[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER]
VOL. XX.—NO. 1024.] AUGUST 12, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.
[Illustration: AT THE EDGE OF THE PLATEAU.]
_All rights reserved._]
SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.
A STORY FOR GIRLS.
BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen
Sisters,” etc.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIX.
CAMACHA.
Up, up, up, ceaselessly up. Would the paved road never merge into
something more like an English mountain track? Sheila wondered, as
her brave little horse pushed steadily and boldly onward, eager as it
seemed to breast the long, steep ascents, never asking to pause for a
breather, although the riders of their own accord would stop from time
to time for the sake of their horses, and of the grooms on foot, who
seemed as untiring as the steeds themselves.
“Poor fellows, we will give them a drink here,” said Ronald, as they
reached a little plateau where there was one of the numerous drinking
bars of the island. “It must be jolly hot work keeping up with these
plucky little horses. Let us rest a moment whilst they refresh
themselves.”
“And let the others come up,” answered Sheila looking backwards and
downwards. “We have quite left them behind.”
“Oh, they’ll come up all in good time,” answered Ronald carelessly.
“One can’t ride in a cavalcade in these narrow roads.”
For the peculiarity of Madeira is that for miles and miles the roads
run between walls, with houses or cultivated ground behind them. It is
only as the heights are reached that these walls are left behind, and
more open country reached. Often the road is so narrow that two horses
can barely ride abreast.
“What does _tabaco habilitado_ mean?” asked Sheila, “that you see
written on almost every tenth house.”
“I believe it means licensed to sell tobacco,” answered Ronald, “and
I expect they have to pay pretty high too for the licence. The imposts
here are iniquitous. I wish we had the place. We’d make a different
country of it. Just look at these barbarous roads cut straight up the
sides of the mountains! It’s ridiculous. It might be beautiful if they
had only zig-zagged them as they do in other places. But let us ride on
now. We shall get beyond the region of walls soon; up yonder I believe
the country is very pretty. They say it is like a hot spring day in
England when you get to Camacha.”
“Shall we not wait for the others?” asked Sheila.
“I don’t see why. They will come on all right. Our horses are bound to
get ahead anyway. One must let them take their own natural pace. We
shall all meet at the rendezvous. The horses soon get fidgety standing
still. Come along, I believe it gets very pretty a little farther on.”
Sheila looked back, but there was no sign of the rest of the party, and
she followed Ronald perforce. She had a vaguely uneasy feeling that her
aunt was not pleased with her, and she would rather have avoided all
cause of offence, and she thought this might possibly be one. Since
that New Year’s Eve night something had been creeping into Sheila’s
life which she did not altogether understand—something that made her
happy, yet pensive, restless sometimes, and sometimes half afraid of
her own thoughts and dreams. She strove to banish the thoughts and
feelings which she did not understand, but they would not be altogether
banished, though she often managed to forget them or push them out
of sight. She had been a child so long that she did not know what it
meant—this waking of her womanhood within her.
Yet some instinct had made her keep very close to Lady Dumaresq and
little Guy at starting, whilst Ronald had ridden beside Effie’s hammock
through the town, wherever the streets were wide enough, amusing her
with his gay talk, and pointing out things which he thought might
interest her as they went along.
But with the ascent through the narrow lanes, and up the very steep
places, this order had been broken. The horses took matters into their
own hands. The fast animals gradually distanced bullocks, hammock
bearers, and the pony which little Guy bestrode, and beside which his
mother walked her horse, and Sheila found herself riding with Ronald
some considerable distance in advance of the rest.
She did not know why she had a feeling that her aunt would be
displeased, and gradually in Ronald’s merry talk she forgot her
misgiving. It was so delightful leaving behind the region of walls and
houses, and getting out into the open country—seeing leafless trees
again, just like England—although other things were not much like,
for oranges and lemons grew freely, and the scent of orange blossom
was heavy sometimes in the air, and arum lilies growing wild evoked
rapturous exclamations from the girl.
“Isn’t it delicious?” she cried. “I do like to see bare trees again! I
don’t think it is very pretty when the old leaves hang on through the
winter. It gives them such a shabby look. The air up here feels just
like England on an April day, doesn’t it? Dear old England! We always
grumble at its weather, but there’s something about it that makes us
always want to go back.”
“Do you want to go back already?” asked Ronald.
“Oh, no!” she answered quickly. “Not a bit—not now. But you know what I
mean—the sort of feeling that it is home.”
And then she suddenly stopped, and the shadow swept over her face.
Ronald had learnt to know that face so well that he was able to read it
like a book. He knew just what she was thinking. He would like to have
put out a hand and taken hers, but he was afraid of startling her. Yet
he spoke what he knew would be an answer to her unspoken thought.
“Never mind, Sheila, some day you will have a real home of your own
again—a home that will be happier even than the one you have lost.”
She lifted her eyes to his with a glance half startled and wholly
sweet. It thrilled him through and through, and words trembled on his
lips that he was yet half afraid to utter. If he spoke too soon he
might lose all. He hoped—he believed—that he might win her for his
own. But she was such a child still. He must have patience. There was
time—plenty of time. Little by little he would teach her to understand
what she was to him. Before they went back to England he hoped to have
won her promise to be his—and go back to make for her that home which
in his fancy he was already building.
“You are always so kind to me,” she said softly, “you always
understand.”
The slight emphasis upon the pronoun made him ask, smiling—
“And who is it that does not understand?”
“Oh, my aunt—and Effie; they think that their house is home, and can’t
understand what I mean. Of course, I am grateful to them. I have been
quite happy there often. But it cannot be the same, and they do not
seem to understand.”
“You must come and see us when we get back to England,” said Ronald
cheerfully. “We shall expect you on a long visit. Little Guy will see
to that if nobody else does. Would you like that, Sheila? I beg your
pardon, I ought not to call you that. It comes through hearing you
always spoken of by that soft name.”
“I like you to call me Sheila,” said the girl shyly, and with a soft
blush. “I have never been called anything else by friends—till quite
lately.”
“Well, when we are by ourselves I should like to,” said Ronald, “and
you must do the same by me. I think it is much nicer when people are
real friends to drop ceremonious titles.”
After that the ride seemed all sunshine to both of them. Ronald thought
he had sufficiently advanced his cause, and abstained from any more
direct overtures; but he talked in a fashion that was delightful to his
companion, and the exhilarating freshness of the air and the beauty of
everything about them seemed a fit setting for their happiness, as they
rode along together side by side in the clear soft sunshine.
“Here we are!” cried Ronald at length, as they reached the green
plateau at the summit of the hill. “There is the clock-tower that the
doctor built. Do you know that before they had that, the people here
had no means of knowing the time—and that on market days, or when they
wanted to get down early in Funchal, they used often to get up in the
middle of the night, and sit up watching for the dawn, afraid to go to
sleep again lest they should not awake in time.”
From the edge of the plateau there were beautiful views of the sea,
and away to the left the long jagged line of the reef running out to
the east from the most easterly portion of the island. The sea seemed
sleeping and dreaming away below them. It looked more like the blue
Mediterranean than the storm-tossed Atlantic.
They had dismounted and left the men to take care of the horses.
They wandered happily about together from place to place, finding
new beauties at every turn. They were recalled to the present by the
familiar cry of the “bully-boy.” Sheila exclaimed—
“Oh, here come the rest! The carro must be coming! Can you make the
noise the boys do? I have tried so often, but I can’t quite get it
right.”
Ronald made attempts more or less successful to imitate the wild
peculiar cries by which the boys and men encourage and guide the
bullocks, and Sheila stood laughing and praising.
“I think it is so sweet of the bullies not to go unless the boy goes
in front. They really won’t. I thought it was a make up when I heard
it first. But one day after a cricket match our boy was missing for a
little while, and nothing would induce the bullies to start, not all
the prodding and yelling of the man. But the moment the boy came and
walked in front they went like lambs!”
The bullock carro with its four bullocks, and Mr. and Mrs. Cossart as
passengers, was the vanguard of the main party. Lady Dumaresq and her
little boy were immediately behind, and the hammock bearers came up
very shortly with Effie, Miss Adene, and Sir Guy. He, however, had left
his hammock and was on foot by this time.
“I begin to feel it ignominious to be carried in that fashion, but
the fellows are quite hurt in their minds if you ask to be let out! I
couldn’t induce them to put me down till we had got to the more level
stretches, and then they made quite a favour of it!”
“We’ve had a jolly ride!” cried Ronald, whose face was full of
brightness, and whose spirits were so high that his brother glanced
at him more than once with a look of quiet scrutiny, and said in an
undertone to his wife as they stood apart—
“Do you think?”—and then he gave an expressive glance that travelled
from Ronald to Sheila.
Sheila was engrossed by little Guy who had claimed her instantly.
Ronald by this time was beside Effie, whom he had helped from her
hammock, and who was a little stiff from the long journey in one
posture, and was glad to take a turn up and down leaning on his arm.
“I think not,” answered Lady Dumaresq. “I think he understands not to
be too precipitate—not to frighten the child. But that it is coming I
do not doubt. I am so pleased about it both for his sake and hers. They
are rather a pair of babies still. But they will grow out of that, and
they seem just made for each other.”
The luncheon was spread in a sheltered spot, where a bank gave fairly
comfortable sitting accommodation to the elders of the party. Miss
Adene seemed to see the cloud resting upon Mrs. Cossart’s face, and set
herself to dissipate it. Her pleasant talk had a somewhat softening
effect; but had anybody chanced to note it, they might have observed
how very little that lady spoke, and that the glances she threw from
time to time towards the place where Sheila sat between Ronald and
little Guy, were of a very hostile description.
She never addressed the girl once the whole day, but Sheila did not
notice it. She had given herself over to the enjoyment of the little
festivity, and she was too happy to be very observant.
Little Guy wanted to play hide-and-seek amongst the bushes. Of course
Ronald was pressed into the service. Effie offered herself, but for
some reason or other Guy had taken rather a dislike to her. It might
have been her eye-glasses or the occasional sharpness of her voice,
but it was noticeable that he only accepted her overtures with great
reservation, and to-day he replied firmly though politely—
“No, sank you, you might get tired. Mozzer will come, and Uncle Ronald
and Sheila. Sat will be quite enough. You had better rest yourself.”
When the afternoon light began to grow mellow, the party got into train
again for the descent. It was a two hours’ ride up, but the descent was
generally rather quicker.
Again they started sociably in a cavalcade, but again by degrees
the horses distanced the bullocks and bearers, and once more as
they reached the region of the narrow roads Ronald and Sheila found
themselves some distance in advance of the rest of the party.
It seemed too natural for her to oppose the arrangement. It did not
occur to her that anybody would make any serious to-do because they
happened to have faster horses than Lady Dumaresq and her little son.
It had been such a perfectly happy day that Sheila was in no mood to
think of anything unpleasant, and she had not even noted the cold
regards and marked silence of her aunt.
Down and down they rode, the soft sunlight making everything look even
more beautiful than its wont. The curtains of flowers hanging over the
walls seemed to blaze with a kind of glory, and the rainbows shining
over the sea were more than ordinarily beautiful.
“I never saw such a place for rainbows!” cried Sheila. “Miss Adene told
me about them, but I never could have believed without seeing. Why,
first thing in the morning as I lie in bed I can see them hanging over
the hills. Oh, you don’t know what the sunrises are like—I mean the
reflected light upon the hills, all red and lovely every morning, and
to be able to watch it as you lie in bed! I shall never forget it as
long as I live! I wonder if I shall ever see Madeira again?”
“You shall if you want to,” said Ronald so softly that he did not think
she heard.
“Let us come down the steps and watch the sea,” said Ronald when they
reached the hotel, “the rest won’t be back just yet. I love to go down
the steps and get right to its level.”
Sheila loved it too, and wished that she could bathe there in the
mornings, as the young men did. It was something of a scramble, but she
delighted in making it. The surf always broke grandly at the base of
the rocks, however calm the sea looked from above. They stood watching
it a long time, and they talked of many things, till suddenly the
quickly coming darkness warned them that it was time to go back and
dress for dinner.
“I shall never forget our day at Camacha all my life,” said Ronald,
holding her hands to help her up the rough boulders.
She looked back at him, and her face flushed softly.
“I am sure I never shall,” she answered.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
THE PLEASURES OF BEE-KEEPING.
BY F. W. L. SLADEN.
PART IV.
The hive generally fills rapidly with honey during July. When the super
is full it may be removed from the hive, and, if honey is still coming
in in fair quantity, another one substituted for it.
When honey—or, strictly speaking, nectar—is first gathered from the
flowers, its consistency is thin, almost like water, and if it remained
in this state it would soon ferment and go sour. But by means of the
high temperature which the bees always maintain inside the hive the
excess of moisture is evaporated out, and the nectar is changed into
thick ripe honey. As each cell in the honey-comb gets filled with this
honey, the bees seal it over with a thin capping of wax, to preserve
the contents from any outside contamination, just as we tie the
vegetable parchment over our pots of jam. In this condition the honey
will keep good any length of time.
The combs in the middle of the super are always finished first, the
work extending from the centre outwards, so that if, by lifting a
corner of the quilts we see that the outside combs are sealed over,
we may be sure that all the combs in the super are finished in like
manner, and that the super is ready for removal.
I will now describe the operation of removing a full rack of sections
from off the hive. The bees, of course, must first have timely warning
that something is about to be done by our giving them a few light puffs
of smoke under the quilt. After leaving them for a minute, the rack of
sections may be prized up underneath, at the back, with a screw-driver,
and a few more puffs of smoke blown into the opening thus formed. The
rack of sections may now be lifted right off the hive and taken away.
If another rack is not to be put on, the sheet of queen-excluding zinc
must also be removed, and the quilts must be taken from off the rack
of sections to cover the frames in the stock-box. The hive may then be
closed up.
But the operation by no means concludes here; the super is full of
bees, and our work now will be to get rid of these. The quickest and
simplest way of doing this is to take each section out of the rack and
shake the bees off it on to the alighting-board of the hive; in doing
this a goose-wing or bottle-brush will be found useful to brush off
any bees that may not be detached by a few gentle shakes. The sections
must be handled carefully, as they are rather fragile, and the comb is
easily cracked and bruised.
A far better way of ridding the super of bees is to use a
_super-clearer_, which consists of a board with a thick frame round the
edge, and having a hole in the centre in which is inserted a little tin
appliance with springs, which will allow the bees to pass through it
only in a downward direction, so that they cannot go back again into
the super.
The super-clearer is placed between the super and the stock-box. If the
weather is warm it will be found that in about twenty-four hours’ time
not a bee will be left in the super, and it may then be removed and
brought indoors. In colder weather the super-clearer may take two days
or more to do its work. It should not be left on the hive after the
super has been taken away, but must be removed with a little smoke, its
place over the frames being taken by the quilts.
[Illustration: SUPER-CLEARER.]
One word of caution is necessary before we leave the subject of
removing the super.
Combs containing honey, or drops of honey, must never be left
out-of-doors, or anywhere within reach of the bees. Their scent for all
sweets of this kind is very keen, especially if there is not much to
be obtained in the fields, and they will soon discover and steal them,
even fighting over the ill-gotten booty, so that many thousands of
workers are sometimes killed by their greedy companions. Frequently the
mischief does not end here, for when the robbers have finished their
spoil they may, in their thirst for more, attack and force a passage
into the hive of some weak neighbouring colony, which is incapable of
defending its stores against such an overwhelming army of marauders,
and this will often result in the annihilation of the luckless
colony—“cleared out,” as the bee-keeper, who has not been careful to
prevent the mischief in the beginning, exclaims with surprise, when in
going the round of his hives a few days later, he discovers too late
the sad state of affairs.
Sections of honey-comb should be stored in a warm and dry place. For
home use they may be left in the section-rack, but if they are to be
offered for sale they must be separated, and the particles of wax and
propolis scraped off the sides and edges of the wood of each section,
care being taken in so doing not to bruise or crack the combs.
Sections for sale are rendered more attractive if placed in neat
cardboard boxes, with or without glass on one side. These boxes can
be obtained from any of the dealers in bee-appliances. 1s. to 1s.
3d. ought to be readily obtained for a section of good honey done up
in this way; but the price of honey varies in different seasons and
districts.
In removing a super containing shallow frames, proceed in the same way
as with the rack of sections. The honey must be extracted from these
frames in the honey-extractor.
The extracting should be done immediately after the frames are taken
from off the hive, while the combs are still warm.
Before placing the comb in the extractor, the cappings must be pared
off _both_ sides of the comb with a long, sharp knife, which does the
work much better if it is warm. It will be convenient to have two
knives in a dish of hot water close at hand for the purpose. Uncapping
is an operation the beginner cannot expect to excel at the first time.
Plenty of mess and stickiness will most likely be the order of the day
during the first few occasions, so it will be advisable to have the
clothes well protected by a good apron.
Two combs having been uncapped, they will be placed in the cages of
the extractor, and the handle turned so as to make them revolve. This
must be done slowly at first. A few turns of the extractor will bring
the centrifugal force into play by which the honey will be thrown
out in countless drops, which will settle on the inside walls of the
extractor, and coalescing, will trickle down to the receptacle in the
bottom of the machine in which the clear amber fluid will quickly
gather. There is a danger, in turning the handle too fast, of the
honey not getting extracted on the inside of the comb, pressing on
the midrib, and breaking through it, especially in warm weather when
the wax is soft. This danger is reduced by the use of “wired” combs.
In from five to ten minutes’ time the honey will cease to flow from
the combs. The turning must then be stopped, the combs lifted out and
replaced in the extractor with the reverse side outward, the revolving
process being then repeated to extract the honey from the second side
of the comb. When the combs are again lifted out they will be emptied,
and the extractor will be ready to take another pair of uncapped combs.
The emptied combs should be given back to the bees, either to be filled
again with honey, or to be licked clean preparatory to their being put
away for the winter for use next year.
The honey which has gathered in the bottom of the extractor should
be strained through flannel to get rid of the small particles of wax
and other impurities it is likely to contain. After this, it may be
run into jars or bottles, which should be tied over with parchment to
exclude the air.
[Illustration: HONEY-EXTRACTOR.]
The wax cappings should also be strained in a warm room to separate the
honey. They may then be melted down in a pan of water over a slow fire.
When they are quite melted, the pan should be removed and stood in a
cool place. In a few hours’ time the beeswax will be found to have set
in a solid cake, floating on the surface of the water. The impurities
which have collected on the under side of the cake can be scraped off.
If desired, the wax can again be melted and cast in convenient-sized
blocks in moulds which have previously been well smeared with sweet
oil to prevent the wax sticking to them. An appliance called a
wax-extractor will be useful for rendering larger quantities of wax
from old combs.
Beeswax comes in very useful for a variety of purposes in the home.
Mixed with spirits of turpentine, it forms a valuable furniture polish.
A lump is handy in the work-basket for waxing sewing-threads. It is
also useful for securing foundation in frames and sections. A compound
of beeswax with mutton fat, with the addition of a little lamp-black,
sweet oil, turpentine, and lard, makes an excellent dubbing for
children’s boots in the winter, keeping the leather soft and dry.
Carrying out the details of harvesting their crop of honey in the
manner described above is a pleasant enough occupation with most
bee-keepers, but it is one that I fear a good many of my readers may
not have the pleasure of experiencing in this their first season.
Perhaps the swarm has not been strong enough to do any work in the
super at all, and the sad prospect of no honey this season is rather
a damper to your ardour. Never mind, the bees may have been able to
gather more than enough for themselves in the stock-box. If, however,
the colony is very weak, the bees not nearly filling the stock-box,
they will now require a little looking after to bring them up quickly
to the requisite strength, to ensure successful wintering, followed by
a profitable yield of honey, or perhaps a swarm or two, next year. If
the weather keeps unfavourable, they may require feeding. Such feeding
should be kept up regularly two or three times a week, and only a small
quantity of syrup given at each time. It will then have the effect of
encouraging breeding.
Another good way to stimulate a weak colony is to give it a comb
containing brood from another stronger hive that can well afford to
spare it. The bees on the comb must be shaken back into the hive from
which they came before it is put into the hive we want to strengthen,
and care must be taken to see that the queen, should she chance to be
on this particular comb, is returned to her hive in safety. Bees from
different hives will not agree if put together, unless special means
are taken to make them do so, and these will be explained later on when
we consider “uniting.”
Those who have been fortunate enough to secure a crop of honey may
sometimes be disappointed to find that it is inferior in quality,
with a more or less disagreeable flavour. This is a trouble which it
is beyond the power of the bee-keeper to remedy, as it depends on the
flora of the neighbourhood. The best honey, barring heather honey,
is very pale in colour, and comes chiefly from the Dutch clover,
sainfoin, mustard and lime-tree blossoms. Inferior kinds are darker;
the blackberry and sunflower are among the flowers to which credit is
given for producing them, and probably most honey obtained from mixed
bloom, whether in the garden or on the wayside, is not so good as that
which is gathered from flowers of the clover group. But what most
spoils a sample of honey, making it dark and unpalatable, is leaf honey
or honey-dew. This substance is not really honey, being secreted by the
leaves of certain trees, especially the lime-tree, oak, and sycamore,
and in some years much more than in others. The bees feed on it with
relish, but it is not wholesome for them.
(_To be continued._)
CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.
BY MARGARET INNES.
CHAPTER X.
ON THE RANCH—THE ANIMALS.
It would be difficult for anyone who has never had the work to do, to
realise how puzzling it is to take an up-and-down hilly piece of land,
all covered with shrub and brush, and plan it out so that all shall be
placed conveniently, and also look at its best.
In our great hurry, we had certainly chosen the wrong place for our
barn, and, moreover, it was much too small. We saw now perfectly well
which was the right place. So as soon as the last piece of furniture
had been lifted into the house, the carpenters set to work to take the
barn to pieces, and carry it down the hill to the new site upon which
we had settled.
It is a wonderful and rather a fearful thing to see how they can move
large and small buildings about in this land of ingenuity. One feels
quite embarrassed the first time one meets a house walking down the
middle of a street. No doubt it is a great convenience to be able to
keep your own house, and yet change your neighbourhood!
An acquaintance of ours, having some money to invest, put up a neat row
of small detached houses on a piece of land which he had bought during
a boom in those parts. The boom, alas! departed, leaving, as usual,
disaster and emptiness behind, and these poor little houses stood all
by themselves, never a single tenant or purchaser offering for them.
Finally, however, someone of enterprise was found, who chose one for
himself, and having a “lot” in an attractive part of San Miguel, had
his new cottage driven over and rearranged in its new setting.
This answered so well, that it seemed to break the spell of ill-luck
for the others also, and soon we were much amused to meet another and
yet another of Jim Baxter’s houses driving with stately slowness up and
down the different streets of San Miguel, till the desolate little row,
planted quite four miles away in an empty waste, had all been absorbed
into friendly comfortable corners of the town.
Our present barn has very little resemblance to the original one, which
was, however, all absorbed into it. With all the additions which have
grown as they were felt to be needed, it is now about four times the
size of the little wooden box we lived in during those four hot, dusty
months.
There is a large, cool, lemon-curing room in the centre, over which is
the hay-loft, holding twenty-five tons. At one side is a convenient
workshop, with joiner’s bench, and all necessary arrangements for the
many different kinds of jobs one has to do for oneself here, such as
harness mending, soldering, etc. A nice little room for the ranchman
is built over this. At the other side is a waggon-shed, and good-sized
buggy-house, large enough to hold four vehicles. There are stalls for
six horses and the cow, with one loose box, and a shed extending over
one part of the corral, to give shade from the fierce sun. This, with
hen-houses, etc., is quite a little settlement.
We have a comfortable bench down there, where I often sit in the
evening, during “chore” time, while the animals are being made
comfortable for the night; the cow milked, with the barn cat in close
attendance, waiting for her accustomed share; the horses each in turn
brought to the trough for a drink; the hens, too, after much fuss and
hysterical chatter, fed and shut up, lest the coyotes, whose mocking
yelp sounds often so very near in the night, should “carry off one to
his den, oh!”
We soon realised in our ranch life how very much the animals added to
our pleasure and interest. They are so very happy on a ranch, both
dogs and horses, that one catches many a wave of the infection from
them. They are so interested in each other and in us, showing such
friendliness and affection, and also so much individuality. When the
horses are not needed on the ranch, they are put into the corral,
where they go through an impromptu circus performance of their own.
After a good roll over in a spot carefully selected by much snuffing
and pawing, they will stand on their hind legs in front of each other,
pawing the air, and looking huge, then chase each other round and
round the corral at such a speed, that one wonders they escape hurting
themselves against the enclosing fence.
Poee, who is very exclusive, and resents the slightest intrusion on the
part of any of the horses, lady or gentleman, has a stall close to the
corral. As there is a window in her box, it is one of their mischievous
pleasures to go softly up to it and look in, so as to hear Poee’s angry
shrill squeal, followed by a few hard kicks, when they scamper off,
just as pleased as any wicked schoolboy who brings out an angry servant
in answer to a runaway ring at the bell.
Jennie, the only other lady among them, though very nervous and
high-strung, is much more amiable; in fact, she is quite ready to flirt
and coquette with Rex. Like other flirts, she has more than one string
to her bow, and though she does not really approve of Ben, she will
tempt him to pay her attentions, which she receives with a virtuous and
indignant squeal. They are all accustomed to being talked to, and look
for occasional mouthfuls of something dainty from friends.
The dogs take a more intimate part still in our lives, and, indeed, we
miss them greatly if for any reason they have to be left out of any
expedition or undertaking. Whatever the spirit of the moment, they
understand, and take the cue. If it is a pleasure drive, off for
the day, with baskets of eatables and drinkables, then there is such
excitement among them that they can hardly wait till we are ready, but
make little false starts by themselves, to rush back, jumping up at
the horses’ noses again and again, bumping up against each other, and
smiling at us. Or, if the business in hand is serious, like any work on
the ranch, or hauling firewood from the Silvero Valley, they take part
with quite a different air; every line of head and tail shows grave
responsibility, and I am sure they are convinced that things could not
be carried on without their help.
It is quite pathetic to see old Sport doing his ranch duties. He is a
brown setter, and was getting well on in years when given to Larry, and
is now showing many signs of real old age; but when the little grey
team are being hitched up to the cultivation, or Ben is waiting, staid
and obedient, to be harnessed to the plough, Sport will lift himself
rather stiffly from his favourite seat, which is on the top of the
rain-water cistern, from which high perch he can keep a ready look-out
all over the ranch, and after a grave shake he trudges down the hill,
and stands waiting quietly till all is ready, and will follow the
plough up and down the ranch till his tired old legs can do no more,
when he limps up to the house, and rests in a cosy corner with the air
of one who has done his duty, and can look any man, or any dog, in the
face.
Between him and Bullie there is an undying rivalry, kept in abeyance
generally by the truly gentlemanly spirit of both dogs, but breaking
out now and again into a savage fight, when everyone flies to the
rescue, lest poor old Sport should have his little remnant of pleasant
life shaken out of him.
Bullie is a very “low down” dog, mongrel to the tips of his big, clumsy
toes; but he is Tip’s dearly-loved friend, and, indeed, we all take
part in him.
Skibi, the bull terrier, is a perfect darling. She is so bright, and
loving, and quick, so anxious to please, so brave, that she would fain
fly at all the dogs three times her own size, bristling her whole back,
and looking terribly dangerous. It is no wonder that Bullie and Sport
look hatred and murder at each other for her sake. Both Skibi and
Bullie adore the horses. Bullie will stand perfectly rigid in front of
Dick and Rex, waiting anxiously for a little notice. If they lean down
and sniff at him, he seems to hold his very breath, and when they lay
hold of him, by his thick, loose skin, and lift him off his legs, as
they do sometimes (though he weighs sixty pounds), then the very height
of his pride and ambition is reached.
The greetings which the dogs give one, either in the mornings, or when
one returns after any absence, is so full of true love and friendship,
that we would feel quite bereft without our faithful comrades in this
lonely life.
(_To be continued._)
VARIETIES.
DRIFTING.—No waste of time is so lavish as that which is the result
of drifting, and there is no way in which people squander it more.
Thousands of good intentions are daily swamped and destroyed, simply by
allowing the time to slip away unconsciously until it is too late.
USEFULNESS.—Our duty is to be useful, not according to our desires, but
according to our powers.
THE DEEPEST SECRET.—We shall have read the deepest secret of nature
when we have read our own hearts.
“THE object of education is the carrying out of God’s will for the
individual; but the purpose of His will is hidden from us. The
direction, only, in which we are to work is pointed out by the peculiar
endowments of temper and of intellect in the child.”—_Mrs. Sewell._
FOLDING-UP WORK CASE.
[Illustration]
To those of our “girls” who can do “hemstitching,” we commend this
pattern, which was most kindly sent to us the other day from Glasgow.
Fig. 1 represents a piece of pink (or any other colour) linen, 34½
inches square. In the centre may be worked, in white linen thread, a
conventional design, or, better still, the initials or name of the
friend for whom it is intended; a border of hemstitching is then
added, any nice open pattern of half an inch wide. The corners A,
B, C, D, are then cut out four inches, turned over the other side
and mitred down as in Fig. 3. Fig. 2 represents a small square of
white linen with a narrower inner border of hemstitching, and a small
pocket, feather-stitched all round, in the centre. This white linen is
placed in the middle of the pink as seen in Fig. 2, and the edges of
the latter are carefully hemmed down over it. A yard of strong white
ribbon, an inch and a half wide, is then sewn on the outside near the
initials as shown in Fig. 1. Be careful to notice that one end is long
and the other short. When in use this case is spread out, like an
apron, on the lap, and the method of folding is shown in Fig. 4. All
the work materials are inside, and the little pocket contains thimble,
scissors, etc. Roll it up from the lower edge, pass the long end of
ribbon round it twice, tie in a bow, and behold! everything is compact
and neat.
“COUSIN LIL.”
[Illustration]
HOW WE MANAGED WITHOUT SERVANTS.
BY Mrs. FRANK W. W. TOPHAM, Author of “The Alibi,” “The Fateful
Number,” etc.
CHAPTER II.
That very afternoon we set to work, moved our belongings into mother’s
room, and dragged up the carpet in our own room. Ann washed the boards
for us, while we went off to the stores for the stain. We had to wait
till the next morning before we could begin our staining, but it did
not take us very long to finish. Ann advised us to let her rub it over
with boiled oil, and it certainly looked far better afterwards. That
good-natured girl spent her afternoon in unpicking our old carpet to
find the brightest pieces to turn into mats.
“Don’t you go down on your knees, miss, to dust these boards,” she
impressed upon us more than once. “Where I lived last they had a deal
of stained floors, and we always put our soft brooms into a bag of
linen and dusted them with that.”
The servants worked very hard, as we did also, so that by the time
cook was ready for her new place we had “spring-cleaned” the house all
through, staining the floors of the three bedrooms we were using, and
putting away all superfluous glass and china, as well as some ornaments
and nicknacks.
By cook’s advice we decided to arrange the work as nearly as possible
as she and Ann had worked. I, who had all my mornings free, was to be
the cook, while Cecilly, who had her music lessons to give, called
herself “house-parlour-maid.” Of course, we were always ready to
help each other in every detail, and I feel sure that servants would
find their work much lighter and pleasanter if only they would work
together. The variety even would make it pleasanter, at least, so
Cecilly and I found.
It was rather an effort to turn out of bed at half-past six the first
morning we were alone. I ran down in my dressing-gown and set light
to the stove before I took my bath, so that when we were dressed the
kettle was boiling, and we could have a cup of tea and some bread and
butter before we began our duties. I stayed in the kitchen to prepare
breakfast, while Cecilly went into the dining-room to sweep. I heard
her making a great deal of noise, and when I was ready to help her,
I could not help laughing at her preparations and efforts. She was
scarlet and breathless with exertion, as she swept the carpet as if it
were never to be swept again. She had moved every piece of furniture
from its place that she could move, and would not believe that the
heavy pieces were only moved out once a week on “turning out” days.
I took the broom from her and sent her for wood to light the fire, for
the mornings were still chilly. Then we found the wood was damp, but we
quickly dried it in the oven of the gas stove, and _never_ afterwards
did we forget to dry our wood directly we took it in.
We were just ready to ring the breakfast-bell when from upstairs came
such a shouting from the boys, mingled with Jack’s voice, angry and
stern, that we both ran out to see what was wrong, and to our dismay
found water pouring down the staircase into the hall. We at last learnt
that Phil and Bob, who had their bath in their bedroom, had, in order
to be helpful, tried to carry it to the bath-room to empty, the result
being they had overturned it on the landing. They were so sorry, and
had been acting from kindness, not mischief, that we stopped Jack’s
scoldings, and very soon we had sopped up the worst of the damage.
Jack, however, insisted on their getting up as soon as we were down, so
they could take their bath in the bath-room before he was ready for his.
Poor Jack! he did so hate our doing the work of the house, but Aunt
Jane had taken him in hand and made him reasonable, and it was she who
wrote to mother, telling her of our plan, and begging her to consent to
our giving it a fair trial.
I cleared away the breakfast, while Cecilly ran up to air the bedrooms
and beddings. Then together we washed up, and afterwards made the
beds and tidied the bedrooms. Our house is a bright sunny one in West
Hampstead, and the kitchen arrangements are all on the same floor as
the living-rooms, which saved us many steps. One of Aunt Jane’s orders
was, “Always have something hot for the boys’ dinner,” and she gave
me a list of dishes I could prepare in the morning, and leave them to
“cook for themselves.” The list was as follows.
_Stewed Steak._—Put into your stew-pan a piece of dripping, two or
three onions cut up, two or three carrots (according to size), lay your
steak on the top of these, till all is a nice brown. Take all from
the stew-pan and place in a brown jar (previously heated), add a few
peppercorns, a pinch of spice, ginger, and three cloves, add sufficient
hot water or stock to cover the meat, cover tightly, and leave in a
cool oven for two or three hours. Before serving, strain off the gravy,
thicken it with flour, heat to boiling in a saucepan. Put steak on dish
and pour the gravy over. In preparing this dish our mistakes were—once
we allowed it to cook too quickly, so that it was too hard; another
time we cooked it too slowly, so that it was not done enough. We learnt
that with all stews they must come to _nearly_ boiling point, then put
back just far enough to keep them from boiling.
_Haricot Mutton._—Cook as above.
_Steak Pudding, Steak Pie._—Beef steak answers perfectly for all these.
_Canadian Steak Puddings._—Cut up two pounds of steak into a pie-dish;
pepper and salt freely. Pour on water just to cover steak. Take two
ounces of suet, shred very fine; the crumb of a small loaf rubbed
through a sieve. Mix together, moisten with milk, add two eggs well
beaten, pour over the steak, and bake for two or three hours. This was
a great favourite.
_Curries._—Aitch-bone of beef stewed in the same manner as the steak,
but not removed from the pan it is first put into. This requires
stewing from four to five hours. When possible use weak stock instead
of water, as it makes nicer soup for the following day.
But I must go back to our first day’s experience. We had just finished
tidying the house when the door bell rang, and when I ran to open the
door, there stood dear Aunt Jane with a lovely bunch of flowers “to
help poor Jack enjoy his first dinner without a waitress.” She readily
accepted my invitation into the kitchen, and it was certainly by her
kind advice we were able to manage as well as we have. “Do you work
regularly and methodically,” was one of her maxims we endeavoured to
follow, which has smoothed our way considerably. We made a plan of
the daily work, turning out a room each day. On the first day Cecilly
turned out our room while I prepared the dinner. In the afternoon I was
due at my old lady’s, to whom I read for two hours, and to amuse her I
told her of our plan. I saw she was greatly shocked, and I never was
able to convince her we had succeeded satisfactorily. As I was hurrying
home I overtook the two boys, one carrying a brown paper parcel, the
other what looked like a broom-stick.
They refused to satisfy my curiosity concerning their packages until we
reached home and Cecilly had joined us. Then they disclosed to our view
a carpet-sweeper, and on our exclaiming our delight and demanding to
know how they had managed to get such a treasure, it came out that the
dear old things had parted with their most cherished possession, having
sold their stamp collection to a schoolfellow.
“Now Cecilly needn’t get so hot, need she?” asked Phil, but, on Cecilly
rushing to hug them, they both fled to their own room, refusing to
listen to our thanks.
“Mother is right,” I said to Cecilly. “Hard times have their bright
sides. We should never have known how sweet the boys really were if
there had been no necessity for their sacrifice.”
Our chief saving has been in the preparation of our food and in doing
away with the early dinner. Luckily we have both such very good
appetites that, eating heartily as we did at breakfast and dinner,
there was no need for us to prepare a midday meal. Our luncheon
consisted of anything we had to spare from the larder, sometimes of
bread and cheese only, although we always indulged in a cup of hot
cocoa afterwards. In the days when cook was in charge of the cooking
I had to give her a special order for breakfast, either sausages,
bacon, or fish. But now that I was cooking we learned (of course from
Aunt Jane as well as by experience) to make out of scraps plenty of
suitable dishes. We found the following most liked by the boys:—
_Breakfast Pies._—Mince through the machine any scraps the larder
affords (ham, cold bacon, cold steak, pieces left in meat-pies—in fact,
anything that is quite sweet and wholesome). Boil a cupful of Quaker
Oats. Mix all together, add flavouring of Tarragon vinegar, pepper, and
salt. Line patty-pans with pastry, fill with mixture, cover with pastry.
_Beef Brawn._—Mince any pieces of cold meat, season well with pepper
and salt. Boil some weak stock, with an onion, one or two cloves, and
spice if liked. While boiling pour over gelatine (previously soaked).
Mix all together and pour into a mould. To be eaten cold. Half an ounce
of gelatine to a pint of water. Sufficient minced meat to nearly fill a
pint measure.
_Mulligatawny Pâté._—Mince or cut any pieces of cold meat very fine.
Add equal quantity of boiled rice (boiled in stock when possible),
add a teaspoonful of curry-powder. Line pie-dish with pastry. Put in
mixture, cover with boiled rice, and bake.
_Macaroni and Tomatoes._—Boil macaroni in stock, add any scraps of
meat, two or three tomatoes cut in slices. Can be eaten hot, baked in
pie-dish, or poured into a mould to be eaten cold. All these dishes can
be prepared the day before, and only require heating up in the oven.
We always had stock by us, boiling down at once any bones that were in
the house, and keeping all liquor that meat had been boiled in. Not
being fat eaters we melted down for dripping all we did not consume,
and I have often cut off the fat from a joint before cooking it to use
as suet for puddings. If we had to buy suet, we bought Hugon’s; it is
cheaper and saves much labour in chopping than ordinary suet. But my
advice to every housekeeper is, never throw away any fat, for every
piece can be utilised.
Unfortunately none of us are fond of what the boys call “pap” puddings,
and we had some difficulty in getting rid of our stale bread till Aunt
Jane advised us to dip the pieces into milk and crisp them in the
oven for the cheese course. The ones that were not eaten at dinner we
broke up, ground through the coffee mill, and kept in a tin for when
we were cooking fish, rissole, or anything that requires breadcrumbs
or raspings. We also used our stale bread in fruit puddings. Fill a
pudding-basin, previously well greased, with pieces of bread. Boil any
fruit, such as currants, blackberries, etc., and while hot pour over
the bread till the basin is quite full. Place a saucer or small plate
on the top, stand a heavy weight on it, and leave till the following
day. To be turned out and eaten cold.
_Half-pay Pudding._—¼ lb. suet, ¼ lb. currants, ¼ lb. raisins, ¼ lb.
flour, ¼ lb. breadcrumbs, 2 tablespoonfuls dark treacle, ½ pint milk.
Boil for three or four hours. The longer this pudding boils the better
it is. Apple charlotte, rhubarb charlotte, and Manchester pudding also
used up our stale bread. It had always been a difficulty when cook was
with us to choose a pudding the boys would not call “pappy;” and now
that every egg represented a penny to us the difficulty was greater,
till it occurred to Cecilly that we might substitute cakes for ordinary
puddings, and the result was most satisfactory. We could use dripping,
of course; and after a friend told us of “Paisley Flour,” there seemed
no end to a variety of nice and inexpensive sorts.
The boys delighted in _Ginger-bread_.—1½ lb. flour, 6 oz. dripping,
1 teaspoonful carbonate of soda, 2 tablespoonfuls “Paisley Flour,” ½ lb.
dark treacle (or more), ¼ lb. dark sugar, 2 teaspoonfuls ginger and
ground spice, 2 tablespoonfuls vinegar, ½ pint milk. Dissolve the soda
in a little milk, mix dry ingredients together, add treacle slightly
warmed. Then pour in the soda, add the vinegar to the rest of the milk,
stir all thoroughly, and bake immediately.
_Vinegar Cake._—6 oz. dripping, ½ lb. currants or sultanas, ½ lb. moist
sugar, 1 teaspoonful carbonate of soda dissolved in milk, 1¼ lb. flour,
2 tablespoonfuls “Paisley Flour,” 2 tablespoonfuls vinegar to about ½
pint milk. To be mixed in the same way as the ginger-bread.
Scones with raisins, plain scones, cheese biscuits, were all
favourites; but as these recipes can all be made from the recipe for
scones given with each packet of “Paisley Flour,” I need not write
them. In one of the books that had so annoyed poor Cecilly in her
search for advice how to manage without servants the lady had found
her greatest difficulty in the door-answering; but that, I can assure
you, never troubled us. Our friends came as often to see us as when
Ann, in her flying white streamers, answered their knocking—in fact,
they came more frequently, for it was no unusual occurrence for us to
have three or four willing helpers in the morning to assist us through
our work, Cynthia Marriott being our most regular assistant. Never was
there a merrier, more laughing set of servants than we were, nor were
there more elaborately decorated pies and tarts ever made than those
made for Jack’s dinner by the fairest hands in the kingdom. Sometimes
I think we might have bored the boys by our domestic interests, had it
not been for Aunt Jane impressing on us constantly the importance of
making their home-life a social one. It was often a trouble to leave
the kitchen just before serving up the dinner to change into an evening
blouse; but we always did so for fear the boys would grow careless in
their dress, and constantly our helpers in the morning would run in
after dinner to help make the evenings as merry as when we had servants
to answer the door. But the work was work, although we could play
over it at times. There were many backaches and weary feet, many hot,
depressing days when even the gas stove suffocated us with the heat
as we stirred a saucepan or opened the oven door; but we bore it all
bravely, as who would not, when she felt she was, at least, trying to
give back health to a father, and such a father as ours?
(_To be concluded._)
HOUSEHOLD HINTS.
IT is now authoritatively declared by medical opinion that it is
dangerous to moisten many postage stamps with the tongue. It may lead
to cancer of the tongue and other serious complaints in the mouth or
stomach; and the stamp margin paper should never be used to put over an
open wound.
MEAT baked in the oven is the cause of much indigestion.
NOTHING makes a room look more untidy than blinds drawn up crooked, and
faded flowers on the table. Cultivate a spirit of neatness in all the
rooms, but especially those in which you receive your friends.
LOOSE sofa covers and spare blankets should be constantly inspected in
summer, and periodically shaken, to prevent moths fastening on them.
BEDS should never be placed against a wall except just at the top. If
the side of a bed is against a wall, it cannot be properly made, nor
can there be sufficient air moving around it for health.
IT is well that one member of a family should keep a diary to record
family and other events. These diaries prove valuable for reference in
after years.
[Illustration: “THE HEARTS OF THESE OLD MOUNTAINS.”]
MAN AND THE MOUNTAIN.
BY WILLIAM T. SAWARD.
Men who dwell beside the rivers!
Ye who build eternal towers—
Empire-makers, poets, heroes—
Ye who chain the vivid lightning,
Till the rocks, and span the ocean,
Make th’ unfriendly desert smile!
See, afar, the peaks of ages,
Lifting tempting hands to heaven!
Beckoning to the lowly-dwellers,
“You have conquered all the ages
With your wondrous kingly minds!”
Here, your broadly flowing rivers,
In the hearts of these old mountains,
Leap to birth, and give you life!
Here the winds take sudden refuge,
Here the stars spell out their secrets,
And the heavens speak to us!
Here is solemn meditation,
Dignity and peace majestic;
Time unmoves us, and the currents
Of the spheres that roll above us,
Beat eternal harmonies!
Ask the eagle of its freedom,
Ask the gentian of its blueness,
Ask the torrent of its swiftness,
Ask the lovers’ edelweiss!
They will answer, “River-dwellers,
While you toil among the vineyards,
Fret and toil, and age with fretting,
There’s a music in these mountains
Ye have never, never heard!”
Winds that beat across the ocean,
Wand’ring stars and clouds that kiss us,
Bring your broken, sobbing music
To our feet, and die, confessing—
“This is greatness, this is rest!”
[Illustration]
LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.