THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. XX.—No. 1025.]

[Price One Penny.

AUGUST 19, 1899.

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

[LONDON’S FUTURE HOUSEWIVES AND THEIR TEACHERS.]
[THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.]
[CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.]
[DIET IN REASON AND IN MODERATION.]
[AN AFTERNOON “BOOK PARTY.”]
[TO NIGHT.]
[OUR LILY GARDEN.]
[CHOCOLATE DATES.]
[HOW WE MANAGED WITHOUT SERVANTS.]
[VARIETIES.]
[SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.]
[THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.]
[ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.]

LONDON’S FUTURE HOUSEWIVES AND THEIR TEACHERS.

A HOUSEWIFERY CLASS AT BATTERSEA POLYTECHNIC.

All rights reserved.]

If one stands at the entrance of a large Board school either at dinner or tea-time and watches the pupils trooping out, one often wonders what will become of all these lively children in a few years’ time, what they will make of their lives, and how enough work is to be found for them all. Has it ever struck any of my readers that, whatever the boys may do in the way of work, sooner or later that of the girls is certain? They are going to be the wives or housekeepers of these or other boys. They will be dressmakers, tailoresses, servants, factory girls or what not for a time, but their final business will be housekeeping, and housekeeping too on small means, so that a great deal of skill, care and knowledge will be needed if they are to do it well.

How are the girls to be trained for this very important work of theirs? Their school life is very short; the time they will have to spare after leaving school will be very little, their leisure hours in the evening being wanted for rest and recreation as well as for learning; it will be small wonder if many of them marry without any knowledge of household management and if the comfort and happiness of their home is ruined in consequence.

The question is so serious that people interested in education have given it a great deal of thought. There is little doubt that, if it were possible, the best plan would be to give a year’s training in housekeeping to every girl when she leaves school; but alas! since most girls from elementary schools are obliged to earn money as early as possible, this plan cannot be carried out. The only thing that can be done by the managers of elementary schools is to proceed on the principle that “half a loaf is better than no bread,” to give the girls, while still at school, weekly lessons for a certain number of weeks each year, in cookery and laundry-work, and sometimes in housewifery generally, and to encourage them to attend evening classes after they have left school. A great deal of good has been done in this way, but the children are so young and the lessons necessarily so few, so far between and so fragmentary, that the result is very far from being all that could be wished.

Seeing this, the Technical Education Board of the London County Council five years ago began to establish, one after another, Schools of Domestic Economy to which girls should go for five months at a time after leaving the ordinary schools, and where they should be occupied for the whole school hours five days a week in household work, thus giving them an opportunity of really understanding their future duties as housewives. The question of enabling poor people to afford this five months’ extra teaching for their girls was a difficult one to meet, but as far as it could be done it has been done by giving free scholarships at these schools and by providing the scholars with their dinner and tea free of cost, and providing also the material required by each girl for making herself a dress, an apron and some under-garment during her time at the school. With only two exceptions, these schools, which are nine in number, are held in the polytechnics or in technical institutes, a capital arrangement whereby the rooms needed for evening classes for adults are used also during the day-time.

Let us look in at one of the schools and see of what a day’s work consists. We will choose the school at the Battersea Polytechnic, because a Training School for Teachers is held there as well as a school for girls, and we shall have a double interest in the work. The Polytechnic is a great building standing back from Battersea Park Road, and at about nine o’clock in the morning we shall find a stream of teachers and pupils hurrying into it, masters and mistresses of the Science School, the Domestic Economy School, and the Training School for Teachers of Domestic Economy; boys and girls of the Science School; girls and women students of the two Domestic Economy Schools; and a few minutes later we shall find these all gathered in a large hall for “call over” and prayers, and then filing off to their separate departments.

Let us ask Miss Mitchell, the head of the Domestic Economy Schools, to spare us a little of her time and explain the work to us. We follow the women and girls to a separate wing of the building, and as they divide off into the different class-rooms we enter the large cookery school and watch the students in training settling down to their morning’s work, fetching their pots and pans from cupboards and shelves, looking up the list of their work on the blackboard, weighing out ingredients, and so on. We look round the room, a little confused at first with all the movement, and see that it is large and well lighted with coal-stoves at one end and gas-stoves fixed into two large tables in the centre, with a lift, up which provisions for the day are still being sent, and down which, as we find later, the dinner is to go to the dining-room punctually at one o’clock; large sinks and plate-racks are fitted in one corner, low cupboards with shelves over them run far along the walls, and at the end of the room opposite the stoves is a stepped gallery, where forty or fifty pupils can sit for demonstration lessons. The head cookery teacher is busily engaged inspecting the food materials bought in by the student-housekeeper, criticising the quality and hearing the prices given, and Miss Mitchell explains to us that the students take it in turns to be housekeepers, and have to buy in materials for dinners for some sixty people every day; they are given lists of what will be wanted by the teachers, but the whole responsibility of choosing and buying the food rests with them, and so out they go every day into the neighbouring streets, taking with them two or three girls from the Domestic Economy School, to choose fish, meat and vegetables from the shops and stalls of the neighbourhood, for they are to learn how to choose and make the best of such provisions as the working people of the neighbourhood are accustomed to buy, and capital training this is for them.

“Do the students here cook dinners for sixty people?” we ask in wonder; and in answer, Miss Mitchell takes us next door into a smaller cookery room, where fifteen girls are at work under the charge of a teacher and a student, also busy on dishes which are to be ready by dinner-time. Everything left from one day’s dinner, we are told, is brought up to the cookery schools again by the “housekeeper” to be re-cooked and made into dainty dishes—no waste of any kind is allowed.

Crossing the corridor we find two rooms given up to dressmaking and needlework; here again both students-in-training and girls are working in separate classes. One of the students, who has nearly completed her course of training, is helping a teacher with a class of girls (fifteen in number again we notice), and the other students, under the head dressmaking teacher, are busy on their own work—this morning they are drafting bodice patterns for various types of figures, but that their work is not confined to pattern-making is evident when the cupboards are opened and dresses taken out for our inspection—dresses made by each student to fit herself, funds being provided as in the case of the girls by the Technical Education Board. Very neatly made the dresses are, and proud the students seem to be of them, though their pride is tempered by anxiety as to what the examiner’s opinion of them may be when the time of examination for their diplomas comes. Each student has to make two dresses, that is, sample garments to show her plain needlework, and to learn to patch and mend old dresses and under-garments, her pride culminating in a sampler of patches, darns, and drawnthread work, such as that hanging in a show cupboard on the wall. The girls, we are told, in their shorter course make themselves one dress, one apron, and an under-garment each, and spend one lesson of two hours each week in practical mending of worn garments.

We ask why it is that every class we have seen consists of fifteen pupils only, and are told that in all classes for practical work for which funds are supplied by the Technical Education Board the number of pupils is limited to fifteen, so that the teacher may be able to attend thoroughly to the practical work of each pupil, instead of having to teach her class somewhat in the manner of a drill sergeant, as must inevitably be the case when dealing with large numbers.

But the morning is getting on, and we hurry downstairs to the laundry, perhaps the most striking of all the class-rooms, a glass partition shutting off the washing-room, with its large teak troughs where a busy set of girls are at work, from the ironing-room, fitted with long solid tables on which blouses of many shapes and colours are being ironed into crisp freshness. A special feature of the room is the white-tiled screen keeping the heat of the ironing stove, with its dozens of irons, from the rest of the room, while the height and good ventilation keep the room fresh and pleasant even in hot weather. We turn away from this vision of dainty whiteness to be in time to see the last class we are to visit this morning, the “housewifery” class, which is conducting a “spring-cleaning” in one of the social rooms of the polytechnic, which lends itself admirably for the purpose of teaching the girls how to turn out a well-furnished sitting-room. The housewifery lessons are a great feature of the Domestic Economy Schools, we hear, and include the whole routine of household work apart from actual cooking, washing, and dressmaking, these being, as we have seen, taught separately, so that girls who have gone through the course ought not to find themselves at a loss in any department of housekeeping, the whole series of lessons in each department being made to dovetail one into the other.

It is nearly one o’clock now, and Miss Mitchell asks us to come into the dining-room, where the tables are just laid for dinner, and we find the housekeeping-student in charge, lifting dishes on to “hot-plates” as they come down from the cookery schools, with the group of girls who are told off to help her giving final touches to the tables, these being laid with pretty blue and white crockery, and with here and there bunches of flowers which have been brought by one or other of the pupils. The teachers aim at having the tables laid as nicely as possible and at giving the girls a high standard of neatness and daintiness to take back with them to their own homes.

Presently a bell rings and the girls file in and take their places at three long tables, with a teacher and a student at the head and foot of each, the other students-in-training having a table to themselves. We feel rather intrusive as we watch them take their places, and, turning out of the room, ask Miss Mitchell to spare us yet a few minutes to answer some of the questions that are in our minds.

“How many of such schools are there? Where are the others, and how do the girls get their scholarships? Can we help girls we know to get such a chance, and specially how are the scholarships for training teachers to be obtained, and what chance is there for these teachers at the end of their two years’ training?” Miss Mitchell tells us laughingly that to answer all this fully would take much more than a few minutes, but this much she can say: that at present, though the number of schools is far from enough to give as many scholarships as are needed for all London, they are steadily increasing in number; there are such schools at the Borough, Chelsea, Woolwich, Clerkenwell, St. John’s Wood, Bloomsbury, Wandsworth and Norwood, while others will be opened in Holloway, at Globe Road, Bow, and at Deptford next term: that the girls’ scholarships are given on their being nominated by their school mistresses for the approval of the Technical Education Board, and that therefore anyone interested in getting such a scholarship for a working girl should write to the offices of the Technical Education Board of the London County Council for information, and then get the girl to apply to her mistress for a nomination for next term. As regards the training scholarships, they have to be won by passing an examination, not in itself very stiff, but sufficient to ensure that the teachers of domestic economy trained in the school shall possess a fairly good general education. All particulars can be obtained from the offices of the Technical Education Board. As to the chance of employment, the experience of teachers holding good diplomas from the Battersea Training School has been very happy, few of them having had to wait long for work. And so she wishes us good-bye, and we leave the building feeling that we have had a glance into a new world, one full of energy and hopefulness, and giving promise of happier conditions of life for future generations of citizens in our great city.

A NEEDLEWORK CLASS, BATTERSEA POLYTECHNIC.

THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

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

CHAPTER XXI.

THE TELEGRAM FROM THE NORTH.

The days went on: the mysterious “knocks” did not recur, and as the police inspector made no more inquiries, and the Marvels attempted no further intercourse with the little house with the verandah, the very memory of them readily faded from the minds of the little household there, and especially from that of its mistress, ever becoming more pre-occupied with the prolonged delay of letters from Charlie, or indeed of any news from the Slains Castle.

Lucy’s brother-in-law, Mr. Brand, went down to Bath to attend Mr. Bray’s funeral, and his wife Florence accompanied him “to be with the dear old lady in her sorrow.” Indeed, Mr. Brand left his wife with the widow while he went to and fro between Bath and London, looking after his own business and winding up Mr. Bray’s affairs. Lucy would have liked to visit the old lady in the early days of bereavement, but, of course, in her circumstances any such expression of sympathy was out of the question. Still, every evening, no matter how tired and despondent she felt she wrote a loving little note to her mother’s old friend, so that every morning she might find it on her breakfast-table. Also, Lucy copied a little picture of the Surrey village where she knew Mrs. Bray had first met her dead husband, and she sent it to the widow as a tender sign of sympathy. Lucy did not wonder that Mrs. Bray herself never acknowledged these tokens of love, for she knew the lady was old and feeble, and that deep grief is sometimes very silent. She knew that Mrs. Bray received all her remembrances, for Florence wrote delivering the old lady’s “thanks for all kindnesses,” and adding how grateful she also was for Florence’s companionship, and for all the arrangements “Jem” was making for her welfare.

“There is not so much property left as one might have supposed, considering that Mr. Bray has earned such a large income for so many years,” wrote Florence. “But then the Brays have always lived among people of rank and wealth, and naturally they got into the habit of spending as their friends did.”

“Ah,” said Miss Latimer, as Lucy read the letter to her. “In that way, earned incomes, however big, soon break up and vanish, as did the clay jar in the fable, when it raced with the iron pot!”

Lucy resumed her reading. “Florence goes on: ‘Never mind; they have both enjoyed the best of everything, and have had many advantages which they might not have had, if people had not believed them to be rich. Jem is always saying that there’s nothing so expensive as poverty. Therefore, though there is not much property left, it won’t matter much, for in many ways Mrs. Bray’s spending days are necessarily over. Jem is managing so cleverly that she will scarcely know she is poorer than she used to be. She will even be able to afford to go on living in the same house, when she returns to London. It would be a great trial to her if she could not hope to do that—and it can be managed, for, you see, she is old and can’t live long. She trusts Jem implicitly and leaves everything to him. She always says, “I don’t want to know anything about money matters; I never have known and I don’t wish to begin now. I ask for nothing but my little comforts and Rachel to look after me.” And then Jem assures her that is quite easy, and so she is satisfied. I can’t think what Mrs. Bray would do without Rachel. She is more devoted to her mistress than ninety-nine daughters out of a hundred are to their mothers. I don’t anticipate that my girls will be half so kind to me when my dismal days come—and of course, I hope they’ll be married and gone off long before I’m an old woman. I should not like to be the mother of ungathered wall-flowers! But where am I likely to find a Rachel? I’ll just have to go and stay at an ”hydropathic“ when I’m an old woman. But old age is a long way off yet—and I devoutly trust that I’ll be dead before it comes.’”

Those last words struck Lucy. She had heard them before—the very same words—spoken by a humble working woman, whose strenuous labours could not provide for more than the wants of each day.

All that woman’s year’s work for a certain company had actually brought her in less than Jem Brand got as annual dividend upon each hundred pounds he had invested in its shares. Lucy had heard that woman say, “I’ve only one chance to escape the workhouse. I hope I’ll die before I am old.”

The poor overworked woman had felt thus for one reason, and now the wealthy idle woman felt so for another. What did it all mean? Where had life gone wrong? Of these two women, one had all that the other lacked, yet it did not suffice to save her from the worst bitterness of that other life. Lucy remembered having read somewhere that Lazarus does not perish for lack of aught that is good for Dives, but for lack of that excess by which Dives destroys himself.

But in these days Lucy did not think over theories and practices as she had been wont to do. She hardly dared to think at all, for the moment thought got a-working, it seized on the terrible reality that still neither word nor sign came from Charlie!

A delay so prolonged must mean something. If it meant some rearrangement of plan, or unexpected detention at the port of some Pacific Island, then surely a letter would have come. Nay, Lucy felt certain that if Charlie knew that any suspense were likely to arise, then a telegram would have arrived. Charlie and she had made their thrifty little pre-arrangements on that score. His firm had a code name, and they had agreed that this, with the name “Challoner”—the word “saw” to stand for “safe and well”—was to suffice for Lucy in case of any unforeseen contingencies.

But no letter came and no such telegram came!

Alarm had now a wider basis than anxiety for Charlie’s health. An inquiry sent to Mrs. Grant in Peterhead promptly brought back a quite remarkably brief answer that she too had heard nothing. Inquiries made at the London office of the shipping firm concerned with the Slains Castle elicited that they too had no tidings, though they made light of the fact, and dwelt on the many delays to which sailing-vessels were subject.

Lucy’s anxiety swamped all her other worries, though unconsciously to herself those worries might still prey on the nerve and fortitude which endurance of the great trial demanded.

What did it matter now when the little china tea-set which had been one of her birthday gifts to Charlie was dashed to the ground and almost every piece of it shivered to fragments? It grieved her once; now it did not affect her at all, save as a type of the general wreckage into which life seemed breaking up.

She did not give much attention to Clementina’s eagerly-tendered defence concerning the accident, given thus—

“I had nothing to do with it, ma’am. I was in the back kitchen at the time, and I’d left it sitting safely on the dresser. Then all of a sudden I heard the crash, and when I looked in, there it was—all in fragments on the floor.”

“You must have placed it too near the edge of the dresser, Clementina,” urged Miss Latimer, “and the slight oscillation caused by some heavy vehicle passing by must have caused it to tilt over.”

It was strange that Clementina repudiated this explanation.

“I didn’t hear any heavy traffic,” she answered. “There’s never much of it near here, anyway. No, ma’am, such things will happen sometimes, and there’s no accounting for them and there’s no use in trying to do it.”

If Lucy’s attention could have been directed towards anything but the terrible fear which absorbed all her soul, she might have noticed that at this time Miss Latimer became rather anxious and observant concerning Clementina. The old lady was aware that the servant was growing restless and uneasy. Her superstitions seemed all astir. She began to see omens on every side. The tense atmosphere of the household mind evidently affected her very much. Miss Latimer could only hope that it would not affect her so much as to cause her to “give notice.” For in many ways the old lady’s experience told her that Clementina was a treasure not to be found every day, since she was scrupulously honest, clean and industrious, and the very last person likely to have questionable “followers.”

So the dreary days went on in the shadow of the storm-cloud, now so lowering that it became too much to hope that it would pass over harmlessly.

The monotony was broken at last by a telegram which came in late one evening. But it did not come to end Lucy’s agony of suspense, either by joy or sorrow. It was simply a telegram from Mrs. Grant of Peterhead, announcing that by the time it reached Lucy she would be on her way to London, as she had despatched the message just as her train was starting. She might be expected by the first train reaching London in the morning.

“What does this mean?” asked Lucy with white lips.

Miss Latimer and Tom strove to soothe her by assuring her that naturally Mrs. Grant was as anxious as herself. Perhaps she wanted to seek further information about the Slains Castle, or possibly to consult with Lucy as to whether there were joint steps that they might take in search of news. Lucy was not readily pacified. Her first fear had been that Mrs. Grant had had private word of the loss of the ship and her passenger and crew, and that she kindly wished to communicate this news to Lucy personally. It was comparatively easy to persuade her that this was most unlikely. Her next misgiving was more difficult to dislodge. It was that Mrs. Grant had at last heard from her husband with some bad news of Charlie—a private matter with which, of course, owners and underwriters could have nothing to do. This foreboding could only be allayed by Mrs. Grant herself.

The north train arrived so early at the terminus not far from Pelham Street that Mrs. Challoner and Tom were able to go and meet the traveller before they were respectively due at the Institute and the office. They had breakfast (as indeed they often did) by gaslight, and then hurried off, Lucy taking Hugh with them. Lucy could not bear him to be out of her sight now for one moment more than was necessary, and Hugh himself begged to be taken. Miss Latimer had not yet come downstairs when they departed, but Clementina protested that “the precious darling” might well be left with her—her work was so well in hand that she need do nothing but amuse him—it was a pity he had even been roused up when he might have had another hour’s sweet sleep, and she wondered his ma wasn’t afraid to take him out when the morning was so dull and raw, an argument which would have overcome Lucy but for Hugh’s plucking at her gown and pleading, “Take me with you, mamma, take me with you.”

It was no distracted weeping woman who descended from the through train. Mrs. Grant came out briskly, and looking round at once recognised the group awaiting her, though she had never before seen more of them than a photograph of Lucy. The worthy lady had travelled with plenty of comfortable wraps and a hamper of home-made food. It gave Lucy some reassurance to note this practical attention to creature necessities. She could scarcely realise that the sailor’s wife, a resident in a seaport town, had already stood so often, for herself and for others, in catastrophes of life and death, hope and despair, that she had learned that our bodies require adequate support and consolation if they are, ably and long, to serve and second our spiritual nature, above all our powers of endurance and initiative.

“I’ve got no news for you, neither good nor bad,” she said promptly. “If aught has happened to your husband it has happened to my good man too. But it’s my private belief that the office folks here know a little more than they will admit. I got a letter from them yesterday afternoon saying that they know nothing at all, and I disbelieve that so much that it was this very letter which made me start off here straightway. If they do know anything I’ll manage to get it out of them.

“I don’t imagine they know much,” she hurried on, noting the whiteness of Lucy’s face. “If they knew much we should hear fast enough, never you fear. But whatever they know, little or much, I’ll know too, before I go home!”

As she spoke, the cab drew up at the Challoners’ house. In the dining-room the lamps were still alight, revealing the bounteous breakfast-table which Clementina had spread after removing the impromptu cups of tea which Lucy and Tom had hastily snatched before going out. But as Tom opened the hall door with his latchkey he was met by a pungent odour not given off by toast and ham.

“An escape of gas!” he cried.

(To be continued.)

CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.

By MARGARET INNES.

CHAPTER XI.

HARD WORK FOR THE MEN—HARDER WORK STILL FOR THE WOMEN—THE CISTERN—RATTLESNAKES—THE GARDEN—HOMESICKNESS—PIPE-LAYING.

The ordinary business man at home in England would think it rather a mad suggestion if his friend were to prophesy that some day he would have to set to and make his own roads, the drive up to his house, lay his own water-pipes from the main, build his own rain-water cistern and cesspool, dig and plant his own garden, and fence that in too.

I think he would be equally surprised if he could realise how quickly and easily he would adapt himself to such unaccustomed work, and how well he could accomplish it.

To the man who loves an outdoor life, and is clever with his hands, and has ingenuity, too, and some skill in creating something out of nothing, “making history,” there is much zest and enjoyment in all this. But, of course, it is very hard work; and when the sun is fierce (which it usually is), the glare and heat are most trying, out on the perfectly shadeless stretches of land.

The body does not accustom itself easily to these new labours, and the new burden must not be laid upon it too heavily; all the health-giving power of ranch life depends largely upon this precaution. Therefore the question of being able to pay for necessary help is a very important one. It is pitiful to see the weary, broken struggles of men untrained and unaccustomed to the heavy physical work of a ranch, and unable to pay for help. A breakdown, more or less serious, is almost certain, when the work all falls behind, and things become more and more hopeless. It is a great mistake for a delicate man, who has broken down at his office work at home in England, to come out here to ranch, thinking to recover his health in the open-air life, but not having at the same time the means to pay for help, nor the capital to be able to wait the necessary years till his ranch can yield an income.

Of course, I am not speaking of the man born and bred to such work at home; he will find a true land of promise here; the pay he can command (one dollar a day and his board), will soon enable him, if he is a thrifty fellow, to buy a bit of land and build a home of his own, such as he could not dream of in the old country; and the work is what he has always been accustomed to, and for which his body has been trained for generations.

But for the man of gentle birth and breeding it is a very different story. He would be better shut up in an office at home.

The life is splendidly healthy so long as one is not overdriven; the physical exercise of the different occupations, and all in the open air, is like the training of an athlete. Hoeing round the lemon trees is as good for the chest and arms of the labourer as for the roots of the lemon trees; but only always if the worker be not overtaxed. Indeed, from our experience it is only by carrying on sure regular active work in the open air that one gets the real benefit from this climate.

With thirty-one acres planted, we have found the help of one ranchman with Larry, our eldest son, and his father to be sufficient; so all our digging and piping and road-making went forward without too heavy a strain. The accepted theory is that one man can manage ten acres of planted land, and do justice to it; and a ranchman costs from twenty to thirty dollars a month, and his keep.

If the rough work and life are hard for men to accustom themselves to, it is much harder still for the women, especially, of course, for delicate women, who are supposed to have been brought out “for their health.” And here is the place to point out what a farce it is to suppose that any frail woman could possibly get any benefit out of the finest climate in the world if, in addition to the burden of her illness, she has to take upon herself the onerous duties of cook and housemaid and charwoman, and everything combined. Again the important question is whether the rancher has money enough to pay the very high wage demanded for even the simplest household help during at least five years, while he is waiting for his ranch to yield an income. Even then the wife must be prepared to work much harder than she was ever accustomed to at home, since one pair of hands, even if they are the most talented Chinese hands, necessarily leave a very great deal to be done. In our case, for instance, the Chinaman never touches the bedrooms or drawing-room, except to turn them out once a fortnight, when he leaves them fairly clean, but all topsy-turvy.

But this is as nothing, when one sees so many ranchers’ wives doing without any help at all. That is a cruel life for any man to bring his wife to, unless he has absolutely no other choice; it is to my mind quite unforgivable. Let such men come without womenfolk.

We had a wearisome long piece of work—building the rain-water cistern and the cesspool, for they had to be dug out of the hard granite. The cistern was finished, however, in time to catch part of the winter’s rain, and though we feared it would become stagnant, this danger was quite overcome by the simple little pump used, which is made almost exactly after the pattern of the old Egyptian pumps, and consists of a chain of small buckets, which revolves, and as one half come up and empty themselves through the pump spout, the other half go down into the water full of air; and thus the contents of the cistern are in this way constantly revitalised.

We have never done congratulating ourselves on possessing this cistern, for the water is always cool and sweet, and as our roof is very large, it soon fills the cistern, which holds three hundred barrels, and lasts all the year. The flume water, which we use in irrigation, and which is also laid on in the house for the boiler, etc., comes from the mountains in an open aqueduct or flume. It is at times full of moss and impurities, and is besides quite tepid in the summer.

We had many discussions, standing on our front verandah, and looking down the rough hill slope, as to how the drive should be laid out. We meant to have an avenue of pepper trees on each side, and once these were planted, the road could not well be altered. Meanwhile, sixteen more acres had been cleared of roots and brush, ploughed and harrowed for more lemon trees. In the spring we planted seven hundred young trees, which made in all one thousand five hundred.

The kitchen garden was set in order, and fenced in to keep out the squirrels and rabbits. They were a great nuisance that first year, but have now retired to their own wild part of the land, which certainly is roomy enough. The rattlesnakes, too, though we were constantly coming across them in the beginning, have now quietly withdrawn to the stony mountain tops.

That first year I was haunted with the fear of those hideous creatures, and the dread of an accident to one of my dear ranchers.

But all the same, it was a thrilling excitement when each one was caught and brought down to the barn to be gloated over; and though it was dead, it would still wriggle its ugly body, and snap its terrible jaws at anything that might touch it, and with the power still of deadly effect.

One of the boys brought down from the hill a particularly large fellow, hanging on a forked stick, its frightful mouth gaping so wide open that the whole head seemed split in two, and big amber-coloured drops of the terrible poison hanging to its fangs.

One certainly gets accustomed to anything; and here even the little children think nothing of killing a rattlesnake on their way to school. It is true they are easily killed, and are always in a hurry to get away. The danger is, of course, that one may tread on them unawares, for their skin is so like the colour of the ground. But on the road they are easily seen, and in walking through the brush one keeps a sharp look-out.

The house looked terribly bare, perched on the hill-top, without a touch of green about it and no single patch of shade far or near, so we were in a great hurry to make the garden, which was to surround the house, but was only to be a small one, as when once we had made it, we should, of course, have to keep it in order ourselves. When it was finished, we could not but laugh at our cypress hedge of baby trees about ten inches high, standing round so valiantly, and through which the smallest chicken walked with easy dignity. However, now it is a thick green wall, six or eight feet high, and there is a fence as well to keep out barn-yard intruders.

Shade trees were planted, perhaps too profusely, in our eagerness for the shade and the dear green for which our eyes so hungered.

Among the many different pangs of homesickness, a longing for the trees, and the beautiful green of England, is almost as painful as the sehnsucht that pinches one so surely at times, for the sight of an old friend’s face.

We are unusually fortunate in having within reach exceptionally charming cultivated people; and their kindliness to the newcomers, has made all the difference to us in the happiness of our social life.

But old friends grow ever dearer to the exiled ones, and I often think that if those at home who have friends in “foreign parts” knew with what joy and gratitude each simple sign is received, which proves that still they are remembered, then, indeed, many an odd paper, or little book, would be dropped into the post, when time or inclination for letter-writing failed. The paper has tenfold its value, because of the unwritten message it conveys from friend to friend.

After the garden was finished, we cleared a piece of land on the hilltop, at the back of the ranch, about one acre in size, and made a small plantation there of eucalyptus, for firewood; it grows very fast and needs little attention. Also six acres on the hill-slopes, that lay too high for irrigation, and therefore would not do for lemons, we cleared, and planted with peaches.

In April we worked hard, laying more piping. Pipe-laying is the pain and crucifixion of a rancher’s life. No part of the work is so detested; it is very back-breaking work to begin with, and there are frantic half hours spent over screws that will not screw, where the thread of the pipe has been broken or injured in the transit, or faultily made; and there are the bends in the land, which the pipe has to be coaxed round, and there are “elbows,” and “tees,” and “unions,” and “crosses,” and “hydrants,” each of which has its own separate way of being exasperating.

(To be continued.)

DIET IN REASON AND IN MODERATION.

By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

PART II.

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.

TO NIGHT.

Come, solemn Night, and spread thy pall

Wide o’er the slumbering shore and sea,

And hang along thy vaulted hall

The star-lights of eternity;

Thy beacons, beautiful and bright—

Isles in the ocean of the blest—

That guide the parted spirit’s flight

Unto the land of rest.

Come—for the evening glories fade,

Quenched in the ocean’s depths profound;

Come with thy solitude and shade,

Thy silence and thy sound;

Awake the deep and lonely lay

From wood and stream, of saddening tone;

The harmonies unheard by day,

The music all thine own!

And with thy starry eyes that weep

Their silent dews on flower and tree,

My heart shall solemn vigils keep—

My thoughts converse with thee;

Upon whose glowing page expand

The revelations of the sky;

Which knowledge teach to every land,

Of man’s high destiny.

For while the mighty orbs of fire

(So “wildly bright” they seem to live)

Feel not the beauty they inspire,

Nor see the light they give;

Even I, an atom of the earth—

Itself an atom ’midst the frame

Of nature—can inquire their birth,

And ask them whence they came.

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.

[Photo by F. Hanfstaengl.

NIGHT.

(From the painting by Gabriel Max.)

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.)

CHOCOLATE DATES.

Have you ever tasted chocolate dates? If so, these directions will be almost needless to you, for I fancy that you will not have stopped at a taste, but will have tried and found out a way to manufacture them for yourself. But so far as I know, these dates are, as yet, quite a home-made sweet, and they are so delicious and so wholesome that they ought to be more widely known. Here then is the recipe. Any sort of dates and any sort of chocolate may be used, but the best results are got from the best materials in confectionary even more than in other work. Take then a pound of Tunis dates, either bought in the familiar oblong boxes or by the pound. Leave out any which are not perfectly ripe; the soapy taste of one of these paler, firmer dates is enough to disgust anyone with dates for ever. Wipe the others very gently with a damp cloth (dates are not gathered by the Dutch!), slit them lengthwise with a silver knife, but only so far as to enable you to extract the kernel without bruising the fruit. Then prepare the chocolate. Grate a quarter of a pound of best French chocolate, add an equal weight of fresh icing sugar, two tablespoonfuls of boiling water, and mix in a small brass or earthenware saucepan over the fire until quite smooth, only it must not boil; last of all add a few drops of vanilla.

Then put your small saucepan inside a larger one half filled with boiling water, just to keep the chocolate fluid until all the dates are filled. Take up a little of the mixture in a teaspoon, press open the date, and pour it neatly in. There must be no smears or threads of chocolate if your confectionary is to look dainty. When about a dozen are filled, gently press the sides together, and the chocolate should just show a shiny brown ridge in the middle of the date. Place on a board in a cool place to harden; they may be packed up next day.

Almost as nice as chocolate dates are nougat dates. The foundation for the nougat is the same as for American candies: the white of one egg and an equal quantity of cold water to half a pound of sifted icing sugar, all mixed perfectly smoothly together. Then chop equal quantities of blanched walnuts, almonds, Brazils, and hazel nuts together, mix with the sugar in the proportion of two thirds of nut to one of the sugar mixture, and leave until next day in the cellar. By that time the nougat will be firm enough to form into kernels by gently rolling between the hands; if it sticks, your hands are too warm. It is best to do this part of the work in the cellar. Having stoned and first wiped your dates, put in the nougat kernels, gently pressing the sides together; they will harden in a short time, and very pretty they look packed alternately with the chocolate dates in fancy boxes. Tunis dates do not keep good much longer than two months, the grocer tells me; we have never been able to keep them half that time to try! Of course, you can use the commoner dates, which are very good to eat, but hardly so nice to look at as the others, because on account of their more sugary consistency it is impossible to fill them so neatly as the moister Tunis dates. Tafilat dates are somehow too dry and solid to combine well either with nuts or chocolate.

HOW WE MANAGED WITHOUT SERVANTS.

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

CHAPTER III.

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.

Some Gaelic Proverbs.

Most shallow—most noisy.

The eye of a friend is an unerring mirror.

Oft has the wise advice proceeded from the mouth of folly.

As a man’s own life, so is his judgment of the lives of others.

God cometh in the time of distress, and it is no longer distress when He comes.

The fortunate man awaits and he shall arrive in peace; the unlucky hastens and evil shall be his fate.

Life and Death.

I live, and yet I know not why,

Unless it be I live to die:

I die—and dying live in vain,

Unless I die to live again.

An Absolute Certainty.—Amid the mysteries which become the more mysterious the more they are thought about, there will remain the one absolute certainty that man is ever in presence of an Infinite and Eternal Energy from which all things proceed.

Passing an Examination.

Here is how Professor William James of Harvard, in his student days, passed an examination before the late Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes.

The first question put to him was as to the nerves at the base of the brain. It so happened that Mr. James was well up in the subject, and he promptly gave an exhaustive reply.

“Oh, well, if you know that you know everything,” said Dr. Holmes cheerfully. “Let’s talk about something else. How are all your people at home?”

SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

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

CHAPTER XX.

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!