The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 354,
October 9, 1886, by Various

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Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 354, October 9, 1886

Author: Various

Editor: Charles Peters

Release Date: May 1, 2006 [EBook #18293]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

VOL. VIII.--NO. 354.

OCTOBER 9, 1886.

PRICE ONE PENNY.




CALLED AWAY.


[Illustration: "AND CLUNG TO HER NECK WITH A SMOTHERED CRY."]

    In the heart of the heartless town, where hunger and death are rife;
    Where gold and greed, and trouble and need, make up the sum of life--
       A woman lives with her only child,
       And toils 'mid the weary strife.

    No end to the tiring toil to earn a wage so small;
    No end to the ceaseless care--ah! the misery of it all!
        While the strongest snatch the hard-earned crust,
        The weakest the crumbs that fall.

    Oh, look at the pallid face as it bends o'er the dreary work;
    The stitch, and stitch, and stitch that she knows she dare not shirk!
        Her strength is ebbing away so fast
        That she scarcely feels it go.

    Oh, list to the weary sigh--a whole tale in one breath--
    A widowed life, and a mother's love, and the fear of an early death.
        While there at her feet a pale boy sits,
        And weeps for his mother's woe.

       *       *       *       *       *

    She has called to her boy in the night; he has nestled beside her bed,
    And clung to her neck with a smothered cry and a feeling of sudden dread.
        And thus they lie, till the mother strives
        To speak with her tears unshed.

    And then she tells him--so sweet and low, it sounds like a fairy tale--
    How Jesus has sent His angels down to fetch her; that He won't fail
        To send His angel to watch o'er him
        When love can no more avail.

       *       *       *       *       *

    But still she holds him so gently firm, so close to her lifeless breast;
    She speaks no more, he weeps no more, for God knows what is best.
        He has taken both from a world of pain
        To endless peace and rest.

    E. A. V.

[Illustration]




THE SHEPHERD'S FAIRY.

A PASTORALE.

BY DARLEY DALE, Author of "Fair Katherine," etc.


CHAPTER II.

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

"Marie! Marie! _Vite, vite._ Where is Monsieur Leon's malacca cane? It
was in my dressing-room this morning. Fetch it directly."

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

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

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

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

"Is it you, Arnaut?" asked Leon, anxiously peering through the twilight
at his brother.

"Yes, yes, it is all right; here it is," said the baron, holding the
bundle up to Leon.

"How on earth am I to take it? Where is its head? Can't you nurse it
till we get to the yacht?" said Leon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(_To be continued._)




DINNERS FOR TWO.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8. Curried eggs; Irish stew; rice meringue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

19. Vegetable soup; rump steak; macaroni cheese.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Vegetable marrow soup_ is made like potiron.

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

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

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

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




A DREAM OF QUEEN'S GARDENS.[1]

A STORY FOR GIRLS.--IN TWO PARTS.

BY DANIEL DORMER, Author of "Out of the Mists."


PART I.

A PRETTY QUEEN.


"Any letter for me this morning, Brightie?"

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

"Yes--one. Don't come for it, I'm coming up. And pray, child, don't hang
over those rickety rails like that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, my dear, you have heard me speak of my sister's house at
Firdorf?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And I am a woman, and I suppose, therefore, a queen--at least a
possible queen," she muses--"a pretty queen!"

(_To be concluded._)

[1] Sesame and Lilies. By John Ruskin, LL.D. 1. Of King's Treasuries.
2. Of Queen's Gardens.




THE WEATHER AND HEALTH.

BY MEDICUS.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




GIRLS' FRIENDSHIPS.

By the Author of "Flowering Thorns."


CHAPTER I.

IDEAL FRIENDSHIPS.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: ALICE AND MAUD.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                             "The hands
    Which reach through Nature, moulding men."

(_To be continued._)




MERLE'S CRUSADE.

BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of "Aunt Diana," "For Lilias," etc.


CHAPTER II.

AN UNPREACHED SERMON.


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

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

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

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

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

"How is Reuben, Patience?" I asked, somewhat amiably, just for the
pleasure of seeing our little handmaid's dimples come into view.

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Uncle Keith."

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

"Oh, I am quite serious, I assure you."

"Your aunt's objections and mine do not count for much, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aunt Agatha looked a little distressed as she answered me.

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, yes; he said, 'poor little thing,' in the kindest possible way,
'and quite right--very proper,' when I spoke of your desire for work."

"Well," rather impatiently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(_To be continued._)




THE CONTENTS OF MY WORK-BOX.

HOW BUTTONS ARE MADE.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mother-o'-pearl buttons are made out of pearl shells which have been
imported from the coasts of Macassar, Manilla, Bombay, the archipelago
of the Pacific, the Bay of Panama, and a few other places. Their market
value is not always the same. At the present time it ranges from L8 to
L10 per hundredweight. The blanks are cut out of the shells by a steel
tubular cutter, similar to that used in cutting the vegetable ivory. As
the cutter works its way through a shell, small cylinders of pearl are
disconnected, which are reduced in thickness by splitting into discs, a
little thicker than the button is required to be when finished. These
blanks are finished singly in a turning lathe, by being placed in a
suitable chuck, and having a steel tool applied to its face for
producing the rim and depression in the centre. They are then passed on
to another lathe, where the holes are drilled, and afterwards to
another, where they are polished by friction and a mixture of
rotten-stone and soft soap.

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

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

    W. W. B.




BITS ABOUT ANIMALS.

A SAGACIOUS COLT.


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

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

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

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

    RUTH LAMB.




VARIETIES


A FRENCH CONVERSATION.

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

Two sportsmen met together on their way home.

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

"I come--I come--from the forest of Bondy."

"And why are you so excited?"

"I have been attacked by robbers."

"How many were there?"

"_Sept._"

"What did you say?"

"_Je dis sept._"

"_Dix-sept?_"

"No; _sans dix_."

"_Cent dix?_"

"Oh, dear! no. _Sans dix, sept._"

"Good gracious! _Cent dix-sept?_"

"Nonsense. _Sept sans dix-sept._"

"_Sept cent dix-sept._"

"You don't understand me. _Je te dis sept sans dix!_"

"_Dix-sept cent dix._"

"You will drive me mad! _Je te dis sept sans dix-sept!_"

"_Dix-sept cent dix-sept!_ I can understand your being frightened with
such a number."


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


THE WAY OF THE WORLD.--The world deals good-naturedly with good-natured
people, and I never knew a sulky misanthropist who quarrelled with it
but it was he and not it that was in the wrong.--_Thackeray._


MOTHERS' THOUGHTS.

    To a goose one day a gosling came.
      As she surveyed it duly,
    She said, "No swan in all the world
      Is half so pretty, truly."

    In words like these all mothers' thoughts
      This wise old goose expressed;
    For of all babies in the world,
      Each thinks her own the best.


UNGRATEFUL GRATITUDE.--There are minds so impatient of inferiority that
their gratitude is a species of revenge, and they return benefits not
because recompense is a pleasure, but because obligation is a
pain.--_Dr. Johnson._


DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

    Dissatisfied with their appointed lot,
    These both aspir'd to seem what they were not;
    Foil'd in their schemes, they recognis'd, too late,
    The folly of attempts to shake the state.
    The first became, t' avoid a harsher doom,
    A menial, baser than the lowest groom;
    The second paid a far more heavy tax;
    Tried and condemn'd, he perished by the axe.

    1.  So fair and flatt'ring, and so bright of hue,
        Will it betray us? or will it be true?

    2.  Friend of two great philosophers, this youth
        Boasted himself yet more, the friend of truth.
        Throughout a long career he strove to scan
        The wondrous working of great Nature's plan,
        And taught his pupils, strolling at their ease,
        'Neath pleasant shelter of umbrageous trees.

    3.  The glorious witness to the living faith,
        In tortures passing unto life through death.

    4.  How many bow'd their heads to meet this thing!
        Priest, warrior, noble, princess, e'en a king.

    5.  The good old man, whose tender, loving heart,
        Unfitted him to act the sterner part
        Of curbing his rebellious children's will;
        His mild reproof they disregarded, till
        There fell the doom that had been prophesied,
        And in one day the sons and father died.

    6.  Oft melted and then pour'd into a mould,
        Translucent and inodorous when cold,
        Useful, abundant, and of little cost,
        Mis-spelt, miscall'd by those who use me most.

    7.  A butcher's son, who rose to eminence
        In legal circles by his clear good sense;
        For public service he was made a peer,
        And held the woolsack twice for many a year.

    8.  The Roman youth, to prove his hardihood,
        Thrust his right hand into the fire that stood
        Before the king; shrivel'd his hand remained,
        And he this surname by that act obtain'd.

    9.  A bird of Africa, that shows the way
        To where wild bees their stores of honey lay;
        Then perch'd aloft, content t' await his share
        Of honey which the hunters leave him there.

    10. The elder daughter, offer'd as a bride
        To him who foes successfully defied.
        With conquest flush'd, the low-born victor came,
        The fair princess's promis'd hand to claim,
        But only came to disappointment; since
        She had already wed a pow'rful prince.

    11. A jutting cape, which, when the Northmen spied,
        A fanciful resemblance they descried
        To human features; so they gave a name
        To mark that cape, and still it bears the same.

    12. How do you call that line, which, year by year,
        Traces the sun's course round the pictur'd sphere?

    13. In Scandinavian fables I am nam'd
        "Destroyer," and as evil genius fam'd;
        Interpolate one letter, and 'tis strange
        That I become preserver by the change.

    XIMENA.




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


EDUCATIONAL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


ART.

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

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

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

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

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


MISCELLANEOUS.

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

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

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

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

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

MONTHLY READER and MAY.--The sooner you get your teeth stopped the
better. But make a good choice of a dentist.

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

AN ARUM LILY.--Use a rosemary wash for aiding the growth of the hair.
See our articles on the care of the hair, page 631, vol. vi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JESSIE.--We know nothing more about the water scheme than the newspaper
report, which "Jessie" has herself seen.

SAFFRON CROCUS.--Read our article on "Lissom Hands and Pretty Feet,"
vol. i., page 348.

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

GRETCHEN.--There is a small volume on "Indian Outfits" published by Mr.
Gill, 170, Strand, which is very valuable.

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

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

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

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

VERONIQUE.--"That Aggravating Schoolgirl" began in vol. ii., at page 9.

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

ETHILD MYA BAL.--There is no sequel to the "Wide, Wide World," that we
know of. We are very sorry to hear of your suffering, and hope you may
soon be better.

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

CUCUMBER.--We know of no cure but the constant use of a pair of
tweezers.

AN OLD ANGLO-GERMAN GIRL.--We were much interested in your letter. We
can sympathise with all our girls, at every age, and in every climate.
The series will be concluded soon.

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

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

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

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

OURANG-OUTANG and GORILLA.--Have nothing to do with the appliance called
"Planchette." It is employed in divination, or what is akin to it. We do
not undertake to supply "characters from handwriting." There are many
people who advertise to do so for thirteenpence.

[Illustration: GUERNSEY FLOWERS.]






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354, October 9, 1886, by Various

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