THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

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

LINNÆA; THE STORY OF A FRIENDSHIP.
A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.
“OUR HERO.”
EXERCISE: IN MODERATION.
THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.
FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.
OUR LILY GARDEN.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
SAMBO PENWIPERS AND HOW TO MAKE THEM.

{321}

LINNÆA; THE STORY OF A FRIENDSHIP.

“‘GIRLS, I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY TO YOU IF YOU WILL LISTEN.’”

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER IV.

Next evening the girls were gathered as usual
in the small schoolroom. They were allowed
an hour to themselves after preparation and
before prayers. This was their own hour, and
many and various were the occupations and
recreations indulged in then. There was a
tiny room adjoining the schoolroom, where
now and then a studious pupil would go
at this hour to continue study. To-night it
was occupied by Linnæa alone. Throughout
the day her set, white face had kept all at a
distance; no one dared address her, indeed,
no one had anything to say that would soften
the blow of yesterday’s revelation, no excuse
to offer, no explanation to make.

The face which had been changing into
something almost attractive during the last
week, had again undergone a complete change—but
was it back to the old indifference?
No—something had been aroused that would
never again lie dormant—if she could not love,
then she would hate, and the glitter in her
eyes showed only too plainly that hatred had
taken the place of dawning love.

Gwendoline was not of their number that
night. She too was changed; so much
changed as to be almost unrecognisable. She,
the queen of the school, whose will was law,
and whose opinion was sought upon every
question, had been to-day the quietest and
most subdued of them all.

Things had not turned out as the girls had{322}
anticipated. They had expected that in a
little while Gwendoline would call upon them
to acknowledge how well she had succeeded
in her undertaking—as she had indeed been
successful, far above the expectations of any
of them. They had had vague ideas that
Linnæa would then be gradually allowed to
drop, would sink back into her old insignificance,
and would be again a figure in the
background, as she had been before the
advent of Gwendoline.

As they sat at their various occupations—less
talkative than usual—Gwendoline entered.

After glancing round the room as if to
satisfy herself as to which girls were present,
she said—

“Girls, I have something to say to you if
you will listen.”

Immediate silence followed. What was
she about to say? Would it be about
Linnæa? They knew Linnæa was in the
adjoining room and the dividing door was
half open; would it not be better to tell
Gwendoline? But, after all, what could she
say that would be worse than Linnæa had
already heard? Before anyone had spoken,
Gwendoline began.

“You all heard my foolish vow ten days
ago. Perhaps you think I have been acting
all this time and have only been drawing
Linnæa on to make my poor, mean triumph;
but I have not. Oh, no, I have not! Almost
from the first night I saw her I have loved
her, and I love her now passionately. I
wanted you to know it, so that you might
forget my silly words. I did not know how
much I loved her until her love was removed—and
justly—it was right she should know it
had been begun under false pretences.”

Was that tears they saw—the haughty
Gwendoline in tears?

Yes, tears had begun to trickle down her
cheeks, and it was in a broken voice she
continued appealingly—

“She would not believe me now, although
I were to tell her I loved her. Could none of
you make her believe? I cannot bear her to
hate me like this!”

Before anyone could speak, the door between
the rooms was opened and a figure appeared.
It was Linnæa. Her face was radiant and her
arms outstretched. Gwendoline looked up,
saw her, ran to her, and was clasped in the
welcoming arms.

Onlookers were forgotten in that close
embrace—words were needless at that
moment.

Linnæa drew Gwendoline into the little
room, and one of the girls considerately
closed the door. For a few moments neither
spoke, but each held the other as if at any
moment someone might come to separate
them. By-and-by Gwendoline said, in a
voice quite unlike her usual clear tones—

“Why don’t you hate me instead of
treating me like this? You told me you
hated and despised me, and I deserve that
you should.”

“That was before I knew you loved me at
all, dear. What do I care how it was begun,
so that you love me now! That is enough
for me. Do you know,” she continued,
after a pause, “I said I hated you, and I
thought so; but now I am not sure that I did
all the time. I hated myself, hated the other
girls, hated even the teachers; but I am
almost convinced I have never hated you!”

Two months passed after that—two happy
months for Linnæa and Gwendoline, happy in
their mutual friendship—and the summer
vacation drew near.

About this time the dream Linnæa had
dreamt the first night she saw Gwendoline
came true. Her parents wrote to her that if
she wished she might come home next autumn,
but if she preferred to remain at school another
year she might do so. Then Linnæa—she
who had looked forward all her life to the
time when she would be allowed to go home—wrote
and told them she would stay another
year.

And the Linnæa that went to India at the
end of that time was very different from the
one that would have gone had the hidden
love in her nature not been called forth by
Gwendoline. Sometimes her schoolfellows
and teachers had hard work to believe she
could be the same person. She would never
be what the world calls beautiful, but there
was a sweet, refined expression about the face
which now attracted, where formerly it had
repelled.

Linnæa, as I say, was improved beyond
recognition; but Gwendoline also was altered,
and entirely for the better. Her will—strong
as ever—was exerted in a quieter and less
arbitrary manner than formerly. Her influence
was still as great over those with whom she
came in contact; but she had had a lesson
she would not easily forget, and the girl who
had been in danger of growing up a heartless
and cruel flirt, ambitious to draw men to her
feet and wreck their happiness, developed
into a pure and noble woman whose powers
of fascination were only used to influence
others for good, and to induce those of weaker
will to follow in her footsteps.

The rare friendship, begun in such an
extraordinary way, did not end with school
life, but continued, beautifying and enriching
the lives of both throughout well-nigh fifty
years.

Frances Leamington.

A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.

By C. A. MACIRONE.

CHAPTER II.

DOMESTIC SERVICE.

he dream curtains
were closed in
darkness, but
I saw the
white wings of
the angels
shining above
me, and I
heard a soft
thrilling voice
speaking,
and saying,
“Will you see
more?”

“If I may,” I said as I knelt. “I deserve
nothing, but grant to me the honour of
recording such deeds as these, that the memory
of them may touch nobler hearts and stronger
pens to carry on the stimulus of such examples
and arouse others to like actions.”

The curtains slowly rose, and I saw a poor
cottage in France, in a wide open country,
long rows of poplars along straight roads
going off into the distance—it was a disturbed
country—time of the Revolution. I saw a poor
man like his and our Master also a carpenter—like
Him. He had been fostered and educated
by the care and at the cost of a kind lord. One
day in those troubled years, he saw standing
at the door of his cottage his lord, with three
little motherless children, fugitives and outcasts.
The little fair Angélique of five years,
Josephine of only four, and the little Count
Louis, scarcely a year old. The Count was
forced to fly from the country (it was for his
life), and there was no living soul but Alexandre
Martin to whom he could trust his children.
So much of the family distress was known to
Martin that he did not wonder there was no
mention of any possible repayment, and he
had three children of his own, and only
one, was old enough to help. But in that
poor home the lord’s children must find
a home of love and reverence, and all who
could work worked doubly hard, day and
often night, that the children might be
served and treated as their faithful loyalty
inspired.

I saw the table of the Chief’s children served
according to their rank; they were seated at
table where white bread was given them, and
Alexandre waited on them as respectfully as
if they had been in their own castle—alas!
destroyed—while his children had the scanty
brown bread of the country and they wore their
poor coarse clothes to rags, whereas the young
d’Aubespinés were dressed neatly. And the
carpenter’s family slept on the floor that the
lord’s children might enjoy the only beds the
poor home could furnish.

“And all for love and nothing for reward.”

Like other great and noble actions, it was
all carried out perfectly simply from the
grateful loyalty of the family towards their
master’s grandchildren. As time went on two
noble ladies of Chartres took charge of the
young girls as they grew up, and the young
Count was, as he grew older, educated at a
foundation endowed by his great ancestor
Sully at Nogent-le-Rotrou.[1]

Years passed by, and I saw a great meeting
of the Academy in Paris where the young
Count and Alexandre Martin were present, and
heard a voice which said—

“Martin, your task is over, you have deserved
well from all good men. You have shown our
age a sight only too rare—gratitude, fidelity,
respect. And you, Louis d’Aubespiné, since
you are present at this solemnity, may it make
a deep and lasting impression on your young
heart. You are entering life, as persons are
now and then forced to appear on a later age,
with all eyes upon you. Learn that the first
of earthly blessings is to be honoured by one’s
country, and pray the God who has watched
over your infancy to enable you to win that
blessing that depends on ourselves and that no
event can rob us of. One day you will be told
that illustrious blood flows in your veins, but
never forget that you must trace your line as
far back as Sully before you find a name
worthy to stand beside that of Martin. Grow
up, then, to show yourself worthy of the
memory of your ancestor, the devotion of your
benefactor, and the patronage of the King!”

And then the vision faded, the crowded
audience disappeared and the only figure left
radiant, as the curtains of my dream closed,
was that of the French peasant—the Carpenter—the
redresser of one of the mighty wrongs
of the French Revolution.

(To be continued.)

{323}

“OUR HERO.”

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

By AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the Dower House,” etc.

CHAPTER XXI.

IN VIEW OF CAPTAIN PEIRCE.

s prodigious an admirer
as ever of Sir John
Moore, Jack?”

“’Tis not my mode,
Molly, to admire a man one week, and
to cast him overboard the next!”

“And if ever so be that Sir John hies
him to the Indies, sure you would be set
on going too?”

Jack was not so quick in response as
Molly expected. Would he, or would
he not? He could not feel quite sure
either way. Wherever Sir John might
be, there no doubt Jack would wish to
be also; yet it lay within the limits of
possibility that he might still more
strongly desire to be somewhere else.
India in those days lay very far distant.
Miles are miles in these days as in
those, but actual distance is greatly
diminished. A man writing from India
to his friends in England may now look
for a reply in six or seven weeks; but
then he could not look for a reply in less
than as many months.

Jack felt that such a separation from
people at home—from Molly in particular—would
be serious. He had not thus
far gauged his state of mind critically.
He was not in love with anybody; he
had no particular wish to marry anybody—so
he would have said. Jack still
counted himself exclusively in love with
his profession. He looked upon Molly
as his particular friend—as the being
beyond all others upon whose interest
and sympathy he might most surely
rely. She was not his sister—he quite
scouted that notion—neither was he her
lover. They were simply friends—bons
camarades in the more modern phraseology.
Where Molly happened to be,
there Jack gravitated as naturally as a
stone gravitates earthward; and whatever
Jack had in his mind, that he told
to Molly as naturally as water pours out
of a tilted jug. He cared a good deal for
Molly’s opinion. If Molly disapproved
of aught that he did, he was discomfited;
and if Molly put anyone before himself,
he was conscious of jealous sensations.
That was about all.

It seemed to him this evening that
Molly was looking particularly nice and
ladylike—or, in the language of the day,
“pleasing and genteel.” She was not
pretty; Jack would have said that he
did not wish her to be pretty. He liked
her better as she was. But she was
not without her own measure of attractiveness.

“Of course you would wish it,” Molly
added decisively. “In your place I
would do so. And if—if I could be a
soldier, Jack, I would feel as you do.
I would wish to go where Sir John goes.
’Tis a thousand pities I am a girl and
cannot be a soldier.”

“You would wish to go to the Indies,
if I were to stay at home?”

Molly smiled at the conceit, as it
seemed to her.

“’Tis vastly more likely that you
may be the one to go and I to be the
stay-at-home.” She did not speak as
if it were in any sense a distressing
question, though as a secondary consideration
she remarked placidly, “And
I should miss you, Jack.”

“As much as ever you profess to miss
Roy?”

Molly laughed outright this time.

“Jack—why, Jack, what a question
to ask! Roy is my twin. He is more
to me than all the whole world beside.
He always will be more. If I did not
see Roy for fifteen years—for fifty years!—it
would make no difference! Oh,
none whatever! Never in my life shall
I care for another as I care for Roy!”

Jack laughed in his turn derisively.

“Never, never, never!” repeated
Molly. “I love my father and my
mother dearly, and I love Polly, and I
like you too, Jack. But Roy—Roy is
more to me than all. If I could see
Roy——”

“That is vastly well, Molly! But
wait—wait till your time shall come—till
somebody will be more to you than
even Roy.”

“Never!” reiterated Molly. “You
mean that one day I shall have a
particular preference for—for some
gallant gentleman, Jack. Nay, but I
shall never marry, for I could not care
for any beyond my caring for Roy. And
so that matter is for ever settled!”

Jack was silent—perhaps a degree
nettled by Molly’s assured indifference.
He did not count himself in love with
Molly; but he wanted her to love him.

“’Tis no more my mode than yours
to change and change about. Some
people sometimes would seem to forget.”
That slight pucker came again to her
smooth brow.

For one instant Jack imagined the
words to be a possible reflection on
himself, despite what went before, and
his lips opened in ready protest. Then
he saw where Molly was gazing; and
as his glance followed her lead, his
forehead drew into, not a mere pucker,
but a frown.

Polly did look uncommonly lovely;
there was no denying that fact. Jack
and Molly both gazed hard at her, and
then their eyes met.

“She is wondrous pretty!” Molly
said softly.

“But Peirce? What business has
Peirce?” Jack paused, frowning still.
“He knows, sure, as to Ivor?”

“Why, Jack, all the world knows!
Captain Peirce has known it pretty near
from the beginning.”

“And Polly permits——”

“Does Polly permit? Can Polly help
it?” asked Molly. “I in her place
would help it; but I am not fair like
Polly, and that makes so great a
difference. For her, with all the world
looking and loving, ’tis not easy. If
she holds aloof and seeks to check
them, why, they do but come after her
the more—and Polly cannot be sharp
with folks. She is so sweet, and ’tis
not her way. And Mrs. Bryce, too, ever
talking”—Molly breathed this very low—“ever
seeking to persuade Polly that
Denham will forget and will care no
more for her.”

Jack muttered something to himself.

“Then, ’tis her wish?”

“Mrs. Bryce’s?” Molly’s face took
an arch set. “Ay, since Captain Peirce
came in for a great sum of money on the
death of his grandfather. He will be a
richer man than Denham—by a matter
of ten pounds to one pound.”

“Phew!” muttered Jack, in disgust.
“Ivor will have enough. But as to
Polly—I cannot verily believe that her
affections are engaged in any other
direction.”

“Nor do I believe it, Jack. Yet—I
am not always sure.”

“If she casts him off, she will deserve
to suffer for it, all her life long. She
will lose one of the best men living.”

“Second only to Sir John Moore!”

“’Tis easy to jeer! If you knew Sir
John as I do——”

“Nay, but Jack—nay, you need not
be vexed with me,” protested Molly.
“I did not jeer truly. And ’tis a fact
that when last I saw and spoke with Sir
John, he brought to my mind the thought
of Denham. Not that the two have the
same face or the same way, but that
both are soldierly and tall, and each
holds his head as stately as a prince.
And for the matter of Sir John Moore—why,
I am proud of him as ever you
can be.”

Jack nodded slightly, mollified at
once by her apologetic tone. His gaze
returned to Polly.

“And for the matter of Denham,”{324}
Molly continued, dropping her voice
once more, “he has been always as a
brother to me; and it would go hard
with me to believe any ill of him. Yet—I
wonder often that no letter comes
from him to Polly. And Polly watches
and grieves, I know, though she says
little, and will not talk of him. Sure, if
he had writ to her often, one letter now
and again would find its way hither.”

“Who can say? But I would distrust
the post and Boney a thousand times,
before ever I would doubt Ivor,” Jack
answered firmly. “And Polly, if indeed
she knows him, sure would feel the same.
He is no man to change.”

“Nor, I think, is Polly the girl to
change—either!”

“In this brilliant assemblage of rank
and fashion, though lightened by the
fire of genius and radiant with feminine
charms, there is for me but one star of
greatest magnitude, before which all
lesser orbs fade into insignificance.”

So spoke Captain Albert Peirce in the
ears of Polly Keene; and he felt that
he had expressed himself with the utmost
elegance. Gentlemen in those days
were prone to more flowing speech than
they are in these; and such speeches
did not necessarily mean much.

Ninety years later the grandson or
great-grandson of Captain Peirce would
merely drag his moustache, and mutter,
“Awfully pretty girl!” But the two
modes of expression, though rather
unlike, probably implied and imply
much the same in the end.

Captain Peirce did not pull his
moustache—partly because it was not
the fashion to do so, but yet more for the
sufficient reason that he had none to
pull. He bent a little nearer to Polly;
and that was the moment when Jack’s
glance followed Molly’s in their direction.

Polly did not appear to repulse him.
She did not even exert herself to turn
her head away. She had so much of
this sort of thing! One flowery speech
more or less made very little difference.
Had it not been for the persistent pressure
put upon her by Mrs. Bryce, Polly
would not have imagined that Captain
Peirce meant or could mean anything
seriously. She stood in one of her most
graceful attitudes, toying with a large
fan; and the light from innumerable
wax candles fell upon her round fair
arms.

“Can you by any chance divine who
that star of greatest magnitude may be,
sweet Polly?”

This was audacious, and Captain
Peirce fully expected a rebuff in
consequence.

It did not come so soon as he
expected. A thrill ran through Polly,
almost amounting to a shiver. She too
was instantaneously carried back, as a
few minutes earlier Molly had been,
bridging at a leap four long slow years.

“Sweet Polly, may I speak?” Captain
Ivor had said.

The voices were different. Ivor’s was
deep and quiet, with clear enunciation;
while that of Captain Peirce was some
semitones higher in key, with a rapid
and rather indistinct intonation.

The other face too came up before
Polly’s mind—a face generally of still
outlines, grave and handsome, with eyes
which looked other men straight in the
face, and level brows, not quick to
frown, though when they did frown there
was no mistake about the matter, and
a smile as quiet as his voice. Captain
Peirce was of smaller and slighter
make, and his features, as well as his
tones, underwent much more rapid
changes. An impulsive man altogether;
not bad-looking; and he had a certain
fascination of manner too, when he
chose to exert it. Polly was not oblivious
to the fascination while it lasted.
Perhaps she liked his unequivocal admiration,
and did not dislike to feel her
power over him. But that flash of
vivid recollection—did it arise from
some subtle connection between her
mind and Molly’s?—brought with it a
totally different look from any that
Captain Peirce had seen upon her face.
Perhaps he might be excused for
imagining that the change of expression
was due to his own words.

“Sweet Polly, you will not be one of
the cruel fair, who——”

This was going too far. Polly woke
from her dream. She withdrew one
step, and dropped a suggestion of a
curtsey.

“Your pardon, sir. My name is Miss
Keene, as you are aware.”

“Ah! adored one! so hard-hearted
to your humble slave!”

“My word, Albert!” And the heavy
hand of his uncle, the Admiral, fell with
a smart slap upon the Captain’s
shoulder. “So you do not fail to make
hay while the sun shines! But there’s
such a thing as poaching in another’s
preserves, man. Ha, ha, Miss Polly!
Well, and what news from abroad of the
unfortunate prisoners, eh?”

Captain Peirce wore the look of a
thunder-cloud under this interruption,
which he dared not openly resent, not
only because young men in those times
were far more submissive to older men
than now, but because, also, had he
aroused the Admiral’s ire, he would
have drawn upon themselves the attention
of the whole room. Admiral Peirce
was known to be hasty and prompt in
speech, and not slow to speak out his
mind. So he glowered silently, and
Polly looked with a smile into the
battered face of the old sailor, now on
shore for a brief spell.

“Nay, sir, I have not heard for this
very long while from any of them; and
’tis but seldom we may hope to hear.
Letters go astray by hundreds. Doubtless
they write, as do we—to no
purpose.”

“Ay, ay, trust Boney for that! He’ll
not help forward the post. Well, well,
every lane in time has its turning; and
Boney will come to his turning sooner
or later. Nay, indeed, has he not
already, at the glorious Battle of
Trafalgar, of immortal memory?”

“And on land too, sir; in time our
brave soldiers will have the best of it,
and will gain the reward that is due to
their valour,” suggested Polly.

Captain Peirce’s opportunity was
gone; and though Polly did not appear
to avoid him, yet he found no second
chance. Jack and Molly, looking on,
saw this little episode, and they wondered—had
the old Admiral acted
accidentally or on purpose? And was
Polly glad or sorry? Neither question
received an answer.

In the small hours of the morning,
when dancing was ended, Mrs. Bryce
drove home, with the two girls, in the
fine yellow coach, which was considered
to be a suitable “equipage” for one in
her position. Mr. Bryce, having a
cold, had not gone with them. The
girls retired to their room, and Molly
would have liked to question her companion,
had she dared. But Polly, with
all her sweetness, could hold folks aloof
if she chose; and this night she did
choose. She was very pale and tired—sad
too, Molly thought, now that the excitement
was over. Few words passed
between them, before they crept into
bed.

Was that a sound of smothered weeping?
Molly was all but asleep, when it
aroused her. She listened carefully.

“Polly!” No answer. “Polly—are
you awake?”

A pause, and then—

“You must go to sleep, Molly!”

“You are not crying, Polly?”

Polly’s hand gently pressed hers, but
Polly’s face was turned away, and
another short break took place before
she replied in a tone of strained cheerfulness—

“’Tis far too late. We may not lie
and talk now. Go to sleep and dream.
No, not one little word more.”

Molly had to obey. Yet she felt sure
that soon again she heard the tiny
smothered sound which had suggested
tears. She lay long, listening. Was
Polly thinking of Denham Ivor? Or
could it be a question of Captain
Peirce?

This side of life went on, and had to
go on, even in such a period of stormy
unrest, of perpetual warfare between
nations. Men and maidens love and
mate, work has to be done, hopes rise
and sink, even the lesser amusements
and gaieties and the small daily occupations
of existence do not cease,
though the whole world should be at
loggerheads.

The deadly duel between Napoleon
and Britain continued; and while Great
Britain was supreme upon the ocean,
Napoleon was all but irresistible upon
land. Of all the nations, England still
alone withstood him; and at this date
she fearlessly faced a Europe in arms.
For the Continent as a whole had
crouched beneath the heel of the tyrant
and was tamely ranged on his side.

In the year 1807 Britain had not one
ally. Sweden, the last remaining, had
been compelled by Russia to break
away. One brother of Napoleon’s was
king of Holland; another brother was
king of Westphalia; a third brother
was king of Naples; while lesser European
kingdoms and the congeries of
little German states had well-nigh disappeared
into the vortex, and French
soldiers swaggered about the streets
of Berlin.

{325}

Great Britain was neither crushed
nor intimidated. She had flung off
the fear of invasion; and her ships
triumphantly ranged the seas, attacking
sea-board forts, fighting vessels double
their own size and tonnage, capturing
prizes, making prisoners, in all directions.
At this date there were some
thirty thousand French prisoners in
England; and before the close of the
Peninsular War their number had risen
to ninety thousand.

In 1807 Britain had as yet been less
successful on land than at sea. Many
a battle indeed had been gained, many
a deed of splendid valour had been
done; but while one expedition after
another had been despatched hither
and thither, with intent to undermine
and weaken the enormous power of
Napoleon, most of these had failed to
administer any serious check to his
advances. At that date England seems
to have had an army inadequate to her
needs, if not in numbers, at least in
military equipment; and the expeditions
sent were usually far too small for the
work they were intended to do.

All this while the inner life of the
nation flowed on. Taxes were heavy,
food was dear, much suffering existed,
yet the spirit of the people neither failed
nor faltered. They were cheery and full
of courage, looking forward with high
hope to a better state of things. In a
little while, surely, justice would be
meted out, and the cause of liberty
would prevail.

Even in England Napoleon was not
without his enthusiastic admirers. There
are always some whose party feeling is
stronger than their patriotism; and there
are commonly a few also who will sentimentally
put a man upon a pedestal,
with regard to his intellect only, apart
from questions of character. This they
did with Napoleon, adoring his genius,
worshipping his success, ignoring his
selfishness and the darker shades which
belong to his history. But though such
people made a good deal of noise with
their opinions, after the fashion of
excitable minorities, they were in numbers
small. The mass of the people
was in deadly earnest. The nation as
a whole was ready to fight Buonaparte
to the last coin in its purse, the last
warm drop of blood in its body.

One more tragic story had yet to be
told! One more apparent failure, which
contained in itself the heroic germ of
coming victory, had yet to be lived
through. One more great Englishman
was to die, in the very moment of a
success, which at the moment could
only be read as a defeat. Then the ebb
of the tide would have begun.

(To be continued.)

“‘YOUR PARDON, SIR. MY NAME IS MISS KEENE,
AS YOU ARE AWARE.’”

{326}

EXERCISE: IN MODERATION.

By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

here is a temptation
to all to eat too much
and take too little
exercise. Many of
us have from childhood
learned to suppress
this temptation;
but we fear
that there are many
more who are constantly
fighting the
battle against laziness and over-eating, and not
a few who give up the struggle altogether.

Of all earthly gifts we look upon good
health as the greatest. We should doubt if
anyone would choose gold in preference to
health. And yet why is it that most persons
strive so much harder for the former than for
the latter. Perhaps it is that a healthy
person has an idea that her health can take
care of itself; whereas she knows full well
that wealth cannot be acquired without
working for it. Or perhaps it is that people
do not know how to take care of their
health.

It is all very well to talk about Nature
being able to look after herself (or rather
ourselves), that she is an infallible guide for
us to follow, and that she tells us what to
eat, when to sleep and how to be generally
happy and healthy. But does Nature do this
for man? Perhaps she would be so obliging
if man were a natural animal.

But a civilised man is not a servant of
Nature, and though he is unable to rebel
against her, still he has the power to question
her promptings and the will whereby to alter
or nullify them. And if we think ever so
shallowly we cannot escape from the knowledge
that Nature very often prompts us to
do what our higher understanding tells us is
wrong, and if we do our duty we set aside
the dictates of Nature in favour of our own
consciousness. Even in cases dealing with
the lowest vital points, such as eating,
dressing, or sleeping, Nature by no means
always directs us aright. When you have
been running on a warm day and have got very
hot, what does Nature tell you to do? To
sit in a draught and get cold. And yet if
you value your health, this would be the very
last thing that you would dare to attempt.

Since we have no natural instinct to tell us
how to keep healthy, we have founded upon
our experience a code of laws to regulate our
bodily functions. These laws of health,
which we should all observe have been
gradually evolved from the observations of
generation after generation of physicians and
others, and though they may have differed in
detail at different times and in different
countries, in the main they may be considered
as absolute.

Everybody must have heard of these laws
of health, but there is a very large number
of persons who do not know what they are
or how to carry them out.

There are six chief laws of health. The
first deals with the sanitation of our homes
and dwellings; the disposal of sewage; the
draining of the soil; the laws of ventilation;
the supply of sufficient quantities of pure
water, and the general hygiene of the
community. We support governors and
committees to look after this part of the
business, so we need not worry ourselves
about it.

The second law of health concerns itself
with personal hygiene. It tells us how we
should wash and clothe ourselves; how we
should ventilate our rooms; how to cool
ourselves in hot weather, and the means
by which the animal heat is maintained in
winter.

The third law tells us about our food; how
we should eat; what is the best food for man
in health and sickness; what we should drink;
and other matters connected with the supply
of fuel to our bodies.

The fourth law deals with sleep. It tells
us its nature; why we sleep. It insists on
the necessity of sufficient sleep, and sleep at
the right time.

The sixth law deals with the proper
education of the mind. How to educate
our children. The absolute necessity of
mental study for the physical health of our
bodies as well as its more important functions.

We have omitted the fifth law, but will now
refer to it, and we will devote the rest of this
article to its consideration. This law deals
with the question of physical exercise.

Physical exercise is as essential to health
as is food or sleep; but, because the need
of it is not brought home to us so forcibly as
these two other necessities, it rarely receives
that attention which it deserves. Everyone
knows full well that we may eat too little or
too much, that we may eat at improper times,
that everything that we can put into our
interiors is not equally wholesome, that much
that we can eat is positively injurious, and that
we must eat every day, be the weather fine
or rainy. But how few there are who know
that the laws of exercise are in every way
comparable with these! Most people are
aware that we can take too little exercise;
some moderate persons likewise know that
we can overdo exercise, and that exercise is
not equally good at all times. We have met
people who know that all forms of exercise
are not equally good, and a few who are
aware that some forms of exercise are positively
injurious; but we have seldom spoken to
anyone who would admit that exercise is
essential every day in all weathers.

The first question that we will discuss is,
how much exercise is needed every day, how
much will give the greatest benefit, and how
much is positively injurious?

And on the threshold we are met with the
greatest difficulty of the whole subject; for
persons vary extremely in their endurance of
exercise, and a walk which would be insufficient
for one person may be infinitely beyond the
powers of a second to endure. We cannot
lay down a rule in this particular. Every
person must find out for herself what amount
of exercise she must indulge in daily. For a
perfectly healthy girl of sixteen to twenty,
three to five miles’ walk daily, or an hour’s
bicycling, or, if outdoor exercise is not permissible,
half an hour’s gymnastic exercise is
the minimum amount of exercise which she
should take daily.

Ever so many people have an idea that you
can lay in a stock of exercise, as you can fill
a coal-cellar, and draw on the reserve when
you are too lazy to renew the supply. These
persons will tell you, “I do all my walking
on one day, so that there is no necessity for
me to go out any other day in the week. I
walk twenty-one miles on that day, that is
three miles for each day in the week, so I am
all right on this score.” Now just consider
one moment what you are doing, and you
will agree with us that your method is not
only fallacious, but exceedingly harmful.

Suppose that you eat on an average two
pounds’ weight of food a day. Do you think
that it would be equally beneficial to take the
fourteen pounds of food on one day and then
have six days’ starvation? Some animals can
do this, but man is not fitted for living in this
way. With the usual logic evinced by most
people when they are contradicted, we are at
once answered, “Oh, if what I do is no good,
as I cannot take exercise when I like, I shall
not go out at all!” Evidently concluding
that she takes care of her own health out of
consideration for our feelings!

You must be a physician to hear this form
of argument without smiling. Perhaps you
would feel inclined to answer this lady,
“Well, it does not matter to me what you
do. It is your health, not ours, that is at
stake.” So, indeed, would we like to
answer; but if we did, what would be the
good of us? No, we will not offend this
lady; we will wait till to-morrow, when she
will have come to the same way of thinking
as ourselves.

You must never walk so as to over-tire
yourself. We are not going to say that an
occasional long walk is injurious. It is not,
but it is not the proper way to take exercise.

All forms of exercise are not equally good.
Some are very beneficial, others are doubtfully
healthy, others again are downright noxious.

Walking is so infinitely the best form of
exercise, that to compare any other with it is
ridiculous. Walking is essential to health,
and no other form of exercise can be substituted
for it.

Boating, riding, and bicycling are fairly
good forms of exercise, but none of these
possesses the value of walking. Driving in
a carriage is simply not exercise at all. You
get a little fresh air and change of scene in
driving; but as there is no exertion required
in the process, there is no exercise.

Many of our outdoor games are good
exercise, many are a little hard and excessive
perhaps, but on the whole they are very
healthy, unless carried to excess. These
games are good because walking or running
is an essential part of them. Golf is by far
the most healthy of all games. As far as
outsiders can tell, it seems to us to be walking
with a little skill and excitement added to
render the walking pleasant to those who will
not walk for walking’s sake alone.

Of the forms of exercise that can be carried
on indoors, we will say but little. A little
dumb-bell or Indian-club exercise in the
morning after the bath is very beneficial to
healthy people. The dumb-bells should be
made of wood, should not weigh more than
two pounds, and should be used for a few
minutes only. The heavy iron dumb-bells so
often used to “improve the figure” are
exceedingly injurious and should never be
used.

Of gymnastics we would rather be silent
altogether; but, since this form of exercise is
very popular and largely on the increase, we
must say a word or two about it. In our
opinion gymnastics of any kind are poor forms
of exercise, and the severer kinds and “strong
man exercises” are exceedingly injurious to
everyone.

We have been accustomed, when we look
at a man whose muscles are enormously
developed to consider him a strong man.
But if you were to question him on his health
or powers of endurance, you would probably
discover that he was a very sickly specimen.
We have seen a “strong man,” a rather
famous one too, sit down in a corner and cry
for half an hour because a boy threw a cherry
stone into his eye—an injury at which a
healthy person would laugh. Does this
denote strength? Another strong man whom{327}
we knew was always shivering with the cold
both in summer and winter. And once, when
he happened to catch a cough, he was
completely prostrate for weeks.

Another strong man told us that he was
careful never to read or use his brain in any
way because it interfered with the development
of his muscles! Yet another who prided
himself on the enormous expansion of his
chest—we forget how many inches’ difference
there was in the diameter of his chest in
inspiration and expiration, but it was something
sensational—caught cold, contracted
consumption, and died six weeks later! Yet
the exercises for expanding the chest are said
to prevent phthisis!

The man with great muscles is not the
strong man, but a sickly monster. What
good can it do to anyone to lift a horse and
cart, or break iron bars? Develop his
muscles as far as he can, no man will ever
excel a steam-hammer or an engine in force
or weight.

Give us the thin wiry person who has
cultivated his mind and body to do that work
for which he was made. He is the man who
can brave disease, and who, if he by any
misfortune happens to be injured, can bear
the suffering like a man, and whose body is
well capable of recovery from the many
vicissitudes to which it is liable.

Exercise is essential in all weathers. Because
to-day is wet, are you going to forego
your walk? In England about one day in
three is rainy. Are you going to suppress
one-third of your necessary exercise from this
cause? Oh, you are afraid of catching cold!
Now English people talk a lot about catching
cold, for they of all nations suffer most from
this cause. But very few persons indeed
really understand what catching cold means
or how it is produced. We hope to give an
article on this subject shortly. At present
we will merely state that, unless the day is
very cold or windy, walking in the rain, if you
are sufficiently protected, will not cause you
to take cold. We would not, however,
advise any invalid to go out on rainy days;
but still they must not abandon exercise
altogether. Half an hour’s dumb-bell exercise
or mild gymnastics may be substituted for the
day’s walk.

Exercise is best if taken in the morning.
For very strong people it is preferable to take
a walk before breakfast; but people who are
not feeling up to the mark should not attempt
to walk before having had some food.

You should never take exercise immediately
after a meal, and conversely you should never
eat till half an hour after a long walk, and
you should never go to bed immediately you
come home from a walk, but sit down quietly
for at least half an hour before retiring.

THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.

FEBRUARY.

By LA MÉNAGÈRE.

It might seem a superfluity to be at the
trouble of compiling and writing a menu for
the small home dinner-table. If anyone thinks
this, let them first give the experiment a trial
before pronouncing upon it; they will, I
venture to think, be gratified by the result.

In every household the dinner, be it early
or late, is the important meal of the day, and
it merits whatever dignity can be given to it
by such accessories as service, care in laying
the table, decoration, etc., and not the
least of these will be found the menu written
for every day. Especially if there be a guest at
table is this little mark of attention appreciated.

We must remember that imagination plays
a very important part in the human organisation;
a good name goes a long way towards
bringing a dish into favour, and I have found
that the very fact of a name being given to a
dish has its influence with the cook, who
feels in a way bound to see that its character
is “lived up to.” Then again it is a help to
the caterer if the menus are kept, and those
which have been particularly liked marked for
future repetition. Much racking of brains
is spared, and precious minutes are saved that
else would have been spent in answering the
puzzling question, “What shall we have for
dinner to-day?”

Our market list in February varies little if
at all from the previous month in the main
things, but as the game season is practically
drawing to an end, we find our resources fewer
than they were. Guinea-fowl however are
excellent, so are woodcock and snipe, also
ptarmigan. Turkeys are still to be had, but
they are very dear, as all poultry is. Hares
and rabbits are very good.

Our supply of vegetables will be apt to run
short if the weather is at all severe; savoys
will not have suffered so much, and about this
time we usually receive large consignments of
cauliflowers from Italy. The South sends us
also fresh lettuce, chicory, forced beans, and
other “primeurs,” but their price is often
beyond what a slender purse can afford.
Anyone with a garden may at this time have
corn-salad growing therein, which will be
getting tender and eatable. Celery should
still be good, and we ought to have an
abundance of Jerusalem artichokes, Swede
turnips, parsnips, carrots, onions and suchlike
root vegetables.

In fruits we have imported apples and pears,
oranges—getting to their best—lemons,
citrons, and all dried fruits.

This month, by the way, is the time for
making our yearly supply of orange marmalade;
if we delay any longer the true Seville
oranges will be gone, although bitter oranges
are procurable up to April. After we have
studied our menu we will consider the subject
of marmalade making, for that toothsome
sweet has now become one of our necessities
of life.

MENU FOR FEBRUARY.

• Purée of Haricot Beans.
• Fried Smelts.
• Boiled Beef, with a “Plat de Carottes.”
• Roast Ptarmigan. Bread Sauce.
• Apple Fritters.
• Cheese. Biscuits. Coffee.

Purée of Haricot Beans.—A pint of beans
will make a large quantity, say two quarts, of
soup, therefore half-a-pint would suffice for
one dish of soup for an ordinary family. These
beans should always be soaked overnight in
cold water; they will dissolve so much more
readily. Place them in a stewpan with
rather more than sufficient water to cover
them, let them simmer for three hours, then
rub through a tamis. While the rubbing goes
on, cook a finely-minced onion in a little
butter, add the bean purée to this, some salt
and pepper, and then sufficient hot milk and
water to make up the requisite quantity.
This might simmer a while longer, and then
just before serving a spoonful of cornflour
wet with a little milk should be stirred in,
and all brought up to the boiling point once
more.

Smelts should be wiped with a clean cloth,
coated with beaten egg, rolled in bread raspings,
and fried in butter. Serve fresh lemon
cut in slices and thin brown bread and butter
with them.

A dish of carrots for eating with boiled
beef is nice done in the Flemish mode:

Pare the carrots and cut them in strips
lengthwise, and then cut them up precisely
as you would kidney beans; put them in a
stewpan with well-fitting lid, add to them a
good spoonful of beef dripping and a little
pepper and salt. Cover closely and let them
cook in their own steam for an hour or
more, seeing that they do not catch on the
bottom. Pour the fat off and add a few
drops of vinegar just before dishing up.

Ptarmigan are rather dry birds and they
require a thin piece of bacon wrapping round
them before roasting, also to be frequently
basted. Let them do rather quickly, so as
to be nicely browned, but they will take
rather less than an hour. Serve good gravy
and bread sauce with them.

Apple Fritters.—For frying these a good
depth of boiling lard is necessary if they are
to be done successfully. Take the cores out
of large apples, and pare them thinly. Cut
across in slices not too thin. Dip each slice
in batter made from the whisked whites of
two eggs, a spoonful of flour, a pinch of salt,
and enough salad oil to make it like thick
cream. When fried drain each ring on
kitchen paper and sprinkle with castor sugar.
Pile high on a paper doyley.

And now as to the directions for the
making of orange marmalade. The following
plan is one I have pursued for several years
and it has always produced excellent marmalade:

To every twelve Seville oranges allow two
lemons; slice them across, rind and pulp, as
thinly as ever it is possible to do with the
sharpest of knives. Pick out the pips as you
go along, but put these in a basin instead of
throwing them away, for it is surprising what
amount of gluten clings to the pips, which is
lost if they are not saved. When all the fruit
has been cut up into lined earthenware pans,
cover it with water until the vessels have as
much as they will hold. Set these aside out
of the way of dust, and let them stand so for
twenty-four hours. After this boil fruit and
water together for perhaps two hours, but
gently so that it does not burn; then turn it
back again into the vessels and let it stand
for another twenty-four hours. After this it
should be stirred up and weighed, and to every
pound of fruit and liquor allow a pound of
lump sugar; when the pulp has boiled for
about an hour the second time, the sugar may
be put in, and then constant stirring will be
necessary and faster boiling. From the time
the sugar is added half-an-hour’s boiling
ought to suffice. Put it into hot jars, but do
not tie down until it is cold.

{328}

FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.

By “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”

Now that the sales are proceeding, there is
always a lull in the production of novelties;
and the shopkeepers set themselves to the
work of disposing of their heaped-up stock,
which, however, does not appear to me to be
as plentiful as usual. This fact tends to prove
that the past season, with its sunshine and
brightness, was a good one, so far as they
were concerned. While wending my way
through several of the crowded shops, I
gathered together, however, a few notes for
my dress article, which show how ideas may
trend in the coming days of early spring.

TWO WARM GOWNS.

I am inclined to think that the reign of the
shaped flounce is perhaps nearly over. Never
have its inconveniences been more shown than
during the present winter, when those who
wore them cut long enough to be in the
fashion have been really encumbered by them,
and wretched from the impossibility of holding
them up. Certainly there were many who
never even attempted to raise them and just
simply let them drag in the dust or mud, and
one shudders to think of what their feet and
undergarments must have looked like, apart
from the dress itself. Frenchwomen held
their dresses up in the style of long ago,
taking a good grip one hand on each side, the
effect being most odd and funny.

Just as many blouses have been worn as
ever this winter underneath the ever-fashionable
coat and skirt; and at the sales there has been
quite as great a rush for the remnants of silk,
which are always prepared for
those occasions. Nothing can be
more ornate than some of the
blouses and fancy tea-jackets; and
there seems to be a very generally
united opinion that, having a
proper skirt to wear with them,
they are not an extravagant purchase,
as they perform so many
parts and are suitable for a variety
of occasions.

There are two new basques
which, however, remind one more
of the coat-tails of the ordinary
dress-coat than of anything else.
They go by the name of the
“swallow tail” basque, and lie
extremely flat; by no means
could one wear any such thing as
gathers beneath them on this
particular account. They may
be very long, or they may only
measure about half a yard in
length. The basques nearly meet
in front, and are cut in one with
the swallow tails; but when it is
so cut, it is called by many people
the “spoon-shaped basque.”
However, I find in many of the
French papers, as well as the
English ones, that both are called
by the all-covering name of Directoire—an
epoch of time which
describes many articles of dress of
late years. I should not be surprised
if these basques were much
worn when the spring appears.

The fancy for wearing tan shoes
has been very remarkable this
winter. Rather a dark wood-shade
is worn—not too dark, but
darker than was in vogue last
season. Both glacé kid and calf
are used; and, in any case, they
should be of an extra good quality,
as, otherwise, they will not stand
the winter’s hard wear.

I have not seen anyone “wearing
the green” in walking shoes,
and do not think they would be
popular. The shoes and boots
most liked seem to be of American
make, which are said to be excellent
in cut and fit, and, what is
better still, to wear well; at any
rate, it is the smart thing to wear
them. I think the toes are smaller
and sharper than ever; and the
more pointed, the more stylish.
One never hardly sees a small foot,
for no one can wear anything but
shoes far too long for them; as
they really cannot become like
Chinese ladies and obliterate their
full-grown toes immediately!

So far as millinery is concerned,
the favourite hat or toque seems
to be that turned up immediately
in front over the forehead, and
ornamented with a rosette, and{329}
generally a paste or steel buckle, or brooch.
All the very smartest toques are trimmed with
some kind of fur—sable, of course, for those
who can manage it, then mink, and—perhaps
the most fashionable of all—chinchilla, which,
however, is rather a perishable fur. All of
them are trimmed in the same way, with a
big bunch of violets on one side, and some
feathers. But I have just seen a sable-trimmed
toque with a huge spray of moss-roses
or buds, having their leaves mounted in front.
This admixture of flowers and fur is one of the
things our grandmothers would have shivered at.

The fashionable flower of the season seems
to be the violet as usual; and, next to that,
quantities of roses are worn, both most
unwintry flowers. The flame-coloured roses
are very fine in their colouring, but do not
seem to me to be becoming; the colour,
though so fine, is a little hard. Very beautiful
ostrich feathers are worn in the larger hats,
but are laid on in such a light and airy
manner as to make one feel they will be
blown off in the first gale of wind.

I notice numbers of Eton and other similar
jackets, which the fine mild weather, so far,
enables people to wear, and which look rather
chilly. White veils and white lace ties are
all worn, and also give the idea of summer
rather than winter. However, it is as well to
get out of our rather gloomy ideas of clothing,
for, as it is, we wear far too much black; and
the use of so much red this winter has been
quite refreshing.

The first illustration consists of a group of
two seated figures. That on the left side
has a grey cloth gown, with an orange-velvet
yoke, much pointed in front and braided all
over with ivory braid. Pointed epaulettes on
the shoulders to match, and orange-coloured
tabs, turned over at the collar. The dress is
braided with grey braid of a darker shade in
long and narrow points. The figure on the
right side wears a gown of a very bright rose-crimson,
with narrow astrachan edging on the
bodice and the skirt. The sleeves are much
tucked, the pointed space in front is filled in
with white satin and ivory lace over it, points
of white satin at the collar, and a band of
black satin ribbon at the neck.

A CRIMSON COAT.

The group of two figures standing up in{330}
out-of-door apparel shows one of the pretty
bright-crimson jackets that have been so much
worn this winter. It is braided with black
scrolls, and has revers of black astrachan, and
a collar of the same. The hat is crimson and
black, and the skirt is black, with a band of
crimson heading the flounce. On the right
side the figure wears a straight-cut jacket,
with the ever-popular horizontal tucks, which
compose the whole bodice of the jacket, and
appear again on the top of the sleeve, in
rather narrower form. The colour of this
gown is the fashionable blue cloth, and the
collar and edging of the revers are of Caracul,
while the centres are of black velvet, braided
with black. Several rows of tucks edge the
skirt, and the hat is of grey velvet, trimmed with
grey feathers, and turned up with blue velvet.

One of the new arrivals in the trimming
line is fringes of different widths and in
colours to match the dresses for which they
are required. I have also seen some new
ribbons which are fringed at both edges.
Although I say “fringes of different widths,”
I must remark that I have not seen any wide
ones—they are mostly narrow.

Perhaps, before I conclude, I may say a
few words about the dressing of the hair,
which never was more prettily done. It is
waved in large waves, and is dressed fairly
high for the evening; but I have seen a
tendency to wear it lower in the day. At
any rate, we have much more liberty accorded
to us just now, and we take the liberty of
dressing our hair very much as it is becoming to
ourselves individually; and this has led to its
being much lowered.

For young people, I notice that the hair is
no longer permitted to stray wildly about, but
it is tied at the back, at the nape of the neck;
and for the evening it is tied in a Catogan loop,
the hair at the top of the head being waved
in large flutings. A very slight amount of
what the Americans call “bangs” are allowed
for young girls.

Our third drawing presents one figure only,
and it is dressed in a tailor-made bodice and
skirt, which make of dresses is rising in
favour day by day. The material of which
it is made is a dark green cloth, which
is cut at the edges of the short coat
and sleeves into rounded scallops and
machine-stitched, a green gimp being
placed below; a white lace ruff is round
the neck, and the hat—or, rather,
toque—is of dark green velvet, with
green feathers, and large posies of
violets. The machine stitching applied
to gowns this year is singularly
perfect, and cannot be done at home.
I am told that it is all accomplished by a
single expert hand at the large and fashionable
ladies’ tailors, as no inexpert person could be
trusted with it.

The latest fashionable fancy about the long
gold chain is to wear it hanging down to its
fullest length in front, and depending from it
are a pencil, pen, or any such useful articles
that the wearer may
like to have at hand.
The watered silk
ribbons, with steel
buckles or slides, have
been more used than
metal chains this winter
for the muff, and
they look far better
and more ladylike.

DARK GREEN
CLOTH GOWN.

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

By JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters Three,” etc.

CHAPTER XX.

The next morning, immediately after
breakfast, Peggy went up to her own
room to pack for her visit to the
Larches. The long dress box, which
had been stored away ever since its
arrival, was brought out and its contents
displayed to an admiring audience,
consisting of Mrs. Asplin, Esther, Mellicent,
and Mary the housemaid.

Everything was there that the heart
of girl could desire, and a mother’s
forethought provide for her darling’s
use when she was far away. A dress
of cobweb Indian muslin embroidered in
silk, a fan of curling feathers, a dear
little satin pocket in which to keep the
lace handkerchief, rolls of ribbons,
dainty white shoes, with straggly silk
stockings rolled into the toes.

Peggy displayed one article after
another, while Mellicent groaned and
gurgled with delight, Mary exclaimed,
“My, Miss Peggy, but you will be
smart!” and Mrs. Asplin stifled a sigh
at the thought of her own inferior
preparations.

Punctually at ten o’clock the carriage
drove up to the door, and off Peggy
drove, not altogether unwillingly, now
that it had come to the pinch, for after
all it is pleasant to be appreciated,
and when a great excitement is taking
place in the neighbourhood, it is only
human to wish to be in the thick of
the fray.

Lady Darcy welcomed her guest with
gracious kindness, and as soon as she
had taken off her hat and jacket in the
dressing-room which was allotted to her
use, she was taken straight away to the
chief room, where the work of decoration
was being carried briskly forward. The
village joiner was fitting mirrors into
the corners and hammering with deafening
persistence, a couple of gardeners
were arranging banks of flowers and{331}
palms, and Rosalind stood in the midst
of a bower of greenery, covered from
head to foot in a smock of blue linen
and with a pair of gardening gloves
drawn over her hands.

She gave a little cry of relief and
satisfaction as Peggy entered.

“Oh, Mawiquita, so glad you have
come! Mother is so busy that she
can’t be with me at all, and these
wretched bwanches pwick my fingers!
Do look wound, and say how it looks!
This is really the servants’ hall, you
know, as we have not a pwoper ballroom,
and it is so square and high that
it is perfectly dweadful to decowate!
A long, narrow woom is so much
better!”

Peggy thought the arrangements
tasteful and pretty; but she could not
gush over the effect, which, in truth,
was in no way original or striking.
There seemed little to be done in the
room itself, so she suggested an adjournment
into the outer hall, which seemed
to offer unique opportunities.

“That space underneath the staircase!”
she cried eagerly. “Oh, Rosalind,
we could make it look perfectly
sweet with all the beautiful Eastern
things that you have brought home
from your travels! Let us make a little
harem, with cushions to sit on, and
hanging lamps, and Oriental curtains
for drapery. We could do it while the
men are finishing this room, and be
ready to come back to it after lunch.”

“Oh, what a sweet idea! Mawiquita,
you are quite too clever!” cried Rosalind,
aglow with pleasure. “Let us
begin at once. It will be ever so much
more intewesting than hanging about
here.”

She thrust her hand through Peggy’s
arm as she spoke, and the two girls went
off on a tour through the house to select
the most suitable articles for their decoration
of the “harem.” There was no lack
of choice, for the long suite of reception
rooms was full of treasures, and Peggy
stopped every few minutes to point with
a small forefinger and say, “That
screen, please! That table! That
stool!” to the servants who had been
summoned in attendance. The smaller
things, such as ornaments, table-cloths,
and lamps she carried herself, while
Rosalind murmured sweetly, “Oh,
don’t twouble! You mustn’t, weally!
Let me help you!” and stood with
her arms hanging by her side, without
showing the faintest sign of giving the
offered help.

As the morning passed away, Peggy
found indeed that the Honourable Miss
Darcy was a broken reed to lean upon
in the way of assistance. She sat on
a stool and looked on while the other
workers hammered, and pinned, and
stitched—so that Peggy’s prophecy as to
her own subordinate position was exactly
reversed, and the work of supervision
was given entirely into her hands.

It took nearly two hours to complete
the decorations of the “harem,” but,
when all was finished, the big, ugly
space beneath the staircase was transformed
into as charming a nook as it is
possible to imagine. Pieces of brilliant
flag embroidery from Cairo draped the
further wall, a screen of carved work
shut out the end of the passage, gauzy
curtains of gold and blue depended in
festoons from the ascending staircase
and stopped just in time to leave a safe
place for a hanging lamp of wrought
iron and richly-coloured glass. On the
floor were spread valuable rugs and
piles of bright silken cushions, while on
an inlaid table stood a real Turkish
hookah and a brass tray with the little
egg-shaped cups out of which travellers
in the East are accustomed to sip the
strong black coffee of the natives.

Peggy lifted the ends of her apron
in her hands and executed a dance
of triumph on her own account when
all was finished, and Rosalind said,
“Weally, we have been clever! I
think we may be proud of ourselves!”
in amiable effusion.

The two girls went off to luncheon
in a state of halcyon amiability which
was new indeed in the history of their
acquaintance, and Lady Darcy listened
with an amused smile to their rhapsodies
on the subject of the morning’s work,
promising faithfully not to look at anything
until the right moment should
arrive and she should be summoned to
gaze and admire.

By the time that the workers were
ready to return to the room, the men
had finished the arrangements at
which they had been at work before
lunch, and were beginning to tack
festoons of evergreens along the walls,
the dull paper of which had been
covered with fluting of soft pink muslin.
The effect was heavy and clumsy in the
extreme, and Rosalind stamped her foot
with an outburst of fretful anger.

“Stop putting up those wreaths!
Stop at once! They are simply hideous!
It weminds me of a penny weading in the
village school-woom! You might as well
put up ‘God save the Queen’ and ‘A
Mewwy Chwistmas’ at once! Take them
down this minute, Jackson! I won’t
have them!”

The man touched his forehead, and
began pulling out the nails in half-hearted
fashion.

“Very well, miss, as you wish.
Seems a pity, though, not to use ’em,
for it took me all yesterday to put ’em
together. It’s a sin to throw ’em
away.”

“I won’t have them in the house if
they took you a week!” Rosalind
replied sharply, and she turned on her
heel and looked appealingly in Peggy’s
face. “It’s a howwid failure! The
woom looks so stiff and stwaight—like a
pink box with nothing in it! Mother
won’t like it a bit. What can we do to
make it better?”

Peggy scowled, pursed up her lips,
pressed her hand to her forehead, and
strode up and down the room, rolling
her eyes from side to side, and going
through all the grimaces of one in
search of inspiration. Rosalind was
right; unless some device were found
by which the shape of the room could
be disfigured, the decorations must be
pronounced more or less a failure. She
craned her head to the ceiling, and
suddenly beamed in triumph.

“I have it! The very thing! We
will fasten the garlands to that middle
beam, and loop up the ends at intervals
all round the walls. That will break
the squareness and make the room look
like a tent, with a ceiling of flowers.”

“Ah-h!” cried Rosalind; and clasped
her hands with a gesture of relief. “Of
course! The vewy thing! We ought to
have thought of it at the beginning. Get
the ladder at once, Jackson, and put in a
hook or wing, or something to hold the
ends, and be sure that it is strong
enough. What a good thing that the
weaths are weady. You see, your work
will not be wasted after all.”

She was quite gracious in her satisfaction,
and for the next two hours she
and Peggy were busily occupied superintending
the hanging of the evergreen
wreaths and in arranging bunches of
flowers to be placed at each point where
the wreaths were fastened to the wall.
At the end of this time, Rosalind was
summoned to welcome the distinguished
visitors who had arrived by the afternoon
train. She invited Peggy to accompany
her to the drawing-room, but in a hesitating
fashion, and with a glance round
the disordered room, which said, as
plainly as words could do, that she
would be disappointed if the invitation
were accepted, and Peggy, transformed
in a moment into a poker of pride and
dignity, declared that she would prefer
to remain where she was until all was
finished.

“Well, it weally would be better,
wouldn’t it? I will have a tway sent in
to you here, and do, Mawiquita, see
that evewything is swept up and made
tidy at once, for I shall bring them in to
look wound diwectly after tea, and we
must have the wooms tidy!”

Rosalind tripped away, and Peggy
was left to herself for a lonely and
troublesome hour. The tea-tray was
brought in and she was just seating
herself before an impromptu table, when
up came a gardener to say that one
of “these ’ere wreaths seemed to hang
uncommon near the gas bracket. It
didn’t seem safe like.” And off she
went in a panic of consternation to see
what could be done. There was nothing
for it but to move the wreath some inches
further away, which involved moving
the next also, and the next, and the
next, so as to equalise the distances as
much as possible, and by the time that
they were settled to Peggy’s satisfaction,
lo, table and tray had been whisked out
of sight by some busy pair of hands,
and only a bare space met her eyes.
This was blow number one, for after
working hard all afternoon, tea and
cake come as a refreshment which one
would not readily miss. She cheered
herself, however, by putting dainty
finishing touches here and there, seeing
that the lamp was lighted in the
“harem” outside, and was busy placing
fairy lamps among the shrubs which
were to screen the band, when a babel of
voices from outside warned her that the
visitors were approaching. Footsteps
came nearer and nearer, and a chorus
of exclamations greeted the sight of
the “harem.” The door stood open,
Peggy waited for Rosalind’s voice
to call and bid her share the honours,{332}
but no summons came. She heard Lady
Darcy’s exclamation, and the quick,
strong tones of the strange Countess.

“Charming, charming; quite a stroke
of genius! I never saw a more artistic
little nook. What made you think of it,
my dear?”

“Ha!” said Peggy to herself, and
took a step forward, only to draw back
in dismay, as a light laugh reached her
ear, followed by Rosalind’s careless—

“Oh, I don’t know; I wanted to
make it pwetty, don’t you know; it was
so dweadfully bare, and there seemed
no other way.”

Then there was a rustle of silk skirts,
and the two ladies entered the room,
followed by their respective daughters,
Rosalind beautiful and radiant, and the
Ladies Berkhampton with their chins
poked forward, and their elbows thrust
out in ungainly fashion. They paused
on the threshold and every eye travelled
up to the wreath-decked ceiling. A
flush of pleasure came into Lady Darcy’s
pale cheeks, and she listened to the Countess’s
compliments with sparkling eyes.

“It is all the work of this clever
child,” she said, laying her hand fondly
on Rosalind’s shoulder. “I have had
practically nothing to do with the
decorations. This is the first time I
have been in the room to-day, and I
had no idea that the garlands were to
be used in this way. I thought they
were for the walls.”

“I congratulate you, Rosalind! You
are certainly very happy in your arrangements,”
said the Countess cordially.
Then she put up her eyeglass and stared
inquiringly at Peggy, who stood by
with her hair fastened back in its usual
pig-tail, and a big white apron pinned
over her dress.

“She thinks I am the kitchen-maid!”
said Peggy savagely to herself; but
there was little fear of such a mistake,
and the moment that Lady Darcy noticed
the girl’s presence, she introduced her
kindly enough, if with somewhat of a
condescending air.

“This is a little friend of Rosalind’s
who has come up to help. She is
fond of this sort of work,” she said;
then, before any of the strangers had
time to acknowledge the introduction, she
added hastily, “And now I am sure you
must all be tired after your journey, and
will be glad to go to your rooms and
rest. It is quite wicked of me to keep
you standing. Let me take you upstairs
at once!”

They sailed away with the same rustle
of garments, the same babel of high-toned
voices, and Peggy stood alone
in the middle of the deserted room.
No one had asked her to rest, or
suggested that she might be tired; she
had been overlooked and forgotten in
the presence of the distinguished visitor.
She was only a little girl who was
“fond” of this sort of work, and, it
might be supposed, was only too
thankful to be allowed to help. The
house sank into silence. She waited for
half an hour longer in the hope that
someone would remember her presence,
and then, tired, hungry, and burning with
repressed anger, crept upstairs to her own
little room and fell asleep upon the couch.

(To be continued.)

OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

By CHARLES PETERS.

The first group of lilies, “Cardiocrinum,”
contains but two lilies. These two plants
strongly resemble each other but are both
totally different from any other species.

Many years ago, long before we ever dreamed
of growing lilies ourselves, we first made
acquaintance with the magnificent Lilium
Giganteum.

We had been walking all day in the south
of Hertfordshire, and as evening was approaching
we turned to retrace our steps. But the
district was new to us, and we found that we
had wandered many miles from our path.
We looked about us for someone of whom to
ask our way, but the road was deserted save
for ourselves. We trudged onwards for about
a mile, and seeing a cottage a short way ahead,
we determined to ask our way of one of its
inhabitants.

It was about eight o’clock in the evening of
a broiling hot day in the beginning of July.
We opened the gate, approached the house,
and knocked at the door. But the house was
apparently empty, for our knock was unheeded
and there was no sign nor sound of any person
in the house. We knocked again, but this
summons also being futile, we walked round
the house and entered the back garden. It
was a beautiful garden, one of those old
gardens in which flowers have been cultivated
for centuries, and in which the most beautiful
of garden-plants seem as much at home as do
the weeds in our country lanes.

But it was not the flowers, nor the well-kept
lawn, which arrested our attention. On
turning round the house we had become
aware of an intense fragrance not unlike that
of the lily of the valley, but many times more
powerful. We glanced around to discover
what plant it was which exhaled this perfume,
and for a few minutes we were unable to
discover it. But on turning our gaze towards
the opposite corner of the garden, we saw a
magnificent clump of the giant lily under the
shade of three tall lime-trees. There were
five spikes, the shortest of which was over five
feet high, each surmounted with from ten to
twelve blossoms like bells of shining wax.

We approached the spot and stood admiring
this glorious plant for many minutes. But the
remembrance that we had lost our way was
gradually forced upon us, and we left the
lilies, filled with an admiration for them which
will never tarnish. We found no one in the
garden, but eventually we discovered the right
way home.

The next year we tried to find this cottage
and revisit the lilies, but we have never to this
day been able to find it.

We did not again behold this wonderful lily
till July, 1898, when we flowered a single one
in our own garden. This specimen did not
exceed four feet in height, but it matured nine
perfect blossoms.

The Lilium Giganteum, the giant lily of
the Himalayas may well stand at the head of
the genus. Its blossoms are perhaps not so
fine as those of some other species, but in
foliage, in growth and in fragrance it is second
to none.

The bulb of this species is about the size of
a very large cocoa-nut, but varies considerably
in size according to whether it is going to
flower the next season or not. The bulb
consists of few scales, which are large, fibrous,
and of a dark russet hue. The tops of the
scales have a rotten-looking appearance. The
bulb is very compact, hard and heavy.

About the middle of March the plant begins
to show above ground. Its appearance after
this varies considerably. If it is not going to
flower it puts up a large mass of fine, deep,
glossy green leaves, which somewhat resemble
those of the White Arum. These leaves are
heart-shaped, very glossy, many-nerved and
distinctly stalked. The lily will probably
repeat this process next year, and perhaps the
next too; but if it has been well attended to,
in the third or fourth year it will put up a
flower-spike. When the stem first shows it
has an appearance very similar to a small
lettuce. It grows very rapidly and attains its
full height about the beginning of July.

When full grown this lily has a very noble
appearance. Its stem is from four to fourteen
feet high, perfectly straight and gradually
tapering from its base, where it is one to three
inches in diameter, to its top, which narrows
almost to a point.

Three distinct forms of leaves are borne on
this stem. The lower ones resemble the leaves
sent up in the non-flowering years. The
upper leaves are smaller, less heart-shaped and
with stalks. The third set of leaves, the bracts,
enclose the flower buds. These are simple
sessile leaves which fall off when the flowers
open.

The flowers vary in number from four to
twenty. They are borne directly on the stem,
without separate stalks. They are from six
to nine inches long, of a pure white externally,
slightly tinged with green near their attachments.
Inside they are creamy white, with
a broad streak of a rich claret colour down the
centre of each petal. The pollen is yellow.
The scent of this lily is intensely fragrant and
almost overpowering. The seeds are flat and
triangular with broad membranous wings.

The tips of the perianth are very slightly
reflexed. In most drawings of this lily the
flowers are made to look like those of L.
Longiflorum, but they are quite different,
being long and narrow, with very slightly
reflexed petals and sepals.

It is often said in books that the bulb of
this lily dies after once flowering, but this is
not correct. The central part of the bulb does
rot, but two or three small bulblets are left at
its margin, which will in favourable circumstances
grow and eventually flower.

This lily is a native of the Himalayas
growing at a height of five to ten thousand
feet above the sea-level.

The cultivation of this lily presents some
difficulties, but surely it is worth while to give{333}
a little trouble to grow such a superb
plant? We very rarely see it in cultivation,
but in our garden it shall always find a
home.

A plant growing in such a robust manner
as this lily is not suitable for a flower-bed.
It should be grown by itself in a shady
nook. A clump of two or three looks very
lovely, and it is possible to arrange matters
so as to have at least one flowering spike
every year.

It is not quite hardy, except in our
southern counties, but it rarely needs more
protection than a heap of bracken or other
litter thrown over it in the winter.

If you wish to grow this lily, choose a
suitable spot and dig out the earth to the
depth of four feet. Fill in with a mixture
of strong loam, decayed leaf mould and the
remains of a hot-bed. To this add a little
peat and plenty of sharp sand. The plant is
a gross feeder and literally revels in “muck.”
An occasional drenching with
liquid manure is often very helpful.
It requires large quantities
of water during the growing
period.

Resembling L. Giganteum
so closely that formerly it was
considered as a variety of that
plant, but vastly inferior in every
way, L. Cordifolium is the
only other lily possessing heart-shaped
leaves.

The bulb of L. Cordifolium
is like that of L. Giganteum,
but is scarcely a fourth the size.

Its leaves also resemble those
of L. Giganteum, but the base
leaves are not so numerous, and
the lower ones are congregated
into a whorl. The upper leaves
are irregularly scattered. The
lowest leaves are curiously
marked with a deep mahogany hue, which is
never present in those of L. Giganteum, and
which helps to distinguish between the two
plants. The leaves are even more cordate
than are those of L. Giganteum, especially
the lower ones which form a very tolerable
image of the “artistic” heart.

The stem grows to about three or four feet
high, and bears at its summit from two to
six flowers somewhat like those of L. Giganteum,
but smaller, poorer, and marked on the
inside with brown rather than claret-colour.
The flowers open wider than do those of L.
Giganteum, and are incomparably less beautiful.
This lily is a native of Japan and China.

It is decidedly a scarce lily, and is exceedingly
difficult to flower. We have not
succeeded in flowering it ourselves, but a
solitary bulb that we possess sent up last
summer a fair crop of its curious leaves.

This plant would look well in a mass grown
in much the same way as L. Giganteum, but
we have never tried it in the ground, and so
cannot speak from experience in this particular.

Altogether it is so far inferior to L. Giganteum,
more difficult to grow and much less
effective that we do not recommend its culture
to any but enthusiasts. It is not a hardy lily
and requires some protection in winter. It
begins to send up its leaves very early in
spring, and these must be protected at this
season from frosts, and later from the wind
and sun.

Both L. Giganteum and L. Cordifolium can
be grown in pots, but the great size of the
former and comparative poorness of the
latter render both unsuitable for this form of
culture.

Eulirion—beautiful lily! What an appropriate
name for the superb plants contained
in this group! Beautiful lilies they are indeed,
beautiful in shape, in colour and in scent!
What flowers will you compare with the
members of this group? None of the priceless
orchids or choice stove plants are anything
like so beautiful as these misunderstood and
grossly neglected lilies!

Lilium Henryi.

First among the Eulirions stands L. Longiflorum
and its many varieties. This together
with L. Formosanum, L. Philippinense, L.
Wallichianum and L. Neilgherrense form a
group of plants having many characteristics
in common, and all very different from the
rest of the genus.

The lilies of this group are all low-growing,
rarely exceeding four feet in height. The
flowers which are white or pale yellow are
usually solitary, but some varieties of Lilium
Longiflorum bear as many as five or six
blossoms on each stem. The leaves are linear,
smooth and numerous, scattered and are all
similar. These lilies are natives of Western
Asia.

L. Longiflorum, the most important member
of the group named after it, is one of the
best known and highly appreciated members
of the genus. It is usually grown as a pot
plant. But why? Why do we so rarely see
this plant in the garden? Oh, it is so tender!
It will not stand our winters! It dwindles
so when grown in the open! Nonsense!
This lily is perfectly hardy and is admirably
suited to the open ground. But you do not{334}
do well with this plant because you will choose
the only variety of it which cannot stand our
climate.

To most persons L. Longiflorum is synonymous
with L. Harrisii. But the latter plant
is only one form, and is a rather unsatisfactory
form of L. Longiflorum. L. Harrisii is a
variety of L. Longiflorum altered by having
been grown in the tropical climate of Bermuda.
It is a hardy lily rendered tender by coddling.
It is undoubtedly a fine variety for the greenhouse,
but it is nothing like so fine as some of
the other forms of L. Longiflorum.

Although this lily is undoubtedly “long-flowered,”
it hardly deserves the specific title
of Longiflorum, for it is the least long-flowered
of the five plants placed in the same group as
itself.

The bulb of this lily presents no deviation
from the typical bulb. Indeed it is the typical
lily-bulb.

The great number of varieties of this lily,
though all are somewhat similar, yet possess
considerable differences in regard to their
growth, the size and number of their flowers
and their period of blossoming.

The variety Harrisii is very fine. It flowers
very early and produces three or four blossoms
on each stem. The individual flowers are
large and finely curved, but they are a little
thin and green. When grown in the open,
this variety sends up its shoots in February,
and they are almost invariably killed by late
frosts.

Another variety, called Praecox is similar to
Harrisii, but more hardy. It flowers in the
open in June and July.

The majority of Longiflorum bulbs received
from Japan belong to the variety called,
“Giganteum,” but the name is hardly appropriate,
for this variety is not so large or fine as
some others. For the flower-garden this
variety is the most generally valuable. It is
tall, robust, free-flowering, perfectly hardy and
exceedingly cheap.

Last year we had a small hill-side covered
with these lilies, and the effect was delightful.
Although we cut several the bed was always
gay with blossoms. They flowered in the
beginning of August, producing from two to
five flowers each, of a pure rich white, not
greenish like the flowers of Harrisii, very large
and sweet scented. They were not injured by
a spell of three days’ rain which occurred in the
middle of their flowering-time.

L. Takesima is a late flowering Longiflorum.
It can readily be distinguished from the other
varieties by the purple tint of its stem and
flower buds. It is very free-flowering; one of
our spikes contained six blossoms, all of which
were matured.

Of all the varieties of Longiflorum none
other is to be compared with that known as
“Wilsoni” or “Eximium.” This is a
perfectly lovely plant. As we are writing
there is a specimen of this lily on the table
before us. It is in a pot and is the result of a
single bulb. There are eight blossoms, not
one of which is aught but perfect. The
blossoms are very long and possess the scent
of lilac.

Among the other varieties of L. Longiflorum
which we have grown there is one which, as
far as we are aware, is unnamed. We bought
ten bulbs of “Lilium Longiflorum, New
Variety,” at an auction for half-a-crown.
Most of the bulbs produced fair but ordinary
results; but one which was grown in a pot
was quite different from any variety that we
know. This bulb sent up two spikes, each
bearing two blossoms, but unfortunately one
spike was spoilt by green fly. The other
matured its two flowers. They were very long,
almost as long as those of L. Philippinense,
that is, about nine inches long. They were
pure white at their open end, but greenish
towards their attachment. The petals were
much longer than the sepals, but not so
strongly curved. Whether this is the “new
variety,” or is a bulb of L. Formosanum
or Philippinense out of place, we cannot
tell.

One of the finest plants for the table that
we know, both when in flower and previously,
is the variety of L. Longiflorum with white-margined
leaves. In this plant the centres of
the leaves are an opaque pale green, and the
margins are pure white. The buds show a
similar colouration. Unlike most plants with
variegated foliage, this lily has very fine
blossoms of a dead white colour, but with
curious transparent edges. Each bulb usually
produces two flowers.

We cannot too strongly emphasise the
extreme beauty of this species. Whether as
cut flowers, in pots or in the garden, it is one
of the loveliest of natural objects.

All lilies make good cut flowers and last
well in water, but the L. Longiflorum is par
excellence the lily for cutting. For all forms
of floral decoration it is unrivalled, and of
all flowers it is most suitable for church
decoration.

During last July, on the occasion of an
organ recital at our village church, we
gathered a bunch of our lilies for decoration.
There were about thirty flowers in all, chiefly
L. Longiflorum and L. Brownii. The
effect of them was exceedingly pure and
beautiful, and many persons, both cottagers
and those possessing gardens far larger than
our own, remarked upon the grace and
elegance of the lilies. Yet every person in
that church could have grown those lilies,
and for a few shillings’ outlay the church
could be decorated with lilies throughout the
summer.

London florists have a pernicious habit of
removing the anthers from their lilies, because
they say that the pollen gets rubbed off and
dirties the petals. It is a great mistake to
disfigure a lily in this way. It utterly ruins
the appearance of white lilies, for it robs
them of the one particle of colour which is
so much needed to set off the white of their
perianth. If you are afraid of the pollen
injuring the appearance of the lily, you can
wrap the floral organs in tissue paper when
the plants are being moved from one place
to another. But do not spoil the flower.
Anybody with the smallest appreciation for
this plant would far rather see the white
leaves covered with yellow dust than the lily
mutilated by having its centre removed.

The cultivation of L. Longiflorum presents
but few difficulties. In the ground it needs a
well-drained spot, but is not particular as to
soil. A fairly rich soil is really the best for
this lily, for in such soil it does not dwindle
so much as it does in a light soil.

In some places where it is otherwise impossible
to flower this plant, success may be
obtained by growing it in a mixture of sand,
peat, and leaf-mould, so light that the hand
can easily be forced below the bulbs.

This lily is more often grown in pots than
in the ground. In this case do not put three
large bulbs into one small pot, as is so often
done. The lilies must starve in such a prison,
and though they may flower one year, they
will not do so again.

You must grow lilies in large pots. It is
often said that bulbs are smaller when they
have grown a year in pots than they were
when first planted. This is not true if plenty
of room be given to the bulb to develop. It
is only true when two or three bulbs have
been cramped in a small pot not sufficiently
large to grow one bulb properly. Our
Longiflorum bulbs grown in pots increase in
size and produce numerous small bulblets.

It is unfortunately true that whether grown
in pots or in the ground, L. Longiflorum
tends to degenerate. It blossoms well the
first year, produces a wretched show the
second year, and after that it fails to come
up at all.

Now we think that the reasons for this are
not beyond our powers to grapple with. In
the first place the hardier varieties should be
chosen. L. Harrisii always dwindles because
it is a tropical plant and will not grow in our
cold clime. In the second place the bulbs
should be dug up every second year, separated,
and replanted in fresh soil.

After all, it is no great matter if this lily
will not flower more than twice, for the bulbs
are exceedingly cheap and readily procurable.

Last year we obtained some bulbs of a
species of lily much resembling L. Longiflorum,
from the island of Formosa. We
planted one in a pot and the rest in the
ground.

Unfortunately the former came to nothing,
and as our garden is so full of lilies, we were
rather at a loss to identify some species.
One spike which we came to the conclusion
belonged to this species was intermediate in
form between the Takesima variety of L.
Longiflorum and L. Philippinense, but its
blossoms were smaller than those of either.
If this is the true L. Formosanum, it is
certainly but a variety of L. Longiflorum, and
not a distinct species.

On the mountain slopes of the north of the
Philippine Islands is found a lily of very great
beauty and elegance. It has not long been
cultivated in England, and even at the present
day it is exceedingly rarely seen in this
country. We have never possessed this lily;
indeed we have only once seen it in flower,
but the sight of it was sufficient to engender a
determination to possess it at the earliest
possibility.

L. Philippinense is a low-growing lily,
barely exceeding a foot in height. It never,
to our knowledge, bears more than a solitary
blossom, but that one blossom is so fine that
its beauty makes ample recompense for the
paucity of flowers.

The flower resembles that of L. Longiflorum,
but is much longer and more tube-like. The
specimen that we saw was eleven inches long.
It is a very pale greenish-white, the apex
of the tube being yellow. The petals are
about an inch and a half longer than the
sepals, and both petals and sepals are equally
re-curved.

This lily, although a native of the tropics,
should prove hardy in our southern countries,
but it would be unwise to trust this rare lily
out-of-doors. It is usually grown in a greenhouse,
in a light sandy soil.

Of its cultivation we know nothing, as we
have never ourselves possessed the plant.

The next lily is one of the most magnificent
of the whole genus. It was discovered in
the Himalayas by Hamilton in 1802, and
twenty years later it was named in honour of
Mr. Wallich, a great authority on lilies.

Lilium Wallichianum is the finest of the
long-flowered lilies. It grows to the height
of four to six feet, with a brown glossy stem
and numerous lanceolate leaves. It starts
growing very late in the year, the shoots
rarely appearing before July.

The flowers of this species are always
solitary in the wild state; but in cultivation
two blossoms are occasionally produced. The
flowers are very large and long, the tubes
slightly curved and the mouth widely dilated.
Its colour is a rich cream, the interior of the
tube being pale yellow. It is very fragrant.

This is one of the latest lilies to bloom,
flowering usually towards the middle of
October. It is hardy in our climate, but the
flowers, owing to their lateness to open, are
sometimes injured by early frosts. It forms a
fine pot-plant and is an admirable occupant
for the conservatory. But why do we so very
rarely see this plant in the conservatory?{335}
Why cannot we have a change from the
eternal L. Harrisii, the only lily people grow
in their greenhouses? L. Wallichianum is
an infinitely finer plant, but it is almost totally
neglected.

There is a variety of L. Wallichianum in
which the flowers are larger and of a pale
primrose colour. It is known to gardeners by
the name of L. Wallichianum superbum or
sulphureum. As we write this, we have before
us a plant which bears two buds, but we rarely
see more than a single flower on each stem.

This plant should be grown like L. Longiflorum,
but it likes a somewhat richer soil.
It must be watered. In its native land it has
hot rain all through its growing season. In
our climate, a dry July or August, the two
months in which the plant grows most rapidly,
kills it, and this is the reason why this lily is
so very seldom grown. Be this lily in the
ground or in a pot, it must be thoroughly
saturated every day from the time that it first
shows its spike, till the buds change from
green to white. When this latter change has
occurred, a copious drenching with liquid
manure is of great service.

The last of the long-flowered lilies is L.
Neilgherrense from the Neilgherry hills. This
plant resembles the last, but its flowers are
longer and larger though not so fine in colour.
This plant bears the longest flowers of any
lily, extra fine examples being upwards of a
foot long. This lily will not grow well out of
doors and should be grown in a conservatory.
It is a very difficult plant to manage. Amongst
other things, it has a creeping stem, and if
grown in a pot it often sends up a shoot
which meanders about beneath the soil, and
eventually visits the light through a drainage
hole, totally exhausted by its subterranean
peregrinations.

It is said that this lily should be grown in a
black heavy loam and should be watered but
sparingly; but we have not grown the plant
ourselves, and so we cannot say if this treatment
is likely to be successful.

The price of the bulbs of the last four lilies
is very variable. All are rather difficult to
obtain and are very rarely to be met with in
good condition. If you can, you should get
bulbs of established plants, for those imported
are often ruined by their journey from the
tropics. These lilies, though natives of
tropical parts of India and Western Asia,
grow upon the mountains, and are killed by
the heat of the plains.

(To be continued.)

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

{336}

SAMBO PENWIPERS AND HOW TO MAKE THEM.

Last week I was left for a whole afternoon to
entertain a convalescent child. “No excitement,
no tears, no ennui.” Such were the
difficult directions left me. When
the little girl’s mother returned
after two hours’ absence she found
her rules had been successfully
obeyed. Vera was blissfully
happy and quietly content. On
the table, across her sofa, reposed
a whole Sambo family, in the
creation of which the afternoon
had passed quickly and quietly
away.

As the task of amusing children
is one ever present with a
true woman, I just tell our
readers how the Sambos
were made.

I had in my work-basket
a twopenny cut of Berlin
wool, a skein of scarlet
ditto costing one half-penny and
a large darning needle.

The black skein I divided into
three parts (Fig. 1). The double
ends were to make the larger
figures. The centre piece divided
into two small ones.

Taking one looped end, I tied
a twist of wool tightly round it,
one inch lower down I tied
another ligature. From either
side, two arms were detached and wrists defined.
Then, a two-inch body was developed
by a belt. The remaining wool was left loose
for Mrs. Sambo’s skirt. But, to represent the
father of the family, the strands were once
more divided and ankles outlined.

FIG. 1.

Hair was made by simply cutting the top
twist and trimming it. Hands and feet were
equally carefully snipped. The finishing touch
must be given with our scarlet wool. Eyes,
nose, mouth, wristlets, waist, neck-ribbon and
buttons, are all of this vivid hue.

Perhaps the baby Sambos are quaintest of
all. Just half the size of their parents with
little knots of woolly curls, and tiny frizzy
hands.

Not the least part of Vera’s delight in her
family was the fact that they are all really
penwipers. Months after the little girl was
running about well and jolly. The Sambos
did duty on every writing-table in the house,
and the four of them only cost twopence
half-penny.

A MORE ELABORATE SAMBO.

These fascinating little mannikins have the
advantage of being novel, cheap to make, and
very attractive at bazaars, where they sell
easily for one shilling each, the cost of
making being on an average threepence
a-piece.

The materials required are single
Berlin wool, black, scarlet and white,
some yellow “topaz jewels,” and a
little glittering tinsel or strings of
bright beads. A quarter of a pound
(one packet) of black Berlin wool
makes four men, while the same
quantity of scarlet and white equips a
whole army, as less of these is used.
I utilised the “jewels” and trimmings
from two old evening dresses of mine,
and in these days of sequin and jewelled
passementerie most girls would have
some by them without needing to
buy.

Now as to the making. You take a
twopenny or ounce skein of the black
Berlin and divide it in half. You next
take one half and double it, cutting one end
through so that it consists of loose ends of
wool, which will presently stand for feet and
toes. This is the length of the mannikin.
Tie a piece of scarlet wool several times firmly
round the middle so as to form a waist. Now
take up the other half of the black skein and
double it till it is the right length for the arms
of the warrior. You cut through both ends of
these so as to suggest multitudinous fingers.

Having got so far, wind some scarlet wool
round your hand twelve or fourteen times.
Now take up the black wool that is tied
round the middle; divide the uncut end
with your fingers (so as to get an equal
quantity of black loops on each side), and
insert the scarlet loops bodily in the opening
thus made, so that they project at the top
while they touch the “waist” inside at
the bottom.

Next thread the black “arms” through
the scarlet loops and the body at the
waist line so that the arms stick out on
each side just above the waist. Tie
scarlet wool several times firmly round
the whole thing midway between the
top-knot and the waist to form a
neck just above the “arms.” Close up the
opening you made in the black wool at the
top, and with a needle threaded with scarlet
wool, work a few bold stitches right round the
bottom of the scarlet tuft, thus securing the
latter and forming a sort of coronet at the
same time. This also serves to give some
shape to the “head,” which should be as
neat and rounded as possible. Cut the
scarlet loops through so as to form a top-knot
of ends.

Next take scarlet wool and tie it firmly
round one of the arms at a sufficient distance
from the ends to suggest a “wrist,” and wind
the scarlet wool smoothly round and round
towards the body (so that no black is seen
beneath) until you have covered about half
the arm, then finish off with a wool-needle so
that the wool does not come unwound. Treat
the other arm in the same way. The legs
also are similarly made, the mass of wool
below the “waist” being divided in equal
halves and each leg done separately. The
ends may have to be gently pulled down and
trimmed a little so as to give more shapeliness
to the limbs and body, but this must be done
according to the artist’s taste and judgment.

Now comes the really fascinating part of
the work. Thread a wool needle with scarlet
Berlin and with this work on the “head”
with a few bold stitches eye-brows, nose and
open mouth. I generally found three stitches
enough for one eye-brow, and the same
number for the nose; but here again individual
discretion comes into play.

Thread another needle with white Berlin
and supply the aforesaid open mouth with
pearly teeth which need not by any means be
regular; indeed you can give “Fuzzy-Wuzzy”
an endless variety of expressions
according to the direction of your
stitches.

Take two “topaz jewels” and
stitch them firmly with black cotton
under the eye-brows, and lastly
stitch round his waist sufficient tinsel
trimming to form a glittering belt.

You wipe your pen on him by
the simple process of stabbing the
implement into any part you happen
to catch hold of first.

For bazaars you will find they
look best stitched in some sort of
order on a large sheet of white cardboard
(an old dress-box or its lid
does very well) with some inscription
and the price printed in large letters
over them, and a handle of red tape
at the top to hang the cardboard
up by.