
a journeyman bootmaker, who aspired
to be a preacher. I never could approve
of Reuben Locke, though Aunt Agatha
spoke well of him; he was such a weak,
pale-faced young man; and I think a
man, to be one, ought to have some
spirit in him, and not possess only the
womanish virtues.

“How is Reuben, Patience?” I asked,
somewhat amiably, just for the pleasure
of seeing our little handmaid’s dimples
come into view.[Pg 27]

“Reuben’s but poorly, miss,” replied
Patience, as she buttered another smoking
muffin, the last of the pile. “He
was preaching at Whitechapel the other
night and caught a cold and sore throat;
his mother says he will not be at chapel
to-night.”

“I do not approve of street preaching
myself,” I remarked, a little severely.

“Indeed, miss,” replied Patience,
innocently, as she prepared to carry in
the tea-tray, “Reuben always tells me
that the Apostles were street preachers,
and Reuben is as clear as Gospel in
what he says.” But here the drawing-room
bell broke off Patience’s argument,
and left me somewhat worsted. I went
to church by myself that evening, and
I am ashamed to say I heard very little
of the sermon. I knew Aunt Agatha
would be taking advantage of my long
absence to retail what she termed my
preposterous scheme to Uncle Keith,
and that I should have the benefit of his
opinion on my return, and this thought
made me restless.

I was not wrong in my surmise. Aunt
Agatha looked a little pale and subdued,
as though she had been shedding a few
tears over my delinquencies, but Uncle
Keith was simply inscrutable; when he
chose, his face could present a perfect
blank.

“Hir-rumph, my dear, what is this
your aunt tells me, that you are going
to Prince’s Gate to-morrow morning to
offer your services as nurse in a gentleman’s
family?”

“Yes, Uncle Keith.”

“Do you mean to tell me seriously
that you have really made up your mind
to take this step?”

“Oh, I am quite serious, I assure
you.”

“Your aunt’s objections and mine do
not count for much, then?”

“I should be sorry to go against your
wishes or Aunt Agatha’s,” I returned,
trying to keep cool; but his manner, as
usual, aggravated me; it said so plainly,
“What a silly child you are, and yet
you think yourself a woman,” “but I
must do as I think right in this matter.
I hope to prove to you and everyone
else that there is nothing derogatory in
the work I mean to undertake. It is
not what I would choose, perhaps, but
everything else is closed to me,” thinking
sorrowfully of my life-long misfortune,
as I always called it, and my repressed
longings for hospital training.

“Perhaps if you waited something
else might turn up.” But I shook my
head at this.

“I have waited too long already,
Uncle Keith; idleness soon becomes a
habit.”

“Then if you have made up your mind,
it is useless to try and alter it,” returned
Uncle Keith, in a slightly ironical tone,
and he actually took up the volume he
was reading in a way that showed he
had dismissed the subject. I was never
more astonished in my life; never had
Uncle Keith so completely baffled me.

I had spent the whole time during
which I ought to have been listening to
the sermon, in recapitulating the heads
of my arguments in favour of this very
scheme; I would show Uncle Keith how
clearly and logically I could work out
the subject.

I had thought out quite an admirable
little essay on feminine work in the nineteenth
century by the time Mr. Wright
had finished his discourse. I meant to
have cited the Challoners as an example.
Aunt Agatha had stayed in their neighbourhood
of Oldfield just before her
marriage, and had often paid visits at
Longmead and Glen Cottage.

The eldest Miss Challoner—Nan, I
think they called her—was just preparing
for her own wedding, and Aunt Agatha
often told me what a beautiful girl she
was, and what a fine, intelligent creature
the second sister Phillis seemed. She
was engaged to a young clergyman at
Hadleigh, and there had been some talk
of a double wedding, only Nan’s father-in-law,
Mr. Mayne, of Longmead, had
been rather cross at the notion, so
Phillis’s was to be postponed until the
autumn.

All the neighbourhood of Oldfield had
been ringing with the strange exploits
of these young ladies. One little fact had
leaked out after another; it was said
their own cousin, Sir Henry Challoner,
of Gilsbank, had betrayed the secret,
though he always vowed his wife had a
hand, or rather a tongue, in the business;
but anyhow, there was a fine nine days’
gossip over the matter.

It seemed that some time previously
Mrs. Challoner and her three daughters
had sustained severe losses, and the three
girls, instead of losing courage, had put
their shoulders to the wheel, and had
actually set up as dressmakers at Hadleigh,
carrying on their business in a
most masterly fashion, until the unexpected
return of their relative, Sir Harry
Challoner, from Australia, with plenty of
money at his disposal, broke up the
dressmaking business, and reinstated
them at Glen Cottage.

A few of their friends had been much
offended with them, but as it was understood
that Lady Fitzroy had spoken
warmly of their moral courage and perseverance,
it had become the fashion to
praise them. Aunt Agatha had often
quoted them to me, saying she had
never met more charming girls, and
adding more than once how thoroughly
she respected their independence, and
of course in recalling the Challoners I
thought I should have added my crowning
argument.

There was so much, too, that I longed
to say in favour of my theory. The love
of little children was very strong with me.
I had often been pained as I walked
through the streets at seeing tired children
dragged along or shaken angrily
by some coarse, uneducated nurse. It
had always seemed rather a pitiful idea
to me that children from their infancy
should be in hourly contact with rough,
menial natures. “Surely,” I would
say to myself, “the mother’s place must
be in her nursery; she can find no higher
duty than this, to watch over her little
ones; even if her position or rank hinder
her constant supervision, why need she
relegate her maternal duties to uneducated
women? Are there no poor
gentlewomen in the world who would
gladly undertake such a work from very
love, and who would refuse to believe
for one moment they were losing caste
in discharging one of the holiest and
purest duties in life?

“What an advantage to the children,”
I imagined myself saying in answer to
some objection on Uncle Keith’s part,
never dreaming that all this eloquence
would be silenced by masculine cunning.

“What an advantage to these little
creatures to hear English pure and undefiled
from their cradles, and to be
trained to habits of refinement and
good manners by merely instinctively
following the example before their eyes.
Children are such copyists, one shudders
to think of these impressionable little
beings being permitted by their natural
guardians to take their earliest lessons
from some uneducated person.

“Women are crying out for work,
Uncle Keith,” I continued, carrying my
warfare into a fresh quarter; but, alas!
this, with the rest of my eloquence, died
a natural death on my way home.
“There are too many of the poor things in
this world, and the female market is
overstocked. They are invading telegraph
offices, and treading on the heels
of business men, but sheer pride and
stupidity prevent them from trying to
open nursery doors.”

“Unladylike to be a servant,” another
imaginary objection on Uncle Keith’s
part. “Oh, fie, Uncle Keith! this from
you, who read your Bible and go to
church; and yet I remember a certain
passage, ‘Whosoever will be chief
among you let him be your servant,’
which has hallowed the very idea of service
ever since.

“To serve others seems the very meaning
of womanhood; in some sense, a
woman serves all the days of her life. No,
I am not farfetched and unpractical.”
Another supposed masculine tirade.
“I have thought over the whole thing
most carefully. I am not only working
for myself, but for others. I want to
open the eyes of my generation, and, like
the Challoners, to lead a new crusade
against the mighty sham of conventionality.
Understand me, Uncle Keith, I
do not say to these young gentlewomen,
put your pride in your pocket and wheel
your perambulator with the twins, or
carry the baby into the park before the
eyes of your aristocratic acquaintance;
that would be unnecessary and foolish;
you may leave that part to the under-nurse,
who brings your meals and scours
your nurseries; I simply say to them, if
you have no capacity for teaching, if
nature has unfitted you for other work,
and you are too proud and conscientious
to live a dragging, dependent life under
the roof of some overburthened relative,
take the charge of some aristocratic
nursery. Do not think it beneath your
womanhood to feed and wash and clothe
an infant, or to watch over weak, toddling
creatures. Your work may be humble,
but you will grow to love it, and if no
one else will put the theory to the test,
I, Merle Fenton, will do so, though I
must take the plunge unaided, and
alone.”

But all these feeling observations were
locked up in my own inner consciousness,
for during the remainder of the evening[Pg 28]
Uncle Keith simply ignored the subject
and read his book with a pretence of
being perfectly absorbed in it, though I
am certain that his eyes twinkled mischievously
whenever he looked in my
direction, as though he were quite aware
of my flood of repressed oratory.

I determined to have it out with Aunt
Agatha, so I followed her into her room,
and asked her in a peevish voice what
she meant by saying Uncle Keith
would be so angry with me, as he had
not raised a single objection, and, of
course, as silence meant consent, I
should most certainly keep my appointment
at Prince’s Gate.

Aunt Agatha looked a little distressed
as she answered me.

“To tell you the truth, Merle, I did
not quite understand your uncle myself;
I expected a very different reception of
my news.”

“Tell me all about it from the very
beginning,” I returned, eagerly. “Patience
has made such a nice fire,
because she said she was afraid you
had a cold, and I can just sit by it
and brush out my hair while we talk.”

“But I am tired and sleepy, child,
and after all there is not much to tell,”
objected Aunt Agatha; but she was far
too good-natured to refuse for all that,
so she seated herself, dear soul, in the
big chair—that she had christened
Idleness—and tried to remember what
I wished to hear.

“I told him everything, Merle: how
your one little defect hindered you,
poor child, from being a nursery governess
or companion, and how, in spite
of this serious obstacle, you were determined
to work and be independent.”

“Well, and did he say nothing to
all that?” I asked, for I knew in what
a feeling manner Aunt Agatha would
have described my difficulties.

“Oh, yes; he said, ‘poor little
thing,’ in the kindest possible way,
‘and quite right—very proper,’ when I
spoke of your desire for work.”

“Well,” rather impatiently.

“He listened very attentively until I
read him out the advertisement, but
that seemed to upset him, for he burst
out laughing, and I thought he would
never stop. I was half crying by that
time, for you had worried me to death
all the afternoon, Merle, but nothing I
could say would make him grave for a
long time. He said once, ‘What could
have put such a thing into her head?’
and then he laughed again as though
the idea amused him, and then he
rubbed his hands and muttered, ‘What
an original child it is; there is no deficiency
of brain power as far as I can
see; who would have dreamt of such a
thing?’ and so on.”

“Then I may flatter myself that
Uncle Keith approves of my scheme,”
I observed, stiffly, for I was much
offended at the idea of his laugh.

“Oh dear, no,” returned Aunt
Agatha, in an alarmed voice, “he expressed
his disapproval very strongly;
he said it was all very well in theory,
and that, on the whole, he agreed with
you that the nursery was undoubtedly
a lady-like sphere, but he was far from
sure that your scheme would be practical.
He foresaw all kinds of difficulties,
and that he did not consider
you at all the person for such a position.”

“Why did not Uncle Keith say all
this to me himself?” I demanded.

“Because he said it would only be
sowing the wind to raise the whirlwind.
In an argument he declares women
always have the best of it, because they
can talk the fastest, and never will own
they are beaten; to raise objections
would only be to strengthen you more
in your purpose. I think,” finished
Aunt Agatha, in her softest voice, “that
he hoped your plan would die a natural
death, for he recommended me to withdraw
all opposition.”

Oh, the cunning of these men. I
would not have believed all this of Uncle
Keith. I was far too angry to talk
any more to Aunt Agatha; I only commanded
my voice sufficiently to say that
I fully intended to keep my appointment
the next day; and as she only
looked at me very sadly and said nothing,
I had no excuse for lingering
any longer, so I took up my candlestick
and marched into my own room.

It felt cold and desolate, and as I
sat down by the toilet table, such sad
eyes looked into mine from the depths
of the mirror, that a curious self-pitying
feeling made me prop my chin on my
hands and exchange looks of silent
sympathy with my image.

My want of beauty never troubled me;
it has always been my private conviction
that we ought to be thankful if we
are tolerably pleasant in other people’s
eyes; beauty is too rare a gift to be
often reproduced. If people thought me
nice-looking I was more than content;
perhaps it was surprising that, with
such good-looking parents, I was just
ordinary and nothing else, “But never
mind, Merle, you have a good figure
and talking eyes,” as Aunt Agatha
once said to me. “I was much plainer
at your age, my dear, but my plainness
never prevented me from having a
happy life and a good husband.”

“Well, perhaps I should like a happy
life, too, but as for the husband—never
dream of that, my good girl; remember
your miserable deficiency in
this enlightened age. No man in his
senses would condone that; put such
thoughts resolutely away and think only
of your work in life. Laborare est
orare.“

(To be continued.)

THE CONTENTS OF MY WORK-BOX.

HOW BUTTONS ARE MADE.

t is scarcely possible
to determine when
buttons, which are
both useful and ornamental,
were first
made. In the paintings
of the fourteenth
century they
frequently appear on
the garments of
both sexes, but in
many instances they are drawn without button-holes,
and are placed in such situations as to
suggest that at that time they were used
more for ornament than usefulness.

It was towards the close of the sixteenth
century that button-making was first considered
a business, and that the manufacturers
formed a considerable body.

Button-making was originally a very tedious
and expensive process. The button consisted
of one solid piece of metal; the ornaments on
the face of it were the work of an engraver.
To obviate the expense connected with such a
method of production, the press, stamp, and
engine for turning the moulds were introduced.
This improvement led the way for
other improvements, both with regard to the
materials from which buttons were afterwards
made and also the process of manufacture.
The plain gilt button, which was extensively
used in the early part of the present century,
was made from an alloy called plating metal,
which contained a larger proportion of copper
and less zinc than ordinary brass. The devices
on the outer surface were produced by stamping
the previously cut out blanks or metal
discs with steel dies, after which the necks
were soldered in. At the present time every
possible kind of metal, from iron to gold,
whether pure or mixed; every conceivable woven
fabric, from canvas to the finest satin and
velvet; every natural production capable of
being turned out or pressed, as wood, horn,
hoof, pearl, bone, ivory, jet, ivory nuts; every
manufactured material of which the same may
be said, as caoutchouc, leather, papier maché,
glass, porcelain, etc., buttons are made in a
great variety of shape; but at the present
time they may be classed under four heads:
buttons with shanks, buttons without shanks,
buttons on rings or wire moulds, and buttons
covered with cloth or some other material.

In the process of metal button-making by
means of fly presses and punches, circular
discs, called blanks, are cut out of sheets of
metal. This work is usually done by females,
who, while seated at a bench, manage to cut
out as many as thirty blanks per minute, or
twelve gross in an hour. On leaving the press
the edges of the blanks are very sharp. When
they have been smoothed and rounded, the
surfaces are planished on the face by being
placed separately in a die, under a small
stamp, and causing them to receive a sharp
blow from a polished steel hammer. The
next process is that of shanking, or attaching
small metal loops, by which they are fastened
to garments. The shank manufacture is a
distinct branch of the trade in Birmingham,
although at times carried on in the same
factory.[Pg 29]

The shanks are made by a machine, in
which a coil of wire is gradually advanced
towards a pair of shears, which cut off short
pieces. A metal finger then presses against
the middle of each piece, first bending it
and then pressing it into a vice, where it is
compressed so as to form a loop; a hammer
then strikes the two ends, spreading them
into a flat surface, and the shank is pushed
out of the machine ready for use. The
shanks in some instances are attached to the
blanks by women with iron wire, solder, and
resin, after which they are placed in an oven,
and when firmly united are removed and form
plain buttons. In the majority of cases,
however, soldering is dispensed with, the
shanks being made secure in the press.

If the button is to be finished without a
shank, it is passed on from the press, which
it leaves as a blank, to another where the
holes are pierced, and then to a third where
the roughness is removed from the edges of
the holes.

The commonest metal buttons which I
have seen in process of making were cut out
of scraps of tin, similar to what may be seen
on the refuse heap of any shop where tin
goods are made. The hand presses worked
by women cut out the blanks, made a simple
impression on the outside, and turned up the
edges all round at the same time. The blanks
were then passed on to another press, where
pieces of cardboard were inserted, and the
edges turned over to keep them firm. The
holes were next pierced, and a finish given by
a blow from a stamp.

I felt deeply interested in seeing all kinds
of buttons in process of being made, some for
India, others for Chili, and our own army, but
the prettiest and most interesting to witness
while passing through the presses, stamps, and
hands of the workers were some which were
being made for Malta. In passing through
the first press the blank was embossed and cut
out. By another press the edge was scalloped,
and by a third press the open work was
effected. The next process was that of so
pressing each disc to such an extent that the
scalloped edges of two might meet, and thus
form a round button of pretty design when
united, and a shank fastened in the centre of
one of the blanks.

Military buttons, like many others, are
made of two discs of metal, the impression on
the outer ones being produced by a sharp
blow in a stamp, the under ones having two
holes pierced in them for the shanks, which
are put through and bent flat on the inside.
They are next passed through another press
which firmly fastens the two discs together,
and holds the shank so securely as to
obviate the necessity of having recourse to
soldering.

Covered buttons are made in an immense
variety of textiles. It is impossible in the
space allowed for this paper to enumerate
them, but I may add that their ingenious
construction, their good wearing qualities, the
clever mechanism of the tools by which the
various discs of cloth, metal, millboard, etc.,
are cut out, and the methods of uniting them
so as to form a complete button, are marvels
of skill and industry.

The earliest covered buttons were made so
recently as the year 1802, in Birmingham, by
Mr. B. Sanders. Those buttons had metal
shanks, but by the ingenuity of Mr. Sanders,
jun., his father’s invention was completed
by tufts of canvas, through which the buttons
could be attached to garments, being substituted
for rigid metal shanks. The only
improvement since made has been that of
covering the back of the silk-fronted buttons
also with silk.

A covered button consists of two discs of
metal and one of millboard, thicker or thinner,
according to circumstances. In making it,
the sheet of iron is first scaled, by the use of
powerful acids, and then cut into proper size
and shape by a press. The neck, or collet,
of the button is japanned after being stamped
and cut. The hollow between the neck and
shell is filled with millboard. When the parts
are put together and pressed the button is
brought into shape, and its several parts are
consolidated.

It was in the year 1841 that Mr. John
Aston made the first three-fold linen button—that
is, a button formed of a linen covering
and a ring of metal, so put together that both
sides and centre were completely covered with
separate pieces of linen, and thus produced
being quite flat. This being an exceedingly
neat and convenient button, it became largely
patronised, as it still is by housewives, for all
underclothing, having superseded the old
thread button formed of a ring of wire, with
threads drawn over it and gathered in the
centre. A slight improvement was made by
Mr. Elliott. During the time that the patent
lasted these two gentlemen worked in concert,
and established a very successful business.

So great has been the demand for covered
linen buttons at different times, that during
one single year Mr. Elliott’s successors have
in the process of making them required 63,000
yards of cloth and 34 tons of metal, and given
employment to 250 persons. As the button
trade has for a considerable time been in a
very depressed condition, it is possible that
the productions of this firm may not be of
such magnitude as they were a few years
since.

With regard to the depressed condition of
this branch of Birmingham industries, one
manufacturer assured me, only a few weeks
ago, that where 150 persons were employed
at one time, not more than 20 or 30 would
be working then. In visiting one of the
largest manufactories the same day, I saw
sufficient to convince me of the truthfulness
of his statement, for in passing through the
different workshops I saw one or two presses,
stamps, and turning-lathes at work, whereas
several were unused and without attendants.
One firm, when trade is in a flourishing
condition, will make about 15,000 gross of
linen buttons weekly. Ivory buttons are
made from the tusks of elephants; but as the
material is expensive, and the manipulation
has to be conducted with great care, and that
chiefly by hand, they can only be used by
persons who can afford to pay a goodly
sum.

During the last few years, in which a great
variety of colours has been introduced, both
for ladies’ and gentlemen’s garments, and
buttons have been required to match, it is
fortunate that a substitute has been found
for ivory in the kernel of the “corozo”
nut. This nut grows in clusters on palm-like
trees in South America, and is husked
like a cocoanut, but is different in shape and
considerably smaller in dimensions. The
kernel—the part used in button-making—is
milk-white, and being softer than animal
ivory, is more easily turned, and as it readily
absorbs dyes, it can be made to take any
colour with little trouble.

The process of making these vegetable
ivory buttons is as follows:—After boys have
cracked the shells, the kernels are taken by
men standing at benches in which small fine-toothed
saws are revolving. Only a slight
pressure of the nut against the saw is required
before it is divided into equal parts. If
necessary, the operation is repeated. Providing,
however, that the pieces of the nut are
of proper dimensions, they are passed on to the
turner.

The next process is that of cutting out or
turning, and is performed in the following
manner:—The turner, after fixing a piece of
the nut in the chuck of his lathe, brings a
tubular cutter, the face edge of which is
toothed like a saw, to work on the exposed
front surface of the nut; the result is that
of a rough button or mould. As these
moulds are rough, they are passed on to
another lathe, where they are made smooth,
and then to a third, where the holes are
drilled. They are next passed on to the dyer,
who arranges his colours according to
instructions received. It sometimes happens
that a mottled appearance is required; when
such is the case, girls are employed to touch
them with the colours required by the aid of
camel-hair pencils. The buttons are next
placed in tanks for drying, the tanks being
heated by steam for that purpose.

Most of the buttons are polished in lathes
by friction from their own dust, held in the
hand of the operative.

Porcelain buttons were invented by Mr. R.
Prosser, of Birmingham, who, in conjunction
with the celebrated firm of Minter and Co.,
made them in large quantities in the potteries,
about the year 1840. They were, however,
soon driven from the market by French
manufacturers, who sold a great gross—that
is, twelve gross, each of twelve dozen—for
the ridiculously small sum of elevenpence.

Glass buttons are made by heating canes of
glass and pinching them from the end with
pliers, which at the same time answer the
purpose of a die. They are sold very cheaply,
as low as twopence a gross, but it is scarcely
possible for any English firm to compete with
Bohemia in their production.

Mother-o’-pearl buttons are made out of
pearl shells which have been imported from
the coasts of Macassar, Manilla, Bombay, the
archipelago of the Pacific, the Bay of Panama,
and a few other places. Their market value
is not always the same. At the present time
it ranges from £8 to £10 per hundredweight.
The blanks are cut out of the shells by a steel
tubular cutter, similar to that used in cutting
the vegetable ivory. As the cutter works its
way through a shell, small cylinders of pearl
are disconnected, which are reduced in thickness
by splitting into discs, a little thicker
than the button is required to be when finished.
These blanks are finished singly in a turning
lathe, by being placed in a suitable chuck, and
having a steel tool applied to its face for producing
the rim and depression in the centre.
They are then passed on to another lathe,
where the holes are drilled, and afterwards to
another, where they are polished by friction
and a mixture of rotten-stone and soft
soap.

The best white buttons are those which are
made from Macassar shells, and the best black
from shells of the archipelago of the Pacific.
The latter are the dearest, in consequence of
the black shells not being so plentiful as those
of lighter shades. Some few years since the
consumption of mother-o’-pearl shells in Birmingham
amounted to nearly one thousand
tons annually; the failure of the fisheries in
Central America has, however, reduced it to
a little more than a third, or about three hundred
tons a year.

Thimbles are made by stamping, and afterwards
turning in a lathe, the indentations
being produced by a suitable instrument. On
the Continent the operatives make them with
punches in as many as five different mandrils.
Scissors, bodkins, etc., have nothing connected
with their manufacture which calls for
any special notice. Although, as in previous
papers, I have conducted my readers in paths
not usual to girls and young women, I hope
that my description of button-making will interest
a considerable number, and teach them
to think more of buttons and how they are
made and by whom made than they have ever
done before.

W. W. B.
[Pg 30]

BITS ABOUT ANIMALS.

A Sagacious Colt.

A gentleman whose pretty garden adjoined
a park in which a number of young colts were
grazing, was much annoyed by the inroads of
these animals. He took every precaution to
prevent their entrance, but to no purpose.
Fences were examined and found intact, the
gate was kept shut, and yet one or more of
the colts would soon be found devastating
flower-beds, or browsing in the kitchen
garden. The provoking part of it was that no
one could discover how the creatures obtained
an entrance.

At length men were hidden in the trees to
watch, and the problem was speedily solved.
A colt trotted up to the gate and inserted
its head between the bars, with the evident
intention of raising the latch. He made
several vain attempts, but had not mastered
the trick. The latch remained in its place,
and the colt outside.

For a few moments the animal stood cogitating,
then trotted rapidly back to the spot
where he had left his companions. He singled
out one of the most frequent visitors to the
garden, and, by some language peculiar to
colts, made known his difficulty. The other
at once returned with his companion to the
gate, inserted his head below one of the bars,
and by a dexterous movement displaced the
latch, and the gate swung open. Then,
throwing back his head as if to say, “See how
easy it is when one knows how,” he went
back whilst the other entered the garden.

It was noticed by the watchers that this
last had not previously been seen within the
forbidden precincts, but the one that opened
the gate for him had been particularly
troublesome. The fact that he was specially
selected for the office of porter showed no
little sagacity in the would-be visitor to the
garden. But, much as the cleverness of the
animals might be admired, care was taken to
render its exercise useless for the future.

Ruth Lamb.

VARIETIES

A French Conversation.

Voltaire once said, “It is not clear, therefore
it cannot be French.” This is only partially
true, for the French language furnishes
abundant material for puns and misunderstandings,
intentional or otherwise. The
following amusing instance may serve as an
illustration:—

Two sportsmen met together on their way
home.

“Where do you come from?” the first
asked the second, who was trembling with
fright.

“I come—I come—from the forest of
Bondy.”

“And why are you so excited?”

“I have been attacked by robbers.”

“How many were there?”

“Sept.“

“What did you say?”

“Je dis sept.“

“Dix-sept?“

“No; sans dix.”

“Cent dix?“

“Oh, dear! no. Sans dix, sept.“

“Good gracious! Cent dix-sept?“

“Nonsense. Sept sans dix-sept.“

“Sept cent dix-sept.“

“You don’t understand me. Je te dis sept
sans dix!“

“Dix-sept cent dix.“

“You will drive me mad! Je te dis sept
sans dix-sept!“

“Dix-sept cent dix-sept! I can understand
your being frightened with such a number.”

To Preserve Cut Flowers.—An important
rule in preserving cut flowers is never
to cram the vase with flowers. Many will last
if only they have a large mass of water in the
vase and not too many stalks to feed on the
water and pollute it. Vases that can hold a
large quantity of water are to be preferred to
the spindle-shaped trumpets that are often
used. Flat dishes covered with wet sand are
also useful for short-stalked or heavy-headed
flowers; even partially-withered blooms will
revive when placed on this cool moist substance.
Moss, though prettier than sand, is
to be avoided, as it soon smells disagreeably,
and always interferes with the scent of the
flowers placed in it for preservation.

The Way of the World.—The world
deals good-naturedly with good-natured
people, and I never knew a sulky misanthropist
who quarrelled with it but it was he and
not it that was in the wrong.—Thackeray.

Mothers’ Thoughts.

Ungrateful Gratitude.—There are
minds so impatient of inferiority that their
gratitude is a species of revenge, and they
return benefits not because recompense is a
pleasure, but because obligation is a pain.—Dr.
Johnson.

Double Acrostic.

Ximena.
[Pg 31]

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

EDUCATIONAL.

Ediscenda.—The highest mountain known has been
found in New Guinea, and is called Mount Hercules.
It is said to be 32,786 feet high, or 3,786 feet higher
than Mount Everest, of the Himalayan Range.

Violet.—The best examination to pass would be
either the Oxford or Cambridge; but if you do not
wish to do so much, that of the College of Preceptors
would perhaps be sufficient for your purpose.

A Lonely Girl.—We think there is too much science
and too little history and literature in your list of
books, and we should recommend a course of poetry
also, as well as some works on art.

A, B, C, D, etc.—In the chronicles of Robert of
Gloucester the age of Brutus is purely legendary.
The whole chronicle is partly taken from the fabulous
history of Geoffrey of Monmouth.

DORA (Bradford).—”How to Form a Small Library”
was at page 7 and 122, vol. ii. Clean your hair-brushes
with flour or bran, rubbing them well
together with it as if you were washing them dry.
You should write copies daily to improve your handwriting.

A. and M.—We are inclined to believe that governesses
are not in demand anywhere in the colonies unless
they be willing to turn their hands to help in the
household, just as a daughter of the house might do.
If you and your sister be willing to do this, and are
both capable and industrious, you might do well in
Queensland. Write to the secretary of the Woman’s
Emigration Society, New Buildings, Carteret-street,
Queen Anne’s-gate, London, S.W.

E. C. G.—We believe you can obtain grammars and
dictionaries in most of the Eastern tongues at
Messrs. Trübner’s, Ludgate-hill, E.C. We cannot
say what progress you would make without a master,
as we do not know your capabilities.

Macaw.—We have great pleasure in giving the
address of the correspondence class from which you
have derived so much advantage, and which you
sought through our advice. Miss MacArthur, 4,
Buckingham-street, Hillhead, Glasgow. So well
managed, as it appears to be from your account,
we hope our notice may prove of much use to our
readers.

Miss Mackay.—We thank you for the particulars
which you send us of your essay club, called The
Rookery, and willingly give your invitation to
our readers to join it. There is no charge made for these
answers to correspondents. We are glad to give
help and promote all useful efforts, and believe we
shall do so by giving your address as Hon. Secretary,
Governor’s House, H.M. Prison, Lincoln.

Leona Woodfield.—Candidates for hospital training
are generally required to be from twenty-five to forty
years of age. They may enter the Children’s
Hospital, Great Ormond-street, at twenty-one.

Union Jack.—The English language is a compound
of three different dialects spoken for two or three
centuries after the Norman Conquest. That of the
East Midland was the speech of the metropolis, in
which Chaucer, Gower, and Wyckliffe wrote, and
was spoken in East Kent and Surrey. There were
also the Northern and Southern dialects, which,
blending with the East Midland, formed the basis
of modern English. But these three dialects are
likewise compounds of the Saxon, Celtic, Danish,
and Norman tongues. To get rid of the smell of
paint, sprinkle some hay with chloride of lime and
leave it in the rooms; also a basin of water, to be
changed night and morning. You will perceive
traces on the surface of what it has absorbed.

T. C. S.—Why do you not read our answers under
this heading? You will find that there are several
societies for training female missionaries and catechists.

Mary Commander.—Astronomers measure the distances
between the earth and the stars by means of
mathematical calculations. You should procure
some work on astronomy. There is a nice little
book published in our office called “The Heavens
and the Earth,” and another, rather larger, called
“The Midnight Sky;” both are illustrated.

Mary Williams.—If you refer to any volume of the
G. O. P. and read our answers under the above
heading, you will see all we can tell you about telegraph
clerks. We must decline to full up space by
continually repeating old answers.

White Tulip must do as we have directed “Mary
Williams,” and find all the addresses of societies
where young women are trained for zenana and other
missionary work. It is very wrong not to go to
church on Sunday mornings merely because of “feeling
shy.” That is rubbish. Attend to your book
and your prayers, and not to your neighbours.
Nobody will notice you.

I. D. L. E.—Write to the secretary, Deaconesses’
Training Institution, 41, Ferntower-road, Mildmay
Park, London, N., and at The Willows, Stoke
Newington, N. Otherwise, if you desire experience
in parish work, you might be received at St. Luke’s
Invalid Home, Finsbury House, Ramsgate. You
had better write to both these institutions, giving
your age, and stating whether your application be
made with the full consent of your parents. There
are also the London Diocesan Deaconesses’ Institution,
12, Tavistock Crescent, Westbourne Park, W.
(head sister, Deaconess Cassin), and the East London
Deaconesses’ Home, 2, Sutton-place, Hackney, E.
(deaconess, L. Collier). If you would prefer a situation
by the sea, apply to Sister Emma, Winchester
Diocesan Deaconesses’ Home, Southsea, Hants.

Josephine.—There is a Governesses’ Institute in Paris,
at 48, Rue de Chaillot. Apply to the secretary or
lady principal. If you wish to belong to a teacher’s
guild, that of Great Britain and Ireland has its office
at 17, Buckingham-street, Strand, W.C. You must
address the hon. secretary. You write a very good
hand.

Bertha Green and Daisy.—The cheapest and best
way for you to improve your education at home will
be to join one or more of the amateur societies
instituted to assist girls who cannot go to school
nor have professional masters. A small directory of
girls’ educational and other societies and clubs is to
appear immediately, edited by one of our own staff
of writers, especially for the use of our girls, so many
of whom write for the addresses of such and particulars
about them. (Messrs. Griffith and Farran,
St. Paul’s Churchyard, E.C.)

A Poor Young Girl.—So well educated as you are,
you would be likely to get on well in a colony.
Write to the Colonial Emigration Society, 13,
Dorset-street, Portman-square, London, W. They
have a home for women and a loan fund. Anyone
willing to act as mother’s help, and put her hand to
anything her employer does, and is, moreover,
capable of teaching the young people of the family,
would be sure to get on well in a colony.

Nelly Holmes should advertise in the Times, or
some good daily paper, for the situation she requires.
We cannot tell what salary a young girl in her
teens would get.

ART.

C. O.—Our opinion of the drawing is not favourable.
The outlines of the figure are not true to nature in
its undistorted form; they are those conceived by an
uninstructed dress or stay maker. As you are only
thirteen years of age, you are not yet acquainted
with pure classical forms of beauty, and have time to
cultivate your taste. Take lessons at a branch
figure-drawing school founded by the South Kensington
School of Art. The kind of drawing to which
you aspire is much improved of late years, and shopkeepers
begin to require that fashion-plates should
somewhat resemble the true “human form divine.”

Industry and Katie.—To preserve seaweed, gather
specimens that are growing to rocks in preference to
those floating on the water, and lay them in a shallow
pan filled with clean salt water. Insert a piece of
writing-paper under the seaweed and lift it out of the
bath; spread out the plant with a camel’s-hair
pencil in a natural form, and slant the paper to allow
the water to run off; then press between two pieces
of board, lay on one of them two sheets of blotting-paper,
then the seaweed, and over the latter a piece
of fine cambric, over that the blotting-paper, and
lastly the second piece of board; replace the cambric
and blotting-paper daily, and when the seaweed is
quite dry brush over the coarser kinds with spirits of
turpentine, in which three small lumps of gum-mastic
have been dissolved by shaking in a warm place.
Two-thirds of a small phial is the proper proportion.
This mixture helps to retain the colour of the
specimens.

Ella and Heliotrope.—Painting carefully with
muriatic acid will remove the rough coating outside
shells and show the mother o’ pearl beneath it.
They should be frequently dipped in water to remove
the burning acid, or it will make holes in the shell.
To polish them, dip a rag in hydrochloric acid and
rub till clean; then dry in hot sawdust and polish
with chamois leather. To paint shells with oil-colours,
mix the latter with Siccatif de Courtrai, or
with mirrorine, and put on the paints very dry. To
paint them with water colours, lay a wash of white
of egg over them; mix the paints with Chinese white
and white of egg. The best effects are produced
with oil colours.

Daisy.—We make no distinction between persons who
write to us, whether in service or out of it. We have
an enormous correspondence, and very little space is
devoted to it. Thus, many correspondents have to
wait long for their answers. A good cashmere would
suit very well for a wedding dress. Get one that
will be of service to you afterwards. If you live in
London it should not be very light. Your bonnet
could be trimmed with white ribbon.

Christie.—Try laying on a wash of white of egg
before painting in water-colours upon black cardboard.
This will remove the greasiness of the surface.
Then lay on a wash of Chinese white, and
paint in the ordinary manner.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Financier.—We consider that to wash with hot water
is not bad for you, but should be supplemented by a
good rubbing (performed very quickly) with a wet
towel all over the body. This will cause a healthy
reaction. But the morning is really the best time.
“Sesame and Lilies” and “Stones of Venice” are
good books to read (of Ruskin’s). There is a “Dictionary
of English Literature,” published by Cassell
and Co., which might be useful to you.

Memory.—We hear that many people have derived
much benefit from the memory systems, and “Stokes
on Memory” is a well-known book.

L. Nusse.—We fear that all such things are only forms
of throwing good money after bad. If you really
have reason to think that you are entitled to money,
go to a respectable lawyer for help.

B. K. E.—No one can limit the power of prayer and
faith, and yours may be answered as your heart desires.
But do not “do evil that good may come.”

Ol Sie.—Your verses show much poetic feeling, and
an affectionate nature, but you would need to study
the subject of composition before your lines were
worth anything to anyone.

Monthly Reader and May.—The sooner you get
your teeth stopped the better. But make a good
choice of a dentist.

A. M. C.—The salaries in drapers’ shops vary much,
not only in different establishments, but amongst the
assistants in each, according to their special departments.
Girls with tall, handsome figures, employed
for showing off mantles, get more than little girls behind
the counter, and dress and mantle, or bonnet
and cap makers are comparatively well paid. You
must make special personal application.

An Arum Lily.—Use a rosemary wash for aiding the
growth of the hair. See our articles on the care of
the hair, page 631, vol. vi.

Rosina.—The young men who so far forgot themselves
and presumed to speak to you and your friend without
a proper introduction, are not suitable acquaintances
for respectable girls. But you should not have
been rude; you should simply have walked away to
your chaperon, or some married person of your acquaintance.

Lack Penny might, perhaps, teach a few little girls
at home. Has she any friends who would be glad to
send them to her, instead of to a school, for a couple
of hours in the morning, when busy themselves?
There is nothing to be ashamed of in earning money,
if you have it not, for your requirements.

Floo.—You slope your letters the wrong way, and we
could scarcely read your writing. If you want to
improve it, slope it the right way, and cross every
“t.” We do not know how the mother o’ pearl
became stained. Probably it was washed in hot
water, and so cracked all over. You might try a
quick brush over with diluted muriatic acid, and an
immediate dip into cold water, then rubbing well
with some sweet oil on a soft piece of flannel. Beware
of touching your eyes after using muriatic
acid, as it burns, and should be put carefully away,
that ignorant people or children may not touch it.

E. M. P.—Perhaps your dogs are mangy. In any
case you should show them to a veterinary surgeon.
Consult our indexes.

Anxious One.—Your duty is very plain. Go to your
clergyman, and tell him of the discovery you have
made, and ask him to baptise you at once. If your
name were sent in for confirmation after your course
of preparation, you are, of course, ready for your
baptism.

Tim Tippin should study the art of metrical composition.
What she has written is very irregular and
incorrect. But even were it perfectly according to
rule, there is no new thought in it, no beautiful
simile, nothing original. She is very young, and
therefore could by no means be expected to produce
what a powerful or imaginative intellect alone could
produce, when arrived at its full development at some
ten or twelve years later in life. So she must learn a
good deal more before she can “become famous.”

Edith.—We are unable to find employment and name
employers for our correspondents, much as we sympathise
with them in their desire to be self-supporting.

Ursula.—We do not answer seven questions. Bride
and bridegroom sit side by side at the top of the
table, the two fathers take in the two mothers, and
first bridesmaid and best man pair together.

I. Nibs.—You would be much wiser to try and get
your story as a serial into one of the papers in your
own colony. We could not promise to take unknown
MS., and unless you copied it you might lose it in
passing through the post.

A March Elf should wear her hair in a plait at the
back, tied up with a bow of ribbon, and curled a little
in front. She is too young to need steels in her
dresses.

E. C.—The frontispiece appears to tell its own story of
poverty and weakness—a poor dressmaker, unable
to finish a dress by a given time. Water may be
softened by using borax, ammonia, or oatmeal, when
needed for the skin. Boiling water and soda will
generally take out stains from table linen.

Jessie.—We know nothing more about the water
scheme than the newspaper report, which “Jessie”
has herself seen.

Saffron Crocus.—Read our article on “Lissom
Hands and Pretty Feet,” vol. i., page 348.[Pg 32]

Ethel.—Pincushions and fans, embroidered and ornamented in various ways,
seem the most general contributions at bazaars at present. Painted match-boxes,
writing-cases, and painted jars for tobacco, are all useful and sell well.

Gretchen.—There is a small volume on “Indian Outfits” published by
Mr. Gill, 170, Strand, which is very valuable.

Edinburgh.—We could not give you the addresses of persons who would buy
your work, and a little consideration would have prevented your asking such
a question. Your own personal exertions must be used to find outlets for your
work. You cannot expect to sit still and be helped.

Ayacanora II. does not say whether the mauve silk be light or dark. Mauve
is now a very fashionable colour, and would mix well with dark velvet or
velveteen of the same colour for the autumn. It would also look well with
cashmere or canvas of the same colour, but of a darker shade. Dark red
velvet could also be mixed with it. If the
bodice be good, make a Swiss belt, with
cuffs and collar of velvet, and long front and
back drapery of the same.

Furrier’s Daughter.—More furs are made
up in England than anywhere else, and, as
a fur sewer, you will do better here, we
should think. But as you want to emigrate,
you should consult the Colonial Emigration
Society, 13, Dorset-street, Portman-square,
W.; office hours, 10 to 4. The secretary
will give advice and information.

Mabel has our best thanks for her kind and courteous note.

Veronique.—”That Aggravating Schoolgirl” began in vol. ii., at page 9.

Marie.—Do not wash your head every morning. The bath water should be
tepid. A sponge bath can be taken with very little water and little trouble.

Ethild Mya Bal.—There is no sequel to the “Wide, Wide World,” that we
know of. We are very sorry to hear of your suffering, and hope you may
soon be better.

A Gipsy Girl.—The lines you send are not poetry, nor are they very original
in thought; but if it be a comfort for you to write them, they have served
a good purpose.

Cucumber.—We know of no cure but the constant use of a pair of tweezers.

An Old Anglo-German Girl.—We were much interested in your letter.
We can sympathise with all our girls, at every age, and in every climate.
The series will be concluded soon.

Fairy Dell (Cyprus).—You would have to apply to a surgeon. Gargle the
throat night and morning with salt and water, or vinegar and water, to
strengthen it. Perhaps you need a tonic.

Snowbell.—The book is not of any great value; but if you be not satisfied,
you might consult some first-class bookseller, such as Mr. Quaritch, Piccadilly.

Amy.—There is a Home for Governesses in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne,
Paris, of which Miss Pryde is the superintendent. Address her at 22, Rue
des Acacias, Avenue de la Grande Armée.

Dolores.—There are no stated times for giving competitions in our paper—which
you call “compesition classes.” They involve great additional trouble
and the monopoly of time to an extent of which our young readers have
little idea. Imagine the labour of reading through about 4,000 contributions,
comparing all together, and judging between them! Of course, such an
undertaking can only be volunteered once in a way, or the daily work of the
magazine could not be carried on. Your handwriting is not yet formed,
but promises well.

Ourang-outang and Gorilla.—Have
nothing to do with the appliance called
“Planchette.” It is employed in divination,
or what is akin to it. We do
not undertake to supply
“characters from
handwriting.” There
are many people
who advertise to do
so for thirteenpence.

GUERNSEY FLOWERS.