The Girl’s Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1025

DIET IN REASON AND IN MODERATION. — PART II.

By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

THE MIDDAY MEAL.

Englishmen fall into two classes as regards their diet; those that take a small lunch and their chief meal in the evening, and those who make the midday meal the chief and take a small supper before retiring.

Social position is the chief agent which determines to which class an individual belongs. The working classes usually dine in the middle of the day, and the professional and upper classes dine in the evening.

We will continue our remarks on the diet of the richer classes, not because it is better or more suitable than the plainer diet of the working classes, but because the rich naturally keep a more varied table, and so will give us more material to criticise.

Luncheon is a desultory sort of meal, and though most people eat something, many do so only because they think that it is the thing to do, and not because they are really hungry.

If you will accompany us, we will go to see the luncheon given by Lord X. at his Surrey home. But we cannot go as guests, for not only have we not been invited, but we are going to criticise many things about the table and the meal. We must, therefore, remain invisible and inaudible, for it is unpardonable to make remarks at the table, even if those remarks would save a whole company from indigestion and a sleepless night.

Before the meal is served, our eyes are offended by something on the sideboard which is sufficient to destroy the appetite of any extra delicately-minded person if she only knew its secrets.

The object is nothing less than a cold pheasant pie ornamented by the head or feathers of the bird whose flesh the pie is supposed to contain. We want you to examine that ornament, and we feel pretty certain that if you do, you will never again eat meat pies.

In order that the carcases of dead animals should not encumber the earth, it has been ordained that when an animal dies, its body rapidly decomposes and becomes dissolved into simple gases. The agents that bring about the dissolution of the body are various. The chief agents which cause the decomposition of organic matter are microbes. The majority of these do not produce diseases in man, but some of them do, and some of these you might find on that pheasant pie if you could see it through a microscope.

Similarly offensive, but to a less degree, is the practice of putting pigeons’ feet sticking outside a steak pie to suggest that the remainder of the birds is inside, and putting feathers into the tails of roast pheasants.

One of the chief values of cooking is to sterilise food, so why foul the food you have so carefully sterilised by sticking decaying matter into it?

The first item of the luncheon consists of oysters, and we notice that only three out of the company of twelve partake of them. As nearly everybody who can afford them likes oysters, there is probably some special reason why nine out of twelve persons refuse them. Doubtless it is the typhoid scare, and we are much pleased to see that some persons, at all events, do occasionally give a side thought to preventive medicine.

The question of the causation of typhoid fever by oysters is one of great importance, and one that should be clearly understood by everyone. That oysters are one of the means by which some recent epidemics of typhoid fever have been spread is undoubted, but the exact part that they have played is not so easy to understand, for the latest commission upon the question found that the typhoid bacillus is killed by immersion in sea-water, that it did not occur in any oysters that they opened, and when it was injected into the oyster, it was promptly killed.

This seems to say emphatically that oysters cannot harbour the typhoid bacillus, and therefore cannot produce typhoid fever. But medicine is not as easy as that. That the oysters they examined could not produce typhoid fever is certain, but their remarks do not by any means prove that typhoid is not spread by any oysters.

At one time there was very great excitement about this question, and a tremendous lot of nonsense was talked about it. Some persons maintained the typhoid bacillus only occurred in bad oysters. We suppose a bad oyster is eaten occasionally, but Lord X.’s guests are not likely to be troubled with bad oysters.

Oysters cannot cause typhoid fever unless they contain this bacillus, and they only obtain it from sewers opening into the sea. Therefore it is only those oysters which have come from places where sewers open into the sea that can cause typhoid fever.

Of course, as soon as the oyster scare was started, everybody who caught typhoid fever attributed it to oysters she had eaten the day, the week, month, or year before. But the incubation period of typhoid fever is from one to three weeks; that means that when the bacilli get into the body they do not produce the disease till from one to three weeks after infection. Therefore it is only oysters eaten from one to three weeks before the onset of the fever that could possibly have caused the disease. As a matter of fact, oysters are a real, but not very common, method by which typhoid is spread.

We notice that one of the three guests who have taken oysters discards one because it is green. He is quite right to do so, for though it may be quite wholesome, it may be coloured with copper. Doubtless it would do no harm, but he is quite right not to risk the possibility of sickness for an oyster!

Amongst the other items of the luncheon we notice cold beef and salad. These will furnish us with material for discussion, for there are several very important medical points in connection with both.

Cold meat is a very good food in its way, but like all meat it is a strong food, that is, it is readily digested and furnishes a very large amount of nourishment. If you make a meal entirely of beef, you will not suffer from indigestion, because beef is very digestible, but you will eat too much, you will throw too much nourishment into the blood, and you will give your organs, especially the liver and kidneys, great trouble to dispose of the superfluous nourishment.

Although a cold joint of beef seems so much less rich and strong than the same joint hot, it is really very much the same in the amount of nourishment that it contains. People very rarely serve hot meat without vegetables and surroundings, but it is the fashion to serve cold meat by itself, with nothing but bread, and most persons eat very little bread indeed with their meals.

Meat should never be served alone. Vegetables of some sort must be served with both hot and cold meat, and far more vegetable and less meat than is usually served should be your aim.

Salad is of course a vegetable or vegetables, and if properly prepared and selected, it is not at all a bad form of food.

We do not suppose many of you know much of the mysteries of agriculture, for if you did, such a thing as an unwashed salad would never appear upon your tables. Salads are not washed half enough, and an unwashed salad is a most dangerous article of food. All vegetables are best when rapidly grown, and to grow vegetables rapidly it is necessary to supply them with strong manures.

You must thoroughly wash and dry any vegetables that you eat raw, for, excluding such harmless creatures as slugs and caterpillars, they may contain germs of disease. Typhoid fever is frequently caused by eating unwashed salads, especially watercress. This is a far more common method of getting typhoid than is eating infected oysters. Another disease almost invariably due to eating infected vegetables is hydatid disease, a somewhat uncommon affection in England, but one of the most formidable plagues in Iceland and Australia.

There are few salads which are not difficult to digest. Corn salad, French lettuce, endive, beetroot, and watercresses, are the least indigestible, then come in order, Cos lettuce, chicory, mustard and cress, cucumber, and radishes. Spring onions usually agree with most persons, but some people cannot stand onions in any form. Onions always produce the peculiar and decidedly unpleasant odour of the breath, and not, as is usually supposed, only in those who cannot digest them. For the smell is due to the excretion of the volatile oil of onions by the breath.

Two excellent salads are potato salad and cold vegetable salad. This morning we read a recipe for the latter in one of the back numbers of this paper, and it struck us as being a particularly inviting and desirable addition to a dinner of cold meat.

The lunch is finished off with a savoury of herrings’ roes on toast. These were probably tinned roes, or we will presume they were, so as to introduce the discussion of the values and dangers of tinned meat.

The dangers of eating tinned meats have been grossly exaggerated, and if you pay a reasonable price for tinned provisions, it is extremely unlikely that they will do you any harm. Unfortunately, many thousands of “blown” tins of putrid provisions are still sold in London yearly in spite of the care and close scrutiny of the law. But if you pay a reasonable sum for your tinned provisions, you will not get these bad tins. Of course, if you pay fourpence a dozen for tins of milk or sardines, you cannot expect to get good stuff, and you should always avoid tins reduced in price, for it usually means that they are very stale.

There are two ways in which tinned things may become poisonous, either the contents may become contaminated with the metal of the cans, or the meats themselves may undergo alkaloidal degeneration. The former, the lesser evil, can only occur in tinned meats. The latter, by far the greater evil, may occur in any preserved provisions, and is perhaps more common in stores preserved in skins or glasses than in those in tins.

Nowadays meats do not often become poisoned by the tins in which they have been kept. It used to be not uncommon for the solder of the tin to be dissolved by acid juices in the contents. This was especially frequent with tinned Morella cherries and other acid tart-fruits. But now acid fruits are nearly always sold in bottles, and only fruits which are sweet and not acid are sold in tins.

The tinned fruits that we get from California are most excellent, and we have never heard of ill-effects of any kind following their use. The canning is carried on entirely by girls on the Californian ranches. The tins are rather dear, but they are much the best things of the kind that have come beneath our notice.

The second method by which tinned meats may become poisoned is a degeneration, or decomposition if you like, by which the wholesome albumen of the contents is changed into intensely poisonous animal alkaloids. Alkaloids are very powerful bodies, and the vegetable alkaloids, such as strychnine, quinine, and morphine, are much used in medicine.

But these animal alkaloids are far more powerful for harm than even the most deadly of the vegetable poisons. So powerful are they that a quantity of one of them found in canned fish, which killed two adults who had partaken of it, was insufficient to demonstrate by our most delicate chemical tests. If these drugs are so powerful for harm, is it not possible that they may be equally powerful for good, when their actions and doses are worked out?

What causes this curious decomposition of preserved provisions is not known. In tinned meats, at all events, it cannot be ordinary putrefaction, for this cannot occur without air, and the tins are air-tight. It is probably due to organisms, but this is uncertain.

This form of decomposition of meat cannot be told by the flavour of the provisions; and its deleterious effects cannot be destroyed by boiling. There is no way to prevent it save by buying preserved provisions which have not been kept for long.

AN AFTERNOON “BOOK PARTY.”

hough book parties are not very new, they are not, I think, so general but that the idea may be a new one to some readers of The Girl’s Own Paper, and if they have not yet been at one, they may be glad to have some suggestions on the subject. I think these book afternoons certainly give a good deal of amusement to the participants without trouble or appreciable expense to the giver. For the benefit of such as may feel inclined to entertain their friends in this way, here is the account of an afternoon party to which I was invited a few weeks back. These gatherings are, I might say, most suitable for young people; but though it is a long time since I could class myself amongst the young, I really enjoyed the merry afternoon we had. Our invitations were for afternoon tea at 4.30, but in the corner was written, “Book Party.” By this it was understood that every guest should symbolise some book, not necessarily by dress, but by wearing some emblem or motto that would give the name of the book selected.

The hostess provided as many cards and pencils as there were guests. These were plain correspondence cards which had been decorated with pretty or comic designs at the top by the daughter of the house. Each visitor had a card with pencil given to him or to her on arrival which was to have the titles and names of the other “books” present written on it. It need hardly be said that many mistakes are always made, while in some cases the emblems chosen are so remote that it is hardly possible to divine the meaning.

A few of the books represented, and the symbols used, will best explain this, and may also help any girls who are inclined to inaugurate an entertainment of this kind.

On the occasion of which I am writing the host and hostess said they, together, named a book, though they wore no badge or mark. Of course, nearly all guessed that they were Wilkie Collins’s Man and Wife. A young lady came in white to represent The Woman in White, while a lady in a silk dress and hat was meant for Black’s In Silk Attire. Then a gentleman wore the hostess’s visiting-card for Our Mutual Friend. A lady wore the sign “Gemini” in her hat for Sarah Grand’s Heavenly Twins. A lucky penny fastened on the shoulder showing the head with “I win” below it, and a second penny showing the reverse side, and under that “you lose,” stood for Bound to Win. Then 1o0n0e0, written on a card, and worn in a hat, was to be read One in a Thousand, while some coins on a string signified Hard Cash. A bow of orange and green ribbon gave Henty’s book Orange and Green. A neat-looking girl wore a cravat with a piece of the lace hanging from it for Never too Late to Mend, while another young girl had the word “stood” stuck in her hat for Misunderstood. Some large white wings in a hat gave Black’s novel of that name. A little sketch of a child with eyes shut and mouth wide open was for Great Expectations. A lad with N & S on the side of his jacket meant to represent A Tale of Two Cities. The word wedding, written in red ink, was for Jephson’s Pink Wedding, and the musical notation of a chime stood for The Lay of the Bell. The queen of hearts out of a pack of cards was worn by a gentleman to represent Wilkie Collins’s novel of that name, while “no credit,” stuck in a hat, was meant for James Payn’s For Cash Only. A girl wore her mother’s photograph for Grace Aguilar’s Home Influence. Heartsease, yellow aster, and other flowers that name books, also small pictures of “Pair of Blue Eyes,” “Windsor Castle,” “Old St. Paul’s,” and others. There were also some books of more serious character, such as the Times Encyclopædia; the twenty-five volumes were marked on a belt. Sir J. Lubbock’s Ants, Bees, and Wasps also found a representative. It is easy to find an endless variety of book names that one can symbolise in one way or another, but works of fiction lend themselves the most easily.

On the particular afternoon of which I am writing we were all occupied with our cards while tea was being handed. When all seemed to have finished writing, the hostess took all the cards, and amidst much laughter the names of the books were read out from each card, and a prize awarded to the owner of the card with the most correct guesses on it, and a second prize was given to the one who was least successful—the “duffer’s prize” it was called. This was a wooden spoon, which, however, was received with great good humour, the recipient declaring he had never in his life guessed anything!

The first prize was a box of sweets, which the winner handed round to the unsuccessful competitors.

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TO NIGHT.

OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

By CHARLES PETERS.

There are but few lilies left for us to describe, and these are of very little importance to the flower-grower.

Lilium Auratum.

Lilium Concolor and Lilium Davidii are usually considered under the Isolirion group, but they present such numerous deviations from that group of lilies that we have decided to make a group of them alone.

Lilium Concolor is a pretty, little, very variable lily. It is more suitable for a button-hole decoration than for anything else, but it has a pleasing effect when grown in great masses. This species has a very small bulb with few, acute, oblong scales. The plant grows to about a foot high, and bears from one to three flowers about an inch and a half across, and of a deep crimson colour spotted with black. The flowers open very wide, and the filaments are shorter than in any other lily. Of the great number of varieties of this lily we will describe two. The first, named Buschianum, or Sinicum, grows taller, has larger leaves, and larger and more numerous blossoms, which are of a fine crimson.

The second variety, Coridion, is by far the handsomest of the group, bearing large flowers of a bright yellow spotted with brown. Concolor is a native of Western Asia. Its culture is very simple, and it is perfectly hardy.

Of Lilium Davidii, we only know that it was discovered by David in Thibet; that it grows about two feet high, and bears bright yellow flowers spotted with brown. We also know that there is a plate of this species in Elwes’s Monograph. The plant is practically unknown to everybody.

The last group of lilies, Notholirion, contains two or, as we have it, three species which are not very well known, and it is a little doubtful whether they are lilies at all. Formerly they were considered to be fritillaries, and certainly they bear more superficial resemblance to those plants than they do to the lilies.

Most authors include Lilium Oxypetalum among the Archelirions, because its flowers are widely expanded. But as in every other particular it differs completely from that group of lilies, we have separated it from L. Auratum and L. Speciosum, and placed it among the Notholirions, to which it bears considerable resemblance.

This little-known lily was formerly called Fritillaria oxypetala, and bears more resemblance to the fritillaries than it does to the lilies. The bulb is oblong, with but few lance-shaped scales. The stem grows to the height of about fifteen inches, and bears about twenty or thirty leaves, resembling those of our native snake’s-head fritillary in every particular. One or two blossoms are borne on each stem. They are pale lilac, star-like blossoms, with numerous little hairs on the bases of the segments. The petals are acutely pointed. The anthers are scarlet.

This plant is a native of the Western Himalayas. It is very uncommon in gardens. We have never possessed it, and know nothing of its culture.

The two lilies Lilium Roseum and Lilium Hookeri are now included in this genus, but they have been referred first to the lilies, then to the fritillaries, then back again to the lilies, and so on. And it is very doubtful if they are even now in their last resting-place.

The bulbs of these lilies are invested in dense membranous tunics like those of the daffodil. Lilium Roseum grows to about two feet high; L. Hookeri rarely reaches half this height. The leaves are said to bear bulblets in their axils. Six to thirty little nodding bell-like blossoms of a deep lilac colour are produced by L. Roseum, but L. Hookeri rarely produces more than eight blossoms. But little is known of these lilies. They are both natives of the Himalayas, and are said to be somewhat tender. They may be grown in a mixture of rubble, old bricks, sand, and leaf mould.

We have never grown them ourselves, as it is practically impossible to obtain bulbs. We have seen L. Roseum in blossom, and were not particularly impressed by it.

Had we been describing roses, chrysanthemums, hyacinths, or any other flowers which are highly cultivated, we would have dismissed the natural species with a very brief description, and turned our chief attention to the artificial varieties and hybrids.

But with lilies it is different. As we have seen, there are very many natural species. Indeed, the species almost outnumber the varieties, and these latter are rarely very different from the parent species. As regards double-flowered varieties, we have seen that only four lilies bear them, whereas nine-tenths of the cultivated varieties of roses and chrysanthemums are double.

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[Photo by F. Hanfstaengl.

NIGHT.

(From the painting by Gabriel Max.)

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And when we pass on to consider the hybrid lilies, we are likewise astonished at their paucity. Why are hybrid lilies so uncommon? Let us see if we can fathom the mystery.

One reason is that the majority of lilies never bear seed in England. Many, even in their native climes, bear seed but rarely, the natural method of increase being by bulblets. Another reason with us is the exceeding difficulty of raising lily-seed. They take so long to germinate that most seeds are destroyed before they show any sign of life.

Still, we believe that there is a great future for the hybridisation on lilies. Perhaps you would like to try it yourself. Then proceed as follows.

Let us cross Lilium Auratum with Lilium Speciosum. Choose well-grown specimens of each lily. Let the buds develop till they begin to change colour. Then remove every bud except one—the best—from each plant. The remaining bud of the L. Auratum must then be slipped open, and the anthers removed. It may then be allowed to open naturally, but it must be carefully protected from insects of any kind, lest one of these should bring to it a pollen grain from another blossom of its own species. When the L. Speciosum has matured its pollen, cut off the anthers, and rub the pollen upon the style of the L. Auratum.

Three things may now happen. The first, the most likely, is that the flower will die, and will not produce seed. The second is that the plant will produce seed, but these, when they have been grown into flowering bulbs, will reproduce unaltered L. Auratum. The third—last and least likely possibility—is that the plant will produce seed which, when grown and flowered, will produce blossoms which partake of the characters of its two parents. In other words, these last are genuine hybrids.

It is extremely unlikely that more than one per cent. of the seeds will produce a blossom which bears the marks of both parents. The majority will either die, or else be simple L. Auratum, without anything to show that they are hybrids.

Even with those rare plants which definitely show their hybrid origin, a great diversity of colouring may be observed. But the colour of the parents is very variable, and after a few years the hybrid lily looses the characteristics of the L. Speciosum and becomes merely a reddish variety of L. Auratum.

But there are two hybrid lilies which are quite constant, and as they are two of the finest of the whole group, they are well worth growing.

Lilium Alexandræ, the Japanese “Uki Ure” or “Hill Lily,” is in all probability a hybrid between Lilium Auratum and Lilium Longiflorum. We say “in all probability,” for we are not quite certain that it is not a true species.

There are some persons who think that one white lily is much like another. But put side by side L. Alexandræ, L. Longiflorum, and L. Candidum. Are they alike? Could anyone mistake one for another? Surely not! They differ in every detail—even in colour. The long trumpet of L. Longiflorum is delicate greenish-white. The Madonna lily is like porcelain; and the hill lily possesses a rich milky hue, somewhat resembling the colour of L. Brownii, which we so much admired.

And in shape how different they are. One is a long and regular trumpet, another is a shallow cup, and the lily we are specially considering is widely opened with its segments slightly curved, the whole blossom resembling a gigantic white star.

Lilium Alexandræ is not a big lily. It grows about two feet high and bears from one to four blossoms. These blossoms are very large, of a rich milky white, resembling in shape those of L. Auratum. The pollen is chocolate colour. The fragrance of this lily is very great. On the evening of a hot day in the middle of August last year we could detect the scent of a bed of these lilies, then in full bloom, at the distance of over one hundred yards. Its scent is rich and full, something between that of jasmine and vanilla.

The culture of this hybrid is not difficult. It is best grown in pots, for it is very sensitive to rain at its flowering period. In rigorous districts this lily should be grown in a cool greenhouse, but in the south of England it will grow to perfection out of doors. The soil should consist of equal parts of peat, very finely broken, leaf-mould, and sharp sand. It wants a very large quantity of water.

Few lilies have given us greater pleasure than L. Alexandræ. It is one of those plants which are so striking that it is impossible to forget them when you have once seen them. It is so very delicate, so pure and so fragrant.

Doubtless most of our readers are acquainted with the old Nankeen lily. This is a very old favourite, and is usually thought to be a true species, but for all that it is almost for certain a hybrid between L. Candidum and L. Chalcedoniam. This plant rejoices in a goodly number of names, of which L. Testaceum, L. Isabellinum, and L. Excelsum are the commonest.

This lily is unknown in the wild state, and its origin is very obscure. It is an English garden hybrid, but who first raised it or possessed it is unknown.

Yet it is a very striking lily, growing to the height of four or five feet and producing a great cluster of buff-coloured blossoms. In general features it resembles its parent L. Candidum, but the flower shows a distinct connection with the Martagons. Its colour certainly is not derived from either of its parents. A mixture of scarlet and pure white should give pink; but L. Testaceum is of a yellowish-buff colour. The lily which it most nearly resembles is L. Monodelphum; but though very fine, it is nothing like so splendid as that queen of the Martagons.

This lily is distinctly a cottage-garden flower. Except in that situation it is never seen. Yet it is common enough in old cottage-gardens, and a more befitting flower can scarcely be imagined. It looks old—in keeping with the place which it enhances by its presence.

The cultivation of this lily is the same as that of L. Candidum. It does not do well until it is well established, and it has a particular objection to growing in modern gardens.

Lilium Parkmanni is the hybrid between L. Auratum and L. Speciosum. Genuine specimens bear blossoms somewhat intermediate between the parent species.

There is also a hybrid between L. Hansoni and L. Martagon Dalmaticum, called Lilium Dalhansoni.

These four hybrids are the only ones which deserve to be mentioned, and of these only the first two are worth a place in the flower-garden.

(To be concluded.)

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CHOCOLATE DATES.

HOW WE MANAGED WITHOUT SERVANTS. — CHAPTER III.

By Mrs. FRANK W. W. TOPHAM, Author of “The Alibi,” “The Fateful Number,” etc.

he hot July days brought us such good news from Cannes that our hearts were all light with the hope of soon welcoming our parents back, and Cecilly was especially happy at being promised several more pupils after the summer holidays were over. Mrs. Moore, the old lady to whom I read, had hinted that she might require more of my time in the autumn, so we had every reason to be light-hearted and to forget the hardness of our work with so much to be thankful for. Only poor old Jack looked graver as the days went by, and my heart ached for him with his secret trouble.

It was nearly the end of July that one morning Cynthia came tapping at the kitchen door, where I was surrounded with materials for dinner.

“Where is Cecilly?” she asked, and on my telling her Cecilly was out, giving music lessons, she told me she had tickets for a concert that afternoon, and she knew how much she would like to go.

I knew so too, and at once said I would leave my cooking till the afternoon and finish a smart blouse Cecilly had been making for herself.

“Do let me do the cooking while you sew,” Cynthia asked, but I said she had better not as the dinner was to be what the boys called a triumph of “mind over matter,” meaning a dinner was to be made out of scraps, which was always tiring work. But Cynthia insisted on being cook.

I had already sent Beatrice Ethel, the little boot-girl, out for a quart of skimmed or separated milk which Cecilly made into Sago Soup: Take three or four onions and boil them in the milk till soft enough to run through a sieve. Boil six large potatoes and rub through sieve. Put all back into milk with pepper and salt. Add a teacup of sago, tapioca, rice, or some macaroni. But sago is best. Send up fried bread with this.

Our meat course was to be breakfast pies, and as there were some scraps over, Cynthia made a mulligatawny pâté, which would come in for breakfast.

Our pudding was a German Pudding: 1 lb. flour, 1 teaspoonful of carbonate of soda rubbed into the flour, 6 oz. of scraped fat, ½ lb. treacle melted in milk. To be boiled for three hours. This would have been sufficient for our dinner, but Cynthia begged to make a few jam tarts, as she “loved making pastry.” Whey they were finished, she had a piece of pastry over, which she turned into Cheese Puffs. She rolled out her paste, sprinkled it thickly with cheese and “Paisley Flour,” repeating the process several times. She brushed them over with a little egg, and baked them at once. I suggested, as we were well off for milk, she might make a custard to eat with our pudding, with “Bird’s Custard Powder,” but only on condition that she asked leave to come back with Cecilly to help us eat such a grand dinner. Lately I had noticed that she had been allowed to accept our invitations for the evening, and although it seemed a mistake for Jack to be in her company too often, it was such a delight for him to find her with us when he returned home, I could not resist asking her.

Cecilly had of course accepted Cynthia’s invitation to the concert with much delight, and I, having locked up the house, had spent a pleasant afternoon with dear Aunt Jane, who had given me a great bunch of beautiful white lilies, and a basket of gooseberries for the boys.

I was only just back when I heard Cecilly’s knock, and finding her alone I asked if Cynthia were not coming to dinner.

“Yes, indeed she is,” answered Cecilly, “and what do you think? Mr. Marriott has invited himself also!”

“Oh, Cecilly,” I cried. “You must go at once and get some fish and some fruit,” but Cecilly interrupted me, saying—

“No, he stipulates that we make no change. He is coming to eat Cynthia’s cooking, and I promised him we would have nothing extra, except some coffee.”

Of course I brought out our best table linen and china, rubbed up our silver and glass, and with Aunt Jane’s lilies for decoration our dinner-table looked as nice as possible. Cecilly ran up the road to meet Jack to tell him the news as soon as she saw him, and we had to be quite determined not to be over-ruled, so anxious was he for various additions to our meal.

“Could you not run to Aunt Jane and ask her to lend us her maid,” he asked, but I insisted on no change being made.

“Mr. Marriott is coming to see how clever Cynthia is, and not to quiz us,” I replied, so Jack had to be content. The soup was a great success. We turned the Mulligatawny pie into an entrée, and added the jam tarts to the pudding course. Cecilly and Bob fetched and carried the dishes, though I slipped out during the cheese course to make the coffee for dessert.

We were a very merry party at dinner, and Cynthia had many congratulations from us all. Jack and Mr. Marriott were a long time before they joined us in the drawing-room, but when they came the evening was one of the pleasantest we had spent since dear father’s illness. Jack was so much more like his old self, and Mr. Marriott so positive of father’s recovery that every doubt and perplexity of life fled, and it seemed to me that all the pain of separation and the grave anxieties of the past were now fled for ever. Cecilly and the boys had gone up to bed while I waited for Jack to return from walking back with Cynthia and her father, and when he came in I saw at once he had good news for me.

“Oh, Kitty,” he cried, in his old boyish manner, “you can never guess what Mr. Marriott has said to me this evening. He said he always knew a good son would make a good husband, but that he felt his little girl would never make a good wife for a poor man. But, Kitty Mavourneen, he says you and Cecilly have shown her the way, and if, when she is twenty-one, I like to ask her to be my wife, he won’t send me away.”

I was obliged to run upstairs to call Cecilly to hear these good tidings, and Cecilly in her dressing-gown, with her hair streaming down her back, rushed down the stairs at a bound to hug Jack in a way she had not dared to do since he had grown “so cross and old.”

It was but a few weeks afterwards that we were welcoming father and mother back once more—father, older-looking certainly than before his illness, but no longer an invalid, while mother looked stronger and rosier than any of us could remember her. They were both surprised to find how well we could manage the housework, though father insisted on our keeping Beatrice Ethel all day to do the heaviest work.

“As soon as I am in work again,” he said, “we must find a strong servant once more,” and on our protesting he answered, “My darlings, you were perfectly right in doing without servants as you have done. Now there is really no necessity, and it is wiser for Cecilly to spend her time over her music, to enable her to teach others. You, dear Kitty, we will gladly spare to Mrs. Moore, knowing you can help her in her infirmity. This work you are both fitted to undertake, and you can then conscientiously leave the housework to those other girls, who, not having had the education God has permitted you to have, can only labour with their hands and hearts. Your experience will make you better mistresses, I am convinced. You will be more competent to teach and more sympathetic over failures and shortcomings, and will never in all your life regret that all these months you have managed without servants.”

VARIETIES.

SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE. — CHAPTER XX.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

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

THE STORM BREAKS.

“It is simply disgraceful. You have made yourself the talk of the hotel. I am ashamed that you belong to my party; and you shall go home on Monday in the mail. I will not have the responsibility any longer of a girl who has no sense of obedience or of the fitness of things. Back you shall go at once. Your uncle will telegraph, and somebody shall meet you at the other end. But stay here any longer to behave in this way you most certainly shall not!”

Sheila stood white-faced and almost terrified before her aunt. She was still in her riding-habit. She had come in so happily from her scramble with Ronald down by the shore; and with never a misgiving had run upstairs and entered the sitting-room before going to dress for dinner.

There she found her aunt alone, waiting for her as it now seemed; and without warning the tempest had broken over her head. She scarcely knew even now of what she stood accused. It seemed as though every sin of every sort had been laid at her door. She could at first scarcely get at the gist of what her angry aunt could mean; but as Mrs. Cossart proceeded it gradually dawned upon Sheila that she was being accused of having carried on a bare-faced flirtation with Ronald Dumaresq, and of having made herself the talk of the hotel in so doing.

It was like a stinging blow in the face to the sensitive girl. She was almost stunned by the rush of feeling that came over her. A few weeks ago she could have borne it better—she would have been more angry, but less overwhelmed with pain and shame.

The wakening womanhood within her made the accusation almost intolerable. The very looks and words which had passed between them that day seemed to rise up before her in a bewildering mist. Could it possibly be true what her aunt was saying? Had she been forward, unwomanly, fast? Had she made people remark upon her—got herself talked of as a flirt?—hateful title that Sheila recoiled from as from a blow. She had liked to be with Ronald, she had thought he liked being with her. But her aunt had said it was she who was always entrapping him—those were the very words. Oh, how cruel, how cruel and unjust! But it was not true, no, it was not! Only if such things were being said, she could never, never, never see Ronald again all her life!

A wave of sudden desolation seemed to sweep over Sheila. A rush of hot tears flooded her eyes. She burst into sobs and flung herself down on the sofa, crying—

“Oh, how can you say such cruel things? How can you?”

“I say them for your good—because they are true,” answered Mrs. Cossart, her anger in no way appeased by the sight of Sheila’s grief; “and there is the less excuse for you, because you have always had Effie’s example before you. You will never find her lowering herself by running after young men as you have been doing; and I tell you, Sheila, that nothing so disgusts those very young men as seeing girls do this. They humour them at the time for their amusement, and because their vanity is flattered; but in the end they despise them. Mr. Dumaresq has been very kind to you, but he must know perfectly well that you are trying to get him for a husband.”

Sheila suddenly started up, her face suddenly grown white.

“Aunt Cossart, you shall not say that again! I will not bear it from you. Yes, I will go away. I would not stay after this. Where is my uncle? Let me talk to him, but please do not say another word. I cannot bear it!”

There was something in the girl’s sudden change of manner that half frightened Mrs. Cossart. She did not particularly want Sheila and her uncle to meet just now.

“Your uncle has gone downstairs,” she answered uneasily, “you can see him after dinner.”

“I shall not go down to dinner,” said Sheila, putting up her hand to her head in a dazed way. “My head aches. I shall go to bed. If I am going away on Monday, I think I won’t come down to meals any more.”

“Well, I think you had better go to bed,” said Mrs. Cossart. “You have had a tiring day, and you don’t look yourself. I don’t mean to be unkind, Sheila, but you have no mother, and it is my duty to speak plainly sometimes.”

“Then I am sure you have done your duty, Aunt Cossart,” said Sheila, giving one direct look at her aunt, and then the wave of bitterness surged over her once more. The tears rushed to her eyes; she felt as though she were choking, and in a blind sort of way she darted from the room, dashed into the one she shared with Effie, and flinging herself upon her bed broke into wild weeping.

Effie had just finished her toilet, her face was rather flushed, and she looked uncomfortable and displeased. The maid was putting the room to rights, and cast a compassionate glance at the prone figure on the bed. She had received orders to pack up Sheila’s things in readiness for the mail on Monday, and as this was Saturday evening and no word had been spoken previously of such a thing, she divined that there had been a “row.” Probably she had a shrewd guess as to the cause, but of course she made no remark, finished her task and went away.

Effie came and stood by Sheila.

“Don’t cry so,” she said. “It’s a pity it has happened, but nobody will remember anything about it when you are gone. The Barretts are going in the mail on Monday. They will take care of you, and be pleased to have you. You always get on with people. And it’s better to go than to have bothers all the time.”

Effie was half glad, half sorry to be rid of Sheila. In a way she was fond of her cousin, but she had become rather jealous of her too. And then her foolish mother had fostered in her the belief that Ronald Dumaresq would certainly pay his addresses to her if only Sheila would let him alone, and not be perpetually attracting him off to herself. Effie had been taken by Ronald from the first, and was flattered at being told of his preference. She had begun to fancy herself more or less in love with him, as girls with nothing better to think about are rather disposed to do. She liked to picture herself the mistress of an establishment, with a handsome young husband to take her about. If it were true that Ronald admired her, it was a thousand pities he should not have a fair field. Effie did not pause to consider that he had an excellent opportunity as it was for prosecuting his wooing, and that if he let himself be turned from his purpose by Sheila’s “machinations”—as her mother called it—his love could not be very deep or true. She was accustomed to be led by her mother’s opinions; and she had become very jealous of the way in which people “took up” Sheila, and left her out in the cold.

As Sheila made no answer, Effie moved away, and joining her mother in the next room remarked—

“You have upset her very much, but I suppose she will get over it. I think she won’t come down to-night, her face will be all red and swollen. What shall we say to people? Shall you tell them she is going to be sent home?”

Mrs. Cossart looked a little taken aback. She had overlooked the fact that some explanation would have to be given of this exceedingly sudden arrangement. She looked at her daughter, and then said slowly—

“Well, we won’t say anything to-night, only that Sheila has a headache and cannot come down. You will have a chance of talking to Mr. Dumaresq at table now, Effie. I am quite tired of the sound of Sheila’s laugh, and her way of getting his notice all for herself.”

But Effie found Ronald rather abstracted, and she did not make much way with him. After he heard that Sheila was not coming down he seemed to go off into a brown study; and it was only when Mr. Cossart suddenly seemed to drop a bomb in their midst that he took note of what was passing.

“Yes, she is to go home on Monday, my wife has decided,” Mr. Cossart remarked to Miss Adene, all unconscious of his wife’s warning looks. “We brought her out for a little holiday and amusement; and now she will go back home to another uncle of hers. Oh, yes, we shall all miss her. She is a merry little puss. But we think she has been here long enough. Mrs. Barrett has kindly promised to take care of her on the voyage home.”

Ronald’s eyes had fixed themselves upon Mr. Cossart’s face.

“Are you speaking of Miss Cholmondeley? Surely it has been arranged rather suddenly?”

“Well, we have talked of it often,” said Mrs. Cossart interposing. “Sheila only came out for a time, not for the whole season. It is the chance of sending her back with such a good escort that has settled the matter. She will be very happy with the Barretts. They have made such friends, she and the girls.”

“It is strange she said nothing all day, when we were making all sorts of plans for the future,” said Ronald; and both Mr. and Mrs. Cossart looked so uncomfortable that Lady Dumaresq changed the subject.

There was no walking up and down the corridor or verandah with Ronald that evening, for he followed his party direct into their private sitting-room at the end of the ground-floor passage, and appeared no more that night.

“What does it mean?” he asked, with a note of indignation in his voice.

Miss Adene and Lady Dumaresq exchanged glances. They had seen perfectly through the clumsy manœuvre. Their eyes had been observing the turn affairs were taking for some while. They were not altogether unprepared for some such development.

“Now, Ronald,” said Lady Dumaresq quietly, “it is no use your putting yourself into a fume and fret about this. It is very evident that Mrs. Cossart is jealous of Sheila, because she so entirely eclipses Effie. It is not a very surprising thing that it should be so. We must allow for a mother’s weakness. Perhaps you have yourself helped to bring about the crisis by a rather too visible admiration for the little girl. You were not quite wise to-day, for instance; and she is too much the child to be on her guard; and if people do talk——”

“Let them,” answered Ronald rather proudly. “I am not afraid of having my name coupled with that of the girl I intend to make my wife!”

They all smiled at him. They were all in sympathy with his bold declaration. Lady Dumaresq held out her hand, and Sir Guy laid an affectionate arm over his shoulder.

“So it has come to that, has it, Ronald? Well, I am glad to hear it. But a little patience will not hurt either of you; and you will know better after a separation whether she cares for you in the way you wish.”

“After a separation!” repeated Ronald rather blankly. “But I mean to come to an understanding before they send her away. I may even be able to stop it if she is my——”

But Lady Dumaresq laid a gentle hand upon his lips.

“Ronald,” she said, “that would not be wise. Indeed it would scarcely be fair and right to her.”

“What do you mean?” he questioned quickly.

“I mean that the question you have to ask Sheila is too solemn and serious a one to be put when she is in a mist of bewilderment, sorrow, and indignation, which is sure to be the case. You would come to her then as a sort of champion and deliverer, and she would very likely accept you in that impulse of gratitude, whether or no her heart be deeply stirred. Do not win her in that impetuous way, Ronald. It will not hurt either of you to bear the yoke for awhile—to learn what patience has to teach. Her character will develop in the school of life’s discipline, as it has not done when all has been sunshine. Let her go now, Ronald. Prove your own heart first, then if you find it unchanged, seek her out later, and win her if you can. Believe me, it will be best so. I do not know what has passed between Sheila and her aunt, but whatever it is, I would not have you seek an interview now.”

And indeed, had Ronald desired it, it is doubtful if he could have obtained sight of Sheila. She remained in bed most of Sunday with a violent headache. Miss Adene and Lady Dumaresq stole up to see her, to whisper a few kind words and then retire. And when Monday came she was nothing but a little white-faced, woe-begone creature, so unlike the Sheila of the past weeks that her friends would scarcely have known her.

She would not say good-bye to anybody. She shrank from the thought of what they might have been told as to her sudden departure. Every nerve was tingling with pain, and shame, and misery.

The boat was in early, and whilst the rest of the people were at lunch, Sheila got her uncle to take her down to the quay and see her on board, for she felt she would sink into the ground if Ronald were to come out and see her, and say good-bye before the rest of the people.

“Well, I am thankful she went off so quietly,” said Mrs. Cossart, as they discussed the matter together before descending to dinner. “I was afraid there might be a scene, but there is no accounting for Sheila. She did not even want to say good-bye to the Dumaresq party, and if some of them hadn’t come up here, she would have gone off without even that. Girls are the queerest, most capricious creatures! Well, it’s all happily over; and, Effie, you will have Sheila’s place now at table, and nobody to interfere with you. Mr. Dumaresq——”

But Effie tossed her head rather defiantly. She had not got much change out of Mr. Dumaresq these last few table d’hôte meals.

“I don’t care for Mr. Dumaresq so mighty much. I’m not going to put myself out of the way for him. I don’t think I care so particularly for fashionable young men. I don’t mind him, but I’m not going to put myself out of the way just to amuse him. I think he’s very dull sometimes. I don’t know what you all see in him to make such a fuss!”

Mrs. Cossart rather felt as though she had taken an infinity of trouble for a chimera of her own brain, and when she reached the dining-room her jaw almost dropped. She had pictured the amalgamation which would take place between Effie and the Dumaresqs now that Sheila had gone; but what did she see?

The whole Dumaresq party had moved bodily to the side table, hitherto occupied by the Barretts, who had left to-day. Some new arrivals from the Cape had been given the seats next to the Cossarts—loud-voiced colonials with rather bad manners, who talked amongst themselves and seemed not to desire the acquaintance of their neighbours.

Mrs. Cossart sat in dismayed silence through the meal, and when she went into the drawing-room afterwards, she fancied that all the people looked coldly at her. Nobody spoke either to her or to Effie, and they soon retired to their own rooms.

Was this a sample of what would result from her laborious attempt to promote her daughter’s popularity?

(To be continued.)

THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN. — MENU FOR SEPTEMBER.

By LA MÉNAGERE.

September, the hunter’s moon, brings us such an abundance in our markets that it is difficult to say just what is peculiar to the month. Undoubtedly the most prominent feature is moor game, and now is the time when even moderate purses may safely indulge in this. Hares, rabbits, grouse, partridges, and wild duck give an excellent choice, and poultry also is prime and not dear.

Fresh-water fish come in this month, and are often most useful to country hostesses, as well as affording sport to her guests. The orchards are laden now with fast-ripening fruit, and if this harvest is a fairly plentiful one we may indeed be glad. Nuts will find an excuse for many delightful nutting parties among the children, and the storing of fruits and vegetables from the garden will keep the housekeeper busy. Damsons should be plentiful towards the end of this month, and will want making into jam and cheese, and we expect also to gather blackberries—another excuse for picnicking—nor must we leave mushrooms out of the list. Indeed, September is the harvest-month in many senses, for we have the wild crops ready for garnering, as well as the cultivated ones of garden and field.

The poorest country-dweller may make a profit now who has the wit and the energy to seek for nature’s bounty, as these wild things invariably meet with a ready sale in towns.

Besides these we have other things provided by a bountiful providence which we ought to appreciate better than we do. See the glorious colouring that the leaves of the hedgerow trees take on; note the rushes swaying in the brook, the berries of the mountain-ash, as well as of the dog-rose; all these are profitable to town florists, who will generally pay a fair price for such things. To the home decorator all these are very valuable—or will be in the days that will come all too soon, when no flowers are to be had for the table. If slightly dried and brushed over with a very weak solution of gum arabic, then dried again, these will keep for a long time without losing their colour. Some of the very prettiest table decorations ever seen have been made with coloured leaves and berries. For tall jars in the corners of rooms, purple thistles, white honesty, brown bulrushes, copper beech boughs, and scarlet ash-berries combined, make a truly lovely show.

In the garden we have dahlias and sunflowers defying the wane that seems to make everything else look dreary, and by and by we shall have chrysanthemums in all their brave glory to brighten house and greenhouse. What a glory do these give to the last days of the dying year.

But the year is far from ending in September; we have many things yet to enjoy, and possibly many guests to entertain, and always much to see to, as prudent housewives.

A plentiful crop of wild mushrooms proves a great help to us now, and we are glad to remind ourselves of different ways of using them. For instance, with bacon or eggs at breakfast, au gratin at dinner, on toast at all times, they are acceptable. With field mushrooms we have need to be very careful lest we inadvertently give ourselves some that are poisonous and unfit for food. Dr. Badham, author of the Esculent Funguses of England, enumerates no less than forty-eight species of edible fungi, all of which are good to eat. According to him the majority of fungi are harmless, but his account of the effects of the poisonous minority is enough to alarm the most trustful.

The easiest way to detect whether fungi are wholesome or not is to insert a silver spoon into the stew in which they are present, and if poisonous it will quickly turn black; a peeled onion will also turn blue or bluish-black, and is an even easier test. If either of these on being withdrawn shows their own natural colour, the mushrooms may be regarded as harmless.

Mushroom ketchup is regarded by all housewives as one of the treasures of the store-cupboard, and that which is home-made is generally better than any that can be bought.

It is best when made of the large flap mushrooms, fresh, but fully ripe. They must be gathered during very dry weather, if the ketchup is to keep properly. Do not wash or peel them but wipe them clean, and remove all decayed pieces and part of the stalks. Put them into a gallon stone jar, and strew salt liberally over them. Let them remain a night, and the next day stir them up, and repeat this for two or three days. At the end of the third day put the jar into the oven and let them stew a short time, then gently pour off the liquid, but do not squeeze them at all. To every quart put an ounce of Jamaica and black peppercorns, two or three pieces of rase ginger, and a blade of mace. Boil again for perhaps half an hour, let it stand aside until cold, then put into dry bottles, and cork it up tightly. It is well to use small bottles, so that when one has been opened it may be used up before it has time to lose its virtues.

• Rabbit Pie.
• Cold Roast Goose.
• Salmi of Partridges (hot).
• Fillets of Beef with Mushrooms (also hot).
• Cold Pressed Beef.
• Potato, Beetroot, Tomato and Endive Salads.
• Hot Potatoes.
• Quince Jelly. Damson Cheese.
• Apple and Blackberry Tart. Cream.
• Cheddar and Gorgonzola Cheese.
• Oatcake and Butter.

Our menu this month might be one suited for a luncheon party, where the chief dishes would be required cold, with two or three hot ones as a set-off, and all others placed on the table at the same time. Luncheon parties are generally very common during this month in the country, and the guests who come to partake of them are not noted for their small appetites.

Salmi of Partridges.—Put the birds into the oven as for roasting, and partially cook them. When about half done cut them into neat pieces, and remove the skin and sinews, and place them in a clean saucepan. In another pan put a quarter of a pound of uncooked ham minced finely, with a good piece of butter; add a dozen small mushrooms, three or four minced shallots, a grated carrot, a spoonful of chopped parsley, a few sprigs of savoury herbs and some pepper and salt. Cover closely and let them cook on the top of the stove, shaking the pan to prevent burning; when cooked dredge a little flour over them, let it brown a little, and pour in about a pint of good brown stock. Add also a glassful of sherry. Stir until the gravy has thickened nicely, then put in the pieces of the birds, and let them slowly simmer, but not boil, for at least half an hour. Dish the game in a pile on a hot dish, strain the sauce, and see that it is well seasoned and of a nice brown colour, then pour over all. Garnish with fried sippets of bread.

Fillets of Beef with Mushrooms.—These should be cut from the undercut or fillet of beef, and be neatly shaped. Fry them quickly on both sides, but only enough to slightly brown them, then place in a stewpan and cover with peeled mushrooms, one or two shallots, some pepper and a glassful of red wine with also a small lump of butter. Stew these for quite an hour in a rather slow oven, then lift out the meat and the mushrooms, and thicken the gravy with fécule, also add salt and a tablespoonful of sharp sauce, then pour boiling hot over the dish.

Quince Jelly and Damson Cheese are both preserves that should be found in readiness in the store cupboard. For the first, take a quart of quince juice obtained by boiling the fruit with a very little water and then straining it through a bag; add a pound of lump sugar to every quart, and then an ounce of gum arabic previously soaked in water. Boil well for quite half an hour, then put into moulds.

Damson Cheese.—Put several pounds of freshly-gathered damsons into a stone jar with a very little water. Stand this on the top of the stove to stew gently for some hours, or until the fruit is perfectly soft. While still warm turn out the damsons into a wide-meshed sieve or colander, rub until nothing but skins and stones are left. Put half a pound of loaf sugar to every pound of pulp, and boil together into a stiff paste. Some of the stones should be cracked and the kernels taken out, as these give a very pleasant flavour to the cheese. Put into shallow dishes or moulds, and cover with brandied papers. This cheese is usually cut into fancy shapes and put into glass dishes to serve at dessert.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. — STUDY AND STUDIO. — INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE. — GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS. — MISCELLANEOUS.

Irene Foy, 32, Osborne Terrace, Clapham Road, wishes to sell “Onyx” a Greek grammar, written by Irene’s father in English and Greek. Will “Onyx” please write?

Lem.—You will find the poem from which you quote an extract in Ezekiel and Other Poems, by B. M. (Nelson and Sons). It is there entitled “The Sea of Sorrow.”

Constance.—1. “Auf Wiedersehn,” means “till we meet again,” like the French “Au revoir.”—2. We always recommend Dr. Lemmi’s Italian Grammar, published at 5s. by Messrs. Oliver & Boyd, Edinburgh; and Messrs. Simpkin, Marshall & Co., London. It is quite simple enough to be studied alone.

Soror.—We are sorry you have had to wait so long for a reply, but owing to the time at which we go to press, we cannot promise an answer speedily.

Nurse Petra.—The Jugend-Gartenlaube, 5s. a year, might suit you; but we advise you to write for a full list of German periodicals to Hachette & Co., 18, King William Street, Charing Cross, London.

F. E. Bartram.—Books on entomology appear rather costly; but you might begin with British Butterflies, Moths and Beetles, by W. F. Kirby, published at 1s.; or Sir John Lubbock’s Origin and Metamorphoses of Insects, 3s. 6d. Order at any bookseller’s.

Nydia.—It is not wonderful that a “first attempt,” especially as you have “never learnt how to set down music,” and are only sixteen, should be full of mistakes, too many to specify. It is absolutely impossible for you to hope to succeed without seriously studying the rules of harmony. At the same time we should judge from your pleasant and modest letter that such study would be by no means thrown away.

A correspondent directs our attention to the fact that “foolscap,” concerning which a question was lately answered in “Study and Studio,” is a corruption of the Italian foglio-capo, a folio-sized sheet. The error is an ancient one, for from the thirteenth to the seventeenth century the water mark of this size paper was a fool’s head with cap and bells.

B. E. M.—1. We are constantly mentioning Reading Societies in this column. Try the National Home Reading Union, Surrey House, Victoria Embankment, London, or write to Mrs. Walker, Litlington Rectory, Berwick, Sussex.—2. Do not try or wish to “become pale.” Sufficient exercise, and strict attention to clothing and diet, are the best cure for a faulty circulation.

A Lincolnshire Girl.—1. The lines you quote,

“Howe’er it be, it seems to me

’Tis only noble to be good,”

are certainly by Tennyson, from the poem “Lady Clara Vere de Vere.”—2. The allusion,

“Her who clasped in her last trance

Her murdered father’s head,”

is to Margaret Roper, the daughter of Sir Thomas More. This devoted daughter obtained possession of her father’s head after his execution, kept it in a leaden casket, and left directions that it should be buried with her. For the whole story, see The Girl’s Own Paper for February, 1898, where we answered the question at length.

Bluebottle.—The reference you quote is probably Professor E. Curtius, a distinguished German authority on etymology.

A. N. D.—1. The lines (which you misquote) are as follows—

“Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us

To see oursel’s as others see us!

It wad frae monie a blunder free us

And foolish notion.”

They are by Robert Burns, and you will find them in any edition of his poems.—2. Write to the office of The Boy’s Own Paper, in which magazine “The Bishop and the Caterpiller” first appeared.

Florence is very sorry, but circumstances have occurred which unfortunately prevent her from opening a correspondence with a little girl reader of the “G. O. P.” as she wished. Among the many readers of our paper, perhaps someone else will kindly volunteer.

“Madge,” who lives in the country, and works with her hands, would very much like to correspond with “Nellie,” so would Robina J. Gibson, Ferneycleuch, Lochmaben, Dumfriesshire (a farmer’s daughter), and B. E. M., The Rectory, Barnow, Co. Wexford.

M. D. Lewis, Sabia, near Smyrna, Asia Minor, would be very glad to write to any of our readers who would like to hear a little about the remote and uncivilised region where she lives, and the curious superstitions and customs that prevail. She adds, “If any of your readers wish to correspond with me in Greek, I shall be very much pleased.”

Miss Frances White, Yaverland Manor, Brading, Isle of Wight, would be pleased to exchange stamps with girls living abroad; she would send twenty British stamps in exchange for the same number of the nationality of her correspondent.

Maud M. Baughan, Vernon Villa, James Street, Oxford, would like to correspond in English with Miss Ruby Tizarel and Miss Nelly Pollak. As Miss Baughan is a teacher, she would also like to correspond with any teachers across the sea.

Miss R. M. Cooke, Oxford Villa, Gordon Road, Southend-on-Sea, wishes to correspond with some girls of her own age (20) living abroad. She is an enthusiastic collector of view post-cards, and would like to exchange English cards for those of other countries.

Will O Mimosa San exchange illustrated post-cards with Madame Gaston Cantin, Rue de Saujon, La Tremblade, Charente Inférieure, France, whom we thank for her pleasant words, describing the delight of her correspondence with an English reader of the “G. O. P.”

“Bertram,” a girl fond of out-door exercise, would like to correspond with a French girl about sixteen years of age.

Miss Sofie Abelsberg, Budapesth, Hungary (11, Nagy János Street), wishes for a well-educated English or American girl correspondent of her own age (18) who would write in German or English, Miss Abelsberg in English.

Florida would like to correspond with a Spanish, Dutch, Norwegian, Swedish or Russian girl of good family about 20 years of age. She would help them in English if they would help her in their languages. Will any girls of these nationalities send addresses here?

A Farmer’s Daughter (Choice of Employment).—Are there not rather many kinds of work which you dislike? You “would not think of entering into domestic service at all.” You “would not care for shop business either.” You think, however, that you might like to act as a clerk, or a lady’s companion. Now, we are obliged to tell you that companions are very little wanted, and that clerks, if they are to receive moderately good salaries, must be well educated. You tell us, however, that your parents would not be disposed to spend anything further on your education or training. This makes the position somewhat difficult. It compels you to regard home as your school. But there are many useful things that a girl can learn on a farm. You might learn dairy-work thoroughly and earn something by the sale of butter. Later, if you could master the newest methods, from studying the appliances used by your most successful farming friends, you could seek a position as superintendent of some gentleman’s private dairy. People who can make butter and cheese well never go a-begging. Then you should also study the best and most remunerative methods of rearing poultry and of marketing eggs. Something, even, might be earned from your garden, if you have one, and the soil is favourable for bulbs—as in many parts of Ireland it is. The secret of comfort in farmers’ households is for the family to remain together, and for each member—father and mother, sons and daughters, to contribute their share of work. But where families break up, the trouble comes, for each person then wants a separate house, and consequently larger earnings.

Twentieth Volume (Art Teachership).—Your friends have unfortunately been only too well acquainted with the facts, when they told you that it would be extremely difficult to obtain a situation as teacher of art in a school. Drawing is taught in a good many girls’ schools, but by no means in all. The head-mistresses of many High Schools are disposed to give most of the time allowed to general English subjects and languages, which count in examinations, and to leave girls of artistic tastes to study drawing later at a regular school of art. Evidently you draw well, or you could not have obtained so much success in the South Kensington examinations. But the question arises, can you not earn something by your own drawings? Could you not draw illustrations for stories, or make designs for some commercial or advertising purpose? In all directions of this kind there is much work to be done and money to be earned. Or have you thought of trying some handicraft such as lace-making, silk-weaving, or cane basket-making? Perhaps, as you live in the Midlands, you could some day visit the Birmingham Municipal School of Arts and Crafts and observe the many kinds of beautiful work done by girls there. Such a visit might give you useful ideas. In chromo-lithography, too, there is constantly a demand for good designs. There are some large chromo-lithographic firms in Birmingham. The other matter you speak of is not one in which we can help directly, but you might make the cottage known to the railway authorities so that they could include it in the lists of country lodgings which they publish.

F. W. G. (Hospital Nurse).—You would not be required to know much arithmetic in order to be admitted to a hospital; but at the same time you ought to know something of the subject, otherwise your notions of the portions of drugs to administer, and other such matters in which an accurate mind is essential, will be very hazy. During the period which must yet elapse before your admission you had better be trying to improve your arithmetic. Your writing, about which you ask our opinion, is sufficiently legible and clear, but it would be improved with practice. There is a slight disposition to make the letters slope too much.

Independence (Nurse-Companion, etc.).—A nurse-companion is usually expected to have been trained at a hospital. The training need not have been sufficient to qualify a woman for regular hospital employment, but it ought to have covered a period of six months at all events. You do not mention that you have been in any hospital, and we therefore think you had better give up the idea of becoming a nurse-companion. Perhaps, as music appears to be your best accomplishment, you would do most wisely to seek employment as nursery governess. Your general education we judge by your letter to be fairly good. But try to improve yourself by every means within your power, as you cannot long remain a nursery governess; and you must either advance so as to become a fully qualified governess, when you are older, or devote your attention to the practical duties of looking after young children. In the latter case you would, of course, term yourself a children’s nurse. It is possible that you might be well advised to advertise yourself as a children’s nurse from the first, seeking a subordinate position to begin with, in order to gain experience. Your handwriting is satisfactory.

A Clydesdale Lassie (Hospital Nursing).—Paying probationers are received commonly for a period of three months at a time, for which thirteen guineas is paid in advance. You could not enter a general hospital on these terms just at present. Twenty-two is customarily the lowest age for admission.

Wee Wifie (Fancy Work).—It is almost impossible to obtain a sale for fancy articles which are only made at home and in small quantities. Little novelties which can be produced cheaply and in large numbers may often be sold direct to wholesale and retail dealers in bazaar and fancy articles. We should recommend a lady who must live at home either to do work on these lines and treat her home as a small manufactory, or else devote her time to the making of fine underclothing, which she could sell to the drapers and outfitters. Shops where embroidery is sold usually keep their own workers on the premises, for the simple reason that orders have to be executed promptly and in exact obedience to the demand of the moment. It is not possible for work of this kind to be sent to workers who can only be reached by correspondence.

Fruit Farmer.—No, strawberries are not indigenous to England, according to Haydn, in his Dictionary of Dates, where he says that they were brought to this country from Flanders in 1530. Against this date, we refer to Shakespeare’s Richard III., in which we find them spoken of as growing in the Bishop of Ely’s garden in Holborn, which shows it was cultivated as early as the latter part of the fifteenth century. A hundred years subsequently four kinds of this fruit were cultivated in the garden of a barber-surgeon, Gerard by name, also in Holborn.

Deaf.—Had you not better consult some missionary, or the friend whom you have out in China, so as to find out what the children in China may be likely to want? Have you seen the small scrap-books made of old post-cards, or of cards the same size, and tied together at the side, so as to form a small long book? Pictures are pasted on the back and front of each card. Perhaps you could make these; but we think you will do well to inquire about it.

W. M. B. D., Heather, Lauria, etc.—We have seen several copies of this snow-ball letter from New South Wales. The addresses in each are rather different, and we, like you, cannot imagine what the philanthropist wants with so many stamps, nor do we understand why the Government should give an endorsement. We should let it alone, and return the letters. The address seems insufficient, and we have failed to find any one of the places mentioned in the most recent Gazetteer. These philanthropic people who require a million of stamps are often difficult to find; and they might as well give the money at once.

C. Brown.—To fix prints upon wood, and remove the paper, care must be taken that the surface of the latter be perfectly smooth. Then moisten a piece of thick drawing-paper, and apply a layer of thin glue on its surface; leave it to dry; give it two or three more coats, leaving each to dry separately. Coat the paper then with several layers of spirit varnish, and prepare the wood in the same way; and then apply the print. We should have said that the wood must be previously prepared by a slight coat of glue, and when dry, rubbed with glass-paper, and a white alcoholic varnish applied. When dry, about five or six more coats of the same will be required. Cut the edge of the print closely round, lay it on a table face downwards, and moisten the back with a wet sponge, and then place between two leaves of blotting-paper. Apply another coat of varnish to the wood, and, before it is dry, lay the face of the print down upon it, wiping the back in such a way as to drive out the air so as to form no blisters. Lay a sheet of dry paper upon it, and pass a soft linen cloth over it to press it firmly down. Then leave it to dry, and when thoroughly so, moisten it with a sponge, and roll off the paper with your fingers. Great care must be taken in this process not to remove any part of the paper upon which the impression is taken. After this rubbing it must be left to dry. When dry, one more coat of varnish must be given over the delicate film of paper left, and it will be left perfectly transparent. When quite dry, polish with Dutch rushes, steeped for three or four days in olive oil, which latter must be removed with a fine linen cloth, and then sprinkle with starch or hair-powder. Rub this off with the hand, and apply three or four more coats of varnish, leaving each to dry as before, and in three or four days polish with a fine woollen cloth with whiting of the finest kind.

Mercy B.—The names of the hospitals for which you ask are as follows:—Newcastle Hospital, Hull Royal Infirmary, Leeds General Infirmary, Leeds Fever Hospital, and Lincoln County Hospital. For the last-named, over four hundred applications are refused yearly, and about fourteen are accepted. Address the matron in all cases. We could not give any idea of the time you would have to wait, of course.

Unhappy Maude.—We think you will be really unhappy if you do not take your father’s and brother’s advice, and give up a foolish attachment. Do you think that any man who drinks could love you dearly and devotedly? Would he not love drink far better? Gather all your strength together and go away for a change, and try to turn your thoughts to some other subject. If you managed to break off with your lover once, you can do so again, and at twenty-one you will soon forget.

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THE LAUNDRY, BATTERSEA POLYTECHNIC.

THE COOKERY SCHOOL, POLYTECHNIC. STUDENTS AT WORK.

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[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 750: flower to flour—“dredge a little flour”.]