The Girl’s Own Paper, Vol. VIII. No. 364

By A. G. PAYNE, Author of “Common-sense Cookery,” “Choice Dishes at Small Cost,” “The Housekeeper’s Guide,” &c.

LOBSTER CANNING IN CANADA.

All rights reserved.]

Tinned meats and provisions may be regarded from two distinct points of view. The majority of persons, especially in this country, look upon them simply as a convenience to housekeepers, but the subject should be regarded from a far higher point than one of mere convenience, for by means of tinned provisions the whole food supply of the world is increased, and thereby the happiness and enjoyment of mankind at large.

By means of tinned meats the superfluities of one country help the deficiencies of others. Owing to this useful invention, no longer are sheep slaughtered for their wool and tallow only, and the carcasses wasted, but the whole is utilised. It should be borne in mind that economy in the use of food is a duty clearly pointed out to us by the highest of all authority. The age of miracles has passed, but were it in our power to multiply our food miraculously, we are taught that it would still be a duty to gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.

At present I will confine myself to the consideration of tinned meats in relation to their value to housekeepers, and I will illustrate my subject by supposing the following case, which is by no means a rare one in England in the present day.

There are, throughout the length and breadth of the land, many hundreds of little quiet country villages which, to a certain extent, may be said to be isolated from civilised life. There is the village inn, alas! generally more than one; the village shop, a few scattered houses and outlying farms. But for all practical purposes the well-to-do inhabitants are dependent for their supplies on the carrier’s cart, which takes a journey into the neighbouring town, some four or five miles distant.

The village shop generally supplies the inhabitants with bread; probably they will kill a pig on Thursday or Friday, and supply the usual dish of pork for Sunday’s dinner. They also will usually be found to deal in cheap crockery, needles and cotton, sweetstuff, candles, pickles, etc. The only means of communication with the neighbouring town is, as I have said, the carrier’s cart, which generally takes a few passengers. I have lately lived in a little village myself, and have travelled by the same hooded conveyance backwards and forwards, never without thinking of the lazy horse associated with David Copperfield; and, indeed, at times I have felt inclined to chalk up in the corner, “Barkis is willin’.” The carrier usually takes his orders the night before, starts at an early hour in the morning, and returns in time to supply the dinner-table. Let us suppose that he has brought with him a shoulder of mutton, and that, instead of dining late, as is our wont, we, on this particular day, dine early. Shortly before our usual dinner hour, we are suddenly alarmed by the astounding news, “Oh, mamma, Mr. Smith has arrived; what are we to do?” Hospitality is a duty, and were I cynically inclined, I would imagine Mr. Smith to be a rich old bachelor uncle, very fond of good living, from whom we had great expectations; but I would rather put this supposititious case. Suppose Mr. Smith to be an old friend of our father who has seen better days, in which he showed us many little acts of kindness. Under these circumstances he is, of all men in the world, the very last one to whom we should like to give the “cold shoulder.” What is to be done?

We will suppose that our housekeeper, or whoever acts as such, has, in anticipation of such contingencies, laid in a little stock of tinned goods, which are safely put by in the store closet. Having welcomed our guest, and whispered a few words to the cook and those willing to assist her, we will calmly sit down to our table, take a sheet of paper, and commence as follows:—

• Menu.
• Ox Tail Soup.
• Salmon Mayonnaise.
• Hashed Mutton and Pickled Walnuts.
• Curried Rabbit.
• Asparagus.
• Plum Pudding. Brandy Sauce.
• Jelly in glasses.
• Pine Apple (whole in syrup).

If the cook is smart, the whole dinner could be served easily within an hour, and should one or two of the girls in the house be willing to assist (and who would not, under such circumstances?), the dinner might be sent to table in considerably less time. I can imagine some of my readers glancing over the bill of fare I have just written, and saying to themselves, “What a lot of saucepans we shall want on the fire at the same time!” This, however, is not the case; for I would remind you that one of the first points to learn in connection with the serving of tinned meats is that they should be warmed up in the tin before it is opened. We can, therefore, perform the astonishing trick of making hot our ox-tail soup, our curried rabbit, our asparagus, and our plum pudding in the same saucepan at the same time.

I must, however, commence at the beginning. Our store cupboard is supposed to contain the following provisions in tins:—Ox-tail soup, preserved salmon, mayonnaise sauce, curried rabbit, asparagus, plum pudding, pine apple in syrup, as well as a bottle of jelly. I may, however, mention, with regard to the mayonnaise sauce, that should you have a bottle of oil in the house and a couple of eggs, it would be better to make some fresh sauce from the egg and oil direct. Our cupboard will also contain a bottle of pickled walnuts, a bottle of capers, a bottle of olives, and a bottle of anchovies.

Of course we commence dinner with the soup, unless we happen to have in the house a Brunswick sausage, in which case a few thin slices of Brunswick sausage may be placed in a plate with a few of the anchovies, capers, olives, and a little pat of butter, as there are many persons who like to commence dinner with what is known as a hors d’œuvre, and I do not know a better mixture than the one I have named.

But to return to the soup. In my opinion, of all provisions sold in tins at present, the soups are the greatest failures.

This is very much to be regretted; but there is a good old saying, that we must always make the best of a bad job. As a rule, the thick soups are better than the clear, and although I have mentioned ox-tail soup, I will later on give a list of the soups from which you may take your choice. Fortunately, all thick soups in tins can be very greatly improved by a very simple method. Make the thick soup hot in the tin, take the tin out of the hot water, open it, and pour the contents into a saucepan. Of course, if there are many persons to dinner, it would be necessary to warm up two tins, or even more. I will now describe the contents of the tin. The soup itself is not exactly thick, nor is it exactly clear. The bones of the tail, instead of being surrounded by the meat, are quite bare, and it looks as if the bone and the meat had had a quarrel, and they had mutually agreed never to speak to one another again, while the bone itself recalls a game known as “knuckle-bones.” To every pint of soup in the saucepan add as follows: a brimming dessertspoonful of brown thickening, or what French cooks know as brown roux. This brown roux looks like light-coloured chocolate. It keeps good for months, is very cheap, very useful, and I will describe how to make it by-and-by. Add, also, a brimming teaspoonful of extract of meat and half a glass of sherry. The effect of adding the brown roux is that when the roux is crumbled into the soup and gently stirred over the fire till it boils, it makes the soup thicker than it was before. It also makes it darker in colour, richer in flavour, and makes the divorce between the meat and the bone less conspicuous.

The extract of meat also greatly adds to its nutritious properties, and gives additional colour. The sherry gives it flavour. Were I going to take the soup myself, I should also add a little cayenne pepper and lemon-juice, but we must be very cautious how we use cayenne, unless we know the taste of our guests.

We will next consider the salmon mayonnaise. As this is all cold, we should naturally see to the hot things first, and we will, therefore, suppose that the ox-tail soup, the curried rabbit, the asparagus, and the plum pudding are all getting hot in the saucepan. First open the tin of salmon. Turn the contents entirely out. If there is any liquid, throw it away, and, as far as possible, absorb all the moisture of the salmon in a dry cloth before placing it in a dish. Make the surface, as far as possible, oval, and raised in the middle, and then pour the sauce with a spoon gently over the top, so that it looks like a custard pudding. If the season of the year is suitable, and we have some lettuces in our garden, of course we should cut one or two lettuces, and surround the salmon with the best part of the lettuce. Next to ornament the salad. Take a bottle of capers, and with a spoon take out about a couple of dozen, throw these into a cloth and dry them, and place them at intervals on the sauce. Then take three or four anchovies out of the bottle, cut them into strips, remove the bone, and place these little strips of anchovy round the base of the light pyramid of sauce like trellis work. A dozen olives may be placed also round the base of the salad, the stone being removed with a knife. This is done by taking not too sharp a knife and cutting the olive sideways, keeping the blade of the knife always in contact with the stone of the olive. When the stone is removed the olive assumes its original shape, of course with a hole in the middle where the stone has been. Now take a little piece of parsley and chop up enough, say, to cover a shilling or a little more. Place this on the tip of a knife and shake it gently over the mayonnaise sauce, so that the little green specks of parsley fall naturally. Now take a bottle of cochineal, supposing you have one—cochineal can be bought at sixpence a bottle, and keeps good for months, or even years—and drop a few drops in a plate or saucer; take a little piece of dry bread and make about a saltspoonful of fine breadcrumbs. Throw these dry breadcrumbs into the saucer with the cochineal, and shake them. This will cause the breadcrumbs to turn red. These can be shaken over the mayonnaise like the chopped parsley, and we shall have a very bright-looking dish. The green lettuce round the edge, the raised surface of the salmon covered with the yellow mayonnaise sauce in the middle, which is decorated round the base with the anchovies and olives, and on the top the capers and the little green and red specks, which contrast nicely with the yellow. If you have no lettuce or salad of any kind to put round the base, you can ornament the edge with hard-boiled eggs cut in quarters, and a sprig of parsley between each piece.

Our next dish is the hashed mutton and pickled walnuts. This scarcely comes in the category of tinned meats. The mutton we had for dinner was probably in a semi-cold and flabby state when our guest arrived. Were I going to make the hashed mutton, I should commence by slicing up a couple of onions, browning them in a frying-pan with a little butter, then pouring in the remains of all the gravy that had been left from the joint, cutting the mutton into slices, and warming them up in this gravy, taking care it does not boil; and as the gravy would be rather poor, as soon as the soup was got ready I should add two or three tablespoonfuls of the soup to the hashed mutton. And let me remind you of another very great improvement. Add, as well, a dessertspoonful of Harvey sauce, after shaking the bottle. You can toast a piece of bread a nice brown, as you would not have time to fry any bread, which is better. Cut the toast into round pieces, and place them round the hash alternately with the pickled walnuts cut in half. Do not send the hashed mutton to table in a great, big dish, large enough to hold a round of beef, but serve it in a deep dish—a vegetable dish, for instance. By this means it keeps hot longer, and looks more appetising.

Our next dish is the curried rabbit. First class curry can be obtained in tins. Remember that tinned meats are like everything else in the world—some are good, and some are bad. If you wish for a bottle of really good wine, you must go to a first class wine merchant; and if you wish your tinned provisions good, you must get them from first class people, or see that some well-known name is on the label. Unfortunately, this country has been flooded, from time to time, with worthless imitations, introduced by unknown men who have no name to lose.

The curry, having been made hot in the tin, should be turned out in a deep dish; and here again I would recommend a vegetable dish. Boiled rice should be served with it in a separate dish, and the rice should be handed before the curry. If you have any chutney in the house, the chutney should be served with the curry, like they do on board the P. & O. boats, which are so famed for their oriental curry cooks. When the curry has been turned out into the dish, you might add a few fresh bayleaves and serve them up in the curry whole, and if you feel anxious to have the dish ornamental you can proceed as follows, and, should your guest be an “old Indian,” he will probably appreciate the addition:—Take some red chilis and bend each chili in the middle, so as to make it look like one of the small claws of a lobster, and place these red chilies round the edge of the dish in a triangular shape, exactly as if you were placing the small claws of a lobster around a lobster salad mayonnaise.

The asparagus should be served as a course by itself. When the tin is sufficiently hot, which it will be a few minutes after the water has boiled, take it out and open it, pour off the liquid, and serve the asparagus on a piece of toast. A little butter sauce should be handed round with it.

Butter sauce is best made by simply thickening, say, half a pint of water (not milk) with a little butter and flour mixed together. When the water is sufficiently thick, add some more butter to the hot, thickened water till it becomes rich and oily.

As soon as you have handed round the butter sauce with the asparagus, take the tureen down-stairs, and let the cook put back the butter sauce in the saucepan for a minute, and add a tablespoonful of moist sugar, a tablespoonful of rum, and two tablespoonfuls of brandy. By this means we avoid waste, and make the same sauce do twice. If you don’t approve of spirits being used in the kitchen (I don’t approve of it myself), add a little sherry, and rub a few lumps of sugar on the outside of a lemon, and also two drops of essence of almonds. (You can, indeed, leave out the sherry, and still have a good sauce.)

The plum pudding will be hot through after the water has boiled for over half an hour. Open the tin, take out the pudding, and serve with a little sauce poured over it, and the rest in a tureen.

The jelly should be served in glasses, for the simple reason that there is no time to melt the jelly. Open the bottle, and rake out sufficient jelly with a bent skewer to fill the glasses.

The pineapple, whole, in addition to the usual stock of almonds and raisins, figs, biscuits, &c., makes a first-class dessert.

It is perhaps needless to add that as a rule all these dishes are not necessary for one dinner; but I wish to show what can be done in order to avoid giving your friends the “cold shoulder.”

(To be continued.)

A PASTORALE.

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

THE WHITE RAM.

he secret of Fairy’s parentage died with Dame Hursey, and for the next two or three years she lived quietly on with the Shelleys, nothing more remarkable than the finding of some rare bird, or an occasional tiff with Jack, the Lewes carnival on the fifth of November, and the sheep washing and shearing every June, occurring to vary the monotony of her happy life. She was naturally a bright, happy little creature, not much given to thinking, and if she sometimes wondered who she was and where she came from, she never allowed the matter to distress her; she had the Shelleys, and they all worshipped her, and if she wanted other friends she was always welcome at the Rectory, where she still continued to go every day for her lessons. As to the future, it is doubtful if she ever gave it a thought; she lived as all children do, for the present, at least, as far as this world is concerned, though neither she nor any one else could have been brought up by good John Shelley without learning that life here is but a preparation for the life to come. Ignorant as the shepherd was in many things, he was by no means ignorant in things spiritual, and his knowledge of the Bible, large portions of which he knew by heart, would have put many an educated man and woman to shame. It was a favourite amusement of Fairy’s and the boys on long Sunday winter evenings, when there was no service at church, and after John had read the evening service to them, as he invariably did, to start him off in some chapter and see how long he would go on without stopping, saying it by rote. He always carried a small Bible in his pocket, and during his long days with the sheep, he had plenty of opportunities of studying it; and he studied it to some purpose, for he was a fine character. Faults he may have had, but you might have known him a long time before you discovered them. Mrs. Shelley, who had better opportunities of judging than anyone else, would have said he liked his own way too much; and that, for such a wise man as he was, it was surprising how easily he allowed a little thing like Fairy, whom he always had spoilt, to get over him; but it is doubtful whether in her heart of hearts she considered either of these faults.

If he had any pride in his composition it was entirely professional, and when one May evening, sixteen years after Fairy first was brought to Lewes, he announced to his family that he had been elected captain of the Lewes shearing company, his face certainly glowed with an honest pride, for he had then obtained the highest honour which could be conferred on a shepherd, and realised his fondest dreams of earthly happiness.

In those days it was the custom for shearers to form themselves into companies, called after the district in which they lived, and to go round to the various farms in the district in the shearing season, which begins in the middle of June, shearing the different flocks. The shearers in those days were generally shepherds, and each band had a lieutenant and a captain, the former distinguished by a silver band round his cap and a badge, the latter by a gold band and badge to match. They were chosen according to their proficiency in shearing, and for the good character they bore. John Shelley had been a lieutenant for some years, but he was now elected captain, owing to the death of the captain of the Lewes band, an old man over seventy; and with this honour some new duties devolved upon him, for at the captain’s house was held the shearing feast, called the White Ram. This feast lasted throughout the shearing week, and consisted of a supper after the day’s work was over; first, a good, substantial meal, in which the Sussex dish of beefsteak pudding, the crust made of flour and water, played an important part, and then ending with cakes and ale, during the consumption of which shearing songs were sung and many pipes were smoked till late in the long summer evening, when the men dispersed—sometimes not before midnight—to their various homes.

These bands are now a thing of the past, though the shearing is still done by men who go round for the purpose, but no lambs are shorn nowadays, so the work is very much lessened.

“There is plenty of work for you, Polly; you’ll have to get someone in to help you; we shall have to have the White Ram here for the future,” said John.

“Oh, what fun!” exclaimed Fairy; “now I shall see it all, and hear the shearing songs. Mother, you must let me help; John says no one can make plum heavies, not even you, mother, like me: can they, John?”

“No, but I am thinking those little white fingers of yours are not fit for that sort of work, my pretty one,” said John.

“Stuff! white fingers can work as well as red ones—better, I daresay, if the truth were known. And may I help to wait on you?” asked Fairy.

“No, certainly not,” growled Jack; “you listen outside to the shearing songs with me, but you are not going inside to wait on a lot of rough men, who will, perhaps, take more beer than they ought.”

“No, Jack; I’ll have none of that; it shall never be said that John Shelley’s White Ram is disgraced by drunkenness. But you must come to the feast, even if Fairy does not, for you must go round shearing this year; it is time you began, if, as I hope, one of these days you are to take my place of captain.”

“There’s an honour for you, Captain Jack. Don’t you wish you may ever get it?” laughed Fairy.

But Jack neither laughed nor wished for the honour; hitherto he had always managed to escape going round with the shearers, but this year he saw he must go, since he had not the heart to throw a shadow over his father’s innocent joy by refusing; so he said with the best grace he could, “Very well, father, I’ll go shearing, but Fairy can’t be left out in the cold, I shall have to stay with her during the supper.”

“No, you need not, we will take it by turns; I can stop with Fairy sometimes,” said Charlie, a remark by no means calculated to soothe Jack, whose love and jealousy had grown greatly in the last few years; but Mrs. Shelley wisely stopped the discussion by remarking that there was plenty of time to settle the details, as the sheep-washing was not begun yet.

“It begins to-morrow though; Jack and I are off with half our flock at daybreak to-morrow. Charlie, you must follow the rest for a day or two; I must have Jack with me to-morrow,” said the shepherd.

“And I shall come too. If mother can’t take me, I shall get the Leslies to come. I always go to see our sheep washed every year,” said Fairy.

Accordingly, early next morning the shepherd and his son were up at dawn, driving their sheep to the brook in which the sheep-washing took place. For some days previously, preparations had been made for this washing, which lasts two or three weeks, as all the sheep for miles round are brought to this spot. These preparations consisted of pens made of hurdles by the side of the river for the sheep; in the stream itself, opposite to each other, were erected two rough pulpits or deal boxes, in which stand the sheep-washers. When Jack and his father arrived, it was so early that no one was there, not even the washers; but at ten o’clock, when Mrs. Shelley and Fairy went, the scene was a most lively one.

Hundreds of sheep were in the pens, some white and clean, their agonies over; others still dirty, with their tortures to come. On the neighbouring bridge stood or leant every child in the village, thoroughly enjoying the sight. On the roadside were some stragglers of all grades, watching the performance, one or two farmers on horseback who had a lively interest in the washing of their flocks, and on the banks several shepherds, among them Jack and his father, all armed with large, toothless wooden rakes, with which they push the sheep about, holding them under water when necessary, and steering them from pulpit to pulpit.

What with the laughter and screams of delight from the children, the shouts of the shepherds, and the coughing of the sheep and jingling of their bells, the scene is a very noisy one; but, noisy as it is, Fairy thoroughly enjoys it, and declares she must stay till the last of John’s red-ringed flock are finished. It is such fun to see the poor sheep tumbled into the water and then rolled over on its back and rubbed from head to foot in the bright, clear stream, first by one washer in his pulpit, and then, after sundry pushes and thumps from the toothless rakes, to be seized by the other washer and subjected to another vigorous rubbing and scrubbing, and splashing and dashing, and finally to be pushed off to scramble or swim as best it might out of the river.

Poor, patient sheep! They take their sufferings in very good part, and submit meekly enough to the inevitable ordeal, basing a protest as feeble as it is useless, the older and wiser ones knowing that this washing is but a preliminary to the still more disagreeable ceremony of shearing to be performed a fortnight hence, as soon as the wool is dry. And Fairy, fascinated by the picturesque scene, could not be persuaded to move when Mrs. Shelley was forced to go home to prepare some dinner—a useless labour, Fairy declared, since there would be no one to eat it, for Charlie had taken his with him, and John and Jack were too busy to stop for dinner, and she herself was not hungry, and had no intention of going home till all John’s sheep were washed. But Mrs. Shelley had no idea of leaving a pretty young girl like Fairy alone among a crowd of people, so she proposed they should both go home and fetch some dinner and share it out in the field with John and Jack, a proposal Fairy jumped at; and an hour later the four were sitting on a bank under a hedge of blackthorn, with a carpet of buttercups and daisies at their feet, eating their simple meal as happy as it was possible for four people to be.

And then, while the shepherd smoked his pipe, Jack gave Fairy a lesson in the notes of the different birds which were singing around them, and Mrs. Shelley listened with pride to her eldest and darling son, and wondered whether Fairy would ever care for him in the way he evidently cared for her, and thought what a handsome couple they would make.

“Oh, Jack, how clever you are; you know everything; but there, I do know one thing—I am right this time at least—there is a skylark singing up over our heads. Look,” cried Fairy, who had been making various wrong guesses at the names of the different songsters around them.

“Poor little Fairy! you are wrong again; it is a woodlark; the skylark mounts up straight in a succession of springs, and then hovers, singing; the woodlark flies round and round in circles, singing all the while, as this bird is doing,” said Jack.

“Oh, I give it up; I know nothing; but as long as I have you to tell me, what does it matter? I shall go and look for a wheatear’s nest in that fence,” said Fairy, rising and shaking back her long golden hair, which she still wore down her back, and which added greatly to her childish appearance.

“My pretty one, wheatears don’t build in fences,” cried John Shelley, as she ran lightly past him.

“She is doing it on purpose; she knows as well as you and I wheatears build in rabbit-holes or chalk-pits; she only wants me to scold her,” said Jack.

“It is time we were at work again, Jack, or we shan’t get our eight hundred washed to-day,” said John, who saw Jack showed signs of going after Fairy, and wisely thought he would not see him back in a hurry if he once let him go.

So the sheep-washing began again, and Mrs. Shelley, who had brought some work with her, promised Fairy to remain till tea-time, on condition that she then accompanied her home.

“I do enjoy it so, mother,” said Fairy; “it would be wicked to spend such a bright warm sunny day as this shut up in a house; it is so delicious out in this field. I wonder how much they pay those washers; it must be dreadfully hard work; they ought to pay them well.”

“They give them half-a-crown for every hundred sheep, and they can wash a thousand sheep a day, but these men won’t do more than finish John’s eight hundred to-day.”

“That leaves nearly eight hundred more for to-morrow. Oh! do let us come and have another day like this. Will you, mother?” pleaded Fairy.

Mrs. Shelley looked at the fair little face, with its great brown eyes, its dainty pink and white complexion, and the long wavy hair which veiled the slight girlish figure, and smiled and sighed—the smile was for Fairy, and the sigh for Jack—as she promised to do so if the weather were fine.

THE SHEEP-WASHING.

And so it came to pass that that sheep-washing was long remembered by Jack as two of the happiest days in his life, though, alas! they came to an end, as all days, however happy, must only too soon; and then came a fortnight of preparation for the great event of the shepherds’ year—the sheep-shearing and the Feast of the White Ram. Jack had not much to do with the preparations, for he was upon the downs with his washed flock, but little else was talked of when he came home in the evening, and it was a very busy time for Mrs. Shelley, who had to provide supper for twelve men for five nights, the shearing beginning on the Tuesday, and ending on the Saturday, when the money earned was divided among the company. It had been a source of much anxiety to Mrs. Shelley to know where the supper was to be held. To have these twelve men in the kitchen in which she had to cook it all would be very inconvenient, and she was by no means inclined to lend the little sitting-room, which Fairy had made so pretty, for the purpose; but at last Jack suggested borrowing a tent and pitching it in the field near the house, a plan which was at once adopted. The shearing itself took place outside a barn belonging to the farmer who owned the sheep about to be shorn, and the company went round to the principal farmers in the neighbourhood, taking one each day of the shearing week. How Jack hated this business of shearing! He would have given anything to have got out of it, if he could only have done so without vexing his father; but as this was impossible, he was obliged to go on with it with the best grace he could, but he was in an irritable mood all the week. The work brought him into contact with other shepherds, with none of whom had he anything in common, and made him realise his lowly position, which in his lonely life on the downs, lost in his studies, he was apt to forget. He would long ago have given up his shepherd’s calling and gone to London to seek more congenial work, if it had not been for Fairy; she was the magnet which held him in her vicinity, but he was daily becoming aware that if any of his dreams were to be realised, he must go away at once, though the time he spent on the downs was by no means wasted, since he was educating himself to the best of his ability. His idea was to try and get an appointment as usher in a school, for which in those days he was fully qualified. In teaching others he would learn himself; he would have access to books of all kinds, and he would be able in his leisure hours to pursue his favourite study of natural history. He had confided this plan to Mr. Leslie, who had promised to look out for him, and when an opening occurred to give him a testimonial. Another reason which had kept Jack at home hitherto was that Charlie was barely old enough to take his place, but during this last sheep-washing Charlie had had the care of half the flock, and had shown himself quite up to his work, which, in the summer, at any rate, was just the lazy, dreamy kind of life to suit an indolent nature like his, and Jack saw he need no longer delay his departure because there was no one to take his place. On the contrary, it would solve a difficulty, for it had hitherto been rather a puzzle to know what to do with Charlie since John Shelley only required one under-shepherd, and he did not seem to have any inclination for any other kind of work. Accordingly, all through the White Ram Jack was making up his mind to tear himself away from Fairy, in the hope of eventually winning for himself a position he could ask her to share, and the thought of the coming separation did not tend to make him happier.

Every morning he started with the rest of the Lewes company of shearers, with his father at their head, for some farm, where they spent their day in shearing the sheep, pausing about twelve and again about two o’clock to “light up,” that is to sharpen their shears, eat cakes, and drink beer, the meal of the day being supper when they got back after their labours were over.

(To be continued.)

A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO THE WORLD OF INDUSTRY AND THRIFT.

By JAMES MASON.

e are going now to speak about money: not, however, about how to get it, but about what to do with it after it is got. About the occupations by which money is made, we shall not at present say anything. Many of them have already been treated of in The Girl’s Own Paper.

When people have money there are three things they can do with it; they can spend it, or place it out at interest, or tie it up in a parcel and hide it away. Perhaps they do not need at the moment to spend it; in that case of the two ways that are left the only wise one is to place it out at interest.

And what is interest? Interest is the sum paid by anyone who gets the loan of money, for the use of it. Selina, say, gets the loan of £50 for a year—not for nothing—oh, no, she pays £2 for the twelve months. This £2 is the interest. At the end of the year the lender receives back her £50 and £2 added to it, so, you see, it is for a good reason that we recommend lending in preference to unfruitful hoarding. Money—and this is a wise rule—should never be allowed to lie idle.

The sum lent is known as the principal, and on the principal the interest is calculated at so much per cent. (by the hundred); that is to say, at so much for every £100. For instance, 5 per cent. means £5 for the use of every £100; 2½ per cent., £2 10s. for the use of every £100; and 3¾ per cent., £3 15s. for the use of every £100. Selina’s loan, in the preceding paragraph, is at 4 per cent., in other words, £4 for £100; so, of course, for £50 she just pays £2.

When you see a rate of interest quoted you may safely conclude that it is for a year—per annum (by the year), is the correct phrase—unless something is said to the contrary.

The rate paid in the shape of interest depends on a number of things, but the main question is, will the principal be perfectly safe? If the answer be yes, then the interest in these days will certainly be low. But on this subject we shall have more to say in a succeeding article.

To calculate interest on any sum for a year, the rule is to multiply by the rate per cent. and divide by 100. For example, find the interest on £460 at 4½ per cent. Here you multiply 460 by 4½, which gives 2,070, and dividing by 100, arrive at the answer, £20 14s.

When the interest is wanted for a certain number of days, you must multiply by the number of days and by double the rate per cent., and divide by 73,000. By way of example, find the interest on £320 for 30 days at 3 per cent. Multiply 320, first by 30 and afterwards by 6, which gives 57,600. Now divide by 73,000, and you have the total amount of interest, 15s. 9d.

People who have much calculating of interest to do should invest in a book of Commercial Tables. The use of these saves a great deal of trouble. There are some short cuts, however, which every business woman should carry in her head. At 5 per cent. per annum the interest upon a pound for every month is one penny. Having seen what this comes to, other rates may be reckoned by adding to or deducting from the 5 per cent. product.

For example, 2½ per cent. is one-half; 3 per cent. is six-tenths; 3½ per cent. is seven-tenths; 4 per cent. is four-fifths; 6 per cent. is six-fifths; 7½ per cent. is one-half more. Thus, 5 per cent. on £30 for ten months will be £1 5s.; 2½ per cent., 12s. 6d.; 3 per cent., 15s.; 3½ per cent., 17s. 6d.; 4 per cent., £1; 6 per cent., £1 10s.; and 7½ per cent., £1 17s. 6d.

Sometimes, on interest becoming due, it is regularly added to the principal, and interest is paid on the new principal thus formed. Money invested on this accumulating system is said to be placed at compound interest.

There is something startling about the growth of money invested in this way. “A penny,” says Dr. Price, “so improved from our Saviour’s birth as to double itself every fourteen years—or, what is nearly the same, put out at five per cent. compound interest at our Saviour’s birth—would by this time have increased to more money than could be contained in 150 millions of globes, each equal to the earth in magnitude, and all solid gold.

“A shilling put out at six per cent. compound interest would, in the same time, have increased to a greater sum in gold than the whole solar system could contain, supposing it a sphere equal in diameter to the diameter of Saturn’s orbit; and the earth is to such a sphere as half a square foot or a quarto page is to the whole surface of the earth.”

To show the difference between “simple interest,” in which the interest does not bear interest, and “compound interest,” in which it does, we give the following table, showing the time it takes for a sum to double itself at different rates:—

The really surprising difference between simple and compound interest is, however, only seen after the first few years are over. A loan of £100 for ten years at 4 per cent. simple interest would give £40, and at 4 per cent. compound interest about £47. But if the loan were for a hundred years the simple interest would be only £400, whilst the compound interest would be no less than £4,950.

Having now said all that is necessary at present about interest, we must speak for a little on the subject of banking, for it is by means of banks that most money transactions are satisfactorily managed.

What, then, is a bank? There seems, at first sight, something mysterious about it, but it is really a simple institution. It is partly a shop and partly a left-luggage office. It is a shop for dealing in cheques, bills, notes, gold, and silver, and a left-luggage office to which we consign our spare cash to lie till called for.

This, however, is only a rough and ready way of putting it, and we may as well add the following extract from a writer who has taken pains to give an exact definition:—“A banker is the custodier of the money of other people. Such is his business, viewed in its simplest aspect. A banker, however, if he hoarded the money deposited with him, would be simply a cash-keeper to the public; his bank would be literally a bank of deposit.... But the business of receiving money on deposit has always been, and is now, universally combined with that of lending it out. A banker does not hoard all the money deposited with him—he gives the greater portion out in loan. The lending of money is as much a part of his business as the receiving of deposits.”

You cannot go into a banker’s and say, “I have come to open an account,” just as you would enter a grocer’s with, “Be so good as send me half a dozen tins of the best sardines.” You must be introduced by someone who can vouch for your respectability, or, if not introduced, you must be able yourself to satisfy the banker that you are likely to be a desirable customer.

This first step being taken, you open what is called a current or drawing account; that is to say, an account into which you can pay money whenever it suits you, and from which you can draw money at any time by means of orders, or cheques, as they are called. In a current account in a good bank money is kept safely—which is a great matter—and at the same time you can make use of it as readily as if it were lying in your pocket.

For convenience, and partly, too, as a protection against fraud, bankers are in the habit of supplying their customers with books containing forms of cheques. When a book of cheques is exhausted, a new one is supplied on the presentation of a form which, when filled up, may resemble the following:—

Each cheque bears a penny impressed stamp, and a book of cheques is supplied at the price of the stamps—a book, say, of twenty-five costing two shillings and a penny.

Cheques may be in one or other of two forms. The first form is—

The other form is precisely the same, except that instead of the word “Bearer” it has the word “Order.”

As an example of a cheque with the particulars filled in, take the following:—

The difference between cheques made out to “Bearer” and those made out to “Order” is this. Cheques payable to bearer can be cashed by anyone. Those payable to order, however, must be endorsed by the person in whose favour they are drawn before the money can be received. But what is to endorse a cheque? It is simply to write your name on the back of it.

Cheques payable to order are certainly safer than those payable to bearer. And they have another advantage. In the event of receipts being lost or mislaid, they supply evidence that the money was received by the person to whom it was owing.

A cheque payable to bearer can be made payable to order by drawing the pen through “Bearer,” and writing “Order” above it. A cheque payable to order can also be made payable to bearer by scratching out “Order” and putting “Bearer” above it; but in this case you must put your initials to the alteration.

To give extra security to a cheque, draw two parallel lines across the face of it with the words “—— & Co.” inserted between them. This makes it what is called a “crossed cheque,” which will only be paid through some banker to a known customer. Instead of “—— & Co.” you may write the name of the banker of the person to whom the cheque is payable. When this is done, the cheque is only payable through him.

If in crossing the cheque you add the words “Not negociable,” that is another safeguard. These words “warn all whom it may concern that they accept the cheque subject to the liability of being compelled to refund its value should it prove to have come improperly into the possession of any person from whom their own title is derived.” This makes a cheque as secure against the wiles of the dishonest as anything in this world can be.

The filling up of a cheque should be done very carefully, and the style of signature should be always the same. The figures in the body of a cheque must be in words, and should be written close together, so that there is no room left for the fraudulent to improve on the amount. Cases have frequently occurred of “ty” being added to six, seven, and nine, to make them read sixty, seventy, and ninety, and a “y” being given as a tail to eight, to multiply eight by ten, is quite a common trick. As a protection, the words “Under ten pounds” are sometimes written upon a cheque that lends itself to this sort of roguery.

Suppose a cheque is given by a person who has not money enough in the bank to meet it, the banker will most likely return it, with the words written on it, “No effects,” or “Refer to Drawer.” The cheque is then said to be dishonoured.

Cheques should always be cashed—that is to say, payment of them should be got—as soon as possible after they have come to hand. It is never safe to delay, for the most unlikely things happen; the bank may fail, or the drawer may become bankrupt, or his account may become locked up through his death.

A memorandum should be preserved of every cheque you give away. This is provided for by the cheque-books furnished by the banks having a margin which is left when the cheque is torn out. This margin, separated from the cheque by a perforated line, is known as the counterfoil. The counterfoil bears the same number as the cheque to which it is attached. Here is an example of one filled up:

On the back of each counterfoil some people are in the habit of writing the balance they have at the moment in the bank. This has some advantages, and is certainly a check to extravagance.

Though cheques are usually made out on engraved forms, you may write a cheque on a sheet of note-paper should a cheque-book not be at hand. In that case, remember to put a penny stamp on it, and to cancel the stamp by writing on it the date and your initials.

Keep your cheque-book always under lock and key. If you leave it about, it only puts temptation in the way of people to abstract a blank form and make free with your signature. Should your book ever be lost or stolen, give notice at once to the bank.

Lodging money is one of the easiest of business operations. You go to the bank, and fill up a slip, headed, say—

Below this heading you enter the particulars of the sum you are going to lodge:—Bank-notes, so much; coin, so much; cheques and bills (mentioned separately), so much; total, so much. You hand this slip over to the teller with the money, and the whole thing is done. No receipt is given, and it says a great deal for the perfect machinery by which banking is conducted that one never hears of a mistake, or that any customer ever thought his confidence taken advantage of. We speak here of the method in the best London banks. In the provinces and in some London establishments the form of procedure varies a little.

When you send money to your banker by post, you should write with it somewhat as follows:—

Receipt of this will be acknowledged by the manager, thus:—

To every person keeping an account the bank supplies a book, generally known as a pass-book. On the Dr. or left-hand side of this book, will appear the sums received on behalf of the owner of the book; whilst all the cheques paid on her account by the bank will appear on the Cr. or right-hand side. Here is an example in which, for convenience, we have printed the Cr. side under the Dr., instead of side by side:

In this book you must never make an entry yourself. It should be left at regular intervals at the bank to be “made-up,” that is to say, for all the sums received and paid to be entered in it. The pass-book is really a copy of the bank ledger. When received again from the bank it should be gone over carefully to see that all the entries are just as they should be.

Current accounts, as a general rule in England, do not bear any interest, in other words, the banker pays nothing for the use he enjoys of any balance left in his hands. Unless the balance is large he thinks he does enough in taking the trouble of keeping the account. In Scotland interest is usually given on current accounts, but it is only a slight advance upon nothing.

Besides receiving money on current account, however, bankers receive it on deposit. Deposit accounts are those in which sums of money are lodged in a bank on the understanding that a certain rate of interest is to be paid upon them, and that a certain number of days’ notice is to be given before they are withdrawn. There is no such thing as drawing cheques on a deposit account.

When money is received on deposit, a deposit receipt is given. The amount is usually repayable to the depositor alone, but it may also be paid to anyone to whom the depositor gives an order on the bank, either written on the back of the deposit receipt or accompanying it.

The rate of interest paid on deposits varies with the Bank of England rate. It is, however, usually so small that no one, except for special reasons, will let money lie on deposit in a bank whilst there are plenty of perfectly safe investments to be met with outside.

For business women who travel few business documents are of greater interest than a letter of credit. This is a communication from a banker to a correspondent, or correspondents, authorising credit to be given to the bearer to a certain specified amount.

In applying for a letter of credit you must name to your banker the sum you will require altogether, and the number of towns in which you wish to draw portions of that sum, and if there are, say, three towns—Paris, Berlin and Rome—you must enclose your signature on three separate sheets of paper. The banker sends one of these slips to an agent in each of the towns named, and forwards to you a letter of credit in this form:—

Across the face of the letter of credit is written, “This credit to be in force for twelve months only from this date.”

Circular Notes, as they are called, are in one respect an improvement on a letter of credit: they can be cashed in almost every town the traveller is likely to visit. They are issued by most London bankers and for sums of from £10 upwards.

A banker has a pretty responsible time of it. He is bound to keep secret the state of his customer’s account. He must also know his customer’s handwriting, so, should he pay a cheque or bill which turns out to be a forgery, he must bear the loss. If he neglects to carry out any instructions within the legitimate sphere of banking business, such as the payment of premiums on a life insurance or the purchase of shares, he may be called to account for any loss the customer may suffer through his carelessness.

The simplest bank in the country, and the most important to depositors of small means is the Post Office Savings Bank, about which we must now speak. It is an extensive institution, having over eight thousand branch establishments all over the country; indeed, every money order office is a branch office of the Post Office Savings Bank. At the present time there are more than three and a half millions of accounts open, with an average balance of £13 10s., and the average turnover of the bank, counting both the money deposited and the money drawn out, is twenty-eight million pounds a year.

You cannot, in the Post Office Savings Bank, open an account from which, by means of cheques, you can draw money at any hour. It does not provide cheque books, and makes the withdrawal of money comparatively a slow process, for its leading idea is not to facilitate present business, but to provide for future need. It really starts with the reflection that

An account may be opened with a very small sum. You can do it with a shilling. With that in your hand you can go to a post office, and assert your intention of placing your savings under the care of the Government. And remember that the shilling, and anything else added to it, will be safer than in any other bank whatever; for the Post Office Savings Bank can only come to grief with the ruin of the British Empire.

Intending depositors must state their Christian name and surname, occupation (if any), and residence, and they must sign a declaration to the effect that they have no interest in any savings bank account, and are willing to have any deposits they may make managed according to the regulations of the Post Office.

When that is done a deposit book is supplied. In this book every deposit must be entered at the time of its being made by the postmaster, or whoever receives it, and he must affix to the entry his signature and the stamp of the office.

“In addition to the receipt in the book, the depositor will receive an acknowledgment by post from the Savings Bank department in London, and this should reach him within four clear days, exclusive of Sundays and bank holidays, if the deposit be made in England or Wales; within six days, if it be made in Ireland or Scotland.”

The interest allowed is 2½ per cent. per annum—that is to say, at the rate of £2 10s. every year for every £100. This is just a halfpenny each month for every pound. Thus, a pound lodged in the bank, and lying there for a year, becomes £1 0s. 6d.: £10 becomes £10 5s.; and £30 grows to be £30 15s. The interest is calculated to the 31st of December in every year, and is then added to and becomes part of the principal.

The deposits made in any year ending 31st December must not exceed £30, and when a depositor has lodged in all £150, not counting interest, she is not allowed to lodge any more till she has reduced the sum standing at her credit. If she chooses to let it lie, it will, of course, by the addition of interest, increase every year. When it reaches £200, however, no more interest is allowed till some of the money is withdrawn.

When a depositor wishes to withdraw any money, she fills up a notice of withdrawal, to be had at any Post Office Savings Bank, and forwards it to the Savings Bank Department in London. She then receives by post a warrant, which she should present with her book at the post office where payment is to be made.

Once in every year, on the anniversary of the day on which the first deposit was made, the deposit book should be forwarded to the Controller of the Savings Bank Department in London, that the entries may be checked, and that the sum due for interest may be added. When sending the book, do not pay postage: all communications on Savings Bank business go free.

Deposits may be made by married women, and in that case their husbands have no control over the money. They can draw from it when they please, and bequeath it by will to any person they choose.

The Post Office Savings Bank adapts itself to saving on the smallest scale. If a girl can only save a penny at a time, she can with the penny buy a stamp, and the stamp she can stick on a form with twelve divisions, supplied by the Post Office. When she has in this way saved twelve stamps, she must take it to the post office, and have the shilling entered in a regular bank account.

But the Post Office undertakes more business in connection with money than merely storing it up against a rainy day. Of that, however, we shall speak in our next article.

(To be continued.)

By M. M. POLLARD.

THE NEW YEAR’S BELLS.