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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.—NO. 1011.] MAY 13, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
GOOD NIGHT.
BY SARAH DOUDNEY.
[Illustration: “SLEEP, SISTER, SLEEP.”]
_All rights reserved._]
Sleep, sister, sleep, while the lovely light
Shines still through the dark old firs;
The birds sleep sound in their nests all night,
And only the wild wind stirs;
Far over the hills and far away
The earth is losing its gold;
And sheep-bells chime through the twilight grey,
While the flocks come home to fold.
Lie down, my dear, in your own warm nest,
And sister will sit and sing
When mother watches her darling’s rest,
And the stars are clustering
Like silver flowers in the darkened sky,
And the toil of man is done;
Sleep, baby, sleep to my lullaby,
And wake with the waking sun!
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object
in Life,” etc.
CHAPTER VII.
THE ROOTS OF HOSPITALITY.
Lucy paid no heed to her sister’s words, being diverted by another
bit of by-play. “Jessie Morison’s” keen grey eyes had fallen on
little Hugh, and her face had instantly broken into a smile. Could
this superior, experienced, well-trained woman really want a general
servant’s place?
“Yes, ma’am,” said Jessie Morison, “I’m wanting a quiet place that I
could keep nice and comfortable.”
“But I have hitherto had quite a young woman,” urged Mrs. Challoner.
“There are only myself and the little boy—until my husband comes home
from a voyage,” she explained.
Jessie Morison pondered.
“That will suit me nicely,” she said. “Did the girl do the washing,
ma’am?”
“Yes,” answered Lucy; “but——”
“I’m a capital washer,” said Jessie Morison, “and I dress well, too.
I shouldn’t need help, ma’am—no, not for such a small family. I don’t
like strangers coming about my kitchen, they make more work than they
do.”
“We dine early,” said Lucy. “There are but few visitors. But you would
have everything to do in the house; and while my husband is away, I
shall not be able to give much help, as I am busy otherwise.”
“It’s not a very large house, maybe?” asked Jessie, in a pleasant tone,
suggesting only that in her opinion a small house was the proper thing.
“No, it is a small house,” said Lucy. “Have you always been in service?”
“Well, ma’am, yes and no. I was in service as a girl. Then I got
married. I’m a widow, ma’am. He only lived three years. He was thrown
from a horse. I’ve been in service since.”
“How long were you in your last situation, and where was it?” inquired
Lucy.
“It was near Edinburgh, ma’am—between Edinburgh and Berwick—and I was
there twenty years.” She said this quite simply, as if she had no idea
of effect.
“Twenty years!” echoed Lucy.
“Yes, ma’am. I was with the lady and gentleman first, and when he died,
I lived on with the mistress. She died last year.”
“What made you come away from all your friends to London?” Mrs.
Challoner asked.
“Well, I hadn’t many friends to leave—we’d lived terrible
quiet-like—and I had a cousin and his wife with a nice home near
London, and they asked me up for a visit, and now I’d sooner stay here
than go back.”
“From whom shall I get your references?” asked Lucy, putting the
question almost reluctantly.
“Well, you see, the family I’ve been with is all gone, ma’am. And the
poor mistress she was bed-rid for nigh ten years, and few folks came
about her. When I left the North, I hardly knew what I was going to
do—I half thought of a little shop, ma’am—but I thought I’d keep on the
safe side in case I decided on another place. So I got lines from the
parish minister and from my mistress’s lawyer. There was nobody knew me
better as woman or worker than them two. There’s the papers, ma’am, and
they said they’d answer any other inquiries; but they couldn’t well say
more than they’ve said there.”
Mrs. Challoner took the manuscripts. She read the shorter first. It
was from the lawyer. The paper was stamped with a good Edinburgh legal
address, and the handwriting was professional and educated. The missive
was in note form.
“Mr. McGillvray has known Mrs. Jessie Morison for many years as the
sole household help and personal attendant of a lately deceased lady,
Mrs. Bruce of Ashfield. She was much valued and trusted by her late
mistress, and so far as Mr. McGillvray had opportunity to observe, she
was attentive and punctilious in the discharge of all her duties.”
The minister’s testimonial was longer and stronger. The Rev. John
Black, of the Established Manse, Mickleton, addressing the unknown
as “Dear Sir or Madam,” said that he had very much pleasure in
recommending Mrs. Jessie Morison to anybody who would appreciate
faithful service such as she had rendered for twenty years to employers
who had owed most of their comfort and security to her diligence and
devotion. He also knew Mrs. Jessie Morison to be a kind and helpful
neighbour. He sincerely hoped that she might find a new sphere in
which her capacities and qualities might prove useful to others and
beneficial to herself.
“These seem very satisfactory,” said Lucy.
“If you don’t think she is too old, you should be satisfied,” murmured
Florence, who had looked over the testimonials while Mrs. Challoner
read them.
“Only it is more satisfactory to have a personal reference,” Lucy went
on. After what she had recently seen and heard, this seemed so much too
good to be true that it flashed across her mind it might be a case of
personation. Yet when she looked up at the douce, middle-aged face,
she rebuked herself for the suspicion.
Jessie Morison did not resent the hesitation.
“I know it’s awkward,” she admitted; “but you might write to the
gentlemen. I tell you they promised me they would answer any question.”
Lucy reflected. She did not see how that would help her. If there was
anything unsound in the matter, more written testimonials would thicken
the plot rather than clear it. Yet how natural and inevitable the
circumstances seemed! How wrong it would be to let this nice woman slip
through her fingers merely for the sake of a mere convention!
“Is there nobody within reach who can say a word for you?” she
suggested.
“Well, ma’am,” said Jessie Morison anxiously, “of course, there’s my
cousins; but I didn’t like to mention them, because most ladies would
think relations don’t count for much. They’re highly respectable.
He’s got a shop, and they’ve lived in the same house for years, and
everybody knows them.”
“I think that will do,” Lucy conceded. After all, it seemed only a
question of identity, and this inquiry would surely settle that.
“Very well, ma’am, thank you kindly. There’s my cousin’s business card,
ma’am, and the dwelling-house is along with the shop. When will you
likely call, ma’am?”
“Some time in the course of to-morrow,” Lucy answered. “Is there any
particular time more suitable than another?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, they’re always at home at work—him in his shop, and her
in her house. I only wanted to hear that you’d come at once, ma’am, for
I’m so eager to get settled.”
“It shall be settled by to-morrow evening,” Lucy promised. “Good
morning, Mrs. Morison.”
“Good morning, ma’am, and thank you, and I think you’ll find everything
all right.”
Lucy was already joyfully gathering up her possessions. As for little
Hugh, he sprang forward and danced a jig with delight at the prospect
of departure. His mother turned to take courteous leave of the knitting
lady, who looked up with an inscrutable smile.
“I congratulate you,” she remarked. “I suppose you think you have got
off easily?”
“I think I am suited,” Lucy said with an air of triumph to the registry
clerk, when she found her. “When ought I to pay my fee?”
“You can pay it now, ma’am. Five shillings. Oh, do you think it
expensive, ma’am? Remember that for the same fee, if you choose, you
can come here every day and all day long till you do get suited! We
arrange so in case ladies are not fortunate at first. We make only
the same charge for hiring cooks or housemaids, but then they are more
easily got than generals, and also they pay a percentage on their wages
when they are hired. We charge the ‘generals’ nothing, poor things.”
“Fancy taking out your money’s worth by sitting there ‘till one is
suited,’” cried Lucy, when they were once more outside in the fresh air.
“And did you see, Florence, the cousin’s address is at Willesden, and I
shall have to lose another whole November day’s light in going there.”
“No, you needn’t,” said Florence, “not if you’ll trust me. I’ve an
acquaintance at Willesden to whom I owe a call, so if you like I’ll
kill the two birds with one stone. If everything is satisfactory, I’ll
engage this woman on your behalf, and send you a wire that it is all
right, and naming the day when she can come. You’ll be glad of her as
soon as possible. I promised you I’d see you through this, Luce.”
Lucy was glad to feel that the said promise had not been absolutely
forgotten, and she gratefully accepted the offered help.
“Of course, she’s too old. I don’t advise you to take her, remember
that,” Florence went on. “But your heart is set on it.”
“I can’t bear to talk of such a woman as being ‘too old,’” cried Lucy.
“I hope nobody will think me ‘too old’ when I am forty-five! Such
years have not reached the infirmities of age, and if they have lost
something, surely they have gained more. She may not run upstairs as
quickly as a girl, but she must have sense and experience, and can be
safely left in charge of the house, which is most important when I have
outdoor engagements.”
“You being so determined to have her, and she so eager to come,”
remarked Florence, “I think you might have brought down the wages a
little.”
“Why, you told me I should have to offer more!” said Lucy, aghast.
“Yes; but people don’t care for servants with grey hair. If she’d an
ounce of _savoir faire_, she’d have dyed it.”
“Oh, horrid, horrid, Florence!” exclaimed Lucy. “I can’t bear to hear
you talk so. It was the grey hair which helped her to look so nice.”
It was not far past Lucy’s early dinner-hour. So she meant to hurry
home. She invited Florence to come also, but Florence said no, she
would get lunch near at hand, and then go straight home to dress for
afternoon calls.
“I don’t see that you couldn’t do the same if you came with us,” Lucy
urged, for she had a hospitable soul, and it hurt her to part from her
sister directly she had used her, and when she was willing to be useful
again on the morrow. On the other hand, had she gone with Florence to
a restaurant, she knew that Florence would not only have refused to be
her guest, but would have insisted that Lucy and Hugh should be hers,
and would have “treated” them to all sorts of luxuries in a way which
always made Lucy wish she could set the same money going in other
directions.
But Florence was deaf to all persuasions. To own the truth, she felt
relieved to get rid of her sister, for, as she said to herself, “the
worry and the bad atmosphere of the last two hours had made her feel so
‘exhausted’ that she meant to recuperate with champagne, and she knew
Lucy would be shocked.”
Lucy too, on reaching home, found herself more weary than she would
have been after a hard day’s work. However, as the “light” had gone,
there was nothing very pressing to do, and she went to bed early—very
soon after Hugh’s usual bed-time.
Next afternoon the promised message from Florence duly arrived—
“Everything all right. She will enter service to-morrow before noon.”
“Before noon” proved to be directly after ten o’clock in the morning,
when Jessie Morison presented herself as comely and comfortable as
before. In expectation of her arrival, Mrs. Challoner had dispensed
with the charwoman, and had busied herself trying to give the kitchen
its former trim aspect, already somewhat dimmed in the hands of the
muddling, untrained worker. After giving a few necessary instructions,
she delivered up the lower regions to their new ruler, and betook
herself to her sketching. After dinner she would devote the rest of the
day to household explanations.
The simple midday meal almost startled Lucy by the savouriness of its
preparation, and the daintiness of its arrangement. It was evident
that Jessie Morison knew her business. Under her touch the fire glowed
into genial brightness. Her skilful shake gave the sofa cushions a
tempting rotundity. She received all her mistress’s directions with
the masterly comprehension of one who knows the ground already. By
tea-time, it seemed as if she had been in the house for months, and
when, before retiring to rest, Mrs. Challoner went down into the
kitchen to ascertain whether all outlets were properly fastened up, she
thought she had never seen a pleasanter picture of middle-aged industry
and worth. Jessie Morison sat in the arm-chair, over whose back she had
thrown a Rob-Roy plaid. She was busily knitting a long grey stocking.
The lamp was drawn up beside her, and its light fell full on the
smiling face she turned to her mistress. She wore a grey woollen shawl
pinned across her comfortable bosom by a Scotch pebble brooch, and the
cap surmounting her silvered hair was no frivolous fly-away dab of mock
lace, but an efficient affair whose neat frills were the product of
honest laundry-work and goffering irons. It actually came into Lucy’s
mind that she might almost be thankful that Pollie had departed in
quest of personal happiness, since Charlie might be easily assured that
his dear ones and his home were safer than ever in the charge of this
matronly, motherly person.
The days passed on. Lucy found herself free to work with an
unencumbered mind. The new servant proved as pleasant as efficient.
She was not a woman who talked much, but when addressed, she
always responded cheerily, expressed herself nicely, and frequently
made shrewd remarks, well set off by her Scottish dialect. Lucy
was especially touched by the real right feeling she showed in any
observation which glanced towards the absent “master” whom she had
never seen. She felt that it was a comfort to have in the house this
experienced woman, who had known a wife’s love and a widow’s loss.
There seemed a human bond between them in the thick clumsy little Bible
with the Scotch metrical Psalms, which lay on the kitchen dresser, its
fly-leaf inscribed “To Jessie Milne, from her respectful friend Alex^r.
Morison,” with a date of the courting days five and twenty years ago.
Christmas drew near. Lucy had wondered a little over Christmas. She
felt sure the Brands would invite her and Hugh to their festive board,
but she did not want to go there. She knew well enough how the Brands
kept Christmas, for she and Charlie had dined with them on one or two
Christmas days when they were first married. There would be a great
dinner-party—a _chef_ hired for the occasion. With the exception of
one or two fawning familiars of the Brand household—and especially
obnoxious to Lucy—the guests would be anybody who was in special favour
at the time, many of them financial or fashionable acquaintances of
the last twelve months. These people would pick over and waste the
delicious food placed before them, they would drink much costly wine.
There would be toasts, which would range from the last “Company” in
which Jem Brand was interested, down to our “Absent Friends,” which he
would certainly propose if Lucy were there. There would follow a little
confused music in the drawing-room, overmastered by everybody talking
at once and yet saying nothing. Then before the party broke up, they
would all stand round with linked hands, and these people, who had not
a memory, an outlook, or even an interest in common (unless it might be
in a “Company”), would ask in London tones, “Should auld acquaintance
be forgot?” singing—
“We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn,
Frae mornin’ sun till dine:
But seas between us braid hae roared,
Sin’ auld lang syne.”
No, Lucy felt that it would be impossible to endure all this just
now. It would be too much for her nerves. It would cut her to the
quick, tempting her to tears or laughter, both alike of cynicism and
bitterness.
Yet Lucy feared that Florence would make a sad fuss if Lucy chose to
sit at home alone—but for little Hugh—while a place at her sister’s
table was ready to welcome her.
Of late years the Challoners had kept Christmas after their own
fashion. They had often been joined by one or two stray young people,
teachers or students, who were living in lodgings. But they had had
two regular guests. One of these, Miss Latimer, had been governess to
Florence and Lucy in their girlhood. She used to go to the Brands for
Christmas when they were first married and were not quite so showy
as they had since become. Then Florence Brand had turned her over to
Lucy, saying that she thought their “crowd” was too much for the old
lady, “it only tired and excited her—she was such an intellectual
person, there was much more enjoyment for her in a quiet talk with just
one or two thoughtful people.” That was true, and Miss Latimer was
delighted to get Lucy’s invitation, and to accept Mrs. Brand’s excuses
and explanation. But the shrewd old lady knew well enough that it was
a truth which Mrs. Brand would not have discovered if Miss Latimer’s
dresses had been newer and richer, and if she had driven up in a
brougham instead of coming to the street corner in a humble ’bus.
The other regular visitor was he whom Lucy had once named to Florence
as “Charlie’s great chum, Wilfrid Somerset.” He was a man of about
Charles Challoner’s own age. They had been at school together. Then
Charlie had gone, brave and bright and winsome, out into the world,
and Wilfrid Somerset had retired to a hermitage in the heart of
London. For he had been afflicted almost from birth with one of those
dire disasters which set a sufferer apart from his fellows. His walk
was a writhing struggle and distortion; his sad, worn face, though
pathetically fine when in perfect repose, was convulsed even by the
effort of speech. Yet a beautiful soul and a noble intellect dwelt in
his wrung frame. Providentially he had a small independency, and was
free to work only for pure love’s sake. He had made a high mark in
philology, and was a poet of no mean order, though neither those who
profited by his researches nor those who sang his songs had ever heard
his name or seen his face. Not unnaturally, he was morbidly sensitive.
He had apartments in an old house in a deserted corner of the older
London, and was rarely out of doors by daylight save when he took an
early-morning stroll in the sunlight, which fell subdued on the dreary
little square where he lived—a square where nobody else ever walked. He
had many correspondents, but few visitors, and he visited absolutely
nowhere but at the little house with the verandah. His visits were
generally evening visits. The eyes of his fellows seemed to burn his
very soul. Lucy had understood how to measure his great friendship when
he dared to face the crowd at the docks that he might say good-bye to
Charlie on board the Northern steamer.
When, during the first days of her loneliness, any thought of Lucy’s
had strayed towards Christmas—prompted perhaps by some question from
little Hugh—she had wished she could go on with what Charlie and she
had begun, since that would surround her with those who loved him and
whom he loved, and would save her from any jar with the Brands or any
reproaches from them. Had Pollie been with her, she would certainly
have done this. She knew that Charlie, trustful of Pollie’s fidelity,
had inferred this would be so. Now, with this reliable woman on the
scene it was again not only possible but quite easy. So Lucy called
on Miss Latimer and delivered her invitation personally, getting it
accepted with tears and embraces.
“If you had not felt equal to inviting me I should have gone nowhere
else,” said the little lady.
Lucy wrote to Wilfrid Somerset, and by return of post came his reply,
thanking her for “the sacrifice she was making for her friends,” and
adding, “I had expected to sit alone this year.”
Then Lucy remembered a young lad of fifteen or sixteen whom some
country friend had introduced to Charlie, who had found him employment
in the office of his firm. He had had no friends when he came to
London, and he had now been in London only three or four months. So she
sent him an invitation, and got a prompt, prim little reply. He was a
shy boy and did not much care for the thought of a dinner-party, but he
had been thinking “it would be very dull at Christmas,” and he knew,
too, that his mother in Lancashire would spend a happier Christmas if
she knew he was made welcome in a friendly house.
Florence did not put in an appearance at her sister’s house till two
days before Christmas, when she came to say that, of course, Lucy and
Hugh were coming to her, and she had only called to mention that dinner
would be half-an-hour earlier than it had hitherto been. She cried out
with deprecation, and even anger, to find that Lucy had already made
her own arrangements. Who would have thought of such a thing? She had
not sent her invitation earlier simply because she thought it would
be understood as a matter of course. She had told two or three of her
expected guests that they would meet her sister. What would they think?
And what a queer creature Lucy was to wilfully choose the depressing
society of a superannuated teacher, a deformed pedant, and a country
bumpkin. There was no accounting for tastes.
Lucy was glad to divert her sister’s ire by thanking her for her
expedition to Willesden.
“It was you, Florence,” she said, “who have helped me to do what
Charlie and I used to do together. Unless I had secured that nice Mrs.
Morison, I could not have ventured on my little dinner-party. You have
not told me yet what sort of interview you had with her people.”
“Oh, well enough,” answered Mrs. Brand evasively. “It was a poor little
place. I should not say they are well off. If they asked her for a
visit, I expect they got something off her.”
“I believe she had a little legacy,” Lucy replied. “So if she wanted
rest and change, nothing would be more natural than to visit relatives
to whom a little board money would be helpful. But you seemed quite
satisfied, Florence. You thought they were respectable.”
“Oh, yes, for working people. He is a plumber, as you know by his
card, but in a very small way. He’s this woman’s cousin, you know.
I didn’t see him, I saw his wife. She told over again what the woman
herself told us at the registry office; and when I asked one or two
questions about the woman herself, she seemed hesitating, and I began
to get suspicious till she said, ‘I shouldn’t like you to think we were
wanting to get rid of Jessie, poor body.’ Then I understood why her
assurances were not too gushing. She said, ‘Jessie, poor body, had just
set her heart on coming to the nice young lady with the pretty little
boy.’ Oh, it’s all right. Don’t expect too much. Then you won’t be
disappointed.”
“Well, she has been with me nearly two months now,” said Lucy, “and she
has come up to all my hopes.”
Mrs. Brand threw her sister a glance of indulgent disdain.
“What did I hear you call her?” she asked. “Didn’t I hear ‘Mrs.
Morison’? Is that so?”
“Yes, certainly!” Lucy replied. “One would not call a middle-aged
matron by her Christian name.”
“Call her Morison, then,” suggested Mrs. Brand.
Lucy shook her head. “She is a married woman and a widow,” she
answered. “I am not going to take her status from her because she is
working in my kitchen.”
Mrs. Brand laughed. “Oh, that’s it, is it?” she said. “Well, she is so
like a respectable lodging-house-keeper that I’ve no doubt strangers
will give her the status of landlady of your house, and you’ll have the
status of lodger!”
“What strangers think does not matter to me,” returned Lucy. “She is
Mrs. Morison as I am Mrs. Challoner. Who is in the kitchen and who is
in the parlour does not alter that.”
“No servant gets her name prefixed with ‘Mistress’ except housekeepers
in great mansions,” asserted Mrs. Brand.
Lucy laughed in her turn. “Then, instead of her being general servant
of my house,” she said, “we will say she is the housekeeper in my
little mansion.”
Mrs. Brand took no notice of her sister’s words, but went on: “And
those housekeepers themselves are called ‘mistress’ only by convention,
not because they have been married. They are generally really ‘miss.’”
“I know that quite well!” cried Lucy. “I know Miss Latimer has told
me that once when she was going through a nobleman’s show palace, the
great Dr. Guthrie was there too, and when he heard the housekeeper
called ‘Mrs.’ Whatever-her-name-might-be, he whispered to somebody that
he shouldn’t have thought she was a married woman, and he was told she
was not, but she was styled so because she was the housekeeper. Then
said he, ‘Henceforth I’ll call her “miss,” for these special fashions
for domestic workers are just badges of servitude and relics of
tyranny.’ And he kept his word.”
“You are incorrigible,” observed Mrs. Brand. But now she spoke
dreamily, her thoughts having gone elsewhere. “Well,” she said, “as you
won’t come to us, there’ll be two places empty, and I’ll invite Mr.
and Mrs. Forrest, our new neighbours. They are being very useful to
Jem. I knew they ought to be asked, but if you had come there wouldn’t
have been room.”
And she went off, leaving Lucy a thankful woman that she had a home of
her own, where she needed no perfunctory welcome and filled no place
which was wanted for other people.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
HOW TO CONTRIVE AND DECORATE A COFFER OR LINEN PRESS.
It often happens that one gets an empty case which one feels ought to
be turned to account, and yet the thing is to know what to do with
it. Here is one suggestion—make it into a linen press. The case for
preference should be long rather than square (see the proportions in
sketch). You could get a new one made for about 3s. 6d. or 4s.
The panelling is glued and bradded on. The “stiles” (those parts around
the panels) should be got out of half-inch white wood and should be
planed. So should the portions of the case where the panels are, if you
intend to decorate them in any way, but if you get a case made, order
it to be planed. Some builder’s moulding forms the plinth at bottom of
chest, and a narrower moulding should be nailed on to the edges of the
lid if you want to get a finished-looking article, but of course all
these adornments can be left out, though at a sacrifice to appearance.
We can sit on a three-legged stool, but we prefer a chair. Four casters
should be screwed to the bottom of the chest so that it can easily be
moved about. These can be purchased at any ironmonger’s.
The mouldings, stiles, top and sides of chest would look well stained
brown. Varnish stain can be purchased, but I found that permanganate
of potash (Condy’s fluid) put on with a brush stains the wood a nice
brown, and it sinks right into it. Buy the potash by the ounce and
dissolve it in warm water, and to obtain a deep colour put on a second
coat. As it rots the hairs of a brush, use only a cheap one. This when
dry can be either varnished with dark oak varnish (buy this by the
half-pint at some good oil-shop or decorator’s supply stores) or can
have beeswax dissolved in warm turpentine rubbed on and polished by
friction. This is the old housewives’ way of polishing, and those who
have seen chairs and tables in some country cottage polished in this
way will admit that nothing can exceed the brilliance of the polish
thus obtainable, as it improves with time, every rubbing you give it
increasing the brilliance. If you use varnish you will probably have to
give it two coats, as the first one is likely to sink in. Use a flat
brush for putting on the varnish and apply it evenly.
As I want to cater for all tastes and pockets, I will give another
suggestion which will involve very little outlay, as you can deal
with any suitable strong empty case you may have by you. Get some
patent size at an oil-shop and melt it to boiling point by putting it
in a gallipot and this in boiling water. This saves contaminating the
saucepan and keeps the size from burning. Give the case a good coat,
and when dry a second one. Now purchase some Japanese gilt leather
paper at some good furniture warehouse or decorator’s. It is very
tough material, and will require some good strong paste. That known
as “cobbler’s paste” (which you can get at a leather-seller’s or of a
friendly bootmaker) is the best. It is too thick as it is, but can be
thinned with a little boiling water. Put plenty on, as the paper will
soak up a good deal, and don’t attempt to stick it down on the wood
until the paste has been on some twenty minutes or so.
In cutting the paper the right size, allow of it being turned over the
top and bottom edges of the case, and should there be battens on the
box (strips of wood to strengthen the case), I should not attempt to
paste a long piece of paper the length of the case, but first of all
cut strips to cover these battens (be careful to get the paper well
pressed into the angles), allowing enough to come a little way on to
the case itself. You then cut pieces to fit into the spaces, taking the
edges close up to the battens. The end pieces should be put on last,
and should be cut just to fit the width but turned inside the top of
the box and underneath.
It would be a good plan to line the case with good stout brown paper,
previously sizing the wood. The sizing, I may tell you, makes the paper
stick well.
If you like to put the mouldings at edge of lid and at bottom, you can
do so now, previously staining and varnishing them. Screw them on with
long fine screws in preference to nailing.
[Illustration]
No end of useful articles can be made by covering them with this
Japanese gilt paper. It is to be had in many patterns and with colours
introduced in some of them.
* * * * *
A word or two now as to the decorated panels. You will see that they
are of an ornamental rather than a natural character, and the designs
can be repeated by reversing them, which will save the trouble of
drawing fresh ones for each panel. They can be carried out by outlining
the design in vandyke brown mixed with a little copal varnish and a
little turps to thin the colour, and a background can be floated in
transparently, putting more varnish with the colour. The plain wood
will then show through the design.
You can of course paint the designs in simple quiet colours, but I
think it would look in better taste to treat the panels in one tone of
colour. It need not be brown; burnt sienna with a background of raw
sienna, Indian red and burnt sienna for background, Prussian blue with
a background of that colour and raw sienna to make it green, are some
of the combinations that suggest themselves.
Of course you will understand that you must draw out the designs the
size you wish to reproduce them and transfer them to the wood before
you start the colouring.
The designs would look well carried out in poker work. By that I mean
not an ordinary poker heated in a fire, but one of those “pyrographers”
sold expressly for the purpose, in which a platinum point is kept red
hot by a spray of some inflammable liquid ejected on to it. These
instruments cost about 10s. 6d. each, but the most intricate design can
be wrought with them, and most excellent decorative effects produced;
but I daresay most of the readers of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER interested in
art work, are quite familiar with pyrography. It is not to be despised
as an art, as those who have seen good work can testify.
SHEILA.
A STORY FOR GIRLS.
BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen
Sisters,” etc.