[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.—NO. 1025.] AUGUST 19, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
LONDON’S FUTURE HOUSEWIVES AND THEIR TEACHERS.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: A NEEDLEWORK CLASS, BATTERSEA POLYTECHNIC.]
[Illustration]
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._)
[Illustration]
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.”
Though 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
1 o 0 n 0 e 0, 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.
[Illustration: _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.
[Illustration: NIGHT.
(_From the painting by Gabriel Max._)
[_Photo by F. Hanfstaengl._]
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.