The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 999, February 18, 1899
    
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Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 999, February 18, 1899

Author: Various

Release date: February 24, 2019 [eBook #58955]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Susan Skinner, Chris Curnow, Pamela Patten and
        the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
        http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, VOL. XX. NO. 999, FEBRUARY 18, 1899 ***




Produced by Susan Skinner, Chris Curnow, Pamela Patten and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net









[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.—NO. 999.]      FEBRUARY 18, 1899.       [PRICE ONE PENNY.]




LINNÆA; THE STORY OF A FRIENDSHIP.


[Illustration: “‘GIRLS, I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY TO YOU IF YOU WILL
LISTEN.’”]

_All rights reserved._]


CHAPTER IV.

    “Life with its narrow round
      Day after day
    Widened and perfected
      By one sweet ray.”

Next evening the girls were gathered as usual in the small schoolroom.
They were allowed an hour to themselves after preparation and before
prayers. This was their own hour, and many and various were the
occupations and recreations indulged in then. There was a tiny
room adjoining the schoolroom, where now and then a studious pupil
would go at this hour to continue study. To-night it was occupied by
Linnæa alone. Throughout the day her set, white face had kept all at
a distance; no one dared address her, indeed, no one had anything to
say that would soften the blow of yesterday’s revelation, no excuse to
offer, no explanation to make.

The face which had been changing into something almost attractive
during the last week, had again undergone a complete change—but was
it back to the old indifference? No—something had been aroused that
would never again lie dormant—if she could not love, then she would
hate, and the glitter in her eyes showed only too plainly that hatred
had taken the place of dawning love.

Gwendoline was not of their number that night. She too was changed;
so much changed as to be almost unrecognisable. She, the queen of the
school, whose will was law, and whose opinion was sought upon every
question, had been to-day the quietest and most subdued of them all.

Things had not turned out as the girls had anticipated. They had
expected that in a little while Gwendoline would call upon them to
acknowledge how well she had succeeded in her undertaking—as she had
indeed been successful, far above the expectations of any of them.
They had had vague ideas that Linnæa would then be gradually allowed
to drop, would sink back into her old insignificance, and would be
again a figure in the background, as she had been before the advent of
Gwendoline.

As they sat at their various occupations—less talkative than
usual—Gwendoline entered.

After glancing round the room as if to satisfy herself as to which
girls were present, she said—

“Girls, I have something to say to you if you will listen.”

Immediate silence followed. What was she about to say? Would it be
about Linnæa? They knew Linnæa was in the adjoining room and the
dividing door was half open; would it not be better to tell Gwendoline?
But, after all, what could she say that would be worse than Linnæa had
already heard? Before anyone had spoken, Gwendoline began.

“You all heard my foolish vow ten days ago. Perhaps you think I have
been acting all this time and have only been drawing Linnæa on to make
my poor, mean triumph; but I have not. Oh, no, I have not! Almost
from the first night I saw her I have loved her, and I love her now
passionately. I wanted you to know it, so that you might forget my
silly words. I did not know how much I loved her until her love was
removed—and justly—it was right she should know it had been begun
under false pretences.”

Was that tears they saw—the haughty Gwendoline in tears?

Yes, tears had begun to trickle down her cheeks, and it was in a broken
voice she continued appealingly—

“She would not believe me now, although I were to tell her I loved her.
Could none of you make her believe? I cannot bear her to hate me like
this!”

Before anyone could speak, the door between the rooms was opened and
a figure appeared. It was Linnæa. Her face was radiant and her arms
outstretched. Gwendoline looked up, saw her, ran to her, and was
clasped in the welcoming arms.

Onlookers were forgotten in that close embrace—words were needless at
that moment.

Linnæa drew Gwendoline into the little room, and one of the girls
considerately closed the door. For a few moments neither spoke, but
each held the other as if at any moment someone might come to separate
them. By-and-by Gwendoline said, in a voice quite unlike her usual
clear tones—

“Why don’t you hate me instead of treating me like this? You told me
you hated and despised me, and I deserve that you should.”

“That was before I knew you loved me at all, dear. What do I care
how it was begun, so that you love me now! That is enough for me. Do
you know,” she continued, after a pause, “I said I hated you, and I
thought so; but now I am not sure that I did all the time. I hated
myself, hated the other girls, hated even the teachers; but I am almost
convinced I have never hated you!”

Two months passed after that—two happy months for Linnæa and
Gwendoline, happy in their mutual friendship—and the summer vacation
drew near.

About this time the dream Linnæa had dreamt the first night she saw
Gwendoline came true. Her parents wrote to her that if she wished she
might come home next autumn, but if she preferred to remain at school
another year she might do so. Then Linnæa—she who had looked forward
all her life to the time when she would be allowed to go home—wrote
and told them she would stay another year.

And the Linnæa that went to India at the end of that time was very
different from the one that would have gone had the hidden love in her
nature not been called forth by Gwendoline. Sometimes her schoolfellows
and teachers had hard work to believe she could be the same person. She
would never be what the world calls beautiful, but there was a sweet,
refined expression about the face which now attracted, where formerly
it had repelled.

Linnæa, as I say, was improved beyond recognition; but Gwendoline also
was altered, and entirely for the better. Her will—strong as ever—was
exerted in a quieter and less arbitrary manner than formerly. Her
influence was still as great over those with whom she came in contact;
but she had had a lesson she would not easily forget, and the girl who
had been in danger of growing up a heartless and cruel flirt, ambitious
to draw men to her feet and wreck their happiness, developed into a
pure and noble woman whose powers of fascination were only used to
influence others for good, and to induce those of weaker will to follow
in her footsteps.

The rare friendship, begun in such an extraordinary way, did not end
with school life, but continued, beautifying and enriching the lives of
both throughout well-nigh fifty years.

    FRANCES LEAMINGTON.




A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.

BY C. A. MACIRONE.


CHAPTER II.

DOMESTIC SERVICE.

The dream curtains were closed in darkness, but I saw the white wings
of the angels shining above me, and I heard a soft thrilling voice
speaking, and saying, “Will you see more?”

“If I may,” I said as I knelt. “I deserve nothing, but grant to me the
honour of recording such deeds as these, that the memory of them may
touch nobler hearts and stronger pens to carry on the stimulus of such
examples and arouse others to like actions.”

The curtains slowly rose, and I saw a poor cottage in France, in a wide
open country, long rows of poplars along straight roads going off into
the distance—it was a disturbed country—time of the Revolution. I saw
a poor man like his and our Master also a carpenter—like Him. He had
been fostered and educated by the care and at the cost of a kind lord.
One day in those troubled years, he saw standing at the door of his
cottage his lord, with three little motherless children, fugitives and
outcasts. The little fair Angélique of five years, Josephine of only
four, and the little Count Louis, scarcely a year old. The Count was
forced to fly from the country (it was for his life), and there was no
living soul but Alexandre Martin to whom he could trust his children.
So much of the family distress was known to Martin that he did not
wonder there was no mention of any possible repayment, and he had three
children of his own, and only one, was old enough to help. But in that
poor home the lord’s children must find a home of love and reverence,
and all who could work worked doubly hard, day and often night, that
the children might be served and treated as their faithful loyalty
inspired.

I saw the table of the Chief’s children served according to their
rank; they were seated at table where white bread was given them, and
Alexandre waited on them as respectfully as if they had been in their
own castle—alas! destroyed—while his children had the scanty brown
bread of the country and they wore their poor coarse clothes to rags,
whereas the young d’Aubespinés were dressed neatly. And the carpenter’s
family slept on the floor that the lord’s children might enjoy the only
beds the poor home could furnish.

“And all for love and nothing for reward.”

Like other great and noble actions, it was all carried out perfectly
simply from the grateful loyalty of the family towards their master’s
grandchildren. As time went on two noble ladies of Chartres took charge
of the young girls as they grew up, and the young Count was, as he grew
older, educated at a foundation endowed by his great ancestor Sully at
Nogent-le-Rotrou.[1]

Years passed by, and I saw a great meeting of the Academy in Paris
where the young Count and Alexandre Martin were present, and heard a
voice which said—

“Martin, your task is over, you have deserved well from all good men.
You have shown our age a sight only too rare—gratitude, fidelity,
respect. And you, Louis d’Aubespiné, since you are present at this
solemnity, may it make a deep and lasting impression on your young
heart. You are entering life, as persons are now and then forced to
appear on a later age, with all eyes upon you. Learn that the first of
earthly blessings is to be honoured by one’s country, and pray the God
who has watched over your infancy to enable you to win that blessing
that depends on ourselves and that no event can rob us of. One day you
will be told that illustrious blood flows in your veins, but never
forget that you must trace your line as far back as Sully before you
find a name worthy to stand beside that of Martin. Grow up, then, to
show yourself worthy of the memory of your ancestor, the devotion of
your benefactor, and the patronage of the King!”

And then the vision faded, the crowded audience disappeared and the
only figure left radiant, as the curtains of my dream closed, was that
of the French peasant—the Carpenter—the redresser of one of the
mighty wrongs of the French Revolution.

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The great minister of King Henri Quatre.




“OUR HERO.”

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the
Dower House,” etc.


CHAPTER XXI.

IN VIEW OF CAPTAIN PEIRCE.

“As prodigious an admirer as ever of Sir John Moore, Jack?”

“’Tis not my mode, Molly, to admire a man one week, and to cast him
overboard the next!”

“And if ever so be that Sir John hies him to the Indies, sure you would
be set on going too?”

Jack was not so quick in response as Molly expected. Would he, or would
he not? He could not feel quite sure either way. Wherever Sir John
might be, there no doubt Jack would wish to be also; yet it lay within
the limits of possibility that he might still more strongly desire to
be somewhere else. India in those days lay very far distant. Miles
are miles in these days as in those, but actual distance is greatly
diminished. A man writing from India to his friends in England may now
look for a reply in six or seven weeks; but then he could not look for
a reply in less than as many months.

Jack felt that such a separation from people at home—from Molly in
particular—would be serious. He had not thus far gauged his state of
mind critically. He was not in love with anybody; he had no particular
wish to marry anybody—so he would have said. Jack still counted
himself exclusively in love with his profession. He looked upon Molly
as his particular friend—as the being beyond all others upon whose
interest and sympathy he might most surely rely. She was not his
sister—he quite scouted that notion—neither was he her lover. They
were simply friends—_bons camarades_ in the more modern phraseology.
Where Molly happened to be, there Jack gravitated as naturally as a
stone gravitates earthward; and whatever Jack had in his mind, that he
told to Molly as naturally as water pours out of a tilted jug. He cared
a good deal for Molly’s opinion. If Molly disapproved of aught that he
did, he was discomfited; and if Molly put anyone before himself, he was
conscious of jealous sensations. That was about all.

It seemed to him this evening that Molly was looking particularly nice
and ladylike—or, in the language of the day, “pleasing and genteel.”
She was not pretty; Jack would have said that he did not wish her to be
pretty. He liked her better as she was. But she was not without her own
measure of attractiveness.

“Of course you would wish it,” Molly added decisively. “In your place I
would do so. And if—if I could be a soldier, Jack, I would feel as you
do. I would wish to go where Sir John goes. ’Tis a thousand pities I am
a girl and cannot be a soldier.”

“You would wish to go to the Indies, if I were to stay at home?”

Molly smiled at the conceit, as it seemed to her.

“’Tis vastly more likely that you may be the one to go and I to be
the stay-at-home.” She did not speak as if it were in any sense a
distressing question, though as a secondary consideration she remarked
placidly, “And I should miss you, Jack.”

“As much as ever you profess to miss Roy?”

Molly laughed outright this time.

“Jack—why, Jack, what a question to ask! Roy is my twin. He is more
to me than all the whole world beside. He always will be more. If I
did not see Roy for fifteen years—for fifty years!—it would make
no difference! Oh, none whatever! Never in my life shall I care for
another as I care for Roy!”

Jack laughed in his turn derisively.

“Never, never, never!” repeated Molly. “I love my father and my mother
dearly, and I love Polly, and I like you too, Jack. But Roy—Roy is
more to me than all. If I could see Roy——”

“That is vastly well, Molly! But wait—wait till your time shall
come—till somebody will be more to you than even Roy.”

“Never!” reiterated Molly. “You mean that one day I shall have a
particular preference for—for some gallant gentleman, Jack. Nay, but
I shall never marry, for I could not care for any beyond my caring for
Roy. And so that matter is for ever settled!”

Jack was silent—perhaps a degree nettled by Molly’s assured
indifference. He did not count himself in love with Molly; but he
wanted her to love him.

“’Tis no more my mode than yours to change and change about. Some
people sometimes would seem to forget.” That slight pucker came again
to her smooth brow.

For one instant Jack imagined the words to be a possible reflection
on himself, despite what went before, and his lips opened in ready
protest. Then he saw where Molly was gazing; and as his glance followed
her lead, his forehead drew into, not a mere pucker, but a frown.

Polly did look uncommonly lovely; there was no denying that fact. Jack
and Molly both gazed hard at her, and then their eyes met.

“She is wondrous pretty!” Molly said softly.

“But Peirce? What business has Peirce?” Jack paused, frowning still.
“He knows, sure, as to Ivor?”

“Why, Jack, all the world knows! Captain Peirce has known it pretty
near from the beginning.”

“And Polly permits——”

“Does Polly permit? Can Polly help it?” asked Molly. “I in her place
would help it; but I am not fair like Polly, and that makes so great a
difference. For her, with all the world looking and loving, ’tis not
easy. If she holds aloof and seeks to check them, why, they do but come
after her the more—and Polly cannot be sharp with folks. She is so
sweet, and ’tis not her way. And Mrs. Bryce, too, ever talking”—Molly
breathed this very low—“ever seeking to persuade Polly that Denham
will forget and will care no more for her.”

Jack muttered something to himself.

“Then, ’tis her wish?”

“Mrs. Bryce’s?” Molly’s face took an arch set. “Ay, since Captain
Peirce came in for a great sum of money on the death of his
grandfather. He will be a richer man than Denham—by a matter of ten
pounds to one pound.”

“Phew!” muttered Jack, in disgust. “Ivor will have enough. But as to
Polly—I cannot verily believe that her affections are engaged in any
other direction.”

“Nor do I believe it, Jack. Yet—I am not always sure.”

“If she casts him off, she will deserve to suffer for it, all her life
long. She will lose one of the best men living.”

“Second only to Sir John Moore!”

“’Tis easy to jeer! If you knew Sir John as I do——”

“Nay, but Jack—nay, you need not be vexed with me,” protested Molly.
“I did not jeer truly. And ’tis a fact that when last I saw and spoke
with Sir John, he brought to my mind the thought of Denham. Not that
the two have the same face or the same way, but that both are soldierly
and tall, and each holds his head as stately as a prince. And for the
matter of Sir John Moore—why, I am proud of him as ever you can be.”

Jack nodded slightly, mollified at once by her apologetic tone. His
gaze returned to Polly.

“And for the matter of Denham,” Molly continued, dropping her voice
once more, “he has been always as a brother to me; and it would go hard
with me to believe any ill of him. Yet—I wonder often that no letter
comes from him to Polly. And Polly watches and grieves, I know, though
she says little, and will not talk of him. Sure, if he had writ to her
often, one letter now and again would find its way hither.”

“Who can say? But I would distrust the post and Boney a thousand times,
before ever I would doubt Ivor,” Jack answered firmly. “And Polly, if
indeed she knows him, sure would feel the same. He is no man to change.”

“Nor, I think, is Polly the girl to change—either!”

       *       *       *       *       *

“In this brilliant assemblage of rank and fashion, though lightened by
the fire of genius and radiant with feminine charms, there is for me
but one star of greatest magnitude, before which all lesser orbs fade
into insignificance.”

So spoke Captain Albert Peirce in the ears of Polly Keene; and he felt
that he had expressed himself with the utmost elegance. Gentlemen in
those days were prone to more flowing speech than they are in these;
and such speeches did not necessarily mean much.

Ninety years later the grandson or great-grandson of Captain Peirce
would merely drag his moustache, and mutter, “Awfully pretty girl!” But
the two modes of expression, though rather unlike, probably implied and
imply much the same in the end.

Captain Peirce did not pull his moustache—partly because it was not
the fashion to do so, but yet more for the sufficient reason that he
had none to pull. He bent a little nearer to Polly; and that was the
moment when Jack’s glance followed Molly’s in their direction.

Polly did not appear to repulse him. She did not even exert herself to
turn her head away. She had so much of this sort of thing! One flowery
speech more or less made very little difference. Had it not been
for the persistent pressure put upon her by Mrs. Bryce, Polly would
not have imagined that Captain Peirce meant or could mean anything
seriously. She stood in one of her most graceful attitudes, toying with
a large fan; and the light from innumerable wax candles fell upon her
round fair arms.

“Can you by any chance divine who that star of greatest magnitude may
be, sweet Polly?”

This was audacious, and Captain Peirce fully expected a rebuff in
consequence.

It did not come so soon as he expected. A thrill ran through Polly,
almost amounting to a shiver. She too was instantaneously carried back,
as a few minutes earlier Molly had been, bridging at a leap four long
slow years.

“Sweet Polly, may I speak?” Captain Ivor had said.

The voices were different. Ivor’s was deep and quiet, with clear
enunciation; while that of Captain Peirce was some semitones higher in
key, with a rapid and rather indistinct intonation.

The other face too came up before Polly’s mind—a face generally of
still outlines, grave and handsome, with eyes which looked other men
straight in the face, and level brows, not quick to frown, though when
they did frown there was no mistake about the matter, and a smile as
quiet as his voice. Captain Peirce was of smaller and slighter make,
and his features, as well as his tones, underwent much more rapid
changes. An impulsive man altogether; not bad-looking; and he had a
certain fascination of manner too, when he chose to exert it. Polly was
not oblivious to the fascination while it lasted. Perhaps she liked his
unequivocal admiration, and did not dislike to feel her power over him.
But that flash of vivid recollection—did it arise from some subtle
connection between her mind and Molly’s?—brought with it a totally
different look from any that Captain Peirce had seen upon her face.
Perhaps he might be excused for imagining that the change of expression
was due to his own words.

“Sweet Polly, you will not be one of the cruel fair, who——”

This was going too far. Polly woke from her dream. She withdrew one
step, and dropped a suggestion of a curtsey.

“Your pardon, sir. My name is Miss Keene, as you are aware.”

“Ah! adored one! so hard-hearted to your humble slave!”

“My word, Albert!” And the heavy hand of his uncle, the Admiral, fell
with a smart slap upon the Captain’s shoulder. “So you do not fail to
make hay while the sun shines! But there’s such a thing as poaching in
another’s preserves, man. Ha, ha, Miss Polly! Well, and what news from
abroad of the unfortunate prisoners, eh?”

Captain Peirce wore the look of a thunder-cloud under this
interruption, which he dared not openly resent, not only because young
men in those times were far more submissive to older men than now, but
because, also, had he aroused the Admiral’s ire, he would have drawn
upon themselves the attention of the whole room. Admiral Peirce was
known to be hasty and prompt in speech, and not slow to speak out his
mind. So he glowered silently, and Polly looked with a smile into the
battered face of the old sailor, now on shore for a brief spell.

“Nay, sir, I have not heard for this very long while from any of them;
and ’tis but seldom we may hope to hear. Letters go astray by hundreds.
Doubtless they write, as do we—to no purpose.”

“Ay, ay, trust Boney for that! He’ll not help forward the post. Well,
well, every lane in time has its turning; and Boney will come to his
turning sooner or later. Nay, indeed, has he not already, at the
glorious Battle of Trafalgar, of immortal memory?”

“And on land too, sir; in time our brave soldiers will have the best of
it, and will gain the reward that is due to their valour,” suggested
Polly.

Captain Peirce’s opportunity was gone; and though Polly did not appear
to avoid him, yet he found no second chance. Jack and Molly, looking
on, saw this little episode, and they wondered—had the old Admiral
acted accidentally or on purpose? And was Polly glad or sorry? Neither
question received an answer.

In the small hours of the morning, when dancing was ended, Mrs. Bryce
drove home, with the two girls, in the fine yellow coach, which was
considered to be a suitable “equipage” for one in her position. Mr.
Bryce, having a cold, had not gone with them. The girls retired to
their room, and Molly would have liked to question her companion, had
she dared. But Polly, with all her sweetness, could hold folks aloof
if she chose; and this night she did choose. She was very pale and
tired—sad too, Molly thought, now that the excitement was over. Few
words passed between them, before they crept into bed.

Was that a sound of smothered weeping? Molly was all but asleep, when
it aroused her. She listened carefully.

“Polly!” No answer. “Polly—are you awake?”

A pause, and then—

“You must go to sleep, Molly!”

“You are not crying, Polly?”

Polly’s hand gently pressed hers, but Polly’s face was turned away, and
another short break took place before she replied in a tone of strained
cheerfulness—

“’Tis far too late. We may not lie and talk now. Go to sleep and dream.
No, not one little word more.”

Molly had to obey. Yet she felt sure that soon again she heard the tiny
smothered sound which had suggested tears. She lay long, listening. Was
Polly thinking of Denham Ivor? Or could it be a question of Captain
Peirce?

       *       *       *       *       *

This side of life went on, and had to go on, even in such a period of
stormy unrest, of perpetual warfare between nations. Men and maidens
love and mate, work has to be done, hopes rise and sink, even the
lesser amusements and gaieties and the small daily occupations of
existence do not cease, though the whole world should be at loggerheads.

The deadly duel between Napoleon and Britain continued; and while Great
Britain was supreme upon the ocean, Napoleon was all but irresistible
upon land. Of all the nations, England still alone withstood him; and
at this date she fearlessly faced a Europe in arms. For the Continent
as a whole had crouched beneath the heel of the tyrant and was tamely
ranged on his side.

In the year 1807 Britain had not one ally. Sweden, the last remaining,
had been compelled by Russia to break away. One brother of Napoleon’s
was king of Holland; another brother was king of Westphalia; a third
brother was king of Naples; while lesser European kingdoms and the
congeries of little German states had well-nigh disappeared into the
vortex, and French soldiers swaggered about the streets of Berlin.

Great Britain was neither crushed nor intimidated. She had flung off
the fear of invasion; and her ships triumphantly ranged the seas,
attacking sea-board forts, fighting vessels double their own size and
tonnage, capturing prizes, making prisoners, in all directions. At this
date there were some thirty thousand French prisoners in England; and
before the close of the Peninsular War their number had risen to ninety
thousand.

In 1807 Britain had as yet been less successful on land than at
sea. Many a battle indeed had been gained, many a deed of splendid
valour had been done; but while one expedition after another had been
despatched hither and thither, with intent to undermine and weaken the
enormous power of Napoleon, most of these had failed to administer any
serious check to his advances. At that date England seems to have
had an army inadequate to her needs, if not in numbers, at least in
military equipment; and the expeditions sent were usually far too small
for the work they were intended to do.

All this while the inner life of the nation flowed on. Taxes were
heavy, food was dear, much suffering existed, yet the spirit of the
people neither failed nor faltered. They were cheery and full of
courage, looking forward with high hope to a better state of things. In
a little while, surely, justice would be meted out, and the cause of
liberty would prevail.

Even in England Napoleon was not without his enthusiastic admirers.
There are always some whose party feeling is stronger than their
patriotism; and there are commonly a few also who will sentimentally
put a man upon a pedestal, with regard to his intellect only, apart
from questions of character. This they did with Napoleon, adoring
his genius, worshipping his success, ignoring his selfishness and the
darker shades which belong to his history. But though such people
made a good deal of noise with their opinions, after the fashion of
excitable minorities, they were in numbers small. The mass of the
people was in deadly earnest. The nation as a whole was ready to fight
Buonaparte to the last coin in its purse, the last warm drop of blood
in its body.

One more tragic story had yet to be told! One more apparent failure,
which contained in itself the heroic germ of coming victory, had yet
to be lived through. One more great Englishman was to die, in the
very moment of a success, which at the moment could only be read as a
defeat. Then the ebb of the tide would have begun.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration: “‘YOUR PARDON, SIR. MY NAME IS MISS KEENE, AS YOU ARE
AWARE.’”]




EXERCISE: IN MODERATION.

BY “THE NEW DOCTOR.”


There is a temptation to all to eat too much and take too little
exercise. Many of us have from childhood learned to suppress this
temptation; but we fear that there are many more who are constantly
fighting the battle against laziness and over-eating, and not a few who
give up the struggle altogether.

Of all earthly gifts we look upon good health as the greatest. We
should doubt if anyone would choose gold in preference to health. And
yet why is it that most persons strive so much harder for the former
than for the latter. Perhaps it is that a healthy person has an idea
that her health can take care of itself; whereas she knows full well
that wealth cannot be acquired without working for it. Or perhaps it is
that people do not know how to take care of their health.

It is all very well to talk about Nature being able to look after
herself (or rather ourselves), that she is an infallible guide for us
to follow, and that she tells us what to eat, when to sleep and how
to be generally happy and healthy. But does Nature do this for man?
Perhaps she would be so obliging if man were a natural animal.

But a civilised man is not a servant of Nature, and though he is unable
to rebel against her, still he has the power to question her promptings
and the will whereby to alter or nullify them. And if we think ever so
shallowly we cannot escape from the knowledge that Nature very often
prompts us to do what our higher understanding tells us is wrong, and
if we do our duty we set aside the dictates of Nature in favour of our
own consciousness. Even in cases dealing with the lowest vital points,
such as eating, dressing, or sleeping, Nature by no means always
directs us aright. When you have been running on a warm day and have
got very hot, what does Nature tell you to do? To sit in a draught and
get cold. And yet if you value your health, this would be the very last
thing that you would dare to attempt.

Since we have no natural instinct to tell us how to keep healthy, we
have founded upon our experience a code of laws to regulate our bodily
functions. These laws of health, which we should all observe have been
gradually evolved from the observations of generation after generation
of physicians and others, and though they may have differed in detail
at different times and in different countries, in the main they may be
considered as absolute.

Everybody must have heard of these laws of health, but there is a very
large number of persons who do not know what they are or how to carry
them out.

There are six chief laws of health. The first deals with the sanitation
of our homes and dwellings; the disposal of sewage; the draining of
the soil; the laws of ventilation; the supply of sufficient quantities
of pure water, and the general hygiene of the community. We support
governors and committees to look after this part of the business, so we
need not worry ourselves about it.

The second law of health concerns itself with personal hygiene. It
tells us how we should wash and clothe ourselves; how we should
ventilate our rooms; how to cool ourselves in hot weather, and the
means by which the animal heat is maintained in winter.

The third law tells us about our food; how we should eat; what is the
best food for man in health and sickness; what we should drink; and
other matters connected with the supply of fuel to our bodies.

The fourth law deals with sleep. It tells us its nature; why we sleep.
It insists on the necessity of sufficient sleep, and sleep at the right
time.

The sixth law deals with the proper education of the mind. How to
educate our children. The absolute necessity of mental study for the
physical health of our bodies as well as its more important functions.

We have omitted the fifth law, but will now refer to it, and we will
devote the rest of this article to its consideration. This law deals
with the question of physical exercise.

Physical exercise is as essential to health as is food or sleep; but,
because the need of it is not brought home to us so forcibly as these
two other necessities, it rarely receives that attention which it
deserves. Everyone knows full well that we may eat too little or too
much, that we may eat at improper times, that everything that we can
put into our interiors is not equally wholesome, that much that we can
eat is positively injurious, and that we must eat every day, be the
weather fine or rainy. But how few there are who know that the laws of
exercise are in every way comparable with these! Most people are aware
that we can take too little exercise; some moderate persons likewise
know that we can overdo exercise, and that exercise is not equally good
at all times. We have met people who know that all forms of exercise
are not equally good, and a few who are aware that some forms of
exercise are positively injurious; but we have seldom spoken to anyone
who would admit that exercise is essential every day in all weathers.

The first question that we will discuss is, how much exercise is needed
every day, how much will give the greatest benefit, and how much is
positively injurious?

And on the threshold we are met with the greatest difficulty of the
whole subject; for persons vary extremely in their endurance of
exercise, and a walk which would be insufficient for one person may be
infinitely beyond the powers of a second to endure. We cannot lay down
a rule in this particular. Every person must find out for herself what
amount of exercise she must indulge in daily. For a perfectly healthy
girl of sixteen to twenty, three to five miles’ walk daily, or an
hour’s bicycling, or, if outdoor exercise is not permissible, half an
hour’s gymnastic exercise is the minimum amount of exercise which she
should take daily.

Ever so many people have an idea that you can lay in a stock of
exercise, as you can fill a coal-cellar, and draw on the reserve when
you are too lazy to renew the supply. These persons will tell you, “I
do all my walking on one day, so that there is no necessity for me to
go out any other day in the week. I walk twenty-one miles on that day,
that is three miles for each day in the week, so I am all right on this
score.” Now just consider one moment what you are doing, and you will
agree with us that your method is not only fallacious, but exceedingly
harmful.

Suppose that you eat on an average two pounds’ weight of food a day.
Do you think that it would be equally beneficial to take the fourteen
pounds of food on one day and then have six days’ starvation? Some
animals can do this, but man is not fitted for living in this way. With
the usual logic evinced by most people when they are contradicted, we
are at once answered, “Oh, if what I do is no good, as I cannot take
exercise when I like, I shall not go out at all!” Evidently concluding
that she takes care of her own health out of consideration for our
feelings!

You must be a physician to hear this form of argument without smiling.
Perhaps you would feel inclined to answer this lady, “Well, it does
not matter to me what you do. It is your health, not ours, that is at
stake.” So, indeed, would we like to answer; but if we did, what would
be the good of us? No, we will not offend this lady; we will wait till
to-morrow, when she will have come to the same way of thinking as
ourselves.

You must never walk so as to over-tire yourself. We are not going to
say that an occasional long walk is injurious. It is not, but it is not
the proper way to take exercise.

All forms of exercise are not equally good. Some are very beneficial,
others are doubtfully healthy, others again are downright noxious.

Walking is so infinitely the best form of exercise, that to compare any
other with it is ridiculous. Walking is essential to health, and no
other form of exercise can be substituted for it.

Boating, riding, and bicycling are fairly good forms of exercise, but
none of these possesses the value of walking. Driving in a carriage is
simply not exercise at all. You get a little fresh air and change of
scene in driving; but as there is no exertion required in the process,
there is no exercise.

Many of our outdoor games are good exercise, many are a little hard
and excessive perhaps, but on the whole they are very healthy, unless
carried to excess. These games are good because walking or running
is an essential part of them. Golf is by far the most healthy of all
games. As far as outsiders can tell, it seems to us to be walking with
a little skill and excitement added to render the walking pleasant to
those who will not walk for walking’s sake alone.

Of the forms of exercise that can be carried on indoors, we will say
but little. A little dumb-bell or Indian-club exercise in the morning
after the bath is very beneficial to healthy people. The dumb-bells
should be made of wood, should not weigh more than two pounds, and
should be used for a few minutes only. The heavy iron dumb-bells so
often used to “improve the figure” are exceedingly injurious and should
never be used.

Of gymnastics we would rather be silent altogether; but, since this
form of exercise is very popular and largely on the increase, we must
say a word or two about it. In our opinion gymnastics of any kind
are poor forms of exercise, and the severer kinds and “strong man
exercises” are exceedingly injurious to everyone.

We have been accustomed, when we look at a man whose muscles are
enormously developed to consider him a strong man. But if you were to
question him on his health or powers of endurance, you would probably
discover that he was a very sickly specimen. We have seen a “strong
man,” a rather famous one too, sit down in a corner and cry for half
an hour because a boy threw a cherry stone into his eye—an injury at
which a healthy person would laugh. Does this denote strength? Another
strong man whom we knew was always shivering with the cold both in
summer and winter. And once, when he happened to catch a cough, he was
completely prostrate for weeks.

Another strong man told us that he was careful never to read or use
his brain in any way because it interfered with the development of
his muscles! Yet another who prided himself on the enormous expansion
of his chest—we forget how many inches’ difference there was in
the diameter of his chest in inspiration and expiration, but it was
something sensational—caught cold, contracted consumption, and died
six weeks later! Yet the exercises for expanding the chest are said to
prevent phthisis!

The man with great muscles is not the strong man, but a sickly monster.
What good can it do to anyone to lift a horse and cart, or break iron
bars? Develop his muscles as far as he can, no man will ever excel a
steam-hammer or an engine in force or weight.

Give us the thin wiry person who has cultivated his mind and body to do
that work for which he was made. He is the man who can brave disease,
and who, if he by any misfortune happens to be injured, can bear the
suffering like a man, and whose body is well capable of recovery from
the many vicissitudes to which it is liable.

Exercise is essential in all weathers. Because to-day is wet, are
you going to forego your walk? In England about one day in three is
rainy. Are you going to suppress one-third of your necessary exercise
from this cause? Oh, you are afraid of catching cold! Now English
people talk a lot about catching cold, for they of all nations suffer
most from this cause. But very few persons indeed really understand
what catching cold means or how it is produced. We hope to give an
article on this subject shortly. At present we will merely state that,
unless the day is very cold or windy, walking in the rain, if you are
sufficiently protected, will not cause you to take cold. We would not,
however, advise any invalid to go out on rainy days; but still they
must not abandon exercise altogether. Half an hour’s dumb-bell exercise
or mild gymnastics may be substituted for the day’s walk.

Exercise is best if taken in the morning. For very strong people it
is preferable to take a walk before breakfast; but people who are not
feeling up to the mark should not attempt to walk before having had
some food.

You should never take exercise immediately after a meal, and conversely
you should never eat till half an hour after a long walk, and you
should never go to bed immediately you come home from a walk, but sit
down quietly for at least half an hour before retiring.




THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.

FEBRUARY.

BY LA MÉNAGÈRE.


It might seem a superfluity to be at the trouble of compiling and
writing a menu for the small home dinner-table. If anyone thinks this,
let them first give the experiment a trial before pronouncing upon it;
they will, I venture to think, be gratified by the result.

In every household the dinner, be it early or late, is the important
meal of the day, and it merits whatever dignity can be given to it by
such accessories as service, care in laying the table, decoration,
etc., and not the least of these will be found the menu written for
every day. Especially if there be a guest at table is this little mark
of attention appreciated.

We must remember that imagination plays a very important part in the
human organisation; a good name goes a long way towards bringing a dish
into favour, and I have found that the very fact of a name being given
to a dish has its influence with the cook, who feels in a way bound to
see that its character is “lived up to.” Then again it is a help to the
caterer if the menus are kept, and those which have been particularly
liked marked for future repetition. Much racking of brains is spared,
and precious minutes are saved that else would have been spent in
answering the puzzling question, “What shall we have for dinner to-day?”

Our market list in February varies little if at all from the previous
month in the main things, but as the game season is practically drawing
to an end, we find our resources fewer than they were. Guinea-fowl
however are excellent, so are woodcock and snipe, also ptarmigan.
Turkeys are still to be had, but they are very dear, as all poultry is.
Hares and rabbits are very good.

Our supply of vegetables will be apt to run short if the weather is at
all severe; savoys will not have suffered so much, and about this time
we usually receive large consignments of cauliflowers from Italy. The
South sends us also fresh lettuce, chicory, forced beans, and other
“primeurs,” but their price is often beyond what a slender purse can
afford. Anyone with a garden may at this time have corn-salad growing
therein, which will be getting tender and eatable. Celery should still
be good, and we ought to have an abundance of Jerusalem artichokes,
Swede turnips, parsnips, carrots, onions and suchlike root vegetables.

In fruits we have imported apples and pears, oranges—getting to their
best—lemons, citrons, and all dried fruits.

This month, by the way, is the time for making our yearly supply of
orange marmalade; if we delay any longer the true Seville oranges will
be gone, although bitter oranges are procurable up to April. After we
have studied our menu we will consider the subject of marmalade making,
for that toothsome sweet has now become one of our necessities of life.


MENU FOR FEBRUARY.

            Purée of Haricot Beans.
                 Fried Smelts.
    Boiled Beef, with a “Plat de Carottes.”
         Roast Ptarmigan. Bread Sauce.
                Apple Fritters.
           Cheese. Biscuits. Coffee.

_Purée of Haricot Beans._—A pint of beans will make a large quantity,
say two quarts, of soup, therefore half-a-pint would suffice for
one dish of soup for an ordinary family. These beans should always
be soaked overnight in cold water; they will dissolve so much more
readily. Place them in a stewpan with rather more than sufficient
water to cover them, let them simmer for three hours, then rub through
a tamis. While the rubbing goes on, cook a finely-minced onion in a
little butter, add the bean purée to this, some salt and pepper, and
then sufficient hot milk and water to make up the requisite quantity.
This might simmer a while longer, and then just before serving a
spoonful of cornflour wet with a little milk should be stirred in, and
all brought up to the boiling point once more.

_Smelts_ should be wiped with a clean cloth, coated with beaten egg,
rolled in bread raspings, and fried in butter. Serve fresh lemon cut in
slices and thin brown bread and butter with them.

A dish of carrots for eating with boiled beef is nice done in the
Flemish mode:

Pare the carrots and cut them in strips lengthwise, and then cut them
up precisely as you would kidney beans; put them in a stewpan with
well-fitting lid, add to them a good spoonful of beef dripping and a
little pepper and salt. Cover closely and let them cook in their own
steam for an hour or more, seeing that they do not catch on the bottom.
Pour the fat off and add a few drops of vinegar just before dishing up.

_Ptarmigan_ are rather dry birds and they require a thin piece of bacon
wrapping round them before roasting, also to be frequently basted. Let
them do rather quickly, so as to be nicely browned, but they will take
rather less than an hour. Serve good gravy and bread sauce with them.

_Apple Fritters._—For frying these a good depth of boiling lard is
necessary if they are to be done successfully. Take the cores out of
large apples, and pare them thinly. Cut across in slices not too thin.
Dip each slice in batter made from the whisked whites of two eggs,
a spoonful of flour, a pinch of salt, and enough salad oil to make
it like thick cream. When fried drain each ring on kitchen paper and
sprinkle with castor sugar. Pile high on a paper doyley.

And now as to the directions for the making of orange marmalade. The
following plan is one I have pursued for several years and it has
always produced excellent marmalade:

To every twelve Seville oranges allow two lemons; slice them across,
rind and pulp, as thinly as ever it is possible to do with the sharpest
of knives. Pick out the pips as you go along, but put these in a basin
instead of throwing them away, for it is surprising what amount of
gluten clings to the pips, which is lost if they are not saved. When
all the fruit has been cut up into lined earthenware pans, cover it
with water until the vessels have as much as they will hold. Set these
aside out of the way of dust, and let them stand so for twenty-four
hours. After this boil fruit and water together for perhaps two hours,
but gently so that it does not burn; then turn it back again into the
vessels and let it stand for another twenty-four hours. After this
it should be stirred up and weighed, and to every pound of fruit and
liquor allow a pound of lump sugar; when the pulp has boiled for about
an hour the second time, the sugar may be put in, and then constant
stirring will be necessary and faster boiling. From the time the sugar
is added half-an-hour’s boiling ought to suffice. Put it into hot jars,
but do not tie down until it is cold.




FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.

BY “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”


Now that the sales are proceeding, there is always a lull in the
production of novelties; and the shopkeepers set themselves to the work
of disposing of their heaped-up stock, which, however, does not appear
to me to be as plentiful as usual. This fact tends to prove that the
past season, with its sunshine and brightness, was a good one, so far
as they were concerned. While wending my way through several of the
crowded shops, I gathered together, however, a few notes for my dress
article, which show how ideas may trend in the coming days of early
spring.

[Illustration: TWO WARM GOWNS.]

I am inclined to think that the reign of the shaped flounce is perhaps
nearly over. Never have its inconveniences been more shown than during
the present winter, when those who wore them cut long enough to be in
the fashion have been really encumbered by them, and wretched from the
impossibility of holding them up. Certainly there were many who never
even attempted to raise them and just simply let them drag in the dust
or mud, and one shudders to think of what their feet and undergarments
must have looked like, apart from the dress itself. Frenchwomen held
their dresses up in the style of long ago, taking a good grip one hand
on each side, the effect being most odd and funny.

Just as many blouses have been worn as ever this winter underneath the
ever-fashionable coat and skirt; and at the sales there has been quite
as great a rush for the remnants of silk, which are always prepared for
those occasions. Nothing can be more ornate than some of the blouses
and fancy tea-jackets; and there seems to be a very generally united
opinion that, having a proper skirt to wear with them, they are not an
extravagant purchase, as they perform so many parts and are suitable
for a variety of occasions.

There are two new basques which, however, remind one more of the
coat-tails of the ordinary dress-coat than of anything else. They go
by the name of the “swallow tail” basque, and lie extremely flat; by
no means could one wear any such thing as gathers beneath them on this
particular account. They may be very long, or they may only measure
about half a yard in length. The basques nearly meet in front, and are
cut in one with the swallow tails; but when it is so cut, it is called
by many people the “spoon-shaped basque.” However, I find in many of
the French papers, as well as the English ones, that both are called by
the all-covering name of _Directoire_—an epoch of time which describes
many articles of dress of late years. I should not be surprised if
these basques were much worn when the spring appears.

The fancy for wearing tan shoes has been very remarkable this winter.
Rather a dark wood-shade is worn—not too dark, but darker than was in
vogue last season. Both glacé kid and calf are used; and, in any case,
they should be of an extra good quality, as, otherwise, they will not
stand the winter’s hard wear.

I have not seen anyone “wearing the green” in walking shoes, and do
not think they would be popular. The shoes and boots most liked seem
to be of American make, which are said to be excellent in cut and fit,
and, what is better still, to wear well; at any rate, it is the smart
thing to wear them. I think the toes are smaller and sharper than ever;
and the more pointed, the more stylish. One never hardly sees a small
foot, for no one can wear anything but shoes far too long for them;
as they really cannot become like Chinese ladies and obliterate their
full-grown toes immediately!

So far as millinery is concerned, the favourite hat or toque seems
to be that turned up immediately in front over the forehead, and
ornamented with a rosette, and generally a paste or steel buckle,
or brooch. All the very smartest toques are trimmed with some kind
of fur—sable, of course, for those who can manage it, then mink,
and—perhaps the most fashionable of all—chinchilla, which, however,
is rather a perishable fur. All of them are trimmed in the same way,
with a big bunch of violets on one side, and some feathers. But I have
just seen a sable-trimmed toque with a huge spray of moss-roses or
buds, having their leaves mounted in front. This admixture of flowers
and fur is one of the things our grandmothers would have shivered at.

The fashionable flower of the season seems to be the violet as usual;
and, next to that, quantities of roses are worn, both most unwintry
flowers. The flame-coloured roses are very fine in their colouring,
but do not seem to me to be becoming; the colour, though so fine, is
a little hard. Very beautiful ostrich feathers are worn in the larger
hats, but are laid on in such a light and airy manner as to make one
feel they will be blown off in the first gale of wind.

I notice numbers of Eton and other similar jackets, which the fine
mild weather, so far, enables people to wear, and which look rather
chilly. White veils and white lace ties are all worn, and also give
the idea of summer rather than winter. However, it is as well to get
out of our rather gloomy ideas of clothing, for, as it is, we wear far
too much black; and the use of so much red this winter has been quite
refreshing.

The first illustration consists of a group of two seated figures. That
on the left side has a grey cloth gown, with an orange-velvet yoke,
much pointed in front and braided all over with ivory braid. Pointed
epaulettes on the shoulders to match, and orange-coloured tabs, turned
over at the collar. The dress is braided with grey braid of a darker
shade in long and narrow points. The figure on the right side wears a
gown of a very bright rose-crimson, with narrow astrachan edging on the
bodice and the skirt. The sleeves are much tucked, the pointed space in
front is filled in with white satin and ivory lace over it, points of
white satin at the collar, and a band of black satin ribbon at the neck.

[Illustration: A CRIMSON COAT.]

The group of two figures standing up in out-of-door apparel shows
one of the pretty bright-crimson jackets that have been so much worn
this winter. It is braided with black scrolls, and has revers of black
astrachan, and a collar of the same. The hat is crimson and black,
and the skirt is black, with a band of crimson heading the flounce.
On the right side the figure wears a straight-cut jacket, with the
ever-popular horizontal tucks, which compose the whole bodice of the
jacket, and appear again on the top of the sleeve, in rather narrower
form. The colour of this gown is the fashionable blue cloth, and the
collar and edging of the revers are of Caracul, while the centres are
of black velvet, braided with black. Several rows of tucks edge the
skirt, and the hat is of grey velvet, trimmed with grey feathers, and
turned up with blue velvet.

One of the new arrivals in the trimming line is fringes of different
widths and in colours to match the dresses for which they are required.
I have also seen some new ribbons which are fringed at both edges.
Although I say “fringes of different widths,” I must remark that I have
not seen any wide ones—they are mostly narrow.

Perhaps, before I conclude, I may say a few words about the dressing
of the hair, which never was more prettily done. It is waved in large
waves, and is dressed fairly high for the evening; but I have seen a
tendency to wear it lower in the day. At any rate, we have much more
liberty accorded to us just now, and we take the liberty of dressing
our hair very much as it is becoming to ourselves individually; and
this has led to its being much lowered.

For young people, I notice that the hair is no longer permitted to
stray wildly about, but it is tied at the back, at the nape of the
neck; and for the evening it is tied in a Catogan loop, the hair at the
top of the head being waved in large flutings. A very slight amount of
what the Americans call “bangs” are allowed for young girls.

Our third drawing presents one figure only, and it is dressed in a
tailor-made bodice and skirt, which make of dresses is rising in favour
day by day. The material of which it is made is a dark green cloth,
which is cut at the edges of the short coat and sleeves into rounded
scallops and machine-stitched, a green gimp being placed below; a white
lace ruff is round the neck, and the hat—or, rather, toque—is of dark
green velvet, with green feathers, and large posies of violets. The
machine stitching applied to gowns this year is singularly perfect, and
cannot be done at home. I am told that it is all accomplished by a
single expert hand at the large and fashionable ladies’ tailors, as no
inexpert person could be trusted with it.

The latest fashionable fancy about the long gold chain is to wear it
hanging down to its fullest length in front, and depending from it are
a pencil, pen, or any such useful articles that the wearer may like to
have at hand. The watered silk ribbons, with steel buckles or slides,
have been more used than metal chains this winter for the muff, and
they look far better and more ladylike.

[Illustration: DARK GREEN CLOTH GOWN.]




ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters
Three,” etc.


CHAPTER XX.

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Peggy went up to her own
room to pack for her visit to the Larches. The long dress box, which
had been stored away ever since its arrival, was brought out and its
contents displayed to an admiring audience, consisting of Mrs. Asplin,
Esther, Mellicent, and Mary the housemaid.

Everything was there that the heart of girl could desire, and a
mother’s forethought provide for her darling’s use when she was far
away. A dress of cobweb Indian muslin embroidered in silk, a fan of
curling feathers, a dear little satin pocket in which to keep the lace
handkerchief, rolls of ribbons, dainty white shoes, with straggly silk
stockings rolled into the toes.

Peggy displayed one article after another, while Mellicent groaned and
gurgled with delight, Mary exclaimed, “My, Miss Peggy, but you will
be smart!” and Mrs. Asplin stifled a sigh at the thought of her own
inferior preparations.

Punctually at ten o’clock the carriage drove up to the door, and off
Peggy drove, not altogether unwillingly, now that it had come to the
pinch, for after all it _is_ pleasant to be appreciated, and when a
great excitement is taking place in the neighbourhood, it is only human
to wish to be in the thick of the fray.

Lady Darcy welcomed her guest with gracious kindness, and as soon as
she had taken off her hat and jacket in the dressing-room which was
allotted to her use, she was taken straight away to the chief room,
where the work of decoration was being carried briskly forward. The
village joiner was fitting mirrors into the corners and hammering with
deafening persistence, a couple of gardeners were arranging banks of
flowers and palms, and Rosalind stood in the midst of a bower of
greenery, covered from head to foot in a smock of blue linen and with a
pair of gardening gloves drawn over her hands.

She gave a little cry of relief and satisfaction as Peggy entered.

“Oh, Mawiquita, so glad you have come! Mother is so busy that she can’t
be with me at all, and these wretched bwanches pwick my fingers! Do
look wound, and say how it looks! This is really the servants’ hall,
you know, as we have not a pwoper ballroom, and it is so square and
high that it is perfectly dweadful to decowate! A long, narrow woom is
so much better!”

Peggy thought the arrangements tasteful and pretty; but she could
not gush over the effect, which, in truth, was in no way original or
striking. There seemed little to be done in the room itself, so she
suggested an adjournment into the outer hall, which seemed to offer
unique opportunities.

“That space underneath the staircase!” she cried eagerly. “Oh,
Rosalind, we could make it look perfectly sweet with all the beautiful
Eastern things that you have brought home from your travels! Let us
make a little harem, with cushions to sit on, and hanging lamps,
and Oriental curtains for drapery. We could do it while the men are
finishing this room, and be ready to come back to it after lunch.”

“Oh, what a sweet idea! Mawiquita, you are quite too clever!” cried
Rosalind, aglow with pleasure. “Let us begin at once. It will be ever
so much more intewesting than hanging about here.”

She thrust her hand through Peggy’s arm as she spoke, and the two
girls went off on a tour through the house to select the most suitable
articles for their decoration of the “harem.” There was no lack of
choice, for the long suite of reception rooms was full of treasures,
and Peggy stopped every few minutes to point with a small forefinger
and say, “That screen, please! That table! That stool!” to the servants
who had been summoned in attendance. The smaller things, such as
ornaments, table-cloths, and lamps she carried herself, while Rosalind
murmured sweetly, “Oh, don’t twouble! You mustn’t, weally! Let me help
you!” and stood with her arms hanging by her side, without showing the
faintest sign of giving the offered help.

As the morning passed away, Peggy found indeed that the Honourable Miss
Darcy was a broken reed to lean upon in the way of assistance. She sat
on a stool and looked on while the other workers hammered, and pinned,
and stitched—so that Peggy’s prophecy as to her own subordinate
position was exactly reversed, and the work of supervision was given
entirely into her hands.

It took nearly two hours to complete the decorations of the “harem,”
but, when all was finished, the big, ugly space beneath the staircase
was transformed into as charming a nook as it is possible to imagine.
Pieces of brilliant flag embroidery from Cairo draped the further
wall, a screen of carved work shut out the end of the passage, gauzy
curtains of gold and blue depended in festoons from the ascending
staircase and stopped just in time to leave a safe place for a hanging
lamp of wrought iron and richly-coloured glass. On the floor were
spread valuable rugs and piles of bright silken cushions, while on
an inlaid table stood a real Turkish hookah and a brass tray with
the little egg-shaped cups out of which travellers in the East are
accustomed to sip the strong black coffee of the natives.

Peggy lifted the ends of her apron in her hands and executed a dance of
triumph on her own account when all was finished, and Rosalind said,
“Weally, we have been clever! I think we may be proud of ourselves!” in
amiable effusion.

The two girls went off to luncheon in a state of halcyon amiability
which was new indeed in the history of their acquaintance, and Lady
Darcy listened with an amused smile to their rhapsodies on the subject
of the morning’s work, promising faithfully not to look at anything
until the right moment should arrive and she should be summoned to gaze
and admire.

By the time that the workers were ready to return to the room, the
men had finished the arrangements at which they had been at work
before lunch, and were beginning to tack festoons of evergreens along
the walls, the dull paper of which had been covered with fluting of
soft pink muslin. The effect was heavy and clumsy in the extreme, and
Rosalind stamped her foot with an outburst of fretful anger.

“Stop putting up those wreaths! Stop at once! They are simply hideous!
It weminds me of a penny weading in the village school-woom! You might
as well put up ‘God save the Queen’ and ‘A Mewwy Chwistmas’ at once!
Take them down this minute, Jackson! I won’t have them!”

The man touched his forehead, and began pulling out the nails in
half-hearted fashion.

“Very well, miss, as you wish. Seems a pity, though, not to use ’em,
for it took me all yesterday to put ’em together. It’s a sin to throw
’em away.”

“I won’t have them in the house if they took you a week!” Rosalind
replied sharply, and she turned on her heel and looked appealingly
in Peggy’s face. “It’s a howwid failure! The woom looks so stiff and
stwaight—like a pink box with nothing in it! Mother won’t like it a
bit. What can we do to make it better?”

Peggy scowled, pursed up her lips, pressed her hand to her forehead,
and strode up and down the room, rolling her eyes from side to side,
and going through all the grimaces of one in search of inspiration.
Rosalind was right; unless some device were found by which the shape of
the room could be disfigured, the decorations must be pronounced more
or less a failure. She craned her head to the ceiling, and suddenly
beamed in triumph.

“I have it! The very thing! We will fasten the garlands to that middle
beam, and loop up the ends at intervals all round the walls. That will
break the squareness and make the room look like a tent, with a ceiling
of flowers.”

“Ah-h!” cried Rosalind; and clasped her hands with a gesture of relief.
“Of course! The vewy thing! We ought to have thought of it at the
beginning. Get the ladder at once, Jackson, and put in a hook or wing,
or something to hold the ends, and be sure that it is strong enough.
What a good thing that the weaths are weady. You see, your work will
not be wasted after all.”

She was quite gracious in her satisfaction, and for the next two hours
she and Peggy were busily occupied superintending the hanging of the
evergreen wreaths and in arranging bunches of flowers to be placed at
each point where the wreaths were fastened to the wall. At the end of
this time, Rosalind was summoned to welcome the distinguished visitors
who had arrived by the afternoon train. She invited Peggy to accompany
her to the drawing-room, but in a hesitating fashion, and with a glance
round the disordered room, which said, as plainly as words could do,
that she would be disappointed if the invitation were accepted, and
Peggy, transformed in a moment into a poker of pride and dignity,
declared that she would prefer to remain where she was until all was
finished.

“Well, it weally would be better, wouldn’t it? I will have a tway sent
in to you here, and do, Mawiquita, see that evewything is swept up and
made tidy at once, for I shall bring them in to look wound diwectly
after tea, and we must have the wooms tidy!”

Rosalind tripped away, and Peggy was left to herself for a lonely
and troublesome hour. The tea-tray was brought in and she was just
seating herself before an impromptu table, when up came a gardener to
say that one of “these ’ere wreaths seemed to hang uncommon near the
gas bracket. It didn’t seem safe like.” And off she went in a panic
of consternation to see what could be done. There was nothing for it
but to move the wreath some inches further away, which involved moving
the next also, and the next, and the next, so as to equalise the
distances as much as possible, and by the time that they were settled
to Peggy’s satisfaction, lo, table and tray had been whisked out of
sight by some busy pair of hands, and only a bare space met her eyes.
This was blow number one, for after working hard all afternoon, tea
and cake come as a refreshment which one would not readily miss. She
cheered herself, however, by putting dainty finishing touches here and
there, seeing that the lamp was lighted in the “harem” outside, and
was busy placing fairy lamps among the shrubs which were to screen
the band, when a babel of voices from outside warned her that the
visitors were approaching. Footsteps came nearer and nearer, and a
chorus of exclamations greeted the sight of the “harem.” The door stood
open, Peggy waited for Rosalind’s voice to call and bid her share the
honours, but no summons came. She heard Lady Darcy’s exclamation, and
the quick, strong tones of the strange Countess.

“Charming, charming; quite a stroke of genius! I never saw a more
artistic little nook. What made you think of it, my dear?”

“Ha!” said Peggy to herself, and took a step forward, only to draw back
in dismay, as a light laugh reached her ear, followed by Rosalind’s
careless—

“Oh, I don’t know; I wanted to make it pwetty, don’t you know; it was
so dweadfully bare, and there seemed no other way.”

Then there was a rustle of silk skirts, and the two ladies entered the
room, followed by their respective daughters, Rosalind beautiful and
radiant, and the Ladies Berkhampton with their chins poked forward,
and their elbows thrust out in ungainly fashion. They paused on the
threshold and every eye travelled up to the wreath-decked ceiling. A
flush of pleasure came into Lady Darcy’s pale cheeks, and she listened
to the Countess’s compliments with sparkling eyes.

“It is all the work of this clever child,” she said, laying her hand
fondly on Rosalind’s shoulder. “I have had practically nothing to do
with the decorations. This is the first time I have been in the room
to-day, and I had no idea that the garlands were to be used in this
way. I thought they were for the walls.”

“I congratulate you, Rosalind! You are certainly very happy in your
arrangements,” said the Countess cordially. Then she put up her
eyeglass and stared inquiringly at Peggy, who stood by with her hair
fastened back in its usual pig-tail, and a big white apron pinned over
her dress.

“She thinks I am the kitchen-maid!” said Peggy savagely to herself; but
there was little fear of such a mistake, and the moment that Lady Darcy
noticed the girl’s presence, she introduced her kindly enough, if with
somewhat of a condescending air.

“This is a little friend of Rosalind’s who has come up to help. She
is fond of this sort of work,” she said; then, before any of the
strangers had time to acknowledge the introduction, she added hastily,
“And now I am sure you must all be tired after your journey, and will
be glad to go to your rooms and rest. It is quite wicked of me to keep
you standing. Let me take you upstairs at once!”

They sailed away with the same rustle of garments, the same babel of
high-toned voices, and Peggy stood alone in the middle of the deserted
room. No one had asked her to rest, or suggested that she might be
tired; she had been overlooked and forgotten in the presence of the
distinguished visitor. She was only a little girl who was “fond” of
this sort of work, and, it might be supposed, was only too thankful to
be allowed to help. The house sank into silence. She waited for half an
hour longer in the hope that someone would remember her presence, and
then, tired, hungry, and burning with repressed anger, crept upstairs
to her own little room and fell asleep upon the couch.

(_To be continued._)




OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

BY CHARLES PETERS.


The first group of lilies, “Cardiocrinum,” contains but two lilies.
These two plants strongly resemble each other but are both totally
different from any other species.

Many years ago, long before we ever dreamed of growing lilies
ourselves, we first made acquaintance with the magnificent _Lilium
Giganteum_.

We had been walking all day in the south of Hertfordshire, and as
evening was approaching we turned to retrace our steps. But the
district was new to us, and we found that we had wandered many miles
from our path. We looked about us for someone of whom to ask our way,
but the road was deserted save for ourselves. We trudged onwards for
about a mile, and seeing a cottage a short way ahead, we determined to
ask our way of one of its inhabitants.

It was about eight o’clock in the evening of a broiling hot day in
the beginning of July. We opened the gate, approached the house, and
knocked at the door. But the house was apparently empty, for our knock
was unheeded and there was no sign nor sound of any person in the
house. We knocked again, but this summons also being futile, we walked
round the house and entered the back garden. It was a beautiful garden,
one of those old gardens in which flowers have been cultivated for
centuries, and in which the most beautiful of garden-plants seem as
much at home as do the weeds in our country lanes.

But it was not the flowers, nor the well-kept lawn, which arrested our
attention. On turning round the house we had become aware of an intense
fragrance not unlike that of the lily of the valley, but many times
more powerful. We glanced around to discover what plant it was which
exhaled this perfume, and for a few minutes we were unable to discover
it. But on turning our gaze towards the opposite corner of the garden,
we saw a magnificent clump of the giant lily under the shade of three
tall lime-trees. There were five spikes, the shortest of which was
over five feet high, each surmounted with from ten to twelve blossoms
like bells of shining wax.

We approached the spot and stood admiring this glorious plant for many
minutes. But the remembrance that we had lost our way was gradually
forced upon us, and we left the lilies, filled with an admiration for
them which will never tarnish. We found no one in the garden, but
eventually we discovered the right way home.

The next year we tried to find this cottage and revisit the lilies, but
we have never to this day been able to find it.

We did not again behold this wonderful lily till July, 1898, when we
flowered a single one in our own garden. This specimen did not exceed
four feet in height, but it matured nine perfect blossoms.

The _Lilium Giganteum_, the giant lily of the Himalayas may well stand
at the head of the genus. Its blossoms are perhaps not so fine as those
of some other species, but in foliage, in growth and in fragrance it is
second to none.

The bulb of this species is about the size of a very large cocoa-nut,
but varies considerably in size according to whether it is going to
flower the next season or not. The bulb consists of few scales, which
are large, fibrous, and of a dark russet hue. The tops of the scales
have a rotten-looking appearance. The bulb is very compact, hard and
heavy.

About the middle of March the plant begins to show above ground. Its
appearance after this varies considerably. If it is not going to
flower it puts up a large mass of fine, deep, glossy green leaves,
which somewhat resemble those of the White Arum. These leaves are
heart-shaped, very glossy, many-nerved and distinctly stalked. The
lily will probably repeat this process next year, and perhaps the next
too; but if it has been well attended to, in the third or fourth year
it will put up a flower-spike. When the stem first shows it has an
appearance very similar to a small lettuce. It grows very rapidly and
attains its full height about the beginning of July.

When full grown this lily has a very noble appearance. Its stem is from
four to fourteen feet high, perfectly straight and gradually tapering
from its base, where it is one to three inches in diameter, to its top,
which narrows almost to a point.

Three distinct forms of leaves are borne on this stem. The lower ones
resemble the leaves sent up in the non-flowering years. The upper
leaves are smaller, less heart-shaped and with stalks. The third set of
leaves, the bracts, enclose the flower buds. These are simple sessile
leaves which fall off when the flowers open.

The flowers vary in number from four to twenty. They are borne directly
on the stem, without separate stalks. They are from six to nine inches
long, of a pure white externally, slightly tinged with green near their
attachments. Inside they are creamy white, with a broad streak of a
rich claret colour down the centre of each petal. The pollen is yellow.
The scent of this lily is intensely fragrant and almost overpowering.
The seeds are flat and triangular with broad membranous wings.

The tips of the perianth are very slightly reflexed. In most
drawings of this lily the flowers are made to look like those of _L.
Longiflorum_, but they are quite different, being long and narrow, with
very slightly reflexed petals and sepals.

It is often said in books that the bulb of this lily dies after once
flowering, but this is not correct. The central part of the bulb does
rot, but two or three small bulblets are left at its margin, which will
in favourable circumstances grow and eventually flower.

This lily is a native of the Himalayas growing at a height of five to
ten thousand feet above the sea-level.

The cultivation of this lily presents some difficulties, but surely it
is worth while to give a little trouble to grow such a superb plant?
We very rarely see it in cultivation, but in our garden it shall always
find a home.

A plant growing in such a robust manner as this lily is not suitable
for a flower-bed. It should be grown by itself in a shady nook. A
clump of two or three looks very lovely, and it is possible to arrange
matters so as to have at least one flowering spike every year.

It is not quite hardy, except in our southern counties, but it rarely
needs more protection than a heap of bracken or other litter thrown
over it in the winter.

If you wish to grow this lily, choose a suitable spot and dig out the
earth to the depth of four feet. Fill in with a mixture of strong
loam, decayed leaf mould and the remains of a hot-bed. To this add a
little peat and plenty of sharp sand. The plant is a gross feeder and
literally revels in “muck.” An occasional drenching with liquid manure
is often very helpful. It requires large quantities of water during the
growing period.

Resembling _L. Giganteum_ so closely that formerly it was considered
as a variety of that plant, but vastly inferior in every way, _L.
Cordifolium_ is the only other lily possessing heart-shaped leaves.

The bulb of _L. Cordifolium_ is like that of _L. Giganteum_, but is
scarcely a fourth the size.

Its leaves also resemble those of _L. Giganteum_, but the base leaves
are not so numerous, and the lower ones are congregated into a whorl.
The upper leaves are irregularly scattered. The lowest leaves are
curiously marked with a deep mahogany hue, which is never present in
those of _L. Giganteum_, and which helps to distinguish between the
two plants. The leaves are even more cordate than are those of _L.
Giganteum_, especially the lower ones which form a very tolerable image
of the “artistic” heart.

The stem grows to about three or four feet high, and bears at its
summit from two to six flowers somewhat like those of _L. Giganteum_,
but smaller, poorer, and marked on the inside with brown rather than
claret-colour. The flowers open wider than do those of _L. Giganteum_,
and are incomparably less beautiful. This lily is a native of Japan and
China.

It is decidedly a scarce lily, and is exceedingly difficult to flower.
We have not succeeded in flowering it ourselves, but a solitary bulb
that we possess sent up last summer a fair crop of its curious leaves.

This plant would look well in a mass grown in much the same way as _L.
Giganteum_, but we have never tried it in the ground, and so cannot
speak from experience in this particular.

Altogether it is so far inferior to _L. Giganteum_, more difficult
to grow and much less effective that we do not recommend its culture
to any but enthusiasts. It is not a hardy lily and requires some
protection in winter. It begins to send up its leaves very early in
spring, and these must be protected at this season from frosts, and
later from the wind and sun.

Both _L. Giganteum_ and _L. Cordifolium_ can be grown in pots, but the
great size of the former and comparative poorness of the latter render
both unsuitable for this form of culture.

_Eulirion_—beautiful lily! What an appropriate name for the superb
plants contained in this group! Beautiful lilies they are indeed,
beautiful in shape, in colour and in scent! What flowers will you
compare with the members of this group? None of the priceless orchids
or choice stove plants are anything like so beautiful as these
misunderstood and grossly neglected lilies!

[Illustration: _Lilium Henryi._]

First among the _Eulirions_ stands _L. Longiflorum_ and its many
varieties. This together with _L. Formosanum_, _L. Philippinense_, _L.
Wallichianum_ and _L. Neilgherrense_ form a group of plants having many
characteristics in common, and all very different from the rest of the
genus.

The lilies of this group are all low-growing, rarely exceeding four
feet in height. The flowers which are white or pale yellow are usually
solitary, but some varieties of _Lilium Longiflorum_ bear as many as
five or six blossoms on each stem. The leaves are linear, smooth and
numerous, scattered and are all similar. These lilies are natives of
Western Asia.

_L. Longiflorum_, the most important member of the group named after
it, is one of the best known and highly appreciated members of the
genus. It is usually grown as a pot plant. But why? Why do we so rarely
see this plant in the garden? Oh, it is so tender! It will not stand
our winters! It dwindles so when grown in the open! Nonsense! This lily
is perfectly hardy and is admirably suited to the open ground. But
you do not do well with this plant because you will choose the only
variety of it which cannot stand our climate.

To most persons _L. Longiflorum_ is synonymous with _L. Harrisii_. But
the latter plant is only one form, and is a rather unsatisfactory form
of _L. Longiflorum_. _L. Harrisii_ is a variety of _L. Longiflorum_
altered by having been grown in the tropical climate of Bermuda. It
is a hardy lily rendered tender by coddling. It is undoubtedly a fine
variety for the greenhouse, but it is nothing like so fine as some of
the other forms of _L. Longiflorum_.

Although this lily is undoubtedly “long-flowered,” it hardly deserves
the specific title of _Longiflorum_, for it is the least long-flowered
of the five plants placed in the same group as itself.

The bulb of this lily presents no deviation from the typical bulb.
Indeed it is the typical lily-bulb.

The great number of varieties of this lily, though all are somewhat
similar, yet possess considerable differences in regard to their
growth, the size and number of their flowers and their period of
blossoming.

The variety _Harrisii_ is very fine. It flowers very early and produces
three or four blossoms on each stem. The individual flowers are large
and finely curved, but they are a little thin and green. When grown in
the open, this variety sends up its shoots in February, and they are
almost invariably killed by late frosts.

Another variety, called _Praecox_ is similar to _Harrisii_, but more
hardy. It flowers in the open in June and July.

The majority of _Longiflorum_ bulbs received from Japan belong to the
variety called, “_Giganteum_,” but the name is hardly appropriate,
for this variety is not so large or fine as some others. For the
flower-garden this variety is the most generally valuable. It is tall,
robust, free-flowering, perfectly hardy and exceedingly cheap.

Last year we had a small hill-side covered with these lilies, and the
effect was delightful. Although we cut several the bed was always gay
with blossoms. They flowered in the beginning of August, producing
from two to five flowers each, of a pure rich white, not greenish like
the flowers of _Harrisii_, very large and sweet scented. They were not
injured by a spell of three days’ rain which occurred in the middle of
their flowering-time.

_L. Takesima_ is a late flowering _Longiflorum_. It can readily be
distinguished from the other varieties by the purple tint of its stem
and flower buds. It is very free-flowering; one of our spikes contained
six blossoms, all of which were matured.

Of all the varieties of _Longiflorum_ none other is to be compared with
that known as “_Wilsoni_” or “_Eximium_.” This is a perfectly lovely
plant. As we are writing there is a specimen of this lily on the table
before us. It is in a pot and is the result of a single bulb. There are
eight blossoms, not one of which is aught but perfect. The blossoms are
very long and possess the scent of lilac.

Among the other varieties of _L. Longiflorum_ which we have grown there
is one which, as far as we are aware, is unnamed. We bought ten bulbs
of “_Lilium Longiflorum, New Variety_,” at an auction for half-a-crown.
Most of the bulbs produced fair but ordinary results; but one which was
grown in a pot was quite different from any variety that we know. This
bulb sent up two spikes, each bearing two blossoms, but unfortunately
one spike was spoilt by green fly. The other matured its two flowers.
They were very long, almost as long as those of _L. Philippinense_,
that is, about nine inches long. They were pure white at their open
end, but greenish towards their attachment. The petals were much
longer than the sepals, but not so strongly curved. Whether this is the
“new variety,” or is a bulb of _L. Formosanum_ or _Philippinense_ out
of place, we cannot tell.

One of the finest plants for the table that we know, both when in
flower and previously, is the variety of _L. Longiflorum_ with
white-margined leaves. In this plant the centres of the leaves are an
opaque pale green, and the margins are pure white. The buds show a
similar colouration. Unlike most plants with variegated foliage, this
lily has very fine blossoms of a dead white colour, but with curious
transparent edges. Each bulb usually produces two flowers.

We cannot too strongly emphasise the extreme beauty of this species.
Whether as cut flowers, in pots or in the garden, it is one of the
loveliest of natural objects.

All lilies make good cut flowers and last well in water, but the _L.
Longiflorum_ is _par excellence_ the lily for cutting. For all forms
of floral decoration it is unrivalled, and of all flowers it is most
suitable for church decoration.

During last July, on the occasion of an organ recital at our village
church, we gathered a bunch of our lilies for decoration. There were
about thirty flowers in all, chiefly _L. Longiflorum_ and _L. Brownii_.
The effect of them was exceedingly pure and beautiful, and many
persons, both cottagers and those possessing gardens far larger than
our own, remarked upon the grace and elegance of the lilies. Yet every
person in that church could have grown those lilies, and for a few
shillings’ outlay the church could be decorated with lilies throughout
the summer.

London florists have a pernicious habit of removing the anthers from
their lilies, because they say that the pollen gets rubbed off and
dirties the petals. It is a great mistake to disfigure a lily in this
way. It utterly ruins the appearance of white lilies, for it robs them
of the one particle of colour which is so much needed to set off the
white of their perianth. If you are afraid of the pollen injuring the
appearance of the lily, you can wrap the floral organs in tissue paper
when the plants are being moved from one place to another. But do not
spoil the flower. Anybody with the smallest appreciation for this plant
would far rather see the white leaves covered with yellow dust than the
lily mutilated by having its centre removed.

The cultivation of _L. Longiflorum_ presents but few difficulties. In
the ground it needs a well-drained spot, but is not particular as to
soil. A fairly rich soil is really the best for this lily, for in such
soil it does not dwindle so much as it does in a light soil.

In some places where it is otherwise impossible to flower this plant,
success may be obtained by growing it in a mixture of sand, peat, and
leaf-mould, so light that the hand can easily be forced below the bulbs.

This lily is more often grown in pots than in the ground. In this case
do not put three large bulbs into one small pot, as is so often done.
The lilies must starve in such a prison, and though they may flower one
year, they will not do so again.

You must grow lilies in large pots. It is often said that bulbs are
smaller when they have grown a year in pots than they were when first
planted. This is not true if plenty of room be given to the bulb to
develop. It is only true when two or three bulbs have been cramped
in a small pot not sufficiently large to grow one bulb properly. Our
_Longiflorum_ bulbs grown in pots increase in size and produce numerous
small bulblets.

It is unfortunately true that whether grown in pots or in the ground,
_L. Longiflorum_ tends to degenerate. It blossoms well the first year,
produces a wretched show the second year, and after that it fails to
come up at all.

Now we think that the reasons for this are not beyond our powers to
grapple with. In the first place the hardier varieties should be
chosen. _L. Harrisii_ always dwindles because it is a tropical plant
and will not grow in our cold clime. In the second place the bulbs
should be dug up every second year, separated, and replanted in fresh
soil.

After all, it is no great matter if this lily will not flower more than
twice, for the bulbs are exceedingly cheap and readily procurable.

Last year we obtained some bulbs of a species of lily much resembling
_L. Longiflorum_, from the island of Formosa. We planted one in a pot
and the rest in the ground.

Unfortunately the former came to nothing, and as our garden is so full
of lilies, we were rather at a loss to identify some species. One
spike which we came to the conclusion belonged to this species was
intermediate in form between the _Takesima_ variety of _L. Longiflorum_
and _L. Philippinense_, but its blossoms were smaller than those of
either. If this is the true _L. Formosanum_, it is certainly but a
variety of _L. Longiflorum_, and not a distinct species.

On the mountain slopes of the north of the Philippine Islands is
found a lily of very great beauty and elegance. It has not long been
cultivated in England, and even at the present day it is exceedingly
rarely seen in this country. We have never possessed this lily; indeed
we have only once seen it in flower, but the sight of it was sufficient
to engender a determination to possess it at the earliest possibility.

_L. Philippinense_ is a low-growing lily, barely exceeding a foot in
height. It never, to our knowledge, bears more than a solitary blossom,
but that one blossom is so fine that its beauty makes ample recompense
for the paucity of flowers.

The flower resembles that of _L. Longiflorum_, but is much longer and
more tube-like. The specimen that we saw was eleven inches long. It
is a very pale greenish-white, the apex of the tube being yellow. The
petals are about an inch and a half longer than the sepals, and both
petals and sepals are equally re-curved.

This lily, although a native of the tropics, should prove hardy in our
southern countries, but it would be unwise to trust this rare lily
out-of-doors. It is usually grown in a greenhouse, in a light sandy
soil.

Of its cultivation we know nothing, as we have never ourselves
possessed the plant.

The next lily is one of the most magnificent of the whole genus. It was
discovered in the Himalayas by Hamilton in 1802, and twenty years later
it was named in honour of Mr. Wallich, a great authority on lilies.

_Lilium Wallichianum_ is the finest of the long-flowered lilies. It
grows to the height of four to six feet, with a brown glossy stem and
numerous lanceolate leaves. It starts growing very late in the year,
the shoots rarely appearing before July.

The flowers of this species are always solitary in the wild state; but
in cultivation two blossoms are occasionally produced. The flowers are
very large and long, the tubes slightly curved and the mouth widely
dilated. Its colour is a rich cream, the interior of the tube being
pale yellow. It is very fragrant.

This is one of the latest lilies to bloom, flowering usually towards
the middle of October. It is hardy in our climate, but the flowers,
owing to their lateness to open, are sometimes injured by early
frosts. It forms a fine pot-plant and is an admirable occupant for
the conservatory. But why do we so very rarely see this plant in
the conservatory? Why cannot we have a change from the eternal
_L. Harrisii_, the only lily people grow in their greenhouses? _L.
Wallichianum_ is an infinitely finer plant, but it is almost totally
neglected.

There is a variety of _L. Wallichianum_ in which the flowers are larger
and of a pale primrose colour. It is known to gardeners by the name of
_L. Wallichianum superbum_ or _sulphureum_. As we write this, we have
before us a plant which bears two buds, but we rarely see more than a
single flower on each stem.

This plant should be grown like _L. Longiflorum_, but it likes a
somewhat richer soil. It must be watered. In its native land it has
hot rain all through its growing season. In our climate, a dry July or
August, the two months in which the plant grows most rapidly, kills it,
and this is the reason why this lily is so very seldom grown. Be this
lily in the ground or in a pot, it must be thoroughly saturated every
day from the time that it first shows its spike, till the buds change
from green to white. When this latter change has occurred, a copious
drenching with liquid manure is of great service.

The last of the long-flowered lilies is _L. Neilgherrense_ from the
Neilgherry hills. This plant resembles the last, but its flowers are
longer and larger though not so fine in colour. This plant bears the
longest flowers of any lily, extra fine examples being upwards of
a foot long. This lily will not grow well out of doors and should
be grown in a conservatory. It is a very difficult plant to manage.
Amongst other things, it has a creeping stem, and if grown in a pot
it often sends up a shoot which meanders about beneath the soil, and
eventually visits the light through a drainage hole, totally exhausted
by its subterranean peregrinations.

It is said that this lily should be grown in a black heavy loam and
should be watered but sparingly; but we have not grown the plant
ourselves, and so we cannot say if this treatment is likely to be
successful.

The price of the bulbs of the last four lilies is very variable. All
are rather difficult to obtain and are very rarely to be met with in
good condition. If you can, you should get bulbs of established plants,
for those imported are often ruined by their journey from the tropics.
These lilies, though natives of tropical parts of India and Western
Asia, grow upon the mountains, and are killed by the heat of the plains.

(_To be continued._)




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


STUDY AND STUDIO.

CLEM.—We have just received from Miss Porter (author of an article,
“How to Help the Deaf,” in the February Part of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER,
1898,) details of an interesting scheme. She has compiled a system of
classes, which teach the art of lip-reading by correspondence; a new
and, she ventures to think, an original idea, which has obtained the
approval of distinguished medical men. As you wish to learn the art, we
should advise you to write for full particulars, enclosing a stamped
addressed envelope, to Miss Porter, Normandy Villa, Chapel Allerton,
Leeds.

MISS PORTER.—We regret that we cannot print your article in full; but
as you will observe in the preceding answer, we advise our readers to
send to you direct if they are interested in obtaining particulars of
your scheme.

NEMO.—The tune you enclose is very sweet and pleasing. It contains a
few technical errors, _e.g._, the consecutive bass octaves in the first
line, and the omission of the third in the chord (last bar but two)
which gives a thin sound. You ought certainly to cultivate your talent
by taking lessons in harmony.

GEISHA.—We have read the first chapter of your story. It is graphic,
but you need to study the art of composition. Take this sentence—“The
gentle breeze fluttering the ribbons of her pretty morning dress; the
raven black hair, loosely coiled at the back of the well shaped head:
her features were regular and delicately chiselled, and her eyes,
which of deepest blue, were shaded by long black lashes.” The first
two clauses of the sentence need a verb, though your third omission
may be an oversight. The art of writing for the press needs study and
practice, without which no one can hope to succeed.

LOVER OF LITERATURE.—Your letter is written in rather a stiff and
childish hand, and you use bad ink. You will improve if you take pains.

ANXIOUS.—1. Your letter is a type of many that we are constantly
receiving, and we refer you to a series of articles on “Self-Culture
for Girls,” by Lily Watson, which will give some help. In a case such
as yours, we should think it would be very desirable to join the
National Home Reading Union (address, The Secretary, Surrey House,
Victoria Embankment). And why should you not, as you suggest, study
for some examination? Write for particulars to Dr. Keynes, Syndicate
Buildings, Cambridge, or H. I. Gerrans, Esq., Clarendon Buildings,
Oxford. We find it difficult to recommend you special books, as we know
nothing of your age or attainments. Have you read Ruskin’s “Sesame and
Lilies”; Tennyson’s “Idylls of the King”; Scott’s novels; histories
of your own country and of English literature? This suggestion may do
to begin with.—2. We think powders for the skin are best left alone.
Prepared oatmeal is the least objectionable, and can be dusted off
after use.

LAURA.—We should not consider the guitar too difficult an instrument
for one with a fair knowledge of music to learn alone.

ONYX.—There is a Greek Correspondence Class which we have occasionally
mentioned in this column. Address Miss Lilian Masters, Mount Avenue,
Ealing. As for studying the language unaided, it is certainly a
difficult task, yet it has been accomplished by others, and is worth
attempting. Dr. W. Smith’s _Initia Græca_, Part I., is a good grammar;
but if cheapness is an object, you will probably find a selection of
Greek grammars for sale at a mere trifle in any second-hand book shop.
A knowledge of Latin is not essential. Many thanks for your kind letter.


GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

WOULD-BE FLORIST (_Horticulture_).—To be trained in the Nurseries
Department of the Horticultural College, Swanley, Kent, would occupy
two years for the full course, and would cost not less than £70 a
year for board, lodging and tuition. Girls who have done well during
the course usually soon obtain posts. Some of these situations are as
teachers of gardening at institutions, others as gardeners to private
ladies or to lady gardeners. Teachers and gardener companions receive
about 25s. a week with board and lodging. As ordinary gardeners they
could not expect to receive more than the sum mentioned, with possibly
an unfurnished cottage, but no board. Too few women have attempted to
grow flowers as a means or livelihood for us to be able to say whether
this kind of enterprise is to be recommended; but such success as may
attend it will certainly only come to women who have some capital and a
disposition to work indefatigably, denying themselves almost all social
relaxation. Undoubtedly it is not a business for every girl.

IVY (_Needlework_).—Some of the large drapers employ ladies in the
making of underlinen and children’s clothes. But we should think that
in the district from which you write there must be numerous ladies who
could employ a needlewoman in repairing and altering dresses. You had
better advertise in the leading local paper.

DANISH GIPSY (_Editorial Secretaryship_).—Such positions are usually
obtained by ladies who have a decided talent for journalism and are
active, energetic, and well educated. You are certainly at least four
years too young to hope for such an appointment now. But you had better
be receiving such an education and training as would qualify you for
a secretaryship of any kind when you are grown up. You should study
French, German, English history and geography, composition, shorthand,
type-writing and book-keeping. If you do all this, by the time you are
nineteen or twenty you would have become one of those girls for whom
employment societies have no difficulty in finding an engagement. There
is no “writers’ union” so far as we are aware. It is possible that the
Incorporated Society of Authors, the Institute of Journalists, or the
Writers’ Club may be meant. You might find it helpful to join some
amateur literary society.

MERMAID (_Stewardess_).—You should call at the offices of the
Peninsular and Oriental and the Orient Steamships Companies, and
inquire whether there is likely to be any vacancy for a stewardess. The
companies, however, generally know of a good many suitable women for
such positions. The duties of a stewardess, about which you inquire,
are to wait on the lady passengers. A certain amount of experience in
hospital nursing is regarded as a strong recommendation.


MISCELLANEOUS.

MARGERY inquires why four-wheeled cabs are called “Growlers.” It would
be quite reasonable to attribute the name to the loud rumbling noise
they make, their construction being of an inferior kind, and the
windows ill-fitting. But it is also a fact that “to growl” is an early
form of English to denote “to crawl,” and a “crawler” is a name applied
to empty vehicles of either two or four wheels, the driver of which is
seeking a “fare.” This term “growler” came into use about the year 1860.

H. E. B.—In Welsh, a double “l” is pronounced as if preceded by “th,”
as “Thlandudno”; but the usual pronunciation of that name in English is
“Llandidno.”

WATER-NYMPH.—In England, “Rosebud” would have been quite right in
entertaining her sister’s friend till her return home; but in a foreign
country it may be otherwise, and etiquette might require a young girl
to retire from the room after proposing that he should await her
sister’s return, and informing him of when it would be, or asking him
for any message he might wish to leave. As to the infamous practice
of “throwing vitriol in a person’s face,” it is for the purpose of
blinding them and burning the face! It may be well to observe that the
only way to prevent the burning of the skin from any accidental contact
with vitriol, is to wipe it off quickly with a _dry_ cloth, and dust
the place over with flour or chalk, and carefully avoid the touch of
any liquid. In the case of the eyes, we fear nothing could be done, as
they are wet.

ETHEL.—A girl is never “introduced to a gentleman”—it is the reverse.
The man should find some remark to make to her, and she has only to
reply. You should not say “Good evening” when introduced to each other,
and certainly neither should say “I hope you are quite well.” All you
have to do when a presentation is made, is to bow and smile pleasantly,
and reply to whatever remark he may make, and then say something in the
same connection.

T. N.—Wear gloves when going to dinner, or any evening reception or
entertainment. When to a dinner, you remove them when you sit down
to table. We can never promise the publication of an answer at any
specified time, although it may be written at once, as the number to be
answered is great, and all must await the finding of space.

ANXIOUS INQUIRER.—In the case you name, our Lord quoted a proverb (St.
Matt. xxiv. 28), in explanation of which we will make a quotation from
the _Annotated Paragraph Bible_, published at our office—“As quickly
and surely as the vulture scents out the carcase, so quickly and surely
will the ministers of vengeance find out a people ripe for destruction.
Where then you see consummate wickedness, you may expect to see speedy
and severe punishment.”

MOTHERLESS.—Your mourning, on both accounts, may be left off now. Your
writing is very good. We cannot promise the immediate publication of
our answers to correspondents.

MARGUERITE.—You write a nice hand, but you evidently write slowly. We
thank you for your kindly expressed opinion of our paper.

PIANO.—If the keys of your piano have become (not “gone”) brown, rub
them with fine “glass-paper,” and then with a chamois leather.

NANCY.—A lotion of one-third of sal volatile to two-thirds of water
is good for mosquito bites; so also, it is said, is rubbing with a raw
onion.

CURIOSITY.—It is by no means necessary that a clergyman, or pastor of
any denomination, should ask a girl to work in his parish, or amongst
the members of his congregation, previously to making her an offer of
marriage!

INQUIRER.—From your description, we think the coin is a second issue
of a gold seven-shilling-piece. It bears a laureated bust, facing to
the right, and “_Georgivs III. Dei gratia_” on the obverse; and on the
reverse, a crown with date below, from 1801 to 1813, encircled by the
motto, “_Britanniarum Rex, Fidei Defensor_.” The value of these coins
varies from 8s. 6d. to 12s. 6d.

B. S. and WATTLE BLOSSOM.—The mahogany sideboard is probably
French-polished, and naturally this would show a white mark, were any
heat applied to it. To French-polish again would remove the mark, but
nothing else that we are aware of would do so. The hostess simply bows
to her chief lady guest to indicate the time for rising from the dinner
table.




SAMBO PENWIPERS AND HOW TO MAKE THEM.


Last week I was left for a whole afternoon to entertain a convalescent
child. “No excitement, no tears, no _ennui_.” Such were the difficult
directions left me. When the little girl’s mother returned after two
hours’ absence she found her rules had been successfully obeyed.
Vera was blissfully happy and quietly content. On the table, across
her sofa, reposed a whole Sambo family, in the creation of which the
afternoon had passed quickly and quietly away.

As the task of amusing children is one ever present with a true woman,
I just tell our readers how the Sambos were made.

I had in my work-basket a twopenny cut of Berlin wool, a skein of
scarlet ditto costing one half-penny and a large darning needle.

The black skein I divided into three parts (Fig. 1). The double ends
were to make the larger figures. The centre piece divided into two
small ones.

Taking one looped end, I tied a twist of wool tightly round it, one
inch lower down I tied another ligature. From either side, two arms
were detached and wrists defined. Then, a two-inch body was developed
by a belt. The remaining wool was left loose for Mrs. Sambo’s skirt.
But, to represent the father of the family, the strands were once more
divided and ankles outlined.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

Hair was made by simply cutting the top twist and trimming it. Hands
and feet were equally carefully snipped. The finishing touch must be
given with our scarlet wool. Eyes, nose, mouth, wristlets, waist,
neck-ribbon and buttons, are all of this vivid hue.

Perhaps the baby Sambos are quaintest of all. Just half the size of
their parents with little knots of woolly curls, and tiny frizzy hands.

Not the least part of Vera’s delight in her family was the fact
that they are all really _penwipers_. Months after the little girl
was running about well and jolly. The Sambos did duty on every
writing-table in the house, and the four of them only cost twopence
half-penny.


A MORE ELABORATE SAMBO.

These fascinating little mannikins have the advantage of being novel,
cheap to make, and very attractive at bazaars, where they sell
easily for one shilling each, the cost of making being on an average
threepence a-piece.

The materials required are single Berlin wool, black, scarlet and
white, some yellow “topaz jewels,” and a little glittering tinsel or
strings of bright beads. A quarter of a pound (one packet) of black
Berlin wool makes four men, while the same quantity of scarlet and
white equips a whole army, as less of these is used. I utilised the
“jewels” and trimmings from two old evening dresses of mine, and in
these days of sequin and jewelled passementerie most girls would have
some by them without needing to buy.

[Illustration]

Now as to the making. You take a twopenny or ounce skein of the black
Berlin and divide it in half. You next take one half and double it,
cutting one end through so that it consists of loose ends of wool,
which will presently stand for feet and toes. This is the length of
the mannikin. Tie a piece of scarlet wool several times firmly round
the middle so as to form a waist. Now take up the other half of the
black skein and double it till it is the right length for the arms
of the warrior. You cut through both ends of these so as to suggest
multitudinous fingers.

Having got so far, wind some scarlet wool round your hand twelve or
fourteen times. Now take up the black wool that is tied round the
middle; divide the uncut end with your fingers (so as to get an equal
quantity of black loops on each side), and insert the scarlet loops
bodily in the opening thus made, so that they project at the top while
they touch the “waist” inside at the bottom.

Next thread the black “arms” through the scarlet loops and the body
at the waist line so that the arms stick out on each side just above
the waist. Tie scarlet wool several times firmly round the whole thing
midway between the top-knot and the waist to form a neck just above the
“arms.” Close up the opening you made in the black wool at the top,
and with a needle threaded with scarlet wool, work a few bold stitches
right round the bottom of the scarlet tuft, thus securing the latter
and forming a sort of coronet at the same time. This also serves to
give some shape to the “head,” which should be as neat and rounded as
possible. Cut the scarlet loops through so as to form a top-knot of
ends.

Next take scarlet wool and tie it firmly round one of the arms at a
sufficient distance from the ends to suggest a “wrist,” and wind the
scarlet wool smoothly round and round towards the body (so that no
black is seen beneath) until you have covered about half the arm, then
finish off with a wool-needle so that the wool does not come unwound.
Treat the other arm in the same way. The legs also are similarly made,
the mass of wool below the “waist” being divided in equal halves and
each leg done separately. The ends may have to be gently pulled down
and trimmed a little so as to give more shapeliness to the limbs
and body, but this must be done according to the artist’s taste and
judgment.

Now comes the really fascinating part of the work. Thread a wool
needle with scarlet Berlin and with this work on the “head” with a few
bold stitches eye-brows, nose and open mouth. I generally found three
stitches enough for one eye-brow, and the same number for the nose; but
here again individual discretion comes into play.

Thread another needle with white Berlin and supply the aforesaid open
mouth with pearly teeth which need not by any means be regular; indeed
you can give “Fuzzy-Wuzzy” an endless variety of expressions according
to the direction of your stitches.

Take two “topaz jewels” and stitch them firmly with black cotton under
the eye-brows, and lastly stitch round his waist sufficient tinsel
trimming to form a glittering belt.

You wipe your pen on him by the simple process of stabbing the
implement into any part you happen to catch hold of first.

For bazaars you will find they look best stitched in some sort of order
on a large sheet of white cardboard (an old dress-box or its lid does
very well) with some inscription and the price printed in large letters
over them, and a handle of red tape at the top to hang the cardboard up
by.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber’s Note: The following changes have been made to this text:

Page 326: bicyling to bicycling—“hour’s bicycling”.]







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, VOL. XX. NO. 999, FEBRUARY 18, 1899 ***


    

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