The Girl’s Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 1029, September 16, 1899 by Various


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In an age when many books on every sort of subject and vexed question are being daily launched into the world, it is a relief to turn to the pure, wholesome novels of Rosa Nouchette Carey, the popular authoress, who has steadily held her ground with her public since the production of her first book, Nellie’s Memories, composed and related verbally to her sister, while yet in her teens, though not actually written until some few years later.

The youngest girl but one of a family of seven, and in her girlhood delicate in health, which caused her education to be somewhat desultory, Rosa Carey soon displayed an aptitude for composing fiction and little plays which she and her sister acted, one of her chief amusements being to select favourite characters from history and from fiction, and trying to personify them, while her greatest pleasure was to relate short stories to this same younger sister over their needlework. It is a strange fact that, during her simple, happy, uneventful girlhood, chiefly spent in reading, in writing poetry, and in other girlish occupations, Rosa Carey, who was of a somewhat dreamy and romantic disposition, feeling the impossibility of combining her favourite pursuits with a useful domestic life, and discouraged by her failures in this respect, made a deliberate and, as it afterwards proved, a fruitless attempt to quench her longing to write. This unnatural repression, however, of a strong instinct could not be conquered, and after some years she yielded to it.

She was born in London, near old Bow Church, but has no very distinct remembrances of the house and place. Later, the family moved to Hackney, into what was then a veritable country residence, and there many happy years were spent. Her mother was a strict disciplinarian, and very practical and clever, while her father was a man universally beloved and respected, by reason of his singularly amiable character, his integrity, and his many virtues.

The next move was to Hampstead, where the young girl’s schooldays began, and it was then that she met and formed a strong friendship with the late Mathilde Blind, the talented author of The Descent of Man, and translator of Marie Bashkirtseff’s Journal and other works. This attachment, mutually enthusiastic and full of interest, was only interrupted by a divergence of religious opinions. Rosa Carey, adhering to the simple faith of her childhood, could not follow Mathilde Blind, who was educated in the extreme school of modern free-thought, and the friends, with sorrow but with yet unabated affection on each side, drifted apart.

Meanwhile, the large and happy family was being gradually broken up. First the beloved father passed away. On the same day that, three years before, had witnessed his death, their mother, too, was taken to her rest, and shortly after, the two sisters went to Croydon, to superintend their widowed brother’s home. Miss Carey’s real vocation in life seemed to spring up, and the literary work was but fitfully carried on, for, on the marriage of her sister to the Rev. Canon Simpson, vicar of{802} Kirkby Stephen, Westmoreland, and the subsequent death of her brother, the sole charge of the young orphans devolved upon her.

As the years rolled by, circumstances tended to break up that home also. The young people grew up and scattered, and out of Miss Carey’s four charges three are now married. Then, her pleasurable duties being accomplished, the partially disused pen was resumed, and the author found leisure to return to literary pursuits. She has for the last twelve years made her home in the ancient and historic village of Putney, which, although it has lost much of its quaint and picturesque environment since the destruction of the toll-house and the old bridge of 1729, with its twenty narrow openings—erstwhile the delight of artists—has yet a few “bits” left that have escaped the hands of the Philistines.

Miss Carey’s pretty red-brick house of the Queen Anne style of architecture, and into which she has only more recently moved, is situated near the bend of the road. A broad gravelled path, running the whole length of the house in front, is bordered with shrubs and flowering plants. The spacious hall opens on the right and front into the chief living-rooms, the long French windows of which lead into the conservatory. One of the great attractions of the commodious and artistic residence is the pleasant garden at the back, at once the pride and delight of the author, where countless blackbirds, thrushes, and other singing-birds, are wont to congregate, and where in summer, under the gigantic chestnut tree with its widely-spreading branches, she and her home-mates spend many a happy hour. The home party consists likewise of her widowed sister, Mrs. Simpson, and of her friend, Helen Marion Burnside, the well-known poet and author of The Deaf Girl Next Door, and of a lately-published volume entitled Driftweed.

The drawing-room is bright and cheerful with its wide, lofty window, and pretty side windows, its parquet floor liberally strewn with Persian rugs, and its cosy corner hung with Oriental tapestries. Miss Carey’s own study is upstairs, half-way up the wide staircase, and overlooks the garden. There is an oak knee-hole writing-table, with raised blotting-pad. On one side well-filled bookcases, here a low spring couch, there lounging-chairs, big and little, and a cabinet covered with photographs, together with vases of flowers, and many little odds and ends of china. The whole is restful to the eye, thoroughly comfortable and attractive. Amid these peaceful surroundings Miss Carey writes her novels. She recalls to mind a little anecdote connected with her earliest effort—Nellie’s Memories. With no introduction, and quite unacquainted then with any publishers, she took the MSS., with much trepidation, to Mr. Tinsley, who refused to read it. This was a great disappointment, and some months later, she mentioned the matter to Mrs. Westerton, of Westerton’s Library. This kindly woman volunteered to induce him to change his mind, and did so with such good effect that, on hearing at a wedding-party the reader’s opinion was distinctly favourable, she hastened away from the festive gathering to impart the good news to the young author, a kindness that Miss Carey declares she “shall always remember with gratitude, and the very dress that the good-natured messenger wore on the occasion is stamped upon her recollection for evermore.”

This pretty domestic story of English home-life found favour with the public from the outset. It became widely known, and has been constantly republished up to the present date. The girl-author’s name and fame were made at once, at which no one seemed surprised but she. Old and young alike “took to” the charming tale, free from any dramatic incidents or mystery, owing to the unflagging interest, and the high tone of the work, not to speak of the striking individuality of the characters. Wee Wifie followed, and the author, who alone pronounced it to be a failure, actually refused at first to allow it to be brought out again when demanded lately, as she feared it might not add to her literary reputation, but upon being pressed, she re-wrote and lengthened it, without, however, altering the plot, and it has passed into a new edition.

Among her succeeding novels, which are too well known to need more than a passing comment, may be noted Barbara Heathcote’s Trial, Robert Ord’s Atonement, Wooed and Married, Heriot’s Choice, and Mary St. John. Ever anxious to do good and not harm, and to write books that any mother can give her girls to read, Rosa Carey’s works are characterised by a tendency to elevate to lofty aspirations, to noble ideas, and to purity of thought. During her residence at Putney she has also written Lover or Friend, Only the Governess, The Search for Basil Lyndhurst, Sir Godfrey’s Grand-daughters, The Old, Old Story, The Mistress of Brae Farm, and Other People’s Lives—a collection of short stories—while her latest book is entitled Mollie’s Prince. In The Girl’s Own Paper her short stories, which run serially for six months, are well known and eagerly looked for. In these, alike as in her longer works, the descriptive power, the fertility of resource and originality, prove that unceasing interest can be maintained while dwelling in a thoroughly healthy literary atmosphere. The first chapters of a new story will appear in our next monthly part.

It is clearly noticeable that while some of Rosa Carey’s earlier books indicate a tone of sadness running through them—a circumstance that she is somewhat inclined to regret, but they were tinged with many years of sorrow—the healing hand of time has done its merciful work, and she now writes in a more cheerful vein. Nor is there wanting a strong sense of quiet fun and humour which especially permeates her delightful novel Not Like Other Girls, a book that should surely stimulate many young women to follow the example of the three plucky heroines therein depicted with so much spirit.

While never exactly forming plots, when Miss Carey is about to begin a story, she thinks of one character, and works around that, meditating well the while over the others to be introduced. Then she starts writing, and soon gets so completely to live in and with her creations, that she feels a sense of loss and blank when the book is coming to an end, and while she has to wait until another grows in her mind. But, after all, her writing—the real work of her life—has often to be made a secondary consideration, for in her strong sense of family duty and devotion, and being the pivot round which its many members turn in sorrow or in sickness, the most important professional work is apt to be laid aside if she can do aught to comfort or to relieve them.

Nor have her sympathies been exclusively limited to her own people. Ever fond of girls, and keenly interested in their welfare, Miss Carey conducted for many years a weekly class that had been formed in connection with the Fulham Sunday School for young girls and servants over fifteen years of age, many of whom have had good reason to remember with gratitude the kindly encouragement and the wise counsel bestowed upon them by the gentle and sympathetic author, Rosa Nouchette Carey.

Helen C. Black.


“I am glad that His house hath mansions,
For I shall be tired at first,
And I’m glad He hath bread and water of life,
For I shall be hungry and thirst.
I am glad that the house is His, not mine,
For He will be in it, and near,
To take from me the grief I have brought,
And to wipe away every tear.”
T. O. Paine.
Death the Gate of Life.—Plato, the great Athenian philosopher, who was born 427 years before Christ, recognised the doctrine that death is but the gate of life. “My body,” he says, “must descend to the place ordained, but my soul will not descend. Being a thing immortal it will ascend on high, where it will enter a heavenly abode. Death does not differ at all from life.”

Useless Trouble.

“Why lose we life in anxious cares,
To lay in hoards for future years?
Can these, when tortured by disease,
Cheer our sick heart, or purchase ease?
Can these prolong one gasp of breath,
Or calm the troubled hour of death?”
Women in Burma.—In Burma women are probably more free and happy than they are anywhere else in the world. Though Burma is bounded on one side by China, where women are held in contempt, and on the other by India, where they are kept in the strictest seclusion, Burmese women have achieved for themselves, and have been permitted by the men to attain, a freedom of life and action that has no parallel amongst Oriental peoples. Perhaps the secret lies in the fact that the Burmese woman is active and industrious, whilst the Burmese man is indolent and often a recluse.

She knew Nothing of Cycles.

Here is a story for cyclists. At a party on the Scottish Border last autumn, to which many guests rode on their cycles, the hostess made elaborate arrangements for the care of the machines, and a system of ticketing similar to that in use at hotel cloak-rooms was adopted, each cyclist being provided with a check ticket.

The housekeeper was entrusted with the care of the machines and the issuing of the tickets, and as they arrived the machines were carefully stored and labelled so that there should be no difficulty when they were required again.

But the housekeeper was not a cyclist and did not understand the mysteries of the pneumatic tyre. She pinned the labels on to the front tyres of the machines, where they could best be seen, and took good care that the pins were stuck well into the tyres.

The language that was heard when the guests came to take their machines away, was, as may well be supposed, more emphatic than polite.


By ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc.


RS. Bray’s end did not prove so imminent as her faithful Rachel had feared. She lingered on, though still unable to leave Bath for return to her desolated home. So Florence Brand came back to London, but she and Jem still often took “a week’s end” to run westward and visit the old lady. They never offered to take Lucy with them, and if “Jem” could not go Florence went alone. As for Lucy, she often yearned for those associations with her old easy girlish life which she would have found in Mrs. Bray’s presence. Such associations help to uphold our sense of identity, and often comfort us by revealing our own growth. They keep us tender, too, and tolerant, reviving the consciousness of what we were ourselves before we learned bitter lessons which may not yet have come to others. Also they strengthen us by revealing that not even to regain our old careless joys could we willingly be again our old careless selves. It is the “look backward” which best spurs us to go forward.

But Lucy could not afford any “unnecessaries” of leisure or railway travel. She turned at once to her life of steady labour, knowing that she must be henceforth a working woman, not for any temporary exigency, but as part of the natural and persistent order of things.

Even thus she had problems to solve. Her earned income, more or less uncertain, was not adequate for the reliable upkeep of the home of her married life. Nor could the demands upon it grow less, since Hugh’s education and start in life had to be taken into account.

Lucy could not yet give up all hope of her husband’s return. But her sweet, sane nature speedily realised that whatever hopes she might secretly cherish, she must nevertheless act as though Charlie had indeed “sailed for that other shore” whence he “could not come back to her.”

Yet these secret hopes made it very hard to contemplate the surrender of the home Charlie and she had made together—the sale of the leasehold, the dispersion and shrinkage of the household gods. These seemed almost sacred now when they might be all that remained of the old life.

The Brands warmly advocated giving up the house and selling off the furniture.

“It may not bring in much,” Florence said airily, “but what it does Jem will get well invested in some paying concern. Then you and the boy can board with somebody. You may do that moderately enough, for people who are glad to take boarders can often be screwed down to low terms. Then apart from that definite outlay, you’ll have whatever you can earn for yourself, and you’ll have no more worry with housekeeping. Many would envy such a lot. You see there are compensations in all things.”

Then it struck Florence that Lucy’s hesitancy might arise from reluctance to give up all hope of Charlie’s return, so she added hastily—

“And if what we all hope for should really happen, why, you would still have your capital, and you could buy another leasehold and get new furniture; it would just make a lovely new beginning!”

Lucy shook her head.

“I don’t want to do this if I can find some other way,” she said. “No other house could be to us what this one is, nor any new furniture that which Charlie and I bought bit by bit in our courting days. Practically speaking, too, breakings-up and sales, and buyings again, all mean loss in cash as well as in feelings.”

“Then, too, if you and the boy were boarding,” Florence went on hurriedly, “your wants would be drawn within narrow and defined limits, so that if there was any sort of misfortune, it would not be difficult for us to help you. We are not really rich, Lucy. We live as we do and spend as we do only that we may go on getting more. That is the way with one-half of the people in society. It’s trying. It tells upon Jem, it’s that which makes him take so much wine,” she whispered. “I should not like my family to heap any burdens on Jem.”

“I shall not do that, Florence,” replied Lucy, cool and quiet now, where once she would have been indignant and stung. “I shall certainly not allow myself to get into debt. I will look well ahead. If we have to go to the workhouse, I will make our own arrangements for going there!”

Other people took counsel with Lucy in a far different spirit. Miss Latimer said Lucy might rely on her remaining with her as long as they could possibly share a common home. That added her little income to the household funds. “Little indeed,” she said, but Lucy answered—

“Every little helps. And the greatest help is in the knowledge that one does not bear one’s burden alone.”

“Ay, two are better than one,” rejoined the old governess, “and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.”

“I’d like to be the third cord, but I’m only a bit of twine,” said Tom.

Another and stouter strand was soon to be woven into the household coil for that “long pull and strong pull” which Lucy was determined to make. The death of his old landlord had broken up the house where Mr. Somerset had hitherto lived. Diffidently, as if he were asking a great favour, he inquired if Lucy could entertain the idea of allowing him to rent her first floor, for which he was willing to pay a rent which at once made a substantial addition to the household finance.

As for poor Tom Black, he was distressed to think how small his payments were. “If he went away,” he said, “somebody more profitable might occupy his place.” Lucy had to reassure him by her own words and by the sight of Hugh’s tears at the bare thought of “Tom’s going away.”

Three months later Tom got a rise in his salary, and then he insisted on raising his monthly board fee. Lucy was slightly reluctant and almost aggrieved, but when she saw the lad’s face beaming with the power of his new prosperity, she let him have his own way in the matter.

So life settled down. Florence resented that her sister had chosen “to turn into a lodging-house keeper.” Lucy marvelled to note how strangely it “comes natural” to some women to belittle and contemn those ways of honest industry which lie nearest to woman’s true nature—housekeeping, house-serving, the care of the aged, and the young, and the solitary. And, oh, the pity of it! if such belittlement and contempt tend to relegate these high womanly functions only to unworthy “eye-servants”!

Months passed, yet the silence of the seas remained unbroken. Now and then Lucy and the captain’s wife wrote and asked how each fared. There came no day when either drew a line across life and forbade that hope should cross it. They did not put on widow’s mourning, yet when Lucy had to buy a new dress or ribbon, Miss Latimer noticed that she bought it of black or of soberest grey.

Months of such waiting had gone by ere Lucy wonderingly observed that there came to her no more her old nightmare vision of herself struggling lonely between a wild heath and a dead wall against a midnight storm. There was a sense in which the allegory of that vision was converted into fact—the silence as of death on one hand, the great rough world on the other, the storm of sorrow beating on herself. Yet now she realised that God Himself was with her on the dark wild way—she was not alone—and that made all the difference. God does not promise to uphold us in our fears and forebodings. These ought not to be. He has promised to be with us and to comfort us when the dark days shall really come.

Lucy never gave voice to many of her deepest experiences at that time—that secret speech which the Father keeps for each of His children. Sometimes it seemed to her as if shafts of light penetrated her very being, revealing or{804} illuminating the most solemn mysteries of life. Sometimes she thought of Paul’s allusion to being “caught up into the third heaven” and “hearing unspeakable words which it is not lawful for a man to utter.”

This fleeting glory would fade out of Lucy’s soul even as sunshine fades off the earth. Yet Lucy felt that those “hours of insight” left her seeing “all things new.”

Lucy began to understand how martyrs can smile and speak cheerfully at their stake, because from that standpoint their developed spiritual stature lifts them to wider horizons than others know. What a message the blue sky must have had for the white depths of the Colosseum! Yet these things can never be told or written. Whoever would know them must learn them for themselves, though it be but “in part.” But it is because of these things that faith and hope and love have never died out of the world, since all the forces of unfaith and despair and cruelty end only in producing them afresh, because they are of the eternal life of God.

Lucy’s picture-dealer felt kindly towards the quiet client who gave so little trouble, showed so little self-conceit, and, while steadily business-like, was never exacting or suspicious. He thought “it would do Mrs. Challoner no harm” if he told her that one or two purchasers had said, “There is something in that lady’s sketches which we miss in many greater artists,” one old lady adding that “when she looked at Lucy’s pictures, she felt as if there was a soft voice beside her whispering something pleasant.”

That brought the tears to Lucy’s eyes and made her feel very humble, possibly because she could not deny to herself that there was truth in the gracious words. Oh, to have Charlie again, and yet to be all that she had grown into since he had gone away—since this awful silence! And an inner voice bade her take cheer, for was not this what was sure to happen here or there—sooner or later?

“What a pitiful bliss we should make for ourselves if we were left to do it without God!” Lucy cried, thinking even of the sweetest dreams of courting days, the best aspirations of married life. For after one taste of “the peace which passeth understanding,” one vision of the joy which has absorbed the strength of sorrow into it, mere “happiness” looks but a poor thing, even as a child’s cheap, pretty toy shows beside a masterpiece of genius.

Lucy’s slumbers now were deep and calm. Almost every morning she awoke with a sense of refreshment, as when one returns to labour after being among kind hearts in lovely places. Sometimes she knew she had dreamed, and such dream memories as lingered, elusive, for a few waking moments, were always bright and cheering. Visions of Charlie had come during the first nights after the great blow. He never seemed to speak, but he was always smiling, always confident that all was well and would be well. His dream form always appeared in positions and in scenes which Lucy could recall as having figured in peculiarly happy times. And yet these scenes had been at the time so slight and evanescent that Lucy had quite forgotten them till the dream revived the remembrance. It was as if, in her sleep, her soul was drawn so near the light and warmth of love that even the invisible records of memory started into view.

After those first few occasions Charlie came no more into any dream which she could recall even at the instant of waking. But the soothing spirit of hope and reassurance remained. If she dreamed of Florence, Florence wore the simple frocks of her girlhood and spoke as she used to do. Jem Brand, too, appeared only on his kind and helpful side. Once she had a curious dream of seeing two Jem Brands exactly alike, save that one was fresh and smiling and friendly, and inclined to nudge his strange dissipated-looking twin, and to ask why he was so grumpy and heavy. In her sleep, too, she saw Mrs. Morison, and Jane Smith, and Clementina, and each was back in her old place and doing well. Lucy could never remember what passed between them and her in the land of sleep, but somehow she knew it was something that explained things, something which made them feel that the past could not have ended otherwise than it had, but which also made her feel that it was quite natural that they should begin again and do better.

She thought to herself once as she awoke—

“I feel as if wherever Charlie is I am in his every thought, and that his every thought is a prayer always ascending on every way by which it can bring back blessing.”

It was about this time that it struck Lucy that strangers very often spoke to her. She scarcely ever entered an omnibus or a railway carriage without somebody appealing to her for some trifling assistance, or confiding to her some little difficulty which they seemed to think might grow clearer if it were talked over. Once or twice she noticed that old folks or little children let ever so many people pass them by and then asked her to ring a stiff bell for them or to decipher an address.

Sometimes she caught herself softly repeating Adelaide Proctor’s lines—

“Who is the angel that cometh?
Let us arise and go forth to greet him.
Not in vain
Is the summons gone for us to meet him;
He will stay and darken our sun;
He will stay
A desolate night, a weary day.
Since in that shadow our work is done,
And in that shadow our crowns are won,
Let us say still, while his bitter chalice
Slowly into our heart is poured—
‘Blessed is he that cometh
In the name of the Lord!’”
Of course beneath all this high experience ran the undercurrent of simple daily living. Lucy was in no danger of losing hold of the practical. She had her regular duties at the Institute, and many little opportunities for the exercise of tact and common sense at home. The little household had a real organic unity in its common service of true friendship, but that did not rub off all the little human angles. Sometimes Pollie would say that “Mrs. May was more particular than a real mistress.” Sometimes Miss Latimer found a trial in the romps of Hugh and Tom Black. Mr. Somerset adopted vegetarianism and puzzled Mrs. May by desiring her to concoct dishes which seemed to her unsatisfactory and uncanny. But each trusted the other. Everybody knew that everybody meant well. If a sharp word were spoken unwarily, a kind word followed hard upon it. Each understood that all joys and trials were common property; shares therein might differ, but everybody had a share.

So the weeks grew into months, and the months completed a year. One evening Lucy was sitting in the dining-room glancing over her completed balance sheet with its tiny “surplus,” when suddenly it seemed to her that there was a new sound in the very rumble of the cab which was depositing Mr. Somerset as usual at the door, after his day’s study at the British Museum. She looked up, her pen in her hand listening.

Mr. Somerset generally went straight to his own apartments. Occasionally, however, when he had any news to tell or any request to make, he looked in upon the little party in the dining-room.

He did so now.

He sat down on the sofa and said abruptly—

“Mrs. Challoner, do you think joy ever hurts anybody?”

“Surely not,” she said, looking up with wide eyes. “The Bible says that hope deferred maketh the heart sick, but that when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.”

“Do you feel sure, dear friend, that you could bear——”

She had risen from her seat with clasped hands.

“Mr. Somerset, Mr. Somerset!” she gasped.

He rose too.

“Trust me,” he said, gently leading her mind to its new attitude. “I would not stir expectation ever so lightly for nothing. To-day I have received a message from the shipping office to deliver to you. Listen! The long looked-for word has come at last. Charlie lives! Charlie is quite well! Charlie is coming home! He is on his way!”

Lucy did not faint. She did not cry out. She sat quite quiet for a moment, and then broke into a peal of low happy laughter, which died away in a flood of soft healing tears, from which she looked up and said—

“Is it all true? Is it quite true? I can scarcely believe it!”

(To be continued.)



UGUST is the month we most associate with all the active interests of the height of summer, but the bees in the hive are already quieting down and making preparations for their long winter sleep. The duty of the bee-keeper will be to make sure that these preparations are properly carried out by assisting them if necessary. One reason for their diminished activity is the disappearance of several honey-producing flowers on which the bees depend for their main crop. Breeding is not kept up so largely—the brood nest growing smaller; and many cells that contained brood last month will now be filled up with honey and pollen. Most of the bees now in the hive are to survive the coming winter, and they must preserve their energies as much as possible, because the colony will stand in great need of their services in the following spring. The drones, who gather no honey, and are of no further use in the hive are now attacked and killed, or turned out of the hive to perish from exposure. The ejection of the drones is rather a gruesome proceeding, but it is one that should give satisfaction to the bee-keeper, because it shows that the colony possesses a healthy and vigorous queen, and this, of course, is an essential condition for its well-being.

All through this month robbing will have to be guarded against, as, now that honey is scarce, it is easily induced, especially where there are a number of hives. To prevent robbing, the hives should not be opened too often, and then only late in the afternoon, and the work done as speedily as possible. No drops of honey or syrup should be left about, and if feeding is going on, care should be taken to prevent any bees from outside getting to the feeder.

When robbing and fighting are found to be in progress, the best means of checking the trouble will be to reduce the entrance of the hive with perforated zinc, so as to allow only one bee to pass in or out at a time. A rag soaked in a weak solution of Calvert’s No. 5 carbolic acid, wrung out nearly dry, and spread out on the alighting board will also help to keep the robbers off.

These measures need not be taken unless there is considerable excitement around the hive entrance. At this time of year there will often be a few strangers on the alighting board, which get pulled about rather roughly by little groups of over-zealous sentinels, but no notice need be taken of this.

The middle or end of August will be time enough to think about getting the bees into condition for the winter. A careful inspection of all the hives should now be made, and the following points carefully noted:

(1.) Every colony should have a good laying queen. The appearance of worker brood in all stages will be sufficient evidence of her presence without our taking the trouble to hunt her up.

(2.) The colony must be strong, the bees crowding on at least six standard frames.

(3.) The combs must contain not less than twenty pounds of good honey for food during the winter.

These three conditions being fulfilled, we may be satisfied that the colony is in good condition to withstand the rigours of winter without further attention, and only requires to be wrapped up warmly later on before the advent of cold weather.

If, however, the colony should happen to be queenless, or weak (that is, covering less than six standard frames), it will have to be united to another colony. Thus, two colonies, neither of which, alone, would be strong enough to stand the winter, can be united together to form one strong colony, which, if properly looked after, will almost certainly turn out strong in the spring and do well the following year.

The colonies which are to be united should stand near to one another; by this I mean within a yard or two of one another. If they are further apart or have several other hives standing between them, they will have to be brought together, the moving being done by degrees, a yard or two at a time, and only on fine days during which the bees fly freely, otherwise many bees will be lost.

For the operation of uniting a flour-dredger will be required, containing about half-a-pint of flour. Also a goose-wing for brushing the bees off the combs. The dome queen-cage is an appliance that may come in useful. It is made of tinned wire-cloth, and shaped like the strainer that is sometimes hung from the spout of a tea-pot to retain the leaves. Such tea-strainers make very good queen-cages. To use the queen-cage it is pressed into the comb with the queen inside.

The hive to contain the united colonies should be placed midway between the two old stands. The alighting-boards should be extended by means of the hiving-board which was used in hiving the swarm.

A bright calm afternoon will be the best time to do the uniting. We have already seen that bees belonging to different colonies when mixed will not, under ordinary circumstances, agree. If, however, they are prevented from recognising one another they will unite together quite peaceably, and this condition may be brought about by dusting them over with flour. Every comb must therefore be lifted out of both hives and the bees on them well powdered with flour from the dredger. In replacing the combs, one from one hive should be put next to another from the other hive, thus ensuring the better mixing of the bees. Combs containing brood should be placed together in the middle of the hive. The bees on the lightest of the outside combs may be shaken off on to the hiving-board, where they should receive a sprinkling of flour, the combs being then taken indoors at once.

During the operation a sharp look out should be kept for the queens on the brood combs, and if one of them should be preferred for heading the new colony she should be caged by herself on a comb in the manner described above to prevent any hostile workers from attacking her. The other queen must then be found and removed, and the bee-keeper must remember to liberate the caged queen on the following day. If left to themselves, however, the workers soon learn to recognise one of the queens as their mother, so that the trouble of finding and caging the queen is not really necessary in uniting, but it is an additional safeguard which the practised bee-keeper is glad to be able to take advantage of.

It was stated just now that the presence of worker-brood in the hive was sufficient evidence of the presence of a good queen. In some cases where there is a bad queen or no queen at all, drone-brood may be found in the hive. Usually the bees build a special comb with cells of a larger pattern for raising drone-brood in, but a bad queen will often lay drone eggs in worker-cells. In either case drone-brood may be known from worker-brood by its raised convex cappings, the capping over the worker-brood being almost flat. The best thing to do with a drone-raising colony is to unite it to another good colony without delay in the manner described above.

Having settled the question of strength, the next thing to see about will be the food supply. If each hive does not possess the minimum weight of 20 lb. of stored honey, combs containing food must be given from another hive that can spare them, or syrup must be supplied through the feeder.

Syrup for winter use must be made thicker than that used for stimulating in the summer, 10 lbs. of cane sugar being dissolved in only 5 pints of water. The syrup must be given quickly (5 or 6 lb. every day), otherwise much of it may be used for raising brood. For this purpose special rapid feeders, made to hold 6 lb. of syrup, are made.

If the stock-box contains more than 30 lb. of honey, we may take and extract the surplus from the outside combs, or one of these combs might with advantage be given to a colony that stands in need of it.

Bee-keepers who live in the heather districts of Scotland and the north of England will now be reaping the late honey harvest that this plant affords, getting their supers filled with the delicious heather-honey, which is so highly esteemed for its fine flavour. Persons keeping a few colonies a little distance from the moors find it worth their while to send their bees there while the heather is in bloom. Heather-honey has a deep colour. It is so thick that it is extremely difficult to remove it from the comb by means of the honey extractor. It should therefore be stored in sections, as these do not require extracting. Sections of heather-honey should fetch about threepence more than ordinary sections.

What to do with the honey obtained from their bees is a question, I expect, that will not trouble many of my readers. Still it will be a good thing to know some of the uses of honey. In the first place it is delicious eaten with bread and butter. It contains grape sugar, which makes it wholesome and easily digested, and particularly good for children in moderate quantities. Honey-vinegar and mead when well made are acknowledged to be excellent. As an ingredient in cakes and confectionary, honey greatly improves them. A delicious flavour is imparted to tea or coffee if sweetened with honey instead of sugar. “My son, eat thou honey, because it is good” (Proverbs xxiv. 13) is the recommendation the wise King Solomon gave honey.

Honey is also valuable as a medicine. Mixed with the juice of lemons it is universally acknowledged to be one of the best remedies for sore throat and cough. It has been proved to be beneficial in cases of rheumatism, hoarseness, and affections of the chest.

(To be concluded.)


ARION’S wedding-day was near at hand. Mrs. Grant, her cousin, who lived in Norfolk Square, had very kindly offered to have the wedding from her house, and this arrangement was the most convenient for everybody concerned. It had been at first intended that she should be married from her own home in Northamptonshire, but there would have been such a difficulty in putting up all the wedding guests, and Dr. Thomas’s house was already a very full one. So when Mrs. Grant offered the loan of her house for the occasion it was thankfully accepted.

Marion was glad to be in London for a week or two beforehand as she was so busy with her trousseau, and it made the shopping and trying on of dresses so much more easy. Her mother came up to town to stay in Norfolk Square for a fortnight before the wedding to help her with her purchases. The rest of the family were coming up for the wedding on the day and were going back to the country as soon as it was over.

Marion was disappointed at not being married from her own home, but she saw plainly that the present arrangement would save her mother a great deal of fatigue and inconvenience, and as Mrs. Thomas was not at all strong now, that was a great point gained. Anybody who has experienced the difficulties of making ready for a party, added to the planning and contriving necessary to the disposal of guests in an already over-full house, will heartily appreciate the benefits of Mrs. Grant’s plan.

Jane wrote to Mrs. Grant, whom she knew very well, and offered help for the wedding breakfast. As the cook in Norfolk Square had not been in her place very long and was rather inexperienced, Mrs. Grant was very glad to agree to Jane’s suggestion. The wedding was to be on a Saturday. Fortunately the day before was a free day for Jane, and so she would be able to devote it to making ready for the wedding.

There was to be a sit-down breakfast in the old-fashioned style, for the guests were limited to the relations and very old friends of the bride and bridegroom, and as several of these would be coming up from the country for the day, they would be glad of a substantial repast. The bride was to be married in a travelling dress, and was only to have one bridesmaid—her sister Lily.

As the weather was already crisp and cold this was a very sensible plan, for nothing is more unbecoming than the utterly unseasonable attire in which brides and bridesmaids are sometimes seen shivering. Fortunately Marion was not to go straight to a very hot climate, as Mr. Scott had work at Ootacamund for the next year. She received many delightful presents. A very useful one from one of her pupils was a cookery-book for Anglo-Indians, which she treasured very much, as she knew how very useful it would be to her in her new home.

Mrs. Holden gave her several presents, amongst which was some very beautiful lace which Marion had made up on a white silk dinner dress.

The enterprising Jane made the wedding-cake with Ada’s help. She had to buy a special tin to bake it in as she had not one big enough. It was cooked with the greatest care in the gas oven in which Marion had prepared so many meals in the days of their joint housekeeping.

The preparations took some days, for Jane had not very much time just then. She prepared half the fruit one evening and half the next. On the next afternoon she got home early, made the cake, and got it into the oven by six o’clock, and had it baked before they went to bed. The next evening she put on the almond icing and the plain royal icing, and on the next she ornamented it. It was allowed two or three days to set quite firm, and then the cake was wrapped in wadding, packed in a box and taken over to Norfolk Square in a cab, where it was kept under a glass case until the wedding. Our readers must have the recipe of this wonderful cake in case they may wish to emulate Jane’s industry for the benefit of their friends. Mrs. Oldham sent up a special box of eggs for its concoction.

Marion’s Wedding Cake.

Ingredients.—Two pounds of Vienna flour, one pound of French plums, one pound of sultanas, one pound of currants, one pound of citron peel, one and three-quarter pounds of fresh butter, one and a half pounds of castor sugar, ten eggs, one pound of sweet almonds, and vanilla essence.

For the Almond Icing.—Two pounds of ground almonds, three pounds of castor sugar, almond flavouring, enough beaten egg to bind.

Royal Icing.—Three pounds of icing sugar, whites of egg to mix, lemon juice.

Method.—Rub the flour through a hair sieve, stone the French plums and chop them finely, wash and dry the currants, and pick and flour the sultanas; cut up the peel, sift the sugar, blanch and chop the almonds. Beat the butter to a cream, and then add the sugar and work together until very light; add the eggs one by one, flour the fruit well, and stir it in gradually, the almonds also: lastly, stir in the flour, the essence, and the brandy. Line a tin with paper that has been brushed with clarified butter; pour in the mixture, and bake in a moderate oven.

Almond Icing.—Mix the ground almonds and castor sugar together and then work in enough beaten white of egg to bind; knead and roll out, lay over the cake and put near the fire to dry.

Royal Icing.—Rub the icing sugar through a sieve and work in with a wooden spoon enough white of egg to make the icing of the right consistency to spread over the cake; add a little lemon juice. Dry the icing in a cool oven, taking care it does not colour. Ornament the cake the next day, using royal icing mixed rather more stiffly than that which was spread over first. Put it on with a forcer.

Jane declared that she only breathed freely when she had deposited the cake in Mrs. Grant’s house, and saw it waiting for the wedding under a large glass globe!

Here we have the menu for the wedding breakfast.


Ox-tail Soup.
Oyster Patties.
Glazed Pheasants.
Pigeon Pie.
Pistachio Cream.
Claret Jelly.
The cook at Norfolk Square and Jane both worked hard all the day before and everything turned out very well. To ensure the pheasants and the tongue being well glazed and looking nice, Jane made some good glaze and brought it with her. This she did by making a pint of good beef-tea and boiling it rapidly down to a thick syrup. The pheasants and the tongue had each two coats brushed on and were then suitably ornamented, the tongue with a pretty design in creamed butter put on with a forcer and slices of notched cucumber laid round the dish. The tongue was a smoked one and was soaked for twenty-four hours before being cooked. Jane made all the puff pastry for the patties and the pigeon pie; the cook made the soup, cooked the pheasants and the tongue and prepared the inside of the pie under her supervision. She also prepared the moulds for the creams and jellies. Here are the recipes for the soup, patties, creams, and jellies. The quantity made consisted of two quarts of soup, two dozen patties, two creams (quart moulds), two jellies (ditto), and two pies.

Ox-Tail Soup.

Ingredients.—One ox-tail, one carrot, one turnip, two onions, two sticks of celery, two tomatoes, four mushrooms, bay-leaf, blade of mace, a bunch of herbs, twelve peppercorns, two teaspoonfuls of salt, two quarts of stock, two ounces of butter, three ounces of brown thickening.

Method.—Cut the ox-tail into joints and blanch it. Fry it well in the butter, add the vegetables washed and sliced, the mace, herbs, salt, and the stock, and simmer four hours. Strain and pick out the pieces of meat; take off the fat and return to the saucepan. Thicken with three ounces of brown thickening. Put in the pieces of ox-tail and the soup is ready.

Puff Pastry.

Ingredients.—Two pounds of Vienna flour, two pounds of butter, lemon juice, water to mix, two yolks of eggs.

Method.—Rub the flour through a hair sieve; wash the butter and rub one-third into the flour. Turn this on to the paste-board and make a well in the middle. Beat the yolks of two eggs with a gill of water and a little lemon juice and mix into the flour, adding more water if necessary until you have a flexible dough. Roll out to a strip, shape the butter to a third the size of the dough and lay it on; fold the dough over and roll out; repeat this and put it away to cool. Roll out again and repeat this four times. Roll out, cut as required, and use. For patties, cut into rounds with a cutter about the size of a wine-glass and mark it at the top with a smaller cutter. Bake in a very hot oven a pale golden brown, and when baked lift off the lid and scoop out the inside; fill with the required mixture and put on the lid again.

Mixture for Oyster Patties.—Strain the liquor from two dozen oysters and put it to{807} boil for ten minutes with a blade of mace, three peppercorns, a little lemon rind, and some salt; strain and mix with a gill of cream. Work half an ounce of butter with as much cornflour as it will take up, stir it into the liquor and boil up over the fire; cut the oysters in small pieces, put them into the sauce and heat gently for a few minutes without letting it boil again.

Pistachio Cream.

Ingredients.—One pint of double cream, the whites of two fresh eggs, four ounces of castor sugar, a quarter of a pound of pistachios (chopped and blanched), one ounce of leaf gelatine, two tablespoonfuls of water, a half-pint packet of lemon jelly.

Method.—Take a plain round cake-mould that will hold a quart, and line the sides of it with lemon jelly. Sprinkle the bottom over with chopped pistachio, using a little melted jelly to set it. Whip a pint of double cream to a stiff froth, and mix it lightly with the stiffly beaten whites of two fresh eggs and the castor sugar (sifted). Pound the pistachios in a mortar, and add the sweetened cream to this. Have ready the gelatine, and when it is lukewarm stir it quickly into the cream. Pour at once into the prepared mould.

Before the wedding-day, Jane, Ada, and Marion had a little tea-party at “The Rowans,” at which it must be confessed they talked a great deal and ate very little.

“Well, we have had a very happy year at all events,” said Ada, “and if circumstances had not upset our previous arrangements, I should have been quite content to go on in the same way for a long time.”

“As circumstances, named Tom Scott and Jack Redfern, intervened, our housekeeping is at an end,” said Jane decisively. “I think I am the one to whom all apologies should be made. Of course, with you two gone, I could not bear starting the same sort of thing again with anyone else, but it has certainly been a most successful experiment. Has your dress come home yet, Marion?”

“Yes; and fits very well.”

“It is the prettiest dress you can imagine,” said Jane to Ada. “A grey Sicilienne skirt, with a grey glacé silk bodice, and cherry-coloured velvet at the throat and waist. A dear little cherry-coloured toque to wear with it, and a smart grey velvet cape with a delicate design in steel on it. I can’t help talking like a fashion plate when I think of it! Our dresses are sent back at last, and there is nothing that needs alteration.”

Jane and Ada were to wear their new winter dresses of green cashmere and brown velvet; big brown “picture” hats with rowans under the brim. Marion’s wedding-day dawned bright and sunny. The wedding was to be at two o’clock.

Jane had arranged to go over to Norfolk Square early to superintend the laying of the breakfast before the party went to church. The table was decorated with white flowers in specimen vases. Azaleas, chrysanthemums, and orange-blossoms, and sprigs of rowan-berries were laid on the pretty white satin table-centre which Ada had worked for her friend.

And now they are off to church.

Marion makes a charmingly pretty but very nervous bride. Everybody is bright and cheerful and there are no tears. Soon they come back and sit down to the breakfast, prepared with so much care. And now the time has come for us to bid farewell to our young housekeepers, whose plans and contrivances our readers have followed for so long. If their example will induce any to try the experiment for themselves, Mrs. Scott, Mrs. Redfern, and Miss Jane Orlingbury will feel that they have not worked in vain.


The Temple.

My dear Dorothy,—As you are one of the members of the committee for the bazaar in aid of the Nursing Home for Old People, I may be able to give you a few useful hints to avoid certain illegalities which beset the path of the unwary promoters of such charitable entertainments.

The great feature of a big bazaar should consist in having as many side shows as possible, so that people may be able, by the expenditure of a shilling or two, to escape from the importunities of the stall-holders into a concert-room, waxwork show, or other attraction, and not be driven out of the bazaar altogether.

If you want to have anything in the nature of a farce, operetta or comedietta played in the building, you ought to inquire if the hall which you are going to hire for the bazaar has a licence for stage-plays. If it has not such a licence, the performers and those responsible for the entertainment will render themselves liable to a fine, unless the proper licence is secured.

Fish-ponds, bran-pies, lucky tubs, and similar contrivances, are doubtless, strictly speaking, illegal, but are always tolerated at bazaars, where people do not expect to get the value of their money; but it is advisable to draw the line at roulette tables or anything in the nature of a real gamble or a lottery.

On the last day of the bazaar, it is often the custom to sell off the undisposed-of stock of the stalls by auction. The person who holds the auction should be a person having an auctioneer’s licence to sell by auction, otherwise trouble may ensue, as the auctioneers have recently made a determined stand against unqualified persons acting as auctioneers.

I think that these are the principal errors into which people who get up bazaars are liable to fall; but perhaps I ought to enlarge a little more upon stage-plays and the necessity for having a licence for their performance.

It is almost impossible to give any kind of a variety concert without unwittingly performing what is the legal equivalent of a stage-play; any song with dramatic action is a stage-play, and so are duologues and monologues, as distinguished from recitations.

Some people have an idea that so long as they do not take any money at the doors, they are quite safe and within the law in giving a performance in the cause of charity, but such is not the case. When money or other reward is taken or charged, directly or indirectly, or when the purchase of any article is made a condition for admission, the performers and the owner or occupier of the building render themselves liable to a fine.

This may sound very alarming, and would, no doubt, considerably startle those good ladies who lend their houses for performances for charitable objects in the season; but every time they do so, and anything in the nature of a stage-play is performed, they may be prosecuted and fined, although personally they take no benefit from such performances. The fact that they frequently do so with impunity does not affect the law on the matter, which is perfectly clear. Why it has not been altered before now, I am unable to say; hardly a day passes without its being broken, exemplifying the old proverb that “one man may steal a horse from a stable, and another may not look over the hedge.”

I know of a case where a gentleman who had turned part of his house into the Theatre Royal back drawing-room, and who permitted a performance of a play to be given on two occasions, to which admission was by ticket only, which could be obtained beforehand on payment of a fixed sum, in aid of the funds of a charity, was convicted and fined under the Act. The gentleman appealed against the conviction, but without success; the conviction was confirmed by the Court of the Queen’s Bench. So be warned, my dear Dorothy, and do not allow your friends to disregard my advice, and be assured that it is much better to avoid these risky entertainments altogether.

Your affectionate cousin,
Bob Briefless.



Lilium Tigrinum (var. Fortunei).

We will conclude our remarks on the noble family of lilies by some notes and tables, which will be found of great value to those who wish to cultivate these beautiful flowers.

We told you in the first part of this book that we kept a note-book—a kind of diary—in which we kept a record of our work among the lilies. We advise everyone who intends to grow these plants to follow our example, and get a large manuscript book to put down the “proceedings” of her lilies. The following points should be noted. (1.) The name of the species and variety. (2.) The name of the person from whom you obtained the bulb. (3.) The day on which the bulb was planted, with a note as to the condition of the weather at the time. (4.) The circumference of the bulb, and a brief description of it, stating whether the flower-spike had begun to grow, or the new roots had appeared, or if any scales were mouldy or diseased. (5.) The soil in which the lily was planted. (6.) The date of the appearance of the shoot. (7.) The date of flowering. (8.) A brief description of the full-grown plant and its individual members. (9.) The condition of the bulb when exhumed.

Here is an example of the record of a bulb of L. Auratum.

“Lilium Auratum, var. Platyphyllum, bought from Mr. ——. Potted on the 3rd of November, 1897; a warm, dry day. Bulb seven inches in circumference; new roots just appearing. A sound, heavy bulb. One mouldy scale removed. Washed in lime-water; sprinkled with charcoal and potted in an eight-inch pot in a mixture of fine peat (one part), rich leaf-mould (two parts), a large handful of sand and a few small lumps of clay. Shoot appeared March 17th, 1898; grew rapidly. No disease. Flowered September 4th, 1898; five blossoms, all perfect, largest eleven and a half inches across. No rain when in flower. Lasted in blossom till September 20th, 1898. Bulb when exhumed quite healthy, showing two crowns nine and a quarter inches in diameter. Exhumed and replanted October 21st, 1898.”

If you have a record like this of every lily, you possess a most valuable book on the culture of lilies; and, as we said at first, the cultivation of these plants is little understood.

A thoroughly authentic, practical record will help you more to become proficient in the art of lily-growing than any amount of impracticable theory.

Now some words to those who are growing lilies in pots. As we have seen, most species grow well in pots. All do well except the following, which are unsuitable for pot culture. The reason why they are suitable is also given.

L. Cordifolium (too straggling).

All the Isolirions, because they are not sufficiently ornamental for pot culture.

L. Humboldti. This lily does not do well in pots; why we do not know.

L. Martagon, L. Pomponium, L. Pyrenaicum, L. Chalcedonicum, L. Monodelphum, L. Testaceum.

The last six lilies are unsuitable for pot culture because they require to become established before they will condescend to flower.

Most lilies grown in pots can be kept in the open air or in a room, or anywhere you please, but the following require protection of some sort:—

Half-hardy species. These should not be put out in frosty weather; otherwise they may be grown out of doors. If you have planted them in the ground at a sufficient depth, they will stand all but a very severe winter. L. Giganteum, L. Cordifolium, L. Formosanum, L. Wallichianum, L. Washingtonianum, L. Catesbæi, L. Polyphyllum, L. Roseum, L. Hookeri, L. Oxypetalum, L. Alexandræ.

The following usually need a greenhouse to grow them well:—L. Philippinense, L. Neilgherrense, L. Nepaulense, L. Lowi.

Would you like to have lilies in pots in your room? You can have them even if you do not possess a greenhouse. You can grow the lilies in the ground and transfer them to pots just before they begin to flower. For this purpose plant the bulbs in the open ground in rather lighter soil than you would if the lilies were to flower in the open. Place the bulbs about four inches deep. You need not remove the plant until the flower-buds are nearly fully developed. Then take up the lily with the surrounding earth, place it in a big pot, drench it with water, and leave it in a cool, shady place for three days. Then give it a good dose of liquid manure. You may then take it into your room, and it will flower as though nothing had troubled the tranquillity of its existence.

Not all lilies are suitable for this treatment; only those species which will grow in light soils should be used for this purpose. L. Longiflorum, L. Auratum, L. Speciosum, and L. Rubellum are most suitable for this form of culture.

About the beginning of November all your lilies in pots will have flowered and died down. What are you to do with them now?

Shake the bulbs out of the pots; examine them; remove any off-shoots; do not cut off the roots; wash them in lime-water and re-pot without delay.

Lilies do not rest during the winter. The pots should be kept in a place which is not too wet. The pots must not be kept too dry, but an occasional watering should be administered.

We append a list of the lilies, giving the exact composition of the soil in which we have grown them best, both in the open air and in pots. An asterisk is affixed to the most desirable species.

Grown in a mixture of one part peat, two parts leaf-mould, and a good sprinkling of sand:

*1. L. Longiflorum.
2. L. Formosanum.
*3. L. Auratum.
*4. L. Speciosum.
*5. L. Krameri.
6. L. Rubellum.
7. L. Henryi.
8. L. Medeoloides.
Grown in a mixture of equal parts of peat and leaf-mould, with plenty of sand:

*9. L. Leichtlini.
10. L. Maximowiczi.
11. L. Catesbæi.
12. L. Wallacei.
*13. L. Canadense.
*14. L. Parvum.
*15. L. Maritimum.
*16. L. Superbum.
*17. L. Roezlii.
*18. L. Pardalinum.
19. L. Californicum.
Grown in equal parts of rich loam and leaf-mould, enriched with the contents of an old hot-bed, but with no peat and very little sand:

*20. L. Candidum.
21. L. Washingtonianum.
*22. L. Humboldti.
*23. L. Pomponium.
*24. L. Martagon.
*25. L. Pyrenaicum.
26. L. Callosum.
27. L. Carniolicum.
*28. L. Chalcedonicum.
*29. L. Monodelphum.
Grown in soil like the last, but with a fair admixture of peat:

*30. L. Giganteum.
31. L. Cordifolium.
*32. L. Wallichianum.
*33. L. Parryi.
*34. L. Japonicum Odorum.
*35. L. Brownii.
*36. L. Tigrinum.
37. L. Bulbiferum.
*38. L. Batmanniæ.
39. L. Elegans.
*40. L. Croceum.
41. L. Davuricum.
*42. L. Columbianum.
43. L. Tenuifolium.
44. L. Concolor.
45. L. Hansoni.
The following species have never been grown by us:—

*46. L. Philippinense.
*47. L. Neilgherrense.
*48. L. Nepaulense.
*49. L. Lowi.
*50. L. Polyphyllum.
51. L. Davidii.
52. L. Oxypetalum.
53. L. Roseum.
54. L. Hookeri.
55. L. Avenaceum.
During the greater part of the year you can have lilies in flower in your garden. If you possess a greenhouse you can have lilies in flower throughout the year.




Naturally the lilies flower in the open ground from April till October. If you wish to have lilies in your garden in November you can do so, but mind you, if the weather is unfavourable the blossoms will not be worth much.

The lilies which will flower in the open ground in November are L. Speciosum and L. Auratum. For very late flowering the bulbs should be planted in May. Last Lord Mayor’s day we gathered a small bunch of L. Speciosum, and one very fair example of L. Auratum. The tiger lilies were also in blossom at that date.

But this late crop of lilies is worth very little; and, unless you have a greenhouse, we advise you to be contented with six months of lily flowers.

In a greenhouse it is easy to have lilies throughout the year. L. Longiflorum will flower from April to January, and L. Speciosum will flower from August to February if the bulbs are potted at intervals, and very gently forced when necessary. In the month of March you can have L. Rubellum in flower.

Doubtless some of our readers will wish to grow lilies for show purposes. Indeed, for this purpose few flowers are more satisfactory, for lilies are extremely showy, they last very well in flower, and are by no means impatient of removal.

As a matter of fact, growing lilies for show purposes can be conducted on two separate systems; either you can grow show plants or show flowers.

For the former purpose the stem, the leaves, the shape of the inflorescence, and the number, shape, size and colour of the blossoms must be above the average. For “show flowers” all your attention must be concentrated upon one single blossom.

For growing show plants choose a very big bulb. In our former articles we warned you against these mammoth bulbs, because they are so often unsatisfactory. But for show plants you must choose these big bulbs; but do not imagine that from every “mammoth bulb” you will get a fine spike. You will rarely get more than one really excellent plant out of six bulbs.

For prize plants pot the bulbs in large pots and keep them in a cold, dark place for a fortnight. When the shoots appear, grow them on as quickly as you can, but give no artificial heat. Keep the plants in a place where they are not likely to be injured by the wind, and where there is plenty of shade. As the flowering time arrives give plenty of liquid manure.

Of all manures, “Ichthumic guano” is the most satisfactory for show lilies.

You must turn your pots round every day, so as to keep the stems straight. Lilies always bend towards the sun, and unless the pots are carefully turned round every day the stems become twisted or bowed.

For growing prize blossoms choose a small bulb. Grow it as you did for a prize plant, but when the buds begin to turn colour, remove every one except one—the finest. Cut the flower with as long a stem as possible, and send it to the exhibition while it is opening, and before the pollen has become free.

Grow your show plants as carefully as you will, you will often find that many uncared-for plants in the garden beat the pampered one in the form and delicacy of their blossoms!

Like all other flowers, the lilies possess many more names than they desire, and in many cases even the slightest variation from the type has been labelled with a new name. You must therefore beware of paying high prices for cheap lilies with a new name—a fate which will damp the ardour of most amateurs.

Our work among the lilies is done. If our admiration for them has been great, it has never been excessive. The lilies are the loveliest of all flowers, and the study of them is wrought with delight.

“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”



F you had peeped into the big attic bedroom the three girls occupied at the top of the high New York boarding-house, you would have seen Ada Nicoli in her pretty white dressing-gown—such a pitiful reminder of her former luxury—putting little Sadie’s hair into curl-papers. In her lonely life she had grown passionately attached to her two little sisters who were so dependent on her, and the thing that hurt her most about her poverty was seeing little Sadie look careless and neglected. Often at night she was so tired and weary that it took all her courage to brush and dress their two heads of hair, and see that their clothes were in proper order for going to school the next day. A hat-box full of Southern bank-notes, which had been Marjorie’s and Sadie’s amusement for many a day in their old home for playing at store-keeping, came in handy for curling Sadie’s hair, and the child always wanted Ada to tell her the same story, how her mother’s mother had saved up the bank-notes during the great war, believing that the South would be victorious, and how she had made some of the notes during the war by making slippers out of the felt carpets and selling them.

“If they were all real good dollars now, Ada,” the child said, “we needn’t live in this hen-roost any longer, need we?”

Ada took the child in her arms. “Poor little Sadie,” she said. “While we three are together, it doesn’t so much matter, does it? We can have a little fun sometimes, can’t we?”

“It isn’t so bad, siss,” the child answered, “but I do want to go to Barnum’s, and I wish the girls at school wouldn’t say, ‘When’s your father coming back? He’s been visiting for a long time.’”

Then Marjorie chimed in with—“I passed two of the girls I used to go to school with to-day, Ada, and they both looked in at a shop window when I passed.”

“Never mind,” Ada said, with her heart growing sadder every minute. “It’s a good thing not to be at school with girls who are so vulgar.” Ada’s own rich friends had also disappeared in a marvellous fashion. It is true she had left her old home so suddenly, and had to avoid seeing people whom it would be painful to meet in her altered circumstances, so much that, perhaps, they were not altogether to blame. She had been working for some months at Madame Maude’s now, and she had found that she had very little time in her busy life for musing over the faithlessness of her rich friends. Her mother’s mental condition had not improved, and she had not had a single line from her father. He had left the country to avoid disgrace as well as ruin. The cold weather had come, and Ada was feeling the hardship of walking every morning and evening to her business. It was a long way, and the girl’s constitution was not suited to the strain made upon it. The people in the boarding-house had watched her growing slighter and paler as the weeks passed, and her eyes had grown feverishly bright. Marjory was a selfish, peevish child, who did not do what she could to help her sister.

“She’s not worth Ada’s little finger!” the fat boarder would exclaim, when the child deceived her sister by making friends with girls that Ada had asked her not to know, and had spent Ada’s hardly-earned money on candies, and iced-cream sodas. “She’s her father’s own child, that’s what she is, and Ada Nicoli’s too fine a girl to kill herself for that saucy brat.”

But Ada could see no fault in Marjory, for Marjory was clever enough to deceive her. And so while Ada was toiling night and day to bring her up as a refined and cultivated child, Marjory was hankering after the society of vulgar companions, and paying little attention to her lessons. But little Sadie was a sweet and loving child, and her devotion to Ada was touching. At the boarding-house dinner-table it was a pretty sight to see Ada Nicoli with a little sister on each side of her. She was the prettiest, daintiest creature herself, and it was her greatest joy to see people look with admiration at her two children, as she called them. They were always wonderfully clean and freshly dressed.

“How long can she keep it up?” the fat boarder said. “She fairly amazes me, that girl. She had never even brushed her own hair a year and a half ago, and now she’s keeping these two children so sweet and fresh, and bringing them up so well, too. They are a deal nicer children than when they first came, but it’s wearing her out—that light burning up in her room till past twelve at night, and she’s up by seven o’clock in the morning.”

Beside the people in the boarding-house there was someone else who had been watching Ada working the soft curves of her face into sharper lines, and seeing the deeper shadows come below her bright eyes. It was an old man who drove to business every day on the Fifth Avenue stage-coach. He always{811} knew that, if it was a wet day, Ada would be waiting at 20, East 32nd Street for the coach to pass, but if it was fine, she would save her twenty-five cents and walk. He was an observant old man, and somewhat of a character. He was supposed to be a miser, and very wealthy, though he lived in a small tenement house, and kept no servant. While he sat huddled up in the corner of the coach, which rattled and shook over the stones of Fifth Avenue like a relic from the last century, he had noticed every detail of the girl’s dress, he had seen the once pretty frocks become almost threadbare, and the dainty shoes lose their freshness. He had made inquiries, and found out her story. One day she had given the conductor a five-dollar bill to pay for her fare. The man gave her back a quarter too much change. The old man watched her count the money, and look at the extra quarter. It was bitterly cold weather, and he knew that that quarter would pay for her journey there and back for another two days. The girl’s expression said it as plainly as words could have done. “You’ve given me a quarter too much,” she said, with a little tremble in her voice. The man did not even say “Thank you,” but snatched the money out of her hand roughly. The old man smiled; he had long ago lost his belief in human nature, and this little act of honesty on the girl’s part did him good. If was like going near a fire on a cold winter day. The meeting of Ada coming and going from her work grew to be the one interest in the old hermit’s life. He had watched her so carefully that he had gained a knowledge of her life of which she was wholly unconscious. He had seen her tenderness to her little sisters when he met them out together on a Saturday afternoon. Often he had wandered over Central Park with his keen eyes looking out eagerly for the graceful figure of Ada Nicoli laced arm-in-arm with the two young children, and when they stopped to feed the swans on the lake, or rest in some summer-house, the old man seated himself where he could feast his eyes on his adopted family unseen.

Two or three times he had seen something very like tears in Ada’s eyes when a carriage with some beautifully-dressed women in it would pass the girl, and they would give her a stiff little bow of recognition.

It was one of the coldest winters New York had experienced for many years, but the old man’s shrivelled-up heart was, day by day, stretching and expanding towards the girl, who was always gentle. She had many times helped him as he got in and out of the Fifth Avenue stage-coach, and she had often offered to give up her seat in the snug top corner in exchange for his draughty one near the door, but beyond these natural, kindly little attentions, Ada Nicoli had thought little about the old man, whom so many people laughed and poked fun at. He had even taken the trouble to follow her to the private asylum where her mother lived, and would wait there until she came out with her sweet blue eyes filled with sadness. He had heard of her father’s cruel desertion, and many a time the old man could feel his fingers close upon the villain’s neck in his longing to thrash him.

On this particular day, when everything was a world of snow, and the temperature was twenty degrees below zero, the old man had been slowly following Ada to her mother’s home. He had long since learnt that Wednesdays were the visiting days in this house of sorrow, and that Ada Nicoli never failed to be there in her lunch hour. The house was in a quiet street, where there was little traffic or noise, and Ada hurried along as fast as her numbed feet would carry her. In the old man’s eyes she had never looked so beautiful, for the cold, crisp air had brought a lovely colour to her cheeks, and her hair was bright gold in the winter sunlight. Suddenly he saw her stop, and bend over something that had fallen in the snow on the side-walk. It was the figure of a man, and from his position it looked as if he was intoxicated, rather than overcome with the cold. There was no one in sight but the old man who was following her. Ada touched the man, and spoke to him, but he could give no coherent answer. He was too drunk to tell her even what his name was. When the old man came up to her she was searching the road with a troubled look.

“There is no sleigh in sight,” she said, “and he must not lie here, he will freeze to death.”

“Perhaps he ain’t of much account living,” the old man said; “folks like that are better dead.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Ada cried, in a reproachful voice; “he may have a wife and family dependent upon him.”

“A mighty poor thing to depend on, lying drunk on the side-walk at midday. Don’t you waste your pity on the likes of him.” The old man knew that he would have been grievously disappointed if his pretty young lady with the sweet blue eyes had gone on her way and left a fellow creature to freeze to death.

“It may be hours before a policeman passes this way,” Ada said. “It’s sheer murder to leave him. I will run down this side street and see if I can find a cab.” The old man waited for the girl’s return, walking up and down the side-walk where the drunken man lay in an unconscious sleep. Soon he heard the sound of sleigh-bells, and in another instant one appeared round the corner with Ada seated in it. She jumped out when she reached the spot where the man lay, and told the hackman to get down and lift him into the cab. “Take him to the nearest police-station,” she said, “and keep him there until he is himself again.”

“And who’s going to pay me?” the man asked sullenly.

“I will,” Ada replied proudly, “if you do not care to do it for charity.”

“If I was plying round the city looking out for driving acts of charity, I guess my wife and young ’uns would be as badly off as these drunken brutes are.”

Ada took her thin little purse from her pocket. “Will you do it for a dollar?” she said; “it is all I have to give you. Will you help the hackman to lift him in,” she said, turning to the old man. But as she looked at his shrivelled old figure, in his badly-fitting clothes, she seemed to regret what she had said, and stooped down to take the man by the shoulders, while the hackman took his feet; but the old man quickly put her aside, with almost a cry in his cracked old voice, as he said, “Don’t touch him, don’t touch him. To think of you defiling your pretty fingers on a drunken brute.”

Ada looked at him in mild surprise, and gave up her place. When the hackman drove off she turned and thanked the old man.

“If the friendless and poor aren’t kind to each other,” she said sadly, “where can we look for help?” She thought that he did not understand that she was placing herself amongst the list of the poor and friendless. She, his daintily-reared lady, standing there, a slight, proud figure, with her queenly little head thrown back, and her cheeks as delicate as the pink apple-blossom in his old garden at home. In all the big city of New York where he had worked and toiled for forty years, this girl was the one glad and beautiful thing for him; he felt his time-worn heart beat young again when he looked at her.

(To be concluded.)


Self-culture by the reading of stories! One can imagine some pedant of a generation or two ago shaking his head over such a suggestion. As well write of education by the playing of games! And yet it has come to be recognised that neither connection of ideas is, in itself, at all absurd or preposterous. The influence of fiction is a force to be reckoned with in the formation of character—a force, indeed, of no small magnitude; for there are an enormous number of girls whose reading begins and ends with the story.

This is, of course, a mistake. In an earlier chapter of this series we have sought to explain why fiction, even of the very best type, should not form the staple of reading for anybody. But it will probably always constitute a very large proportion of the mental food of young people, and it is better to look the fact in the face than to bewail it and preach!

The first form in which literature appeals, with any charm or interest, to the child is as the story; and children of larger growth love the story still. What would those do, whose lives are dull, sordid, or depressing, without the power to transport themselves into the lives of other people? It is an actual necessity to exchange their own experience, even for a brief time, for the experience of others. The novel, the imaginative work, appeals more perhaps to girls than to any other section of the community. If they are lonely, ill, unhappy from any cause, they find their solace, companion, anodyne, here. If they are happy, they seek the reflection of their own light-heartedness, and greater happiness yet to come, in the story pages.

The imagination is a factor too little understood in the training of character. It is of the utmost importance to give this faculty something good wherewith to nourish it, or it will prey upon itself. Silly, vapid, or morbid girls might perchance have been made different if they had been provided with books that were at once strong and artistically beautiful, instead of the sentimental novelette.

We hold a high opinion of the value of fairy-tales of the best kind for children, and are always stirred to wrath by the superior infant who says: “There are no such things as fairies.” Fortunately there are not many children who cannot, for instance, enjoy the charm and pathos of such a story as The Little Sea Maiden or The Snow Queen, by Hans Christian Andersen, with many others by that great author too numerous to mention. There are also the exquisite creations of the Countess d’Aulnoy and Perrault, not forgetting two French authors who were the delight of our own childhood—Madame la Comtesse de Ségur and Léon de Laujon. Those delicious volumes, the “Blue,” the “Green,” and the “Red” fairy-book, by Andrew Lang, are a real treasure-store of delight. And it must not be forgotten that some of the fairy-legends they contain are of{812} wonderful antiquity, being found, under different forms, in the early literature of many lands.

Girls, who are elder sisters, and possibly past the fairy-tale stage, be gracious in the telling of stories to the little ones who cannot read! It may be a trouble to hunt in your memory for these stories and put them into words, but it is really worth while to do it, and do it well, avoiding what is gruesome and fearful, but choosing all that is charming and attractive. Even in the way of “self-culture” the task will be good for you, and still better if you can succeed in telling a story “out of your own head.” The present writer began her work in this way when a child, writing fairy-tales, and recounting one by word of mouth, entitled, The Precipice Passage, which continued from day to day during many months, and was of the most thrilling description, as well as of superhuman length.

A most beautiful book, though not exactly a fairy-tale, for children is The Story without an End, translated by Sarah Austin from the German of Carové (Sampson Low & Marston). The child who possesses this book, with the original coloured illustrations, to pore over, will have a foundation of graceful and tender fancies for the “culture” of riper years.

“But,” you may object, “this paper is for girls, not for children, and we have outgrown fairy-tales.”

There is one fairy-tale which you ought to read whatever your age, if it is not already familiar to you—Undine, by De la Motte Fouqué. If you can understand German, you should certainly read it in the original. If not, an English translation is to be obtained. It is, perhaps, the sweetest and most pathetic legend of all romance.

Romance! The charm of that word! One loves, even in middle age, to linger regretfully upon it, and dream over the poet’s vision of—

“Magic casements opening on the foam
Of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn.”
We do not envy the youth or maiden whose pulse is not thrilled by those immortal lines; yet who can give a reason for their charm and spell?

The present generation, it is to be feared, do not read the prose works of Longfellow as they should. Hyperion and Kavanagh are tender mystical romances, full of charm.

It is, however, an impossible task to stand at the door of this vast library of the world’s fiction, and point you to the volumes you may take down from the shelves. One general observation may be made, seeing that our title is “Self-Culture.”

The best novels will aid you indirectly in “self-culture.” The worst will not leave you where they found you, but will do you actual harm. You will be just one little bit farther removed from “self-culture”—will be nearer that which is vulgar and paltry, and poor and mean, to go no farther—for the reading of a “trashy” novel.

It is, therefore, not the indifferent matter you may think it, to take up the silly sentimental story for the sake of an hour’s amusement. Find your amusement where there is no need of repentance.

How ashamed one feels, even if quite alone, while reading a really foolish book! and the feeling of shame is a right and healthy one.

Perhaps the type of story which does most harm to girls of the middle and lower classes, is that in which a titled lover of fabulous wealth appears suddenly like a “god out of a machine” to wed the heroine, who is remarkable only for her beauty. He has a great deal to answer for, that young aristocrat, whom we have not met outside the pages of such literature.

No girl would deliberately reflect: “I am going to read such and such a novel to improve my mind.” If she did, she would show she had not much mind to improve. But she may bear in mind one or two general principles and suggestions.

It is very desirable to read the best historical novels. For example, The Last Days of Pompeii, by Bulwer Lytton, and Hypatia, by Charles Kingsley, will help you to realise the early centuries of the Christian era. Hereward the Wake, by Kingsley, and The Last of the Barons, by Bulwer Lytton, may be read in connection with Freeman’s History of the Norman Conquest. The Cloister and the Hearth, a magnificent historical novel by Charles Reade, throws light upon the fifteenth century, and Romola, by George Eliot, does the same so far as Italy is concerned. Westward Ho! by Charles Kingsley, is a stirring tale of the sixteenth century. John Inglesant, by Shorthouse, will do more to explain the Stuart period than any number of dry “Outlines,” while Thackeray’s Esmond and The Virginians may follow on. The Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens, will help you to realise the terror of the French Revolution, and The Shadow of the Sword, by Robert Buchanan, gives a forcible picture of the days of Napoleon.

There are many other good historical novels; but, as Scott is always regarded as facile princeps in such work, it may be useful to arrange his novels in chronological order.

Before the end of the fourteenth century come Ivanhoe, Count Robert of Paris, The Betrothed, The Talisman, and The Fair Maid of Perth. After 1400—Quentin Durward, and Anne of Geierstein: 1500, Kenilworth, The Abbot, The Monastery, Marmion (poem): 1600, Fortunes of Nigel, Legend of Montrose, Woodstock, Old Mortality, The Bride of Lammermoor, Peveril of the Peak: 1700, The Antiquary, Guy Mannering, Waverley, Rob Roy, and Heart of Midlothian.

That history should be made real is a matter of no small importance. After all, it is the story of men and women like ourselves, and Professor Seeley’s remark in The Expansion of England (a valuable book) is worth remembering—

“When I meet a person who does not find history interesting, it does not occur to me to alter history—I try to alter him!”

There has, during the last few years, been a decided increase in the writing of romances and tales of adventure, pure and simple, removed from everyday experience, and one need only suggest the names of Robert Louis Stevenson, Anthony Hope, Max Pemberton, to illustrate the class of story which much delights the author, and probably also her young friends.

For the general run of fiction, here are a few names: Scott, Thackeray, Dickens, Charles Kingsley and his brother, George Eliot, Mrs. Gaskell, R. D. Blackmore (be sure you read Lorna Doone), George Macdonald, Sir Walter Besant, Mrs. Oliphant, Charlotte Brontë—that wonderful, fiery, lonely genius—you will read her Shirley and Villette, whether we advise you to do so or not. And, indeed, the list of writers of good fiction is so enormous that it is absurd to attempt to give it. As soon as a few names are written down, others press for mention. Therefore, we will renounce the task; first, perhaps, reminding you not to omit Mrs. Oliphant’s Little Pilgrim in the Unseen. All the stories of this writer which have a tinge of the atmosphere of the spiritual borderland, are deeply suggestive.

Do not read a novel only because it has a startling title and “everybody” is talking about it. In these days that is no proof of excellence. A story shoots up like a rocket, and its swift trail of brilliance dies down as suddenly.

Do not read books which leave the impression that life is after all rather a hopeless struggle, not worth the trouble. There are a great many such stories in the present day, whose motto is Despair. Let them alone. They may be works of art, beautiful and pathetic in their tragedy; but you have to live, and make the best of your life; therefore it is unwise to let yourself be paralysed by discouragement near the outset. Some books have a way of arranging a perfectly impossible combination of circumstances, and then calling upon the universe at large to bewail the result. This is hardly fair. Choose rather what makes you better able to live and to act, and inspires you with a feeling that to do and to be your best, even in a world of sorrow, is very much worth while indeed.

There are, broadly speaking, two ways of viewing art and literature: one from the point of the “Realist,” and one from the point of the “Idealist.” In our day the Realists have come much into prominence, especially in France; but they are known in England too.

The Realist school in fiction cries out for “Life,” by which we understand the visible, the material, that which can be seen, heard, touched, handled. A realistic novel, for instance, may be made a mass of information upon obscure and out-of-the-way subjects. Nothing comes amiss—“Life, life above everything” its exponents cry. “You Idealists have long enough been teaching men to dream with their heads in the clouds. We lead them along a plain path and show them the world as it really is. In our way lies safety.”

The Idealist school, on the contrary, has an absolute standard of excellence to which it refers; it loves the hero or heroine in fiction, the beautiful in art, and it sets itself to find out the “reality” which underlies appearances.

To give a simple example. A “realistic” novel of poor life would depict the bareness and misery of the cottage, the unlovely faces and clothing of its inmates, the toil for daily bread; not one depressing item would be spared, and one would rise from the story feeling as if one had indeed looked for a moment into the poor household and shared in its meagreness.

A novel written from the idealist standpoint, while not inventing untrue and therefore inartistic details, would look below the surface and bring out, besides the poverty, the beauty and the pathos that are sure to exist wherever the human affections are found.

As an illustration of our meaning we may quote A Window in Thrums, by J. M. Barrie, which, while sacrificing no vestige of truth, is the work of an artist who is an idealist. Set in the humble interior of a Scotch cottage, a lame homely mother, a workingman the father, a daughter of whom we are not told she is startlingly lovely, or indeed startlingly anything—this is the simple little company that, for the main part, act out a drama of such pathos, and beauty, and charm, that the heart is full of “thoughts too deep for tears” after reading some of the inimitable chapters.

This is Life, and life seen in the true way—the idealist’s way—by the artist who has imagination.

For imagination is the faculty, not of inventing falsehoods, but of revealing a deeper truth than that which lies upon the surface of things.

Are we straying into reflections that are too obscure? It is better to suggest some means by which really artistic work shall be detected than to string together a list of books which might not appeal to many of our readers at all, and which might prove unsuitable for others.

Whatever is lovely, noble, and pure in fiction—whether it be the telling of heroic deeds, or the discerning of significance in the “commonplace,” the homely and trivial—choose and delight in it. Avoid what makes you listless and dissatisfied with your daily life; choose what helps you to live and to work, and to do and be the very best that is in you; not forgetting that what is beautiful and exalted will purify your taste, charm your mind, and remain with you as an abiding power for good.

Lily Watson.



By EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen Sisters,” etc.


FFIE, how well you look! You are quite brown. How glad I am to see you again!”

“I think you have got thinner, but you look well, Sheila. Oh, yes, I’m ever so much better! I’ve said good-bye to doctors. I mean to go my own way now and not take care anymore. I don’t believe in coddling. I’m going to be my own doctor in the future. I’m not sure that any of them really understood me. Anyhow, I’ve had enough of them, and now I shall go my own way. Mamma can have Oscar to coddle. I’m sure he looks as though he wanted it.”

“He’s getting into the rebellious stage now,” answered Sheila. “I shall be glad of your assistance in keeping him in order. Isn’t everything looking lovely, Effie? Are you glad to be home again? And how is dear Madeira and all the people there? Did you leave any there whom I knew?”

“Not many. Mrs. Reid sent you a lot of messages, and I’ve got a pen-tray for you from her too. We came back in the same boat as Ella and Grace Murchison; but you never knew them well, did you? All the Dumaresq party had been gone some time. I suppose you heard that from May Lawrence.”

“She told me they had gone on to Oratava when Sir Guy was so much better, but Miss Adene did not write very often.”

Effie had got her arm linked into Sheila’s by this time, and had walked her out upon the terrace, leaving Mrs. Cossart with Oscar in the drawing-room. She was all eagerness to learn the home news from him, but Effie wanted Sheila’s attention for herself.

“You know it was all a great mistake of mother’s packing you off home in one of her tantrums. I told her so at the time. I know things were a little uncomfortable, but I was against it. I can generally get my way with mother, but I couldn’t that time. But you hadn’t been gone three days before she found out what a mistake it was.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sheila with a subdued eagerness in her voice.

“Why, you know,” answered Effie, with her curious mixture of frankness and self-consciousness, “it didn’t seem to answer a bit. Mother thought Mr. Dumaresq was going to make love to me or something—as though I wanted him! I liked him all right, but I was never particularly taken by him. He has not brains enough for me, and he never understood me. I always felt that when we were talking together. I was always above his head somehow. Besides, she might have seen that the Dumaresqs had taken a fancy to you, and that packing you off would vex them. They never were a bit the same afterwards. They sat at a different table, and we hardly saw them. And people talked so. I got it out of Mrs. Reid. They all said you had been sent away because I was jealous—or mother. I don’t care what people think. It makes no difference to me. I never care a bit about gossip. But mother was terribly put about, and papa was very vexed too. It seemed to spoil things very much. I do believe, if it hadn’t been for Oscar’s illness, they would have had you back!”

Sheila made no immediate reply; she was thinking how, but for Oscar’s illness, many things might have been vastly different, and with what sort of feelings she would have regarded a summons back to Madeira.

“As for the Dumaresqs,” pursued Effie, “I never made any attempts to make up to them. That isn’t my way. I can have plenty of friends of my own sort; and some really very interesting people came who had travelled a lot, and were not just society people like the Dumaresqs. We thought them a little rough at first, but we got to like them very much. One of them admired me very much. I think he rather hoped—but I’m not that sort of girl, and he was going back to the Cape, so it was quite out of the question. I never was one for having a man always dangling after me. It bores me to death! But they talked so much of things they’d done and places they had seen or were going to see that papa got quite a travelling mania on, and so he sent for Cyril.”

“And they have gone off together?”

“Yes. It was very nice having Cyril, and we stayed a fortnight longer than we had meant, and took some excursions. After all, when I got Cyril again, I found I liked him a great deal better than all the rest of them put together. Don’t you think he has a very distinguished air?”

Sheila’s admiration for Cyril was a thing quite of the past; she had regarded him of late with aversion and contempt. But she was learning to curb her tongue, and to try and rule her thoughts also, so after a little pause she said—

“I think university men always have an air about them; but, of course, you know—about Cyril—and that it is not quite easy for me to admire him very much just now.”

Effie flushed up a little.

“Yes, of course, I know,” she answered. “Cyril told me himself. If he hadn’t, I don’t think I should have heard. Papa knows, but he has not told even mother. He thought it would be better put aside and forgotten.”

“And Cyril told you himself?”

“Yes. I think Cyril found it a great comfort to find somebody sympathetic and understanding. I’ve never set up for being a saint, and I have plenty of sympathy for sinners. I’ve always got on with Cyril. He knows more about me, I think, than anybody else. I don’t think him perfect—I’m not so silly. I’ve too much insight into character to make mistakes like that. But I can sympathise with him, and understand how he feels when other people don’t seem able to see anything but the other side of the question. I think healthy, robust people are often rather dull and dense. I’ve had lots of time to think. Cyril said I was so different from the rest of the world. I believe I was a great comfort to him.”

“Well, Aunt Tom will be very glad of that, for she was very miserable, and was afraid he would go on being miserable too. He went away feeling pretty bad, I think, though I did not see him. I was at Monckton Manor with Oscar. I was surprised he didn’t come over to say good-bye to us. Once I rather thought that he was falling in love with May.”

“Oh, dear, no!” answered Effie quickly. “That I am sure he was not!”

She spoke almost irritably, and Sheila answered at once—

“Perhaps not, but he used to go there very often. May never liked him, so perhaps she got bored and gave him a hint. Anyway, he stopped going rather suddenly, and did not even say good-bye.”

“I suspect he found May a very empty-headed girl. I daresay he was thinking of her when he told me how difficult it had been, when I was away, to find anyone with whom he could exchange ideas with any sense of satisfaction. Girls were all so selfish and empty-headed, he said. I thought he was rather severe, but that was his idea. I told him that he mustn’t be hard on them, for perhaps they had never had the time to read and think as I have.”

“Well, May is not empty-headed!” answered Sheila warmly; “but Oscar may have been mistaken in thinking Cyril admired her and went often.{814} Perhaps it was only for the boys he went. I know May has never cared for him.”

“No, I don’t think she would have the mind to appreciate him. Cyril does not wear his heart upon his sleeve.”

“May is engaged to North,” said Sheila, with a little smile dimpling the corners of her lips.

Effie gave a slight toss of her head and laughed.

“A very suitable match! I should think they would just suit one another!”

“I think they do,” answered Sheila, laughing. “I have never seen two people more thoroughly happy together.”

“I almost wonder Mr. Lawrence approved, though,” added Effie. “North is so thoroughly commercial in all his views.”

“His views seem to suit May, at any rate, and he can give her a comfortable home away from the town. But she is too much interested in the works to care about being far away. She wants to understand everything and help in everything. I think she will be splendid when she gets her chance.”

Effie listened with some wonder to the sort of thing which commanded May’s enthusiasm, and then said with a little shrug—

“Well, I hope they will be very happy. All that sort of thing is very estimable, and people without nerves and keen senses may be able to do it, but I don’t think I could.”

“Nobody would expect it of you, Effie,” answered Sheila, with a sarcasm of which neither was conscious.

Cossart Place was a more comfortable home for Sheila just now than it had ever been before. Her aunt met her like one who wished to efface an unpleasing impression, and never was there any slightest allusion to the stormy scene at Madeira. Poor Mrs. Cossart had learned a lesson, and was really humiliated by the failure she had made. Sheila was gentler, more considerate, more tractable than ever before, and Oscar’s presence was a certain element of tranquillity and accord.

Effie was so much stronger, and was so resolved to manage her case in her own way, that Mrs. Cossart felt rather like a hen taken from her chicks, and was delighted to have Oscar to coddle. And Oscar needed care for a long while. He had thoroughly run down in health since his father’s death, and this wasting fever had left him very delicate and frail. There was no reason to think that he would not in time be as strong as ever, but it would be a long business, and during this period it was Mrs. Cossart’s great pleasure to nurse him up, cosset him and care for him, much as she had cosseted and cared for Effie whilst the girl had been so much out of health.

Sheila could not but love her aunt for all her goodness to Oscar, and he began to take almost a son’s place in that house, advising her, in the absence of the master, on all points connected with the property, and showing so much knowledge and insight that Mrs. Cossart would often exclaim—

“I can’t think how you come to know all these things!”

“I was brought up to them, you see,” Oscar would answer with a smile and a sigh. “I used to help my father, and I have been used to land from babyhood. I am much more at home still with a steward’s books than with the office accounts!”

“Well, I wish your uncle would make you his man of business when he comes back,” said Mrs. Cossart one day, after Oscar had helped her through some accounts which had often been a source of bewilderment to herself and her husband. “I believe we get imposed upon right and left through ignorance. And I don’t like the thought of your going back to that nasty stuffy office. You would be much better for an open-air life, and I always do say that John is getting too old to look after all the land he buys, and that he ought to have a regular agent.”

Oscar laughed and stroked his aunt’s hand caressingly.

“Quite too halcyon an idea to work,” he said, “but I like to think that I am helping you in his absence.”

“You are more than helping—you are doing everything, and I’m sure I’m thankful for it, for I never could understand the rights of things between landlord and tenant, and we want to do what is right and just without being imposed upon. Well, you will stay on, at any rate, till your uncle comes back, and he seems in no hurry to do so. I wonder he wasn’t as glad to come home as I was; but perhaps he knew there’d be a lot of worries waiting for him. He will be very glad to find them all straightened out like this.”

It seemed as though some idea was fermenting in Mrs. Cossart’s brain, for once when she was sitting alone with Sheila in the drawing-room she said suddenly—

“Do you ever hear from the Dumaresqs now?”

“Lady Dumaresq wrote once, and Miss Adene once. They are soon coming back to England.”

“Do you think you will see any more of them when they do?”

“I don’t know,” answered Sheila in a low voice, with crimsoning cheeks.

“Well, I was going to say I hope you won’t,” said her aunt, “for I don’t know what I should do if I were to lose you both.”

“I don’t understand,” said Sheila, bewildered.

“Well, I was only thinking that Mr. Dumaresq seemed very much attracted by you once. It may be only a passing fancy, but if it came to anything and I lost you, and Effie were to go too, why, where should I be?”

Sheila looked up suddenly; a number of hints that Effie had let drop flashed back into her mind.

“But do you mean that Effie—that Effie—is going——”

“Well, my dear, we don’t talk of it yet, and being cousins, of course, it is not exactly what we should have chosen, and we want to make sure that her health is really restored. But you know she and Cyril have never really cared for any but each other all their lives, and in Madeira it seemed to come to a crisis with them. Nothing is actually settled. Her father would not have an engagement, but I believe it will come to that sooner or later, and then they will certainly live in London, though they will always have a second home here. But they are both so intellectual—however, we need not talk of that yet. Only if I lose Effie, I do not want to lose you too.”

Sheila laughed and blushed a little.

“You are very kind to want me, for I have not always behaved well; but I do not think you will get rid of me if you want to keep me.”

“Well, I do. I am used to young people about, and the house would not be itself without them. Still, of course, I shouldn’t wish to stand in the way of anybody’s happiness. If I do have to lose you girls, I shall adopt Oscar. He, at any rate, will not want to marry yet awhile, and he is a very dear boy. I should like to keep him altogether, and not let him go back to River Street at all. I don’t care how they have improved the town, I always do say the country is healthier.”

“I am sure of it!” cried Sheila eagerly. “Oh, how delightful it would be if Oscar could always live here!”

Mrs. Cossart nodded her head with some emphasis.

“We must wait till your uncle comes back to settle things, but stranger things than that have happened before now.”

(To be continued.)


Naiad.—Sea-sickness cannot be considered as a disease of the stomach. It is caused by the motion acting in some way upon the brain. How it acts is not quite certain; possibly it is by interfering with the blood supply of the brain, or it might be due to a succession of slight “concussions.” An exactly similar form of sickness occurs in some persons from swinging, or who have been patronising the “giddy-go-round.” Also any injury to the head may be followed by sickness. How to prevent sea-sickness is a question which is confessedly a puzzle to all. The peculiarity of this form of vomiting is that it bears no relation to food. It is no more common after than before meals, and the vomiting produces little or no relief. We think everybody has her own little specific for sea-sickness, and it is as useless as her neighbour’s. Obviously, from what has been said above, no remedy which acts upon the stomach can prevent sickness, because it is a nervous and not a gastric symptom. We may hope one day to discover how to prevent sea-sickness; at present we cannot do so by any means.

An Anxious Girl.—Read our answer to “A Gaiety Girl.” The question of infection and epidemics is a most puzzling one for the public to understand. And yet it is of vast importance that it should understand it, for with the public, and not with the medical profession, lies the power of stamping out infectious diseases. As you only desire information about influenza, we will leave all other fevers out of court and confine our remarks to influenza alone. Influenza is an epidemic, possibly infectious, disease, chiefly characterised by inflammation of the mucous membranes, and by the exceedingly formidable list of its sequelæ and complications. It is due to the multiplication within the body of a definite germ. The disease never occurs without this germ, nor is the germ ever found in the human body except in those who are suffering from, or who have lately recovered from, influenza. The great question of its causation is, “How does the germ gain entrance into the body?” And this unfortunately we cannot answer. It is not commonly an infectious disease in the usual meaning of the term—that is, it is not commonly caught directly from person to person; but we feel certain that one person can inoculate her fellow. The disease is epidemic, and spreads in waves which have usually swept from the east westwards. For this reason it has been suggested that the germs are conveyed from place to place by the east wind—an utterly untenable theory. Most probably the disease is spread by water, or by dust infected with the dried spittle of persons suffering from the disease. It is by no means a modern disease. There were epidemics of it in 1833, 1847, 1848, and 1888. Nearly all the epidemics have started in Russia, and hence the disease has been called Russian fever. When a person has had pneumonia following influenza, it imports that she has had a large dose, and probably a very virulent dose of the poison. Such a person would be more likely to directly inoculate another. Up to the present it has not been customary to isolate influenza patients, but we think that isolation is unquestionably advisable wherever this is possible. To disinfect the room afterwards there are no measures to be compared with fresh air, and a pail of water, and a scrubbing brush. Thoroughly clean out the room in which an infectious case has been “warded”—use plenty of water, plenty of soap, and plenty of time. You may use chloride of lime or carbolic acid if you like. Afterwards, let the room get as much air and sunshine as possible, for both fresh air and sunshine are fatal to injurious germs. We do not know what is the incubation period of the disease, nor can we say for how long after recovery the patient remains capable of conveying infection.

Lily.—When you have removed the redness—which is inflammation—of the eyebrows, the hairs will grow dark again. Apply a little zinc ointment to the place every morning and evening.

Peggy.—We think you would find the comic song you mention by going to any good music-seller’s and giving the extract. Unless we are mistaken, it has been sung by some popular entertainer, and is well known.

Winton.—1. We have already recommended the “York Road Sketching Club,” and “Copying Club;” address, Miss H. E. Grace, 54, York Road, Brighton, W.—2. The three staves in Grieg’s music are used simply because there is not space in one set of five lines to clearly show the complicated air and accompaniment which fall to the lot of the treble.

Miss Munn, Sandhurst, Hawkhurst, wishes to announce that a new year of her Sketching Club began in June, but members may join at any time. The subscription is 2s. 6d. the year.

Brenda.—There are plenty of such scholarships as you describe. You had better write to The Secretary, Technical Education Board, St. Martin’s Lane, W.C., or consult Mrs. Watson’s article on “What is the London County Council doing for Girls?” (The Girl’s Own Paper, March, 1897).

Rita (New Zealand).—1. Your question from In Memoriam is a very thoughtful one. The poet is describing a man who, being troubled by religious doubts, does not try to stifle them by simply resting on the authority of a Church and telling himself, “I must not doubt, for it is wicked.” He looks these doubts—“the spectres of the mind”—fully in the face, searches for the answer, and, as Truth does not fear investigation, he succeeds in dispersing them; even as a fabled ghost can usually be disproved by someone who will bravely face the supposed apparition and find out what it really amounts to. The man who fights this battle honestly, and conquers, wins in the end a stronger faith than the man who merely asserts, without thought; and in the temporary darkness of his perplexity God is with him still—for God is the God both of the light and of the darkness. This magnificent passage you must understand as applying only to those who really seek in an earnest and reverent spirit after Truth, not to the flippant scoffer.—2. We answered this question in July, 1897, and must refer you to the volume Twilight Hours (Messrs. Isbister & Co.) containing the poems of Sarah Williams (Sadie).

A Merry Sunbeam (Belgium).—1. Certainly a young girl of 15½ may wear long skirts and put up her hair if she is unusually tall “without looking ridiculous.” She will be taken to be older than she really is, which may be a disadvantage to her.—2. The expression “teens” is taken from the termination of the numbers thirteen to nineteen inclusive, and “hazel” is brown, like the brown of the hazel nut. We go to press long before you receive your magazine, and we are sorry you have to wait so long for replies. You write English very well, considering it is not your native language, but we have no objection at all to receiving letters in French from any of our subscribers.

Beatrice Cenci.—The heroine whose name you adopt lived in Rome during the sixteenth century, and a very touching and beautiful portrait of her by Guido exists in the Barberini Palace there. Her father was a monster of cruelty and wickedness, and she was driven at length to plot with her step-mother and brother to murder him, in order to escape from his tyranny. The deed was discovered, and Beatrice with the other criminals was put to death by order of the Pope. Her father had constantly bought his pardon from the Pope for the murders he had committed on his own account, and the infamy of his life, combined with the natural gentleness of Beatrice, awoke a widespread feeling of compassion for her doom, in spite of the nature of her act.

Erica.—Your quotation is from the first verse of a song by Thomas Linley (1798-1865), written and composed by him for Mr. Augustus Braham. The whole verse runs as follows:—

“Tho’ lost to sight, to memory dear
Thou ever wilt remain;
One only hope my heart can cheer—
The hope to meet again.”
We go to press long before you receive your magazine, so it would be quite impossible for you ever to see an answer in “next week.”

Pilgrim.—1. We should think a good history for your purpose would be an illustrated abridgment by G. Masson of F. P. G. Guizot’s History of France from its Earliest Times (Low), published price 5s.; or W. H. Jervis’s Student’s History of France, with maps and illustrations (Murray), published price 7s. 6d.—2. The only satisfactory general history of Russia is said to be Alfred Rambaud’s, illustrated and well translated (Low), but it is expensive—21s. There is a popular History of Russia in the “Story of the Nations Series” (Unwin) by W. R. Morfill, published at 5s. We hope these are neither “dry” nor “childish.”

Florentia.—We have searched through Charles Kingsley’s poems in vain for the lines beginning—

“In music there is no self-will.”
Are you sure he is the author? Perhaps some reader may observe this reply and come to your help.

Snowdrop.—We think your best way is to write to Messrs. Hachette & Co., 18, King William Street, Charing Cross, London, W.C., for a list of French magazines, and choose one that seems suitable. We do not know of one exactly answering to The Girl’s Own Paper.

“Winton” again has answers, from “An Old Subscriber” and an anonymous writer, referring the hymn, “Come ye yourselves apart and rest awhile,” to the Hymnal Companion and Sacred Songs and Solos.

Cleopatra II.—The term or nickname of a British soldier, i.e., “Tommy Atkins,” had its origin in the little pocket-ledgers, at one time supplied to them, in which all the necessary memoranda connected with them—their name, age, date of enlistment, length of service, wounds, or medals, received, etc., were entered. With this the War Office gave a form to be filled in; the hypothetical name of “Thomas Atkins” was entered, just as “John Doe and Richard Roe” are employed by lawyers; “M. or N.” by the Church, and “Jack Tar” to designate a sailor. The books at once were called by the name, which was afterwards applied as a comprehensive name for the men themselves. We thank you for your good wishes for the continued success of our magazine.

S. A.—There are five Homes for Aged Poor People in the suburbs of town, respecting which you must write to the Misses Harrison, 5, Grandacre Terrace, Anerley, S.E. There is also the “Aged Pilgrims’ Friend Society,” which grants annual pensions to aged Christians of both sexes, and of all Protestant denominations. This institution has homes at Camberwell, Hornsey Rise, Stamford Hill, and Brighton. Pensions are granted to some not received into the homes. The Secretary is Mr. J. E. Hazelton, office, 82, Finsbury Pavement, E.C.

F. W.—We do not undertake to return answers in the next magazine after hearing from correspondents. Boil sufficient milk for the amount of wholemeal you wish to knead, adding a piece of butter of the size of an egg (for a small cake), and melt it in the milk. Mix some bread-soda with the meal; and then knead the milk with the latter, and roll out on a paste-board. Make a round flat cake, and cut across, to make four divisions, and bake on a girdle, putting dry flour on the girdle, or a sufficient space on a hot oven. Butter-milk is much used for the purpose in Ireland. Of course yeast may be had, instead of the soda, from any baker.

O’Hara.—The Celts were the first Aryan settlers in Europe. This fact is placed beyond all doubt by their language, which bears a close resemblance to Sanscrit, alike in grammatical structure and vocables. Herodotus speaks of them (b.c. 450) under the name Keltai, as mingling with the Iberians, who dwelt round the river Ebro. The Romans called them Galli. It is maintained by many that these Aryans in Spain, the French Pyrenees, and in Britain, found before them a Turanian people, the descendants of whom are to be seen in the Lapps and Finns, and the Basques of Spain and Portugal. The Aryans’ original home was the plateau of Central Asia, from whence they spread south-westward; and the Eastern tribes took possession of India and Persia.

Puzzled One.—Adults do not need sponsors at their baptism, as in the case of infants; but witnesses are essential; because the persons baptised make thereby a public profession of their faith. Special “witnesses” usually accompany adults; but you will observe (in the last Rubric), that the baptised “answer for themselves,” and only the godly counsel of “their chosen witnesses” is required, whose duty it is to “put them in mind” of the “vow, promise, and profession they have made.” Should there be no desirably religious and God-fearing friends to present the adult, she should communicate this difficulty to the rector or vicar of her parish, and he will, doubtless, provide for this lack, as well as see to her preparation for the rite himself.

Marcia.—We are certainly of opinion that in earlier times the term “Merry (or Merrie) England” was justly so applied, as distinguished from its general condition in these days of strikes. It was enough for the little educated to have their Maypole festivities, their Christmas and Easter entertainments; and so they enjoyed a greater light-heartedness, simpler recreations and brighter views of life; and the people were united more closely together in a boyish camaraderie. But, as the Anglo-Saxon word mæra signifies “famous, great and mighty,” and mer in the old Teutonic means “illustrious,” the original signification is probably not “mirthful.”

Dot.—A nice little cake for home use is made with 1 pint of wholemeal, 1 teacupful of milk, a piece of butter of about the size of a walnut, and a teaspoonful of baking powder. Mix well and bake for about half an hour.

Hope.—The correct pronunciation of the Italian phrase, Dolce far niente (Sweet do nothing) is, “Dole-che far ne-ente.” We are glad that our magazine gives you so much satisfaction.

Dix-huit.—There is no way of improving your hand but the daily copying of the copper-plate examples, or of some hand you admire. The pronunciation of surnames is often very arbitrary. The name “Besant” ought to be pronounced as having a double “s,” and the accent laid on the first syllable, “Bes.” But its present owner, Sir Walter, pronounces it “Besant,” and of course he has the right to do so.


Carnation.—If you are a daughter of a younger brother, no matter how old you may be, the eldest daughter of the eldest brother has precedence of you. Should your father and uncle have a sister living, neither of you could claim precedence of her. She is Miss —— so long as she remains single; and she takes precedence, moreover, of all her younger brothers and their wives.

Miss H. Mason’s “Holiday Home, and Home of Rest” we always have pleasure in naming for the benefit of our readers, who are engaged in either teaching or business, or are clerks. Charge for board and lodging 15s. a week; for a short visit, from Saturday afternoon till Monday morning, 5s.; and till Tuesday, 7s. 6d. Oakwood Lodge, Ide Hill, Sevenoaks.

Marguerite.—There is a society for milliners and dressmakers, the “Provident and Benevolent Institution,” 32, Sackville Street, for members within twelve miles of the General Post Office, and which gives grants in illness, and pensions from £25 to £35. You do not give an address, therefore we are unable to tell you whether you be eligible.


A.—Sixteenth century sprig.

Most of the patterns here given were suggested by sketches from the celebrated 15th century painted screen in Ranworth Church, Norfolk, which I made on the occasion of a visit there some time ago, and are excellent specimens of diapers suitable for embroidery. It is a class of design almost peculiar to the period and may be termed “conceits,” for although nature is suggested in these diapers, the arrangement is purely arbitrary, and the ornament is not necessarily developed out of a particular plant, but is imported into it, wilfully. Thus you get in A a sort of conventionalised leafage with flowers and berries, and in B an ornamentalised fruit with flowers. This latter pattern I have developed in C, the growth of the pine-apple having suggested the design. The thistle, globe artichoke and many other plants could be treated in this way. Always go to nature for your motifs, but remember that you only take suggestions from nature, as design is not transcribing nature, but the result of imagination, stimulated by reference to nature, playing around the subject. Ingenuity is called into play, and a good design may be likened to an interweaving of pleasantly contrasted lines nicely balanced.

B.—Sixteenth century sprig, suggestive of a fruit.

So many amateurs think that a representation of a particular plant or animal arranged symmetrically is designing, whereas designing is as much an effort of the imagination as poetry or music. It is a good exercise to start with some design as I did in B and do something original on the same lines. Even if you are not very original in your efforts, it is a good exercise of your skill. If you are content to merely reproduce what others have originated, your mental faculties are not brought into play at all, and you can never hope to make any advance in original work. The growth of stem in C, going as it does over and under the main stem, was suggested by the growth of the sprig in D, which is a characteristic example of a “conceit.”

C.—Sprig founded upon the pine-apple, in the style of sixteenth century German work shown in B.

Such diapers as A, B and C can be used to “powder” over a curtain. Portions of them might be appliquéd, the “fruit” in C for instance, while the leaves could be in outline. The diapers can be disposed over the curtain in some sort of order, and you might work diagonal lines, and put a sprig in each lozenge formed by the diagonal lines crossing each other at right angles, as in Fig. 1 in a former article on “Curtain Embroidery,” to which I must refer the reader. The running border E would be effective worked in two colours, a light and a dark, and could be used to border a curtain in which the other diapers are used.

D.—Sprig suggested by sixteenth century German work.

The patterns on the screen in Ranworth Church were stencilled, and these given in this article could be cut as stencils. It would be a good way of transferring the designs to the material to lightly stencil them on and then work over the impressions.