VENUS’S FLY-TRAP.
“Mark, will you come to Sunbridge Woods and look for Venus’s
fly-trap?”[1]
“With all my heart, Sorella; but what will mother do?”
“Oh, mother will be quite happy in the garden under your tent. She
cannot walk in the heat, you know; but perhaps she’ll come and meet us
if she does not drive with auntie.”
“Let us go and ask her,” said Mark; and led the way to the cool little
parlour, where their mother was engaged in some parish writing for her
brother, her writing-table so placed that she could look up from time
to time at her husband’s portrait, which seemed to her, simple soul
that she was! to look down on her with tender care and encouragement.
Margaret never told her thoughts even to her daughter, but both Mark
and Eva knew why their mother loved that place better than any other.
Mark propounded Eva’s scheme, which met with no opposition from their
mother, who was well content to know that they were happy and together.
“Will you not take Elgitha?” she asked. “She loves to get a walk in the
woods.”
Eva would rather have had her brother all to herself, but a suggestion
from her mother was law to her; so Mark ran up to the rectory to see if
Elgitha might come with them, while Eveline put on her walking dress
and prepared her basket, scissors, etc.
Elgitha was now a big girl of thirteen. Small and delicate as she had
been in her infancy, she was now developing a rather large frame, and
was at that awkward age when a girl seems all angles, and does not
know what to do with her hands and feet. Being an ugly likeness of her
father, and in character more resembling the Echlins than the Manners,
she in no way dimmed the lustre of Gilbert’s glory in her mother’s
eyes, and was on all occasions extremely glad to escape to her aunt and
cousins at the cottage.
The idea of a walk in the woods with Mark and Eveline was enchanting,
a delightful relief to the tedium of a _tête-à-tête_ drive with her
mother in the phaeton, and Elgitha floundered into her walking gear
with all possible speed. They met Eva at the garden gate, and, after
she had put her cousin’s dress to rights with a few judicious touches,
the three set off across the fields in the direction of Sunbridge. They
crossed cornfields just ripening into yellow, spotted here and there
with nodding poppies and blue cornflowers, and Elgitha sought counsel,
as to the weather from the shepherd’s weather-glass, white or red,
or, as to the time, from the seeding dandelion. The sun was high in
the heavens, and blinding in his majesty, so that it was with a sense
of exquisite relief that they gained the shelter of the woods, laden
with full summer foliage, and whispering sweetly in the gentle wind.
At Eva’s wish they sat down to rest under a lime just bursting into
blossom.
It was a day when to be alive was pleasure, and Mark lay on his back
gazing up into the world of tender green, dreaming deliciously; but
Elgitha had not reached the dreamy age, and, having sat for five
minutes, pulling to pieces a bunch of poppies which she had gathered,
and watching their tender leaves float in the wind, she suddenly
started up at the sight of a horseman riding along the high road, where
it skirted the wood some two hundred paces distant.
“Hullo!” she shouted. “Gilbert, I wonder where he is going. Hullo!
stop; where are you going?” And plunging through moss and bracken, she
managed to make a right angle, and, climbing a five-barred gate, stood
in front of her brother, as he came riding slowly along the road.
Gilbert was startled, but the horse knew Elgitha, whinnied, and stopped.
“How on earth did you come here?” said Gilbert, not in the most amiable
manner.
“Oh! Mark and Eva are here,” explained Elgitha; “we have come out for a
walk.”
“Then why do you tear along like a lunatic Meg Merrilies?”
“What a good idea!” laughed Elgitha; “you are Mr. Bertram riding from
Ellangowan, and I am Meg; but I ought to be standing on the top of the
gate to tell you your doom.”
“Nonsense, child; let the horse’s head free,” for Elgitha was fondling
her father’s old favourite.
“The horse! Just as if the dear old thing hadn’t got a name! Poor
darling old Dusty, who has carried you, man and boy, for these fifteen
years. I’m ashamed of you, Gil.”
“I’m ashamed of him!” replied Gilbert, “the stupid old beast; he hasn’t
a bit of spunk left in him, if he ever had any. A nice specimen, isn’t
he, Mark?” for Mark and Eveline had not joined them. “What would St.
Maur or Tullietudlem say to him? They’d hardly think him fit for dogs’
meat at Cambridge, would they?”
Mark patted the neck of the old horse, who had carried the rector for
over twenty years.
“Dusty prefers Sunbridge to Cambridge; he’s quick enough for the
rector, and can get over a quantity of ground if need be.”
“He and the rector suit each other, I’ve no doubt; but I wish the
rector would keep something a little more up to the mark for his
friends. It makes a fellow look such an owl to be astride of such a
Rosinante. Mrs. Alderman Jacobson and those black-browed girls of
hers passed me ten minutes ago in a splendid barouche with a couple
of thoroughbreds—such beauties, Eva, that dark mottled grey that you
love so, matched to an inch with silver-plated harness that positively
dazzled me. It is scandalous; his grandfather, old Nat Jacobson, used
to peregrinate the metropolis in search of cast-off wearing apparel
with a black bag and a pyramid of old beavers on his patriarchal head.”
“Oh, Gil, how can you?” remonstrated Elgitha; “it is a case of industry
rewarded. If our grandfathers had toiled as Nat Jacobson toiled, and
accepted as fish whatever came into their nets, they might have added
barn to barn and acre to acre, and left us the wherewithal to skim
through the world in barouches drawn by silver-harnessed dappled greys.”
“True enough, most wise maid of Sunbridge, but I don’t think I should
ever acquire a taste for making money; people in our position are not
fitted for making money; but if our pater instead of being a model
curate, had spent his energies on a good milk walk, you wouldn’t have
to plod about on foot all your days, and I shouldn’t have had the
confounded nuisance of choosing a profession.”
“Pity him—only pity him!” exclaimed Eva, laughing; “the poor young man
has to make up his mind within the next twelve months whether he will
be a lawyer or a clergyman. There’s yet a doctor, Gilbert. Why don’t
you try medicine?”
“Pah! nasty messy work! Do you think I’d be at the call of every
hysterical girl or hypochondriac old bachelor, pottering about from
one stuffy room to another, with nothing to relieve the tedium but an
occasional dish of scandal?”
“Have a care!” cried Mark; “the day may come when you shall need the
help of Æsculapius yourself. For my part, I think no one more admirable
than the true doctor, who often in the exercise of his art can
‘minister to the mind diseased,’ and, when all other hope is gone, can
point the way to hope in heaven.”
“I believe, Mark,” said Gilbert, in disgust, “that you would find
something to say in favour of an undertaker.”
“Perhaps I could; but as neither of us is called to weigh the pros and
cons of that extremely useful calling, I confess I have not given it
due consideration. You have the choice of the Church and the Bar, I of
the Church or the Civil Service. I suppose, whichever we choose, we are
neither of us to be pitied?”
“Bother your optimism! I believe it is your horrible contentedness that
drives me into pessimism! I believe you would have me think that you
enjoy dragging along through these woods at the heels of a couple of
girls!”
“You can think what you please, Gilbert, it will not affect my comfort.
I shouldn’t enjoy dragging at the heels of St. Maur or Tullietudlem, so
let us agree to differ and wish each other a good morning. The woods
at least are cooler than the high road, and as Eva is bent on having a
specimen of Dame Venus’s fly-trap, we may have far to go.”
“And, pray, what may Venus’s fly-trap be?” said Gilbert, who never had
any particular taste for his own company.
“I’ll show you, if we are lucky enough to find one,” cried Eva,
following her brother into the wood. Elgitha stopped to give Dusty a
farewell hug, then plunged after them, and Gilbert was left to his
own devices. He slowly resumed his way, the sweetness of his temper
not increased by the encounter, for though he affected to despise the
company of girls, it was not pleasant to find them indifferent to him,
and, sneer at Mark as he would, his frank, happy face filled him with
envy.
Mark, of course, must decide on his calling before long. Whatever
his decision, he must make his own way; his mother could give him no
artificial support; it was very wise of him to make the best of it. Of
course, if his pater had lived, things would have been very different,
and Mark would have been—well, probably just like his present self,
and would have found everything a “confounded bore.” And so _post
equitem sedet atra cura_, and the lad of nineteen is handicapped with
a heavy heart, in spite of his good father, his high-born and doting
mother—in spite of his most expensive education and a moderate fortune
in prospect.
The botanisers meanwhile threaded the mazes of the leafy trees with
many a gay laugh and many a simple joke, and with much admiration of
the multiform beauties spread before their eyes, until they came to a
damp hollow, carpetted with moss of an emerald green brightness, which
Eveline immediately recognised as the favourite habitat of the dainty
moss which they were seeking.
They separated, each taking a division, and many lovely things,
insect and vegetable, were presented to their eyes—tiny beetles,
scarcely the size of a pin’s head, harnessed in green and gold, tiny
flies with lustrous bodies floating on gauzy wings, mosses with dainty
blossoms, scarce distinguishable in colour from the plant itself, often
covering a treacherous ooze, and over all the whispering trees and
the occasional coo of the woodpigeon—but the prize they sought still
eluded them. Mark expressed it as his opinion that it only existed in
Eveline’s imagination, and Eveline was, sorrowfully, about to give up
the search, when Elgitha raised a loud shout of triumph, and there was
a great leap, a splash, and a tumble.
“What are you doing?” exclaimed Mark, hastening to the help of his
floundering cousin.
“Don’t mind me! don’t mind me! Here it is! I’ve found it, Lina, I’ve
found it!”
“Let me look!” cried Eva, almost equally excited.
“Come round this way,” said Mark, guiding his sister on firm ground to
the edge of the swamp. “If Elgitha had not been so impatient she might
have won her prize with dry feet!”
“_Veni, vidi, vici!_” exclaimed the victorious Elgitha, holding aloft
her prize; and, glancing at her soaking feet and stained dress, she
continued, “When Julius Cæsar wrote that you don’t suppose he looked
spick and span as when he went to dine with Pompeius Magnus.”
“Elgitha thinks the prize well worth the cost,” said Eva, admiring the
lovely growth; “look at its delicate fan-like leaves, pale green, with
tiny rosy spikes—dangerous beauties, too; look at these poor bodies
of slain flies, here, ensnared by this leaf—and these new ones just
unfolding their spikes, how innocent they look!”
“Nature’s coquettes!” laughed Mark. “Strange, is it not, to see the
traps that are everywhere set for silly flies? But come, girls, we
had best be getting home. We have accomplished the object of our
expedition, taken our Pergama, as Elgitha would say, and the sooner we
get our victorious maid home the better. It would be an ignominious
catastrophe to have the discoverer of Venus’s fly-trap in bed for a
week with mustard poultices and water gruel.”
Elgitha, elated with her success, protested, but in vain, for Eveline
agreed with Mark, and observed that even if they had not been
successful it was time that they should be getting home again.
The walk back was accomplished with sedater spirits, and as they neared
home the brother and sister insensibly fell into grave discourse, while
Elgitha, now rather tired, dragged a little behind.
The course of their future life was what they talked about, and Mark
explained the reasons that made him hesitate to go into the Church, the
course which his college successes seemed to indicate.
“It seems to me imperative,” said Mark, “that I should be no burden on
my mother’s slender resources. I should dearly like to be able to make
a home for you both.”
“But if Gilbert decides against taking orders there’s Bigglethwaite.
I’m sure Aunt Elgitha would rather have you there than anyone
else—better even than Gilbert, I think.”
“We must not think of Bigglethwaite, Lina; might as well fix on
Rosenhurst itself. Failing Gilbert, the earl has someone no doubt in
view, but I believe that it will end in Gilbert’s taking orders.”
“But he will never be fit,” remonstrated Eva.
“That is a hard thing to say. I don’t suppose that he will find the Bar
pay, but I would rather not hang about waiting for his determination.
I will make up my mind before October.”
“And you don’t know whether to be a clergyman, a schoolmaster, or to
try for the Civil Service.”
“That is exactly how matters stand, Dilecta, so you see I am more
perplexed than Gilbert; his choice lies between two; I am distracted by
three.”
“And in all probability an accident will decide at last.”
“Probably, if, indeed, there be such a thing as accident.”
“My mother would like you to be a clergyman, I think.”
“I think she would, and what would my sister prefer?”
“I don’t know; I don’t think I very much care, for you will always be
my own dear brother. Whichever will let me see most of you, I think.”
“You don’t ask me which I prefer,” pouted Elgitha, coming up behind.
“I didn’t know you were listening, goosie,” said Mark, drawing her arm
through his, “But, come now, favour us with your opinion.”
“Well, Mark, my honest and true opinion is that you, if you don’t get
away from stupid old Rosenhurst as soon as ever you can, you will be a
goose of the first feather.”
“And wherefore, O most profound Sybilla?”
“Because there is nothing on earth to do; one day is just exactly like
another, and as to being a parson, it just takes an angel like father
to put up with it.”
“You naughty girl; what do you mean?”
“Why, isn’t he at everybody’s beck and call from Sunday morning to
Saturday night? If Farmer Baynes quarrels with his son, father has
to hear both sides, and to try and make them hear reason; if Widow
Marvel’s ten babies are down with typhoid fever, because she will not
keep the place decently clean, he has to supplement the work of the
doctor, and go in and out of the filthy hole as if he liked it. Nobody
is in any trouble, no one does any sin, but it all comes back upon
father. Don’t you know that that’s what makes him look so white—that
and Gilbert together?”
“Elgitha,” said Mark, gravely, “your father is one of God’s saints, and
of such as he is the kingdom of heaven. Do not grudge him to the work;
his reward is ready. But why would you have me leave Rosenhurst? Do you
think sin and sorrow are not as frequent elsewhere?”
“Perhaps; but at any rate other places cannot be as stupid.”
“And yet, child, if you go away, before a year is out you will be
looking back to these stupid days with fond regret, and will remember
nothing of Rosenhurst but its roses and lilies.”
“I’d wager you something to the contrary, only I know you wouldn’t bet;
but here we are home again. Don’t open the gate, please; I’m going
round at the back. Mother’ll be in an awful fume if she sees this
frock; Mary’ll get it cleaned for me. Here, Lina, take Aunt Margaret
this trophy,” holding out a dainty specimen of the fly-trap, snugly
packed in moss.
“Nay, dear, that is the prettiest piece of all; take it to Aunt
Elgitha.”
“Oh, she wouldn’t care for it; she’d forget to put it in water, and so
should I. Aunt Margaret will love it, and know just what it wants, and
keep it alive for weeks, and paint it and learn it by heart. Good-bye
for the present; I suppose you will be coming in for a little music
by-and-by?”
“That is as the superior powers may have determined,” said Mark,
holding the gate for her to enter, and so the expedition ended.
(_To be continued._)
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Eveline would be botanically more correct if she called the
beautiful English plant “sundew.” It is of the same order as the
foreign “Venus’s fly-trap,” and also attracts and kills small flies.
VARIETIES.
O NANNY, WILT THOU GANG WI’ ME?
Some time ago, in THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, there appeared an interesting
sketch of the “Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,” with some facts of
the life of Bishop Percy. In the account given, no mention is made of
the once popular ballad, “O Nanny, wilt thou gang wi’ me?” or the event
that gave rise to its production. The circumstances, however, were of
such an unusual character, that they will certainly bear telling once
more.
It was in 1771, about six years after the publication of the
“Reliques,” and at the very height of Percy’s literary fame, that Mrs.
Percy was summoned to the Court of George III. and appointed nurse to
the infant Prince Edward, afterwards Duke of Kent, and ultimately the
father of our present good and most gracious sovereign Queen Victoria.
Mrs. Percy is said to have been a very amiable and excellent woman.
Miss M. L. Hawkins, in writing of the occurrence, says: “His Royal
Highness Prince Edward’s temper, as a private gentleman, did not
discredit his nurse, for his humanity was conspicuous.”
It was when Mrs. Percy had fulfilled the duties of her high position as
personal attendant to the young prince, and on her return to the quiet
Northamptonshire vicarage of Easton Mandit, that Dr. Percy greeted his
long absent wife with the following verses:—
“O Nanny, wilt thou gang with me,
Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?
Can silent glens have charms for thee,
The lowly cot, and russet gown?
No longer dressed in silken sheen,
No longer decked with jewels rare;
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
“O Nanny, when thou’rt far away,
Wilt thou not cast a wish behind?
Say, canst thou face the parching ray,
Nor shrink before the wintry wind?
Oh, can that soft and gentle mien
Extremes of hardship learn to bear,
Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
“O Nanny, canst thou love so true,
Through perils keen with me to go?
Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue,
To share with him the pang of woe?
Say, should disease or pain befall,
Wilt thou assume the nurse’s care,
Nor, wistful, those gay scenes recall
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
“And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And cheer with smiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o’er his breathless clay
Strew flowers and drop the tender tear,
Nor then regret those scenes so gay,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?”
When the ballad was first published it is said to have been
exceedingly popular, and greatly enhanced the reputation of its
author. The _Gentleman’s Magazine_ for 1780 speaks of it as being “not
undeservedly” regarded as “the most beautiful song in the English
language.”
Mrs. Percy was a native of Northamptonshire, and the daughter of Barton
Gutteridge, Esq., of Desborough. Her union with Dr. Percy proved to be
a very happy one, though clouded over on several occasions with grief
and sorrow at the loss of some of their children, particularly at the
death of their only son Henry, a promising young man of twenty years
of age. The greatest affection existed between husband and wife, and
continued to the end of their days. A very pleasing illustration of
this fact is given in Pickford’s Life of Percy. The incident occurred
in Ireland when Percy held the see of Dromore. On one occasion, when
the bishop was from home, a violent storm came on in the evening, and
was of such a character that the friends with whom he was staying
earnestly entreated him to remain for the night, but the companionship
of the “Nanny of his Muse” was a more powerful magnet than the pleading
of kind friends or shelter from the tempest, so he ventured forth
heedless of the howling winds and drenching rain. Subsequently he
commemorated the event by writing the following lines, which were first
published in 1867:—
“Deep howls the storm with chilling blast,
Fast falls the snow and rain,
Down rush the floods with headlong haste,
And deluge all the plain.
“Yet all in vain the tempests roar,
And whirls the drifted snow;
In vain the torrents scorn the shore,
To Delia I must go.
“In vain the shades of evening fall,
And horrid dangers threat;
What can the lover’s heart appal,
Or check his eager feet?
“The darksome vale the fearless tries,
And winds its trackless wood,
High o’er the cliff’s dread summit flies,
And rushes through the flood.
“Love bids achieve the hardy task
And act the wondrous part,
He wings the feet with eagle speed,
And lends the lion-heart.
“Then led by thee, all-powerful boy,
I’ll dare the hideous night,
Thy dart shall guard me from annoy,
Thy torch my footsteps light.
“The cheerful blaze, the social hour,
The friends—all plead in vain;
Love calls—I brave each adverse power
Of peril and of pain.”
Mrs. Percy died on the 31st December, 1806. Her remains were interred
within the Cathedral of Dromore. Several poems were published on her
decease in the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ at that time. One of them,
descriptive of the graces of this excellent lady, reads thus:—
“Within the precincts of this silent cell
Distinguished Percy’s sacred relicks dwell;
Whose youthful charms adorn’d the courtly scene,
And won the favour of a British Queen
Whose moral excellence, and virtues rare,
Shone as conspicuous as her face was fair.
By none throughout a long and happy life
Was she surpassed as mother, friend, or wife.
Alike from ostentation free, and pride,
Humanity her motive, sense her guide.
Her charity with constant current flowed,
And its best gifts so usefully bestowed,
That ere her spirit reached its native sphere,
Her goodness marked her as an angel here.”
Dr. Percy lived on for five years longer, passing away on September
30th, 1811, revered and beloved for his piety, liberality, benevolence,
and hospitality, by persons of every rank and religious denomination.
_Leisure Hour._
A DOUBTFUL ADVANTAGE.—A young working man was being shown the
advantages of having a home of his own instead of knocking about in
lodgings. “I don’t see,” said he, “the good of giving some woman half
my victuals to get t’other half cooked.”
CONTENT.
Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content;
The quiet mind is richer than a crown.
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;
The poor estate scorns fortune’s angry frown.
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy which princes often miss.
—_Greene._
WOMAN’S SPHERE.
They talk about a woman’s sphere
As though it had no limit.
There’s not a place in earth or heaven,
There’s not a task to mankind given,
There’s not a blessing or a woe,
There’s not a whispered yes or no,
There’s not a life, or death, or birth
That has a feather’s weight of worth,
Without a woman in it.
A MISERABLE YOUNG WOMAN.—To those who, without any real knowledge
of music, make the air around them hideous by their everlasting
strumming on a piano, the following passage in Carlyle’s life may prove
instructive:—“The miserable young woman in the next house to me spends
all her young bright days, not in learning to darn stockings, sew
shirts, bake pastry, or any art, mystery, or business that will profit
herself or others; not even in amusing herself or skipping on the grass
plots with laughter of her mates; but simply and solely in raging from
dawn to dark, to night and midnight, on a hapless piano, which, it is
evident, she will never in this world render more musical than a pair
of barn clappers! The miserable young female!”
A SWEEPING ARGUMENT.—“That is a sweeping argument,” remarked the
husband, whose wife used a broom to convince him that he ought to have
been home several hours previously.
THE GREAT ART OF LIFE.—It is the great art and philosophy of life
to make the best of the present, whether it be good or bad; to bear
the bad with resignation and patience, and to enjoy the good with
thankfulness and moderation.
BEAUTIFUL HANDS.—A white hand is a very desirable ornament, and a
hand can never be white unless it be kept clean; nor is this all, for
if a young lady excels her companions in this respect, she must keep
her hands in constant motion, which will cause the blood to circulate
freely and have a wonderful effect. The motion recommended is working
at her needle, brightening her house and making herself as useful as
possible in the performance of all domestic duties.—_Mrs. Jamieson._
MORE ABOUT Y.W.C.A.; “GIRL’S OWN PAPER” BRANCH.
BY THE HON. GERTRUDE KINNAIRD.
About three years ago a paper appeared in the pages of this magazine
entitled “Y.W.C.A.” It will be interesting to trace the growth of the
seed then sown, and to see whether it found any ground where it could
take root and grow. That some soil was prepared to receive it appeared
evident from the very first, for letters flowed in to the writer of
that paper from many parts of the country.
Some of these letters were from girls living in the neighbourhoods
where the Young Women’s Christian Association had established branches,
but about which they knew nothing, although its benefits were just what
they needed. They had not even heard of the existence of an association
in which provision is made for the social, intellectual, moral, and
spiritual welfare of young women. These girls were at once put into
communication with the local secretary, who received them with a hearty
welcome, and it is pleasant to record the eagerness displayed by our
new members in availing themselves of the opportunity afforded to them
by our Association to become allied with the great band of young women
now encircling the globe who desire to live godly, righteous, and sober
lives in this present evil world.
On the other hand, a large number of letters came from those who
lived at a greater or less distance from any existing branch, and it
became necessary to find some link by which these young people could
be joined together. They were therefore formed into the “Girl’s Own
Paper Branch,” a name which has since been abbreviated to “Girl’s
Own Branch”; and a very efficient Secretary was found in Miss Violet
Tweedy, who was somewhat unwilling to undertake this work, but now
writes, “I love the work, and would not give up my girls for anything;
it is one of my greatest pleasures writing and receiving letters from
them.”
It is extremely important to observe the words “Scattered Members’
Branch,” and we will pause to consider this striking feature of the
work of the Y.W.C.A., enabling it to extend its influence into places
where no Institute or Home has found its way, and among those who
cannot avail themselves of their special advantages.
Of such branches some of the most prominent are, the “Art Students’
Branch,” with this aim—to bring together in Christian, social
intercourse, those who are studying art in our great centres of
population, and the Secretary of this branch will be glad to receive
the names of any students likely to be in London; the “Hospital Nurses’
Branch,” started for the purpose of uniting in sympathy those who are
labouring to alleviate pain and suffering; the “Restaurant Girls’
Branch;” the “Rural Servants’ Branches,” etc., etc.
Let us now return to the history of our “Girl’s Own Branch.” The duty
of the Secretary was to correspond with the members, supply them with
the Monthly Letter, and induce them to take in one of the Association
magazines. It was only about three years ago that our branch first saw
the light, and during that period it has proved to have a healthy and
vigorous life. In all 82 have joined, of whom a great many have been
transferred to other branches, two have married, two have been removed
by death, leaving 40 now in constant correspondence with the secretary.
That the individual members are alive may be judged from these facts:—
One member has a Saturday evening Bible class of twenty factory girls,
whom she helps in many ways.
Another collected £1 for the Shaftesbury Memorial Fund, and a third
collected for the Old Ford Institute; and all have helped in the
special Christmas collections.
One of the members is an inmate of an incurable hospital, and is most
helpful to the secretary by specially remembering in prayer any of her
fellow-members who may desire to be thus aided.
We will now ask you to listen to the testimonies of the members by
quoting a few passages from their letters, to which many more might be
added:—
“I never thought seriously till I joined the Association,” writes one,
“and now I am a totally different girl—so happy. I was confirmed last
week, and shall always look back to the day with joy.”
“I think it seems so kind and good of ladies,” writes another, “to take
such an interest in us poor girls. You little know half the good you
do us or what our lives really are. I sometimes feel ready to give up
in despair, when everything seems to go wrong, and at those times your
letters seem sent of God to cheer me up and help me to go on again.
They are read and re-read again and again, and I thank you for them
much.”
A young member writes:—“Thank you very much for writing to me. I do
enjoy your letters. I quite feel as though I knew you; but I should
like to see you ever so much.”
Yet another:—“You have granted me such a privilege by asking me to
write to you, which I shall be pleased to do.”
The last extract is from a girl of seventeen, who, after describing her
life, adds:—“I have ordered, may I say, _our_ Association papers.... I
must now close, longing to have one of your ever welcome letters soon.”
Surely there is no need to question the usefulness of the Association.
These letters tell their own story by the simple, unaffected manner
in which the writers assert that they have received positive benefits
through linking themselves to it.
It will not be out of place to add a word or two as to the objects of
the Y.W.C.A. for the benefit of those who have not seen the article
referred to, besides other notices which have appeared from time to
time.
The products of nature are not valued in proportion to their size or
outward appearance, but more generally with reference to their use for
the sustaining of life. The spreading cedar is far more magnificent and
beautiful than the little potato-plant, and yet the cedar would be less
missed than the potato.
The rosy-cheeked, shining apple makes more show than the little
seed-corn, and yet there is no comparison as to which we could most
easily spare. The apple we could dispense with; it would be difficult
to dispense with what has been aptly termed “the staff of life.”
So with the Y.W.C.A. It does not assume to itself a great place in the
way of presenting you with a magnificent appearance; but nevertheless
its work is sure, and it is steadily making its influence felt through
the length and breadth of the land. If anyone should wish to feel this
influence, they must join the Association, follow it in its work, watch
its effects, and the verdict must be favourable.
The Association is writing its name ineffaceably in the changed lives,
enlarged hopes, higher aims, and nobler motives of many of its members.
Another point sometimes forgotten is that the object of the Association
is to build up character, remembering that “it depends upon what we
are as to what the world is like.”
“Dark is the world to thee;
Thyself the reason why.”
Its aim is not to bring the members out of the spheres in which they
have been placed, but to help them to do their duty better in that
station of life where God Has placed them.
Its aim is to lead them to see that it does make a vast difference
how they fulfil those duties, and that if they are actuated by high
Christian motives, they will find this the way to ennoble all work.
Its aim is to teach its members who have the talent, or leisure, or
education, or artistic training, to use this for the common weal, and
save them from the selfish narrowness of a useless life.
Thus the Y.W.C.A. does its quiet work day by day. Sometimes it offers
its protection to a girl who sets foot in London or some other
large town for the first time, the Stations Visitor sent out by the
Travellers’ Aid Department (Office, 16A, Old Cavendish-street, W.),
meeting her at the Station or Wharf. Sometimes it saves a girl from
falling into the snares, now so often laid for them in advertisements
offering high wages and little work, which means ruin and degradation.
Any girl may apply to the Employment Agency, 17, Old Cavendish-street,
or to the Business Agency, 316, Regent-street, for a safe situation,
or for information concerning registries and advertisements. Sometimes
it gives occupation for the leisure hours when tired fingers and weary
brain need relaxation and change. There are 40 institutes and homes in
London alone, and 125 branches, and similar work is carried on all over
the country.
The Association has thus proved itself indispensable to many a lonely,
tempted girl. Thank God for the Young Women’s Christian Association!
The London Association has published four reasons why every girl should
join.
Y.W.C.A.
WHY SHOULD I JOIN?
Because every young woman should identify herself with an Association
which is pre-eminently her own, and thus support it by her influence
and example.
Because if you yourself do not need the special advantages of our
Association, remember the thousands of our sisters who do; therefore,
enrol yourself as a member, and encourage every one whom you may come
across to do the same.
Because, if you desire to work for God, here is a delightful sphere for
all the time and talents you have to spare, as almost all our local
branches are needing helpers.
Because, by joining, and also influencing others to join, you may be
the means of bringing many in who will by-and-by say, “Thank God I ever
came in here!”
Enough has been said to prove that the seed sown in THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER three years ago has taken root and flourished, and we would
ask every young reader to join their own branch at once. They may
join as Associates or Prayer Union Members, paying 1s. a year, or
as Working Members, 2s. 6d. a year, or as Honorary Associates, 5s.
a year, by writing to Miss V. Tweedy, Widmore House, Bromley, Kent;
or, if they prefer, to the Secretary, at the Central Office, 17,
Old Cavendish-street, W. Subscriptions in aid of the work will be
thankfully received by the Hon. Secretaries—Mrs. H. Arbuthnot, 15,
Craven-hill-gardens, London, W., and the Hon. Emily Kinnaird, 2, Pall
Mall East, S.W.
TINNED MEATS; THEIR VALUE TO HOUSEKEEPERS
BY A. G. PAYNE, Author of “Common-sense Cookery,” “Choice Dishes at
Small Cost,” “The Housekeeper’s Guide,” &c.