[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER]
VOL. XX.—NO. 1029.] SEPTEMBER 16, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.
ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY.
[Illustration: WRITING A NEW STORY FOR “THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER.”]
_All rights reserved._]
In an age when many books on every sort of subject and vexed question
are being daily launched into the world, it is a relief to turn to the
pure, wholesome novels of Rosa Nouchette Carey, the popular authoress,
who has steadily held her ground with her public since the production
of her first book, _Nellie’s Memories_, composed and related verbally
to her sister, while yet in her teens, though not actually written
until some few years later.
The youngest girl but one of a family of seven, and in her girlhood
delicate in health, which caused her education to be somewhat
desultory, Rosa Carey soon displayed an aptitude for composing fiction
and little plays which she and her sister acted, one of her chief
amusements being to select favourite characters from history and from
fiction, and trying to personify them, while her greatest pleasure
was to relate short stories to this same younger sister over their
needlework. It is a strange fact that, during her simple, happy,
uneventful girlhood, chiefly spent in reading, in writing poetry, and
in other girlish occupations, Rosa Carey, who was of a somewhat dreamy
and romantic disposition, feeling the impossibility of combining her
favourite pursuits with a useful domestic life, and discouraged by
her failures in this respect, made a deliberate and, as it afterwards
proved, a fruitless attempt to quench her longing to write. This
unnatural repression, however, of a strong instinct could not be
conquered, and after some years she yielded to it.
She was born in London, near old Bow Church, but has no very distinct
remembrances of the house and place. Later, the family moved to
Hackney, into what was then a veritable country residence, and there
many happy years were spent. Her mother was a strict disciplinarian,
and very practical and clever, while her father was a man universally
beloved and respected, by reason of his singularly amiable character,
his integrity, and his many virtues.
The next move was to Hampstead, where the young girl’s schooldays
began, and it was then that she met and formed a strong friendship
with the late Mathilde Blind, the talented author of _The Descent of
Man_, and translator of Marie Bashkirtseff’s Journal and other works.
This attachment, mutually enthusiastic and full of interest, was only
interrupted by a divergence of religious opinions. Rosa Carey, adhering
to the simple faith of her childhood, could not follow Mathilde Blind,
who was educated in the extreme school of modern free-thought, and the
friends, with sorrow but with yet unabated affection on each side,
drifted apart.
Meanwhile, the large and happy family was being gradually broken up.
First the beloved father passed away. On the same day that, three
years before, had witnessed his death, their mother, too, was taken
to her rest, and shortly after, the two sisters went to Croydon, to
superintend their widowed brother’s home. Miss Carey’s real vocation
in life seemed to spring up, and the literary work was but fitfully
carried on, for, on the marriage of her sister to the Rev. Canon
Simpson, vicar of Kirkby Stephen, Westmoreland, and the subsequent
death of her brother, the sole charge of the young orphans devolved
upon her.
As the years rolled by, circumstances tended to break up that home
also. The young people grew up and scattered, and out of Miss Carey’s
four charges three are now married. Then, her pleasurable duties being
accomplished, the partially disused pen was resumed, and the author
found leisure to return to literary pursuits. She has for the last
twelve years made her home in the ancient and historic village of
Putney, which, although it has lost much of its quaint and picturesque
environment since the destruction of the toll-house and the old bridge
of 1729, with its twenty narrow openings—erstwhile the delight of
artists—has yet a few “bits” left that have escaped the hands of the
Philistines.
Miss Carey’s pretty red-brick house of the Queen Anne style of
architecture, and into which she has only more recently moved, is
situated near the bend of the road. A broad gravelled path, running
the whole length of the house in front, is bordered with shrubs and
flowering plants. The spacious hall opens on the right and front into
the chief living-rooms, the long French windows of which lead into
the conservatory. One of the great attractions of the commodious and
artistic residence is the pleasant garden at the back, at once the
pride and delight of the author, where countless blackbirds, thrushes,
and other singing-birds, are wont to congregate, and where in summer,
under the gigantic chestnut tree with its widely-spreading branches,
she and her home-mates spend many a happy hour. The home party consists
likewise of her widowed sister, Mrs. Simpson, and of her friend, Helen
Marion Burnside, the well-known poet and author of _The Deaf Girl Next
Door_, and of a lately-published volume entitled _Driftweed_.
The drawing-room is bright and cheerful with its wide, lofty window,
and pretty side windows, its parquet floor liberally strewn with
Persian rugs, and its cosy corner hung with Oriental tapestries. Miss
Carey’s own study is upstairs, half-way up the wide staircase, and
overlooks the garden. There is an oak knee-hole writing-table, with
raised blotting-pad. On one side well-filled bookcases, here a low
spring couch, there lounging-chairs, big and little, and a cabinet
covered with photographs, together with vases of flowers, and many
little odds and ends of china. The whole is restful to the eye,
thoroughly comfortable and attractive. Amid these peaceful surroundings
Miss Carey writes her novels. She recalls to mind a little anecdote
connected with her earliest effort—_Nellie’s Memories_. With no
introduction, and quite unacquainted then with any publishers, she
took the MSS., with much trepidation, to Mr. Tinsley, who refused to
read it. This was a great disappointment, and some months later, she
mentioned the matter to Mrs. Westerton, of Westerton’s Library. This
kindly woman volunteered to induce him to change his mind, and did so
with such good effect that, on hearing at a wedding-party the reader’s
opinion was distinctly favourable, she hastened away from the festive
gathering to impart the good news to the young author, a kindness that
Miss Carey declares she “shall always remember with gratitude, and the
very dress that the good-natured messenger wore on the occasion is
stamped upon her recollection for evermore.”
This pretty domestic story of English home-life found favour with the
public from the outset. It became widely known, and has been constantly
republished up to the present date. The girl-author’s name and fame
were made at once, at which no one seemed surprised but she. Old
and young alike “took to” the charming tale, free from any dramatic
incidents or mystery, owing to the unflagging interest, and the high
tone of the work, not to speak of the striking individuality of the
characters. _Wee Wifie_ followed, and the author, who alone pronounced
it to be a failure, actually refused at first to allow it to be brought
out again when demanded lately, as she feared it might not add to
her literary reputation, but upon being pressed, she re-wrote and
lengthened it, without, however, altering the plot, and it has passed
into a new edition.
Among her succeeding novels, which are too well known to need more than
a passing comment, may be noted _Barbara Heathcote’s Trial_, _Robert
Ord’s Atonement_, _Wooed and Married_, _Heriot’s Choice_, and _Mary
St. John_. Ever anxious to do good and not harm, and to write books
that any mother can give her girls to read, Rosa Carey’s works are
characterised by a tendency to elevate to lofty aspirations, to noble
ideas, and to purity of thought. During her residence at Putney she
has also written _Lover or Friend_, _Only the Governess_, _The Search
for Basil Lyndhurst_, _Sir Godfrey’s Grand-daughters_, _The Old, Old
Story_, _The Mistress of Brae Farm_, and _Other People’s Lives_—a
collection of short stories—while her latest book is entitled _Mollie’s
Prince_. In THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER her short stories, which run serially
for six months, are well known and eagerly looked for. In these,
alike as in her longer works, the descriptive power, the fertility
of resource and originality, prove that unceasing interest can be
maintained while dwelling in a thoroughly healthy literary atmosphere.
The first chapters of a new story will appear in our next monthly part.
It is clearly noticeable that while some of Rosa Carey’s earlier books
indicate a tone of sadness running through them—a circumstance that she
is somewhat inclined to regret, but they were tinged with many years
of sorrow—the healing hand of time has done its merciful work, and
she now writes in a more cheerful vein. Nor is there wanting a strong
sense of quiet fun and humour which especially permeates her delightful
novel _Not Like Other Girls_, a book that should surely stimulate many
young women to follow the example of the three plucky heroines therein
depicted with so much spirit.
While never exactly forming plots, when Miss Carey is about to begin a
story, she thinks of one character, and works around that, meditating
well the while over the others to be introduced. Then she starts
writing, and soon gets so completely to live in and with her creations,
that she feels a sense of loss and blank when the book is coming to an
end, and while she has to wait until another grows in her mind. But,
after all, her writing—the real work of her life—has often to be made
a secondary consideration, for in her strong sense of family duty and
devotion, and being the pivot round which its many members turn in
sorrow or in sickness, the most important professional work is apt to
be laid aside if she can do aught to comfort or to relieve them.
Nor have her sympathies been exclusively limited to her own people.
Ever fond of girls, and keenly interested in their welfare, Miss
Carey conducted for many years a weekly class that had been formed in
connection with the Fulham Sunday School for young girls and servants
over fifteen years of age, many of whom have had good reason to
remember with gratitude the kindly encouragement and the wise counsel
bestowed upon them by the gentle and sympathetic author, Rosa Nouchette
Carey.
HELEN C. BLACK.
VARIETIES.
MANSIONS.
“I am glad that His house hath mansions,
For I shall be tired at first,
And I’m glad He hath bread and water of life,
For I shall be hungry and thirst.
I am glad that the house is His, not mine,
For He will be in it, and near,
To take from me the grief I have brought,
And to wipe away every tear.”
_T. O. Paine._
DEATH THE GATE OF LIFE.—Plato, the great Athenian philosopher, who was
born 427 years before Christ, recognised the doctrine that death is
but the gate of life. “My body,” he says, “must descend to the place
ordained, but my soul will not descend. Being a thing immortal it will
ascend on high, where it will enter a heavenly abode. Death does not
differ at all from life.”
USELESS TROUBLE.
“Why lose we life in anxious cares,
To lay in hoards for future years?
Can these, when tortured by disease,
Cheer our sick heart, or purchase ease?
Can these prolong one gasp of breath,
Or calm the troubled hour of death?”
_Gay._
WOMEN IN BURMA.—In Burma women are probably more free and happy than
they are anywhere else in the world. Though Burma is bounded on one
side by China, where women are held in contempt, and on the other by
India, where they are kept in the strictest seclusion, Burmese women
have achieved for themselves, and have been permitted by the men to
attain, a freedom of life and action that has no parallel amongst
Oriental peoples. Perhaps the secret lies in the fact that the Burmese
woman is active and industrious, whilst the Burmese man is indolent and
often a recluse.
SHE KNEW NOTHING OF CYCLES.
Here is a story for cyclists. At a party on the Scottish Border last
autumn, to which many guests rode on their cycles, the hostess made
elaborate arrangements for the care of the machines, and a system of
ticketing similar to that in use at hotel cloak-rooms was adopted, each
cyclist being provided with a check ticket.
The housekeeper was entrusted with the care of the machines and the
issuing of the tickets, and as they arrived the machines were carefully
stored and labelled so that there should be no difficulty when they
were required again.
But the housekeeper was not a cyclist and did not understand the
mysteries of the pneumatic tyre. She pinned the labels on to the front
tyres of the machines, where they could best be seen, and took good
care that the pins were stuck well into the tyres.
The language that was heard when the guests came to take their machines
away, was, as may well be supposed, more emphatic than polite.
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object
in Life,” etc.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE NEWS THAT CAME AT LAST.
Mrs. Bray’s end did not prove so imminent as her faithful Rachel had
feared. She lingered on, though still unable to leave Bath for return
to her desolated home. So Florence Brand came back to London, but she
and Jem still often took “a week’s end” to run westward and visit the
old lady. They never offered to take Lucy with them, and if “Jem” could
not go Florence went alone. As for Lucy, she often yearned for those
associations with her old easy girlish life which she would have found
in Mrs. Bray’s presence. Such associations help to uphold our sense
of identity, and often comfort us by revealing our own growth. They
keep us tender, too, and tolerant, reviving the consciousness of what
we were ourselves before we learned bitter lessons which may not yet
have come to others. Also they strengthen us by revealing that not even
to regain our old careless joys could we willingly be again our old
careless selves. It is the “look backward” which best spurs us to go
forward.
But Lucy could not afford any “unnecessaries” of leisure or railway
travel. She turned at once to her life of steady labour, knowing that
she must be henceforth a working woman, not for any temporary exigency,
but as part of the natural and persistent order of things.
Even thus she had problems to solve. Her earned income, more or less
uncertain, was not adequate for the reliable upkeep of the home of her
married life. Nor could the demands upon it grow less, since Hugh’s
education and start in life had to be taken into account.
Lucy could not yet give up all hope of her husband’s return. But her
sweet, sane nature speedily realised that whatever hopes she might
secretly cherish, she must nevertheless act as though Charlie had
indeed “sailed for that other shore” whence he “could not come back to
her.”
Yet these secret hopes made it very hard to contemplate the surrender
of the home Charlie and she had made together—the sale of the
leasehold, the dispersion and shrinkage of the household gods. These
seemed almost sacred now when they might be all that remained of the
old life.
The Brands warmly advocated giving up the house and selling off the
furniture.
“It may not bring in much,” Florence said airily, “but what it does Jem
will get well invested in some paying concern. Then you and the boy
can board with somebody. You may do that moderately enough, for people
who are glad to take boarders can often be screwed down to low terms.
Then apart from that definite outlay, you’ll have whatever you can earn
for yourself, and you’ll have no more worry with housekeeping. Many
would envy such a lot. You see there are compensations in all things.”
Then it struck Florence that Lucy’s hesitancy might arise from
reluctance to give up all hope of Charlie’s return, so she added
hastily—
“And if what we all hope for should really happen, why, you would still
have your capital, and you could buy another leasehold and get new
furniture; it would just make a lovely new beginning!”
Lucy shook her head.
“I don’t want to do this if I can find some other way,” she said. “No
other house could be to us what this one is, nor any new furniture that
which Charlie and I bought bit by bit in our courting days. Practically
speaking, too, breakings-up and sales, and buyings again, all mean loss
in cash as well as in feelings.”
“Then, too, if you and the boy were boarding,” Florence went on
hurriedly, “your wants would be drawn within narrow and defined limits,
so that if there was any sort of misfortune, it would not be difficult
for us to help you. We are not really rich, Lucy. We live as we do and
spend as we do only that we may go on getting more. That is the way
with one-half of the people in society. It’s trying. It tells upon Jem,
it’s that which makes him take so much wine,” she whispered. “I should
not like my family to heap any burdens on Jem.”
“I shall not do that, Florence,” replied Lucy, cool and quiet now,
where once she would have been indignant and stung. “I shall certainly
not allow myself to get into debt. I will look well ahead. If we have
to go to the workhouse, I will make our own arrangements for going
there!”
Other people took counsel with Lucy in a far different spirit. Miss
Latimer said Lucy might rely on her remaining with her as long as they
could possibly share a common home. That added her little income to the
household funds. “Little indeed,” she said, but Lucy answered—
“Every little helps. And the greatest help is in the knowledge that one
does not bear one’s burden alone.”
“Ay, two are better than one,” rejoined the old governess, “and a
threefold cord is not quickly broken.”
“I’d like to be the third cord, but I’m only a bit of twine,” said Tom.
Another and stouter strand was soon to be woven into the household
coil for that “long pull and strong pull” which Lucy was determined to
make. The death of his old landlord had broken up the house where Mr.
Somerset had hitherto lived. Diffidently, as if he were asking a great
favour, he inquired if Lucy could entertain the idea of allowing him to
rent her first floor, for which he was willing to pay a rent which at
once made a substantial addition to the household finance.
As for poor Tom Black, he was distressed to think how small his
payments were. “If he went away,” he said, “somebody more profitable
might occupy his place.” Lucy had to reassure him by her own words and
by the sight of Hugh’s tears at the bare thought of “Tom’s going away.”
Three months later Tom got a rise in his salary, and then he insisted
on raising his monthly board fee. Lucy was slightly reluctant and
almost aggrieved, but when she saw the lad’s face beaming with the
power of his new prosperity, she let him have his own way in the matter.
So life settled down. Florence resented that her sister had chosen “to
turn into a lodging-house keeper.” Lucy marvelled to note how strangely
it “comes natural” to some women to belittle and contemn those ways of
honest industry which lie nearest to woman’s true nature—housekeeping,
house-serving, the care of the aged, and the young, and the solitary.
And, oh, the pity of it! if such belittlement and contempt tend to
relegate these high womanly functions only to unworthy “eye-servants”!
Months passed, yet the silence of the seas remained unbroken. Now and
then Lucy and the captain’s wife wrote and asked how each fared. There
came no day when either drew a line across life and forbade that hope
should cross it. They did not put on widow’s mourning, yet when Lucy
had to buy a new dress or ribbon, Miss Latimer noticed that she bought
it of black or of soberest grey.
Months of such waiting had gone by ere Lucy wonderingly observed
that there came to her no more her old nightmare vision of herself
struggling lonely between a wild heath and a dead wall against a
midnight storm. There was a sense in which the allegory of that vision
was converted into fact—the silence as of death on one hand, the great
rough world on the other, the storm of sorrow beating on herself. Yet
now she realised that God Himself was with her on the dark wild way—she
was not alone—and that made all the difference. God does not promise
to uphold us in our fears and forebodings. These ought not to be. He
has promised to be with us and to comfort us when the dark days shall
really come.
Lucy never gave voice to many of her deepest experiences at that
time—that secret speech which the Father keeps for each of His
children. Sometimes it seemed to her as if shafts of light penetrated
her very being, revealing or illuminating the most solemn mysteries of
life. Sometimes she thought of Paul’s allusion to being “caught up into
the third heaven” and “hearing unspeakable words which it is not lawful
for a man to utter.”
This fleeting glory would fade out of Lucy’s soul even as sunshine
fades off the earth. Yet Lucy felt that those “hours of insight” left
her seeing “all things new.”
Lucy began to understand how martyrs can smile and speak cheerfully at
their stake, because from that standpoint their developed spiritual
stature lifts them to wider horizons than others know. What a message
the blue sky must have had for the white depths of the Colosseum! Yet
these things can never be told or written. Whoever would know them
must learn them for themselves, though it be but “in part.” But it is
because of these things that faith and hope and love have never died
out of the world, since all the forces of unfaith and despair and
cruelty end only in producing them afresh, because they are of the
eternal life of God.
Lucy’s picture-dealer felt kindly towards the quiet client who gave
so little trouble, showed so little self-conceit, and, while steadily
business-like, was never exacting or suspicious. He thought “it would
do Mrs. Challoner no harm” if he told her that one or two purchasers
had said, “There is something in that lady’s sketches which we miss
in many greater artists,” one old lady adding that “when she looked
at Lucy’s pictures, she felt as if there was a soft voice beside her
whispering something pleasant.”
That brought the tears to Lucy’s eyes and made her feel very humble,
possibly because she could not deny to herself that there was truth in
the gracious words. Oh, to have Charlie again, and yet to be all that
she had grown into since he had gone away—since this awful silence! And
an inner voice bade her take cheer, for was not this what was sure to
happen here or there—sooner or later?
“What a pitiful bliss we should make for ourselves if we were left to
do it without God!” Lucy cried, thinking even of the sweetest dreams
of courting days, the best aspirations of married life. For after one
taste of “the peace which passeth understanding,” one vision of the joy
which has absorbed the strength of sorrow into it, mere “happiness”
looks but a poor thing, even as a child’s cheap, pretty toy shows
beside a masterpiece of genius.
Lucy’s slumbers now were deep and calm. Almost every morning she awoke
with a sense of refreshment, as when one returns to labour after being
among kind hearts in lovely places. Sometimes she knew she had dreamed,
and such dream memories as lingered, elusive, for a few waking moments,
were always bright and cheering. Visions of Charlie had come during
the first nights after the great blow. He never seemed to speak, but
he was always smiling, always confident that all was well and would be
well. His dream form always appeared in positions and in scenes which
Lucy could recall as having figured in peculiarly happy times. And yet
these scenes had been at the time so slight and evanescent that Lucy
had quite forgotten them till the dream revived the remembrance. It was
as if, in her sleep, her soul was drawn so near the light and warmth of
love that even the invisible records of memory started into view.
After those first few occasions Charlie came no more into any dream
which she could recall even at the instant of waking. But the soothing
spirit of hope and reassurance remained. If she dreamed of Florence,
Florence wore the simple frocks of her girlhood and spoke as she used
to do. Jem Brand, too, appeared only on his kind and helpful side. Once
she had a curious dream of seeing two Jem Brands exactly alike, save
that one was fresh and smiling and friendly, and inclined to nudge his
strange dissipated-looking twin, and to ask why he was so grumpy and
heavy. In her sleep, too, she saw Mrs. Morison, and Jane Smith, and
Clementina, and each was back in her old place and doing well. Lucy
could never remember what passed between them and her in the land of
sleep, but somehow she knew it was something that explained things,
something which made them feel that the past could not have ended
otherwise than it had, but which also made her feel that it was quite
natural that they should begin again and do better.
She thought to herself once as she awoke—
“I feel as if wherever Charlie is I am in his every thought, and that
his every thought is a prayer always ascending on every way by which it
can bring back blessing.”
It was about this time that it struck Lucy that strangers very
often spoke to her. She scarcely ever entered an omnibus or a
railway carriage without somebody appealing to her for some trifling
assistance, or confiding to her some little difficulty which they
seemed to think might grow clearer if it were talked over. Once or
twice she noticed that old folks or little children let ever so many
people pass them by and then asked her to ring a stiff bell for them or
to decipher an address.
Sometimes she caught herself softly repeating Adelaide Proctor’s lines—
“Who is the angel that cometh?
Pain!
Let us arise and go forth to greet him.
Not in vain
Is the summons gone for us to meet him;
He will stay and darken our sun;
He will stay
A desolate night, a weary day.
Since in that shadow our work is done,
And in that shadow our crowns are won,
Let us say still, while his bitter chalice
Slowly into our heart is poured—
‘Blessed is he that cometh
In the name of the Lord!’”
Of course beneath all this high experience ran the undercurrent of
simple daily living. Lucy was in no danger of losing hold of the
practical. She had her regular duties at the Institute, and many little
opportunities for the exercise of tact and common sense at home.
The little household had a real organic unity in its common service
of true friendship, but that did not rub off all the little human
angles. Sometimes Pollie would say that “Mrs. May was more particular
than a real mistress.” Sometimes Miss Latimer found a trial in the
romps of Hugh and Tom Black. Mr. Somerset adopted vegetarianism and
puzzled Mrs. May by desiring her to concoct dishes which seemed to her
unsatisfactory and uncanny. But each trusted the other. Everybody knew
that everybody meant well. If a sharp word were spoken unwarily, a kind
word followed hard upon it. Each understood that all joys and trials
were common property; shares therein might differ, but everybody had a
share.
So the weeks grew into months, and the months completed a year. One
evening Lucy was sitting in the dining-room glancing over her completed
balance sheet with its tiny “surplus,” when suddenly it seemed to her
that there was a new sound in the very rumble of the cab which was
depositing Mr. Somerset as usual at the door, after his day’s study at
the British Museum. She looked up, her pen in her hand listening.
Mr. Somerset generally went straight to his own apartments.
Occasionally, however, when he had any news to tell or any request to
make, he looked in upon the little party in the dining-room.
He did so now.
He sat down on the sofa and said abruptly—
“Mrs. Challoner, do you think joy ever hurts anybody?”
“Surely not,” she said, looking up with wide eyes. “The Bible says that
hope deferred maketh the heart sick, but that when the desire cometh,
it is a tree of life.”
“Do you feel sure, dear friend, that you could bear——”
She had risen from her seat with clasped hands.
“Mr. Somerset, Mr. Somerset!” she gasped.
He rose too.
“Trust me,” he said, gently leading her mind to its new attitude. “I
would not stir expectation ever so lightly for nothing. To-day I have
received a message from the shipping office to deliver to you. Listen!
The long looked-for word has come at last. Charlie lives! Charlie is
quite well! Charlie is coming home! He is on his way!”
Lucy did not faint. She did not cry out. She sat quite quiet for a
moment, and then broke into a peal of low happy laughter, which died
away in a flood of soft healing tears, from which she looked up and
said—
“Is it all true? Is it quite true? I can scarcely believe it!”
(_To be continued._)
THE PLEASURES OF BEE-KEEPING.
BY F. W. L. SLADEN.
PART V.
August is the month we most associate with all the active interests of
the height of summer, but the bees in the hive are already quieting
down and making preparations for their long winter sleep. The duty
of the bee-keeper will be to make sure that these preparations are
properly carried out by assisting them if necessary. One reason
for their diminished activity is the disappearance of several
honey-producing flowers on which the bees depend for their main crop.
Breeding is not kept up so largely—the brood nest growing smaller;
and many cells that contained brood last month will now be filled up
with honey and pollen. Most of the bees now in the hive are to survive
the coming winter, and they must preserve their energies as much as
possible, because the colony will stand in great need of their services
in the following spring. The drones, who gather no honey, and are of no
further use in the hive are now attacked and killed, or turned out of
the hive to perish from exposure. The ejection of the drones is rather
a gruesome proceeding, but it is one that should give satisfaction to
the bee-keeper, because it shows that the colony possesses a healthy
and vigorous queen, and this, of course, is an essential condition for
its well-being.
All through this month robbing will have to be guarded against, as, now
that honey is scarce, it is easily induced, especially where there are
a number of hives. To prevent robbing, the hives should not be opened
too often, and then only late in the afternoon, and the work done as
speedily as possible. No drops of honey or syrup should be left about,
and if feeding is going on, care should be taken to prevent any bees
from outside getting to the feeder.
When robbing and fighting are found to be in progress, the best means
of checking the trouble will be to reduce the entrance of the hive with
perforated zinc, so as to allow only one bee to pass in or out at a
time. A rag soaked in a weak solution of Calvert’s No. 5 carbolic acid,
wrung out nearly dry, and spread out on the alighting board will also
help to keep the robbers off.
These measures need not be taken unless there is considerable
excitement around the hive entrance. At this time of year there will
often be a few strangers on the alighting board, which get pulled about
rather roughly by little groups of over-zealous sentinels, but no
notice need be taken of this.
The middle or end of August will be time enough to think about getting
the bees into condition for the winter. A careful inspection of all the
hives should now be made, and the following points carefully noted:
(1.) Every colony should have a good laying queen. The appearance of
worker brood in all stages will be sufficient evidence of her presence
without our taking the trouble to hunt her up.
(2.) The colony must be strong, the bees crowding on at least six
standard frames.
(3.) The combs must contain not less than twenty pounds of good honey
for food during the winter.
These three conditions being fulfilled, we may be satisfied that the
colony is in good condition to withstand the rigours of winter without
further attention, and only requires to be wrapped up warmly later on
before the advent of cold weather.
If, however, the colony should happen to be queenless, or weak (that
is, covering less than six standard frames), it will have to be
_united_ to another colony. Thus, two colonies, neither of which,
alone, would be strong enough to stand the winter, can be united
together to form one strong colony, which, if properly looked after,
will almost certainly turn out strong in the spring and do well the
following year.
The colonies which are to be united should stand near to one another;
by this I mean within a yard or two of one another. If they are further
apart or have several other hives standing between them, they will have
to be brought together, the moving being done by degrees, a yard or
two at a time, and only on fine days during which the bees fly freely,
otherwise many bees will be lost.
For the operation of uniting a flour-dredger will be required,
containing about half-a-pint of flour. Also a goose-wing for brushing
the bees off the combs. The dome queen-cage is an appliance that may
come in useful. It is made of tinned wire-cloth, and shaped like the
strainer that is sometimes hung from the spout of a tea-pot to retain
the leaves. Such tea-strainers make very good queen-cages. To use the
queen-cage it is pressed into the comb with the queen inside.
The hive to contain the united colonies should be placed midway between
the two old stands. The alighting-boards should be extended by means of
the hiving-board which was used in hiving the swarm.
A bright calm afternoon will be the best time to do the uniting. We
have already seen that bees belonging to different colonies when mixed
will not, under ordinary circumstances, agree. If, however, they are
prevented from recognising one another they will unite together quite
peaceably, and this condition may be brought about by dusting them
over with flour. Every comb must therefore be lifted out of both hives
and the bees on them well powdered with flour from the dredger. In
replacing the combs, one from one hive should be put next to another
from the other hive, thus ensuring the better mixing of the bees. Combs
containing brood should be placed together in the middle of the hive.
The bees on the lightest of the outside combs may be shaken off on to
the hiving-board, where they should receive a sprinkling of flour, the
combs being then taken indoors at once.
During the operation a sharp look out should be kept for the queens on
the brood combs, and if one of them should be preferred for heading
the new colony she should be caged by herself on a comb in the manner
described above to prevent any hostile workers from attacking her. The
other queen must then be found and removed, and the bee-keeper must
remember to liberate the caged queen on the following day. If left to
themselves, however, the workers soon learn to recognise one of the
queens as their mother, so that the trouble of finding and caging the
queen is not really necessary in uniting, but it is an additional
safeguard which the practised bee-keeper is glad to be able to take
advantage of.
It was stated just now that the presence of _worker_-brood in the hive
was sufficient evidence of the presence of a good queen. In some cases
where there is a bad queen or no queen at all, _drone_-brood may be
found in the hive. Usually the bees build a special comb with cells
of a larger pattern for raising drone-brood in, but a bad queen will
often lay drone eggs in worker-cells. In either case drone-brood may
be known from worker-brood by its raised convex cappings, the capping
over the worker-brood being almost flat. The best thing to do with a
drone-raising colony is to unite it to another good colony without
delay in the manner described above.
Having settled the question of strength, the next thing to see about
will be the food supply. If each hive does not possess the minimum
weight of 20 lb. of stored honey, combs containing food must be given
from another hive that can spare them, or syrup must be supplied
through the feeder.
Syrup for winter use must be made thicker than that used for
stimulating in the summer, 10 lbs. of cane sugar being dissolved in
only 5 pints of water. The syrup must be given quickly (5 or 6 lb.
every day), otherwise much of it may be used for raising brood. For
this purpose special rapid feeders, made to hold 6 lb. of syrup, are
made.
If the stock-box contains more than 30 lb. of honey, we may take and
extract the surplus from the outside combs, or one of these combs might
with advantage be given to a colony that stands in need of it.
Bee-keepers who live in the heather districts of Scotland and the north
of England will now be reaping the late honey harvest that this plant
affords, getting their supers filled with the delicious heather-honey,
which is so highly esteemed for its fine flavour. Persons keeping a few
colonies a little distance from the moors find it worth their while to
send their bees there while the heather is in bloom. Heather-honey has
a deep colour. It is so thick that it is extremely difficult to remove
it from the comb by means of the honey extractor. It should therefore
be stored in sections, as these do not require extracting. Sections of
heather-honey should fetch about threepence more than ordinary sections.
What to do with the honey obtained from their bees is a question, I
expect, that will not trouble many of my readers. Still it will be a
good thing to know some of the uses of honey. In the first place it
is delicious eaten with bread and butter. It contains grape sugar,
which makes it wholesome and easily digested, and particularly good
for children in moderate quantities. Honey-vinegar and mead when well
made are acknowledged to be excellent. As an ingredient in cakes and
confectionary, honey greatly improves them. A delicious flavour is
imparted to tea or coffee if sweetened with honey instead of sugar. “My
son, eat thou honey, because it is good” (Proverbs xxiv. 13) is the
recommendation the wise King Solomon gave honey.
Honey is also valuable as a medicine. Mixed with the juice of lemons
it is universally acknowledged to be one of the best remedies for sore
throat and cough. It has been proved to be beneficial in cases of
rheumatism, hoarseness, and affections of the chest.
(_To be concluded._)
THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.
CHAPTER X.
Marion’s wedding-day was near at hand. Mrs. Grant, her cousin, who
lived in Norfolk Square, had very kindly offered to have the wedding
from her house, and this arrangement was the most convenient for
everybody concerned. It had been at first intended that she should be
married from her own home in Northamptonshire, but there would have
been such a difficulty in putting up all the wedding guests, and Dr.
Thomas’s house was already a very full one. So when Mrs. Grant offered
the loan of her house for the occasion it was thankfully accepted.
Marion was glad to be in London for a week or two beforehand as she
was so busy with her _trousseau_, and it made the shopping and trying
on of dresses so much more easy. Her mother came up to town to stay in
Norfolk Square for a fortnight before the wedding to help her with her
purchases. The rest of the family were coming up for the wedding on the
day and were going back to the country as soon as it was over.
Marion was disappointed at not being married from her own home, but she
saw plainly that the present arrangement would save her mother a great
deal of fatigue and inconvenience, and as Mrs. Thomas was not at all
strong now, that was a great point gained. Anybody who has experienced
the difficulties of making ready for a party, added to the planning and
contriving necessary to the disposal of guests in an already over-full
house, will heartily appreciate the benefits of Mrs. Grant’s plan.
Jane wrote to Mrs. Grant, whom she knew very well, and offered help
for the wedding breakfast. As the cook in Norfolk Square had not been
in her place very long and was rather inexperienced, Mrs. Grant was
very glad to agree to Jane’s suggestion. The wedding was to be on a
Saturday. Fortunately the day before was a free day for Jane, and so
she would be able to devote it to making ready for the wedding.
There was to be a sit-down breakfast in the old-fashioned style, for
the guests were limited to the relations and very old friends of the
bride and bridegroom, and as several of these would be coming up from
the country for the day, they would be glad of a substantial repast.
The bride was to be married in a travelling dress, and was only to have
one bridesmaid—her sister Lily.
As the weather was already crisp and cold this was a very sensible
plan, for nothing is more unbecoming than the utterly unseasonable
attire in which brides and bridesmaids are sometimes seen shivering.
Fortunately Marion was not to go straight to a very hot climate, as
Mr. Scott had work at Ootacamund for the next year. She received many
delightful presents. A very useful one from one of her pupils was a
cookery-book for Anglo-Indians, which she treasured very much, as she
knew how very useful it would be to her in her new home.
Mrs. Holden gave her several presents, amongst which was some very
beautiful lace which Marion had made up on a white silk dinner dress.
The enterprising Jane made the wedding-cake with Ada’s help. She had
to buy a special tin to bake it in as she had not one big enough. It
was cooked with the greatest care in the gas oven in which Marion had
prepared so many meals in the days of their joint housekeeping.
The preparations took some days, for Jane had not very much time just
then. She prepared half the fruit one evening and half the next. On
the next afternoon she got home early, made the cake, and got it into
the oven by six o’clock, and had it baked before they went to bed. The
next evening she put on the almond icing and the plain royal icing, and
on the next she ornamented it. It was allowed two or three days to set
quite firm, and then the cake was wrapped in wadding, packed in a box
and taken over to Norfolk Square in a cab, where it was kept under a
glass case until the wedding. Our readers must have the recipe of this
wonderful cake in case they may wish to emulate Jane’s industry for the
benefit of their friends. Mrs. Oldham sent up a special box of eggs for
its concoction.
MARION’S WEDDING CAKE.
_Ingredients._—Two pounds of Vienna flour, one pound of French plums,
one pound of sultanas, one pound of currants, one pound of citron peel,
one and three-quarter pounds of fresh butter, one and a half pounds of
castor sugar, ten eggs, one pound of sweet almonds, and vanilla essence.
_For the Almond Icing._—Two pounds of ground almonds, three pounds of
castor sugar, almond flavouring, enough beaten egg to bind.
_Royal Icing._—Three pounds of icing sugar, whites of egg to mix, lemon
juice.
_Method._—Rub the flour through a hair sieve, stone the French plums
and chop them finely, wash and dry the currants, and pick and flour the
sultanas; cut up the peel, sift the sugar, blanch and chop the almonds.
Beat the butter to a cream, and then add the sugar and work together
until very light; add the eggs one by one, flour the fruit well, and
stir it in gradually, the almonds also: lastly, stir in the flour, the
essence, and the brandy. Line a tin with paper that has been brushed
with clarified butter; pour in the mixture, and bake in a moderate oven.
_Almond Icing._—Mix the ground almonds and castor sugar together and
then work in enough beaten white of egg to bind; knead and roll out,
lay over the cake and put near the fire to dry.
_Royal Icing._—Rub the icing sugar through a sieve and work in with
a wooden spoon enough white of egg to make the icing of the right
consistency to spread over the cake; add a little lemon juice. Dry the
icing in a cool oven, taking care it does not colour. Ornament the cake
the next day, using royal icing mixed rather more stiffly than that
which was spread over first. Put it on with a forcer.
* * * * *
Jane declared that she only breathed freely when she had deposited the
cake in Mrs. Grant’s house, and saw it waiting for the wedding under a
large glass globe!
Here we have the menu for the wedding breakfast.
MENU DU DÉJEUNER.
Ox-tail Soup.
Oyster Patties.
Glazed Pheasants.
Pigeon Pie.
Tongue.
Pistachio Cream.
Claret Jelly.
Fruits.
Coffee.
The cook at Norfolk Square and Jane both worked hard all the day before
and everything turned out very well. To ensure the pheasants and the
tongue being well glazed and looking nice, Jane made some good glaze
and brought it with her. This she did by making a pint of good beef-tea
and boiling it rapidly down to a thick syrup. The pheasants and the
tongue had each two coats brushed on and were then suitably ornamented,
the tongue with a pretty design in creamed butter put on with a forcer
and slices of notched cucumber laid round the dish. The tongue was a
smoked one and was soaked for twenty-four hours before being cooked.
Jane made all the puff pastry for the patties and the pigeon pie; the
cook made the soup, cooked the pheasants and the tongue and prepared
the inside of the pie under her supervision. She also prepared the
moulds for the creams and jellies. Here are the recipes for the soup,
patties, creams, and jellies. The quantity made consisted of two quarts
of soup, two dozen patties, two creams (quart moulds), two jellies
(ditto), and two pies.
OX-TAIL SOUP.
_Ingredients._—One ox-tail, one carrot, one turnip, two onions, two
sticks of celery, two tomatoes, four mushrooms, bay-leaf, blade of
mace, a bunch of herbs, twelve peppercorns, two teaspoonfuls of salt,
two quarts of stock, two ounces of butter, three ounces of brown
thickening.
_Method._—Cut the ox-tail into joints and blanch it. Fry it well in the
butter, add the vegetables washed and sliced, the mace, herbs, salt,
and the stock, and simmer four hours. Strain and pick out the pieces of
meat; take off the fat and return to the saucepan. Thicken with three
ounces of brown thickening. Put in the pieces of ox-tail and the soup
is ready.
PUFF PASTRY.
_Ingredients._—Two pounds of Vienna flour, two pounds of butter, lemon
juice, water to mix, two yolks of eggs.
_Method._—Rub the flour through a hair sieve; wash the butter and rub
one-third into the flour. Turn this on to the paste-board and make a
well in the middle. Beat the yolks of two eggs with a gill of water
and a little lemon juice and mix into the flour, adding more water if
necessary until you have a flexible dough. Roll out to a strip, shape
the butter to a third the size of the dough and lay it on; fold the
dough over and roll out; repeat this and put it away to cool. Roll
out again and repeat this four times. Roll out, cut as required, and
use. For patties, cut into rounds with a cutter about the size of a
wine-glass and mark it at the top with a smaller cutter. Bake in a very
hot oven a pale golden brown, and when baked lift off the lid and scoop
out the inside; fill with the required mixture and put on the lid again.
_Mixture for Oyster Patties._—Strain the liquor from two dozen oysters
and put it to boil for ten minutes with a blade of mace, three
peppercorns, a little lemon rind, and some salt; strain and mix with a
gill of cream. Work half an ounce of butter with as much cornflour as
it will take up, stir it into the liquor and boil up over the fire; cut
the oysters in small pieces, put them into the sauce and heat gently
for a few minutes without letting it boil again.
PISTACHIO CREAM.
_Ingredients._—One pint of double cream, the whites of two fresh
eggs, four ounces of castor sugar, a quarter of a pound of pistachios
(chopped and blanched), one ounce of leaf gelatine, two tablespoonfuls
of water, a half-pint packet of lemon jelly.
_Method._—Take a plain round cake-mould that will hold a quart, and
line the sides of it with lemon jelly. Sprinkle the bottom over with
chopped pistachio, using a little melted jelly to set it. Whip a pint
of double cream to a stiff froth, and mix it lightly with the stiffly
beaten whites of two fresh eggs and the castor sugar (sifted). Pound
the pistachios in a mortar, and add the sweetened cream to this. Have
ready the gelatine, and when it is lukewarm stir it quickly into the
cream. Pour at once into the prepared mould.
Before the wedding-day, Jane, Ada, and Marion had a little tea-party at
“The Rowans,” at which it must be confessed they talked a great deal
and ate very little.
“Well, we have had a very happy year at all events,” said Ada, “and if
_circumstances_ had not upset our previous arrangements, I should have
been quite content to go on in the same way for a long time.”
“As _circumstances_, named Tom Scott and Jack Redfern, intervened, our
housekeeping is at an end,” said Jane decisively. “I think I am the one
to whom all apologies should be made. Of course, with you two gone, I
could not bear starting the same sort of thing again with anyone else,
but it has certainly been a most successful experiment. Has your dress
come home yet, Marion?”
“Yes; and fits very well.”
“It is the prettiest dress you can imagine,” said Jane to Ada. “A grey
Sicilienne skirt, with a grey glacé silk bodice, and cherry-coloured
velvet at the throat and waist. A dear little cherry-coloured toque to
wear with it, and a smart grey velvet cape with a delicate design in
steel on it. I can’t help talking like a fashion plate when I think of
it! Our dresses are sent back at last, and there is nothing that needs
alteration.”
Jane and Ada were to wear their new winter dresses of green cashmere
and brown velvet; big brown “picture” hats with rowans under the brim.
Marion’s wedding-day dawned bright and sunny. The wedding was to be at
two o’clock.
Jane had arranged to go over to Norfolk Square early to superintend
the laying of the breakfast before the party went to church. The
table was decorated with white flowers in specimen vases. Azaleas,
chrysanthemums, and orange-blossoms, and sprigs of rowan-berries were
laid on the pretty white satin table-centre which Ada had worked for
her friend.
And now they are off to church.
Marion makes a charmingly pretty but very nervous bride. Everybody is
bright and cheerful and there are no tears. Soon they come back and sit
down to the breakfast, prepared with so much care. And now the time has
come for us to bid farewell to our young housekeepers, whose plans and
contrivances our readers have followed for so long. If their example
will induce any to try the experiment for themselves, Mrs. Scott, Mrs.
Redfern, and Miss Jane Orlingbury will feel that they have not worked
in vain.
[THE END.]
[Illustration]
LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.
PART XI.
The Temple.
MY DEAR DOROTHY,—As you are one of the members of the committee for the
bazaar in aid of the Nursing Home for Old People, I may be able to give
you a few useful hints to avoid certain illegalities which beset the
path of the unwary promoters of such charitable entertainments.
The great feature of a big bazaar should consist in having as many side
shows as possible, so that people may be able, by the expenditure of a
shilling or two, to escape from the importunities of the stall-holders
into a concert-room, waxwork show, or other attraction, and not be
driven out of the bazaar altogether.
If you want to have anything in the nature of a farce, operetta
or comedietta played in the building, you ought to inquire if the
hall which you are going to hire for the bazaar has a licence for
stage-plays. If it has not such a licence, the performers and those
responsible for the entertainment will render themselves liable to a
fine, unless the proper licence is secured.
Fish-ponds, bran-pies, lucky tubs, and similar contrivances, are
doubtless, strictly speaking, illegal, but are always tolerated at
bazaars, where people do not expect to get the value of their money;
but it is advisable to draw the line at roulette tables or anything in
the nature of a real gamble or a lottery.
On the last day of the bazaar, it is often the custom to sell off the
undisposed-of stock of the stalls by auction. The person who holds
the auction should be a person having an auctioneer’s licence to sell
by auction, otherwise trouble may ensue, as the auctioneers have
recently made a determined stand against unqualified persons acting as
auctioneers.
I think that these are the principal errors into which people who get
up bazaars are liable to fall; but perhaps I ought to enlarge a little
more upon stage-plays and the necessity for having a licence for their
performance.
It is almost impossible to give any kind of a variety concert without
unwittingly performing what is the legal equivalent of a stage-play;
any song with dramatic action is a stage-play, and so are duologues and
monologues, as distinguished from recitations.
Some people have an idea that so long as they do not take any money
at the doors, they are quite safe and within the law in giving a
performance in the cause of charity, but such is not the case. When
money or other reward is taken or charged, directly or indirectly, or
when the purchase of any article is made a condition for admission, the
performers and the owner or occupier of the building render themselves
liable to a fine.
This may sound very alarming, and would, no doubt, considerably
startle those good ladies who lend their houses for performances
for charitable objects in the season; but every time they do so, and
anything in the nature of a stage-play is performed, they may be
prosecuted and fined, although personally they take no benefit from
such performances. The fact that they frequently do so with impunity
does not affect the law on the matter, which is perfectly clear. Why
it has not been altered before now, I am unable to say; hardly a day
passes without its being broken, exemplifying the old proverb that “one
man may steal a horse from a stable, and another may not look over the
hedge.”
I know of a case where a gentleman who had turned part of his house
into the Theatre Royal back drawing-room, and who permitted a
performance of a play to be given on two occasions, to which admission
was by ticket only, which could be obtained beforehand on payment
of a fixed sum, in aid of the funds of a charity, was convicted and
fined under the Act. The gentleman appealed against the conviction,
but without success; the conviction was confirmed by the Court of the
Queen’s Bench. So be warned, my dear Dorothy, and do not allow your
friends to disregard my advice, and be assured that it is much better
to avoid these risky entertainments altogether.
Your affectionate cousin,
BOB BRIEFLESS.
OUR LILY GARDEN.
PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.
BY CHARLES PETERS.
[Illustration: _Lilium Tigrinum_ (var. _Fortunei_).]
We will conclude our remarks on the noble family of lilies by some
notes and tables, which will be found of great value to those who wish
to cultivate these beautiful flowers.
We told you in the first part of this book that we kept a note-book—a
kind of diary—in which we kept a record of our work among the lilies.
We advise everyone who intends to grow these plants to follow our
example, and get a large manuscript book to put down the “proceedings”
of her lilies. The following points should be noted. (1.) The name
of the species and variety. (2.) The name of the person from whom
you obtained the bulb. (3.) The day on which the bulb was planted,
with a note as to the condition of the weather at the time. (4.) The
circumference of the bulb, and a brief description of it, stating
whether the flower-spike had begun to grow, or the new roots had
appeared, or if any scales were mouldy or diseased. (5.) The soil in
which the lily was planted. (6.) The date of the appearance of the
shoot. (7.) The date of flowering. (8.) A brief description of the
full-grown plant and its individual members. (9.) The condition of the
bulb when exhumed.
Here is an example of the record of a bulb of _L. Auratum_.
“_Lilium Auratum_, var. _Platyphyllum_, bought from Mr. ——. Potted
on the 3rd of November, 1897; a warm, dry day. Bulb seven inches in
circumference; new roots just appearing. A sound, heavy bulb. One
mouldy scale removed. Washed in lime-water; sprinkled with charcoal and
potted in an eight-inch pot in a mixture of fine peat (one part), rich
leaf-mould (two parts), a large handful of sand and a few small lumps
of clay. Shoot appeared March 17th, 1898; grew rapidly. No disease.
Flowered September 4th, 1898; five blossoms, all perfect, largest
eleven and a half inches across. No rain when in flower. Lasted in
blossom till September 20th, 1898. Bulb when exhumed quite healthy,
showing two crowns nine and a quarter inches in diameter. Exhumed and
replanted October 21st, 1898.”
If you have a record like this of every lily, you possess a most
valuable book on the culture of lilies; and, as we said at first, the
cultivation of these plants is little understood.
A thoroughly authentic, practical record will help you more to become
proficient in the art of lily-growing than any amount of impracticable
theory.
Now some words to those who are growing lilies in pots. As we have
seen, most species grow well in pots. All do well except the following,
which are unsuitable for pot culture. The reason why they are suitable
is also given.
_L. Cordifolium_ (too straggling).
All the _Isolirions_, because they are not sufficiently ornamental for
pot culture.
_L. Humboldti._ This lily does not do well in pots; why we do not know.
_L. Martagon_, _L. Pomponium_, _L. Pyrenaicum_, _L. Chalcedonicum_, _L.
Monodelphum_, _L. Testaceum_.
The last six lilies are unsuitable for pot culture because they require
to become established before they will condescend to flower.
Most lilies grown in pots can be kept in the open air or in a room, or
anywhere you please, but the following require protection of some sort:—
Half-hardy species. These should not be put out in frosty weather;
otherwise they may be grown out of doors. If you have planted them
in the ground at a sufficient depth, they will stand all but a very
severe winter. _L. Giganteum_, _L. Cordifolium_, _L. Formosanum_, _L.
Wallichianum_, _L. Washingtonianum_, _L. Catesbæi_, _L. Polyphyllum_,
_L. Roseum_, _L. Hookeri_, _L. Oxypetalum_, _L. Alexandræ_.
The following usually need a greenhouse to grow them well:—_L.
Philippinense_, _L. Neilgherrense_, _L. Nepaulense_, _L. Lowi_.
Would you like to have lilies in pots in your room? You can have them
even if you do not possess a greenhouse. You can grow the lilies in
the ground and transfer them to pots just before they begin to flower.
For this purpose plant the bulbs in the open ground in rather lighter
soil than you would if the lilies were to flower in the open. Place the
bulbs about four inches deep. You need not remove the plant until the
flower-buds are nearly fully developed. Then take up the lily with the
surrounding earth, place it in a big pot, drench it with water, and
leave it in a cool, shady place for three days. Then give it a good
dose of liquid manure. You may then take it into your room, and it will
flower as though nothing had troubled the tranquillity of its existence.
Not all lilies are suitable for this treatment; only those species
which will grow in light soils should be used for this purpose. _L.
Longiflorum_, _L. Auratum_, _L. Speciosum_, and _L. Rubellum_ are most
suitable for this form of culture.
About the beginning of November all your lilies in pots will have
flowered and died down. What are you to do with them now?
Shake the bulbs out of the pots; examine them; remove any off-shoots;
do _not_ cut off the roots; wash them in lime-water and re-pot without
delay.
Lilies do not rest during the winter. The pots should be kept in a
place which is not too wet. The pots must not be kept too dry, but an
occasional watering should be administered.
We append a list of the lilies, giving the exact composition of the
soil in which we have grown them best, both in the open air and in
pots. An asterisk is affixed to the most desirable species.
Grown in a mixture of one part peat, two parts leaf-mould, and a good
sprinkling of sand:
*1. _L. Longiflorum._
2. _L. Formosanum._
*3. _L. Auratum._
*4. _L. Speciosum._
*5. _L. Krameri._
6. _L. Rubellum._
7. _L. Henryi._
8. _L. Medeoloides._
Grown in a mixture of equal parts of peat and leaf-mould, with plenty
of sand:
*9. _L. Leichtlini._
10. _L. Maximowiczi._
11. _L. Catesbæi._
12. _L. Wallacei._
*13. _L. Canadense._
*14. _L. Parvum._
*15. _L. Maritimum._
*16. _L. Superbum._
*17. _L. Roezlii._
*18. _L. Pardalinum._
19. _L. Californicum._
Grown in equal parts of rich loam and leaf-mould, enriched with the
contents of an old hot-bed, but with no peat and very little sand:
*20. _L. Candidum._
21. _L. Washingtonianum._
*22. _L. Humboldti._
*23. _L. Pomponium._
*24. _L. Martagon._
*25. _L. Pyrenaicum._
26. _L. Callosum._
27. _L. Carniolicum._
*28. _L. Chalcedonicum._
*29. _L. Monodelphum._
Grown in soil like the last, but with a fair admixture of peat:
*30. _L. Giganteum._
31. _L. Cordifolium._
*32. _L. Wallichianum._
*33. _L. Parryi._
*34. _L. Japonicum Odorum._
*35. _L. Brownii._
*36. _L. Tigrinum._
37. _L. Bulbiferum._
*38. _L. Batmanniæ._
39. _L. Elegans._
*40. _L. Croceum._
41. _L. Davuricum._
*42. _L. Columbianum._
43. _L. Tenuifolium._
44. _L. Concolor._
45. _L. Hansoni._
The following species have never been grown by us:—
*46. _L. Philippinense._
*47. _L. Neilgherrense._
*48. _L. Nepaulense._
*49. _L. Lowi._
*50. _L. Polyphyllum._
51. _L. Davidii._
52. _L. Oxypetalum._
53. _L. Roseum._
54. _L. Hookeri._
55. _L. Avenaceum._
During the greater part of the year you can have lilies in flower in
your garden. If you possess a greenhouse you can have lilies in flower
throughout the year.
[Illustration: ASPIRATION.]
Naturally the lilies flower in the open ground from April till October.
If you wish to have lilies in your garden in November you can do so,
but mind you, if the weather is unfavourable the blossoms will not be
worth much.
The lilies which will flower in the open ground in November are _L.
Speciosum_ and _L. Auratum_. For very late flowering the bulbs should
be planted in May. Last Lord Mayor’s day we gathered a small bunch of
_L. Speciosum_, and one very fair example of _L. Auratum_. The tiger
lilies were also in blossom at that date.
But this late crop of lilies is worth very little; and, unless you have
a greenhouse, we advise you to be contented with six months of lily
flowers.
In a greenhouse it is easy to have lilies throughout the year. _L.
Longiflorum_ will flower from April to January, and _L. Speciosum_ will
flower from August to February if the bulbs are potted at intervals,
and _very_ gently forced when necessary. In the month of March you can
have _L. Rubellum_ in flower.
Doubtless some of our readers will wish to grow lilies for show
purposes. Indeed, for this purpose few flowers are more satisfactory,
for lilies are extremely showy, they last very well in flower, and are
by no means impatient of removal.
As a matter of fact, growing lilies for show purposes can be conducted
on two separate systems; either you can grow show plants or show
flowers.
For the former purpose the stem, the leaves, the shape of the
inflorescence, and the number, shape, size and colour of the blossoms
must be above the average. For “show flowers” all your attention must
be concentrated upon one single blossom.
For growing show plants choose a very big bulb. In our former articles
we warned you against these mammoth bulbs, because they are so often
unsatisfactory. But for show plants you must choose these big bulbs;
but do not imagine that from every “mammoth bulb” you will get a fine
spike. You will rarely get more than one really excellent plant out of
six bulbs.
For prize plants pot the bulbs in large pots and keep them in a cold,
dark place for a fortnight. When the shoots appear, grow them on as
quickly as you can, but give no artificial heat. Keep the plants in a
place where they are not likely to be injured by the wind, and where
there is plenty of shade. As the flowering time arrives give plenty of
liquid manure.
Of all manures, “Ichthumic guano” is the most satisfactory for show
lilies.
You must turn your pots round every day, so as to keep the stems
straight. Lilies always bend towards the sun, and unless the pots are
carefully turned round every day the stems become twisted or bowed.
For growing prize blossoms choose a small bulb. Grow it as you did for
a prize plant, but when the buds begin to turn colour, remove every one
except one—the finest. Cut the flower with as long a stem as possible,
and send it to the exhibition while it is opening, and before the
pollen has become free.
Grow your show plants as carefully as you will, you will often find
that many uncared-for plants in the garden beat the pampered one in the
form and delicacy of their blossoms!
Like all other flowers, the lilies possess many more names than they
desire, and in many cases even the slightest variation from the type
has been labelled with a new name. You must therefore beware of paying
high prices for cheap lilies with a new name—a fate which will damp the
ardour of most amateurs.
Our work among the lilies is done. If our admiration for them has been
great, it has never been excessive. The lilies are the loveliest of all
flowers, and the study of them is wrought with delight.
“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not,
neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all
his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”
“UPS AND DOWNS.”
A TRUE STORY OF NEW YORK LIFE.
BY N. O. LORIMER.
CHAPTER III.
If you had peeped into the big attic bedroom the three girls occupied
at the top of the high New York boarding-house, you would have seen
Ada Nicoli in her pretty white dressing-gown—such a pitiful reminder
of her former luxury—putting little Sadie’s hair into curl-papers. In
her lonely life she had grown passionately attached to her two little
sisters who were so dependent on her, and the thing that hurt her most
about her poverty was seeing little Sadie look careless and neglected.
Often at night she was so tired and weary that it took all her courage
to brush and dress their two heads of hair, and see that their clothes
were in proper order for going to school the next day. A hat-box full
of Southern bank-notes, which had been Marjorie’s and Sadie’s amusement
for many a day in their old home for playing at store-keeping, came in
handy for curling Sadie’s hair, and the child always wanted Ada to tell
her the same story, how her mother’s mother had saved up the bank-notes
during the great war, believing that the South would be victorious, and
how she had made some of the notes during the war by making slippers
out of the felt carpets and selling them.
“If they were all real good dollars now, Ada,” the child said, “we
needn’t live in this hen-roost any longer, need we?”
Ada took the child in her arms. “Poor little Sadie,” she said. “While
we three are together, it doesn’t so much matter, does it? We can have
a little fun sometimes, can’t we?”
“It isn’t so bad, siss,” the child answered, “but I do want to go to
Barnum’s, and I wish the girls at school wouldn’t say, ‘When’s your
father coming back? He’s been visiting for a long time.’”
Then Marjorie chimed in with—“I passed two of the girls I used to go to
school with to-day, Ada, and they both looked in at a shop window when
I passed.”
“Never mind,” Ada said, with her heart growing sadder every minute.
“It’s a good thing not to be at school with girls who are so vulgar.”
Ada’s own rich friends had also disappeared in a marvellous fashion. It
is true she had left her old home so suddenly, and had to avoid seeing
people whom it would be painful to meet in her altered circumstances,
so much that, perhaps, they were not altogether to blame. She had
been working for some months at Madame Maude’s now, and she had found
that she had very little time in her busy life for musing over the
faithlessness of her rich friends. Her mother’s mental condition had
not improved, and she had not had a single line from her father. He
had left the country to avoid disgrace as well as ruin. The cold
weather had come, and Ada was feeling the hardship of walking every
morning and evening to her business. It was a long way, and the girl’s
constitution was not suited to the strain made upon it. The people in
the boarding-house had watched her growing slighter and paler as the
weeks passed, and her eyes had grown feverishly bright. Marjory was
a selfish, peevish child, who did not do what she could to help her
sister.
“She’s not worth Ada’s little finger!” the fat boarder would exclaim,
when the child deceived her sister by making friends with girls that
Ada had asked her not to know, and had spent Ada’s hardly-earned money
on candies, and iced-cream sodas. “She’s her father’s own child, that’s
what she is, and Ada Nicoli’s too fine a girl to kill herself for that
saucy brat.”
But Ada could see no fault in Marjory, for Marjory was clever enough
to deceive her. And so while Ada was toiling night and day to bring
her up as a refined and cultivated child, Marjory was hankering after
the society of vulgar companions, and paying little attention to
her lessons. But little Sadie was a sweet and loving child, and her
devotion to Ada was touching. At the boarding-house dinner-table it was
a pretty sight to see Ada Nicoli with a little sister on each side of
her. She was the prettiest, daintiest creature herself, and it was her
greatest joy to see people look with admiration at her two children, as
she called them. They were always wonderfully clean and freshly dressed.
“How long can she keep it up?” the fat boarder said. “She fairly amazes
me, that girl. She had never even brushed her own hair a year and a
half ago, and now she’s keeping these two children so sweet and fresh,
and bringing them up so well, too. They are a deal nicer children than
when they first came, but it’s wearing her out—that light burning up in
her room till past twelve at night, and she’s up by seven o’clock in
the morning.”
Beside the people in the boarding-house there was someone else who had
been watching Ada working the soft curves of her face into sharper
lines, and seeing the deeper shadows come below her bright eyes. It
was an old man who drove to business every day on the Fifth Avenue
stage-coach. He always knew that, if it was a wet day, Ada would
be waiting at 20, East 32nd Street for the coach to pass, but if it
was fine, she would save her twenty-five cents and walk. He was an
observant old man, and somewhat of a character. He was supposed to be a
miser, and very wealthy, though he lived in a small tenement house, and
kept no servant. While he sat huddled up in the corner of the coach,
which rattled and shook over the stones of Fifth Avenue like a relic
from the last century, he had noticed every detail of the girl’s dress,
he had seen the once pretty frocks become almost threadbare, and the
dainty shoes lose their freshness. He had made inquiries, and found out
her story. One day she had given the conductor a five-dollar bill to
pay for her fare. The man gave her back a quarter too much change. The
old man watched her count the money, and look at the extra quarter. It
was bitterly cold weather, and he knew that that quarter would pay for
her journey there and back for another two days. The girl’s expression
said it as plainly as words could have done. “You’ve given me a quarter
too much,” she said, with a little tremble in her voice. The man did
not even say “Thank you,” but snatched the money out of her hand
roughly. The old man smiled; he had long ago lost his belief in human
nature, and this little act of honesty on the girl’s part did him good.
If was like going near a fire on a cold winter day. The meeting of Ada
coming and going from her work grew to be the one interest in the old
hermit’s life. He had watched her so carefully that he had gained a
knowledge of her life of which she was wholly unconscious. He had seen
her tenderness to her little sisters when he met them out together on
a Saturday afternoon. Often he had wandered over Central Park with his
keen eyes looking out eagerly for the graceful figure of Ada Nicoli
laced arm-in-arm with the two young children, and when they stopped
to feed the swans on the lake, or rest in some summer-house, the old
man seated himself where he could feast his eyes on his adopted family
unseen.
Two or three times he had seen something very like tears in Ada’s eyes
when a carriage with some beautifully-dressed women in it would pass
the girl, and they would give her a stiff little bow of recognition.
* * * * *
It was one of the coldest winters New York had experienced for
many years, but the old man’s shrivelled-up heart was, day by day,
stretching and expanding towards the girl, who was always gentle. She
had many times helped him as he got in and out of the Fifth Avenue
stage-coach, and she had often offered to give up her seat in the snug
top corner in exchange for his draughty one near the door, but beyond
these natural, kindly little attentions, Ada Nicoli had thought little
about the old man, whom so many people laughed and poked fun at. He
had even taken the trouble to follow her to the private asylum where
her mother lived, and would wait there until she came out with her
sweet blue eyes filled with sadness. He had heard of her father’s cruel
desertion, and many a time the old man could feel his fingers close
upon the villain’s neck in his longing to thrash him.
On this particular day, when everything was a world of snow, and the
temperature was twenty degrees below zero, the old man had been slowly
following Ada to her mother’s home. He had long since learnt that
Wednesdays were the visiting days in this house of sorrow, and that Ada
Nicoli never failed to be there in her lunch hour. The house was in a
quiet street, where there was little traffic or noise, and Ada hurried
along as fast as her numbed feet would carry her. In the old man’s eyes
she had never looked so beautiful, for the cold, crisp air had brought
a lovely colour to her cheeks, and her hair was bright gold in the
winter sunlight. Suddenly he saw her stop, and bend over something that
had fallen in the snow on the side-walk. It was the figure of a man,
and from his position it looked as if he was intoxicated, rather than
overcome with the cold. There was no one in sight but the old man who
was following her. Ada touched the man, and spoke to him, but he could
give no coherent answer. He was too drunk to tell her even what his
name was. When the old man came up to her she was searching the road
with a troubled look.
“There is no sleigh in sight,” she said, “and he must not lie here, he
will freeze to death.”
“Perhaps he ain’t of much account living,” the old man said; “folks
like that are better dead.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” Ada cried, in a reproachful voice; “he may have a
wife and family dependent upon him.”
“A mighty poor thing to depend on, lying drunk on the side-walk at
midday. Don’t you waste your pity on the likes of him.” The old man
knew that he would have been grievously disappointed if his pretty
young lady with the sweet blue eyes had gone on her way and left a
fellow creature to freeze to death.
“It may be hours before a policeman passes this way,” Ada said. “It’s
sheer murder to leave him. I will run down this side street and see if
I can find a cab.” The old man waited for the girl’s return, walking
up and down the side-walk where the drunken man lay in an unconscious
sleep. Soon he heard the sound of sleigh-bells, and in another instant
one appeared round the corner with Ada seated in it. She jumped out
when she reached the spot where the man lay, and told the hackman
to get down and lift him into the cab. “Take him to the nearest
police-station,” she said, “and keep him there until he is himself
again.”
“And who’s going to pay me?” the man asked sullenly.
“I will,” Ada replied proudly, “if you do not care to do it for
charity.”
“If I was plying round the city looking out for driving acts of
charity, I guess my wife and young ’uns would be as badly off as these
drunken brutes are.”
Ada took her thin little purse from her pocket. “Will you do it for a
dollar?” she said; “it is all I have to give you. Will you help the
hackman to lift him in,” she said, turning to the old man. But as she
looked at his shrivelled old figure, in his badly-fitting clothes, she
seemed to regret what she had said, and stooped down to take the man by
the shoulders, while the hackman took his feet; but the old man quickly
put her aside, with almost a cry in his cracked old voice, as he said,
“Don’t touch him, don’t touch him. To think of you defiling your pretty
fingers on a drunken brute.”
Ada looked at him in mild surprise, and gave up her place. When the
hackman drove off she turned and thanked the old man.
“If the friendless and poor aren’t kind to each other,” she said sadly,
“where can we look for help?” She thought that he did not understand
that she was placing herself amongst the list of the poor and
friendless. She, his daintily-reared lady, standing there, a slight,
proud figure, with her queenly little head thrown back, and her cheeks
as delicate as the pink apple-blossom in his old garden at home. In
all the big city of New York where he had worked and toiled for forty
years, this girl was the one glad and beautiful thing for him; he felt
his time-worn heart beat young again when he looked at her.
(_To be concluded._)
SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.