The Girl’s Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1030

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

DESIRE FULFILLED.

The great joy grew more credible when all its story was told.

The glad tidings had been brought in by an Atlantic liner. It appeared that when the Slains Castle had got well over half of her Pacific voyage, she had encountered a great storm, and had foundered upon the reefs among a small group of islands, all her boats being lost or destroyed. The captain, disabled, with his crew and the solitary passenger, had however managed to land on one of the larger islands, whose simple natives received them kindly, and put them into the way of subsisting after their own fashion. There they had lived, roughly and hardly indeed, and cut off from all communication with home, or with civilisation, upheld only by the hope that some ship, in some way diverted from its course, might eventually discover them and take them off. Instead of such a ship, however, their party was reinforced by a solitary white man, who made his way to them from his own refuge on one of the smaller islands. How had he got there? they asked eagerly. He told them the truth: he was “a bad character”—a man who had done desperate deeds of many sorts, and he was there because he was “a castaway” from an American ship—he could scarcely tell whether by accident or design. He seemed to think the latter the most likely and the most natural alternative in his case. Hunger and solitude on a bare rock in the wide ocean, had somewhat tamed him, and the consciousness of a common fate soon absorbed him into the little brotherhood of the Slains Castle.

He had been with them some months when some of the party secured a half-broken empty open boat, which seemed to have been washed off from a passing schooner. This they patched up, and then they began to think whether some of them might not make one last dash for the release of themselves and the rest. The “castaway” was quite ready to take to the sea again; he did not seem to know fear, or he believed he held a charmed life. He was an expert seaman, and of really powerful physique. Another must go with him, and another only. The captain’s arm being still disabled, the man selected as fittest for the expedition was the first mate. Despite all dangers their wild voyage was safely accomplished; a civilised port was reached, and a little steamer was at once despatched to the island to bring off the rest of the shipwrecked party. The ship owners had determined not to be premature in giving this good news. They had waited till every report was verified. Now, any hour might bring telegrams from Captain Grant and Charlie that they were safe on American soil, and hastening across the continent to take their Atlantic passage home.[1]

Of course there was wild and glad excitement in the little house with the verandah. But Lucy’s own joy was still and solemn. The others thought her very strong and calm. But she knew that she often asked herself whether she were waking or dreaming? She knew that she realised anew the distance and the dangers between herself and her beloved. After the glad telegram duly arrived and she knew the very name of the Atlantic liner on which Charlie was speeding towards her, a clouded sky or a rising wind would suffice to make her tremble! Ah, she had learned

and the next lesson of her life was to be the bringing-down of that mountain-top vision of serenity and security, and the possessing of it still among the mists and twists of the level lands. She had learned that love is eternal, that love is safe when out of sight—now she had to learn that time is only a part of Eternity, and that what is safe out of our reach, cannot be in danger while it is within it.

She thought often in those days of Mary and Martha, the sisters of Lazarus. They, too, like her, had been through the bitterness of death. Was it henceforth abolished for them, so that they could say, “O grave, where is thy victory? O death, where is thy sting?” Or did the impression wear off their souls, so that they had to live through all their grief again?

She went on, wondering. When we are told that in the mysterious future there “is to be no more sea,” we feel that the language is only used as a powerful image, to show us that there shall be no more danger, no more parting. But after all, what are danger and parting, but for their fear and pain? Is it not really those that “shall be no more”? It seemed to Lucy that haply in the highest ministries of life’s immortal service the paths of those who would be “about their Father’s business” must still sometimes swerve from one another. If “no more sea” was a symbol of no more danger, and no more parting, did not that in turn mean an abiding sense that all is secure, a present consciousness that all parting involves joyful reunion? Then if our souls, still clad in mortal weakness, can but attain to this “perfect love which casts out fear,” should we not be in Heaven’s peace already?

Lucy resolved to go to Liverpool to meet the steamer which had Charlie on board. She resolved to go alone. For the first time since his father went away she would leave Hugh, assured now that he was surrounded by wise kindness. She longed for absolute silence and solitude on her journey to this reunion, well nigh as sacred and solemn as those generally guarded by the secrecy of death.

She preferred to go without any “seeing off.” Those in her home, those who loved her best, probed her feeling on this head, and yielded to it. They parted from her on her own threshold.

“We will come to meet you both when you return,” they said.

---

Husband and wife met. It was in a crowd of strangers, and nobody there took particular notice of the brown, lean, sinewy man, who clasped a silvery-haired young woman in his arms. Then they held each other apart for one moment, and gazed at each other, noting all that was gone—all that was changed, and all—ay, all!—that remained for ever!

As for the conversation—the questions, the answers, the narrations—that interrupted the rapt silences of this single day reserved for themselves only, what was it but simply the story which has been already told?

“They will be all at home to receive us,” Lucy said, as, her hand clasped in her husband’s, she told of the loyal friendships which had closed around her terrible waiting-time. “They are all still there, just as they have been. The house may be small for us all, yet I felt sure this would be your wish.”

“You knew your husband,” said Charlie, “and if our friends will stay, they shall stay as we are—for another year. By that time we shall have got our lives into their regular grooves again—and then, maybe, we shall all move together into a larger house. As it is God’s will that the solitary shall be set in families, Lucy, surely it is never more so than when the solitary have upheld the family.”

(To be concluded.)

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A TRUE STORY OF NEW YORK LIFE.

By N. O. LORIMER.

hen the hard frost had broken, and the streets were full of slush and melting snow, Ada had to spend her five cents going in the Fifth Avenue stage-coach to and from her business, for, even with rubbers on, she had got her feet so wet and her skirts so destroyed that she found that it was in the end cheaper to drive than to walk. The children, too, had found it necessary to drive to school. Marjory had been very troublesome of late; she had been grumbling and repining at her restricted life, saying that she would rather make friends with the girls whom Ada considered vulgar and beneath her, than have such a dull, cheerless time. Ada had noticed that her eccentric old man had not been in the stage-coach for some time past, and she wondered what had become of him. She was sitting waiting for the boarding-house dinner-bell to ring (in the public sitting-room), when the fat lady, who took such an inquisitive interest in her and her little sisters, came in.

“Well, Ada Nicoli,” she said in her rough friendly way, “don’t you wish you were the young lady.”

“What young lady?” said Ada.

The fat lady put the New York Herald down on Ada’s lap.

“Read it,” she said. “It’s the maddest thing you ever heard. The crazy old man whom you’ve often seen in the Fifth Avenue stage-coach, and who ate his bit of bread and cheese every day on the public seat in Madison Square, and looked as poor as any tramp, died a week ago.”

“Oh,” said Ada regretfully; “is he dead?”

She had grown to look upon him as one of her friends in the big cruel city, and now he had gone too.

“Yes, he’s dead,” the fat woman said emphatically; “and he’s left a mighty pile of dollars behind him. He used to stint himself of house-fuel, and go to bed whenever he got home from business on a winter’s day to save light, and wore clothes a coloured man wouldn’t give to his father. What’s the use of saving like that if you’re going to leave all your fortune to a total stranger.”

“Poor old man,” the girl said; “he was really rather mad, but somehow I liked him; he seemed to belong more to the last century than to this.”

“Well, it appears he’s left every dollar he’s got to some girl that he thought deserved some money, a milliner’s girl, the papers say, who once saved his life in a snowstorm or something like that.”

Ada read the long and highly-dramatic account of the old man’s curious will.

“Yes, I wish I were the girl,” she said; “but I fear there’s no fairy prince in disguise watching my poor trivial round and common task. But just fancy, a girl earning her own living suddenly to find herself an heiress!”

The boarding-house bell sounded, and the hungry children came bounding down to dinner.

“Ada,” whispered Marjory at table, “a man came to see you this morning, and I said you were out. He asked me a lot of questions, and I answered before I remembered that perhaps you would rather I didn’t.”

“What sort of questions?” Ada said smiling, and hoping that at last they were going to receive news of their father.

“Where you worked, and how you went to work, and if we were your only sisters. He was quite a nice sort of man.”

“A gentleman, I think,” Sadie said with a great air of worldly wisdom. “He said he would call again after dinner to-night.”

“Did he not tell you what he wanted,” Ada asked.

“No,” Marjory said, “and it was only after he had gone that we found out how much we had told him, all about mother, and everything. Do you mind, Ada?”

“No,” Ada replied; “but try in future, Marjory, to remember that you are getting too big a girl to talk to strange gentlemen in that confidential way.”

---

After dinner that night the Irish servant toiled up to the top of the high house to tell Ada Nicoli that there was a strange gentleman waiting to see her down below.

“And sure and I can’t think why you want to come up to this attic in the evenin’, instead of joining with the company in the parlour. It would save my poor legs toiling up to tell you when your friends arrive.”

“It’s the first time anyone has come to see me, Bridget,” Ada answered, “and I like having the children with me in the evening.”

Ada might more truthfully have remarked that she did not wish her little sisters to enjoy the company of the young business men who frequented the boarding-house parlour in the evening.

When she entered the parlour, a keen-looking elderly man rose from his seat and bowed to her. “Have I the pleasure of addressing Miss Ada Nicoli?”

Ada bowed.

“I am Mr. Riggs.” He looked round the room. “Have you any place where I could talk to you in private, ma’am?”

Ada grew nervous from fear of some bad news, but she had learnt to control her feelings before the curious eyes of the boarders.

“I have no private sitting-room,” she said, “but perhaps I might take you into the bureau.”

“Thank you, ma’am, I will not detain you long.” When they were seated in the bureau, which the lady of the house had willingly vacated on hearing Ada’s reason, he said, “I have come to tell you a piece of news which I think will greatly astonish you. I came here this morning and learnt the information from your little sisters which identifies you in my mind with the young lady I was seeking.”

Ada was turning from hot to cold and her hands were tightly clasped together.

“My dear young lady,” he continued, “I am Mr. Riggs of the firm of Jefferson Riggs & Co., lawyers, No. 10054, Broadway. Perhaps you have read in the papers of the death of an eccentric old gentleman who was a well-known figure in the Fifth stage-coach, and in Madison Square Gardens?”

Ada nodded her head. Her heart was beating too quickly to allow her brain to seize the points of the lawyer’s story.

“I was his lawyer,” he said, “and for many years transacted all his business matters, but I had no idea of his personal wealth. He had altered his will many times during the last few years, leaving his money first to one charitable institution and then to another; but in his last will, which he made as far back as eight months ago, he has left you his entire fortune.”

“Me?” Ada gasped. “Me? What do you mean? He didn’t even know my name.”

“Yes, he did. He found it out quite easily. Yes, my dear young lady. You will now be almost as wealthy as if your father had never failed.”

“Oh, stop a minute,” Ada cried, “till I can really understand it. Am I the milliner’s girl that was mentioned in the papers? Oh, I’m quite, quite certain you have made some mistake. Do have pity on me, sir; I have suffered so much,” and she put up her hand to her head and swayed a little backwards and forwards.

“Oh, please don’t faint, my dear young lady. I am no ladies’ man, and I don’t know what to do.”

“No, I will not faint,” replied Ada. “It is really wonderful what a girl can bear. But I hope you are not deceiving me.”

“I am quite sure I am not, if you are not deceiving me, and personating Ada Nicoli. I wish I could have broken it to you more gently; but I am no ladies’ man.”

“You have done it very kindly,” the girl said, with a great sob of joy in her throat, “only I wish the old man was alive, that I could thank him, and love him a little. He was very lonely, I think.”

“Yes, he was very lonely,” the lawyer said, “and it is strange what an impression you made upon him.”

“I don’t see how I could,” Ada replied simply. “I never did anything.”

“I think I can understand,” the lawyer said with a touch of gallantry which showed that he was not such a poor ladies’ man as he had asserted, bringing a pretty flush to her cheek.

After they had talked a few minutes, Ada said—

“May I call the children down to tell them?”

“Certainly,” the lawyer replied. “The affair is no secret.”

When Ada told the children that they were no longer poor, and that they need not live in the top attic-room in a boarding-house, they took the news more complacently than their sister had done.

“I’m glad we can go to a decent school,” Marjory said, little knowing how her words hurt Ada, who had worked her fingers to the bone to pay for her middle-class schooling.

“I wish we had been left a new poppa, instead of some money,” Sadie said regretfully. “If we’re rich again, you’ll drive about with mumma, I suppose, and we won’t have any fun. I like being poor.”

“And living in a hen-roost?” Ada asked laughingly.

Sadie had always called their low-roofed attic a hen-roost.

“Yes, ’cause I like sleeping with you better than with a cross nurse.”

The old lawyer got up. He had to take his spectacles off and rub them before he could see his way across the room.

“My dear young lady,” he said, “you have made their poverty so attractive that the old gentleman’s fortune is scarcely appreciated.”

“I must spend it very wisely,” the girl said, “as it was so carefully hoarded together. It is all so wonderful that I cannot believe it is true.”

“I should like the old man to have had the pleasure that has been mine in bringing you the good news,” the lawyer said, bowing himself out. “We shall have many business matters to discuss later on, but I will leave you now to enjoy the new good fortune with your sisters.” He came back and said rather nervously, “Remember, my dear, that you can draw on me for any ready money you may require. I will leave you a hundred dollars now just to pay for immediate expenses, and to-morrow you can have ten hundred more if you like.”

When Ada Nicoli was going upstairs, as if floating on wings rather than walking, she met the fat lady boarder coming down.

“Well, I declare, Ada Nicoli, you look as if the world wasn’t good enough for you to-night. There’s enough happiness in your eyes to light a whole street. Has your strange visitor brought you good news?”

“Yes,” Ada replied, “wonderful news. He has just told me that I am the little milliner’s girl whom the eccentric old gentleman thought deserved some money.”

“Sakes alive!” the fat boarder exclaimed. “Let me look at you,”—and she took the girl by her shoulders and scanned her face.

“Are you the girl he left all the money to?”

“Yes,” answered Ada; “isn’t it extraordinary? I can’t quite believe it is true! It’s just like a fairy story.”

In another moment the girl was clasped in the arms of the good-natured woman, and was so cried over and petted that all the boarders came out to hear the news, which Ada could not tell them for the fulness of her heart, and the fat boarder did it but badly, for she was laughing and crying at one and the same time.

[THE END.]

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By MARGARET INNES.

THE RESERVOIR—CHINESE MEDICINES—DUST—ADVANTAGES OF THE LIFE—THE RAINS—FLOODS.

hat summer, our first on the ranch, we made a large reservoir to hold 200,000 gallons. There was a convenient gulch or dip, which drained a fair stretch of hill slope, and which lent itself well for the purpose. We meant also to run our share of the flume water into this reservoir whenever it was not being used on the ranch.

Many waggon loads of sand from the Silvero Valley had to be hauled up by the little grey team, and endless barrels of cement from the station at El Barco five miles away. It was a long tiresome job. There was plenty of rock, with which to build the dam, lying about on the hills, but to lift these pieces on to the sledge, improvised for this purpose, and bring them over hill and dale to the reservoir site and there unload them, was both very hard work and at times a little dangerous, for the rocks were often so large that they were not easily controlled, and were always threatening to roll over on to the feet or hands of the “master builder” and his men.

There were some bad bruises before all the names of the workers were written on the cement top of the wall as an artistic finish to the dam.

That was a very dry year, the summer extending till December 5th, and after a dry winter too. For this reason the breaking up of the ground was all the harder, especially that part which had been trodden hard by cattle grazing for many years.

Again the ranchers went to work to manufacture some implement that would help in this difficulty, and a “clod masher” was made out of some of the furniture cases, and it did very good work.

We planted cypress trees too, all along the windswept side of the ranch, as these grow very fast, and we wanted to break the face of the wind.

The rabbits, squirrels, and gophers gave us some anxiety that first year by nibbling at the bark of the young lemon trees. This had to be stopped at once, for if the bark is badly peeled off right round the stem of a young tree, the tree will probably die. The approved remedy is to paint the bark with blood, a most disagreeable job, especially in glaring hot weather. However, the trees were not touched after that, for the rabbits are dainty people.

A good store of firewood had to be hauled from the Silvero Valley before the rains should come, and some months earlier we had stored away our winter supply of hay in the barn. In the winter we also planted an orchard of all varieties of fruit for our own use—pears, apples, prunes, figs, apricots, peaches, vines, strawberries, and raspberries. Altogether we were very busy and worked very hard, though we took our pleasures too, sandwiched in between. We did a great deal of driving and riding about among the different mountain paths, and we still enjoy this distraction as much as ever.

To take our lunch with us and stay away all day, the boys riding ahead, with the dogs following them, darting in among the brush, wildly happy over every pretence of a scent, leaping high over every obstacle, and adding so much to our enjoyment by their evident delight, is a pleasure without flaw. I must not forget also a gun or two, stowed away in the bottom of the carriage, for something worth killing may cross our path. Jack-rabbits are not good eating but are good sport, and as they injure the trees, every rancher shoots them when he gets the chance. The dainty elegant road-runner must never be hurt, and woe be to the “tenderfoot” who is tempted to shoot that pretty, impudent-looking little fellow, the skunk, who flourishes his handsome black and white tail in your very face. If you were a Chinaman, you would secure him on any terms, even his own. All Celestial medicines and cordials seem to be compounded of the most offensive abominations that can be discovered; it follows, of course, that the skunk is a highly-prized treasure in their pharmacopœia. What deceits we have practised and what lies we have told during Wing’s reign in the kitchen! He was for ever wanting to doctor us, and had always just the right remedy by him for whatever complaint was to the fore. We soon became very wary indeed of showing any sign of physical trouble before him, for we were at once pounced upon with hot drinks of villainous compounds and rank smell, and we had to be very diplomatic so as to escape drinking them there and then, and thus get the chance of pouring them down the bath sink when his back was turned.

We always felt this to be a very dangerous business, for the smell threatened to betray us.

For rheumatic pains he eagerly recommended a sort of rattlesnake jam, which is made with chunks of that attractive reptile cooked in whisky, and potted for seven years, when it is ready for use, and, according to Wing, is an infallible cure.

But though these various animals are spared for different reasons on our little excursions, the Californian quail are very delicate food, and a most welcome addition to the ranch larder, where variety is a little difficult to get. They also are very good sport. Wild pigeons, too, are not to be despised.

These driving expeditions are best, however, in the winter, spring, and early summer, when the sun is not so hot, and when the roads have been rained upon, and the terrible dust is laid. Is there any dust like the Californian dust after a dry season, I wonder? My husband insists that in Australia and the Cape, and other places where he and I have never been, the dust is infinitely worse than in California; he also reminds me of the dust in railway travelling at home, and insists that this was quite as disagreeable and much more dirty. We do not agree on this point. But as I said before, one accustoms oneself to almost anything, and though we certainly take fewer pleasure drives at the end of the summer, waiting rather always for the first rains, yet when I remember my first horror at San Sebastian, on driving through waves, and clouds, and curtains of dust, then I know by comparison that I have reached a very philosophical state of mind about this, one of the necessary and undeniable evils.

What one enjoys most in this life is, I think, the absolute freedom; that and the great stretches of space around one are a constantly increasing delight. To look across these great sweeps of mountains, range after range, and see in the distance the silver line of the Pacific, and to feel the clean, pure wind in one’s face, is like a baptism of new life.

At first the strange bareness of these mountains almost wounds one’s eyes, and their true beauty is not recognised. But as one learns to know them better, their charm grows more and more striking, and I almost doubt if after a few years one would wish for any change in their bold bare lines. In the full midday sun they are not lovely, and in some moods one would call them almost ugly, so uncompromising are they in their grimness and bareness: but their time of triumph is when the changing lights of sunset begin, when they are flooded with such matchless colouring, so delicate and rich, that they seem positively unreal.

During the winter rains all the odd jobs of repairing are done: soldering, harness-cleaning and mending, painting of waggons or carts, and carpentering.

Most Americans are clever-handed, and can turn from one job to another with unusual facility. To see a man, who earns his living by driving a delivery waggon, turn to in his spare time and build a neat and comfortable addition to his house, an extra bedroom, and perhaps an enlargement of the sitting-room, with a nice bit of verandah out of this, and all well planned and well finished, is apt to knock the conceit out of the young fellow from home, who prides himself on being so “clever with his tools.”

Our first winter was a very dry one, to our great regret. The rainfall was much below the average and much below what was needed for the land. Less than seven inches fell during the whole season, and an average good fall is about fourteen inches. So the land was never thoroughly soaked, and what was a more anxious matter still, the storage of water “way back” in the mountains was too scant, and pretty certain to run short before the long dry season should be over. So, indeed, it proved, and we were greatly harassed, when the water company began to cut down our rations, leaving us barely enough to keep our young trees going; and certainly not enough to give them a chance of doing their best, however diligently the “cultivator” might be kept at work.

All that summer we were busy, tending the trees and adding further improvements to the ranch. When the second winter came, we were hopeful then all our anxieties about water would be set at rest by a good generous rainfall.

The dry season had extended unusually far into the winter months, no rain having fallen till December 5th, when we had a few small showers. Within three weeks of this, it seemed as though we were to get our desires to the full, for the rain came down in torrents.

The Silvero river, which was supposed to flow in the pretty valley below us, of which we got such a charming glimpse from our verandahs, had hitherto appeared to be a dry sandy stretch more like a rough country road than a river, and we had laughed at the very notion of a bridge being ever needed to cross its dangerous waters.

Wonderful tales of the miraculous possibilities of the land are of course told here to the credulous tenderfoot, and we did not feel inclined to believe our friends’ accounts of that very river’s deep and dangerous waters during some rainy winters.

We had to make an apology that second winter. For nine days the waters poured down in an almost solid sheet; and with hardly any cessation night or day. We were all anxious and excited over this storm; and constantly on the watch to see what would happen. At the end of the first twenty-four hours, we had rather a scare over our reservoir. The sudden inrush of water from the hill slopes around had filled it so quickly that when my husband went up in the driving rain to see what state it was in, he found, to his dismay, that the water had reached the very tops of the dam, and was just beginning to sweep over, making at once a deep and widening cut all along the lemon trees below.

The new wooden floodgate was so swollen with the rain that it was as though riveted into its place, and refused to open. In a few moments my husband had darted down to the barn, and returning with an axe, broke the floodgate in pieces, when the danger was over, and the water rushing away in a great heavy mass found its way into a gully where it could do no mischief. We saw, from the deep cutting made in those few moments by the water when it swept over the dam, what terrible damage might be worked by these rains. But we could hardly believe our eyes or ears however, when we saw in the valley the glistening of the water in the broad river-bed, and heard the roar as though of a cataract.

During the first lull that occurred we all hurried down to the valley to examine more closely what was going on. We found such a turbulent, dangerous-looking river tearing down the valley, that we were perfectly fascinated, and would fain have stayed and watched it for hours.

The river had already cut a great deep bed for itself out of the wheat-sown meadows of the valley, and every moment a great slice of the bank would give way and silently slide down into the water, which swallowed it up relentlessly as it rushed past.

Great trees were lying in the river, in some places all across it, making rough dams where the water fought and leapt even more fiercely; and as we stood there, we were horrified to see one of the dear trees, so highly prized in this bare land, go trembling down into the flood. The sound of their roots straining and cracking as the rushing floods tried to sweep them away from their last bit of anchorage, was most painful; it seemed almost like a human struggle. All the ground was more or less like quicksand, and we had to be careful where we stepped, lest we should be “mired.” As the rain came on again heavily, we were forced to return home, though very unwillingly; it was a scene of such wonderful excitement.

We were very anxious, too, about friends whose ranches were some miles further up the valley, and whose land lay mostly rather low down and near the river-bed. We found afterwards that both had suffered considerable loss, besides great anxiety. On one ranch the river had in one night swept away eight acres of beautiful olive-trees that were in full bearing. This was a very cruel blow, over which the whole neighbourhood, I think, mourned, but which the young rancher and his wife bore with the brave cheery spirit which is, I think, a noticeable charm in most Americans. The young wife gallantly carried the heavier share of the blow, by dismissing her servant, and herself doing the housework and cooking.

(To be concluded.)

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It is not safe to use common cheap enamelled saucepans after they have been chipped inside. The glaze that is used is often poisonous, and the material comes off in such small pieces, that if absorbed with the food they may act as a serious irritant to the intestines and set up inflammation.

A book should be kept for cuttings of interest from newspapers and journals. These form very interesting reading.

An accomplishment which everyone should cultivate is that of writing clearly, especially one’s signature. It causes a great deal of trouble and even serious mistakes to write illegibly. While staying with a friend on a visit, a letter was handed round the table for us each to try and decipher, and all that could be read of it was the concluding sentence, “Please reply by return of post.” The signature and address were totally illegible.

Soufflé au Chocolat.—Take three eggs and beat the yolks and whites separately. Add to the yolk a tablespoonful of pounded sugar and about two ounces of chocolate. Stir all these ingredients well together, adding a teaspoonful of flour. Whisk the whites of the eggs until they form a stiff paste, and then mix lightly with the other substances. Butter a tin and bake in a moderate oven for a quarter of an hour. Serve up immediately in the tin.

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A STORY FOR GIRLS.

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

MAY’S INVITATION.

“I should like to go, Aunt Cossart, of course; but I will not accept unless you can really spare me. Now that Effie is away, I know it is dull for you, except in the evenings when Oscar is here.”

Mrs. Cossart held in her hands the note of invitation, which a servant from Monckton Manor had just brought.

“Do you know who these friends are that Miss Lawrence thinks you would like to meet?”

“No,” answered Sheila simply. “They have a good many summer visitors at the Manor, and they are all nice people; but May does not say whether they are any I have seen before.”

“Well, I think you had better go. It is only for three days; and I’ll ask Ray to come and spend the time with me. She had half promised me a visit before this. And Oscar need not go to the office regularly—that was quite understood. Only he is such a boy for his duty that there seems no keeping him back. However, your uncle will soon be home now; and then perhaps we shall settle something different. But write your note to Miss Lawrence, and say you will be there to-morrow. I will drive you across. I want to go and see Mrs. Frost, and so it will all be on the way.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Aunt Cossart, you are very good. I shall like it very much if you are not left alone.”

Sheila ran to write her note with a light heart. Effie was away on a visit to her friends the Murchisons. It had been a great advance that she should pay a visit by herself, with only Susan in attendance. It seemed quite a step in her recovery, and all had been pleased that she wished it and felt able for it. In her absence Sheila and Oscar had become quite like the children of the house, and the girl was often surprised at the warmth of her affection towards her aunt, despite the little fussiness and lack of tact and judgment which had so often irritated her in old days.

Still, the thought of a few days with May was quite a treat. She had not been over to the Manor very often of late. May had been visiting some friends, and the girls had not met since. It was delightful of May to think of asking her for a night or two. That kind of visit was so much more satisfactory than just going over for the day.

Truth to tell, Sheila thought little of the “friends” she was asked to meet. It was May she chiefly cared to see, although the house party at the Manor when it was full of guests, was always a very pleasant one.

“May will be thinking about her wedding,” Sheila observed to her aunt as they drove along in the bright June sunshine. “Ray says that North does not see the use of waiting; and now that he has found that nice house over the bridge, and in the country, though not too far away, there doesn’t seem anything to wait for. I think he and May will be very happy together; and it will be nice to have her so much nearer.”

“Yes, North is a steady good boy, and deserves a nice wife; but I should never have guessed that he would marry into the county, as people call it. That always seemed more in Cyril’s line.”

Sheila laughed. She had seen through Cyril’s veneer long ago, and thought much more of North’s sterling worth and perfect sincerity and simplicity. It was these qualities which had attracted May, and Sheila thought she showed her sense and good feeling in being so quick to appreciate them.

May received her with open arms; and in a short time they were ensconced in one of their favourite retreats, pouring girlish confidences into each other’s ears.

May told of her approaching marriage, which was to take place in September, so that they would get a run on the continent a little later than the August rush, and yet be settled at home comfortably for the winter.

“You must come and see the house to-morrow,” cried May. “It is such a dear old place; not big, you know, but quite old-fashioned; and such a quaint old walled garden that shuts us out from the world. It is away from other houses now, close to the village of Twick; but as North says, Isingford is creeping out that way, and it won’t be country many more years; but our walls will keep us secluded, and inside it is all quite delightful. We have two acres altogether, and it is so well planted and laid out that you would think it was much more.”

Sheila was keenly interested in her friend’s prospects; and time slipped away fast. The softened light told of a westering sun, and May suddenly sprang up crying—

“I am sure it must be tea-time and past. Come along, Sheila. You must be introduced to our other guests!”

They threaded the garden paths, crossed the blazing lawns, towards the group of stately cedars beneath which several persons were seated. Sheila could not see their faces distinctly through the sweeping boughs; but suddenly somebody rose and made a few forward steps, uttering a pleased little exclamation, whilst the girl gave a joyful cry and sprang forward.

“Miss Adene! Oof—how delightful! Oh, May, why did you not say that Miss Adene was here?”

The meeting was a warm one on both sides. Sheila’s glance swept round the little group, but there was no other familiar face, except that of the hostess. She was introduced to the other guests; but was quickly seated beside Miss Adene asking questions in her eager way, and telling of herself in turn.

“Yes, we think that Guy is quite recovered now,” said Miss Adene. “He is wonderfully better, even since you saw him. We went to Oratava for a little while, and then when it grew too hot there we returned to Madeira; and before we left he seemed as strong as ever, and has not lost a bit of ground since he got home. He begins to ride and drive, and walk about just as he did before his illness. Ronald declares that he will soon be quite a superfluity at the Priory. Guy is able to take everything into his own hands again.”

“I am so glad! How happy Lady Dumaresq must be! And dear little Guy, how is he?”

“Oh, as well as possible, the rogue! And he has not forgotten you. He sent you lots of kisses, and an injunction that you were to come and see him very soon. ‘Tell her if she doesn’t come soon,’ he said, ‘I shall go mad.’”

“He didn’t,” cried Sheila, laughing, “Oh, how utterly sweet of him! He is a darling; I should so like to see him again!”

Miss Adene asked after Effie, and time flew quickly by. It was so nice to have lost all that old miserable feeling Sheila once thought she must always experience if she met again these friends, whose kindness towards her had been the immediate cause of her banishment from Madeira, and who must, she knew, have guessed in some measure at the cause of it.

But Miss Adene seemed to have put that memory right away, and there was nothing but pleasure in meeting her again. It was May’s voice which interrupted the talk at last.

“Sheila, I want to get some forget-me-nots from the stream to decorate the dinner-table with. They are so lovely just now, and look exquisite with moss on the white cloth. Do come with me!”

Sheila jumped up at once, and the two girls hastened away together. May’s face was rather flushed, and her eyes were shining brightly. The stream which ran through the park was famed for its beds of blue forget-me-not, and there was no trouble in finding flowers enough and to spare.

Presently the sound of voices, men’s voices, broke upon their ears, and May jumped up, exclaiming—

“Here is North! And he is bringing back a guest of ours, who wanted to see the works. You talk to him, Sheila, and let me have a few words with North. I have so much to say.”

There was a merry gleam in May’s eyes, but Sheila suspected nothing until a sudden bend in the path brought them face to face with the approaching pair, and she saw that North’s companion was none other than Ronald Dumaresq.

Then for a moment astonishment robbed her of her self-control, and the flowers she was holding in her arm slipped in a mass to the ground. Laughingly Ronald sprang forward, picked them up, and took possession of the load.

“I hope you and your flowers are alike in nature, Miss Cholmondeley, and that I am not quite forgotten.”

He stretched out his hand and took hers, and she, looking up into the bright manly face, forgot her tremors and her embarrassment, and felt nothing but a sense of pure happiness in being face to face with him again.

“I see you do not need an introduction,” said May’s voice, with a mischievous ring in it; and then the four began pacing back slowly towards the house, falling naturally into two and two.

“You have seen my aunt?” asked Ronald.

“Yes; but she did not say that you had come too.”

“No, I asked her not. I wanted to give you a surprise. I hope it has not been a very disagreeable one.”

Sheila’s old clear laugh rang out through the wood.

“If you are fishing for compliments, sir, you won’t get any out of me!”

“And I am so fond of them,” said Ronald pathetically. “Don’t you think you might be nice and kind, and say how much you have missed me since we parted?”

“Oof!” cried Sheila, “what next am I to say?”

“Well, if you won’t say the pretty thing, I must. Do you know, Miss Cholmondeley, that after the sudden departure of a certain nameless person from Madeira, everything got so stale and unprofitable to me that I seriously threatened to come home alone; and I should have done so if they hadn’t moved on elsewhere.”

Sheila’s face was glowing, but she answered by a gay laugh; and the laugh was not forced, for was she not very, very happy?

“You may laugh, but I assure you it was no laughing matter to me. Sheila, did you want to go off in that sudden fashion? Did you go of your own accord?”

He stopped suddenly and took her hand; she gave one swift upward glance, and then dropped her eyes.

“It was arranged for me,” she said.

“You did not want to go yourself?”

“No, not then. I was very angry about it. I had a great many wicked thoughts, which I was very much ashamed of afterwards, because it was such a good thing that I did go exactly at that time. It might just have been settled for me in the very best way possible.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ronald quickly.

“You know Oscar, my brother, fell ill of typhoid fever just as I got back. If it had not been for—for—that, I might not have been with him, and I don’t know what I should have done then.”

Ronald’s face cleared; for a moment he had looked anxious.

“I saw Oscar just now at the works,” he said. “I liked him very much indeed. You are not much alike, but there was something in his voice and expression which reminded me of you.”

“I wish I were more like Oscar,” said Sheila humbly. “He is much better than I shall ever be.”

“Don’t wish to be anything but yourself, Sheila,” said Ronald with sudden impetuosity, “for I want you just as you are.”

The blood surged up into Sheila’s face; this was taking the bull by the horns with a vengeance. Ronald seemed to know he had committed himself, and stood his ground, holding her hands fast in his, and again letting the poor forget-me-nots drop to the ground.

“Sheila, I did not mean to be so sudden, I promised not to be in such haste; they all tell me I must not expect to carry everything before me. But when I see you, I forget everything except that I love you. Oh, Sheila, won’t you try and love me too? I am so sure I could make you happy, if you would only give yourself into my keeping.”

Her eyes were on the ground, but there was that in her down-bent quivering face that gave Ronald hope and courage. He bent over her and touched her cheek with his lips.

“Sheila, won’t you say you will try to care for me a little?”

“Oh, Ronald, I do!” she suddenly exclaimed; and then they forgot everything else in that wonderful first embrace of love, in which the gates of a new world seemed flung open before them, and they walked alone in that new world, as though it were their own for evermore.

“But, Ronald,” said Sheila gravely, after those first golden moments had passed, and they began to awake to the realities of life, “you must not ask me to be impatient or selfish. I must think of other people as well, and I must not promise anything without the consent of my uncles.”

“But you are nearly of age, my darling; you will soon be your own mistress.”

“Yes, but that is not quite it, Ronald. My uncles have been very kind to me; my home is with one of them, and my aunt begins to depend upon me. I must not be selfish; you would not like me if I were. We may have to wait a little perhaps, but you won’t mind that, will you, Ronald?”

“I don’t know,” answered Ronald. “And I have an idea your aunt will set herself against this, and she rules your uncle. I won’t have you spirited away from me again, Sheila. That I can’t stand!”

She laughed and put her hand upon his lips.

“Don’t say rude things of my nice aunt and uncle. They are a great deal kinder to me than I deserve, for I did not always treat them very nicely.”

“Stuff! you were an angel; it was they who bullied you, and that Effie always wanted to come between us.”

“No, she didn’t; that is all your fancy. Effie is much nicer than you think, and is getting more sensible and stronger every week. She will be on our side, I know. And, Ronald, I only want us to be reasonable and unselfish, and not put ourselves and our affairs first. If you asked Miss Adene, she would tell you just the same.”

“I know she would,” said Ronald, laughing, and then in a graver voice he added, “Yes, Sheila, you are quite right; one must learn to take the second place, and think of other people as well as oneself. If you can be patient, so can I; and I love you all the better for your unselfishness.”

“I wish I were unselfish,” said Sheila with a sigh. “I am only trying to be, and it does not seem quite so hard when one is very, very happy.”

Then Ronald bent over her, kissed her once more, picked up the fallen flowers, and walked towards the house.

(To be concluded.)

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By F. W. L. SLADEN.

Carrying out the directions given last month for preparing the hives for winter, must not be delayed later than the middle of September. All our colonies being strong and having plenty of stores, they should now be wrapped up warmly and left undisturbed until next spring. Two American flour bags placed over the quilts will be quite enough extra covering, or one of these stuffed with a little dry barley straw will answer the purpose even better, providing a warm covering over the frames from two to three inches thick. An inspection should be made of the roofs of the hives, and if they are not thoroughly weather-proof, two coats of good white-lead paint should be applied to them. The size of the entrance must not be reduced to less than three inches.

The quieter bees are kept during the winter the better they come out in the spring. Being snowed up will not hurt them as long as they get sufficient air to breathe, which they will do through two or three feet of light snow. In the middle of a warm day in February, when the bees are flying freely, it will do no harm to lift a corner of the quilts and take note of the amount of sealed stores they still possess, if care be taken not to expose and disturb them more than is necessary. If they seem to be running short of food, a box containing soft candy should be given to them over the feed-hole. Feeding liquid food would excite the bees too much so early in the year, and it should not be done until the beginning of April. If the stores are almost exhausted, feeding with candy or syrup will have to be kept up until the bees are able to find enough honey in the fields to support themselves. In some districts this may not be until June. On the other hand, it is a mistake to keep feeding our bees unless they really require it.

March and April are often trying months for the bees, the sudden changes of temperature being very unfavourable to bee-life. Colonies that are not very strong may become so reduced in numbers that they “pull through” only with difficulty, and afterwards require the whole of the following season to regain their full strength, yielding neither honey nor swarms.

On the other hand, strong colonies, under favourable conditions, during the latter part of April and May, will increase so rapidly that, unless they are given plenty of room inside the hive in good time, they will make preparations for swarming, which the bee-keeper, who wishes to work for honey and not swarm, will find it difficult to check. The usual way to give the bees more room in the spring is by inserting a frame or foundation, or of empty comb in the centre of the brood-nest. If, however, the bees are not quite strong enough to take it, and a spell of cold weather follows, some of the brood may get chilled and this will be a worse disaster than an over-crowded hive.

The spring, then, is a period which calls for constant attention and vigilance on the part of the bee-keeper, who must not be satisfied, as many are, that all is going on right because the bees show activity on a warm day, but must be acquainted with their exact condition, so that prompt assistance may be given when it is required.

Having completed my sketch of the chief events in the bee-keeper’s calendar, it only remains to add a few details which may be of use or interest.

The subject of bee diseases is one that claims our attention. There is only one serious disease that bees are subject to; but that, unfortunately, is rather common. It is known as foul brood. It is caused by a micro-organism, which attacks the brood in the combs, causing it to putrefy and die. In its earlier stages, the presence of foul brood can only be detected by a careful examination of the brood combs, in which here and there a larva or two will be found to be decomposing into a coffee-coloured ropy mass, and some of the capped cells containing pupæ will have their cappings sunken and perforated. As the disease advances, much of the brood gets affected, and a foul smell issues from the entrance of the hive, which may often be perceived several yards away. The colony becomes rapidly weak and profitless, and in the end frequently perishes altogether.

Foul brood is very contagious, and strong measures must be taken to stamp it out directly its presence is discovered. In a bad case the whole colony must be burnt. If the hive is a good one, it may be preserved, but then it must be thoroughly disinfected by being scalded and painted inside and out with carbolic acid. When the disease is discovered in an early stage the combs only need be destroyed, the bees being shaken off them and treated as a swarm. They should be put into a new hive on frames of foundation, and fed with syrup medicated with Naphthol-beta. This drug is supplied in packets by the principal dealers in bee-appliances, and full directions for use are printed on each packet. The old hive and everything connected with the diseased colony must be burnt or thoroughly disinfected. If the combs contain much honey it may be utilised for human consumption without fear; but on no account must it be given back to the bees. When fresh brood develops in the new combs, a sharp look-out must be maintained for the reappearance of the disease; if it should manifest itself, in however slight a degree, the operation of renewing hive and combs must be gone through again. The disease must be looked for in other hives, and these, if found to be affected, must at once be dealt with in a similar way. The source of infection should be ascertained, and if it be found that a neighbouring bee-keeper has any diseased colonies, he should be persuaded to take immediate steps to cure or destroy them.

Bees do not suffer from the attacks of many enemies in this country. Wasps are sometimes troublesome around the hive entrances in the autumn, and titmice are rather too fond of making a meal on a bee or two in the winter. The latter have an amusing way of bringing the bees out of the hive by tapping with their beaks on the alighting board, until a worker appears to see what the matter is, for which act it is immediately seized and swallowed. Field-mice like honey, and will sometimes play havoc with the combs of a weak colony; but if the entrance is not more than 3/8 inch deep, they will find it difficult to force a passage in the hive.

The most troublesome pests, when they get in the hives, are the caterpillars or the wax-moth. They riddle the combs with their numerous silk-lined tunnels, devouring all the pollen brood and honey that come in their way. It is difficult to get rid of these caterpillars without destroying the combs. All moths found in the quilts should be destroyed, for they lay the eggs which produce the caterpillars. The wax-moth is very destructive in bee-hives in America, but one seldom hears of its doing much damage in England, except in badly-kept or neglected hives. Two balls of naphthaline placed on the quilts will help to keep the wax-moth away.

A curious parasite called the bee-louse (Branla cocca) is sometimes found attached to the body of the queen, and occasionally also the workers. Though it belongs to the order of flies, it is blind and wingless, and most resembles a tiny reddish-brown spider. A few of these parasites do not seem to inconvenience the queen-bee.

Ants may be kept out of the hive by placing the legs in saucers containing water. Earwigs do no harm in the hive.

Experienced bee-keepers are often able to increase their colonies cheaply in the autumn by driving their neighbour’s bees. Unhappily there are still many owners of bees in this enlightened country to whom the hive is as a sealed book that they have never attempted to open. They do not trouble to look after their bees, and, when wanting the honey, would destroy them to obtain it, if some practical bee-keeper did not come forward and offer to do the work for them, asking to be allowed to take the bees he has saved from destruction in return for his services, a request which the owner is generally willing enough to grant. It requires a man of some little experience to drive bees successfully, so we will not go into the details of the operation here. Suffice it to say that the straw hive or skep from which the bees are to be driven is fixed in an inverted position, and another skep placed over it into which the bees, by repeated rapping, are driven. Driven bees can generally be bought fairly cheaply in the autumn. Several lots of driven bees should be put together into a wooden hive provided with frames fitted with foundation, or better still, ready drawn-out combs if you have them. Rapid feeding must then be commenced at once, and sufficient food for winter stores should be taken down and sealed over before the middle of September.

We must not be surprised if our extracted honey becomes opaque and solid on the approach of cold weather. This process is called candying or granulation, and is, in fact, a proof of the purity of the honey, though some kinds granulate much sooner than others. Well-ripened honey, when granulated, will keep good for years.

In concluding these papers a few words on the natural history of bees may be of interest. Some of my readers will be surprised when I tell them that there are about two hundred different kinds of bees to be found in England. Up to the present I have been talking only about one of these, and this one, properly speaking, is a honey-bee. Almost all the other bees are solitary in their habits, that is, they do not live in large colonies in hives, but singly or in pairs in holes in the ground, in old stumps or walls, or in the hollow stems of plants. Still they are, many of them, very interesting, and well worth studying. They all feed on honey, and may be found on various kinds of flowers throughout the spring and summer. Some of them are large and beautiful like the well-known humble-bees; others are small and inconspicuous. Some resemble our honey-bee so closely that none but an expert could tell them apart; others again have such a strong likeness to wasps that a novice would scarcely give them credit for sweeter relationships.

But readers of this magazine, who happen to reside abroad, might come across other kinds of honey-bees, wild perhaps, but to which, if put in hives, all the foregoing remarks would more or less apply. Several of the foreign races of the honey-bee have been tried in this country and have been found to do very well. One of these, the Italian bee, is quite naturalised, and has spread so extensively over the country that it is hard to find a colony of pure English bees now, most of our bees being a cross between the English and the Italian races. Italian bees may be readily recognised by the pale semi-transparent, orange-yellow markings on the tail, true English bees being entirely black all over. The Italian bees are more prolific than the English race and they are easier to handle because they remain quietly on their combs when the hive is opened. A good cross between the English and Italian races is generally acknowledged to be the best honey-bee for all purposes in this country, but it has acquired a name for being rather bad-tempered.

Books that will be helpful to those who are “going in” for bee-keeping are The British Beekeeper’s Guide Book (paper, 1s. 6d.), and Modern Bee-keeping (6d.), published by the British Bee-keepers’ Association.

Finally, the beginner must not be disheartened by a few difficulties and failures. They should, on the contrary, spur on to greater efforts in seeking to avoid them in the future, for it is chiefly by first failures that experience, that most important factor in every successful pursuit, is gained. Persistent effort will bring its reward, and the bees will soon become a greater source of interest than we ever thought could be possible.

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By ELSA D’ESTERRE-KEELING, Author of “Old Maids and Young.”

THE TALL GIRL AND THE SMALL GIRL.

“Often the cockloft is empty in those whom Nature has built many storeys high,” says quaint old Fuller.

“Long and lazy,” says the proverb.

“Divinely tall,” says Tennyson.

Now in thought go over the tall girls whom you have known. Perhaps they were not unlike the tall girls known to me.

Cicely—by herself called Thithily—is one of these. She has a little head atop of a long body, and when she laughs, which she does much, displays to view two rows of foolishly small teeth. Cicely laughs to keep herself from crying, for she has a very hard time of it.

Poor?

No. She has everything that money can buy, but lacks a thing that money cannot buy.

Muriel is the poor long girl known to me.

Muriel’s wail is, There is so much of me to dress.

When last I saw Muriel, her boots were down at heel, and to shamefacedness she added—shamefootedness.

Dearest to me of long girls is one Dorothy, big and beautiful and kind, knowing some things—not many—and wanting to know more.

Said Dorothy one day—

“Is there not such a word as ‘magnanimosity’ for ‘kindness’?”

It was hard to have to tell her that there was not, and that, if ever such a word as “magnanimosity” shall be, it will certainly not be a word for “kindness.”

Have you noticed that a big girl mostly has a small girl for her friend, and vice versâ? Shakespeare, who noticed all things, noticed that. With Helena he puts Hermia, and with Rosalind Celia.

The tall girls of prose-fiction are numerous. For A there is Blackmore’s Annie, who “never tried to look away when honest people gazed at her.” For B there is Thackeray’s Beatrix, and there is one for every other letter in the alphabet.

The “towering big” girl—to put the matter Hibernically—had a great vogue a few years ago as the heroine of Trilby, but, on the whole, the small girl has been more singled out for loving treatment by novelists than the tall girl. Dickens had a known preference for her, and his “little Nell” has eclipsed all big Nells. In the description of one Ruth, too, it may be noticed that he uses with loving iteration the word “little”—“pleasant little Ruth! cheerful, tidy, bustling, quiet little Ruth!”

In fiction subsequent to that of Dickens there is a Mary described thus—“a little dumpty body, with a yellow face and a red nose, the smile of an angel, and a heart full of many little secrets of other people’s, and of one great one of her own, which is no business of any man’s.”

All readers of Kingsley’s Two Years Ago will remember that Mary.

The poets no less than the prose-writers have busied themselves with the small girl. The mere word Duchess to most people calls up a picture of stateliness, yet Browning describes a duchess as follows:—

In these days of tall girls small girls are apt to fret. There is one known to me whose case is pitifuller than that of the little fir-tree in Andersen.

That little fir-tree, you will remember, thought of nothing so much as growing. The children sitting beside it would often exclaim, “How pretty and little it is!” It could not bear to hear that, says Andersen.

The case of the little girl known to me is just by so much sadder than that of the little fir-tree that she knows that her growing days are over. When last I saw her she was trying to give length to herself by a long tail to her dress, but the world was not deluded thus, and measured her, as naturalists measure the mouse, “not including the tail.”

Happily a major number of small girls still carry a high heart, knowing that maids, as well as men, may be “little, very little, but not insignificant.”

Those words are Sir Walter Scott’s in reference to Thomas Moore, whose pseudonym, it may be remembered, was at one time Thomas Little.

This is perhaps the place in which to say a word about the persons whose littleness is bound up with their fame. One of the greatest generals of all time had for his best known soubriquet “the little corporal.” Omit the “little” in that case, and the appellation is robbed of all that gives piquancy to it.

How much there may be in the mere word “little” is shown in the following—true—story.

A living sculptor of note, a foreigner residing in London, made a tender group composed of a mother and her child. The mother was counting the baby’s toes, and beneath the group was carved a legend which the artist conceived to embody a familiar nursery rhyme. The legend ran, “One pig went to market.”

“Sir, sir!” remonstrated an Irishwoman, to whose inspection the group was subjected, “you’ve made a terrible omission. You’ve left out ‘little.’ No human mother would sing to her babe, ‘One pig went to market.’”

The foreign sculptor beat his breast.

The ironical use of big for small and small for big is a thing of old custom. Thus one of the biggest English Johns who ever lived was known to his contemporaries, and is still known to those who cherish his memory, as Little John, and it is by a similar pleasantry, according to a learned writer, that Maria, who in Shakespeare’s play of Twelfth Night is represented as a little woman, is called by Viola “Olivia’s giant,” and that Sir Toby says to her “Good-night, Penthesilea,” meaning by Penthesilea amazon, if his meaning was not merely (and to me this seems to be the more likely thing) to twit the little woman by giving her a long name.

Indubitably there is a beauty in tall stature. On the other hand the case of small girls versus tall girls is in one agreeable respect analogous to that of ants versus elephants. Though an ant is not the smallest creature that is, it looks very small beside an elephant; yet it has long been voted mentally superior to the elephant; in fact, Coleridge was wont to speak of the ant as the most “intellectual” of animals. That may be so, or may not be so; it is established fact, however, that the majority of women who have distinguished themselves by their intellectuality have been little women. This is true of the poetesses, from Sappho to Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Among women-writers of imaginative prose it would be easy, but would be invidious, to name living ones. Of the great dead it is enough to name Charlotte Brontë and Jane Austen, both of them little women.

Among the many women who have distinguished themselves as rulers Queen Elizabeth made good in high dignity what she lacked in high stature, and the same thing is true of the queen who to-day occupies the throne of England.

To give one more instance of the great in the little, it was a little woman who worked the prison reforms which make the name of Elizabeth Fry a deathless one. The list of great little women is indeed very long.

A word must be said here in reference to a charge much levelled at small persons, especially small girls and women. They have been said to be unduly self-assertive, and their sisters have been praised for their superior meekness. It is not always, but it is sometimes, the case of the high holly branches and the low. The high holly branches put out no prickles, because, as the botanists explain, they do not need them. Above a certain height there is no danger of attack.

In fairness to tall girls it must be allowed that they are sometimes attacked. Said a little Irishman to a big English girl whom he met under the stars one summer night—

“I’m wantin’ to light me pipe, miss. Will ye kindly hand me down a star?”

The nonplussed English girl was silent, and Pat the saucy went on his way unpunished.

Gentleness and bigness often go together, but lest any long Meg who may chance to read this paper lay the too-flattering unction to her soul that there was never shrew that was bigger than a mouse, be it here set down that the famous Long Meg of Westminster was a dreaded virago. There is also no reason to believe that the shrew of Shakespeare’s comedy—the lady ironically styled “the kindest Kate”—was of small body dimensions.

It may be allowed, however, that vehemence is more often a distinguishing mark of little persons than of big ones. Similarly, little persons are, as a rule, more prone to indulge in a scornful vein, and here there shall be a thing whispered to the small girl. The tall are rarely so contemptuous to the small as the small are to the—smaller. This appears to have been so from of old. Thus it was, according to an old Greek fable, the ant that said of the mite when the beasts—including the elephant and the whale—were summoned before Jupiter, that she—the mite—was so small as to be beneath notice. This objection—coming from the ant—must have surprised the elephant and the whale.

To conclude. Since (as the proverb has it) they are not all big men who reap the harvest, and since, equally, they are not all small men who do this, the thing of main importance would appear to be not a man’s physical height; and, as is the case with men in this matter, so is, it may safely be assumed, the case with the daughters of men.

[THE END.]

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By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

THE DINNER.

At what time do you dine? Dinner is the chief physiological event in the day. Therefore the answer to the question “At what time do you dine?” is a very important one, although the true reason for the answer is not often understood.

There are really but two ways of arranging the day’s meals; the one, the more rational, we may call the French way; the other, the less rational, we may call the English labourer’s way. The first arrangement is carried out by nearly every nation except ourselves. It consists in a very light breakfast, a fair meal after noon, and the chief meal in the evening.

The second arrangement consists of a fair breakfast, the chief meal at about one o’clock, and a small meal in the evening.

And then there is our own, the irrational method of feeding—a big breakfast, a scrap for lunch, and the dinner in the evening.

But if this division of meals is not physiologically correct, why do we adhere to it?

The answer to this is that we choose the least harmful of several very wrong methods. The man in the middle class in England does not apportion out for himself any definite time for meals; if he did not dine in the evening, he would never properly digest any meal. Take a busy City man, for instance. He arranges his time in such a manner that he swallows down his last teaspoonful of tea at breakfast about a quarter of a second before he runs to catch his train. If it were not that he has to keep still while in the train, he would never digest his meal at all.

And then he rushes out of his office to snatch a bit of lunch between two items of business. He may play a game of chess over his lunch, but such a gross waste of time as sitting down for five minutes after his meal is never tolerated until he becomes a martyr to dyspepsia.

But after dinner he does rest, because he has nothing else to do. His business for the day is over, and he digests his meal in peace.

But with the working-classes the case is very different. They have certain hours given to them for their meals, during which time they are not allowed to work, and for such persons it is advisable to dine in the middle of the day.

It would be of little good for us to describe the few advantages and overwhelming abuses of a sumptuous banquet, for, most fortunately for themselves, extremely few of our readers are ever likely to be present at one. Nor would it suit our purpose to describe a one-course dinner, so we will take the chief meal of a well-to-do man of the upper middle-class as the subject of our remarks.

Here is the menu:—

• Tomato Soup.
• Turbot and Lobster Sauce.
• Mutton Cutlets and Tomatoes.
• Roast Ribs of Beef. Horse-radish.
• Spinach. Potatoes.
• Cabinet Pudding.
• Caviare on Toast.
• Coffee.

We will first criticise the dinner as a whole and then dilate separately upon each item.

In the first place the meal is much too long. Dinner should never last more than half an hour, whereas this meal will take a full hour at least.

The second point is a most important one and one which is frequently overlooked, yet it is one of the most important causes of ill-health. It is this. There are six courses in this dinner, and every one of them contains animal food. Every item in the list is a concentrated food, rich in nourishment, and readily digestible. Consequently nearly the whole of what is eaten will get into the blood, and there, being greatly in excess of what is needed, it will irritate the organs by which it must be got rid of.

One word about the drinks. The stomach of man is made to digest solids, and one of the most fertile causes of indigestion is taking excess of fluids with meals. Drinking between meals or when the stomach is empty is not such an important cause of indigestion as is drinking largely with meals, because drinking large quantities dilutes the gastric secretion, which loses its digestive power if freely diluted.

At no meal should more than half a pint of fluid be taken, and that is best taken at the end of the repast.

The pernicious habit of serving different wines with each course is one of the most harmful customs of modern dieting. If you have wine at all, have light wines only, and never change the drinks with the various courses.

Of course, the dinner we are criticising is excellently served and there is no waiting between the courses. But when people whose purses are strictly limited give dinners, they are not content with an ordinary two-course meal, but must ape the doings of their more wealthy neighbours and give elaborate dinners, which for obvious reasons are badly served.

Waiting between the courses of a meal is very injurious to the stomach. A little wait after the soup does no harm at all. Soup is more a digestive stimulant than a food, and therefore it is advisable to wait a little between the soup and the next course. But after that there should be no delay, and the meal should be finished as soon as possible.

There are thirty persons sitting down to this dinner, and we notice that they have all washed their hands. Here is the first thing that we should all do well to copy. Everybody should wash her hands before sitting down to a meal. Don’t laugh and say that everybody does do so! We know such is not the case, and it is just those persons for whom it is most necessary to wash before eating who neglect this hygienic measure.

Workers in factories, especially those who have to work with lead or other poisonous materials, should be scrupulously careful never to touch food with dirty hands. Neglect of this precaution is the commonest method by which chronic poisoning is produced.

Legislation has been doing all in its power to limit the deleterious effects of poisons upon those who are compelled to work in them. Yet it is exceedingly difficult to get factory workers to wash their hands before eating, and many firms have been severely censured when cases of chronic poisoning have occurred in their works, when the sufferers themselves were entirely to blame because they would not wash their hands.

To return to the dinner. At the table, soups are divided into two groups—thick and clear. Dietetically, the division is extremely well marked, for the actions and uses of the two are totally different.

Clear soup—that is, soup which is quite free from floating particles—is not a food and contains no nourishment. This may seem a strong statement to make and you may disbelieve it; but still it is a fact. Clear soup is a solution of the débris of animal tissue. The nourishing part of animal flesh is insoluble in boiling water and therefore is not present in clear soup. The only fluid which contains nutritive animal matter after it has been boiled is milk.[2] But if it is not a food, clear soup is a powerful stimulant and is a good opening to a big meal. But it should only be taken in very small quantities, and by most persons beyond middle age it is better not taken at all!

Thick soup is a nutritious preparation owing its nourishing power entirely to the solid particles suspended in it. Like clear soup, however, it is chiefly a solution of animal débris—the waste products of life.

It used to be the rule to give beef-tea and other meat extractives in all illnesses, but fortunately the custom is dying out as our knowledge increases. There are many diseases—for instance, gout—which are due to excess of waste products in the blood; or, to put it in an intelligible form, they are due to substances identical with beef-tea circulating in the blood. And yet these people used to be fed on soup, when of all things in the world it is that which they should avoid.

Before we continue the dinner, we wish to say a few words about this custom of giving beef-teas, etc., to invalids. The ordinary soups, beef-teas, meat essences and suchlike, which are commonly given to the sick, are inappropriate for their purpose and are frequently exceedingly injurious. You cannot feed anybody on beef-tea. It is a fairly useful stimulant, but as a food it is worthless. But you can make a liquid food which contains a considerable part of the nourishment of meat and is, moreover, not indigestible.

Meat-juice is the fluid obtained by squeezing raw beef. If you hang up a large piece of raw meat, a reddish opalescent liquid will drop from it. This is raw meat-juice and is practically a solution of blood albumen. It is exceedingly nutritious and is very useful in many kinds of disease. It is frequently ordered nowadays by physicians. It must be made only from beef which you are perfectly certain is quite sound. There is really danger in giving this meat-juice or raw meat of any kind, and a girl must be pretty certain of her butcher before she attempts to give it to an invalid.

Another less unpleasant way of making the same or nearly the same preparation is the following. Take a pound of rump steak and shred it up with a knife. Put it into warm water and let it digest in a very cool oven for four hours. You must be certain that the oven never reaches a temperature above 160° F., for at about twenty degrees above this albumen coagulates, and instead of meat-juice you will only have beef-tea. After the preparation has been in the oven for four hours, take it out and strain it.

When you are feeding an invalid, a time in convalescence arrives when the patient wants the nourishment of meat, but cannot digest so solid a substance as beef or mutton. Then you can give her the following broth—

Take half a pound of the best rump steak, and having shredded it up finely, boil it in a pint of water for four hours, and then press the whole through a sieve. If necessary or desirable, vegetables may be added, or chicken may be used in place of beef. The great point to remember in making this is to press everything through the sieve. This forms the most nourishing of all liquids; yet it is not liquid nourishment, for the nutritive portion exists in the solid particles which float about in the liquid.

The fish course is usually a very digestible one. On the whole, boiled fish is more digestible than fried fish, and may be given to invalids earlier in convalescence. Boiled sole is the most readily digested of all fish, but with the exception of herrings, mackerel, salmon, eel, and some other fresh-water fish, all fish is good wholesome food. The fish mentioned as being indigestible must never be given to anybody whose stomach is in any way delicate or readily upset.

Excepting oysters, all shellfish are indigestible. Mussels have always had an unfair amount of abuse. It is true that they cause more deaths than any other kind of shellfish, but then they are eaten in much larger quantities. No shellfish should ever be eaten raw, for they all feed on carrion and filth of very description, and so may contain large numbers of very virulent germs.

It is well to remember that fish is meat diet. People make absurd mistakes about this, and look upon fish as part of a milk diet. Fish has essentially the same composition as butcher’s meat, but it contains more water and fewer extractives.

It is well known to everybody that the medical profession has for ages urged upon the public the dangers of excessive flesh-eating, yet has it never clearly stated why eating too much meat is so far more injurious than eating too much bread or vegetables. But the explanation is really very simple.

Meat is more readily soluble and digestible than farinaceous foods. If you fill your stomach with meat, all of it will be digested; practically the whole of it will get into the blood, and there being in excess of what is needed, it gives the various organs of the body great trouble to get rid of it.

On the other hand, if you take a big meal of cabbage, only a very small proportion of it is digestible, and so very little will get into the blood. After eating excess of vegetables or farinaceous food you will probably be sick, and there is an end of the matter.

But besides nourishment, meat contains a large quantity of extractives—substances which are waste products of vital action; which are practically animal poisons, and which enter the blood without requiring digestion, but which are useless to the animal economy, and have to be got rid of at once.

It is to extractives that meats owe their flavour, and the more tasty and succulent your dishes are, the greater is the amount of extractives that they contain.

It is in the entrée that meat flavourings are carried to their highest pitch, and it is the entrée which is usually the most harmful course at the dinner.

If the entrée were discarded in favour of a vegetable course, it would indeed be a blessing. If you have entrées at all, let them be absolutely simple, such as the one which has been chosen for our specimen dinner.

You may be surprised when we say that meat is more digestible than farinaceous food, and yet that when treating dyspepsia we avoid meat as far as possible. But the apparent contradiction is readily dispelled.

Indigestion is usually due to disease of the stomach, and failure of its power for digestion. Meat is digested practically only in the stomach; farinaceous foods are not digested in the stomach, but lower down in the alimentary canal. It is only when indigestion is due to failure of the stomach that it is benefited by the avoidance of meat. In many forms of dyspepsia a farinaceous diet gives the greatest trouble of all.

Of the joint we will say nothing at present. Horse-radish is a good aromatic digestive stimulant. It used to be used much more frequently than it is, because of its anti-scorbutic properties.

Not many years ago a whole dinner-party was poisoned by eating aconite root in mistake for horse-radish. Nor has this accident happened but once; many cases of poisoning in this way have been recorded. And it is a very terrible thing, for a little aconite root may kill a dozen persons at a time. Aconite root is the root of the blue monk’s-hood (Aconitum Napellus), one of our native English plants. It is rare in the wild state, but is frequently grown in gardens for the sake of its fine spikes of dark blue blossoms. How the aconite root can be mistaken for horse-radish we cannot quite see, for the poisonous root is carrot-shaped, rarely more than three inches long, almost scentless, and with a bitter “mawkish” taste. The smallest quantity of the root produces, when chewed, tingling, followed by prolonged numbness of the tongue and cheeks. All parts of the monk’s-hood are extremely poisonous, but the root is the most deadly part.

And now for a few words about vegetables, the most neglected, yet one of the most important food-stuffs.

It is impossible to over-estimate the value of the potato as an article of diet. Alone it is not a good food, but it is the ideal vegetable to have with meat.

An Irishman asked a companion to dinner, and in answer to the question as to the fare, replied, “Just an illigant pace of corned bafe and pertaters.” To which his friend replied, “My own dinner to a tay, barring the bafe.” Let us hope that he accepted the invitation, for corned beef and potatoes make a good, if rough, meal, but potatoes alone are not sufficient.

It has been questioned by many persons if the introduction of the potato has proved an advantage, for it has driven out the older vegetables, such as salsify and celeriac. But if we look upon the potato merely in the light of a usurper of the place formerly occupied by other vegetables, we must still consider it as an immense boon to mankind.

That the potato is not very easily digested we grant, and it should be avoided by the subjects of dyspepsia. But in the dietary of perfectly healthy persons, the digestibility of the food is of secondary importance to that of over-strong and rich food. For as we have over and over again said, the great fault in modern diet is not that we eat too much, but that we take our food too strong.

All vegetables, especially spinach and Brussels sprouts, have lately been shown to produce marked improvement in gouty conditions; and experimental evidence has proved that their action upon gout is a definite chemical one. That gout is often in some way connected with an excessive meat diet has long been known, but it is not even now certain what it is in meat which tends to cause gout. But that the condition is markedly benefited by a vegetable diet, there is no question. The only difficulty in applying this observation to practice—and it is a real difficulty, although enthusiasts will persist in shutting their eyes to it—is that a vegetable diet is far more difficult to digest than a meat diet, and gouty persons are frequently dyspeptic.

Sweets served after dinner should always be simple. Stewed fruit, cabinet puddings, farinaceous or milk puddings, or pancakes, etc.; but not rich plum puddings or highly flavoured concoctions of any kind. Rich sweets are worse than rich entrées, for besides being equally rich in extractives, they are exceedingly indigestible.

The question as to whether ices and iced water are good to take with dinner is worth a moment’s consideration.

In very small quantities iced water is the best of all fluids to take with dinner, but the quantity taken should be very small. And the same is true of ices. A very little ice after dinner helps digestion, but a large quantity seriously injures the stomach.

Coffee in small quantities is a digestive stimulant. If taken it should be drunk immediately the dinner is completed.

Having thoroughly considered the subject, we have come to the decided conclusion that by far the best dinner for those who can afford it, with very few exceptions, is one of two courses. The first course to consist of light fish with vegetables, or a very simple entrée with vegetables; and the second to consist of a joint of meat or some equivalent also with vegetables. This may be followed by a simple sweet or savoury.

Also, we believe that the average person does not eat too much, but that she takes too much meat, far too much extractives, and too little vegetable.

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