THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

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

EARLY MORNING NATURE-STUDY.
LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
HOUSEHOLD HINTS.
SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.
FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.
VARIETIES.
COURTESY.
THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.
OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES.
“MY FAVOURITE CONTRIBUTORS” COMPETITION.
OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: AN ACCIDENTAL CYCLE III.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
OUR NEW PUZZLE POEM.

EARLY MORNING NATURE-STUDY.

MRS. BRIGHTWEN IN HER GARDEN.

All rights reserved.]

To a true lover of nature hardly anything can
be more thoroughly enjoyable than a quiet
hour spent in some shady spot early on a
summer’s morning, whilst the dew is still upon
the flowers, and before any sounds can be
heard except those made by happy birds and
insects.

In my garden there is a little dell embowered
by trees, where I often spend an hour or
two before breakfast for the special purpose
of enjoying the company of my pet wild
creatures.

On one side are five arches, formed possibly
some hundreds of years ago, since the great
stones are grey with age and picturesquely
moss-grown and ivy-clad. Young trees, too,
are growing here and there out of the crevices
into which the wind has wafted their seeds.

In an open space before me are groups of
stately foxgloves of every tint, ranging from
purple through rose-colour to pure white.
Some of them have stems fully seven feet in
height, each bearing not fewer than a hundred
and forty or fifty flowers.

Not only amongst these foxgloves, but in
the lime branches overhead innumerable bees
keep up a continuous murmuring sound as{610}
they busily gather their morning store of
honey.

Various tall grasses are sending up their
feathery plumes, and in a special bed where
only wild flowers are allowed to grow, teasel,
hypericum, valerian, and bog-myrtle are delighting
my eyes by the free, graceful way in
which they make themselves at home as if in
their native habitat.

Under one of the arches the birds always
find an abundance of food, which I strew for
them several times in the day.

There I see young blackbirds, chaffinches,
hedge-sparrows, wrens, and titmice feasting
and flitting about, quite regardless of my
presence. One advantage of this retreat is
that no house-sparrows come here to annoy
the more timid birds.

The quietness and peace of this secluded
spot is in marked contrast to the scenes I
witness near the house. There sparrows reign
supreme. They come down in flocks to gorge
themselves and their offspring upon the sopped
bread, rudely driving away many other kinds
of birds that I would fain encourage.

It may be observed that I have not spoken
of robins feeding under the archway, because
only one haunts this spot, and he is my special
pet, and elects to sit on a bough close to me
warbling his sweet low song, and occasionally
accepting some choice morsel from my hand.

When he was a brown-coated youngster I
began to feed and attract him, and in one
week he gained so much confidence as to
alight on my hand.

He is now my devoted adherent, flying to
meet me in different parts of the garden as
soon as he hears my voice.

I am much interested, and I think he is also,
in the development of the little scarlet waistcoat
which marks his arrival at maturity. I
saw the first red feather appear, just a mere
tinge of colour amongst the rest, and now
daily I see the hue is deepening. If bathing
and pluming will tend to make him a handsome
robin, he bids fair to outshine his compeers, for
he is always busy about his toilet, first fluttering
in a large clam-shell, which contains water,
and then becoming absorbed in his preening
operations, which nothing will interrupt but
the appearance of another robin, who, of
course, must be flown at and driven away.

Birds, however, are not my only visitors.
Some tame voles or field-mice creep stealthily
in and out of the rockwork and find their way
to the birds’ feeding-ground, where they also
enjoy the seeds and coarse oatmeal, and amuse
me much with their graceful play and occasional
scrimmages. Field-mice are easily
tamed and made happy in captivity.

Last year I coaxed a pair of these voles into
a large glass globe, and kept them long
enough to observe sundry family events, such
as nest-building, the arrival of some baby-voles,
and their development from small pink infants
into full-grown mice, and then I set the whole
family at liberty under the archway, where
they now disport themselves with all the confidence
of privileged rodents.

By remaining absolutely still for an hour or
two, quietly reading or thinking, one has
delightful opportunities of seeing rare birds
quite at their ease.

A green woodpecker, all unconscious of my
presence, is clinging to an old tree stem near
by, and I can not only hear his tapping noise,
but I am able to observe how he is supported
by the stiff feathers in his tail, which press
against the tree, and how his long tongue
darts into crevices in the bark and draws out
the insects upon which he feeds.

I follow his upward progress around the
stem until he flies away with the loud laughing
cry which has earned for him the local
name of Yaffle.

Hawfinches are by no means common in
this neighbourhood, but one morning I was
much interested to be able to watch three or
four of these birds, which had alighted on the
top of a spruce fir in this dell. Their golden-red
plumage glistened brightly as they busily
flitted from branch to branch, snapping off
small fir-sprays with their powerful beaks, and
chattering to each other all the while like
diminutive parrots.

Now the early morning sun is sending shafts
of brilliant light through the thick foliage, and
bringing out special objects in high relief.

Just beside me is a large mass of grey stone,
moss-grown and fern-shaded. The sun has
lighted up one side of this; the rest is in
shadow, so that it forms a picture in itself, and
my robin has alighted on it as though on purpose
to give the touch of colour that was needed.

All my readers may not have so sweet a
spot in which to study nature, but I do strongly
commend to them the delight of a quiet time
spent alone out-of-doors in the early morning.

The air is then so pure and fresh that it
seems to invigorate one’s mind no less than
one’s body, and in the country the sights and
sounds are such as tend to helpful thoughts of
the love and goodness of the Creator Who has
blessed us with so much to make us happy, if
only we will open our eyes and hearts to see
and understand the works of His hands.

Eliza Brightwen.

LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.

PART VIII.

The Temple.

My dear Dorothy,—Nothing seems to
puzzle the ordinary public so much as the
law of omnibus travelling, and in one of two
cases which I saw reported the other day, the
worthy County Court judge seems, if he
were correctly reported, to have made a slip
and nonsuited a plaintiff with a good cause of
action. I am inclined to think, however, that
it was the reporter who made the slip and not
the judge, by omitting an important point in
the case which had escaped his notice, and I
think I can pretty well guess what that point
was.

As both the actions arose out of incidents of
everyday occurrence, which might happen to
anyone, I will here relate them for your benefit.

The first case was one in which a lady
claimed damages from an omnibus company—I
think it was the London General, but that
is a detail—on account of injuries received
through the misconduct of the conductor. It
appears that there had been a previous
altercation between the parties, and that when
the lady rose to go out, he pushed her off the
step and started the bus, so that the lady fell
down and injured her leg.

The judge very properly nonsuited the
plaintiff, because it is not part of an omnibus
conductor’s duties to violently push people off
his omnibus; such behaviour on his part was
something outside of his ordinary duties as a
servant of the Company. The lady therefore
had no cause of action against the Company;
her remedy was against the conductor for the
assault.

This may seem to you, my dear Dorothy, to
be a very unsatisfactory state of affairs, but so
it is, and it seems to me to be good sense and
good law, although I admit that an action
against a wealthy omnibus company and one
against a poor conductor are not quite the same
thing.

In the other case a lady brought an action
against an omnibus company to recover the
value of a dress, which she stated had been
damaged owing to her falling into the mud
through the negligence or carelessness of the
conductor in starting the omnibus before she
had taken her seat.

According to the report, as I read it, she
was going upstairs, but before she got to the
top, the conductor, without giving her any
warning, rang his bell, and the omnibus started
with a jerk, which threw her off into the mud
and spoilt her dress.

Now if these had been the only facts in the
case, I should have said that this lady was
entitled to recover the value of her damaged
costume from the omnibus company, because
it is undoubtedly part of the conductor’s duties
to ring his bell and stop to take up and set
down passengers, and if a passenger is going
outside he ought not to start the omnibus
until the passenger has secured his seat, or
without giving him warning or taking other
reasonable means to see that he gets his seat
in safety.

But in this also the plaintiff was nonsuited,
and, although it did not appear so in the report,
the learned judge must have thought that there
was some negligence on the part of the lady.
Possibly she had got on to the omnibus whilst
it was in motion, as so many ladies do nowadays.
This would at once put her out of court.
If there had not been contributory negligence of
some kind, this lady would have won her case.

If you meet with an accident through getting
on or off an omnibus whilst it is in motion,
you contribute to the accident in not ordering
the conductor to stop, and you have only yourself
to blame; if, however, you had ordered
the conductor to stop and he had neglected or
refused to do so, you would probably succeed
in an action against the company.

Nowadays, when nearly all the omnibus
companies issue tickets, you are not bound to
show your tickets whenever they are demanded
by a conductor or inspector, but it is wiser to
do so because the absence of a ticket will generally
be regarded by the magistrate as evidence
of your not having paid your fare, and unless
you have any friends travelling with you who
are ready to come forward and swear that they
saw you purchase a ticket, you will very likely
be fined and have to pay costs as well. If you
are travelling in a train or a tram, you are
bound to produce and deliver up your ticket
whenever it is demanded by a servant of the
company, the railway and the tramway
companies having special powers to make bye-laws
to this effect.

The muzzling orders still remain in force for
the Metropolis, although in the country the
dogs are freed of their muzzles.

A man who was summoned the other day
for allowing his dog to run about unmuzzled,
tried to make a point by pleading that he did
not permit the dog to run about unmuzzled.
Whenever he took the dog out he always put
his muzzle on, but on this occasion the dog had
gone out without his permission. However,
the magistrate fined him all the same, just as
he did

Your affectionate cousin,
Bob Briefless.

{611}

THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

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

CHAPTER XIII.

STARTLED!

hen once Lucy’s
work began at the
Institute her days
were very full. She
rose early, gave her
simple household
orders, and prepared
Hugh for the
Kindergarten,
where she left him
while she held her
classes. Hugh took
his lunch with him,
for he stayed at the
Kindergarten rather
longer than the
other children, so
as to wait till his
mother fetched him.
Lucy had explained
her peculiar position
to the Kindergarten
governess, a Miss Foster, and
that lady had readily entered into this
arrangement.

It was a great relief to Lucy to find
that Hugh was soon quite happy among
his new surroundings, returning home
with plenty of wonders to tell, and
being always eager for next day’s start.
Miss Foster often came to the door to
see Lucy and to deliver over her pupil.
She was loud in praise of the little boy,
confiding to Lucy that his state of
mental development was so different
from that of too many of her pupils.
They had generally been left so much
in the care of servants and nurses.

“A little one who is generally in the
company of its mother, or of somebody
who really cares for it, may be said to
enjoy all the advantages of kindergarten
from its very cradle,” she remarked.
“Its education has been going on
happily and unconsciously all the while.
Its little brain and hands have found
occupation in imitating the work or
doings it sees. It is not left to gape
and stare at the things around—all
wonders to it—but it is encouraged to
ask questions, and it gets its questions
cheerfully and patiently answered.”

“I suppose that is a very important
item,” said Lucy.

“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Foster.
“A careless nurse may often answer
a question, but she does this snappily,
perhaps with a hasty shake or a cross
remark that the child is ‘a silly, little
worrit.’ That encourages no further
inquiry, and the baby-mind often closes
over ridiculously wrong impressions,
which can only confuse and blur its
mind and all its processes.”

Lucy smiled.

“Yes,” she answered, “I can understand
that, for children generally want
a second answer to explain the first. I
remember Hugh once asked me as we
walked past some burial ground what it
was used for. I told him ‘to put
people’s bodies in when they die.’ He
said ‘Oh!’ and walked along quietly,
but looking puzzled. I felt sure he had
some afterthought, so I said, ‘You have
learned what a burial ground is now,
Hughie, haven’t you? To put people’s
bodies in when they die.’ Hughie
snuggled up to me and whispered the
confidential question, ‘If they only put
their bodies there, what do they do with
their heads?’ What an idea he would
have carried away if his second question
had not been drawn out!”

Miss Foster laughed.

“Such things occur constantly,” she
said. “I daresay we have all heard
the story of the little girl who said she
liked to go to church when they sang
the hymn about the bear. No? Well,
it runs that she made this remark to her
mother, who was more interested in her
child’s preferences than it is likely any
servant would have been. So she asked,
‘Which hymn is that, my dear?’ ‘Oh,
the one about the bear that squints.’
‘The bear that squints!’ said the
mother, surprised, and knowing at once
that something was wrong. ‘What does
this mean?’ She could not ask the
child to show the hymn, for she could
not yet read. But instead of saying
‘Don’t be silly!’ she pursued the inquiry.
‘What makes you think there is
anything about a bear that squints?’
‘Oh, I’ve heard you sing it often,’
replied the child. ‘You sing “the
consecrated cross-eye bear!”’”

They both laughed.

“That may be apocryphal,” commented
Miss Foster, “but if so it is a
fable which covers a great deal of
fact.”

“It need not be apocryphal,” returned
Lucy. “A distinguished preacher once
told me that as a child he learned the
lines—

Surely a beautiful image, and one which
to the adult mind it seems impossible to
misunderstand. But from the standpoint
of the child, accustomed himself constantly
to sit on people’s knees, the
idea presented itself differently. He
fancied that it was the saint’s sitting
on Satan’s knees which caused Satan’s
agitation! It never occurred to him
that there could be any other meaning,
and his puzzle was not over any doubt
on that head, but only concerning what,
in such a circumstance, was the cause of
Satan’s dismay, for he knew that if he
himself sat on anybody’s knees, he was
rather in that person’s power, and could
be easily got rid of. He went on saying
and singing that hymn for years, the
wonderment always recurring. He told
me that the truth did not dawn on him
till he was a grown youth attending
theological classes. Then he said it came
with such a lightning-flash that it nearly
made him cry out in chapel!”

“There is even a more serious aspect
of this kind of misunderstanding,” said
Miss Foster, “which may really lead to
a wrong stratum of character if children
are not encouraged to speak out and
show how they take things. Grown-up
people sometimes say hasty or playful
words which no other ‘grown-up’ would
take literally, but children do. It often
seems to me as if, though the little folk
are themselves ready to ‘make believe’
to any extent, yet they cannot credit any
‘make believe’ in others. Let me tell
you a story in illustration.

“A friend has lately bought a house,
on whose staircase is a beautiful stained
glass window; but its value is rather
spoiled for her by the fact that in its
centre are the initials of the late owners
of the house, not interesting people in
any way, but very commonplace folk
who made money by speculations. One
day a little boy-visitor was admiring the
window, and asked about the initials.
My friend explained them to him, and
then, turning to another visitor, laughingly
said, ‘We must get somebody to
throw a stone through that pane.’
Presently she noticed that the little boy
kept very closely to her side, and by-and-by
he whispered, ‘Mrs. Gray, I
can hit very well. I’ll throw a stone at
that window. I’ll do it to-day if you
like.’ ‘Oh, my dear,’ she said, ‘that
would never do at all. We must get it
done properly some other time.’ He
was disappointed, but said no more
then. When he was taking leave,
however, he whispered, ‘Mrs. Gray,
when do you want that stone thrown?
You’ll ask me, won’t you? You won’t
let anybody else do it?’ Now if he
had not been a child accustomed to free
speech, he might have taken that lady’s
jest in earnest and have thrown the
stone, which would likely have missed
its aim and done incalculable mischief.
Mrs. Gray would have quite forgotten
her remark. Overwhelmed by his
failure and by censures unaccountable
to him which would have fallen upon
him, he would, according to all the precedents
of childish criminals, have
‘reserved his defence,’ and he would
have been set down as a mischievous
monkey, if not a malignant little wretch,
for making such return for pleasant
hospitality.”

“I suppose too,” said Lucy, “that
every time we let a child talk a matter
out and help it to follow the explanations
we give, we are really unconsciously
training its mind to think out things for
itself, and not to rest content at any
point where it is not really satisfied.”

“Exactly so,” answered Miss Foster.
“The facts which a child learns are
always of little importance compared
with the exercise of its mind in grasping
them. That is why learning anything
by rote is useless save as an exercise of
memory, and that explains, too, why
some people who are said to have ‘no
book-learning’ are far keener observers
and arrive at more judicious conclusions{612}
than do pedants. The plainer folk
have probably learned to use their minds
upon the work of their hands. It is
with minds as it is with bodies: unless
the digestion is in order, food does not
nourish, is not assimilated, and only
results in disease. So though there is
more ‘knowledge’ in the world to-day
than ever before, and though it is more
widely distributed, yet at every turn the
public mind—with its violent prejudices,
its unreasonable fluctuations, and its inability
to look below any surface conclusions
that are offered to it—proves
that the Hebrew prophet’s complaint
‘that the people do not consider’ is as
true as ever it was. Probably in face of
present day opportunities and issues it
is even truer. I often think that it will
remain so till parents take more interest
in their children’s society before they
are eight years old.”

“I hear that many school children
have so many home lessons that they
can’t have much time for home talk,”
said Lucy.

“That is so,” consented Miss Foster,
“and in my opinion, during the regular
school age home lessons ought to be
almost unknown. All the time at home
is needed for home society and home
usefulness if the child is to have a good
all-round development. The worst cases
I have known of this kind of loss and
defect have been among the children of
modish women, who had ‘social duties’
which they preferred to walking out and
talking with their little ones. If women
can’t have patience and pleasure in
their own children, why should they
expect it in their nursemaids? And
they don’t get it. I have often seen
children dragging along, silent, listless,
gaping, with an irritable or indifferent
nurse, and a few minutes after I have
met ‘mamma’ driving out to pay her
calls.”

“I am always so sorry for widows
who have to leave their children to
others simply that they may discharge
other duties to their children themselves,”
observed Lucy. “A woman
cannot at once play with her babies and
earn their bread. I’m afraid we don’t
think enough about the hardships which
beset some lives. Perhaps they seldom
press on our attention till we feel a
touch of them ourselves.”

“I think a crèche is a very useful
form of charity,” answered Miss Foster,
“provided that rules are carefully made
not to encourage married women to
think of becoming wage-earners as if
that was the proper thing when their
husbands can and should be working
for them.”

Lucy smiled a little sadly.

“I am not thinking only of the class
who can be helped by a crèche,” she
said. “I was thinking of another type
of widowed women who uphold their
homes by being authors or artists, or
by managing shops or businesses. They
are forced to leave their children so
much under other influences, and it is
so sad if, after bravely playing a father’s
part for years, it ends in the disappointment
of their mother-heart and the
frustration of their best hopes.”

“Ay, I quite agree with you!” cried
Miss Foster heartily, “and I congratulate
you warmly on being one of those
whose light affliction, lasting but a little
while, suffices to open new and wider
sympathies. I hope you are always
getting the best news of Mr. Challoner?”
she added. For Lucy had told the little
teacher how she was placed at the
present time.

“The very best of news, thank you,”
Lucy answered. For Charlie’s ship letter
had been followed by others, posted at
various ports, and all telling the same
good tidings of revived health and
strength. Indeed, the very last letter
had hinted that the improvement was so
marked and so stable that Charlie was
sorely tempted to shorten his absence
and return home by steamer. He
wrote that he had suggested this to
Grant, who “seemed very much cut up
about it, but had raised no difficulty.”

In reply to that letter Lucy had written
at once, urging her husband not to think
of such a thing. The better he was,
the better reason was there for carrying
through the original plan. “Because
the foundation is so good, there is the
brighter prospect in building on it,” she
said. And besides, Lucy confided to
Charlie that Captain Grant’s wife, in
writing to her, had said that the fee for
Charlie’s trip would just enable her
husband to pay off the last of his
father’s debts, which he had honestly
taken upon himself. “And when they
have brought us such good luck in
enabling you to take this voyage,”
wrote Lucy, “we must not spoil any
good luck that our share in the matter
may have brought them. Let us be
wise and patient,” wrote Lucy, crushing
back a sneaking hope that Charlie
might even have started homeward
before he could get her reply to his
letter. “In that case we must pay the
Grants all the same,” she reflected,
“though I am afraid they would not
take it.” Then she proved to herself
the sincerity of her counsels to Charlie
by still resolutely withholding the story
of her domestic changes, which she
had meant to tell him at this time
when she had pulled through so far.
But if she did so, it might add the last
link to the yearning that was pulling him
home, and she would do nothing to
strengthen a temptation whose force was
revealed in her own heart.

She walked home rather soberly
after her little conversation with the
Kindergarten mistress. Certainly it
strengthened her in the resolutions she
had formed and had steadily carried
out. But she could not refuse to know
that she was living under considerable
strain. Her teaching at the Institute
was strenuous and exacting. Apart
from the mental exertion, she was on
her feet all the time. By the time she
reached home, she was thoroughly exhausted,
and was really fit for nothing
but a nap, or at least an afternoon’s
repose on the sofa, half dreaming over
some simple book. But there could be
no such rest for her. For this was the
only time when Hugh could have a
walk, and so off they went together.
She often wondered whether he noticed
that she was not quite so lively as she
used to be, not so ready for a run, or so
good at a game of ball. But a little
child takes much on trust. Then they
came home to tea, which generally
refreshed her considerably. After that,
Hugh sat at her side, with his bricks, his
picture books, or his “transparent slate,”
while she did all the household mending.
Jane Smith never put a finger to this, not
because she refused to do so, but because
when she attempted it on one occasion,
she ruined a pair of fine grey woollen
hand-knitted stockings, by drawing a
slightly-worn heel together with coarse
white worsted, showing that she had
not the most rudimentary idea of what
darning should be.

Now this is just the kind of household
work for which it would be a waste of
time and power to hire help, especially
in such a small family. Then as the
washing was no longer done at home,
Lucy had to prepare the account for the
laundry, and to see that the things were
sent home correctly, which as they
scarcely ever were, led to correspondence
and general worry.

By the time all these inevitable little
tasks were accomplished, it was generally
time for Hugh to go to bed.
After that Lucy was free. Of course,
in the winter nights, painting was
impossible. But through the art
dealers, Lucy had heard of an opening
for pen-and-ink sketches, and it was
this eventide that she had hoped to give
to this work. She could reckon on about
two hours’ solitude, and yet retire to
rest early. She soon found out, however,
that leisure is of little avail for such
pursuits if energies and spirits are
exhausted beforehand.

Yet Jane Smith was the very last
person with whom Lucy could relax her
vigilance in keeping Hugh to herself.
She often shuddered to think how, had
Mrs. Morison’s fair appearances held out
a little longer, she might have been
tempted to trust her boy with the nice
motherly-looking widow—a misplaced
confidence which might have ended in a
terrible catastrophe. But Jane Smith
offered no such temptation. She was
so plainly nothing but the common
professional servant, who does her work
as well as any work can be done without
genuine interest or any sense of what is
fitting or pretty. After she had spread a
tablecloth Mrs. Challoner generally had
to straighten it; she drew the blinds up
askew; she never noticed when a stair-rod
slipped from its socket. Lucy
herself always had to be watchful that
clean sheets were well aired. Once she
found them put quite damp upon the
beds. Pollie had always fed the cat in
the kitchen, and so had Mrs. Morison,
and certainly the poor animal had thriven
well under her brief régime, till that day
of disgrace, when she dropped boiling
gravy on it! But Lucy remarked that
pussy, who had always come upstairs
for “company,” now often came up
mewing. Puss seemed getting thin, so
Lucy took its meals into her own care.
She asked Jane Smith if she neglected
her. Jane Smith said “No,” but
owned she “might have forgotten it
sometimes.”

That was Jane Smith all over. She{613}
took her wages and did her work, but
it was without any “head,” and also,
Lucy was forced to admit, without any
heart.

There was not much definite fault to
be found with this Jane. The kitchen
was fairly clean and tidy; it had only
ceased to look snug and inviting. The
public rooms were presentable—after
Lucy had gone round everywhere,
shaking out a curtain here, removing
a chair from grazing the wall there, and
lifting china bowls from perilous positions
on the very edge of a shelf. As for the
bedrooms, Jane did not seem to know
how to make a bed comfortably, and
did not seem able to learn. Lucy
generally had much adjustment to do
before she could happily court slumber.

Still Jane carried on what may be
called “the ruck” of household labour
after a fashion. Lucy did not dream
of giving her notice to leave, not being
one of those mistresses with whom that
possibility is for ever present. Indeed
with her strained nerves and strength
it seemed really far easier to supplement
Jane’s perfunctory work than to
entertain any thought of once more
facing change and a wrestle with the
unknown.

Jane’s lover, the young carpenter,
came regularly once a week, and stayed
about two hours. Mrs. Challoner saw
him once or twice, when household
business took her to the kitchen, during
his visits. He looked a dull, decent
young man, with a shock of red hair
and a smooth boyish face. He sat
close beside the fire, even when the
spring evenings had grown warm. Lucy
addressed him with a cheerful “Good
evening,” and made one or two slight
remarks about the weather, to which he
made little response save a movement
of the lips, and a glance towards the
area-window. He did not rise when
Lucy entered the kitchen, but that
rudeness seemed due only to shyness
or slowness, for he always rose a few
minutes afterwards and remained
standing for the rest of her stay. Altogether,
Lucy decided that he was not
very bright; he was by no means one of
those young working men who come to
the front at evening colleges and clubs,
and are the moving spirits of their trades’
union. All the more, he seemed a fit
enough match for Jane, who would have
been indeed a hopeless drag on the life
of any rising man.

Sitting in her dining-room, Lucy could
hear through its floor the sound of the
voices in the kitchen, though the words,
of course, were inaudible. The conversation
of these courting evenings did not
seem very lively. Jane said a few words,
and the gruffer voice replied with a
monosyllable, and then there would be
a long pause, and presently the performance
would be repeated.

But one evening a week or two after
Easter, the conversation seemed to have
grown much livelier. It was the man
who had the most to say, and he spoke
faster and in a higher key than before.

“Is he waking up at last?” thought
unsuspicious Lucy, “or is it possible that
they have had a little tiff, and that he is
defending himself or scolding her? Perhaps
he does not like her new bonnet.”

For Lucy had seen Jane go out on the
previous Sunday evening in fresh and
gorgeous spring attire, her neat brown
dress and black jacket crowned by an
incompatible hat, round whose crown
pink, green and blue roses, feathers
and rosettes “screamed” loudly at
each other. Lucy had thought to herself
that her mother, in the old days, would
at once have “put her foot down” on
such headgear, but Lucy’s own sense
of fairness rebelled against any arbitrary
interference with a girl’s taste in dress
(when going about her own business)
simply because the girl was in her wage-paid
service at other times.

“I have seen Florence in hats I have
liked as little, though they were different,”
thought Lucy. “I know many
mistresses can’t bear their servants to
copy their style of dress—dear mother
would have regarded it as an unpardonable
impertinence—but I should be only
too proud and happy if my servants
would copy mine! Pollie was turning
in that direction—with just a few extra
bows and flowers, and silk velvet ribbon
where I put modest braid!”

But next week, when the courting
evening came round, the hitherto silent
lover was again voluble. Even sounds
of laughter arose—a thing unprecedented!
Lucy was always watchful to
hear the kitchen door close and the
manly step mount the area steps at the
precise hour she had named. She had
never had any reason to complain on
this score. The carpenter had taken
his departure with painful punctuality.
But to-night, the nearest church-clock
chimed nine, and the chat in the kitchen
went gaily on. Presently Lucy looked
at her watch—it was half-past nine.
She hated to begin fault-finding for any
trifling accidental lapse. Still it was
time the supper-tray was brought up.

She had her hand on the bell when
there was quite a lively stampede in the
kitchen, the area door closed with
a hilarious bang, fleet feet mounted the
area steps as if by two at a time, and
the area gate clanged to the sound of
a merry whistle.

Jane, with the supper-tray, seemed
more alert than usual, almost officious
in her endeavour to do of her own accord
little things of which Mrs. Challoner
generally had to remind her.

Next week, when the same evening
came round, and the kitchen voices
were again audible, it chanced that
Lucy found she had left her housekeeping
book on the kitchen dresser.
She thought to herself that she would
not ring for it, but would fetch it herself,
and so take opportunity of keeping
in touch with the domestic idyll whose
new developments were beginning to
interest her.

But when she opened the kitchen door
she started and almost cried out.

(To be continued.)

SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

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

CHAPTER XII.

A FAIR ISLAND.

“Oh, how lovely!” cried Sheila.

The glow of a golden sunset was on
sea and shore, as the great vessel
rounded the corner and came into view
of the harbour of Funchal. The lonely
Desertas to their left lay bathed in the
reflected light from the westering sun,
whilst upon their right lay the fair island
of Madeira, its wild mountain range
cleft with great ravines, and dotted with
innumerable quintas and little houses
shining in a sort of shimmering glory,
the white city with its many buildings
and spires lying peacefully on the
margin of the sea, the shore alive with
little boats, looking like so many caterpillars
upon the green water as the
rowers pushed them outwards towards
the great in-coming steamer.

“Oh, Miss Adene, I am quite sorry
the voyage is over; but how lovely
Madeira is!”

“Yes, I told you you would be
pleased! And see over yonder, beyond
the town, on that sort of promontory as
it looks from here, that is the New
Hotel, where we are all going. It looks
a little bare from here, but the garden
is a wilderness of flowers when we get
there. It is the most homelike hotel I
was ever in, and I have had a good
many experiences. Yes, those boats
are to take us off. We cannot get very
close inshore. The harbourage is not
good, and in rough weather the mails
have to stand a good way out, and I
have known passengers swung on board
in baskets by the steam-crane. But
that is quite exceptional. Generally it
is like to-day, calm and quiet, and the
boats take us off without any trouble.
Mr. Reid will come out in one, and take
all trouble off our hands. We just give
him our keys and tell him the number of
our boxes, and he passes it through
the Customs and brings it up, and we
have no sort of trouble at all.”

Mrs. Cossart was very much relieved
to find how easily everything was done
when once the kindly hotel proprietor
came on board. She was able to give
her undivided care to Effie, whilst Sheila
was running about saying good-bye to
captain, officers, and such passengers
as were going on to the Cape or the
Canaries, and in the end found herself
left behind by that boat, and had to go
ashore under Miss Adene’s wing, which,
however, troubled her no whit.

“A bullock-cart! Oof! How perfectly
delicious!” she cried, as they
were shown the conveyance in which
they were to be carried to the hotel.
“Oh, you dear creatures! What sweet
faces they have! Oh, I hope they are
kind to you! Miss Adene, isn’t it lovely
to go in a bullock-cart? Oh, I hope it
is a long way!”

“It takes about twenty minutes. You
see, the bullies do not go very fast,”
laughed Miss Adene, as she took her
place. “This is what we call a carro;
it has runners like a sledge instead of
wheels. You see, all the streets are
paved with cobble-stones, so that the
runners slide easily along them; and it
is the same everywhere in the island
right up into the hills; nothing but these
paved roads for bullock carros, and
running carros, and sleds for carrying
goods. But the mountain carros are
much lighter than these that they use in
the town, or they could not get them up
the steep, steep roads.”

Sheila was in an ecstasy as they went
jogging along through the quaint little
town. She exclaimed with delight at
everything she saw, the little brown-legged,
dark-eyed children, the women
with shawls over their heads, the little
boys running with strange calls at the
heads of the bullocks, and, above all, at
the gorgeous masses of the flowering
creepers which draped the walls of the
houses and fell in great curtains over
the outside mirantes. Deep orange
bignonia, bougainvillia, purple and
scarlet, delicate plumbago, with roses
and heliotrope in such masses that the
eye was dazzled and the air heavy with
perfume.

“I could not have believed it if I had
not seen it!” cried Sheila again and
again. “And, oh, how hot and delicious
it is! Effie must get well here!”

The New Hotel was a fine building,
and there was pretty little Mrs. Reid
waiting smiling in the hall to give them
a welcome. Miss Adene had several
kindly questions to ask, and went off
with Mrs. Reid to the suite of rooms
which had been bespoken for the
Dumaresqs, whilst Sheila was handed
over to the care of a tall, slight, ladylike
girl, who took her up and up to the
rooms selected by Mrs. Cossart.

“It is a long way up, but they
thought the air would be fresher and
the rooms more quiet for the lady who
is ill,” she explained; and Sheila, to
whom stairs were no trouble, was
delighted. After all, it was only on the
second floor; only, the rooms being lofty,
the journey seemed a little long.

“Oh, Effie,” cried Sheila, “what a
splendid room! How high, and cool,
and delicious! Oh, I do like these
white walls! And what views we get!
Oh, how I love those great, great wild
mountains! And there is the dear sea
out of this one. It is nice to have two
different views, and both so lovely! Oh,
how happy we shall be!”

Effie was lying on the sofa, but she
was looking interested and animated.
The maid passed in and out, looking
about her, and keeping an eye on her
young charge.

“Yes, I like being up here. I feel as
though I could breathe. I was afraid it
might be too hot below. Father and
mother have the room next but one
looking south over the sea, and Susan
has the next one, though it is big, so
that we are all together. She may have
to move when the hotel fills up; but she
is to be there now. I think I shall like
this place, Sheila; and the people seem
so kind.”

Kindness indeed seemed to prevail
here. The Portuguese chambermaid, in
her odd, broken English, was wishful to
know what kind of bedding and pillows
the ladies liked; and when she brought
in anything asked for, she would set it
down with a beaming smile, saying,
“Sank you, my ladies.” The curly-haired
waiter who brought up afternoon
tea almost at once was wishful to know
what the ladies liked; and before long,
Mrs. Reid had come up to see if Effie
were comfortable, and talk cheerfully
and kindly to her till called off in
another direction.

“I must just run down and round the
garden!” cried Sheila, after they had
eagerly drunk their tea. “I wonder if
I might bring you back some flowers?
If I see Mrs. Reid, I will ask her.”

Mrs. Reid quite laughed at the
question as Sheila passed her going out.

{615}

“As many as ever you like. And
take care not to slip on the pebbled
paths. People have got to get used to
them.”

Ronald was outside, and hailed Sheila
eagerly.

“Come along and let us explore!”
he cried. “Give me your hand. These
cobbles are mighty slippery. They say
gravel would be washed away by the
tropical showers even if they could get
it. But it’s precious queer walking down
these steep places. One wants to be a
bullock for that.”

It was a strange, wild garden, with
great palms growing in the beds, and
the walls of the terraces, for it was all
more or less terraced out of the face
of the cliff, covered with curtains of
creepers, most of them a mass of bloom.
Roses in sprays as long as your arm
drooped temptingly within reach, and
the little heavy-scented gardenia filled
the air with fragrance.

Sheila ran from place to place, exclaiming
and admiring, glancing with
shy interest at other visitors strolling
about, and making her companion laugh
again and again by her enthusiasm.

“Oof, a tennis-court!” she cried,
darting suddenly through an opening.
“Oh, did you ever see anything so
lovely? It is like a Tadema picture!”

It was rather, for the floor was of
concrete, looking white in the fading
light, and there were stone seats all
round it for spectators, whiter still. All
round a trellis had been placed, wired
in against balls, and this trellis was just
one sheet of glorious colour. Curtains
of bougainvillia hung over at one place,
at another heliotrope of roses made a
perfect screen, intermingled with scarlet
geranium, poinsettia, and plumbago.
Through little gaps in this floral curtain,
and through vistas of palm and cactus
beyond, could be caught glimpses of
the blue sea, and overhead the sky rose
sapphire clear, with that peculiar purity
and depth of colour which characterises
those latitudes.

“Oh, isn’t it lovely?” cried Sheila in
ecstasy.

“Awfully pretty,” replied her companion,
“though the floor might be
better for playing. There are some big
cracks. Do you like tennis, Miss
Cholmondeley?”

“Oof, yes!” cried the girl eagerly;
“but I have not had much practice
this summer. Effie was ill, and I was
not going to parties. Do you play well,
Mr. Dumaresq?”

“No, not well according to the
modern standard; but perhaps you will
condescend to play with me. But come
along; I want to see what that little
building is up there. In there is the
bungalow, a sort of dependence of the
hotel. The Reids offered it to us as an
independent home of our own, but as
Guy is rather lame and weak, and we
should have to come up to the hotel for
meals, we declined; there are too many
steps. But it is a pretty place; such a
sheer drop to the sea below. It must
be like living in a ship’s cabin. Now I
want to see how to get to that other
building. I think there’s a sort of a
path round here. I’ve a fancy it may
be the billiard-room from my aunt’s
description of the place.”

A billiard-room it was—half of it, at
least; the other half was quite empty
save for a piano and some chairs round
the walls.

“It looks made for a dance!” cried
Sheila, pirouetting round. “Are all
hotels as perfectly delightful as this?”

The sun had just dipped behind the
hills, and the shadows were coming on
apace.

“I suppose it gets dark pretty soon
here,” said Ronald. “Let us go back
to the house now. We must finish the
garden to-morrow. There is plenty
more to see.”

Sheila had sprays of roses and
heliotrope in her hands as she ran
upstairs to Effie. A lamp had been
brought in, and the big, lofty room
looked quite gay.

“Oh, what roses!” cried Effie in
real delight. “Aren’t they splendid?
I am going to like this place immensely,
Sheila, and we have such a good plan.
Susan isn’t to have the big room next
door; it’s to be turned into a sitting-room
for us. Mrs. Reid will get it
done to-morrow, and Susan will sleep
in a little room close by; then this
great turret place will be all our own,
and we can have our friends up to tea
and all that sort of thing. I want to
get to know the Dumaresqs better.
You get on with them very well, don’t
you, Sheila?”

“They are very kind to me. I think
they were sorry for me on ship-board
because I was alone at first. Lady
Dumaresq is lovely, and the little boy is
so sweet, and Miss Adene has always
been like a friend.”

Effie was moving about the room a
little restlessly.

“I don’t quite know how it is—I
suppose it’s being ill—but I don’t seem
to get on with people quite in the easy
way you do, Sheila; but you know at
home, before I was ill, they all used to
listen and laugh as they do now to you.
I don’t want to be left out in the cold.”

“Oh, no!” cried Sheila eagerly,
though with a slightly heightened
colour. Somehow she too had the
feeling that people did not take very
much to Effie. They all asked kindly
after her, but a little of her conversation
seemed to go a long way.

Mrs. Cossart here came in to say
that she would dine upstairs with Effie,
but that Sheila had better go down with
her uncle. So Susan was sent for to
get at a dress, the luggage having
arrived all safe, and the girl was soon
arrayed in a soft black net evening
gown, very simple, but very becoming,
with a spray of white roses fastened
upon her shoulder.

“Mind you tell me about all the
people when you come back!” said
Effie, who was quite lively and bright
in spite of the fatigues and excitements
of the day; and Sheila was all curiosity
herself, for she had never before stayed
at a big hotel, and the novelty of
the life amused and interested her
immensely.

In the drawing-room there were a few
old ladies and a couple of gentlemen
reading the paper. They did not look
very amusing, Sheila thought. Then
the Dumaresqs came in, except Sir
Guy, who was not well enough to
appear. But Lady Dumaresq looked
bright and happy, confident that the
warmth and beauty about him would
soon put him right.

A gong sounded, and there was a
move to the adjoining dining-room, and
Sheila found herself seated at a long
table between her uncle and Ronald
Dumaresq, who coolly took possession
of the empty seat laid for Effie, whilst
the other guests filed in, some to the
long table, and some to the small ones
at the side, and the business of dinner
began.

Sheila was not hungry, but she enjoyed
watching and listening. A rather
handsome lady opposite was making
advances to their party with an air of
assurance and friendly patronage which
rather amused Sheila.

“A regular old hotel stager,” whispered
Ronald to her in an aside,
“would know the sort anywhere. Keeps
her husband in good order, one can see.
Rather a fine woman, but I don’t care
for her style.”

Then there were the usual habitués of
a health resort—a wife with a delicate
husband, a husband with a delicate
wife, a mother with a little asthmatic
boy (who would have been better in bed
at such an hour), a few travellers bent
on pleasure and relaxation rather than
health. Sheila tried to piece histories
on to the different faces, and Ronald
made some comical remarks and shrewd
guesses. But the party was not large
for the size of the hotel. The season
was quite early. It was not often so
full as this till after Christmas. A
rather wet summer and the threatened
outbreak of influenza had frightened a
good many people off before the usual
time.

“I think I’m glad of it,” said Sheila.
“It is such fun watching them. They
are all rather quiet now, but I suppose
they will make more noise when they
get to know each other.”

“We must try and set a good example,”
answered Ronald. “Now come
on to the verandah outside and see the
moonlight on the sea.”

The covered verandah outside the
drawing-room, with its comfortable
chairs and lounges, was quite an institution
at the New. Although on the
entrance side the drawing-room appeared
a ground-floor room, from the
verandah one looked right down over
the terraced garden with a sheer drop
on to the next level of twenty or thirty
feet. The view over the harbour was
lovely, the town lights and those of the
ships gleaming out in the soft darkness.

“There goes the Plymouth Castle,”
said Ronald, pointing out the vanishing
lights of the great steamer. Sheila
waved her hand in a parting salutation.

“Good-bye, dear old ship. I liked
being on you very much, but I don’t
want to be on you now, for you have
brought us to the most charming and
delightful place. Oh, how happy I am
going to be here!”

(To be continued.)

{616}

FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.

By “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”

THE TUNIC SKIRT.

Our sketches of to-day’s fashions in our
present issue are so absolutely true to life that
there is no difficulty in guessing the nature of
the frocks for to-morrow. As will be gathered
from them, we are quite out of date if we be
fat; therefore, if ambitious of shining in the
world of dress, we must begin to reduce our
size at once. Have you noticed, as I have,
how much the number of fat women is
decreasing? Perhaps, after a time, they will
be a marvellous exception, and we shall
notice them just as we notice sloping shoulders
and attenuated waists; to both of which our
immediate forbears were addicted. The
waists of the present day seem generally in
excellent proportion, and for this we have
to thank our adoption of the bicycle, on which
the corset cannot be worn, or, at least, very{617}
short ones, and not at all tight. In one way,
at least, we need improvement, and that is in
our carriage, for in that so many women and
girls fail. They stoop from the neck, or
from the waist, and slouch along in a most
ungraceful way.

I must begin with a few notes on underclothing.
So far as I can see, the petticoat
bodice is very little worn; most ladies seem
to prefer having the bodice fitted over the
corset, and wearing it in that manner, the
corset itself being worn over the petticoat.
The only drawback to this is that the dress-bodice
would so speedily become soiled at the
back of the neck. So I think one of those
pretty muslin under-bodices, which are cut in
Bolero style, and trimmed with lace, would be
the best thing to prevent it. I have lately
found some very good and well-woven cotton
combinations, which ranged in price from
1s. 9d. up to 4s. and 5s. They are more
economical wear than either woollen or silk
ones, and entail less risk of catching cold than
either. They wash well, and are very well-fitting.
I find this woven underclothing,
either as combinations or vests, is more used
than anything else. Indeed, one could fancy
as much from the enormous supply laid in at
the shops, of every material, size, and colour.
Many of them are so thin that they will
hardly bear washing.

In the way of petticoats, we have an
unlimited choice, and a vast improvement in
the cut and manufacture, as well as in the
material. The fashionable colour of the
season for them is pink—a bright and rather
violent shade, but it looks well with most
things, especially black. The new moreens of
the present season are of such a good description
that they are almost like a watered silk,
and they quite rustle like one. They have,
however, rather changed their names, and
they are called by some Marshallette, or
watered woollen moirés.

The new collars for our dresses are, most of
them, very high indeed, and pointed up to the
ears at each side. The swathing of the neck
with lace and the high collars make everyone
look very much covered up indeed, and as the
season progresses it will be very hot. There
are all kinds of boas made, and they appear to
be the only season’s wear. These boas are
made of feathers—ostrich, of course—in black,
white, grey, and black and white mixed; in
silk, lace, fringe, in chiffon of all colours, silk
muslin, spotted nets, and gauzes, the spotted
nets being, I think, the prettiest, though, of
course, the most perishable. Although they
are so expensive, everyone seems to find
money to purchase them, and some few girls
manage to find out the way to make them for
themselves.

Where skirts are concerned, we appear to
have no choice but to make them quite
tight-fitting about the hips, and they must
flow out about them; but we need not quite
adopt the eel-skin skirt, for there are several
shapes from which we can make our choice.
First, there is the old umbrella skirt, as it
used to be called, which is cut without seams,
and from material wide enough to cut it
without any join, save the one. Then there is
a skirt cut in the same manner, with a join up
the back, and then a skirt with two widths,
one of which is very wide and the other
narrow. This seems to be the most popular,
as it is more easy to fit. The last skirt that I
have seen is one with three widths, the front
one being narrow and the other two wide,
meeting in the centre of the back in a bias
seam. This, I am told by a first-rate dressmaker,
is the best skirt-pattern for very thin
people, who are gifted with big hips, however,
and who are tall.

I am bound to notice the extravagances of
fashion, so I must tell you that if you have
not enough width of hips to make your dress
look well, you can make up the deficiency by
purchase; and a large drapery firm in the
West End was exhibiting a few days ago the
necessary framework in their windows. But it
does not do always to trust to such machinery
pour se faire belle, as I must tell you also
that they sometimes get out of place, and
then you have hips where you do not want
them! I heard this funny story told the
other day, but I cannot vouch for its truth,
though I think the foolish people who adopt
such things would deserve to be made
ridiculous.

There is one great comfort in the midst of
the frills and furbelows of fashion, that we
may be quite as fashionable, and twice as
happy, if we elected to stick to our coats and
skirts and our pretty blouses of cotton and
muslin. The newest ones of this year are
really quite tight-fitting bodices. They are
not gathered at the shoulder seams nor at the
neck, and they are cut so tightly to the
figure that they allow of next to no fulness
at the waist, which makes them sit in a far
more tidy and neat way. They are all made
with yokes at the back, and they have
generally a very tight bishop’s sleeve.

The tunic, or, as perhaps you may hear it
called, and more usually so, the double skirt,
as they are really only modifications of each
other, looks as if it had come to take up its
abode with us, having been threatened for a
long time. We have illustrated two or three
of the most popular, which are undoubtedly
the ones with points which fall nearly to the
hem. Besides this there is a very long
all-round tunic, the edges of which are
scallopped, and
fall very low on
the under-skirt.
As all our gowns
are made much
too long, and must
be held up, this
is the most uncomfortable
shape
of all.

Perhaps the
greatest change of
the year has taken
place in the sunshades,
which are striped in various and wonderful
ways, and some surprising colours. As
to the embroideries, chiffons, laces, and ornaments
lavished on them, they are so many I
have no room to describe them. The latest I
have seen was of chiffon, embroidered in straw;
and on another I counted sixteen rows of
gathered baby-ribbon in three colours, the
foundation being in green satin.

A CLOTH GOWN.

Our first group of three figures shows, as
we have already said, three varieties of the
tunic. The gown on the extreme left is of
heliotrope canvas, over white silk. It has a
pointed tunic, trimmed with white silk, or
satin, ribbon, or tucking. The same is placed
in rows on the top of the sleeves, and there
are rows of heliotrope satin on the collar and
on the edge of the skirt. This is a very
pretty and girlish gown, which could be
carried out in any thicker material if desired.
The figure on the right hand side wears a
gown of plain grey alpaca, with an under-dress
of a crimson-figured poplin, which has rows
of narrow black velvet round the edge. The
tunic is also trimmed with rows of black
velvet, with cream lace, and the bodice has a
white satin yoke, with a front of crimson and
trimmings of black velvet also, with double
revers, which fold back. The hat is of the
new boat shape, and has three ostrich feathers
in it. These are very much uncurled, as it is
no longer the fashion to curl them very{618}
tightly, and the stem must show down its
entire length. They are often of shaded
colours, and are of moderate length.

TWO CAPES AND HATS.

The centre figure wears a very smart gown
in muslin, with flowers, the colour being blue,
in shades. It is made up over blue. There
are three scalloped flounces, and a tunic,
which are edged with blue velvet, and a tiny
lace. The bodice has revers of cream-coloured
chiffon, and there are frills of the same at the
side front, and the waist-band is of heliotrope
velvet, and is very narrow.

The charming figure in a fawn cloth tailor-made
gown wears one of the rather long and
rounded jackets. The trimmings
consist of rows of satin
ribbon and cream lace, three
rows of which go round the
skirt and jacket. The front
is of white satin and cream
lace, and the collar has rows
of satin on it to correspond.
These narrow satin ribbons
and tuckings, made of silk
and satin, are the special
trimmings of the year, and
they seem quite ubiquitous,
and look so pretty that we
have not got tired of them
yet.

There are so many muslins—organdies,
and the ordinary
corded ones—that it
is quite a muslin year, and
the lace and narrow ribbons
used on them are enormous
in amount. Lawn of the same
colour is generally used for
the linings if you do not
choose to afford silk. A
fine sateen will also answer.

Our third drawing shows
two pretty hats and two of
the most fashionable capes,
which still contrive to hold
their own in the dress of the
present season. The figure
on the left wears a short cape
of heliotrope silk, tucked and
trimmed with frills of white
chiffon, and it has one of
those stoat fronts, which are
quite new this year. The
cape to the right is of grey
satin, with pointed fronts,
and a large collar of white
satin, with front revers of
the same. The whole is
edged with a ruche of black
chiffon. The hat is of the
new Cavalier shape, with
feathers and a buckle.

The prettiest change of
the year is in the sailor hats,
which are now trimmed and
made to look quite different
from the plain and useful
things they used to be. A
white one that I saw the other
day had six rows of narrow velvet ribbon at
equal distances round the crown, and a rosette
of the same at the right side. Another had
a wide band of red velvet on it, with an
upstanding spray of cherries at the side, and
bows of red velvet mixed in with them. Both
were to be worn with washing veils.

{619}

COURTESY.

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

 have chosen “courtesy”
as the subject
of my little address
this time, as it is a
virtue which is perhaps
somewhat in
danger of being forgotten
and overlooked
in these
modern days of continual
hurry and
bustle; and yet it
forms such an essential
part of a beautiful
character that
nobody can justly
claim the title of
“gentleman” or
“gentlewoman” if
he or she neglects
the practice of it, which is, too, the opinion
of our Shakespeare, for he writes, “We must
be gentle now we are gentlemen” (Winter’s
Tale, v. 2).

The derivation of the word, which really
means the manners and behaviour to be
observed at a royal court, is neatly given by
Spenser in his Faerie Queene, Book vi. 1.

and Milton likewise says that “courtesy was
first named in courts of princes.” And as an
example of a prince who practised this virtue
we may quote from an old memoir about
Henry VIII., “We cannot omit to observe
this courtly (shall I call it?) or good quality in
him; that he was courteous, and did seem to
study to oblige.” However, the English
girls of to-day need not look far for the
pattern of a perfectly gracious and courteous
woman, for who fulfils this ideal better than
her Gracious Majesty, Queen Victoria? Who
better known than she for the courteous
message of thanks to her troops when they
have nobly done their duty, or for the quick
expression of sympathy to the suffering victims
of an accident or some personal bereavement?

Then for a definition or short explanation
of what courtesy is we cannot do better than
turn to The Greatest Thing in the World.
Here on p. 26 we learn that courtesy is an
ingredient of Love, that it is “Love in
Society, Love in relation to Etiquette,” and
has been defined as “love in little things”;
in a word it is the quality denoted by the
sentence, “Love doth not behave itself
unseemly.” From these words we can also
gather the reason why we should all show
courtesy, for, as it is one of the components
of love, and Christ said that all His disciples
were to be distinguished from the rest of the
world by their love for another, we shall
not be true followers of Christ, or have a
really beautiful character, if we omit any part
of love; just as a beautiful mosaic could never
be otherwise than imperfect, if, though complete
in all other respects, the stones of one
certain colour were everywhere missing.

It must also be remembered that a courteous
behaviour should be worn always and everywhere,
and not only put on like a grand robe
for state occasions, for courtesy is “a happy
way of doing things, and should adorn even
the smallest details of life, and contribute to
render it as a whole agreeable and pleasant.”
Hence, first and foremost, courtesy should be
practised in the home by the children both
towards their parents and towards each other.
This is a matter which merits more attention
and thought than is generally given to it, for
by a courteous manner and a gentle tongue,
more influence in the government of others
is often attained than by qualities of greater
depth and substance. Now woman, not
man, is the true home-maker, therefore girls
should take great pains to be courteous, and
thus by their gentleness lead and direct the
perhaps rude and selfish brother who will
probably unconsciously sooner or later imitate
and adopt his sister’s gracious ways. A sweet-tongued
gentle maiden cannot fail to render
the home, be it a poor or rich one, both
pleasant and dear to her brothers and sisters.
And then to parents how far more gentle
and courteous we all should be than we are.
It has been well said that a blessing is never
fully realised until it is lost, and so I fear we
hardly any of us realise clearly and distinctly
to ourselves how much our parents, especially
our dear mothers, do and suffer for us until
the day comes when we know what it is to
be without them.

Dr. Miller, in his book The Building of
Character, which I should earnestly recommend
every girl to read, says, “Wherever
else we may fail in patience, it should not
be in our own homes. Only the sweetest
life should have place there. We have not
long to stay together, and we should be
patient and gentle while we may.” And to
enforce this teaching, he quotes one of the
tenderest little poems ever written, and of
which I subjoin a couple of verses:—

Further, a courteous manner should be used
towards the servants, orders given politely and
unnecessary troubling of them avoided; for
instance, lying late in bed, though intensely
pleasant, often necessitates the disarrangement
of the servants’ morning work, for which
the delinquent herself will perhaps blame
them later in the day.

At school, again, how many “open doors”
are there for doing little courtesies to mistresses
and schoolfellows, and for aiding to
maintain the peace and harmony both in
class-room and playground by a gentle look
or word, and for the “soft answer which
turneth away wrath,” and stays the rising
quarrel. The girl who will be most beloved,
and who will have the best influence in a school,
is undoubtedly she who is ever ready with a
pleasant smile to play with the little ones, to
say a kind word to another when in trouble,
and who shows by her whole behaviour that
she wishes to make those around her happy
and comfortable. Then on those days of discouragement,
when, in spite of all endeavours,
the lessons are not well known, and it seems
useless to go on trying to do as well as the
other girls, or when, perchance, unmerited
blame or irritating teasing has unnerved
and tired you, how you welcome the friend
who, without being told, knows how “wrong
everything is going,” and with gentle loving
words strives to cheer you, and bids you
take heart again and bravely return to the
fight.

If we look at the reverse of the picture and
contemplate the discourteous girl, be it at
home or at school, we cannot fail to observe
how many opportunities she loses of giving
pleasure. She may come down to breakfast,
and just mutter a “Good morning” and omit
the morning kiss; during the day she may never
notice how often she might fetch something
for her mother or mistress, jump up or open
the door for somebody with their hands full,
or try to subdue her loud boisterous laughing
or talking in a room where others are busy
reading or writing—she will also pass in and
out of a door in front of her elders, pay little
attention to the wants of her neighbours at
table; in short, she will not increase in any
way the pleasantness of her surroundings.

A word of warning, too, must be given to
those girls who, with the best of intentions to
try and do right and help others, make the
mistake through their very excess of zeal of
directing or correcting others in a rough,
brusque way, and perhaps enforce their words
by a not too gentle push or shove! These
must read La Fontaine’s fable of Phoebus
and Boreas, or The Sun and the Northwind,
and see how the north wind, for all his
violent blowing, could not divest the traveller
of his cloak, whereas the sun by the influence
of his gentle warming rays soon accomplished
that in which the rough blasts of Boreas had
failed. And if they follow the teaching of
this fable, they will soon see how much more
the gentle word accomplishes than the rough
one.

And now to close, I would like to ask you,
who read these few remarks of mine, to
endeavour to put more gentleness and courtesy
in your dealings with other people than you
have done heretofore; for in all of us there is
always room for improvement, and there is
not one of us surely but must admit that we
often leave little courtesies undone and little
gentle words unsaid. Courtesy is like the
drop of oil that enables machinery to work
noiselessly and smoothly, for it lessens the jars
and friction of life and the consequent worry
and fretfulness. Little things make or mar
the peace of life, therefore exhibit courtesy
which is “Love in little things,” and you will
gain the gratitude and esteem of those around
you, and carry away in your minds these lines
of Lord Houghton, and never, if you can
avoid it, lose an opportunity of putting them
into practice—

{620}

THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.

By LA MÉNAGÈRE.

lorious June! Can
anyone complain of
a lack of the least
good thing? Rather
we have un embarras
de richesse; so much
so, indeed, that we
hardly know what to
select for our typical
menu. Look at the
vegetable market,
for instance. See the piles of snowy cauliflowers,
the crisp cabbages and spinach, the
quantities of salad stuffs, cucumbers, spring
carrots and turnips, asparagus, artichokes,
peas and French beans, while the very
potatoes look attractive. Then see the fruit,
the ever-welcome green gooseberries, strawberries,
early raspberries, and ripe cherries
galore. The fruiterers have golden apricots,
nectarines, custard apples, and many other
luscious things. The fishmongers are showing
plovers’ eggs in their little nests of moss, the
pinkest of prawns and crabs, scarlet lobsters
in a garnish of parsley, magnificent salmon,
salmon-trout, speckled trout, and beautiful
fine soles, with mackerel that glisten like the
whitebait.

Game is, of course, of no account now; but
young chickens are coming to the fore, and
pigeons are excellent, so also are the plovers.

Then look at the wealth of June blossom
that is poured into the market. Can anything
surpass the beauty of these roses? Lilies and
hydrangeas, snowy narcissi, gorgeous tulips,
iris, and peonies, and if you can find a sweeter
or a more splendid flower than a blush peony
of the Dutch variety, you will be clever indeed.
Sweet mignonette, sweet peas, and still
sweeter pinks, make the air quite heavy with
their fragrance. Then we have quantities of
beautiful grasses, mosses, ferns, and foliage
plants here for all sorts of purposes, for June
is the harvest month of the floral decorator.
Dinners, balls, receptions, weddings, at homes—all
make great demand on the markets this
month.

The place of game at fashionable dinners is
taken by plovers’ eggs, or by an aspic jelly.
As the eggs are usually sold ready boiled, and
require no accompaniment, we may leave them
without further remark; but it might be
useful here if we considered the making of a
simple aspic jelly such as could be manufactured
by the home cook.

Aspic Jelly.—Get a knuckle-bone of veal
and one of ham and crack them in pieces.
Put with them a large onion, with two cloves,
a large carrot, a bunch of savoury herbs, and
two quarts of water. Let these simmer gently
in a brown stone jar for several hours, then
strain off. To a pint of this stock (which
should be perfectly clear) add one ounce of
Swinborne’s isinglass previously soaked in cold
water, also a teaspoonful of salt, a little
pepper, a tablespoonful of tarragon vinegar;
and then a wineglassful of strong sherry. Stir
over the fire until it nearly boils, then break
into the liquor the whites of two eggs and the
shells, stir well, and draw to the side of the
fire; let it simmer for a quarter of an hour,
then strain through a jelly-bag three or four
times until it is perfectly clear. Keep the
mould in a very cold place until it is wanted.
The quart should make two moulds of jelly.
A good jelly will keep for some time, and is
often most useful for an invalid.

An aspic of game or poultry makes an
excellent luncheon dish, and will prove an easy
and dainty way of serving up the remains of
cold poultry, etc.

Pour some ready-made aspic jelly into the
bottom of a plain round mould which has been
wetted with cold water. Next make a layer of
stars and diamonds from the white and yellow
of a hard-boiled egg, a few fine sprigs of
parsley, and the red part of a cold tongue here
and there. Let this set, then lay on thin
slices of cold fowl and ham, leaving plenty of
space to run more jelly in between. Fill the
mould up to the top with jelly, then put it
away to set. When quite stiff turn it out on
to a dish.

Suppose that for our June menu we take
the following:

Bisque of Crab.
Devilled Whitebait.
Grenadines of Veal. Jardinière Sauce.
Aspic Jelly.
Saddle of Lamb. French Beans.
Gooseberry Tart.
Cream Cheese. Oaten Wafers. Coffee.

Bisque of Crab.—Wash well in several
waters half a pound of the best rice, put it
into a saucepan with a quart of the best clear
white stock, and add a little milk. Add also
an onion, a small piece of cinnamon, a little
salt and pepper and a good bit of butter.
Let the rice simmer a long while, then add
to it the pith from the body of a freshly-boiled
crab, and another pint of milk or stock. Rub
all carefully through a sieve, then pour it into
a stewpan with the flesh from the claws torn
into flakes, add a teaspoonful of the essence
of anchovies, a teaspoonful of arrowroot
dissolved in a little milk, and a few drops of
cochineal to deepen the colour. At the last
moment, before serving, after the soup has
boiled up once, add a small cupful of hot
cream.

Devilled Whitebait.—To fry whitebait a
good depth of clear frying fat is needed, and
a frying basket in which the fish can all be
plunged into the fat at once. They should
be carefully wiped, then lightly shaken in a
well-floured cloth, just so as to coat them
sufficiently. Plunge into boiling fat for about
three minutes, then withdraw them from the
fat, sprinkle them with black and red pepper,
return to the pan for another minute, then
drain and serve on a napkin with fried parsley
as a garnish. Send quarters of lemon and
brown bread and butter to table with them.

Grenadines of Veal, Jardinière Sauce.—A
slice of the best lean fillet of veal, about two-thirds
of an inch thick, should be shaped into
small pieces, and then dipped into beaten egg
and into a mixture of breadcrumbs, minced
ham and seasoning. Fry these carefully on
both sides to a light brown, then put between
two plates and stand in a hot oven.

For the sauce take a pint of stock, and one
onion, a large carrot, a turnip, a few French
beans, a few peas, and any other available
vegetable. Mince these finely and evenly,
fry them in dripping, drain and add to the
stock. Thicken this with a spoonful of
potato flour, and season highly. Boil gently
for a while, then pour in the centre of a hot
dish and set the grenadines around the edge.
Let boiled potatoes (small ones) accompany
this dish.

The saddle of lamb should be simply
roasted and served with its own gravy; the
French beans boiled first, then sautéd, in butter
with chopped parsley, and potatoes, if liked,
treated the same way. Pass mint sauce around
as well.

Cream should accompany the gooseberry
tart, and strawberries with cream might
appear at the same time, or in lieu of the
tart as preferred.

A roast duck and green peas might take
the place of the saddle of lamb, according as
means and circumstances permit.

OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;
OR,

VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.

PART IX.

There is a kind of cottage, chiefly found in
the North of England, but also not unfrequently
to be seen in the western and
central counties; it is constructed entirely of
stone or granite. The mullions of the
windows, “dressings” of the gables, doorways,
and sometimes the walls themselves, are
built in “ashlar.” “Ashlar,” in England,
means stone brought to a smooth surface, not
only on face but round the sides as well.
Now this is rather important for all who are
engaged in building operations, because
“ashlar” means a different thing in England
from what it does in other parts of the United
Kingdom. In Ireland, for instance, “ashlar”
means stones brought to a smooth surface in
front alone, the edges being left irregular, and
if you require them to be cut smooth and
squared at the edges, you have to specify that
they shall have “even beds and joints.”

A curious trial occupied the Irish Law
Courts for many weeks some time back. An
English architect and an Irish builder were
engaged in erecting an important edifice in
Ireland. The architect in his specification
stipulated “ashlar” for the frontage of the
structure. The builder carried it out in the
English manner and then sent in a heavy bill
of extras for “beds and joints.” This was
opposed by the architect on behalf of his
clients. At the trial all the Irish witnesses
maintained that the builder was right, and all
the English that he was wrong. The judge
and jury became thoroughly puzzled, and
could not understand the disputed point, as
evidently both sides were perfectly sincere.
At last the judge, perfectly bewildered,
appealed to a very eminent counsel who was
engaged, and said to him—

“Mr. ——, can you explain what all this
means? We have been for some days
listening to the apparently endless dispute
about ‘beds and joints.’”

{621}

“Well, my lord, I can only suggest that
it must be in some way connected with a
question of board and lodging,” answered the
counsel.

The matter remains unsettled, I believe, to
this day. Of course we use the word “ashlar”
in its English signification.

In addition to all the northern counties
stone cottages are found in Derbyshire,
Warwickshire, Worcestershire, Herefordshire,
Monmouthshire, Oxfordshire, Somersetshire,
Dorsetshire, Devonshire, and Sussex.

They are usually very solidly built, and,
though they present sometimes a stern and
severe aspect, they are well suited to a rough
climate, as they are warm and comfortable,
and so substantial that they can resist the
floods which often inundate mountainous
districts. The group of cottages which we
sketched some years back at Glossop, in
Derbyshire, bore up against a singularly severe
catastrophe. The little mountain stream
shown in the foreground was dammed by a
very solid earthwork higher up the valley so
as to form a reservoir. During a terrible
storm of wind and rain the dam was swept
away, and the vast torrent of water poured
down the valley, sweeping everything before
it, and completely submerging the lower part
of the village. The old stone houses shown
in our drawing were flooded to their upper
storey. A man who described the occurrence
to us said—

“It was all so sudden-like. I heard a loud
roar, followed by a rushing noise, which made
the house seem to rock. I jumped out of bed
and found myself up to my knees in water.
I got my wife and children to stand upon the
table and chairs, while I tried to find out what
was going on, half expecting that the old
house would come down, but it stood like a
rock; and when the water subsided, it was as
good as ever, though some of the
modern houses were reduced to ruin.”

LOOSE STONE AND PEAT COTTAGE, SCOTLAND AND N. ENGLAND.

These stone cottages, with their heavy
mullioned windows and low-pitched gables,
continued to be built down nearly to the end
of the last century. Of course, they must
have been expensive; but their durability
seems to prove that the extra outlay was, in
the end, true economy. Artistically, they
appear well suited to their bleak grey surroundings.
These great, wild woodlands,
interspersed with shapeless and fantastic{622}
rocks and strange-looking bowlders, swept by
howling winds, so that no tree can lift its
head save under shelter of the hillside, are not
so unkindly as they seem.

STONE COTTAGES, GLOSSOP, DERBYSHIRE.

We once knew a beautiful and delicate girl
who had to leave London and, with her
parents, live in one of these wild-looking
districts. After a short time she grew strong
and still more beautiful. Later on she
married, and went with her husband to live
in a southern land under the influence of a
more genial climate. But, alas, it proved less
friendly to her than the rugged North, for
within six months she died. Three days
before this sad event she said to her husband—

“If I could only feel the wind over the
great moor I think I could live.”

He would have given all he possessed to
save her, but the doctors assured him that she
would certainly die on the journey. Health
is often to be found in these rugged stone
houses of the North country, stern and sombre
as they look when compared with the cheerful
half-timber cottages of the South.

In some out-of-the-way districts of Northern
England, Scotland, and Ireland, cottages are
built of “loose stone”—i.e., stones fitted
together without mortar, and are thatched
with peat. Sometimes the angle-stones,
window and door openings, have mortar
joints, the rest being left open. In all stone
counties of England walls constructed in this
manner divide the fields instead of hedgerows,
the top row of stones being fastened together
with mortar when the wall is more than
breast high. This is a very ancient method of
building, and is found in almost every country
of the world.

H. W. Brewer.

(To be continued.)

“MY FAVOURITE CONTRIBUTORS” COMPETITION.

Prizes of One Guinea.

• Jessie Offin, Loughton, Essex.
• “Christabel,” Poole, Dorset.
• “Pansy,” Beverley, East Yorkshire.
• “Rose,” North Muir, Forfar.
• “Wild Orchid,” Croydon Grove, Croydon.
• Agnes Ward Strong, Moseley, Birmingham.
• Nellie Turner Godfrey, Redhill, Surrey.
• Ada Alice Gaze, Norwich.
• Emma Elizabeth Epps, Redhill, Surrey.
• Elizabeth Kerr, Port Charlotte, Islay, N.B.

Prizes of Half-a-Guinea.

• Edith Mary Foyster, Brentwood, Essex.
• Félicie Buisseret, Namur, Belgique.
• Evelyn Agnes Forster, Crowthorne, Berkshire.
• Edith K. Ellis, Highgate.
• Florence Marie Benton, Swavesey, Cambs.
• Lilian Grundy, Lynwood, Ashton-under-Lyne, Lancashire.
• M. Evangeline Hulse, Carlisle.
• “Modest Violet,” New Whittington, Chesterfield, Derbyshire.
• Mary Agnes Parker, Peterborough, Northampton.
• Agnes Mary Vincent, Warwick Square.

Honourable Mention.

Mabel Jenks, Cambridge; E. Flesch,
Brünn, Mähren; Gwendoline Doughty, St.
Leonards, Bridgenorth, Salop; Kate Kelsey,
Crossleigh, Montpelier, Bristol; “A grateful
old woman,” Ballymena, Ulster, Ireland;
Millicent H. Warwick, Manchester; Mary
Adèle Venn, West Kensington Park, W.;
Helen Elizabeth Howitt, Dunoon-on-Clyde;
A. Park Pearson, Halifax; Laura Buck,
Potters Road, New Barnet; Alice Dunn,
Brisbane, Queensland.

Report.

From the time our first competition was
announced until now, it has been a real
pleasure to look over the papers sent in by our
readers, who seem always to have understood
the spirit and object of the various competitions
we have placed before them and to
have entered into them enthusiastically and
naturally. The consequence is that their
papers have been full of interest and instruction
as to matters we never could have learned
by books or by travel. The barrier behind
which thousands of lives are lived could
never have been broken down but for the
ready help of the girls themselves. Their
papers have made our views of life broader,
they have evoked sympathy and admiration
for the toilers in our great cities; they have
permitted us to stand side by side with them
as they work and struggle and fight for what
they know to be good and pure; they have
made us free of their homes, whether in the
farm kitchen, or in the streets of our great
cities, so that one can sit down and picture
them all, whether in a London factory, a
country farm, a village rectory, or away in our
far-off colonies.

But this competition is different from any of
those which have preceded it, for the Editor
has asked the opinion of his thousands of
readers as to their favourites among the staff
of writers, artists, and musicians whom he has
employed for the last twenty years. It is a
bold thing to have done, and yet it is but
natural that a man who has devoted the best
years of his life to a certain object should
desire to know how his methods have
answered and whether the material he has
offered for the instruction and healthy amusement
of girls has met with the approbation of
those for whom he has catered. It is no easy
task in the present age when independence is
growing rampant, to influence girls and surround
them with an atmosphere which,
without in the least coercing them, will
keep them pure and gentle and womanly.

So throwing caution to the winds, the
editor has submitted himself and his staff to
the microscopic criticism of his many thousands
of readers, and begged them to select
ten out of the number whom they like best
and to give a reason for their preference.

We have received some hundreds of papers,
each of which has been conscientiously read
and pondered over. Each competitor has
stamped her paper with her own individuality;
she knows exactly what she prefers and why
she prefers it. One and all regret that they
are limited in their choice to ten of the staff,
seeing that all are so good, but there seems to
have been no hesitation as to the chief
favourites.

In awarding the prizes, we have taken into
consideration not so much the handwriting
and decoration of the manuscripts as the
thoughtfulness and intelligence with which
they have been written.

Side-Lights.

Widespread as we consider our knowledge
of girl nature by this time, competition papers
often spring upon us surprises, showing us we
have much to learn upon the subject. We
confess that, although we have always taken
care to provide our readers with subject-matter
for deeper thought, still we were
scarcely prepared to find that in the majority
of cases the first things read were these graver
articles and the papers dealing with instructive
and interesting matters, the stories as a rule
being kept till the last. In one paper only
were all the favourites chosen for stories.

Quotations.

1. I can safely say all the stories and articles
in the “G. O. P.” are the best to be had. In
truth one puts down the “G. O. P.” with
better feelings and higher aspirations than
when one took it up. Years ago my father
found me reading a paper that he did not
think fit for a girl to read, so he promised to
buy me a magazine if I would read only such
books as he provided. I promised, and he set
about getting me suitable reading. As a
result, he was shown the “G. O. P.,” and
brought it home to me, and for twenty years I
have been a reader of the “G. O. P.,” and
hope to be for as long as I live, for I do not
think I could get a better.

2. May I suggest another competition to
you? You have already had one for girls who
work with head and hands—will you not also
have one for those who are preparing to work
with head or hands? I am sure there would
be many interesting pictures of student life at
our colleges among the papers sent in. I feel
that the “G. O. P.” decided my life for me.
In April, 1881, when I was eight years old,
we bought the number for the month. There
was an article in it on the North London
Collegiate School; it mentioned the pupils
who were graduates—some were doctors or
medical students. I said I would be one too;
the idea stayed with me. At last the way
was opened for me, though it is harder than I
thought.

3. May I hope you will read this as a
friendly letter from American girls who do
not wish the pleasure they have received from
your paper to remain unexpressed.

4. I am very proud to be able to say I
commenced taking in the “G. O. P.” on the
2nd October, 1880, being the beginning
number of the second volume, and ever since
I have taken the greatest interest in it. When
I got married, one of the first pieces of furniture
we bought was a book-case to put my
favourite books in; I often take one of the
old volumes down for information—I appreciate
them more every day for the kind and
practical help they give.

{623}

OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: AN ACCIDENTAL CYCLE III.

SOLUTION.

An Accidental Cycle III.

5. Lamp Explosions.

6. Escape of Gas.

7. To Cyclists.

Prize Winners.

Twelve Shillings and Sixpence Each.

• Jessie F. Dulley, Lindens, Wellingborough.
• Ellie Hanlon, 1, Otranto Place, Sandycove, Dublin.
• G. Meggy, Rimpton Rectory, Bath.
• Janet M. Pugh, Bronclydur, Towyn, Merionethshire.
• Ethel Tomlinson, The Woodlands, Burton-on-Trent.

Seven Shillings Each.

• Mrs. Ethel Hartley, 310, Rotton Park Road, Birmingham.
• John Marshall, 13, Prospect Road, Child’s Hill, N.W.
• Eben. Mutten, 17, George Street, Devonport.
• Katharine Mary Stanley, The Old House, Washingboro’, Lincoln.
• L. Trotman, 26, Blessington Road, Lee, S.E.
• Helen B. Younger, 5, Comiston Gardens, Edinburgh.

Very Highly Commended.

Mrs. Acheson, Eliza Acworth, Agnes Amis,
Annie A. Arnott, Margaret E. Bourne, Nellie
D. Bourne, Rebecca Clarke, Rev. Joseph
Corkey, Mrs. G. H. B. Cumming, Ethel
Dickson, Cecil French, Mrs. W. H. Gotch,
Edith E. Grundy, Meta Kelway, Eliza Learmount,
Agnes McConnell, Mrs. Nicholls, Rev.
V. Odom, Annie B. Ormond, Isabel Snell,
Frederick Wm. Southey, Ellen C. Tarrant,
Constance Taylor, C. Thompson, Mary F.
Wakelin, Edith Mary Younge.

Highly Commended.

Division I.

Edith Ashworth, S. Ballard, Rev. F.
Townshend Chamberlain, Lillian Clews, Helen
Margaret Coulthard, J. L. Ellson, Herbert V.
French, Annie M. Goss, Ellen Hambley,
Francis Hingston James, Mrs. Latter, Dora
Laurence, Eva H. Laurence, Carlina Leggett,
Winifred A. Lockyear, Mrs. C. A. Martin,
Jennie M. M’Call, F. Miller, Helen M.
Norman, Violet C. Todd, W. Fitzjames
White, Henry Wilkinson, Alice Woodhead,
Elizabeth Yarwood, Diana C. Yeo.

Highly Commended.

Division II.

Eva Mary Allport, Lily Belling, G. Brightwell,
Jane Lindsay Campbell, R. Swan
Coulthard, George Robert Davidge, Leonard
Duncan, Eleanor Elsey, Mrs. F. Farrar, C. S.
Gregory, Hilda Mary Harrison, Charlotte
Hayward, Florence Hayward, Ethel Winifred
Hodgkinson, Madge L. Kemp, A. Kilburn,
Gertrude Longbottom, E. Lord, Annie Manderson,
Helen A. Manning, E. Mastin, Jessie
Middlemiss, E. M. Le Mottée, J. D. Musgrave,
E. Pearson, N. E. Purvey, Kate
Robinson, M. Winifred Shakespear, Bettie
Temple, Mrs. Mabel Tench, R. Marjorie
Thomas, Ellen Thurtell, M. Tolson, Frances
H. Webb-Gillman, Margaret M. Wilcox.

EXAMINER’S REPORT.

Here is another award at last to excite
indignant comment and criticism. So large
was the number of first-rate solutions that we
had to pounce upon the most trifling errors
with a keenness worthy of a better cause. After
we had examined and re-examined again and
again, we were rewarded for our exertions by
finding that faults abounded, the enormity of
which might fairly be expressed in sixteenths.

For instance, a failure to indent the lines
properly was reckoned one-sixteenth of a
mistake. The substitution of “around” for
about was counted two-sixteenths, and so on,
with arithmetical precision. As only a limited
number of names can be mentioned, all we
have to do is to draw the line at a certain
point (in this case it was at nine-sixteenths),
and say: “Beyond that, no mention.” The
result is an adjudication which can face
criticism with a very fair amount of confidence.
And here let us say that if any competitor
thinks that an injustice has been done, we hope
she will not harbour the thought privately,
but frankly let us know as soon as the report
appears. We much prefer to have the opportunity
of acknowledging a mistake or of
proving that none has been made.

To return to the puzzle. Many competitors
failed to notice the “s” in the title, and wrote
“Exploding Lamp.” This could only be
regarded as a whole mistake, and was therefore
fatal to any chance of success.

The rhythm of the first line, No. 6, was
often marred by the insertion of “an.” In the
second line, as we have already intimated,
“around” could not be considered equal to
about, for a reason which a reference to the
puzzle will divulge. In the fourth line “face”
was continually given for head, though the
better sense of the latter reading is obvious,
and the puzzle form of spelling “detach” was
often adopted without thought.

In No. 7, “Cycling” was the title generally
given, though many solvers were careful to
read the two into it. This was an error we
could not very severely condemn, and as a
matter of fact two solutions which were perfect
in every other respect, were admitted into the
prize bundle. In the first line “you are”
would not do instead of the contraction you’re,
neither did the insertion of “a” before hedge
improve the rhythm of the last line but one.
In the same line we did not object to the more
strictly grammatical “accord” in place of
accords, although the puzzle gave the latter.

We have received several letters questioning
our award on “An Accidental Cycle II.”
We have turned up every solution written
about, and find that absolute justice was
done to each. For the benefit of a very large
number of solvers who cherish similar doubts
in silence, we may say that the mistake of
spelling “some one” as one word was a very
important factor in the adjudication. That
our report should have contained no reference
to this point was an unfortunate circumstance.

The award on the whole series of Accidental
Cycles cannot be published for two or
three weeks, the number of solutions being
very large.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

MEDICAL.

MISCELLANEOUS.

OUR NEW PUZZLE POEM.

⁂ Prizes to the amount of six guineas (one of which will be reserved for competitors
living abroad) are offered for the best solutions of the above Puzzle Poem. The following
conditions must be observed:—

1. Solutions to be written on one side of the paper only.

2. Each paper to be headed with the name and address of the competitor.

3. Attention must be paid to spelling, punctuation, and neatness.

4. Send by post to Editor, Girl’s Own Paper, 56, Paternoster Row, London. “Puzzle
Poem” to be written on the top left-hand corner of the envelope.

5. The last day for receiving solutions from Great Britain and Ireland will be August 17,
1899; from Abroad, October 16, 1899.

The competition is open to all without any restrictions as to sex or age.

To the Readers of “The Girl’s Own
Paper.”

Dear Girls,—I have received a number of
letters on the subject of my last story, “About
Peggy Saville,” all expressing the kindest
interest in the heroine, and a desire to know
more about her.

These letters have been a great pleasure to
receive, for, to tell you the truth, I myself am
very fond of “Peggy Pickle,” and should
much enjoy spending a longer time in her
company.

Your kind Editor has expressed his desire to
gratify you by publishing a sequel to the story,
and we have arranged that if all goes well, the
first chapter shall appear in October, or early
in the spring.

For the next two months, then, you can
think of me sitting in my summer-house every
morning with Peggy for my companion, and I
will think of you, and, I hope, work all the
better for your kindly appreciation.

Your friend,
Jessie de Horne Vaizey.